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 CLARE STRONG. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 a
 
 CLARE STRONG 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 G. BERESFORD FITZGERALD, F.S.A,, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'LILIAN,' ETC. 
 
 La meilleure Philosophic relativement au monde est d'allier a son egftrd 
 le sarcasme de la gaiete avec I'indulgence du mepris.' 
 
 Chamfort. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO. 
 
 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1889
 
 EDINBURGH 
 
 COLSTON AND COMPANY 
 
 PRINTERS
 
 8^^ 
 
 PRE F A C E. 
 
 Every human life, if faithfully told, has 
 probably an interest of its own, and a 
 moral, perhaps, for those who come 
 after, journeying painfully across an arid 
 waste and finding few oases. Anyhow, 
 
 : it seemed to me that the life of Clare 
 
 t 
 
 ^ Strong had as much human interest in 
 
 '^^ it as many biographies which I have 
 
 ^ recently perused, after first having 
 
 heard their praises sounded. 
 
 To give lists of the guests at your 
 
 ^ VOL. I.
 
 vi Preface, 
 
 dinner-table for a series of years, and 
 of those you met at other people's 
 houses, and to spice their conversation 
 with Joe Miller's, at which Methuselah 
 may have smiled rather faintly in his 
 nine hundredth year, may be biography, 
 but fails in the human interest which 
 is the one thing needful. 
 
 One fact I must add, namely, that 
 the dates at which this autobiography 
 were written are somewhat ambiguous. 
 Clare Strong certainly wrote at long 
 intervals, and it is impossible to say 
 when he first commenced his story. 
 Consequently, there are presumably gaps 
 in point of time. 
 
 He died in a remarkable way. He
 
 Preface, vii 
 
 was living in his beloved Paris, where 
 latterly he passed so much of his time, 
 and, walking back with his wife from 
 one of the cafds on the boulevards, 
 where they had been breakfasting, he 
 complained, on reaching their apart- 
 ments in the Avenue d'Antin, of feel- 
 ing unwell. She placed him on a sofa 
 in his library, and flew to get some 
 Eau de Cologne. When she returned 
 to the room, his head had fallen on 
 his chest, and all was over. 
 
 He thus realised his own constant 
 prayer for sudden death, and for death 
 not at an inn, as Sterne's somewhat 
 artificial aspiration went, but without a 
 long and lingering illness, without a
 
 vili Preface. 
 
 deathbed struggle, and weeping relatives, 
 and paid attendants to swell the scene. 
 
 But he was not buried as he once 
 expressed a desire to be, in the Green- 
 wood Cemetery, overlooking New York, 
 but in the quiet graveyard at Carnaby, 
 near those whom he had so dearly loved 
 in life, where the roses in the long 
 summer days still bloom luxuriantly over 
 his tomb, and over that of his beloved, 
 though far more distinguished, friend, 
 ' The Right Honourable William Penrose/ 
 
 ' Requiescant in pace. ' 
 
 THE EDITOR.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. Antecedents, . 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 II. Nous NE SOMMES PAS D' ACCORD, 
 
 
 19 
 
 III. Carnaby Manor, . 
 
 
 31 
 
 IV. A Compromise, 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 V. My Grandmother's Will, 
 
 
 
 57 
 
 VI. Lord Francis Sherlock, 
 
 
 
 ' 70 
 
 VII. Mrs Penrose's Guests, . 
 
 
 
 82 
 
 VIII. Ida DE Chamier, . 
 
 
 
 95 
 
 IX. Our Voyage, . 
 
 
 
 123 
 
 X. We go to Baltimore, . 
 
 
 
 147 
 
 XI. Miss Dora McCarthy, . 
 
 
 
 165 
 
 XII. A Strange Situation, . 
 
 
 
 182 
 
 XIII. My New Inheritance, . 
 
 
 
 195 
 
 XIV. I settle in London, 
 
 
 
 218
 
 CLARE STRONG.
 
 POPUL AR NEW NOVELS. 
 
 Nozv ready, in One Vol., the Seventh Edition of 
 
 ARMY SOCIETY; or Life in a Garrison Town. By John Strange 
 Winter. Author of 'Booties' Baby.' Cloth gilt, 6s. ; also, picture boards, 2S. 
 
 Also now ready, in cloth gilt, q.s. 6d. each. 
 
 GARRISON GOSSIP, Gathered in Blankhampton. By John Strange 
 
 Winter. Also, picture boards, 2S. 
 A SIEGE BABY. By the same Author. Also, picture boards, 2S. 
 BEAUTIFUL JIM. By the same Author. 
 IN THE SHIRES. By Sir Randal H. Roberts, Bart. 
 THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT. A Sporting Novel. By Mrs Edward 
 
 Kennard. Also, picture boards, 2S. 
 KILLED IN THE OPEN. By the same Author. Also, picture boards, 2S. 
 A REAL GOOD THING. By the same Author. Also, picture boards, 2S. 
 A CRACK COUNTY. By the same Author. 
 BY WOMAN'S WIT. By Mrs Alexander. Author of 'The Wooing O't.' Also, 
 
 picture boards, 2s. 
 MONA'S CHOICE. By the same Author. 
 A LIFE INTEREST. By the same Author. 
 IN A GRASS COUNTRY. By Mrs H. Lovett-Cameron. Also, picture 
 
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 THIS WICKED WORLD. By the same Author. 
 A DEVOUT LOVER. By the same Author. 
 THE COST OF A LIE. By the same Author. 
 THE OUTSIDER. By Hawley Smart. Also, picture boards, 2s. 
 THE MASTER OF RATHKELLY. By the same Author. 
 STRAIGHT AS A DIE. By Edward Kennard. Also, picture boards, 2s. 
 TWILIGHT TALES. By the same Author. Ilhistrated. 
 SHE CAME BETWEEN. By Mrs Alexander Eraser. 
 THE CRUSADE OF 'THE EXCELSIOR.' By Bret Harte. Also, picture 
 
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 CURB AND SNAFFLE. By Sir Randal H. Roberts, Bart. 
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 THE HONBLE. MRS VEREKER. By the Author of ' Molly Bawn,' etc. 
 
 F. V. WHITE & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand, 
 London, W.C.
 
 CLARE STRONG. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ANTECEDENTS. 
 ' Conceit you me.' 
 
 I WAS born considerably more than half 
 a century ago, in Upper Grosvenor Street. 
 I often pass the house, and gaze, as one 
 is apt to do at houses one once knew 
 well ; but the shutters seem always put 
 up in the drawing-rooms, and the bril- 
 liant parties which in my youth issued 
 therefrom have long since passed into 
 the land of shadows. Who was it said, 
 
 VOL. I. A
 
 2 Clare Strong. 
 
 after living a lifetime in London, that 
 the town became a city of the dead, — 
 that is, of dead memories ? 
 
 I was born under one great disadvan- 
 tage, and I think it the greatest con- 
 ceivable. My mother, judging from her 
 pictures, a very lovely young woman, 
 died at my birth, and I was her only 
 child. My father, who was in the 3d 
 Guards (now the Scots Guards), was 
 always extremely delicate, and the loss 
 of his wife, to whom he was tenderly 
 attached, affected his health to such an 
 extent that the symptoms of that fatal 
 decline to which so many of his family 
 had succumbed, began to show them- 
 selves. He only outlived his young 
 wife two years, and thus, at two years 
 old, I was left to the care of his mother 
 — my grandmother — in whose house in
 
 Antecedents, 3 
 
 Upper Grosvenor Street I had been 
 born. 
 
 Before, however, speaking more particu- 
 larly of my grandmother, who so largely 
 controlled my somewhat chequered des- 
 tiny, I should like to say how much reason 
 I have to regard my poor father's memory 
 with affection and interest. For it is clear, 
 from the few papers and letters I possess 
 of his, including his last testamentary in- 
 junctions, that he was a most loveable and 
 delightful man. I cannot help quoting, in 
 support of this, a clause in his will, which 
 provides for the comfort of his horses after 
 his death, and also a reference to one or 
 two of his regimental friends. He is 
 buried in the little cemetery in the Bays- 
 water Road, where he was taken from 
 Grosvenor Street. I was too young to 
 know how my grandmother was affected
 
 4 Clare Strong. 
 
 by the death of this her only son ; but I 
 fear the love of the world had even then 
 eaten away her heart, and that she was 
 not capable of any intense grief. 
 Here are the extracts I refer to : — 
 * I leave to Colonel B. the sword given 
 to me by His Royal Highness. I trust 
 he will do me the favour of wearing it for 
 my sake, and I am quite sure it cannot be 
 put into better hands. To Captain V. I 
 leave my large silver snuff-box. It is a 
 testimony of affection from a brother officer 
 and an old school-fellow. I leave to C. C. 
 S. my chestnut horse ** Agamemnon," and 
 hope he will not sell him, but, when he can 
 no longer do his work with comfort, send 
 him over to M. to pass the remainder of 
 his days in rest and quiet. I desire that 
 my old bay horse " Brownrigg " may be 
 sent to M., and turned out there ; and it
 
 Antecedents. 5 
 
 IS my particular desire that he never again 
 be ridden, driven, or do any kind of work ; 
 and I likewise desire that, from the be- 
 ginning of the month of October until the 
 month of April, he may have two feeds of 
 corn each day. I likewise desire that the 
 farrier may occasionally come over to see 
 that he Is in health, and that his feet are 
 in good order. My reason for specifying 
 all this (however ridiculous it may appear) 
 is that I wish the old horse to be quite 
 comfortable, for he has been to me a most 
 faithful servant. To Her Royal Highness 
 I leave my little grey pony, and my bay 
 mare " Fidget." ' 
 
 My grandmother was a Frenchwoman, 
 of Huguenot extraction, and her maiden 
 name was Chamier. She inherited a lar^e 
 fortune from her father and his brother, 
 who, having migrated from France first to
 
 6 Clare Strong. 
 
 Holland and subsequently to London, had 
 amassed great wealth in the City. When 
 she married my grandfather, Clare Strong, 
 she was no longer young, and had refused 
 many offers of marriage, as she very fre- 
 quently, in later years, informed me. In 
 fact, I believe she was thirty-eight years 
 of age, whereas my grandfather was a 
 professionless young man of twenty-five. 
 Nevertheless, she outlived him, and also, 
 as already said, the only issue of the 
 
 marriage. 
 
 As it was impossible for her to continue 
 her dinners and ' routs,' as they were then 
 called, without a male assistant, and as I 
 was only three years old at the time, and 
 I could not be made use of, she married 
 Sir Everard Duncan, of an old Lincoln- 
 shire family, and connected with every one 
 whose society she at all affected.
 
 Antecedents, 7 
 
 Sir Everard was a very simple, good- 
 natured old man, of a school which hardly 
 exists now. He was extremely polite to 
 my grandmother, who received his distant 
 attentions with the coquetry of her youth, 
 and he looked most dignified and imposing 
 at the bottom of her dining-table, where, 
 though he said but little, and that little 
 of an uncompromising character, he was 
 generally voted an excellent host, and a 
 good old fellow. * 
 
 London society fifty years ago was, it 
 need not be said, very different in every 
 respect from what it is now. To begin 
 with, the Americans had not then crossed 
 the Atlantic, to descend, like Byron's 
 Assyrian, on the Dowagers' fold. The 
 German Jew element of London society 
 was, of course, not then in existence, and 
 the men who had an influence in the
 
 8 Clare Strong, 
 
 world, were men of undoubted birth and 
 breeding, whose antecedents were matters 
 of history. One can scarcely realise what 
 the feelings of the grandes dames of that 
 day would have been, for instance, at read- 
 ing the paragraphs in the papers of to-day 
 describing parties, and ladies' dresses and 
 jewels. But their surprise would not have 
 been greater than when they read the 
 names of the ladies who wore the dresses 
 and the jewels, and even wrote the 
 description for their own advertisement. 
 These names were unknown in Mayfair 
 in those days, and it would be unkind to 
 say more than that. 
 
 Lady Duncan was connected with the 
 City by parentage, and even had City 
 cousins, whom she had long ignored ; 
 but her family were noble in France, 
 and she was herself, in both manner, and
 
 Antecedents, 9 
 
 appearance, and mind, of the ancien 
 regime. Her husband, too (who was 
 always a most kind step-grandfather to 
 me, and who left me several thousand 
 pounds), was a rigid Tory, to whom 
 birth and breeding were in those days 
 synonymous terms. Lady Duncan was 
 one of those persons who seem to 
 outlive everybody, and I have often 
 wished she had outlived me. A very 
 good digestion, and no conscience, are 
 excellent things in life, as cynics tell us. 
 Well, my grandmother had the former, 
 and I don't think — in later life, at all 
 events — she troubled herself much about 
 right and wrong. How easily I seem to 
 see her now, after so many years, walk- 
 ing on Sunday morning to her church in 
 North Audley Street ! One of her foot- 
 men, a few paces behind, with her large
 
 lo Clare Strong, 
 
 red morocco prayer-book, followed leisurely 
 her mincing steps ; for she was a little 
 woman, and latterly much bent. She 
 went to church always without fail every 
 Sunday morning, and as regularly devoted 
 herself to the scandal and gossip of the 
 London world with her numerous visitors 
 in the afternoon. I am told that this, too, 
 is a thing of the past, since cigarettes, 
 and curacoa, and coffee take the place of 
 afternoon church. 
 
 But the other day, glancing over some 
 letters of my grandfather's, I came upon 
 one written to him by my grandmother 
 before their marriage, and apparently while 
 their engagement was not countenanced, 
 which places her character in a better 
 light, and which is such a contrast to the 
 modern epistle written under similar cir- 
 cumstances, that I transcribe it in full.
 
 Antecedents, ii 
 
 But I beg young ladies — If I am ever so 
 fortunate as to find any of them readers 
 of these pages — not to sneer at a style 
 which, in some respects, appears to me 
 to bear favourable comparison with speci- 
 mens I possess (not, of course, addressed 
 to myself) of a more recent date. 
 
 'How unfortunate a being is your Marie, 
 obliged to deny herself to the very person 
 who most on earth she wished to see! In- 
 deed, my most amiable, such was my very 
 cruel situation on Saturday even. My 
 poor, dear mother — for I still sincerely 
 love her, notwithstanding her perverse- 
 ness in condemning me to a situation and 
 society highly disagreeable — has been in- 
 disposed with an intermittent fever, which 
 returns every other day. Saturday was 
 her bad day, and she had had a very
 
 12 Clare Strong, 
 
 severe attack. I was sitting by her bed- 
 side when your carriage drove to the door, 
 and, though my heart whispered me it 
 might be you, I had not power to retract 
 the orders I had given of a general denial, 
 as my friend Mrs V — and her little girl, 
 who are with me on a visit, were at that 
 very instant in the front parlour. Under 
 such circumstances as these, can you for- 
 give me ? Indeed you cannot conceive 
 the uneasiness it has given me. I wrote 
 you a few lines on Sunday even, but was 
 prevented sending them, having no oppor- 
 tunity of conveying them to the post. 
 This morning is the very first that I have 
 had. My mother is, thank God ! much 
 better. To-morrow is her well day. Per- 
 mit me to add we are disengaged, and 
 shall be at home the whole even. I dare 
 not say more. However, should my most
 
 Antecedents, 13 
 
 amiable be better engaged, or not disposed 
 to favour me again so soon, let me entreat 
 him to oblige me with a few lines, as an 
 assurance of that forgiveness, for which I 
 remain, his very humble and affectionate 
 suppliant, Marie Chamier. 
 
 ' Wednesday Morn, 8 o'clock. 
 
 ^ P.S, — I should not have mentioned our 
 being disengaged to-morrow even, but as 
 Mrs V. is with us, we are frequently out 
 of an even, and I should be extremely 
 sorry to subject you to a second disagree- 
 able jaunt.' 
 
 It is melancholy to reflect that the Marie 
 Chamier who wrote this charming letter, 
 even when no longer young and perhaps 
 versed in such matters, grew into a worldly, 
 cynical, old woman, whose one idea was 
 gaiety and society, even when she had
 
 14 Clare Strong, 
 
 passed her eightieth year. I do not believe 
 she ever wrote or spoke to her second hus- 
 band, Sir Everard, in such a submissive 
 strain, nor did I ever hear her address him 
 as my * most amiable/ But vire all change 
 as the years go by, as much morally and 
 intellectually as we do physically, and I am 
 afraid I take the pessimist view that we 
 do not, as a rule, change for the better. 
 Youth is best with its golden aspirations, 
 its summer dreams, its fierce and delusive 
 passions, its boundless possibilities, and its 
 impulsive folly. If I had known my 
 grandmother in her youth, I dare say I 
 should not hold the opinion I have long 
 held of her character. Unluckily, I knew 
 her in her extreme old age. 
 
 Sir Everard died when I was sixteen, 
 and a boy at Eton. He was always ex- 
 tremely kind and generous to me, and I
 
 Antecedents. 15 
 
 felt acutely the news, which was brought 
 to me by my grandmother's old butler, 
 with whom I returned to Grosvenor Street, 
 to attend the funeral. It was my first 
 personal contact, since I grew up, with 
 death, and it impressed me accordingly. 
 After the funeral — which took place in the 
 old graveyard, long since closed, where my 
 father is buried — there was a heavy 
 luncheon in the dining-room in Grosvenor 
 Street, where I had to take the head of the 
 table. I had always been treated with con- 
 siderable deference by my grandmother's 
 friends ; but now my consideration seemed 
 increased as I suppose, because the death 
 of Sir Everard left me the only heir. But 
 I recollect being much shocked at over- 
 hearing, unintentionally, a nephew of Sir 
 Everard remark — no doubt disappointed 
 at the contents of the will, which left the
 
 1 6 Clare Strong. 
 
 bulk of his property to my grandmother 
 absolutely, — ' You will see she will marry 
 again.' 
 
 I did not see my grandmother that day, 
 as her maid informed me she was not well 
 enough to do so, but she sent me her 
 love, and would see me the next day. I 
 afterwards discovered she had been closeted 
 the whole afternoon with the said maid, 
 examining certain large boxes of mourn- 
 ing clothes. But the next morning, after 
 breakfast, as she knew I had to return to 
 Eton, she sent for me, and received me in 
 the most correct mourning of the period, 
 which certainly was not so becoming as 
 that adopted by disconsolate widows of 
 the present day. She looked, poor woman, 
 very old and wrinkled ; and her bay wig, 
 and broad velvet band across her forehead, 
 could not conceal her great age. She
 
 Antecedents. 1 7 
 
 kissed me very affectionately, and at once 
 plunged, with her strong practical good 
 sense, in medias res, 
 
 ' I have always wished, Clare,' she said, 
 ' that you should go into your father's 
 regiment, and dear Sir Everard wished it 
 too. He has now added to the capital 
 your father left you, which has been care- 
 fully nursed, so that when you come of 
 age, though very far from rich, you will 
 be able to live in the regiment, and I shall 
 hope to supplement your income. The 
 late Duke of N. put your name down 
 long ago, when you were a baby, for a 
 commission, and we shall be able to ad- 
 vance the money out of your capital ; and 
 I think another six months at Eton will 
 complete your education, so far as school 
 is concerned. Then, Clare, begins your 
 education in the world, and I hope you 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 1 8 Clare Strong, 
 
 will commence it here, and take care of 
 me.' 
 
 She spoke as if a long life was before 
 her, and with quite a cheerful interest in 
 the career of a boy who, in those days, 
 was slim, lively, and good-looking. What 
 could I do but kiss her, and tell her I 
 would do everything she wished ? She 
 gave me a five-pound note, and her fingers 
 to kiss, and I took my way to Windsor 
 that evening well content with the world 
 and its prospects, so far as I was concerned.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 NOUS NE SOMMES PAS d'aCCORD. 
 
 ' Voulez vous voir h. quel point chaque dtat de la so- 
 ci6t6 corrompt les hommes ? Examinez ce qu'ils 
 sont quand ils en ont eprouve plus longtemps 
 I'influence — c'est-a-dire dans la vieillesse. 
 
 My grandmother retired for the space of 
 one long decorous year, — not abroad, * as 
 ladies under similar circumstances do now- 
 a-days, but to her little property In Kent, 
 which she had bought In the early days 
 of her first widowhood, and where my 
 father had spent his youth. Her amuse- 
 ment there was the constant devouring of 
 the most romantic French novels ; and 
 when I joined her there In my summer 
 holidays, I often found her In actual tears
 
 20 Clare Strong. 
 
 over the sorrows and disappointments de- 
 scribed therein ; and yet I do not think 
 she ever shed a tear for any real distress. 
 Perhaps she never met with it. Anyhow% 
 as soon as she came back from her daily 
 drive, out came the last French novel, 
 and after dinner, having no parties to go 
 to, she usually fell asleep. 
 
 This was not a gay life for an Etonian 
 of nearly seventeen. But I was of a studi- 
 ous turn, and finding a few books in the 
 house, and having a horse to ride through 
 very pretty country, I got on fairly well. 
 My grandmother was a great letter-writer 
 in those days, even when franks were ne- 
 cessary, and her worldly friends kept her 
 ati courant of all the scandals and gaieties 
 of the great world. She used to come 
 down to our very simple dinner, I recol- 
 lect, covered with her diamonds, and lean-
 
 Nous ne sommes pas cT Accord. 21 
 
 ing on an ebony stick. I once ventured 
 to say to her, — 
 
 * You pay me a great compliment, 
 Granny, in wearing all those jewels when 
 we are only dining tete-d-tSte.' 
 
 She made a little odd bow which was 
 very French. 
 
 ' I should have no opportunity of wear- 
 ing them, man cker, if I reserved them 
 now for society.' 
 
 When I went back to Eton for my last 
 term, she showed me a letter from a very 
 illustrious personage with whom she was 
 on intimate terms, assuring me of my com- 
 mission ; and remarking on the compliment- 
 ary manner in which my poor father was 
 referred to, said, — 
 
 * We shall spend next season together in 
 Grosvenor Street.' 
 
 I do not think she ever realised how
 
 2 2 Clare Strong, 
 
 very different my views of life were rapidly 
 becoming from those she had planned for 
 me. As a middle-aged man now, I think 
 the schemes of the elders for the young 
 are generally doomed to failure, and that 
 a better course is to let a young man fol- 
 low his own bent, if he has the means and 
 the opportunity of doing so. Some char- 
 acters resent dictation on these matters ; 
 and it does not at all follow that because 
 a father has been a soldier, his son has 
 inherited the military instinct. He has 
 presumably had a mother, and may have 
 inherited some characteristics from her. 
 Of my mother, Lady Duncan never spoke 
 to me. I now know they could never have 
 been friends, and I also can very easily 
 guess why. My great ambition at this 
 period, hitherto totally ungratified, was to 
 travel ; and the books within my reach on
 
 Nous ne sommes pas cT Accord. 23 
 
 travels were eagerly read by me, and only 
 served to stimulate my curiosity. I was 
 also, in every sense, of a studious and con- 
 templative turn of mind. To this day — 
 having seen so much of men, and women, 
 and countries as I have done — I cannot 
 help feeling a sense of contempt, which I 
 try to suppress, for the energetic fussers 
 of the world, — for the people who boast 
 they are never idle, and who rush from 
 one pursuit to another. They are, after 
 all, only post-boys ; and the dust, and the 
 clatter of the wheels, and the cracking of 
 the whip, deceives the world for the time. 
 With these ideas, and, perhaps, to be 
 candid, a slight bent of indolence, the 
 career of a soldier, even if only an orna- 
 mental one, presented no attractions ; and 
 I felt — however disappointing it might be 
 to my grandmother — the time was fast ap-
 
 24 Clare Strong. 
 
 preaching when I must tell her that I had 
 no intention of purchasing a commission in 
 the Guards. I had so seldom opposed her 
 in any transaction of my life, that I could 
 form no idea how she would receive this 
 resolution. But I feared a scene, and so, 
 with true cowardice, after consulting with 
 my greatest friend and contemporary at 
 Eton, one William Penrose, I wrote the 
 following diplomatic note, — 
 
 'Eton College. 
 ' My Dear Granny, — I think I ought 
 to write and confide to you how very 
 much I dislike the idea of going into 
 the army as a profession. To begin with, 
 I don't think I am at all suited for the 
 life ; and I would much rather wait for 
 a time before deciding on my course of 
 life. I would rather travel, and see the
 
 Nous ne sommes pas d' Accord, 25 
 
 world, before I make up my mind on so 
 serious a subject ; and I think my trustees 
 would enable me to do this. I hope you 
 won't be disappointed, — and remain your 
 dutiful grandson, 
 
 ' Clare Strong.' 
 
 What my grandmother's real feelings 
 were on receiving this letter I never 
 shall know ; but she only wrote to say 
 that we could talk it over when we met. 
 Our next meeting was in Grosvenor 
 Street, when I had finally quitted school. 
 
 ' My dear Clare, there are a few people 
 dining here quite informally to-night. Two 
 very old friends of mine, both military 
 men, amongst them, who will talk after 
 dinner to you about the Guards. They 
 are both Guardsmen. One, Lord Francis 
 Sherlock, you know, — one of my earliest
 
 26 Clare Strong. 
 
 admirers, and who takes a great interest 
 in you. He asked me to marry him 
 many years ago, and he has never mar- 
 ried, which makes my refusal of him 
 quite a tragedy.' 
 
 * I recollect him, Granny. I am not 
 surprised you never married him,' I 
 answered, somewhat drily. 
 
 My grandmother raised her eyeglass, 
 rather astonished, but went on imper- 
 turbably, — 
 
 ' And the other — General Rosemere — 
 you know only by his fame.' 
 
 I really think Lady Duncan showed 
 a want of diplomacy in her treatment of 
 her grandson at this period. If she had 
 argued with me, — appealed to my father's 
 memory, and love of his regiment, and 
 finally fallen on me with tears and kisses, 
 I should probably have succumbed. But
 
 Notts ne sommes pas cT Accord. 27 
 
 to invite two ' old fossils.' — as I mentally 
 called them, — who knew nothing of my 
 character, or aspirations, to ' talk me over,' 
 was to invite failure. Lord Francis — of 
 whom there is much hereafter to be 
 related — was an old roud^ who, over my 
 grandmother's excellent port, dilated, not 
 so much on the glory of his country, and 
 the smartness of his former regiment, as 
 on the necessity of a profession in first 
 starting in life, to keep a boy out of mis- 
 chief, and on the obvious fact that the 
 only profession open to a gentleman was 
 the army, and the only regiments suitable 
 to a gentleman of means, the Guards. 
 
 ' When I say " keep you out of mis- 
 chief," of course, you'll get into mischief. 
 Every man of spirit has his day ; but 
 absolute idleness is very expensive, and is 
 apt to cripple a man. You'll find Lon-
 
 28 Clare Strong, 
 
 don very pleasant, as the young master 
 of this house ; and you'll have your 
 friends elsewhere. Egad ! Clare, I wish 
 I was you, and had your prospects.' 
 
 * My lord, I want to travel. Every 
 young fellow travels now-a-days before 
 he settles down.' 
 
 ^ You shall travel, when you march to 
 beat the French. We shall go at them 
 again some day, and then you will have 
 travelling enough.' 
 
 'Well, I am afraid I shall have to 
 disappoint my grandmother. I feel no 
 inclination to be a soldier,' I answered 
 doggedly. 
 
 Lord Francis was a man of pleasure, — 
 an old bachelor with an evil reputation, 
 and too little time left to him to aro^ue 
 with a stripling. He turned abruptly 
 away, to discuss with General Rosemere
 
 Nous ne sommes pas c£ Accord. 29 
 
 (the youngest cavalry general In the army) 
 the charms of some lady, about whom 
 both seemed to have much to relate. As 
 we all rose, Lord Francis said good- 
 naturedly to me, — 
 
 ' You have scarcely begun your gallant- 
 ries yet. Take my advice, and steer clear 
 of very innocent enthusiastic ladies.' 
 
 General Rosemere laughed. In after 
 years I knew him well, as these pages 
 will relate. He was then also a bachelor ; 
 but he lived to remember this advice, 
 thus addressed to one who did not in 
 the least comprehend its meaning, and 
 attributed it to the excellence of my 
 grandmother's port. 
 
 What passed that evening, or the next 
 morning, on the subject of my career, 
 between Lord Francis Sherlock and my 
 grandmother, I never knew ; but, the
 
 30 Clare Strong, 
 
 following evening, I escorted her to a 
 ball at her earnest request, and so far ac- 
 quitted myself to her satisfaction at my 
 first London party that, driving home as 
 wide awake as a girl of eighteen, she 
 said, — * My dear Clare, after all, the pro- 
 fession can wait. You will stay with me, 
 and go out this season, and pay visits 
 with me in the autumn, and we will see 
 later on.' She actually kissed me. I little 
 guessed then that her benevolence was 
 dictated by the fact that I had unwittingly 
 (sweet innocence of youth ! ) danced twice 
 with the greatest heiress in the room.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CARNABY MANOR. 
 
 ' Oh, thou oft depressed and lowly ; 
 All my fears are laid aside, 
 If I but remember, only 
 Such as these having lived and died.' 
 
 If the atmosphere of Upper Grosvenor 
 
 • 
 Street, and the society to be found there, 
 
 was of 'the world worldly,' I often escaped 
 into the country, to stay with the Pen- 
 roses, mother and son, at Carnaby Manor. 
 William Penrose and I had first been at 
 a private school together, and afterwards 
 entered Eton the same term, and we 
 always remained fast and warm friends. 
 His mother, the lady of the Manor at 
 Carnaby, was one of the most remarkable
 
 32 Cla7'e Strong. 
 
 persons I have ever known. At her birth 
 all the fairies presided ; for she was born 
 an heiress, and subsequently inherited the 
 property at Carnaby, and the lovely old 
 Manor House, in which she lived, except 
 when in London in her house in Devon- 
 shire Place. Very rich, she had also been 
 exquisitely beautiful, and, even as an old 
 woman, the regularity of her features, and 
 the sweetness of her smile, and the ex- 
 pression of her large brown eyes, seemed 
 to win both old and young to her side. 
 She was also extremely clever, and a great 
 reader, and brilliant talker. No wonder 
 that such a woman filled her houses, both 
 in London and the country, with the most 
 famous of the artistic and intellectual 
 world, who delighted in her society, often 
 dedicated their works to her, and enjoyed 
 the literary rest afforded them among the
 
 Carnaby Maxtor, 3j. 
 
 beautiful gardens, avenues, and fish ponds 
 
 of Carnaby Manor. Yet Mrs Penrose, with 
 
 all her outward prosperity and success in 
 
 life, was, in reality, a very sad woman. She 
 
 had lost all her children, except William, 
 
 and they had been six in number. One 
 
 by one they were laid in the exquisite 
 
 little churchyard in the park, and often,. 
 
 when no one was near, Mrs Penrose might 
 
 have been seen among the rose trees, 
 
 standing weeping over the graves where 
 
 those she had so tenderly loved took their 
 
 last rest. But she was too clever and too 
 
 good to allow her own melancholy to affect 
 
 her life, and that of those around her. 
 
 Her village was a model one ; her church, 
 
 which she had restored, was the most 
 
 beautiful in the county ; and there was not 
 
 a villager there who would not have gladly 
 
 made any sacrifice for her sake, so dearly 
 VOL. I. c
 
 34 Clare Strong. 
 
 was she loved and respected. * Her 
 charity,' as was once finely said, ' knew 
 no distinction save that of want' 
 
 In many respects, William, my dear 
 friend, had inherited his mother's fine quali- 
 ties. He had her noble, impulsive nature, 
 and the same expansive mind ; but, per- 
 haps naturally, he had not her strong- 
 literary tastes and instincts. He made 
 but little use of the books with which the 
 Manor House was stored — even the halls 
 and passages were lined with books ; and 
 besides the fine library, there was a de- 
 lightful bookroom filled with rare volumes, 
 where many an entrancing literary work 
 had first been written. William was a 
 keen sportsman, and devoted his winter to 
 hunting. He had the softest heart, and 
 the warmest affections, of any man I have 
 ever known ; and his admiration for his
 
 Carnaby Manor, 35 
 
 mother was the ruling passion of his Hfe. 
 He often said to me, — * Was there ever 
 anyone like my mother ? She never 
 thinks of anything but giving other people 
 pleasure. I feel quite ashamed, some- 
 times, when I am with her, of my own 
 selfishness.' And amidst this great love 
 of the mother and the one child left to her, 
 there was a constant humorous banter. 
 Her poetical, romantic view of things was 
 often to him a subject of great amuse- 
 ment. Her new mottoes, and the verses 
 she placed on the tombs of her dogs and 
 horses ; the constant purchase of books 
 of poems written by obscure and unknown 
 authors, — all this he often rallied her about. 
 To see them together was a charming 
 spectacle ; for he was as handsome as 
 Apollo, and as simple and unconscious as 
 a rustic virgin. ' My country friends,' as
 
 36 Clare Strong. 
 
 Lady Duncan always called them, it may 
 be imagined, afforded me a delightful re- 
 spite just now from the endless, frivolous 
 chatter and vapid gaiety which filled up my 
 grandmother's life. At the very entry to 
 the hall at Carnaby Manor I felt I was in 
 an atmosphere congenial to my feelings, — 
 where I could breathe, and think, and feel, 
 — where I was sure of a sincere and genial 
 welcome from its mistress, whose dulcet 
 tones still ring on my grateful memory. 
 
 One lovely summer evening in July 
 I had escaped from London for only a 
 Sunday. The others who made up our 
 party had wandered out among the flower- 
 beds after dinner, and I found myself 
 alone in the old bowling - green with 
 Mrs Penrose, the full moon sadly sailing 
 overhead, amid a silence which could be 
 almost heard.
 
 Car7iaby Manor, 37 
 
 * I have always looked on you as Willy's 
 brother, my dear boy,' she said, in answer 
 to some words of mine of gratitude for 
 her constant kindness, * and as a son to 
 me. I wish I saw your future marked out 
 quite happily for you. But you will have 
 most things the world wishes for, except, 
 perhaps, distinction. I don't think, Clare, 
 you are ambitious. But still there is 
 much to be done in life without ambition, 
 for oneself. What a good and merciful 
 thing one knows not the path before us ! 
 and if we did, how many of us would ask, 
 "Why were we born ? " ' 
 
 Her tone of profound melancholy was 
 unusual. 
 
 ' I suppose we shall know some day,' I 
 said doubtfully, ' the whole truth.' 
 
 ' *' In that great day, when," as Addison 
 says, " we shall all be contemporaries to-
 
 38 Clare Strong. 
 
 gether." But whatever happens — and at the 
 very worst moment of your Hfe, dear Clare 
 — remember to trust eternally and humbly 
 in God. Quite a Sunday lecture,' she 
 added brightly, as she saw^ I was thinking 
 of what she said. ' And so you won't 
 go into the Guards. Well, I wish Lady 
 Duncan would consent to your travelling 
 with Willy, as I presume he has told you 
 he is most anxious to go to America — 
 with a tutor, of course — for some months, 
 and, I suppose, I shall have to consent.' 
 
 In those days, America meant a very 
 long voyage, so Mrs Penrose's unselfish- 
 ness did not seem at all to guarantee to 
 me my grandmother's consent to a perilous 
 journey. Besides, I knew she counted on 
 my company both in London and the 
 country visits she always made in the 
 autumn.
 
 Carnaby Manor, 39 
 
 * Granny seems to have forgotten all 
 about her wish that I should enter the 
 3d Guards, and now seems to want me to 
 be always with her. It is very flattering, 
 but a little embarrassing.' 
 
 Mrs Penrose smiled. 
 
 ' She is very old. Perhaps your first 
 duty is to be with her. It is a marvellous 
 comfort, in years to come, to think you 
 did all you could in duties of that sort.' 
 
 Willy and I smoked until late into the 
 night that evening in the wonderful old 
 room devoted to that purpose at Carnaby, 
 discussing our mutual love for travel, and 
 the possibilities of ever seeing America, 
 and going round the world. I found he 
 rather agreed with his mother that I 
 ought to remain as much as possible 
 with my grandmother for the present. 
 
 ' We will travel together some day,
 
 40 Cla7'e Strong. 
 
 dear boy ; and I expect I shall be here 
 all the winter : I can't give up the hunt- 
 ing this next season.' 
 
 The turret bell tolled the small hours 
 as we boys talked our friendly and, per- 
 haps, shallow philosophy. 
 
 The day came when I was to sit alone 
 and desolate, and to hear that bell, which 
 had a ghastly tone for me, as I listened for 
 the sound of a voice that was still for ever- 
 more. But not yet, — not yet. I went to 
 bed, and thought how, having no mother, I 
 was blessed to have such a friend as Mrs 
 Penrose. At breakfast we were a jovial 
 party. The lady of the manor was in her 
 happiest mood, and the grave portraits 
 of her ancestors and ancestresses in the 
 lonof dininof-room seemed to me to beam 
 with satisfaction at the charm and gaiety 
 of, their present representative.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A COMPROMISE. 
 
 ' The Shape with " Thanatos " upon its brow, 
 Dreadfully peeps.' 
 
 My return from Carnaby on this occasion 
 was memorable always to me, because my 
 grandmother, in her ever capricious way,; 
 suddenly veered round, and suggested a 
 compromise as to my future. 
 
 ' I have been thinking it all over, Clare, 
 and as you have such a decided distaste 
 to the army, why not go to Oxford, — to 
 Christ Church — and take your degree ? 
 You will spend your vacations with me, 
 and, after all, I can't expect to keep you 
 always here.'
 
 42 Clare Strong. 
 
 I asked for a little time for reflection, 
 and after communicating with Penrose, I 
 told Lady Duncan, if the money question 
 could be settled, I would gladly do my 
 best to matriculate at Christ Church, — an 
 effort which did not necessitate great 
 labour in those days for an Etonian. 
 
 ' I will consult the trustees, and we will 
 have a meeting about it. I think you 
 ought to be able to live on four hundred 
 a year.' 
 
 The end of it all was I entered at Christ 
 Church, and, to the great delight of his 
 mother, Penrose also made up his mind 
 to go up to Oxford too ; and so once more 
 we were thrown together in daily intimate 
 intercourse. I have no idea of describinof 
 myself, or my career at Oxford ; for it 
 would be highly unprofitable reading, — 
 neither new, nor interesting. I frankly
 
 A Compromise. 43 
 
 confess — whether it was my own fauh, or 
 not — that Oxford did very Httle for me, 
 and I look back on the three years which 
 I was supposed to spend there, as very 
 nearly, if not altogether, wasted. I went 
 there a studious youth, and I remain a 
 studious man, but not altogether in the 
 collegiate sense, as study was then under- 
 stood. The great variety of my reading 
 was altogether against any academic suc- 
 cess, and a translation from a famous pas- 
 sage in De Faublas, into Greek verse, was, 
 as the old Scotchwoman said, on another 
 occasion, — ' Mair curious than edifying.' 
 Nor can I say that I ever felt the senti- 
 ment about Oxford which, in common 
 with most Etonians, I always shall feel 
 about my school-days. I suppose I do 
 not make friends easily. Those I made 
 at Oxford I certainly can count on my
 
 44 Clare Strong. 
 
 fingers, and they never did much in later life. 
 My grandmother's friends, of course, had 
 sons and grandsons at Christ Church, and 
 to her it seemed a constant annoyance 
 that I did not choose my friends in the 
 same worldly way she did, and had always 
 done, herself. I verily believe that her only 
 idea of ' the house ' was a society where 
 opportunity was given to make friends 
 with men of rank and high social position. 
 The day before I took my degree, I 
 received a note which upset me very much. 
 It was from the old butler in Grosvenor 
 Street, to say that my grandmother had 
 had a bad fall, coming downstairs, and 
 would I come to London as soon as pos- 
 sible ? Now, the note had been delayed 
 in coming to me, and it was already two 
 days old. Moreover, it was impossible 
 for me to leave Oxford until after the
 
 A Cofnproinise. 45 
 
 morrow, nor was it possible for me to let 
 them know in Grosvenor Street how I 
 was situated. Penrose had failed to take 
 his degree, and had gone down to Carnaby. 
 There was no one whom I cared to con- 
 sult as to what I ought to do. I arrived 
 at, probably, the best conclusion, — that no- 
 thing was to be done except to wait until 
 I could get away, and then start forthwith 
 for London, sending a note at once, and 
 taking the chance of whether it or I arrived 
 first. As I drove up in a hack-carriage, I 
 looked up at the windows ; for my brain 
 had been in an excited ao^itation for some 
 days, and I had pictured the worst, and 
 that I should find my grandmother very 
 ill, perhaps dead. But all looked as usual 
 as I rang the bell. Dorling opened the 
 door, however, with a very grave face. 
 ' She is better, sir, but she is very much
 
 46 Clare Strong. 
 
 shook, and she has taken on dreadfully, 
 sir, that you didn't come before. She 
 is in the back drawing-room, as usual ; 
 but she looks altered somehow.' 
 
 I hastened upstairs, and opened the 
 door of the smaller drawing-room. There 
 sat my grandmother, dressed just as 
 usual, and Mrs Dorling was reading her 
 a letter. But she did not seem to notice 
 my entry, and her eyes had a fixed, glassy 
 expression. Otherwise, there was nothing 
 in her appearance to indicate any change. 
 I put out my hand, and she held it. I 
 kissed her, and then she said rather 
 weakly, — 
 
 ' Why didn't you come before ? ' 
 
 ' I couldn't, Granny. I took my degree 
 yesterday.' 
 
 She seemed not to hear. 
 
 ' Mind, Dorling, you take me to the
 
 A Compromise, 47 
 
 drawing-room windows to-night. I must 
 see the people go in to the Duchess's 
 party opposite. The house is to be 
 illuminated. What a pity I cannot go 
 myself!' Her voice was perfectly clear, 
 though weak. ' I shall dine with you 
 to-night, Clare ; ' and, leaning on her maid's 
 arm, with difificulty she hobbled up the 
 stairs to her bedroom. For years I had 
 urged her to sleep on the drawing-room 
 floor, where there was a boudoir, which 
 most easily could have been converted 
 into a sleeping-room. But her strength 
 of will, derived from her Huguenot ances- 
 try, had always opposed any supposition 
 of failing health, or advancing years. It 
 was most painful to see her going upstairs 
 that evening, and to hear her say she 
 meant to come down to dinner. I retired 
 into the small sanctum downstairs which
 
 48 Clare Strong. 
 
 had been' mine ever since I had had a 
 room of my own, and rang the bell for 
 Dorling, who was my devoted friend and 
 ally, having often befriended me by sit- 
 ting up when I had gone surreptitiously, 
 as a boy, to the play. 
 
 ' This won't do at all, Dorling. Her 
 ladyship is far too ill to come down to 
 dinner. We ought to send for a doctor 
 who will forbid it.' 
 
 Dorling shook his head. 
 
 ' If your grandmother means to do a 
 thing, sir, not all the doctors in Mayfair 
 will prevent it, as long as she has the 
 strength to do it.' 
 
 ' But she hasn't the strength,' I retorted, 
 ' Has she seen anyone to-day?' 
 
 ' Lord Francis was here the whole 
 morning, and a young military gentleman 
 I never saw here before. I'm fearful, sir,
 
 A Compromise, 49 
 
 your grandmother has been adding a 
 codicil to her will, and she isn't fit to 
 make one.' 
 
 * Has Lord Francis been here every 
 day lately ? ' 
 
 * Every day since the accident, and 
 S9metimes twice a day.' 
 
 ' Will you ask Mrs Dorling to say to 
 her ladyship how much I hope she won't 
 attempt dining downstairs to-night ; and 
 that I should be so grateful if she would 
 send for the family doctor, who would 
 ensure her having a good night's rest.' 
 
 I then shut the door, and dressed 
 myself for dinner, though my mind was 
 greatly agitated as to what I ought to do 
 on the old lady's behalf. In those days, 
 people dined, when alone, at seven o'clock, 
 and, at that hour, I found myself alone 
 in the back drawing-room, so familiar to 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 Clare Stro7tg, 
 
 me. There was my grandmother's green 
 parrot,- chattering away in his usual shrill 
 way — the large worked screen, and the 
 miniatures on the tulip wood table be- 
 side it, the cushions she occasionally 
 stuffed — for she never knitted, — and the 
 oil painting of my father, which, as not 
 being a good work of art, never held a 
 place of honour in the large drawing-room. 
 I was glancing at it all — such a familiar 
 arrangement — once more, when I heard a 
 shuffling of steps on the passage outside, 
 and, hastening to the door, found Lady 
 Duncan descending the stairs to the 
 dinine-room, with her maid and a footman 
 supporting each arm. 
 
 To my amazement, she was en grande 
 tenue, and her black satin dress was 
 covered with diamonds. I never saw a 
 more ghastly sight, and, as I followed her
 
 A Compromise. 51 
 
 down, I repeated to myself, ' O I ago, the 
 pity of it ! ' She sank, almost breathless, 
 Into her large chair at the head of the table, 
 and the dinner, which I have never for- 
 gotten, almost immediately began. After 
 a glass or two of wine, and a little fish, 
 she seemed, in some measure, to recover 
 herself. But not a word did she ask me 
 as to my degree or my journey, or any- 
 thing personal to myself or to her. To 
 the last she seemed full of the frivolity of 
 her present life. 
 
 'It is the greatest disappointment to 
 me, Clare. I had hoped to go to-night. 
 But it is impossible. The Duchess never 
 forgets her old friends, and knew I 
 should enjoy such a beautiful spectacle. 
 Three new beauties come out to- 
 night, and all the Royal Family wnll 
 be there who are In town. But I shall 

 
 52 Clare Strong. 
 
 see them go in from my bedroom 
 windows.' 
 
 She was fanning herself, and all the 
 time her poor face was twitching with a 
 sort of paralytic affection. Towards the 
 end of that terrible meal, when Dorling 
 was alone in the room, I made one last 
 effort, by saying, — 
 
 * Well, Granny, I hope they gave you 
 my message. I want you to let me send 
 for Sir William. He will just come in 
 from Brook Street, and give you a com- 
 posing draught, and to-morrow, I daresay, 
 3^ou will feel quite yourself.' 
 
 She looked at me in a very fixed and 
 resolute manner. 
 
 * My dear Clare, I was never more my- 
 self than I am to-night. You will finish 
 your wine ; and will you ring for the ser- 
 vants to take me upstairs ? I am going
 
 A Compromise, 53 
 
 to my own room ; but not to bed. Go 
 to your club, mon cher^ and enjoy your- 
 self, and, if you're not too late, come and 
 say good-night.' 
 
 The Dorlings came in ; and I kissed 
 her wrinkled cheek. 
 
 * Don't sit up, dearest Granny ; I shall 
 say good-night now.' 
 
 * As you will,' and she returned my kiss. 
 I heard them labouring upstairs. But, 
 
 of course, I had no intention of leaving 
 the house that night. I went to bed at 
 eleven, and called Dorlincr before I did so. 
 
 ' If my grandmother is worse, wake me 
 at once.' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 * She is at the window in her room, 
 watching the carriages and the company 
 going in.' 
 
 I was very tired, but it was long before
 
 54 Clare Strong. 
 
 I fell asleep. The noise of the carriages, 
 and the shouting of the llnkmen, were 
 sufficiently disturbing ; but my thoughts 
 were more so. I lay tossing on my bed, 
 living, as fever patients do in their de- 
 lirium, through all the scenes of their past 
 lives. Every now and then, as I might 
 have dropped off to sleep, the cries in the 
 street awoke me, and I seemed to see, in 
 a nightmare, the figure of my grandmother 
 bidding me farewell, and fading from the 
 room. I was within a few days of my 
 birthday, when I came of age ; but I 
 think, in that night, like the man in ' The 
 Spectator,' who put his head into the 
 tub, I lived through a long life of horror 
 and imao^ination. At last I woke with a 
 sudden scare. 
 
 ' Who are you ? What is it .'^ ' I ex- 
 claimed, and my tongue seemed fever bound.
 
 A Coinpromise, 55 
 
 It was Mrs Dorling- who was standing 
 by my bedside, and had evidently, as 
 gently as possible, aroused me. The sun 
 was streaming in through the curtains, 
 which she had partly drawn. The new 
 day, and another of those thankless jour- 
 neys for glittering Phoebus, had begun — 
 but no new days for Lady Duncan. 
 
 * Oh, Master Clare, all is over ! She 
 died In her sleep, ten minutes ago, without 
 a struggle ; her breath grew weaker and 
 weaker, and once I thought she smiled ; 
 but she never said a word, and I think 
 she was asleep. I sat up with her all 
 night, and she would not go to bed until 
 late.' 
 
 What with my weird night, and my 
 sudden awakening, and a possible general 
 weakening of nerves (for I had been work- 
 ing hard) I broke down, and burst into
 
 56 Clare Strong, 
 
 tears. After all, I was very much alone. 
 We had not really had much sympathy ; 
 but she was the last link with my child- 
 hood, and all that the interests of early 
 boyhood mean. And death is always 
 terrible to the young.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MY grandmother's WILL. 
 
 * All heads must come 
 To the cold tomb ; 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.' 
 
 In the present day, the shortness and 
 uncertainty of life have become so im- 
 pressed upon the minds of people, that 
 they abridge, so far as possible, and in 
 some instances totally dispense with, all 
 outward sign of mourning for those of 
 their kith who predecease them. ' I shall 
 never be out of mourning if I put on black 
 clothes for all my relatives who die,' I 
 heard a lady once say, and I am bound 
 to confess I found that very few of the
 
 58 Clare Stivng. 
 
 relatives who survived her made much 
 or long change in their toilette when her 
 death was announced. But thirty years 
 ago etiquette was still observed in such 
 matters, — at least among persons who 
 came, like St Patrick, ' of dacent people ; ' 
 and wills always, or very generally, con- 
 tained provision for the mourning of 
 servants. I observe in several wills of 
 the early part of the last century in my 
 possession, that, even to brothers and kins- 
 men, money was left to buy mourning ; 
 and, I suppose, cynicism might suggest 
 that such bequests betokened a doubt as 
 to the mourning being adopted, unless 
 prepaid. 
 
 As soon as I had dressed myself, I 
 wrote a note, which was immediately taken 
 by hand to Mr Bandon, the family lawyer, 
 asking him to come at once to Grosvenor
 
 My Grandmother s Will. 59 
 
 Street, and announcing my grandmother's 
 death. As my grandmother had never 
 alluded to her will, or to her death, or any 
 testamentary wishes, it was manifestly im- 
 possible for me, as her heir-at-law, to take 
 any steps whatever, without consultation 
 with him. I was sitting over a breakfast, 
 which I had hardly touched, when, to my 
 relief, he was announced. I had known 
 Mr Bandon all my life, and he had always 
 been a kind friend to me, although punc- 
 tilious in the old-fashioned solicitor's 
 manner of reserve and humility. 
 
 ' Will you do what is necessary, Mr 
 Bandon, about the funeral, and all the 
 arrangements ? You see, I have no ex- 
 perience in these matters, and I trust 
 everything to you.' 
 
 He seemed gratified at my confidence, 
 but, at the same time, a little puzzled.
 
 6o Clare Strong. 
 
 ' I must tell you, sir, Dorling stopped me 
 on my way here, to say he had fears Lady 
 Duncan had made a codicil to her will 
 yesterday, and that she was not in a con- 
 dition to have done so. Now it is impos- 
 sible her ladyship could have done this, 
 as the will was made ten years ago, and 
 has always remained in our office. Pro- 
 bably Dorling has been talking nonsense. 
 Still, he declares that Lady Duncan was 
 busy writing yesterday morning, and that 
 she sent for General Rosemere, and that, 
 after his arrival here, a young Guardsman, 
 whom he did not know by sight, also 
 came. Altogether, though there may be 
 nothing whatever in it, as a matter of 
 form, let me have your grandmother's 
 keys.' 
 
 I went upstairs to Mrs Dorling to get 
 them. ' How little,' I thought, ' anyone
 
 My Grandmother s Will. 6i 
 
 seemed to feel for her death ! — how selfish 
 is the world ! ' I did not realise then, as 
 I have years ago done, that, in the long 
 run, the world is very fair in its valuation 
 of its votaries, and wisely keeps its tears 
 and charities for those who deserve them. 
 The keys found, Mr Bandon proceeded 
 very prosaically to open the old-fashioned 
 drawers of the high escritoire at which 
 my grandmother often wrote. She some- 
 times wrote in her boudoir, I reminded 
 him, as he tried the various keys, and 
 sometimes in the small drawing-room. 
 We were now in the dinine-room. 
 
 ' It will not take long, probably,' he said, 
 * as, if she executed any paper yesterday, 
 it will be at the top of other papers.' 
 
 There had been a constant knocking- at 
 
 o 
 
 the front door since nine o'clock, — servants 
 coming to inquire, and returning with
 
 62 Clare Stronz* 
 
 hushed steps. But now Doding entered, 
 and asked if Mr Bandon would see 
 General Rosemere for a moment. He 
 glanced at me, and I saw, in spite of his 
 effort at composure, that he feared trouble. 
 
 * I am very sorry. Say I am engaged 
 with Mr Clare Strong, and can see nobody 
 this morning.' 
 
 We heard the General depart, and Mr 
 Bandon continued his search without result. 
 
 '• I will ask Mrs Dorling where Lady 
 Duncan was writing yesterday morning,' 
 and he rang the bell. 
 
 It appeared from what Mrs Dorling 
 said, that my grandmother had sat in the 
 back drawing-room all the morning, and 
 had received General Rossmere there. So 
 we both went upstairs, and the lawyer 
 opened the little writing-table, with its 
 yellow satin bag, at which I had often seen
 
 My Grandmother s Will, 63 
 
 the poor old lady writing her notes. He was 
 not long seated there before he abruptly 
 rose, and, turning towards me with an 
 envelope in his hand, said hurriedly, — 
 
 * This, no doubt, is what Dorling 
 meant.' 
 
 It was directed in my grandmother's 
 writing, which was, however, much more 
 shaky than usual, and the address was, — 
 ' My will. My executors are Mr Bandqn, 
 and General Rosemere, C.B.' 
 
 'This,' said he, * is the will of which I 
 know nothing. Very probably it is quite 
 informal. I have here in the bag the will 
 we drew for Lady Duncan, by which you 
 are made her sole heir, as, by every canon 
 of justice, you should be made. But what 
 this contains, or what it is, I have, of 
 course, no idea. I think, for many reasons, 
 I should open it now, and apprise you at
 
 64 Clare Strong, 
 
 once of its contents. But if you prefer 
 waiting until the funeral, I follow your 
 wishes ; only this paper may, of course, 
 contain her injunctions as to her funeral.' 
 
 I suggested that he should open the 
 envelope at once, and he did so. Lawyers, 
 like doctors, are obliged to learn to mask 
 their faces, and Mr Bandon read to him- 
 self the sheet of ordinary white note-paper 
 which he had before him, without comment. 
 When he came to the end, I noticed he 
 examined closely the signatures, and then 
 he shook his head. 
 
 No one will ever know what evil spirit 
 took possession of my grandmother's mind 
 on the morning she wrote out herself her 
 new will. As Mr Bandon very clearly 
 explained to me, she had completely dis- 
 inherited her next-of-kin, who had been 
 brought up by her as her own son, and
 
 My Grandmother s Will, 65 
 
 who had always tried to do his duty to- 
 wards her. 
 
 * But/ said he, ' cleverly as this is drawn, 
 and witnessed, she forgot that there is ten 
 thousand pounds she cannot alienate. If 
 your father had lived, she could not have 
 left a shilling away from him, and there 
 remains this ten thousand pounds in your 
 father's settlement, which you must have. 
 But we can see, after the funeral, what 
 is to be done, and threaten the heir with 
 a Court of Equity.' 
 
 The will, a copy of which lies before me, 
 and which I would quote, but for the many 
 legatees mentioned in it, was as clear and 
 as characteristic as any will could be. I 
 may, perhaps, be allowed to add that it 
 was as cruel a will as ever was admitted to 
 probate. She began with her usual de- 
 votion to rank by a bequest of a very fine 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 66 Clare Strong. 
 
 Raphael to her neighbour the Duchess 
 (whose various houses were filled with 
 European masterpieces). Her diamond 
 hoop-ring she bequeathed to another lady 
 of rank, and a dowager intimate of hers. 
 Then followed legacies to her two execu- 
 tors, and a long list of her friends In Lon- 
 don society, all of whom she remembered 
 with gifts of money, jewels, or pieces of 
 plate. The Dorllngs and her coachman 
 received annuities. Then, after the ac- 
 quaintances and the servants, came the 
 only mention of myself. ' To my grand- 
 son, Clare Strong, I leave the sum of ^v^ 
 hundred pounds, and all the plate engraved 
 with the Strong crest or coat of arms. I 
 also leave him all pictures and miniatures, 
 either In Grosvenor Street or in my house 
 in Kent, of members of his family, and all 
 my books.' The bequest of books was
 
 My Grandmother s Will, 67 
 
 notable, as, excepting her French library, 
 which consisted of a remarkably risky 
 collection of old French romances, and 
 a certain number of modern novels, she 
 possessed none. The will went on : * And 
 as to the residue of my property, where- 
 soever situated, and of whatsoever kind 
 consisting, whether realty or personalty, 
 I give and bequeath the same to my 
 faithful and dear friend, Lord Francis 
 Sherlock, for his own absolute use and 
 benefit.' The signature was written with 
 an effort, but was duly attested by two 
 young Guardsmen. 
 
 When I had grasped all this, I felt a 
 change coming over me, and in the few 
 moments of silence which elapsed, I be- 
 came a different being. I became a man — 
 hard, and cold, and resentful, at all events, 
 for the time. Mr Bandon first spoke.
 
 68 Clare Stro7ig. 
 
 * As the family lawyer, I decline to act 
 as executor to this will, drawn without my 
 knowledge.' 
 
 * And as the heir-at-law, disinherited so 
 cruelly, I decline to remain here another 
 hour. You must communicate with Gen- 
 eral Rosemere, your co-executor, and I 
 shall at once go to the British Hotel, until 
 I can arrange my plans, and I shall not 
 attend the funeral.' 
 
 The lawyer seemed to approve of my 
 resolution. 
 
 * I think no one can blame you. That 
 old reprobate. Lord Francis, who is a very 
 rich man, may refuse to benefit by this, 
 but I doubt it. Anyhow, his proposals, 
 if he has any to make, must come through 
 General Rosemere. I will of course, act 
 for you, as always.' 
 
 For an instant, to my surprise, I saw a
 
 My Grandmother s Will. 69 
 
 quiver of his lip, and I knew that he really 
 felt for me. Two hours later, with the 
 Dorlings sobbing farewell at the door, I 
 had left that house for ever. 
 
 The body upstairs was upholstered, no 
 doubt, in the old dreary fashion to which 
 we all come, but I never saw her face 
 again — thank God ! not even often in my 
 evil dreams.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LORD FRANCIS SHERLOCK. 
 
 * II est honnete mais mediocre et d'un caractere epi- 
 neux ; c'est comme la perche, blanche, saine, mais 
 insipide et pleine d'aretes.' 
 
 It was clearly my duty, however dreary a 
 one, to remain In London for the present, 
 and until my grandmother was burled. 
 She had left no Injunctions as to her 
 funeral, and I heard afterwards It was 
 conducted in a decent fashion, and that 
 she was laid in the same graveyard where 
 my father lies, In the Bayswater Road. 
 This Is the old cemetery of the Parish of 
 St George's, Hanover Square, and was 
 opened after the ground at the back of 
 Mount Street was closed In the year 1764.
 
 Lord Francis Sherlock. 7 1 
 
 There were very few mourners, Lord Fran- 
 cis being the chief one ; but Grosvenor 
 Street was blocked with the empty private 
 carriages which followed the hearse. What 
 could be more characteristic of Lady Dun- 
 can's life than such a termination ? 
 
 How I got through those days I never 
 knew. But I had many kind visits from 
 my few real friends, and a great many 
 letters, some of them painful enough. I 
 need scarcely say that, as King David 
 experienced, I also found that * my kins- 
 men stood afar off' They generally do 
 on such occasions, though their overpow- 
 ering sympathy in the days of one's pros- 
 perity is sometimes a little overdone. The 
 day after the funeral, when Mr Bandon 
 was sitting with me in my private room 
 at the hotel, discussing my resources, 
 came a note from General Rosemere.
 
 72 Clare Strong, 
 
 He began his letter with a few words of 
 sympathy with me, and deep regret at 
 Lady Duncan's will ; and as Rosemere 
 was always a gentleman, I believe he 
 was sincere. Then he dropped into a 
 business tone, and said, on behalf of his 
 co-executor and himself, that they were 
 most anxious to make everything as little 
 painful to me as possible. Lord Francis 
 had decided to sell both the house in 
 Grosvenor Street, and also the Kent Cot- 
 tage. Of course, everything connected 
 with my family would be carefully selected, 
 and sent wherever I directed. Besides 
 plate, pictures, and books specified in the 
 will, anything I had any great fancy for, 
 Lord Francis wished to be placed at my 
 disposal ; and if I had any liking for the 
 house in Grosvenor Street, his terms for 
 the lease would be most friendly ones.
 
 Lord Francis Sherlock. ■ y^ 
 
 General Rosemere concluded his most 
 polite effusion by hoping we should always 
 remain great friends, and as he was about 
 to be married, he looked forward to pre- 
 senting me shortly to his wife. 
 
 ' But the fact remains,' I said, with 
 rather a cynical smile, ' that Lord Francis 
 takes whatever he gets under the will.' 
 
 ' Precisely so ; and, as he is seventy- 
 eight years of age, and a man who has 
 lived every day of his life, he is not likely 
 long to enjoy your fortune. Perhaps he 
 will leave it back to you ; but I want to 
 see and to explain to you exactly what 
 your means are. You come of age to- 
 morrow ; and I must then give you a 
 written account of my stewardship ; but 
 meantime, roughly, the sums are these. 
 Your father left you fifteen thousand 
 pounds in the Funds — all he had in
 
 74 Clare Strong, 
 
 the world to bequeath. There was ten 
 thousand pounds in addition, in your 
 parents' settlement ; but it was not payable 
 until your grandmother's death. It was, 
 luckily, settled on the Issue of the mar- 
 riage, so she could not alienate it, and 
 you now come into it. In addition, Sir 
 Everard left you three thousand pounds. 
 We have managed your property as well 
 as we could, and I think you will find 
 that, with the ten thousand pounds Con- 
 sols, you will be worth about twelve hun- 
 dred pounds a year. A young man can 
 do very well on that income, even with- 
 out a profession, if you do not marry, and 
 you will hardly think of marriage yet. 
 You have been abominably treated, and 
 I confess now to you I had hopes Lord 
 Francis might act as many rich men 
 would have done under such circum-
 
 Lord Francis Sherlock. 75 
 
 stances, and renounced in your favour. 
 But they tell me at the bank he has 
 no intention of doing so, and that your 
 grandmother's bequest to him amounts to 
 at least eighty thousand pounds.' 
 
 If you are only twenty-one, and enjoy 
 excellent health, and a present income of 
 twelve hundred pounds a year, life ought 
 to appear to have many possibilities, and 
 to the eye of youth, the absolute independ- 
 ence which now fell to my lot, softened 
 in time the blow the loss of so good a 
 fortune inflicted, and which, to older men, 
 would have seemed irreparable. I re- 
 ceived two notes the same evening, both 
 invitations into the country. One was 
 from Lord Francis Sherlock, dated from 
 
 his country house : — 
 
 * Sherlock House. 
 
 * Dear Clare, — I am an old man, and
 
 76 Clare Strong. 
 
 you are a young one. Let us accept those 
 relations, and, in spite of what has occurred, 
 most unexpectedly to me, let me be your 
 friend. I was your grandmother's lover ; 
 but she would not marry me. Hinc illce 
 lacrymcE. I hate business, and leave it to 
 others, so far as I possibly can. But I 
 told Rosemere to tell you I would do any- 
 thing you wished, in reason, to oblige you, 
 about the property in the Grosvenor Street 
 house, and also in the country. I can't 
 upset your grandmother's wishes. They 
 must take effect, and I am sorry for it. I 
 am not rich, but still I am too old for 
 legacies ; and I am not like that fool 
 Rosemere, who, I hear, is going to marry 
 an Exeter girl without a sixpence. Her 
 father was some pompous, scheming parson 
 there, and her grandfather a farming agent 
 o old Lord Denton. I fear I shan't live
 
 Lord Francis Sherlock. yj 
 
 long enough to see him in his white sheet, 
 and with a flickering halfpenny ''dip" in his 
 hand. Fools, and d — d fools, make up 
 the world, and Rosemere comes under the 
 second head. But I run on, and forget the 
 object of my note. Don't be a fool, Clare ! 
 Bear no resentment to me ; but come and 
 spend a week at Sherlock next month. I 
 can give you some good shooting later 
 on. — Yours, Francis Sherlock.' 
 
 The other letter was from Carnaby : — 
 
 ' Dearest Clare, — I have read your 
 letter to Willy, and so know all. I know, 
 too, how brave you will be, and that you 
 will be sure to act, at this important epoch 
 of your life, as your mother — of whom I 
 have so often heard — would have wished. 
 This is your home, and we long for you
 
 yS Clare Sh'ong, 
 
 to come home. Your room is always filled 
 with the books and flowers you love best. 
 We have a few literary people here just 
 now. Your favourite poet, of the modern 
 school, is writing a sonnet, and he is so 
 constantly in the elm avenue, I think it 
 must be addressed to the rooks. I have 
 been reading a passage in Southey's 
 " Doctor," which I have marked for you. 
 — With Willy's love, your ever affect., 
 
 * Mary Penrose.' 
 
 I have been always, and, even now, as 
 a middle-aged man, still remain, impulsive 
 and impetuous when I think I am 
 wronged, and I really believe I should 
 now re-write my letter to Lord Francis 
 Sherlock in nearly the same terms as I 
 did then. Those terms were these : — 
 
 * Mr Clare Strong has to acknowledge
 
 Lord Francis Sherlock. 79 
 
 Lord Francis's letter. He considers, under 
 all the circumstances, that Lord Francis, 
 having secured Mr Strong's family fortune, 
 now desires, by addressing such a letter to 
 him, to expressly add insult to the injury 
 he has already inflicted. Mr Clare Strong 
 can only, definitely and finally, state that 
 he does not desire the acquaintance of 
 Lord Francis Sherlock, and that, as re- 
 gards the will of the late Lady Duncan, 
 
 • 
 
 he will take what the law gives him, and 
 nothing else. What the law gives him 
 will be arranged between Lord Francis 
 and his professional men of business.' 
 
 So there ended any further communica- 
 tion between his lordship and me. I well 
 knew, too, how he would receive such a 
 missive, and could hear, in imagination, the 
 scornful laugh with which he would throw
 
 8o- Clare Strong. 
 
 it into his wastepaper basket. But, after 
 all, one of the first luxuries of independence 
 is to indulge oneself in speaking- out one's 
 mind, as we term it, or, as the Americans 
 more tersely put it, ' a straight talk.' 
 
 Lord Francis Sherlock was a man of 
 very evil reputation in his county, as 
 already hinted ; and no ladies ever visited 
 at his house. As usual, in such cases, his 
 misdemeanours were largely exaggerated, 
 and the air of mystery which he absurdly 
 affected in his household arrangements, 
 led to a hundred conjectures, one more 
 ridiculously untrue than the other. 
 
 Sherlock is a very fine place, and was 
 entailed on the second son of the Duke of 
 Southam by Lord Francis's grandmother. 
 For many years it was shut up, but never 
 let. Latterly, Lord Francis, in his old 
 age, had lived there altogether. Rumour
 
 Lord Francis Sherlock. 8i 
 
 said truly there was a lady in the house. 
 Later on, I heard from her lips the whole 
 story ; but, at present, I knew little, except 
 that the ladies of the county would have 
 nothing to say with Sherlock, or its master. 
 I was very tired of London at this 
 period, and, gladly assenting to my dear 
 old friend's suggestion to 'come home,' 
 when I had finished all the business which 
 the attaining my majority, even in my 
 small affairs, necessitated, I started off for 
 Carnaby. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MRS Penrose's guests. 
 
 ' Telle est la miserable condition des hommes qu'il 
 leur faut chercher dans la societe des consola- 
 tions aux maux de la Nature et dans la Nature 
 des consolations aux maux de la socidte.' 
 
 It was late autumn, and Mrs Penrose had 
 gathered together an interesting society for 
 a few days' visit. William had two or three 
 friends for the cover-shooting, but we all 
 met at dinner, and, as usual, under the 
 happy influence of the lady of the manor, 
 there was much brilliant and amusing 
 conversation. Mr Eardley, a well-known 
 writer of those days, and of a very de- 
 mocratic turn of mind, found himself, after
 
 Mrs Penrose s Guests. ^2i 
 
 dinner, beside Canon Caryl, whose home 
 was, at that time, with the Jesuit fathers in 
 London ; and Lady Mary Vivian discussed 
 literature and politics with both. Mrs 
 Penrose, moreover, had discovered an ex- 
 tremely interesting man — Mr Auguste de 
 Chamier — a relation of my own, and a 
 connoisseur of art, who, without my know- 
 ledge hitherto, had lived for years in 
 Russell Square. He had come to Car- 
 naby with his daughter, a charming girl 
 of eighteen. It appeared he was a 
 widower himself, though of an age that 
 by no means forbade the idea of * seconde 
 7ioce! There were also two old maids, 
 who belonged to that useful genus, com- 
 mon to ordinary English country houses. 
 
 Mrs Penrose's dinner table was always 
 a delightful sight. Fashions change, and, 
 though her greenhouses and conservatories
 
 84 Clare Strong. 
 
 were crowded with lovely flowers, they 
 found no place on her round table. But 
 instead, it gleamed with beautiful old silver 
 ornaments and plate of the time of the 
 two Charles' and Queen Anne. The large 
 silver dishes which contained what are now 
 called ' entrdes! were arranged upon the 
 table on hot-water stands, and from the 
 middle rose a beautiful silver centrepiece, 
 representing both Ceres and Bacchus. 
 I am no judge of these matters, but am 
 told that the thick and bosky woods of 
 modern dinner-tables, and the piled-up 
 masses of rare flowers of new-fashioned 
 ballrooms, are much more effective than 
 the display of family plate. It may be so. 
 And as in these days most family posses- 
 sions come to the hammer, it is convenient 
 to be able to dispense with them. Still, 
 flowers recklessly thus displayed suggest
 
 Mrs Penrose s Guests, 85 
 
 to my mind an idea of waste, whereas plate 
 remains. 
 
 ' In a house in which I was once staying,' 
 Mr Eardley was remarking, * there is a most 
 marvellous display of plate in the private 
 chapel. This plate was church loot in one 
 of the great wars, and came mostly from 
 Spain. It remained at the bank in London 
 for many years, only produced at great 
 dinner parties in the London house. The 
 owner of it all died, and, being childless, 
 his nephew succeeded him. The nephew 
 was a man of strong religious views, and 
 of Catholic bias, though he never was re- 
 ceived into the Roman Church. His first 
 act, on succeeding to the property, was to 
 re-dedicate this plate, and there it stood on 
 the altar in his own chapel, on all holy 
 days. He is dead now, and his son is 
 selling it all, to pay his 'gambling debts.
 
 86 Clare Strong, 
 
 What an opportunity for some of your rich 
 friends, Caron Caryl ! for there Is no doubt 
 it all came from Catholic churches in Spain 
 and Portugal/ 
 
 * You are quite right ; and I may re- 
 assure you,' said the Canon, with a bright 
 smile, ' for it is to be bought in. Still, 
 you will agree with me, to retain cathedral 
 plate, stolen from the professors of one 
 faith, and to apply It to the uses of an- 
 other and totally opposed religion, was 
 not a very logical act. To restore it, I 
 grant you, would have been grand. To 
 utilise It as it was utilised, was illogical ; 
 and to sell it, I am afraid, Is mean.' 
 
 * Which shows that meanness leads to 
 a good result — the restoration of stolen 
 goods,' laughed Lady Mary Vivian. 
 
 ' It Is a remarkable year for sales,' went 
 on Eardley. ' In the present unsettled
 
 Mrs Penrose s Guests, 87 
 
 state of Europe, with revolutions appar- 
 ently imminent in almost every country, 
 and with Chartists here, the great fami- 
 lies, and even the European Courts, are 
 awaking to a sense of danger and inse- 
 curity. I hear the great Vere collection 
 of jewels is to be sold privately. Men feel 
 they must realise the value of their pos- 
 sessions, and especially of their diam.onds, 
 before they cease to be valued in the 
 democratic Arcadia, to which we shall 
 all come.' 
 
 * You will see, as has happened before,' 
 said Mrs Penrose, ' things will settle 
 down once more, and this year be only 
 recollected as an interesting epoch. As 
 for diamonds, the ladies of the Great Re- 
 volution admired and collected them as 
 eagerly as those of the ancien rdgime^ 
 
 * The late Marquis de Tourville, your
 
 88 Clare Strong. 
 
 great-great uncle, Mr Strong,' remarked 
 M. de Chamier, * was guillotined for his 
 loyalty to his master, and his large pro- 
 perty in Picardy was confiscated. It 
 was known he had ancestral diamonds 
 of enormous value ; but they disappearea. 
 Since I have lived in London, I have had 
 opportunities of tracing these jewels. The 
 Marquis sold them in 1787, and they are 
 now in various famous collections here of 
 your ancient families. He did what Mr 
 Eardley says others are doing at this very 
 moment.' 
 
 At that instant, the dininof-room windows 
 being opened, owing to the unusual heat of 
 the autumn evening, a sound attracted the 
 attention of us all, though to some of us 
 it was familiar enough. The church bell 
 was tolling monotonously. 
 
 *Ah, you wonder what service, Canon,
 
 Mrs Penrose s Guests. 89 
 
 can be proceeding at this hour, on a 
 Tuesday evening. In this year of re- 
 volutions, you are Hstening to the Curfew 
 Bell. It has been rung here for many, 
 many generations, - and, as some anti- 
 quarians believe, from the date of the 
 church's first erection. There is a bequest 
 to the ringer, which is lost, like the crea- 
 tion of the first peerage of Mar, in anti- 
 quity. But at all events, it has been 
 rung here for several hundred years : that 
 is proved by the parish books. How- 
 ever, we do not '* cover the embers, or 
 put out the light," but leave you gentle- 
 men to your wine ; and when you feel 
 inclined to join us in the saloon, we 
 will have some music' 
 
 And the ladies left the room. 
 
 ' Carnaby,' observed Mr Eardley, as we 
 all settled round a horseshoe table near
 
 90 Clare Strong. 
 
 a small fire, ' is the most feudal parish I 
 know in England.' 
 
 William Penrose, at one end of the 
 table, was deeply engrossed in a tHe-a-tHe 
 conversation with a friend as to their day's 
 sport. So Eardley's sermon was not ad- 
 dressed to that end of the table. 
 
 ' As a Radical, I think the old system 
 wrong. The family living ; and the model 
 village — in which not even a public-house 
 is allowed — the absolute dependence of 
 every single human item in this place, 
 including the parson, on Mrs Penrose's 
 simple dictum, is, to my mind, degrading 
 in theory. 
 
 " God bless the Squire, and his relations, 
 And keep us all in our proper stations ! " 
 
 But when I come to actual facts here, 
 I find, owing to the exalted character of 
 our hostess, and her absolute sense of
 
 Mrs Penrose s Guests. 91 
 
 duty and unselfishness, that everything has 
 worked excellently well, and that, though 
 the Curfew Bell tolls nightly over Carnaby, 
 there Is no village in England better cared 
 for, and no landlord who has done his 
 duty more nobly than Mrs Penrose. She 
 has restored her church, and Increased its 
 endowment. She has made her village an 
 artistic treat. As I walked down it this 
 afternoon, every cottage was a picture, 
 and Its inmates the perfection of clean- 
 liness, health, and contentment. She has 
 built the schools here, and herself con- 
 stantly superintends them. When you 
 speak of her to her tenants, you can see 
 they adore her, and at the thought of her 
 sorrows In the past, their eyes fill with 
 tears. No ! the theory Is a degrading 
 one ; but, in the hands of a noble and in- 
 tellectual man or woman. It can, no doubt,
 
 92 Clare Strong, 
 
 be made to work far better than a good 
 system in bad hands. But the noble and 
 intellectual are the minority in this world 
 — the small minority, and always will 
 be/ 
 
 We all listened to this exordium, as 
 interesting from a pronounced Radical 
 doctrinaire, who was very fond of an 
 audience ; but the sound of music came 
 floating into the room, and one by one we 
 rose, attracted to the saloon. Mademoiselle 
 de Chamier, who had a fine contralto voice, 
 was singing an English song, privately 
 printed, called ' The Shadows on the Wall.' 
 Her voice, without being of the highest 
 order, was a sweet and pathetic one ; and 
 I confess to preferring simple and pathetic 
 songs, sung with expression, to those 
 elaborate tours de force, which, no doubt, 
 are marvels, as the work of a human
 
 Mrs Penrose s Guests. 93 
 
 organ, but leave one unmoved, and un- 
 sympathetic. 
 
 After which confession, it must remain 
 on record that I am not a musician. 
 Canon Caryl's career had been a chequered 
 one, and originally he served in the Royal 
 Navy. With a little persuasion, he sent 
 for his guitar, and, accompanying himself, 
 sang that delightful naval ballad * Sweet 
 Alice Benbolt.' As the final lines we;j:e 
 given, in a wonderfully melodious, though 
 not powerful, voice, — 
 
 ' They fitted a grey marble slab to a tomb, 
 And fair Alice lies under the stone,' 
 
 I confess I walked to the window, and 
 gazed at the red harvest moon, sailing 
 across the sky, above the solemn avenue 
 of elms. After the usual jovial hour and 
 a half in the gunroom, with William for
 
 94 Clare Strong, 
 
 the most cheery of hosts, we went to bed, 
 and I found myself suddenly thinking, 
 with all the insouciance of twenty-one, that 
 I had scarcely addressed a single word 
 the whole evening to my newly - found 
 cousin, — a charming girl, whose Christian 
 name I did not even know, and resolv- 
 ing to atone for the neglect, I fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER VII I. 
 
 IDA DE CHAMIER. 
 
 * Beyond the reach of time or fate, 
 These graces shall endure, 
 Still, like the passion they create, 
 Eternal, constant, pure.' 
 
 People talk of the * mist of years,' and no 
 doubt, in retrospect, much we have done, 
 and seen, and thought, appears in a haze ; 
 yet, thereout stand simple and apparently 
 unimportant incidents which have affected 
 our entire life, and which once more evoke 
 the often asked question, ' Are we the sport 
 of a defined, uncontrollable destiny, an 
 inexorable Kismet, to which it is best to 
 bow, or is there indeed —
 
 96 Clare Strong. 
 
 " A Providence which shapes our ends, 
 Rough-hew them as we may " ? ' 
 
 The morning found me strolling, after 
 breakfast, through the park at Carnaby, 
 with my cousin, M. de Chamier. It was 
 a brilliant autumn day, and the sun lighted 
 up the fine trees, and the distant view, 
 which, though not a grand one from any 
 part of the domain, is exquisitely English, 
 and pastoral. 
 
 * I never saw your grandmother,' he was 
 saying, ' although my near relative, — in 
 fact, my first cousin. My father was her 
 father's brother ; but he did not marry 
 until quite late in life, which accounts for 
 the difference in Lady Duncan's and my 
 age. I once wrote to her, reminding her 
 of my existence, and our near relationship ; 
 but she never replied. The truth was, 
 she judged my motives according to the
 
 Ida de Chamier, 97 
 
 standard of the wretched world she Hved 
 in, and she could not understand that my 
 only reason for writing was a family feel- 
 ing, which in us Huguenots has always 
 been strong. It is very singular how 
 devoid she was of it, and I daresay she 
 would have been amazed to have learned 
 that nothing would have induced me to 
 allow my daughter Ida to know her 
 friends, or to have mixed among them.' 
 
 I told him the details of her will, with 
 all of which he was not acquainted ; and 
 in expressing his horror, he asked what 
 had become of her diamonds. 
 
 ' The Chamier diamonds were famous, 
 and your grandmother had a considerable 
 share of them. Some were sold, as I 
 think I told you last night, at the time of 
 the great Revolution, or rather, I should 
 say, just before it, but others were taken 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 98 Clare Strong, 
 
 by my uncle to Geneva, and deposited for 
 safety in the bank there, and afterwards 
 bequeathed to your grandmother.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' I repHed, * she often wore 
 them, — in fact, a few days before her death. 
 They have gone to Lord Francis Sherlock, 
 and are no doubt now decorating the lady 
 who graces Sherlock, as I hear, with her 
 presence.' 
 
 Of course I spoke with bitterness, and 
 my cousin did not remonstrate, but changed 
 the subject. 
 
 ' You must come and see us when we 
 return to London. I have been collecting 
 prints all my life. You will be interested 
 in those of your French ancestors, of which 
 I have a large numbier. My daughter is 
 a great companion for me, and she takes 
 an interest in all my tasks. I am glad I 
 have no other child. She is enough for me.
 
 Ida de Chamier. 99 
 
 * But our branch dies out then in the 
 male line ?' 
 
 * The English branch dies out, if I have 
 no son, at my death ; but the French elder 
 branch Is very numerous.' 
 
 We were strolling back once more, and 
 had reached the wide extent of flower 
 beds which cover the terraces at Carnaby, 
 when we met Canon Caryl, returning from 
 some antiquarian researches in the church, 
 with Mademoiselle de Chamier. 
 
 * Ida delights in old monuments and 
 family histories/ said her father to me, as 
 she approached. 
 
 She was an extremely pretty girl, with a 
 suspicion of French extraction, not without 
 its charm. She had the dark hair and 
 large limpid brown eyes which my grand- 
 mother must have had in her youth, a fine 
 clear, healthy skin, a small nose, and a
 
 lOO Clare Strong. 
 
 very mobile, clever mouth. But she was 
 small in figure, although remarkably well 
 made, and inclined to be stout. She car- 
 ried herself extremely well, and had — what 
 used to be considered an attraction — a very 
 short waist. But her manner was charm- 
 ing — all vivacity and intelligence, char- 
 acterised by a great desire to please, and 
 a total absence of all gene. She presented 
 a strange contrast to the tall slender figure, 
 bowed slightly with age, of her companion, 
 Canon Caryl, whose eagle eye, and aqui- 
 line nose, and courtly manner, betokened 
 intellect, descent, and mental struggle. 
 He broke into one of his somewhat super- 
 ficial smiles. 
 
 * We have been indulging in a little an- 
 cient history. Monsieur de Chamier, and 
 your daughter is so good as not to be bored.' 
 
 Certainly, she did not look bored.
 
 Ida de Chamier, loi 
 
 * Oh, papa ! it is one of the most interest- 
 inor old churches I have ever seen. There 
 is a monument there of Sir Willoughby 
 Denton, and his wife, who Hved in the 
 reign of Charles I., which is perfectly 
 lovely ; and such a curious story about it, 
 the Canon has been telling me.* 
 
 'And what is the story?' I ventured to ask. 
 
 * Nothing very remarkable,' observed 
 Canon Caryl, as the young lady turned 
 from me to him for an explanation. ' Sir 
 Willoughby did not belong to this county. 
 He hailed from Staffordshire, and was of 
 a devout family of the Church, and also 
 a staunch Royalist in later years. He 
 came here, however, and married one of 
 Mrs Penrose's ancestresses. He lies 
 under the chancel. History tells that 
 Dorothy, Lady Denton, died at the birth 
 of her first child. Sir Willoughby was
 
 I02 • Clare Sh^ong. 
 
 broken-hearted at her death, and her child 
 died also. The monument to which Made- 
 moiselle de Chamier alludes, is one of the 
 most perfect of its time, in England. 
 There are three effigies — Sir Willoughby, 
 and his wife, and the baby, the latter 
 swathed, after the manner of Italian chil- 
 dren. The sad record remains that Sir 
 Willoughby married again, and is buried 
 with his second wife in Staffordshire, so 
 that this beautiful effigy of him here has 
 rather a cynical effect on the county his- 
 torian, who knows his subsequent story.' 
 
 * Well,' said M. de Chamier, ' it is only 
 the usual melancholy moral, which I won't 
 repeat before two young people ; but Sir 
 Willoughby ought to have had his effigy 
 removed to the grave he elected to lie in.' 
 
 Mr Eardley had joined us, and re- 
 marked, — ' Did you ever see the fresco in
 
 Ida de Chamier. 103 
 
 Leicestershire of the Day of Judgment, 
 where the two wives are depicted, amid 
 an airray of bones all flying into their 
 proper places, in a state of bewilderment 
 before the skeleton of a second husband, 
 like your Sir Willoughby ? ' 
 
 Canon Caryl, observing drily, ^That dif- 
 ficulty was answered more than eighteen 
 hundred years ago,' turned away. 
 
 M. de Chamier, whose religious views 
 were not quite so precise and defined as 
 those of his Huguenot ancestors, joined 
 Mr Eardley in some religious argument, 
 and I took the opportunity of turning 
 with my fair cousin into one of the wooded 
 paths which at Carnaby lead to innumer- 
 able summer-houses, fish-ponds, and the 
 famous bowling-green. 
 
 ' How very odd,' I said, with all the 
 frankness of youth, 'that you and I, Ida,
 
 I04 Clare Strong, 
 
 should not have met before. I may call 
 you Ida, as we are such near relations, 
 may I not ? ' 
 
 It will thus be seen that I was not, even 
 at that age, shy. It would have been im- 
 possible for anyone brought up as I was 
 to have been bashful in the presence even 
 of so divine a creature, as further inspec- 
 tion led me mentally to conclude Ida de 
 Chamier to be. 
 
 ' Of course we are nearly first cousins ; 
 and I have so few English relations, that 
 it is delightful to have found a new 
 one.' 
 
 ' Exactly what I feel. All my friends 
 have so many cousins, and uncles, and 
 aunts, and I seem to have none. So let 
 us, I hope, if you will, be great friends.' 
 
 Though several years my junior, she 
 answered (as girls are generally more ad-
 
 Ida de Chamier. 105 
 
 vanced in their ideas than boys of the 
 same age), with some demureness, — 
 
 * I hope, and so does papa, that you 
 will come and see us in London.' 
 
 ' Of course I shall ; but I am not quite 
 decided yet whether I shall spend the 
 winter in London. In fact, I am not de- 
 cided about anything. You see my posi- 
 tion has been so altered this year, that I 
 sometimes feel I ought to work, and e^rn 
 money, if I could do so. I might get 
 called to the Bar, for instance. But what 
 I always have in my mind is the wish to 
 travel. I long to travel.' 
 
 * And who so independent and free to 
 do so as yourself?' said Mademoiselle de 
 Chamier. 'I always wish I had been born 
 a man. My life is passed in a very nar- 
 row groove ; but then I always feel I am 
 everything to my father ; and we have
 
 io6 Clare Strong. 
 
 travelled together in Europe a good deal. 
 But politics are so disturbed just now that 
 no English are abroad, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Then you winter in London this 
 year ? ' 
 
 ' Either in London or at Brighton. My 
 father is fond of Brighton. He is not 
 
 o 
 
 now in business, but still he likes to go 
 to the city sometimes, and so to be within 
 reach of London. He is very clever, 
 and a great reader. I daresay you have 
 found that out already.' 
 
 I am afraid my interest in my fair cousin 
 had rather absorbed any curiosity I might 
 have felt as to my newly-discovered rela- 
 tive's abilities. It seemed to me that he 
 was rather selfish in so totally appropriat- 
 ing his delightful daughter's charms and 
 talents to himself, as he appeared to have 
 done. I forgot that Ida was only eighteen
 
 Ida de Chamier, 107 
 
 years of age, as she spoke with the force 
 and gravity which an only and motherless 
 girl often acquires. 
 
 We had reached the bowling-green, 
 and sat down under the shade of the 
 old elms. Suddenly she said, — 
 
 * I always think a place like this 
 does one o:ood. It makes one realise the 
 vulgarity of the riotous world without. 
 Here is rest, tranquillity, content. Twp 
 hundred years ago, it was as it is to-day. 
 No striving, no emulation, no disappoint- 
 ment, and no disturbing tragedy or pas- 
 sion ; and then the churchyard close by.' 
 
 A sweet voice, very familiar to me, 
 suddenly interrupted, — 
 
 * My dear child, you are too young to 
 talk about churchyards. Leave such 
 thoughts to old women like me ! ' Mrs 
 Penrose had interrupted our tete-a-tete,
 
 io8 Clare Strong. 
 
 and, dearly as I loved her, I could not, 
 for a moment, forgive her. But she 
 went on lightly, * I want to know if you 
 two young people care to drive with me 
 this afternoon. Perhaps, Clare, you 
 would drive us, and take charge of the 
 cobs. There is a beautiful old manor 
 house about eight miles from here, un- 
 inhabited, but in perfect order, which, 
 oddly enough, Clare, belongs to Lord 
 Francis Sherlock. He keeps it up exactly 
 as it was, and it really was the original 
 house of his mother s family, before they 
 grew rich, and inherited Sherlock, in 
 William the Third's reign. Your father 
 tells me. Mademoiselle de Chamier, you 
 take an interest in antiquities, and might 
 perhaps like to see this curious house. 
 I don't know, Clare, if the fact that it 
 belongs to Lord Francis will render the
 
 Ida de Ckamier. 109 
 
 visit disagreeable ; but, of course, do ex- 
 actly as you like.' 
 
 I hastened to say — I am afraid a little 
 impatiently, for I still wanted to continue 
 my conversation with Ida — that I should 
 be delighted to drive the ladies over, and 
 that the fact of the owner being Lord 
 Francis Sherlock was a matter of perfect 
 indifference to me, as there was no possi- 
 bility of meeting him there. The carriage 
 which came to the door after luncheon, 
 was an old-fashioned waggonette, and as 
 Mrs Penrose took a footman with her, to 
 my chagrin I found myself debarred from 
 any further conversation with my cousin, 
 who sat with Mrs Penrose, her father, and 
 Canon Caryl. Mr Eardley and Lady 
 Mary did not join the party. The foot- 
 man, I was obliged mentally to admit, at 
 my side, was an unpleasant necessity, as
 
 1 1 o Clare St7'ong. 
 
 I did not know the route ; and the cobs, 
 a recent purchase, being very fresh, soon, 
 of necessity, engrossed all my thoughts. 
 It struck me afterwards, as a coincidence, 
 that I should thus find myself driving to 
 view one of the possessions of a man who 
 had so cruelly defrauded me of my in- 
 heritance, and who had been an admirer 
 and a suitor of my grandmother's. We at 
 length arrived at a very humble swinging 
 gate, without any lodge, and, driving in, 
 passed through several grass fields, and 
 two or three other gates. Suddenly the 
 road took a sharp turn, and, under a 
 short and perfectly straight avenue of 
 lime trees, we pulled up before one of 
 the most beautiful old houses I have ever 
 seen in this or any other country. A 
 most elaborate old iron-work gate fronted 
 the house, which was of red brick, with
 
 Ida de Chamier. 1 1 1 
 
 a large facade, and two small wings. 
 There was a grass courtyard, and a nar- 
 row path, up which we all walked to the 
 simple doorway, over which was the 
 Sherlock shield, with the motto, 'Nil nisi 
 Deo! The centre part of the building was 
 manifestly much older than the wings, 
 which had been added in the reigns of 
 the two Charles'. As we entered the 
 quaint hall, with its magnificent carved 
 oak ceiling, Mrs Penrose explained to 
 the caretaker of the house, who respect- 
 fully saluted her, ' I want to show the 
 house myself 'All this part of the 
 house,' she added to us, 'belongs to the 
 time of Henry the Seventh. It has not 
 been altered in any single respect, so far 
 as one can see, since it was built. Of 
 course, the furniture here, as you perceive, 
 is mostly of Queen Anne's time ; and
 
 112 Clare SU^ong. 
 
 there is a delightful cradle upstairs in 
 one of the bedrooms, also of that date, 
 and made of solid oak.' Mademoiselle 
 de Chamier was delighted, as also the 
 Canon, with all they saw. The staircase, 
 with its shallow stairs, and carved designs 
 and legends, especially interested the 
 Canon, as also the old chapel, a most 
 diminutive and rather bare room. 
 
 I, too, was charmed with this present 
 and living picture of a home of one's an- 
 cestors three hundred years ago, showing 
 exactly how men of gentle birth and 
 moderate fortune lived in those far-a-way 
 times ; but I confess to the weakness of 
 human nature in muttering to myself, 
 * To think this, too, should belong to 
 that graceless old reprobate, who pro- 
 bably does not care a straw for all these 
 wonderful antiquities.' But I was wrong.
 
 Ida de Chamier. 113 
 
 Lord Francis Sherlock, like many of his 
 kind, had many sides to his character, 
 and at one time of his life had devoted 
 much time and money to the place ; and 
 I recollected afterwards that my grand- 
 mother had once long ago spoken to 
 me of this house, and of his interest 
 in it. 
 
 * The manor has only a small property 
 attached to it,' said Mrs Penrose, 'and, I 
 believe, only a couple of farms. More- 
 over, it is unentailed, so Lord Francis 
 can leave it as he chooses. Sherlock is 
 entailed on his elder brother's second son, 
 but the manor of Elcote has not been 
 entailed for a century.' 
 
 Through the various bedrooms, with 
 their quaint beds, and looking - glasses, 
 and latticed windows, to the powder closet, 
 where the ladies of the household resorted 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 114 Clare Strong. 
 
 for hair powdering, to the museum, where 
 Lord Francis, In glass cases, had stored 
 many curious documents, coins, medals, 
 and old prints, we all wandered In delight- 
 ful gossip, Ida asking constant questions, 
 and Mrs Penrose decking everything with 
 romance and sentiment. We came down 
 another staircase, and small, comparatively, 
 as the house was, it seemed easy enough 
 to lose one's way. A large bush of 
 mistletoe hung suspended in the hall, 
 to which we had again returned, and 
 which Mrs Penrose told us was only 
 renewed from Christmas to Christmas. 
 It looked a little brown and withered, 
 and Ida took no notice of it, and I 
 dared not make any facetious remark 
 about It. 
 
 * And now, Mrs Penrose,' said Ida, * for 
 the ghost. It is impossible for such a
 
 Ida de Chamier, 115 
 
 house as this to exist and for no ghostly 
 tradition to belong to it. Let us sit down 
 here on these remarkably uncomfortable 
 high-backed chairs, and hear the ghost 
 story.' 
 
 ' There is, I believe, a ghost story 
 belonging to the house ; but I don't be- 
 lieve in ghosts, and it is better to 
 forget such stories. So far, how- 
 ever, I may tell you that it is con- 
 nected with a tradition that whoever 
 inherits this manor, either never mar- 
 ries, or, if he marries, does so at his 
 peril.' 
 
 ' Is that founded on a religious oath ? ' 
 asked Canon Caryl. 
 
 'No,' replied Mrs Penrose, — 'on some 
 old story of a wrong and a curse. But 
 let us come into the garden, and see the 
 other side of the house.'
 
 1 1 6 . Clare Strong, 
 
 Some beautiful turf of considerable ex- 
 tent lay beyond the glass door, opening 
 into the so-called garden, which in reality 
 was only laid out in grass. On one side of 
 the house was quite a vast orchard, and I 
 endeavoured to attract Ida to visit this 
 with me, under an assumed interest in 
 the apple harvest ; but she seemed to 
 avoid another tete-d-tete. The sun had 
 been shining brightly, but suddenly be- 
 came obscured. Everything to me looked 
 grey and chill, even the house we had 
 just quitted. Our hostess seemed to 
 feel the general depression, and pre- 
 dicted a storm. So once more we 
 entered the carriage, and, not well 
 pleased, I drove the cobs home at a 
 needlessly hurried pace. The depression 
 was clearly explained by a roll of 
 thunder, and heavy drops of rain, as
 
 Ida de Chamier, 1 1 7 
 
 we rattled up the solemn avenue at 
 Carnaby. 
 
 At dinner, that night, our conversation 
 naturally turned much upon Elcote. Mr 
 Eardley, as usual, was the chief spokes- 
 man. 
 
 * Delightful, no doubt, theoretically ! 
 Picturesque exterior, and charming speci- 
 men of early Tudor domestic architecture. 
 But what about living in such a house 
 the present day ? Did you notice if 
 the floors slanted in an unpleasant way ? 
 Were there fire-places in all the bedrooms, 
 and how about the ventilation ? Bells, of 
 course, there were none, and drains were 
 best unmentioned. Oh, no, the sentiment 
 is charming, but I prefer a house like this, 
 which has been modernised internally, and 
 which has kept pace with the times. I 
 like comfort, and comfort means progress.
 
 1 1 8 Clare Strong, 
 
 It is all very well for Lord Francis Sher- 
 lock to keep Elcote up, as you say he 
 does, but he takes very good care to live 
 himself at Sherlock, where nothing, I will 
 be bound, is sacrificed to antiquarian in- 
 terest which could conduce to the comfort 
 of its possessor.' 
 
 *Ah! Mr Eardley, you pose as a 
 democrat and a cynic, and I never will 
 believe you are either,' murmured Mrs 
 Penrose. 
 
 ' I could not be a cynic,' he said, 
 with a little bow ; ' at least in this 
 house.' 
 
 We had no music that evening, but 
 were very merry over a round game of 
 cards, and never noticed the Curfew Bell. 
 Not once again had I an opportunity to 
 speak alone with my cousin. The fates 
 seemed aeainst me. When she said 'Good-
 
 Ida de Chamier. 119 
 
 night/ she raised her lovely brown eyes 
 most unconsciously to mine, though I ven- 
 tured on the slightest pressure of her 
 fingers, and said, in her most bewitching 
 half French manner, — 
 
 ^ Take care you do not dream of the 
 Elcote ghost. I am sure there is a 
 ghost.' 
 
 That evening, in the dear old smoking- 
 room, where William and I had passed so 
 many pleasant evenings, recalling the jokes 
 and good stories of our school and college 
 days, we once more found ourselves alone, 
 our elders having retired to bed. One of 
 William's invariable customs was, when 
 the men came to the smoking-room, be- 
 fore he joined them, to go up to his 
 mother's room, where he generally re- 
 mained for at least a quarter of an hour. 
 They were so wrapped up in each other,
 
 I20 Clare Strong. 
 
 that, before sleep, this nightly interview 
 alone was a sacred habit. She had no 
 one now but him to confide in, to clasp 
 to her heart, and even I, though so inti- 
 mate a friend of his, never knew what 
 passed between them on these occasions. 
 But, to-night, William, when he joined me, 
 seemed rather more serious than usual, 
 and, after we had lighted our pipes and 
 filled our glasses, he said, without hesita- 
 tion, — 
 
 ' I am glad those *' grave and potent 
 seniors" have deserted us to-night, I want 
 to make some plans with you. I have, 
 decided to give up the hunting, after all, 
 this winter, if you will go with me to 
 America ; and I think we might have a 
 very pleasant time of it. Mother gives 
 me three months of absence. She says 
 she can't spare either you or me longer.
 
 Ida de Chamier. 12 r 
 
 But we could do a good deal In that time. 
 What do you say ? ' 
 
 . ' Agreed ! ' I exclaimed joyfully, forget- 
 ting everything else ; ' if you really think 
 you would like it/ 
 
 ' You see,' he said, * for one thing, your 
 plans are so unsettled ; and you have no 
 home but this at present ; and I don't 
 think you had better settle down in 
 chambers just yet. So this winter seems 
 an opportunity for the travel which we 
 have so often talked about ; and I shall 
 have many a hunting season here after 
 this year ; so let us go ! ' 
 
 It was not then that I realised how un- 
 selfish he was in this proposal ; and not 
 till long afterwards, that it was my second 
 mother who had suggested the self-deny- 
 ing act he was too ready to perform. His 
 was a noble nature ; and life, alas ! has
 
 122 Clare Strong. 
 
 taught me how few there are Hke him, in 
 the desire to make others happy at what- 
 ever self-sacrifice. When we said good- 
 night, the plan of a journey to the States 
 was settled.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OURVOYAGE. 
 
 ' The lawyer and the usurer, 
 That sit in gowns of fur, 
 In closets warm can take no harm, 
 Abroad they need not stir. 
 When winter fierce with cold doth pierce, 
 And beats with hail and snow, • 
 
 We are sure to endure, 
 When the stormy winds do blow.' 
 
 My life had hitherto been almost exclu- 
 sively spent on terra fir ma ^ and my marine 
 journeys had been short and infrequent. 
 Consequently, when William and I found 
 ourselves on board a vessel, needless to 
 say, very different to the magnificent 
 steamers which now cross the Atlantic, 
 and which are more luxurious than most
 
 124 Clare Strong. 
 
 hotels, it was a great moment of excitement 
 for me. Our steamer was one of the largest, 
 most comfortable, and the quickest, of those 
 days ; but the journey was seldom then 
 accomplished from Liverpool to New York 
 under a fortnight, and often occupied a 
 much longer time. We had the first 
 officer's cabin to ourselves, and were, in 
 every respect, most comfortable. I re- 
 member waking up the first day out, early 
 in the morning, and looking out of our port- 
 hole. So far as eye could reach, of course, 
 was dull, monotonous ocean ; and, as it 
 happened, not even a sail in sight. The 
 thought occurred to me, then, and often 
 has done so since, what an apparent use- 
 lessness there is in such a vast expanse of 
 water, and, for what purpose, if any, could 
 it have been created. But the sea has 
 always been suggestive to me of many
 
 Our Voyage. 125 
 
 things, and a death which occurred shortly 
 afterwards on board, gave me weird and 
 strange dreams. It was late at night, in a 
 perfectly calm sea, except for that sweep of 
 wave which is always present in the At- 
 lantic, and with a brilliant moon riding 
 overhead, that the coffin was lowered into 
 the beautiful ocean, — ' Until the sea gives 
 up her dead.' She is very tenacious of 
 them now, and the moan of the waves, and 
 wind, which was rising, was not suggestive 
 of any resurrection. The next day, there 
 was a storm. All night I had been kept 
 awake by the roar of the wind, the creak- 
 ing and straining, and the horrible sensation 
 when a big sea has been taken on board, — 
 the cessation of the sound of the machinery, 
 and that awful tremble which seems to 
 invest a ship with humanity, struggling 
 against the elements. I was not sea-sick,
 
 126 Clare Strong. 
 
 as my poor friend was ; but the sea was 
 so tremendous, and the rolling and pitch- 
 ing so fearful, that it was impossible, for 
 two days, to get on deck. When I was 
 able to do so, I saw a grand sight, familiar 
 no doubt to thousands, but new to me at 
 that date. A sailor gave me his arm as I 
 mounted the companion, and I beheld what 
 landsmen mean, when they talk of the sea 
 being ' mountains high.' Our gallant 
 steamer looked as if she would be over- 
 whelmed, as the huge waves environed 
 her, and she plunged into the trough of the 
 ocean. The sky wore a wild appearance. 
 Scudding clouds flew across the horizon, 
 and all around were the ravages of the 
 gale, which now had spent its fury. I re- 
 member thinking how little the small in- 
 terests of one's life seemed in such a grand 
 scene as this. My poor old grandmother,
 
 Our Voyage, 127 
 
 and her wicked will, my bitterness to- 
 wards Lord Francis Sherlock, my passion 
 (as I termed it) for Ida de Chamier, the 
 hurricane seemed to blow all these things 
 away. And I thought of the grand words 
 of King David, — 
 
 'These see the works of the Lord, and His 
 wonders in the deep. For He commandeth 
 and raiseth the stormy wind which Hfteth up 
 the waves thereof. They mount up to the 
 heaven, they go down again to the depths,' 
 etc. 
 
 The truth is, that it does a man good, at 
 any age, to face God and Nature, and to 
 forget, for a time, the petty chicaneries 
 which must always surround even a 
 noble life, and, much more so an or- 
 dinary one. After that day, we had no 
 more rough weather. William recovered 
 his spirits, and his head, and came also 
 on deck. How lovely the nights were ! 
 I have crossed the Atlantic, and also
 
 128 Clare Strong, 
 
 the Pacific Ocean, several times since, but 
 I have never again seen such wonderful 
 effects in the sky at night. The heavens 
 seemed ablaze with shooting stars^the 
 fireworks of the Celestials. The sea 
 at night was brilliantly luminous with 
 phosphorus, which lighted up the beautiful 
 rollers, churned into many colours by our 
 screw. To me was new then that lovely 
 ultra-marine tint of waves, which one never 
 sees except in mid-ocean. 
 
 Our fellow-passengers were not interest- 
 ing to us, as they mostly seemed men of 
 business ; and the ladies were few, and 
 very different in appearance and class to 
 the fascinating persons who crowd the 
 decks of the modern Cunarder in the 
 summer-time, and who look upon a trip 
 to the ' other side ' as little more than an 
 excursion from Portsmouth to the Isle of
 
 Our Voyage. 129 
 
 Wight. We did not escape fog altogether 
 in the neighbourhood of Newfoundland : 
 I think very few voyagers across the 
 Atlantic ever do. 
 
 A fog at sea is absolutely dangerous 
 and uncomfortable, and has no elements 
 of grandeur or interest. It is, besides, 
 far more perilous than heavy weather. 
 But in those days competition was so 
 much less that we slackened speed very 
 considerably, and did not rush on, as I 
 understand many modern companies in- 
 sist upon their captains doing, prepared 
 to assert that such speed in a fog con- 
 stitutes no special danger. 
 
 We were very glad, however, to see the 
 
 sun again, and to anchor, after a rather 
 
 tedious voyage, outside the bar at Sandy 
 
 Hook. 
 
 As everyone has been to America, it 
 VOL. I. I 
 
 Ck I
 
 130 Clare Strong, 
 
 might be advisable not to give, even 
 cursorily, my unimportant impressions of 
 the country ; but I will go so far as to 
 say that there was nothing I saw in my 
 travels there which struck me so much as 
 the harbour of New York. My views are 
 often morbid, and I should like to rest, 
 when I die, in the Greenwood Cemetery, 
 overlooking the finest scene in the world. 
 It is finer now than it was then, as the 
 extent of shipping is so vastly increased. 
 But to my dying day I shall remember 
 that bright November morning when we 
 steamed leisurely past the forts, and for 
 the first time I saw the great unbeauti- 
 ful commercial city beneath a blue sky, 
 and without a suggestion of smoke, and 
 with the most romantic surroundings in 
 the clear distant air. 
 
 The last time I entered New York har-
 
 Our Voyage. 131 
 
 hour my feelings were different. I was 
 a middle-aged, disappointed man, and 
 some of my disappointment was connected 
 with the great country I now visited for 
 the last time. Coney Island, with its 
 monster elephant, seemed the acme of 
 vulgarity. I only saw the exaggeration 
 of Brooklyn Bridge ; and the green hills 
 far away were inferior to the Cotswolds. 
 Jersey City was simply hideous ; and J;he 
 various dockyards of the steam companies 
 the incarnation of ugliness. How blessed 
 is youth ! 
 
 Slowly we made our progress, and I 
 longed to leap on shore, full of enthusiasm 
 for the new scenes, the new manners, the 
 new food, and the new friends. There 
 were the usual tiresome delays about land- 
 ing, which, perforce, restrained my im- 
 petuosity, and called forth much violent
 
 132 Clare Strong, 
 
 language on the part of William, who 
 explained that the moment you arrived 
 in a country which boasted of free in- 
 stitutions, it was absolutely necessary to 
 be emphatic in the expression of indi- 
 vidual opinion. 
 
 But at last we were rattled along through 
 very mean streets and over the most un- 
 easy paving stones, to our hotel in the 
 neighbourhood of Washington Square. 
 Such a vast city has now spread west- 
 ward towards Central Park, that this 
 situation, I presume, would not now be 
 fashionable ; but at this time it was suffi- 
 ciently central, and afforded us every 
 possible comfort, and even luxury, ac- 
 cording to the report given by the ser- 
 vant who had accompanied us. 
 
 I afterwards found that taking a servant 
 to America was the greatest possible mis-
 
 Our Voyage. 133 
 
 take, as it gave an altogether exaggerated 
 idea of our wealth, which led to propor- 
 tionate fleecing. 
 
 The hospitality of Americans cannot, 
 now or then, be too highly eulogised ; 
 and with the letters of introduction we 
 carried, hotels were not likely to be long 
 a necessity. New York was still empty. 
 After a wet summer had come one of 
 those lovely Indian autumns for \yhich 
 the country is proverbial, and conse- 
 quently the great people of New York 
 had not yet returned to the city. The 
 heat, indeed, was most unusual for the 
 time of year, and we were both well 
 pleased, having done the ordinary sight- 
 seeing, to step on board a well-equipped 
 private steamer, which conveyed us up 
 the Hudson, in the course of about five 
 hours, to the residence of Mr Buer, a rich
 
 134 Clare Strong. 
 
 merchant, who had given us a cordial wel- 
 come to his country place. 
 
 I do not think any one ever forgets his 
 first impressions of the autumn foliage of 
 America, and as we steamed along we 
 were both mute with delight at the mar- 
 vellous colouring which both banks of the 
 grand river displayed. In some cases, the 
 maples, with their brilliant yellow leaves, 
 had scarlet trunks, which effect for a time 
 we did not perceive was due to the Virginia 
 creeper which clung round them. There 
 is a wonderful stillness, too, in the Ameri- 
 can atmosphere at this time of year, which 
 gives an indescribable effect to this mass 
 of colour. There is death in the air, but 
 Nature dies in the hey-day of her beauty, 
 and with the dignity of Hecuba, as de- 
 scribed by Euripides. 
 
 Our landing-stage reached, our host was
 
 Our Voyage, 135 
 
 there in his phaeton to receive us. He 
 was not at all effusive in his manner at 
 first, rather a silent, middle-aged man, with 
 scarcely any accent, but full of intelligence 
 and culture. In short, he was exactly the 
 reverse of every American I have ever 
 seen presented on the stage or in current 
 literature. One passion I at once dis- 
 covered in him during our drive, namely, 
 for horses, of which, it appeared, he bred 
 a great many for his own amusement and 
 also profit. The two are seldom apart in 
 America. For politics he cared nothing 
 at all, although he foresaw the revolution 
 which was bound to come, and spoke to 
 me once or twice of the effects the inevit- 
 able victory of the North would have on 
 the country generally. His horses flew 
 along at a marvellous pace, and, not being 
 quite free from the American love of dis-
 
 136 Clare Strong. 
 
 play, as we were careering on a straight 
 bit of road, at a pace which caused the 
 loose stones to fly up in my face as I held 
 firmly on, he suddenly threw the reins 
 down, and the horses came to a dead stop. 
 It was a piece of theatrical effect which 
 caused William to again indulge in an 
 expletive, but sotto voce on this occasion. 
 
 Mr Buer's park was not at all what we 
 understand by the term. We turned sud- 
 denly off the road, through a plantation of 
 maples, tulip trees, and the American oak, 
 and soon drove up in front of a handsome 
 modern house — according to English ideas, 
 an extremely handsome villa. Below the 
 house was an artificial lake with two or 
 three islands. There were no flower-beds, 
 but the beautifully-coloured trees supplied 
 their place, and there was plenty of turf. 
 A verandah ran round the entire house,
 
 Our Voyage. 137 
 
 and the view, with distant mountains, was 
 extremely fine. Still, as William observed 
 to me later, ' it did not look quite finished/ 
 Mr Buer was a bachelor, and we were 
 quite unprepared for the bevy of young 
 ladies who appeared in the drawing-room 
 before dinner. Our host had told us not 
 to dress for dinner, so, of course, we obeyed 
 his orders, and Imagined we were to dis- 
 cuss a very simple bachelor repast. It 
 was rather embarrassing to us both to find 
 an elderly lady, who was introduced as 
 Miss Buer, our host's sister, no less than 
 four young ladles, and a young gentleman, 
 whose accent was far from being so sub- 
 dued as that of our host. The ladles were 
 all exquisitely dressed and bejewelled. Be 
 it distinctly understood they were ladles 
 in dress, manner, and cultivation of mind, 
 and it ought not to be necessary to say so.
 
 138 Clare Strong, 
 
 were it not that one hears so many strange 
 stories of Amdricaines in Europe, who 
 do not come up to this standard. But the 
 explanation is, that we see the worst side 
 of their society, and I have no doubt the 
 evil will increase until society in Paris 
 and London will receive the demi monde 
 of the States. 
 
 Miss Buer acted the useful part of Greek 
 Chorus in the establishment. She ex- 
 plained us all to each other, and was a 
 most useful accessory to the whole party 
 for our host, as already said, seemed at 
 first a silent man. 
 
 I never ate a better dinner. It was 
 cooked. Miss Buer informed us, by a man 
 of colour, and a first-rate cook he seemed 
 to be. The attendants, too, were all nig- 
 eers. When I next visited New York, I 
 might have been in Grafton Street, and
 
 Our Voyage. 139 
 
 there was not a black man In service ; 
 and one need not go to America to 
 decide on the merits of Irish cookery. 
 
 The four young ladies were all cousins 
 of one another, and all nieces of the Buers. 
 The one I took in to dinner was remark- 
 ably handsome — Miss Angelina Pike. She 
 had the finest bust and shoulders for so 
 young a girl (she could not be more than 
 nineteen) that I have ever seen. 
 
 ' How did I like New York ? ' 
 
 * Well,' I said, ' of course, it's a very 
 fine city, but one seems rather out of place 
 as an idler. Everyone seems bent on 
 dollars. But if you ask me about the 
 harbour, you'll find me an enthusiast' 
 
 'You come along to Baltimore. I'm 
 going back there on Saturday. I'm a Bal- 
 timore girl ; and my ma means to ask 
 you two gentlemen to stay with us. My
 
 140 Clare Strong. 
 
 cousin Ella, who went in with your friend 
 to dinner, lives in Baltimore, too, and my 
 other two cousins live in New York.* 
 
 ' Mary Buer is my brother John's daugh- 
 ter, and lives in Fifth Avenue,' said the 
 Greek Chorus ; * and so does Susan ; but 
 Angelina and Ella Pike, my two sisters' 
 children, live at Baltimore.' 
 
 It appeared to me that William was 
 having a very lively flirtation with Miss 
 Ella Pike, a small but pretty blonde with 
 a gay manner ; and it seemed a fortunate 
 coincidence that both these cousins, being 
 so handsome and agreeable, lived at Balti- 
 more, whither we also were bound. In 
 deference to English customs, the negroes 
 constantly passed the champagne, and Mr 
 Buer kept us company, though he pro- 
 fessed not to drink wine. 
 
 ' When you get to Baltimore, sir, mind
 
 Our Voyage. 141 
 
 you ask my brother-in-law, Pike, for some 
 of his rain-water Madeira ; but he is sure 
 to give you some whether you ask for it or 
 not. Terrapin, and old Baltimore Madeira, 
 is no bad providing.' 
 
 After dinner, the weather was so mild, 
 that we all adjourned to the verandah, 
 from which a glorious sunset, or rather 
 the remains of it, in gold and crimson 
 clouds, charmed one's eye. We sipped 
 our coffee, and presently the two Miss 
 Pikes and the two Miss Buers came down 
 with their banjoes, and gave us delicious 
 music. First, the two Miss Pikes sang 
 comic negro songs : one about the ark was 
 a trifle profane ; but, as Buer himself ad- 
 mitted, ' real witty.' Then they broke into 
 the pathetic Virginian air, familiar to 
 Europeans, with its beautifully melodious 
 chorus. These young ladies were so
 
 142 Clare Strong. 
 
 amiable, and so delighted to give us the 
 pleasure which they saw on all our faces, 
 that it was quite dark as they all four sang 
 a lovely quartette, called ' The old Ken- 
 tucky Shore.' As we moved into the house, 
 Buer said, * Do you hear the Katydids ? ' 
 
 ' Katydid, Katydid, Katydid.' 
 
 It was the monotonous cry of the 
 bird which sings continuously in Ameri- 
 can woods when the summer is over, 
 and seemed to me a melancholy 
 sound. But I soon forgot it, as we 
 adjourned to a most luxurous smoking- 
 room, where our host did the honours 
 in the most hospitable style, and where 
 he insisted on brewing himself for 
 me one of those elaborate American 
 ' drinks,' of which I confess no apprecia- 
 tion, except so far as the ice is con- 
 cerned. Mr Buer was in advance of his
 
 Our Voyage. 143 
 
 time, for he told us he often went over 
 to Europe. 
 
 * My business is chrome,' he said, * and 
 my father made a big pile in it ; but we 
 Americans are never content until we 
 make a big pile bigger, so we brothers are 
 pretty busy men, and I go over to the 
 other side on business. I'm a richer man 
 than my brothers, but that's only because 
 I am a bachelor. We don't have big 
 families in America, as you do in England ; 
 but still it stands to reason a single man 
 is richer than a married man. You must 
 see m)^ house in New York. I have some 
 fine pictures there, mostly French ones.' 
 
 If Mr Buer now talked a good deal 
 about himself and his belongings, as he 
 undoubtedly did, neither William nor I 
 found his conversation dull. He was full 
 of information, and all he told us about
 
 144 Clare Strong, 
 
 himself, had the great merit to us of 
 novelty. 
 
 ' To-morrow morning you'll come along 
 and look at my stables, which may, per- 
 haps, rather surprise you. But English- 
 men don't, as a rule, care for our horses. 
 We shall see what you say. You ought to 
 ride well, sir,' he added, turning to William. 
 
 It was an instance of American intui- 
 tion ; for William was one of the best 
 horsemen I ever knew, and one of the 
 hardest riders in the Midlands. 
 
 * Yes ; perhaps ; I'm pretty well at home 
 outside a horse ; but how did you guess 
 that?' 
 
 ' Can't say, sir ; but you look like a 
 man who can ride.' 
 
 I found, to my surprise, that Buer was 
 extremely well read in eighteenth century 
 English literature, and seemed to know
 
 Our Voyage, 145 
 
 his Shakespeare almost by heart. His 
 Hbrary contained all the standard authors 
 of the eighteenth century, and some of his 
 books were curious and scarce editions. 
 He told me Pope was his favourite poet, 
 which seemed a strange taste for an 
 American. When I suggested that Boling- 
 broke wrote some of Pope's couplets, he 
 said shortly, — 
 
 ' And Bacon, I suppose, the best of 
 Shakespeare's plays ? ' 
 
 * No,' I said, * I despise the Englishman 
 who believes that' 
 
 ' And so do I, as an American. When I 
 went to England first, I went to Stratford ; 
 but it seemed to me you English don't revere 
 that great man's memory as we should do.^ 
 
 * Or, we revere it in a different way.' 
 He did not reply, as wishing to avoid 
 
 disputatious matter. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 146 Clare Strong. 
 
 'Well, gentlemen, I sit up late, but you 
 have been travelling the last few days, and 
 I daresay would like to go to bed.' 
 
 As a matter of fact, we were both des- 
 perately tired, and needed no rocking in 
 the luxurious beds to which we were soon 
 consigned. Our rooms opened into each 
 other, and the last words I heard William 
 say were, — 
 
 ' For a silent man, he does blow cer- 
 tainly, but he's far better company than 
 half the men you meet at home ; and I 
 like him.' And William Penrose by no 
 means liked everybody.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WE GO TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 * At morning and at evening both 
 
 You merry were and glad, 
 So little care of sleepe and sloth 
 
 These prettie ladies had. • 
 
 When Tom came from labour, 
 
 Or Ciss to milking rose. 
 Then merrily went their tabour, 
 
 And nimbly went their toes.' 
 
 The next morning, when William had had 
 his bath, which American civilisation had 
 long found a necessity, he confided to me, 
 in his delightfully innocent manner, which 
 often reminded me of his mother, that he 
 had fallen in love with Ella Pike, to which 
 I replied that I had sustained exactly the
 
 148 Clare Strong. 
 
 same accident in regard to Angelina. We 
 both agreed that they were charming girls, 
 and that our prospect of the visit to Balti- 
 more, before we did any further touring, 
 was likely to prove very pleasant. At our 
 age everything was easy, and we could 
 return from Baltimore to Philadelphia, or, 
 for the matter of hat, ' from any one 
 given point to another,' as Euclid puts it. 
 The given point, however, on this bright 
 autumn morning, was clearly the stables, 
 whither our host, whose silence was a thing 
 of the past, conducted us, after a break- 
 fast of which I still have tender memory. 
 The young ladies did not accompany us, 
 and the Greek Chorus was obviously no 
 longer a necessity. Much had been ex- 
 plained ; and Mr Buer was quite ready 
 now to explain the rest. Nothing could 
 exceed the luxurious arrangements of the
 
 We go to Baltimore, 1 49 
 
 stables, which covered a large extent of 
 ground. Our host's breeding establish- 
 ment was some miles off; but he had a 
 number of horses of whom he had the 
 highest possible opinion, but all without 
 pedigrees. I confess I was glad to find 
 William Penrose, who always understood 
 horses, agreed with me that they were a 
 poor lot, from the English point of view 
 of horse flesh. What astonished me most 
 were the wheels. Mr Buer had no less 
 than thirty-^even carriages in his stables ; 
 and when he had his house full of com- 
 pany, carriages were being ordered to 
 come round at all hours of the day and 
 evening. When I thought of my experi- 
 ences in Grosvenor Street, and English 
 country houses, — of the care bestowed on 
 the family barouche, and the three or four 
 horses in the stables, and station dogcart,
 
 150 Clare Strong, 
 
 I could not help marvelling at this display. 
 The convenience of this plethora of con- 
 veyances was almost immediately demon- 
 strated. Three phaetons were ordered 
 out, and in one of them I soon found 
 myself bowling out of the park gate. I 
 absolutely refused to drive ; so one of the 
 numerous stable-boys got on the box, and 
 beside him sat one of the Miss Buers, 
 while behind, in a roomy seat, sat Miss 
 Angelina Pike and your humble servant. 
 It was a most convenient happy arrange- 
 ment for me. William started in a similar 
 carriage, but was too independent to be 
 driven, depending on the instructions of 
 Miss Ella for his route. 
 
 * I suppose,' said Miss Angelina, ' you 
 English don't drive out like this before 
 lunch, and without any chaperon. There's 
 no fun in walking in this sun, so why not
 
 We go to Baltimore, 1 5 ^ 
 
 drive ? Aunt Mary always drives to the 
 farm in the morning, when she's staying 
 here, and don't want us girls.' 
 
 *And I'm very glad Miss Buer takes 
 
 that view/ 
 
 ' Don't you like Aunt Mary ? ' said her 
 niece, in rather a piqued tone. 
 
 ' Of course ; she is a charming old lady 
 —only it's so much nicer to have you two 
 girls to myself.' 
 
 *Wait till you get to Baltimore,' said 
 Miss Pike, * and see my cousin Lena, and 
 then you won't think so much of us.' 
 
 Baltimore seemed the El Dorado of 
 these young ladies, and until one arrived 
 at that haven of the blest, clearly one had 
 seen nothing. Moreover, Miss Ella Pike 
 did not evidently care for flirtation just 
 now, though perhaps she might later on do 
 so, as she seemed to insinuate, at Baltimore.
 
 152 Clare Strong, 
 
 I mentally resolved to push on to Balti- 
 more. 
 
 * I wish you had been here earlier, for 
 the corn. It looked so beautiful two 
 months ago. All these fields about here 
 were covered with it, and it is the grandest 
 crop we grow. You had some corn last 
 night for dinner. Did you like it ? ' 
 
 * Delicious,' I thought ; * when served as 
 a vegetable with the roti! 
 
 ' The squirrels do a lot of damage about 
 here,' she observed ; * they want thinning 
 in this part, as they devour the corn ; but 
 uncle has a weak side, and he can't bear 
 to have the squirrels killed. Did you ever 
 taste squirrel pie '^. Down in Kentucky, 
 it's one of their prime dishes.' 
 
 * I should think it would take a great 
 many squirrels to make a good pie. Miss 
 Pike.'
 
 We go to Balti7nore, 153 
 
 * Depends on the size of the squirrel. 
 You should see our squirrels in the park 
 at Baltimore.* 
 
 The drive was a lovely one, nearly all 
 the way following- the route of the Hudson, 
 on hilly ground, with the heights which 
 surround Westpoint as a distant view. It 
 was very delightful in the still, clear air 
 of a late American fall ; but American 
 young ladies, so far as my experience goes, 
 do not care for scenery, except as they 
 care for the decoration of their rooms, and 
 that excludes sentiment. We drove home 
 by another route, and arrived there in time 
 for a sumptuous luncheon at two o'clock. 
 If the American lady is a little deficient 
 in romance, like many English beauties, 
 she is not so in appetite. 
 
 Ne C7'oyez pas quelle est ange. Point de 
 tout ; elle mange les coteletteSy et elle Uve
 
 154 Clare Strong. 
 
 tons les matins a kuits keures, — a brutal 
 sentiment, for which, though not my own, 
 I apologise. But the young ladies at Mr 
 Buer's hospitable house would not have 
 demanded an apology. They did not 
 seem to consider themselves angels, and 
 they greatly enjoyed their luncheon. In 
 the afternoon, time being allowed for a 
 possible siesta, or for a cigar, horses and 
 carriages came round once more, and once 
 more William and I were the esquires of 
 the two Miss Pikes ; but on this occasion, 
 on horseback, and with the chaperonage of 
 our host. The Miss Pikes were fair horse- 
 women, Miss Ella's small compact figure 
 showing to better advantage, perhaps, than 
 the more redundant charms of her sister, 
 on a horse ; but they both were in the 
 highest of spirits, and we were a merry 
 party. On our way we passed a magnifi-
 
 We go to Baltimore, 155 
 
 cent red-brick building, surrounded with a 
 good deal of well-cultivated land ; and I 
 asked Pike what it was. 
 
 *A Catholic College, founded here a few 
 years ago by the Jesuits,' he replied. 
 * People in Europe don't know what the 
 Jesuits are doing in this country ; as they 
 always have done, since the days of Loyola, 
 they are advancing cautiously, and with 
 consummate tact ; but they are advanc- 
 ing, you bet, in spite of the Atheism and 
 Freethinking in this country ; and as 
 long as they don't mix themselves up 
 with our political institutions, I wish them 
 success.' 
 
 It is extraordinary how liberal-minded, 
 on religious matters, intelligent Americans 
 nearly always are. 
 
 Our time in America was limited, and 
 though we were pressed to stay on with
 
 156 Clare Strong, 
 
 the Buers, and were greatly interested by- 
 all we saw, we determined to go on to 
 Baltimore, after our three days' visit. I 
 will not say that the intended departure 
 for the same city of the Miss Pikes did 
 not partly influence us ; but there was 
 much to be seen and done in the com- 
 paratively short time at our command ; 
 and we parted from our kind host, pro- 
 mising to visit him later in New York. 
 With the young ladies, our farewell was 
 only a short au 7^evoir^ as they themselves 
 would be in Baltimore soon after we 
 arrived. They gave us their parents' 
 address. Miss Angelina assured us her 
 brother would make us members of the 
 Maryland Club, and that we should find 
 plenty of gaiety going on. 
 
 Some remark of mine to William, on 
 our journey, as to the interest Canon Caryl
 
 We go to Baltimore. 157 
 
 would take in what we had heard about 
 the Jesuits in America, led him to think 
 a good deal of his mother, and of the pos- 
 sibility of having letters from her forwarded 
 from New York. I thought he seemed, 
 for the first time, a little depressed, as he 
 remembered the great distance dividing 
 them. I suppose the traveller, like the 
 sailor, should be a light-hearted man, * sans 
 
 faniille ; ' otherwise, if there is a mother, or 
 
 • 
 
 a wife, or a sweetheart, as the sun goes 
 down, surgit amari aliqtiid. But in due 
 course we arrived at Baltimore, famous 
 for its monuments, and its pretty girls. 
 I remember someone saying, years ago, 
 to me, after visiting Leamington, 'that it 
 seemed to be all fly-men, and old women.' 
 The first morning we strolled about 
 Baltimore, we concluded that the monu- 
 ments were very over-rated, and that the
 
 158 Clare Strong. 
 
 pretty girls, apparently, stayed indoors, or 
 reserved themselves for that sitting out 
 on the door-steps, which, in warm weather, 
 is a custom peculiar to Baltimore. The 
 fact is, we Oxonians were not well-read 
 in American history, except so far as Lord 
 Chatham and Lord North were concerned. 
 The monuments and statues required ex- 
 planation ; for the names inscribed thereon 
 sounded strange and unknown to us. I 
 have, however, noticed the same ignor- 
 ance as to former local celebrities among 
 Americans themselves. That evening, we 
 both received intimation that we were 
 elected honorary members of the Mary- 
 land Club, and also invitations to a ball 
 to be shortly given by Mrs John Pike, 
 and which was to commence at the ex- 
 tremely sensible hour of nine o'clock. I 
 have been, naturally, present at hundreds
 
 We go to Baltimore. 159 
 
 of balls since this particular one, which 
 was given in a house utterly unsuited for 
 such an entertainment, the houses at 
 Baltimore being mostly of very ordinary 
 pretension ; nevertheless, it is likely, as 
 the reader will hereafter perceive, if he 
 honours these pages by perusing them to 
 the end, that it is the one ball I am never 
 likely to forget. 
 
 Mrs John Pike was the sister, as 
 already said, of Mr Buer, our late host ; 
 but she had not the refinement of manner 
 of her brother, and she had never crossed 
 the ocean. She was very proud of her 
 daughter Angelina, as she well might be, 
 and very anxious to take her to Paris 
 and London ; but Mr John Pike declined, 
 at present, to advance funds for that 
 purpose, and gave, as a reason, the then 
 unsettled state of Europe. But Mrs Pike
 
 i6o Clare Stro7ig. 
 
 only bided her time. She was a tuft- 
 hunter of the truest breed, and no Baltimore 
 young man should carry off, if she could 
 help it, the fine fortune and attractive 
 charms of her Angelina. All this, she 
 conveyed, not very indirectly, to William 
 and myself. The night of her ball, she 
 was attired as an English mother, on such 
 an occasion, at that time, would have 
 been, except for her magnificent diamonds, 
 which a duchess might have envied, and 
 which quite eclipsed my recollections of 
 Lady Duncan's display. Her hair, I re- 
 collect, was powdered, and a gorgeous 
 bird of fabulous origin constituted her 
 head-dress. I had full opportunity of ad- 
 miring it, as she insisted on taking me 
 herself in to supper, after dancing a square 
 dance with me. As William afterwards 
 remarked, ' The old girl has taken you
 
 We go to Baltimore. 1 6 1 
 
 regularly in hand, and means to let you 
 see what Baltimore can do.' 
 
 As we sat down together to a supper 
 which was singularly homely, according 
 to modern notions, I lifted my eyes, to see 
 opposite to me one of the most lovely faces 
 I ever beheld. She was very fair, with an 
 exquisite skin, and the most beautiful 
 golden hair. Her large limpid blue eyes, 
 heavily and darkly lashed, seemed to gaze 
 into space with a poetical languor, which 
 contrasted with her vigorous frame, clothed 
 in the purest white. Her voice, as she 
 spoke to her companion, was in conson- 
 ance with her beauty, low and distinct, 
 like exquisite music ; her nose was ever 
 so little retroussd ; but her lips were full 
 and red, her mouth small and refined, 
 and her teeth, when she smiled, as she 
 seemed to do whenever she spoke, were 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 1 62 Clare Strong. 
 
 like dazzling pearls. I turned at once to 
 Mrs Pike, * Who is that lovely girl ? ' 
 Now, if Mrs Pike had been an English- 
 woman, she would have resented the 
 question, and, having a marriageable 
 daughter, although I had already im- 
 pressed her with my own ineligibility, 
 she would have spoken slightingly of this 
 Venus of the ballroom. 
 
 •' She is one of our Baltimore belles, — 
 Miss M'Carthy, an only daughter; and 
 her father, old M'Carthy, left a lot of 
 money. She and her mother will go to 
 Europe one day, and I guess they'll make 
 a pretty strong sensation over there.' 
 
 'Will you present me to her after 
 supper ? ' 
 
 Mrs Pike most good-naturedly pro- 
 mised she would, and shortly afterwards, 
 as we went upstairs, fulfilled her promise.
 
 We go to Baltimore. 163 
 
 The lovely Dora McCarthy must have 
 noticed my admiration, as she raised 
 the most wonderful eyes in the world 
 to mine, and, on my asking for a 
 dance, assured me quite pathetically that 
 every dance was already 'booked.' (I 
 should have thought badly of the Bal- 
 timore mankind if it had been otherwise.) 
 
 ' But you are a stranger, so let us 
 start.' 
 
 In an instant we were whirling round 
 the room, to the music of a most delicious 
 waltz. To this day I can hum the air ; 
 to this hour I recall the wild intoxication 
 of resting my arm on her waist, and the 
 perfume that seemed to distil from the 
 glittering hair, and the witchery of her 
 eyes, as she abandoned herself to my 
 guidance. I had hoped she would sit out 
 the next dance with me, which was a piece
 
 164 Clare Strong, 
 
 of presumption on my part, but all such 
 ideas were dispelled by a somewhat trucu- 
 lent young gentleman claiming my en- 
 chantress for the next dance. But, as 
 morning broke, we did dance the Lancers 
 together, and she introduced me after- 
 wards to her mother, who cordially begged 
 me to call upon them.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MISS DORA MCCARTHY. 
 
 ' I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible that love should of 
 a sudden take such hold ? ' 
 
 William and I walked home to our 
 hotel, beneath the brilliant rays of sun- 
 rise. 
 
 ' I never spent,' said he, * a more de- 
 lightful night. Baltimore is a charming 
 place, and Ella Pike the nicest girl 
 I know. You seemed dancing with a 
 very pretty woman. What is her 
 name ? '
 
 1 66 Clare Strong, 
 
 ' Miss Dora McCarthy. I am going to 
 call on her mother this afternoon.' 
 
 * The deuce you are ! You promised 
 to have a look at the duck shoot- 
 ing and decoys. I can't let you off 
 that.' 
 
 * I shall call on the McCarthys first,' I 
 said, in what William always called my 
 * Huguenot ' manner. 
 
 So he said no more, and we turned into 
 bed. 
 
 ' Well, my inconstant swain,' he said at 
 luncheon, * you're an awful fellow to travel 
 with. You fall in love every day with 
 some fresh beauty. It was only two days 
 ago you were raving about the other Miss 
 Pike.' 
 
 * I am not aware, William,' I said with 
 dignity, ' that I am raving about anybody ; 
 and as you are going only on a visit of
 
 Miss Dora AP Car thy. 167 
 
 inspection on the important question of 
 the ducks, I can't see that an hour's delay 
 need put you out.' 
 
 * Nor shall it, you bet. I shall be 
 found at the club, with a Havanna and 
 a cool drink. So farewell, and good 
 luck.' 
 
 As a usual thing, William would have 
 accompanied me on such a visit, but to- 
 day I preferred going alone. That after- 
 noon, in the shady garden, sitting under 
 the trees, I found the beautiful Dora, 
 looking more bewitching than ever, in 
 her coquettish, well-fitting, simple brown 
 dress. 
 
 ' The sun was still powerful, so I came 
 out here to read,' she explained, pointing 
 to her book. ' Ma has gone down town, 
 but she'll be back directly, so pray sit 
 down.'
 
 1 68 Clare Strong, 
 
 It is almost Impossible to propose mar- 
 riage to a young lady of any nation after a 
 few hours' acquaintance, and if I had been 
 possessed of the effrontery to do so, I 
 should have richly deserved the point- 
 blank refusal which certainly would have 
 been my reward. Still, in my youthful 
 impetuosity, my devotion was very marked, 
 and I was duly that day enrolled amongst 
 the considerable band of Miss Dora's ad- 
 mirers. I now greatly rejoiced that, with 
 the love of independence natural to young 
 men, we had betaken ourselves to an hotel 
 at Baltimore, instead of availing ourselves 
 of Mr Pike's hospitality. Consequently, 
 being perfectly free, and Miss McCarthy 
 being allowed by her mother a vast deal 
 of liberty also, scarcely a day passed that 
 we did not meet ; and, as the society at 
 Baltimore is extremely small, we nearly
 
 Miss Dora McCarthy. 169 
 
 always met as^ain in the evening. William 
 watched our growing intimacy with rather 
 an anxious eye. I think he remembered 
 his conversation with his mother the even- 
 ing we settled to start on this journey, and 
 he felt a little weighted with responsibility. 
 As the days wore on, he hinted that we 
 were spending a most unequal division of 
 our time at Baltimore, as, indeed, we had 
 already been there three weeks. Looking 
 back on that time, I see that he was, as 
 always, most unselfish and forbearing ; 
 whereas I had completely become a slave 
 to the beautiful Dora, and in that slavery 
 for a short time forgot my friend. 
 
 At last one morning, when the weather 
 was bitterly cold, and some signs of a 
 snow-storm were apparent, he said, rather 
 gravely, — 
 
 ' My dear Clare, you really must pull
 
 170 Clare Strong. 
 
 yourself together a little, or I shall have 
 to leave you here alone. As it is, vi^e are 
 bound to exceed our three months' ab- 
 sence, and I cannot leave my mother, and 
 all the business at Carnaby, for an inter- 
 minable time.' 
 
 I clasped his hand. We should always 
 be dear friends till the end. 
 
 ' Give me till Friday (it v^as Wednes- 
 day morning), and v^e will go to Wash- 
 ington on Friday.' 
 
 So it w^as agreed between us. He 
 added, — 
 
 ' You must not be angry with me, or 
 think I want to lecture you because I am 
 older ; but, if you take my advice, you 
 won't enter upon any serious matter 
 with Miss McCarthy between this and 
 Friday. She will be coming to 
 Europe next summer, and then you
 
 Miss Dora M' Car thy, 1 7 1 
 
 can decide whether to speak to her 
 or not.' 
 
 I only nodded in a mysterious way, and 
 left the room. That afternoon I was en- 
 gaged to drive with Miss McCarthy, in the 
 beautiful park outside the city. How 
 lovely she looked in her fur cap and 
 cloak ! — the keen air bringing colour to 
 her cheeks as she handled the ribbons, 
 and we bowled along together towards 
 the park. By some lucky coincidence, 
 she had not brought a groom, and I 
 gladly got down to open the one or 
 two gates we came to, long since 
 removed. Her golden hair was flying 
 over her face, beaming with animation. 
 I never, at any period of her life, saw 
 her look so handsome, or carry herself 
 so proudly, as she did that after- 
 noon.
 
 172 Clare Strong. 
 
 * Look at the squirrels ! ' she said, as 
 the Httle grey creatures, aroused by the 
 clatter of our steeds, took refuge in the 
 trees. * Poor little beasts ! they are in 
 for a fall of snow. How stupid you 
 are this afternoon, Mr Strong! What is 
 the matter with you?' 
 
 ' The matter is, I have to go away to 
 Washington, and continue our tour, on 
 Friday, and I don't like going at 
 all/ 
 
 'And why not? It certainly is rather 
 cold weather for moving about ; but you 
 will see Niagara, no doubt, in its grand- 
 est dress of ice and snow. If I was 
 you, I should be delighted to move 
 on. 
 
 * I don't think you would,' I said slowly. 
 * The fact is, since I have known you, 
 Baltimore has become very dear to me.'
 
 Miss Dora McCarthy. 173 
 
 In a moment her gaiety vanished, and 
 a shade of sadness crossed her beautiful 
 face. 
 
 ' My dear boy, you must not think of 
 anything serious, at your age. When we 
 come to England next year, you will 
 have seen more, and thought more. 
 You cannot know your own mind 
 yet about Baltimore or anything else. 
 But I am glad you like my dear 
 Baltimore, and that you also like me, 
 a little.' 
 
 Somehow, her muff tumbled off her 
 knees, and, somehow — I shall never feel 
 quite sure how — our lips met, and that 
 was my only love-passage with Dora 
 McCarthy. No doubt, Mrs Grundy will 
 think it a vulgar one, and that Miss 
 McCarthy was a forward baggage, and 
 I an impertinent young man. Soit, I
 
 174 Clare Strong, 
 
 take this occasion to say I never did, 
 and I never shall, care much for Mrs 
 Grundy's opinion on any subject what- 
 ever. Dora whipped up her horses im- 
 mediately after this incident, and talked 
 volubly, as the snow-flakes fell, and as 
 we drove towards home, without any 
 further sentimental allusion to my de- 
 parture. 
 
 ' My grandfather was an Irishman, — 
 came over here from the county Tyrone, 
 without a dollar ; but he joined a friend 
 out here, and made a pile. I should 
 like to go to Ireland. My father was 
 born there ; but they were only small 
 farmers, who tried the new country. 
 There are not many Irish in Baltimore. 
 You have met C — , he claims an Irish 
 peerage. At least, he says he could do 
 so. We are nearly all what you call
 
 Miss Do7'a McCarthy. 175 
 
 Tories in Baltimore. Well, good-bye ! 
 We shall meet to-night and, of course, 
 you and your friend must dine with ma 
 and me to-morrow night' 
 
 ' Thank you very much,' I said ; ' of 
 course, we shall be delighted to come ; 
 and you have promised me two dances 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' There will be a suicide if I give 
 vou more.' 
 
 Her tall stately figure passed up the 
 stone steps, and there was no more 
 to be said. William never asked me 
 any questions, though he knew how 
 the afternoon had been spent ; and he 
 at once agreed to eat our last dinner 
 at Baltimore with the McCarthys, though 
 I knew he would rather have done 
 so at the Pikes' house, where Ella 
 remained, to his more constant and
 
 176 Clare Strong. 
 
 better-regulated mind, a lasting mag- 
 net. 
 
 At the dance that night, with the 
 perfume of her lips still lingering on 
 mine, after that friendly salutation (for 
 it was not a lover's kiss), I passed 
 one more delightful evening. The next 
 day was a sad one to me. William, 
 though sorry to leave the Pike family, 
 and specially the younger daughter of 
 the house, had satiated himself for 
 weeks with slaughter of the ducks, and 
 was full of reflection on the passage 
 of the time. On the whole, he was 
 glad to leave Baltimore. That last 
 evening, Dora and I had no oppor- 
 tunity for a tete-a-tete until, just as 
 we left, she beckoned me into the 
 boudoir. 
 
 ' We might meet in New York ; but I
 
 Miss Dora McCarthy. 177 
 
 don't, somehow, think we shall. But, any- 
 how, I hope you've had a good time ; and 
 when we come to Europe, ma will let you 
 know.' 
 
 Her tiny, diamond-ringed hand was 
 clasped in mine, and, for the time, the 
 most lovely woman I have ever known 
 was lost sight of by me, though, often and 
 often, during the succeeding weeks, I saw 
 her face in my dreams. I had nothing but 
 those dreams, and that one kiss, to remind 
 me of her. And, as for myself, I think 
 it probable now, that 'out of sight was 
 out of mind.' We were destined, how- 
 ever, to meet and to part again. 
 
 Onward we went to Washington, only, 
 comparatively, a trivial journey ; and there 
 the gaieties were at their height. An old 
 Etonian was in the Embassy — a great per- 
 sonal friend of William's ; and, of course, we 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 178 Clare Strong. 
 
 carried a letter to our Minister. But with 
 my departure from Miss McCarthy's pre- 
 sence, my interest in society seemed, for the 
 present, to vanish ; and so, after a week, we 
 went on our way. I have no intention of 
 assuming a guide-book Hterary style, so 
 shall content myself by saying that, both 
 on this first occasion and on subsequent 
 visits to the States, I thought Philadelphia 
 the brightest and the nicest city in 
 America. I know no shops, and no 
 thoroughfares, so bright and gay, both by 
 day and night, as those of the old Quaker 
 city. Chestnut Street is a thoroughly 
 cheery promenade, far more so than any 
 street in New York, and, to my ideas, than 
 any in the almighty Boston, with all its 
 social and literary pretensions, — the one city 
 in America which always reminds me of a 
 big provincial town in England. But, no
 
 Miss Dora McCarthy, 179 
 
 doubt, then I was in a discontented state 
 of mind, and it is a true remark to say that 
 one's views of men and things depend on 
 the condition of one's own mental and 
 physical being. Dora McCarthy had much 
 to answer for. I brooded on, and must 
 have been a deplorable fellow-traveller to 
 my dear friend ; but he understood all the 
 circumstances, and never said one word of 
 reproach. 
 
 We saw Niagara under most favour- 
 able circumstances, for the time of 
 year, for there was a brilliant sun 
 shining the morning we issued from 
 the Clifton House, and the icicles and 
 blocks of ice were magnificent, with 
 the foam rising up in clouds, and its 
 gorgeous prismatic colours. Niagara was 
 not then vulgarised, and it was pos- 
 sible to observe all the different effects
 
 i8o Clare Strong, 
 
 without the intervention of touts, and the 
 presence of excursionists, and perpendi- 
 cular tram lines. Yet it never can be 
 totally degraded by any surroundings, 
 however coarse and mercenary ; and I 
 pity the man or woman who can gaze 
 at that mysterious and terrible whirlpool 
 below the rapids without a feeling of awe 
 in thinking of the one side of Nature 
 which is pitiless and ghastly — its immut- 
 ability among all the * chances and changes 
 of this mortal life.' The whirlpool at 
 Niagara will still be making its fatal 
 and profound eddies when the greatest 
 minds of the world, and what they wrote, 
 are buried in oblivion. 
 
 Years afterwards I saw Niagara in a 
 brilliant September night, with a harvest 
 moon shining grandly over the troubled 
 waters. * O God ! ' I prayed, ' take
 
 Miss Dora M' Car thy, 1 8 1 
 
 me to Thyself in Thine own good 
 time, and without a weary struggle. 
 Beyond these waters, and this cold 
 judicial moon, there must be rest and 
 eternal peace.'
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A STRANGE SITUATION. 
 
 * Oh, may we all for death prepare ! 
 What has he left ? and who's his heir?' 
 
 William Penrose and I had been ab- 
 sent from England six months, instead 
 of three, when we stepped on shore from 
 the tender at the Liverpool landing-place. 
 A week before sailing for England, we 
 had directed all letters to be sent to 
 us at Liverpool, as we should rest there 
 a night before proceeding to Carnaby. 
 William had found a note from his
 
 A Strange Situation, 183 
 
 mother, in New York, just before we 
 sailed, addressed to us both jointly. 
 
 ' Carnaby Manor. 
 * My Dear Boys, — I am glad to hear, at 
 last, you are turning your steps to New 
 York, with a view to coming home ; 
 because, of course, I pine a little, every 
 now and then, to see you. Not that I 
 am lonely ; for In London I was quite 
 gay, for me ; and Christmas Day I spent 
 with the Chamiers, who had a very 
 festive party ; but I thought much of you 
 both. Since I have been at Carnaby, I 
 have had constant visitors. Mr Eardley 
 is here now. You will have heard he is 
 now In Parliament, and seems to be rising 
 rapidly in public estimation. We shall see 
 how he succeeds. For myself, I think 
 he will do great things ; but he is on the
 
 184 Clare Strong. 
 
 wrong side. I was delighted at Clare's 
 description of Niagara ; but he must not 
 take the melancholy side of life too much 
 to heart, at his early stage of life. I am 
 glad you have both, so far as I know, not 
 lost your hearts to any American en- 
 chantress ; and I long to hear all your 
 adventures, especially William's ideas of 
 sport in the States. I suppose he greatly 
 enjoyed the duck-shooting. Tim rides 
 Roderick vigorously every day; but the 
 stables want looking after, and their 
 master's presence will be a very desirable 
 event. I am sorry you did not care for your 
 literary friends in Boston, as I delight in 
 the little I know of American fiction ; but 
 not in their poetry. Every morning I hope 
 to find a letter fixing the week of your re- 
 turn ; but I shall wait here patiently, and 
 not allow my maternal instincts to bring
 
 A Strange Situation, 185 
 
 me to Liverpool In this very bitter English 
 spring. I was at Elcote a few days ago, 
 and heard Lord Francis was dying. . . . 
 — Ever yours, 
 
 ' Mary Penrose.' 
 
 I also found a letter, among others, 
 which caused my heart to beat very fast. 
 It was curious that, throughout the voyage 
 home, I had felt a strange presentiment 
 of coming disaster. Of course, my gloom 
 was attributed by William to the feeling 
 which had rather darkened my latter stay 
 in the States ; but, in reality, it was some 
 vague sense of an important epoch in my 
 life. When I had read General Rose- 
 mere's letter, at the Liverpool Hotel, I 
 believed in my presentiment, and, though 
 far from superstitious, few events of im- 
 portance have occurred to me through
 
 1 86 Clare Strong, 
 
 life, without a previous foreboding. The 
 letter was a short one, and ran in the 
 followlne terms. 
 
 •t> 
 
 * Clarges Street, March 21. 
 
 * Dear Clare, — I hear you have directed 
 your letters to be sent to Liverpool, and 
 that you are expected there for a night 
 some time in the course of next week. It 
 is very important that I should see you 
 as soon as possible after your arrival in 
 England. I to-day attended the funeral 
 of poor old Lord Francis Sherlock, in the 
 capacity, to my great surprise, of his sole 
 executor. He had been ill for some weeks, 
 but absolutely refused to see any of his 
 relations or old friends, including myself. 
 His will was produced by the family law- 
 yers, and by it you are largely benefited. 
 He has left you back, absolutely, your
 
 A Strange Situation. 187 
 
 grandmother's diamonds. He has also 
 left you Elcote, and Lady Duncan's eighty 
 thousand pounds, fettered with the extra- 
 ordinary condition that you are to lose 
 both one and the other on your marriage. 
 If you remain a bachelor, you can bequeath 
 both the estate and the funded property, 
 which is placed in the hands of trustees. 
 If you marry, all passes, with Sherlock 
 and the whole of his fortune (excepting 
 a jointure left to a lady), to his nephew, 
 the Duke of Sutham's second son. This 
 is about as plainly as I can state the case, 
 but you must see me at once, and peruse 
 the will ; and there will be much to ex- 
 plain. We ought to meet at Sherlock 
 first. Will you therefore let me know 
 at once on your landing what day will 
 suit you to dine and sleep at Sherlock '^ 
 Northampton is the nearest town, as you
 
 1 88 Clare Strong, 
 
 probably know. The only inmate at 
 Sherlock is the lady in question; but the 
 place does not pass to the heir for six 
 months, and all the Elcote papers are 
 there. I am glad Sherlock has reversed 
 the unjust will of Lady Duncan, though 
 his peculiar views on matrimony may, I 
 fear, not entirely fall in with your own. 
 Ever yours, Jack Rosemere.' 
 
 To say that I was thunderstruck, as the 
 colloquial phrase goes, on reading this 
 letter but inadequately describes my state 
 of mind. It appeared to me that Lord 
 Francis had revenged himself, by this 
 extraordinary disposition to me, fettered 
 with such a cruel condition, for my re- 
 fusal to accept the hand of friendship he 
 offered soon after my grandmother's death. 
 I do not think so now in later years, but
 
 A Strange Situation, 189 
 
 such was my not unnatural conclusion at 
 that time. 
 
 On descending to our dinner in the 
 coffee-room, I ordered a bottle of cham- 
 pagne, and silently handed William this 
 letter to read. To my surprise, he, who 
 had such control, when he chose, over his 
 mental emotions, gave way entirely to his 
 sense of the injustice which two wills, 
 executed by persons both between eighty 
 and ninety years of age, brought upon 
 me. 
 
 ' If ever I get into Parliament,' he said, 
 ' I will bring in a bill to render all wills 
 executed after the testator has passed 
 seventy-five years, void and illegal.' 
 
 I could not forbear lauo^hinof. 
 
 * I suppose some people would envy 
 me, and say I was uncommonly lucky. 
 To come into three thousand a year,
 
 190 Clare Strong, 
 
 and a beautiful old manor house, exactly 
 adapted for such a moderate income, is 
 not a calamity, William, if it were not for 
 the fiendish provision, which, of course, I 
 shall some day bring Into force.' 
 
 * Listen to me, Clare. Anyhow, mar- 
 riage for you yet would be a mistake. 
 With your abilities, and this fortune, and 
 position in the county, added to your own, 
 you must seek a career — a political career. 
 Even I intend to do so some day. Your 
 early marriage would cripple you. So, for 
 the present, I should forget altogether the 
 condition on which you inherit. Time 
 enough ten years hence to consider it, and 
 its bearings on your happiness. Anyhow, 
 you have the diamonds.' 
 
 * Which, with a cynicism worthy of 
 Lord Francis, I can bestow on any woman 
 in the world who is not my wife.'
 
 A Strange Situation, 191 
 
 ' True ; but, for the present, I should 
 keep them for myself at Coutts' 
 Bank; 
 
 There was an insincere ring in my 
 dear friend's consolation. I knew quite 
 well that he felt that all my future happi- 
 ness was necessarily risked by this second 
 will. Sensational accounts would be sure 
 to be spread as to my inheritance, through- 
 out the county ; and the man who was 
 made rich by it, so long as he remained a 
 bachelor, was invited either to shut him- 
 self out from his own natural instincts for 
 home and love, or beckoned — as, perchance, 
 Lord Francis wished — to the life which he 
 had himself notoriously led for many years. 
 We both agreed, however, that the first 
 thing for me to do was to go, as General 
 Rosemere wished, to Sherlock for a night. 
 So I sent off a letter at once to the
 
 192 Clare Strong, 
 
 General, to say I would arrive at Sher- 
 lock the day after he would receive my 
 note. 
 
 ' We can go to Carnaby to-morrow 
 morning, as I think my mother would be 
 hurt if you did not come with me first to 
 her. You know her romantic nature. 
 Then the next day you can go to Sher- 
 lock, and find out exactly how you stand, 
 from Rosemere.' 
 
 I could not sleep that night, and I sat 
 by my open bedroom window, gazing out 
 on a clear, bright sky, and a watery moon, 
 and dreaming over my possible future, and 
 my strange, present position. Upward 
 floated the sounds of revelry from the 
 Liverpool streets — the strange snatches of 
 music, old familiar airs, fraught with a 
 pathos, amid the mass of humanity, strug- 
 gling in their sleepless effort for pleasure
 
 A Strange Situation, 193 
 
 and amusement, as the night wore on. 
 Sailors were having their * last fling ' on 
 shore ; sin, and misery, and death were 
 around me, all rendered more melancholy 
 by the fitful bursts of merriment, the 
 drunken laughter, and the boisterous cries 
 of a seaport town at night. 
 
 What a medley it all was ! what a puzzle 
 this short mysterious existence! When 
 * life's fitful fever ' shall be over, shall we 
 not wonder at the great interest it has 
 caused us, and at the passions, the tears, 
 and the hopes it has excited ? I felt an 
 eagerness to know my end. How would 
 all this change in my fortunes affect this 
 life, for which I professed so keen a con- 
 tempt, and where, at last, should I succumb 
 to the mortal agony, which Bacon con- 
 jectured was no more bitter than the 
 effort to struggle into existence ? 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 194 Clare Strong, 
 
 But the solemn tone of some church bell 
 warned me that another day would soon 
 be breaking, and that an ample bed, un- 
 rocked by waves, invited repose. 
 
 %
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MY NEW INHERITANCE. 
 
 * Amour folic aimable : 
 Ambition sottise serieuse.' 
 
 I MUST not linger on our coming home. 
 It was a repetition to William of many 
 happy * comings home ' from school, from 
 college, and from bachelor wanderings. 
 Happy those who can recall in after life 
 such greetings ! and I, who had not been 
 so fortunate in the bygone years, was 
 folded in the arms of my dear, faithful, 
 loving friend once more. 
 
 * Welcome ! dear Clare,' she said, as 
 she led me across the hall Into her own
 
 196 Clare Strong, 
 
 pet sanctum. William had rushed off in- 
 to the gardens, and to visit the stables, 
 and the farm, and the dairy, where all his 
 friends, human and animal, were eagerly 
 awaiting his arrival. 
 
 She took both my hands, and kissed 
 me. 
 
 * My dear boy, I have heard about the 
 will, and I cannot find words to say all I 
 think about it. But I know your nature 
 well enough to be certain you won't allow 
 your life to be sacrificed, hereafter, for a 
 few paltry thousands a year. Only wait ; 
 and be sure you fix on somebody, when 
 you do think on marrying, worthy of the 
 great sacrifice you will make for her. For 
 Elcote will be a sacrifice for any man to 
 surrender. But you are young ; and, so 
 far from believing in the ' vita brevis,' it 
 seems to me a very long affair ; and you
 
 My New hiheritance, 197 
 
 have plenty of time to consider. You will 
 go to Sherlock, I suppose, at once ? ' 
 
 ' To-morrow. I have written to General 
 Rosemere that I will meet him at dinner- 
 time, to-morrow. There are a few points 
 to clear up, and Rosemere is sole executor.' 
 
 * Have you thought what you would like 
 to do at present ? ' 
 
 * I have scarcely had time ; but I sup- 
 pose I must take chambers in London in 
 any case ; and I should like to move most 
 of my things to Elcote. It would be so 
 nice to live near you and William 
 here.' 
 
 That evening, as we three sat alone to- 
 gether after dinner, Mrs Penrose said, — 
 
 ' Now, William, tell Clare about the letter 
 you have found here from Mr Eardley.' 
 
 *You had better read it, my dear 
 fellow.'
 
 198 Clare Strong, 
 
 It was an offer of Mr Eardley to make 
 him his private secretary, with a view to 
 a start in learning politics, and possibly, 
 later on, as the writer hinted, some insight 
 into official life. 
 
 * They say/ said William's mother, 
 * that he has every chance, if the pre- 
 sent Government go out, of obtaining 
 some minor post in the next administra- 
 tion ; and as William takes the Liberal 
 side in politics, it may be a good opening. 
 I was brought up as a Tory ; but your 
 father's family, William, as you know, 
 have always been Whigs.' 
 
 There was no doubt about it, that this 
 offer opened some sort of a future to 
 William, whose duties would probably, at 
 all events at present, be light, and whose 
 position and pecuniary prospects would fit 
 him later to stand for his own county, when
 
 My New Inheritance. 199 
 
 this secretaryship would have brought 
 him in contact with many poHtical per- 
 sonages. 
 
 ' You can always run down here,' said 
 his mother ; * and I shall remain longer 
 in Devonshire Place than I have done of 
 late years.' 
 
 William kissed his mother, and said, — 
 
 ' Of course, I will write to Eardley, and 
 gratefully accept the post of scribe. I 
 don't myself believe he is a Radical in 
 politics, only in philosophy ; and office 
 will tone down even his philosophy, if 
 he gets it.' 
 
 I rejoiced at these good tidings, and at 
 the prospect for my old friend. It was 
 better than coming into an immediate 
 fortune, with such fetters as were im- 
 posed on me. 
 
 The next evening — a boisterous and
 
 200 Clare Strong. 
 
 rough one, which led me to appreciate 
 the advantages of terra firma — I found 
 myself the sole occupant of a ridiculous 
 landau, which had been sent to meet me 
 at Northampton, and which now, at a 
 very leisurely pace, under the guidance 
 of an ancient and time-ridden Jehu, con- 
 ducted me, in solitary grandeur, through 
 narrow roads to one of the lodges of 
 Sherlock Park. I had, of course, donned 
 the conventional mourning for Lord 
 Francis. He had bequeathed to me a 
 large fortune, and, though I felt no 
 sorrow for his death, my Grosvenor Street 
 education prescribed my apparel on this 
 occasion. 
 
 Sherlock is the finest Tudor mansion in 
 the Midlands ; and it would be clearly 
 superfluous for me here to enter into a 
 long account of its unrivalled beauties of
 
 My New Inheritance, 201 
 
 external architecture, especially as I never 
 visited the place except upon this one 
 occasion, and it certainly is improbable 
 that I shall ever see it again. Built 
 entirely of brick, with stone decorations, it 
 covers an immense area, and lies in a 
 hollow of the magnificent deer park which 
 surrounds it, — a wooded hill rising before 
 the principle fagade, which thus prevents 
 any distant view. After a drive from the 
 lodge gate we had entered, of nearly t^o 
 miles, through very undulating ground, 
 and superb trees, we arrived at the famous 
 cedar avenue, which is perfectly straight, 
 and at the end of which stands the 
 house. For many, many years this 
 beautiful place had been closed to the 
 county and society. Antiquarians came 
 and rhapsodied on its loveliness, tourists 
 came on the one day a week when some
 
 202 Clare Strong: 
 
 ^> 
 
 of the state-rooms were open for 
 inspection, and artists lingered in the 
 superb gallery, containing the pictures 
 which have since been disposed of at a 
 public auction by Lord Francis's successor. 
 Whatever his peculiarities and delin- 
 quencies. Lord Francis would have shud- 
 dered at the idea of those pictures — which 
 had been collected in Queen Anne's reign 
 by his maternal ancestor, — the friend of 
 Harley and Bolingbroke, — the patron of 
 Pope and of Addison — being appraised 
 in a London auctioneer's room. I was 
 ushered through the hall, and a suite of 
 many beautiful apartments, into the 
 saloon, a room perfectly octagonal, in the 
 centre of the house, where a fire, burning 
 brightly, threw its cheerful light on the 
 massive gilding and somewhat florid 
 decorations of this, the smallest recep-
 
 My New Inherita^ice. 203 
 
 tion-room of the house. The old butler, 
 who himself conducted me to the room, 
 with an obsequiousness which betokened 
 a knowledge of my position in his late 
 master's will, and who eyed me with well- 
 bred curiosity, remarked, in a solemn tone, 
 that he would inform General Rosemere 
 I had arrived. The General came on the 
 scene almost immediately, and shook me 
 warmly by the hand. 
 
 ' So glad you managed to come. I 
 wanted to get the lawyer here, too, to- 
 night ; but he could not leave town. 
 But, after dinner, we can go through what 
 is necessary ; and I thought we would sit 
 here until we move into the smoking- 
 room. The rooms are so vast and dreary 
 for only two persons to sit in ; though 
 poor Sherlock, when he was here, always 
 sat in the library.'
 
 204 Clare Strong. 
 
 Dinner was announced, and we both 
 felt an uncomfortable pang as we took 
 our long walk through rooms, all half 
 lighted, into the dining-room, a magnifi- 
 cent apartment, mostly in darkness, but in 
 the centre of which a small round table, 
 covered with wax lights, and glittering 
 with old silver, invited us to our meal. 
 While the servants remained in the 
 room, our conversation was, necessarily, 
 conventional, and chiefly respecting my 
 recent visit to America. General Rose- 
 mere, a thorough man of the world, 
 was fairly intelligent, had seen much, 
 and read much, and was as well ac- 
 quainted with the brilliant as with what 
 has been- called ' the seamy ' side of life. 
 The dinner was, I remember, exactly 
 what I thought then, and think still, a 
 dinner should be. It was obviously
 
 My New Inheritance, 205 
 
 cooked by a French chef^ and in the 
 old style of French cooking. It was 
 just sufficient for two men, and included, 
 of course, the delicacies of the hour ; but 
 one did not feel wearied by long courses, 
 and unnecessary entries. Lord Francis 
 had well drilled all his servants ; and, 
 as for the wine after dinner, it would 
 have been hard to assign the palm to 
 the Lafitte, the Closvongeot, or the 
 Madeira, which last quite eclipsed any 
 wine I drank in America. 
 
 I could not help saying, — * We feast 
 magnificently in the dead man's house,' 
 when we were left alone. 
 
 The General shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Ah yes ! Poor Sherlock ! If any man 
 ever understood comfort, he did ; and the 
 Duke's son inherits a magnificent cellar. 
 He was here yesterday, — in fact, is here
 
 2o6 Clare Strong. 
 
 constantly. He seems to me a poor sort 
 of fellow. Sherlock never would see him 
 in his lifetime ; and latterly, since your 
 grandmother's death, he always spoke 
 rather bitterly of you. So his will sur- 
 prised me, and specially in the matter of 
 my executorship. What do you say to 
 your good fortune, Clare ? ' 
 
 ' Well, after all, my grandmother's for- 
 tune was left from me most unjustly, and 
 now that it comes back to me, it comes 
 back with a provision which makes it 
 nearly worthless.' 
 
 * Don't say that/ he interposed hurriedly. 
 ' Keep out of marriage ; In nine cases out 
 of ten, it is a fatal mistake.' 
 
 As General Rosemere was now married, 
 I was a little amused at this view, but did 
 not wish to discuss it with him. 
 
 ' I suppose,' I said, ' you will prove the
 
 My New Inheritance. 207 
 
 will at once. There is no difficulty of 
 any sort.* 
 
 ' None. There are very few legatees. 
 His nephew is the residuary legatee. He 
 leaves me five thousand pounds. He 
 leaves you, as you know, the fortune of 
 your grandmother, and Elcote, on the con- 
 dition of non-marriage. If you marry, 
 his nephew inherits all. He leaves you 
 absolutely Lady Duncan's diamonds, and 
 her miniature, which, I think, I forgot to 
 mention. It is a large miniature, by 
 Cosway, and set in brilliants. The dia- 
 monds are at Coutts' Bank, and you will 
 have them as soon as the will is proved. 
 The miniature is here, and you can take it 
 away to-morrow. Of course, there are 
 legacies to a good many of his dependants 
 here ; and a large annuity is given to a 
 lady, who has lived here for some years.
 
 2o8 Clare Strong, 
 
 But there is a copy of the will, which has 
 been made for you, and which you can 
 also take away. I want you to go to 
 London, to-morrow, and, as soon as pos- 
 sible, see the lawyers about Elcote. The 
 papers, which are very voluminous, con- 
 cerning the manor of Elcote, have always 
 been kept here ; but now they should be 
 deposited, when probate is granted, with 
 your own lawyers.' 
 
 Nothing could be more clear or straight- 
 forward than General Rosemere's state- 
 ment to me ; and it seemed that Lord 
 Francis could have chosen no better exe- 
 cutor, — as he had decided, with his usual 
 eccentricity, to have only one for the 
 administration of so large a property. In 
 this view, I found later, in the smoking- 
 room, I was mistaken, as Lord Francis, it 
 appeared, had named his elder brother, the
 
 My New Inheritance, 2o9 
 
 Duke, as the General's co-executor ; but 
 his Grace had renounced, on hearino; that 
 Elcote was left away to me. General 
 Rosemere had forgotten accidentally to 
 mention this to me. I asked him, as we 
 smoked our cio^ars, what the Duke had 
 said, and if he had attended the 
 funeral. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, he came here, and seemed 
 greatly interested in the place, which, he 
 said, he had not seen for twenty-five years.* 
 When he heard about Elcote he whistled, 
 and uttered a prolonged and guttural 
 " D — n." Then he asked what sort of a 
 fellow you were. '* Tell him from me," he 
 said, 'T wish to know him; and, if he comes 
 to Southam, I will ask all the most beauti- 
 ful women in England to tempt him ; only 
 they will have to be virtuous as well as 
 beautiful, and there will be the difficulty.* 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 2IO Clare Strong. 
 
 He went away the same afternoon, after 
 the will was read.' 
 
 *And what about the lady here? Is 
 she still in the house ? ' 
 
 ' Mrs Adeane is still here. She has 
 lived for years in a separate wing of the 
 house, the furthest removed from the 
 rooms Lord Francis used. He has left 
 her an annuity of a thousand a year, and 
 as she is still young, and remarkably 
 handsome, she will probably marry well. 
 By-the-bye, she expressed a wish to see 
 you, before you leave to-morrow ; but, of 
 course, you can do as you like about 
 that.' 
 
 *Oh! by all means, I will see her, if she 
 sends me a message,' I replied ; for I was 
 not altogether free from curiosity about 
 this mysterious lady. I was very glad to 
 find, later on, that the General's and my
 
 My New Inheritance. 211 
 
 bedrooms were close to each other. There 
 was a stillness and a gloom about this vast 
 house, with Its Innumerable galleries and 
 passages, which rather chilled one. But I 
 saw no ghost ; although there Is said to be 
 one at Sherlock, In the haunted room ; 
 and I slept profoundly until my shutters 
 were opened, and a bright spring sun 
 poured Its rays upon ray bed. 
 
 After breakfast. General Rosemere pro- 
 duced the miniature of my grandmother, 
 and handed it to me. It was a large oval 
 picture, set In a gold case, and surrounded 
 with brilliants. She must have been about 
 thirty years of age when it was painted ; 
 and it was a beautiful work of art. Her 
 hair was powdered, and drawn back 
 with two large curls, one on each side ; 
 a red rose was Its only adorn- 
 ment ; the lacework on her bosom, or
 
 212 Clare Strong. . . 
 
 ' modesty,' was tied with pale blue 
 ribbons. 
 
 * He told me once,' said General 
 Rosemere, ' she was the only woman 
 in his whole life he ever wished to 
 marry, and that she was twelve years 
 older than himself.' 
 
 * She must have been, there is no doubt, 
 a very lovely woman ; and for my father's 
 sake,' I added, ' I am very glad to have 
 this, and shall regard it as an heir- 
 loom.' 
 
 At that moment a footman entered the 
 room and asked, with Mrs Adeane's com- 
 pliments, if it would be convenient to me 
 to call on her now. I at once followed 
 him, with a glance at the General, and 
 found myself exploring an entirely new 
 (to me) part of the house. I was ushered 
 into a boudoir, which bore signs of much
 
 My New Inheritance, 213 
 
 taste and refinement, and which seemed 
 even overcrowded with valuable china ; 
 but had scarcely had time to survey my 
 surroundings, when Mrs Adeane entered, 
 dressed in the deepest crape. She was 
 a very striking woman, as much from her 
 tall, commanding figure as from her feat- 
 ures, which were classically beautiful, though 
 not of a soft or an appealing type. She 
 held out her hand, with a slight smile, and, 
 motioning me to a chair, said, In a very 
 gentle voice, — 
 
 ' I am leaving Sherlock to-morrow, and, 
 after all Lord Francis has said to me of 
 you, I thought I might venture to make 
 your acquaintance, though it is unlikely 
 that we shall ever meet again.' 
 
 * I am sure,' I said, ' I am delighted and 
 flattered beyond words at your message ; 
 but, I am afraid, anything poor Lord
 
 2 14 Clare Stro7ig. 
 
 Francis said of me in his lifetime, was 
 not complimentary.' 
 
 * I assure you, you are mistaken. He 
 always spoke of you with tenderness, al- 
 most, as the only descendant of the woman 
 he had loved.' 
 
 ' I have heard from others exactly the 
 contrary.' 
 
 ' Possibly ; but it was to me, and per- 
 haps to me only, that he really said what 
 he felt; 
 
 ' Then how do you explain the cruel 
 provision in his will ? I suppose you are 
 aware how he has tried to ruin my 
 life.' 
 
 * Mr Strong, you misjudge him. He 
 has tried to save you from the misery 
 which marriage so often produces. If 
 you take his advice, as conveyed in his 
 will, you will not marry at all. You will
 
 My New Inheritance. 215 
 
 preserve your independence, and not run 
 the hazard of a Hfe of care, and anxiety, 
 and responsibiHty. But, if you do not 
 take his advice, at least he v^ill have 
 saved you from being married for your 
 possessions, — hunted down by some schem- 
 ing dov^ager, — treated as a question of 
 
 * chattels,' where love is not in the 
 
 * pool,' but where settlements, and an 
 establishment, and ample pin money, are 
 the only allurement. Lord Francis knew 
 the world ; and his will, to my mind, is 
 a monument of worldly good judg- 
 ment.' 
 
 She spoke calmly, but with wonderful 
 decision, and certainly put things from a 
 strange point of view ; and I afterwards, 
 in years to come, recalled what she had 
 so cynically said. When we parted, she 
 begged me to remember Lord Francis
 
 2i6 Clare Strong, 
 
 with kindness. ' He was in many ways 
 eccentric, but he meant no harm to you/ 
 I promised her I would, at all events, 
 treasure up no ill feelings of any sort, 
 and she answered, ' As the heir to 
 Elcote, and four thousand a year, 
 you ought to find it easy to be 
 
 generous. 
 
 She afterwards married an Irish baronet, 
 and made him, I believe, an excellent 
 wife ; so she did not, in practice, carry 
 out her theories as expressed to me about 
 marriage. She was partially received 
 within her own county in Ireland, and 
 died, after many years of devotion to 
 works of charity and religion. 
 
 I left for London, where I put up at 
 an hotel, that afternoon ; and on my 
 journey fell to perusing the voluminous 
 will which I carried with me, and in
 
 My New Inheritance, 217 
 
 which the following passage occurs : — ' I 
 desire that my funeral be as decent 
 and private as possible, and in the 
 next churchyard to where I happen 
 to die.'
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I SETTLE IN LONDON. 
 
 ' Dans le monde vous avez trois sortes d'amis : 
 Vos amis qui vous aiment : vos amis qui ne 
 Se soucient pas de vous : et vos amis 
 Qui vous haissent.' 
 
 During the time at my disposal in Lon- 
 don, while searching for suitable cham- 
 bers, and subsequently visiting innumerable 
 shops, and occasionally rushing to Lord 
 Francis's lawyers in the City, I often re- 
 flected on the not altogether creditable 
 fact that, in the course of a brief two 
 years, I had no less than three times 
 imagined myself, rightly or wrongly, to 
 have fallen in love. It certainly seemed
 
 / settle in London. 219 
 
 a misfortune that a man whose wealth 
 was held entirely on the tenure of celi- 
 bacy, should, apparently, be so susceptible 
 to female charms. There was my cousin, 
 Ida de Chamier, there was Angelina Pike, 
 there was Dora McCarthy. The laws 
 of England prohibited my marrying all 
 three : Lord Francis's will declared I 
 should marry nobody ; and it was ex- 
 tremely possible that not one of these 
 young ladies would have married me, in 
 any case, and certainly not under present 
 circumstances. For I was a humble man, 
 and could not imagine that I could be 
 loved only for myself, — another result of 
 my early training, in which the power of 
 money had held so prominent a place. 
 But a girl may, after all, very naturally 
 hesitate to allow such a sacrifice as I 
 was called upon to make in proposing
 
 2 20 Clare Strong. 
 
 marriage, and to dread the possibility of 
 regret in after years, when the sacrifice 
 has long been made. She may very 
 fairly think, ' He is carried away now by 
 his devotion to me ; but some day he 
 will look at things more calmly, and will 
 call to mind that to win me he gave up 
 his fortune and his beautiful old manor 
 house : and then will come the sugges- 
 tion, — ' and perhaps, after all, it was too 
 much to throw away.' My case seemed 
 beset with difficulties, the more I con- 
 sidered it ; so at last I gave up my 
 thoughts to the furnishing of the hand- 
 some chambers I had taken in Piccadilly 
 — the nicest situation in the world ; for, 
 after all, when one has travelled much, 
 and seen all the great cities east and 
 west, one comes back once more to 
 Piccadilly ; and whether from old associa-
 
 I settle in London. 221 
 
 tlon or not, I am not sure, but it remains 
 the street most like home, the most 
 familiar, and the best beloved. 
 
 The spring was advancing, Parliament 
 was in session, and London was filling 
 fast, though many families were in mourn- 
 ing, and it was certain that the season 
 would not be a gay one. We were still 
 plunged in that terrible war which cost us 
 so many of our bravest sons, and in which 
 the Guardsmen, idlers once in Piccadilly 
 and Hyde Park, had done such prodigies 
 of valour. But a certain outside gaiety 
 must always be found in London as the 
 spring advances, and the chestnut trees 
 burst into blossom. Meanwhile, estab- 
 lished in my delightful rooms, I found, but 
 not to my surprise, that all my grand- 
 mother's friends, and their relatives and 
 connections, began to be once more aware
 
 222 Clare Strong. 
 
 of m}^ existence. By this time, the con- 
 tents of the will were known, and I 
 appeared as an eligible friend and acquaint- 
 ance, if not, from the matronly point of 
 view, a possible parti. My hall table, on 
 my return in the evening, before dinner, 
 was always quite covered with cards and 
 notes, and, after a while, I began to be 
 amused with the excitement of going out 
 in the evening, and making new friends. 
 It was a new phase of life, as I had, since 
 Lady Duncan's death, entirely dropped 
 out of sight ; but it was not one that 
 could ever have enthralled me for long, 
 and my really pleasant evenings were 
 spent in Devonshire Place, where Mrs 
 Penrose constantly had delightful literary 
 and musical reunions. 
 
 How often have I sat at her round 
 <1 inner-table, at that time, and enjoyed the
 
 I settle in London, 223 
 
 charm of listening to brilliant conversation, 
 an art which is, I am told, almost extinct ! 
 How skilfully she would stimulate con- 
 versation, without ever appearing to lead 
 it, and how dexterously, and apparently 
 unconsciously, evoke the topics which 
 showed her guests at their best !|^ 
 
 Mr Eardley was very often there, per- 
 haps a little more reserved than hereto- 
 fore. He spoke always of William most 
 enthusiastically. ' He was to stand at the 
 next election for a certain borough, and he 
 was sure to distinguish himself. How 
 curious that such a brilliant man should 
 have done so little at Oxford, and not 
 even taken his degree ! ' To Mrs Penrose, 
 you may imagine how sweet was all this, 
 spoken as it was by an earnest, sincere 
 man, who was rapidly making a name in 
 the House of Commons, and in English
 
 2 24 Clare Strong. 
 
 politics outside it. And, next to his mother, 
 the praise of Mr Eardley, and WilHam's 
 own enthusiasm, was, perhaps, most wel- 
 come to me. If one's own life is marked 
 out on other lines, and distinction is not 
 one's destiny, the next best thing is to see 
 those you love succeed, and it was impos- 
 sible not to see that William was gaining 
 rapidly the good opinions of those who 
 were best able to aid him in his political 
 career. 
 
 The De Chamiers were also often in 
 Devonshire Place, and I renewed my ac- 
 quaintance with them, which soon ripened 
 into intimacy. Ida regained her ascen- 
 dency over my heart quickly, and, though 
 I never hinted at my admiration of her 
 beauty, we were, at all events, now firm 
 friends. She and her father often came to 
 my chambers to drink tea, and admire my
 
 I settle in London. 225 
 
 last new acquisitions in the way of prints 
 and bric-a-brac^ and it was in contempla- 
 tion that, later on, when everyone was 
 leaving London, they would come and pay 
 me a little visit at Elcote, where I now 
 had a very modest establishment. Ida 
 had very much improved in her appear- 
 ance and figure since I first saw her at 
 Carnaby, but had lost none of her delight- 
 ful archness and vivacity. It was not, 
 however, even now, until people knew her 
 well, that they discovered her great intelli- 
 gence, and how well her father had edu- 
 cated her bright, clear, intuitive mind. I 
 remember once hearing an Irish father 
 say that his girls were so pretty that the 
 only education he felt inclined to give them 
 was to enable them to ride straight across 
 country in the day time, and to dance 
 gracefully at night. But M. de Chamier 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2 26 . Clare Strong. 
 
 had taken a very different view of what a 
 girl's education should be. In those days, 
 the higher education of women — to use a 
 vague but popular term — was not much 
 discussed ; and it was all the more to the 
 credit of the man of business that he had 
 found time to personally supervise his only 
 child's education, and to form her taste. 
 Mrs Penrose, for whom the talents of youth 
 had always possessed a peculiar charm, 
 had long known and appreciated my cousin 
 Ida's abilities, and had, latterly, constantly 
 lent her books of poetry and history, 
 which her father's library in Bloomsbury 
 did not contain. Though there was the 
 same vivacity, there was, perhaps, at 
 times, a shade of pensiveness which I did 
 not recollect formerly, and which made 
 her even more attractive in my eyes. 
 
 One night, I remember, I was dining 
 in Devonshire Place with a small party
 
 I settle in London, 227 
 
 of twelve, amongst whom were the 
 De Chamiers and Canon Caryl, whose 
 grave, shrewd conversation always in- 
 terested me. He was no longer under 
 the strict rules which formerly had 
 bound him, and was now a great diner- 
 out in London, among that most cliquish 
 of all societies — the Catholic beati monde 
 of London. Sitting by the side of our 
 hostess, who, as usual, looked one's ideal 
 of an elderly English lady, with her 
 beautiful white hair, and expressive clever 
 face, his austere features were lighted 
 up almost with animation. 
 
 ' And where is William to-night ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' He was so sorry not to be here, and 
 begged me to make his apologies to 
 you : but, as you know, it is a great 
 night at the House, and William went 
 over from Whitehall at five o'clock, and
 
 2 28 Clare Stronp; 
 
 2> 
 
 sent me a note to say it was quite un- 
 certain when he could get back here.' 
 
 * I thought probably he would go. I 
 hear Eardley is to speak to-night against 
 Reform. Only conceive Eardley seced- 
 ing from his party on such a question ! 
 But he says education must come, in 
 his judgment, before further extension 
 of the franchise. If the Government are 
 beaten, they will resign ; and the quid- 
 nuncs say Eardley is sure of an Under- 
 Secretaryship in the new Ministry.' 
 
 * Did you hear,' asked Mrs Penrose, 
 turninof to the wife of a member of the 
 House, 'what time the division is ex- 
 pected to be taken ? ' 
 
 * Not until the small hours, I believe,' 
 was the reply. 
 
 * So, you see,' said our hostess, * we 
 shall go to bed without knowing what 
 has happened.'
 
 I settle in London, 229 
 
 * I cannot understand myself,' said 
 Canon Caryl, ' the absorbing interest in 
 politics, which so many find. My poor 
 brother Charles, whom you remember, 
 used to tell me how, after the great 
 division in 1832, almost worn out with 
 fatigue and exhaustion, he walked, in 
 broad daylight, up to the gate in the 
 Green Park in Piccadilly, towards his 
 lodgings in Bury Street, and chanced 
 upon an early milkman. He said the 
 most delightful draught he ever took, 
 was the glass of milk he drank then, 
 fresh from the scene of excitement and 
 turmoil, and hoarse from cheering, though 
 he gave a silent vote himself, — '' And the 
 milkman," he used to add, " had no idea 
 that the constitution of society, and of 
 all classes, including his own, in England, 
 had been changed by a Parliamentary 
 vote, an hour before." '
 
 230 Clare Strong. 
 
 ' It is the milkman you speak of,' said 
 Miss de Chamier, 'whom Mr Eardley 
 would not enfranchise. As a Liberal, he 
 would educate the milkman to understand 
 public questions, before he trusted him to 
 give a vote upon them.' 
 
 ' It would take a long time,' I ventured 
 to observe, ' to make the lower classes 
 look at politics, even when they take any 
 interest in them, except from the point of 
 personal concern, — of rates and taxes, — of 
 beer or no beer, as the case may be ; and 
 their vote, when they get it, will be for 
 the man who promises most.' 
 
 Canon Caryl laughed silently, as the 
 ladies went upstairs. 
 
 * You want to change and reform human 
 nature, before you extend the franchise 
 and, in theory, as a Catholic, I agree- 
 But this country is rapidly growing demo- 
 cratic, and you, as you are young, will
 
 I settle in London. 231 
 
 live to see changes in that direction, which 
 now seem impossible. If the greatness of 
 this country is to last, as I believe it will, 
 it will be the high-mindedness and un- 
 deviating principle of great statesmen, — of 
 individuals, who will maintain it, and who 
 will stem the torrent which is already 
 swelling; and I am glad to see a Radical 
 like Eardley sacrificing much to his love 
 of truth, for, after all, even if he obtain 
 office in another Ministry, to break with 
 his party is always a terrible struggle to 
 an honest, patriotic man.' 
 
 The next morning the newspapers were 
 eagerly read. The division had gone 
 against the Government. Eardley had 
 made a most eloquent and closely-reas- 
 oned speech, which had at once estab- 
 lished his fame as an orator. There was 
 no doubt the Government would resio^n. 
 I hurried up after breakfast to Devonshire
 
 22,2 Clare Strong. 
 
 Place, where I found my dear friend in 
 raptures over Eardley's classical descrip- 
 tion of the modern democrat, with his 
 crude ideas and his reckless theories, and 
 his contempt for all the lessons of history 
 and philosophy. 
 
 Reading these grand periods, and at 
 this eventful epoch of English Parlia- 
 mentary life, her and my thoughts were 
 with dear William, who was still in bed ! 
 He must get into Parliament, if there was 
 a General Election ; and Eardley would 
 now be a great man. The time had come ; 
 and the old lady, overjoyed, gave me a 
 fond maternal kiss, as I hurried off to hear 
 the latest result of the morning's news, 
 which proved to be that the Prime 
 Minister had left at mid-day for Windsor. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 COLSTON AND COMPANY, I'RINTERS, EDINBURGH.
 
 31 Southampton Street, Strand, 
 London, W.C. 
 
 June 1889. 
 
 F. V. White &, Co.'s 
 
 LIST OF 
 
 PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 234 F. V. WHITE & Co.'s Publications. 
 
 NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL JIM. 
 
 By JOHN STRANGE WINTER, Author of "Booties' Baby," 
 "Mignon's Husband," "Booties' Children," &c. 2 Vols. 
 
 PURPLE AND FINE LINEN. 
 
 By Mrs ALEXANDER ERASER. 3 Vols. 
 
 LONG ODDS. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 3 Vols. 
 
 LANDING A PRIZE. 
 
 By Mrs EDWARD KENNARD, Author of " The Girl in the 
 Brown Habit." 3 Vols. 
 
 ON CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 By FLORENCE MARRY AT. Author of "My Sister the 
 Actress." 3 Vols. 
 
 A LOST WIFE. 
 
 By Mrs H. LOVETT CAMERON, Author of "In a (^rass 
 Country," " A North Country Maid," &c. 3 Vols. 
 
 THAT OTHER WOMAN. 
 
 By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs Pender Cudlip). 3 Vols. 
 
 SEVERED TIES. 
 
 By Mrs HENRY W YLDE. 3 Vols. 
 
 THE QUEEN ANNE'S GATE MYSTERY. 
 
 By RICHARD ARK WRIGHT. 2 Vols. 
 
 A DISTRACTING GUEST. 
 
 By Mrs ROBERT JOCELYN. 2 Vols. 
 
 MISS KATE. 
 
 By "EITA." 1 Vol. 6s. 
 
 F. V. WHITE & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 F. V. WHITE & Co.'s Publications. 235 
 
 THE WOEKS OF JOHN STRANQE WINTER. 
 
 UNTIFORM IN STYLE AND PRICE. 
 
 Each in Paper Covers, Is ; Cloth, Is. 6d. At all Booksellers &■ BookstaP* 
 
 A lilTTLE FOOL. (In June.) 
 
 MY POOR DICK. 
 
 (4th Edition.) Illustrated by Maurice Greiffenhagen. 
 
 B00TLE8' CmiLDREN. 
 
 (5th Edition.) Illustrated by J. Bernard Partridge. 
 "John Strange Winter is never more thoroughly at home than when delineating 
 the characters of children, and everyone vrill be delighted with the dignified Madge 
 and the quaint Pearl. The book is mainly occupied with the love affairs of Terry 
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 Post 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF A PUBLISHER. 
 
 "The much discussed question of the relations between a publisher and his 
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 (8th Edition.) 
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 THAT IMP. 
 
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 F. V. WHITE & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 236 F. V. WHITE & Co.'s Publications. 
 
 The Works of JOHN STRANGE WmTER— Continued. 
 
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 BEAUTIFUL JIM. 
 
 Cloth Gilt, 2s. 6d. 
 
 F. V. WHITE & Co.. 31 Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 F. V. WHITE & Co.'s Publications. 237 
 
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 At all Booksellers and Bookstalls. 
 
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 F. V. WHITE & Co.'s Publications. 239 
 
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