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 MY LITTLE GIRL.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL 
 
 15Y THE AUTHORS OF 
 
 " READY-MONEY MORTIBOY." 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, 
 STRAND. 
 
 1873-
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SWEETING AND CO., PRINTERS, 
 
 80, GRAV'S INN KOAD.
 
 ^^3 
 V 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL 
 
 BOOK J.— IN THE ISLAND. 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 MR KONCFOW ESQU^ 
 ire: LICEN5D DEE 
 LER IN TOBAC 
 CO RETAILER 
 OF SPi'rRUTS 
 N.B DftY AND MflRTINC 
 BEST SLRCKING 
 
 N the Great Stormy Ocean 
 Ji — that part of it which 
 m is bounded by the Bay of 
 ^ ^-^ Bengal on the west, and 
 the coast of Mexico on the 
 east (or thereabouts) — h'es the island which 
 VOL. T. I
 
 2 Mf Little Girl. 
 
 the French, when they had it, called He dcs 
 Palmistes, but which the English, on taking 
 it at the beginning of this century, patriotically 
 named after their great and good Regent, 
 Prince George. The geography books call it 
 Prince George's Island still, but no one out of 
 England knows it by any other name than 
 the lie des Palmistes; and all English people, 
 with the exception of the Colonial Office, 
 know it by the name of Palmiste Island. 
 It lies, in its rounded and graceful curves, 
 like a maiden at rest — within a silver ring 
 ■of surf, breaking over the coral reef, in lati- 
 tude 1 8° S. — a latitude which I take to be the 
 most delightful in the world, especially in a 
 country where you can get highlands to live in, 
 and a constant sea breeze to fan you. In Pal- 
 miste Island the sea breeze blows all the year 
 round — sometimes giving way to a warm west 
 wind, which comes from the neighbouring conti- 
 nent, and sometimes lashing itself to fury, no one 
 knows why, and performing prodigies as a hurri- 
 cane. It is bad at these times to be at sea., be- 
 cause all the ships go down. But it is perhaps 
 worse to be on shore; for there the roads are 
 mere rushing rivers, down which the wayfarer is 
 hurried by the flood to meet an untimely fate, the 
 ga,rdens are stormy lakes, trees are blown about
 
 My Little Girl. 3- 
 
 like leaves, roofs of houses are lifted like sheets 
 of paper; and men, if they are so unlucky as not 
 to get shelter, are sometimes taken up towards 
 Heaven, like Elijah — only, unlike the prophet, 
 they generally come down again with the break- 
 age of a good many legs, arms, ribs, and what- 
 ever bones happen to be most easily fractured. 
 If the hurricane lasts long enough, the people, 
 shut in their houses, are starved for want of pro- 
 visions; and while it blows there is no means of 
 cooking what they have. It has its advantages; 
 for, after it is over, all the planters who were 
 shaky before take the earliest opportunity of 
 going through the form of bankruptcy, and ex- 
 cite universal commiseration for their hard fate, 
 as they enlarge on the thousands of pounds' 
 worth of canes or coffee that the hurricane has 
 destroyed. Once clear of debt, they go on again 
 with light hearts and renewed hope. By some 
 curious inversion of the laws of political and 
 social economy, very few, either debtors or cre- 
 ditors, unless they are English, seem the worse 
 for their calamities. I have some idea, though 
 not in this place, of putting forth a treatise on 
 this important subject from a novel and tropical 
 point of view. My readers will perhaps bear this 
 in mind, and buy me, when I do appear, on the 
 Northern and Temperate Zone Syste:ii.
 
 4 Mj^ Little Girl 
 
 After the hurricane, the papers — there are six 
 daily organs of opinion in the island: two on 
 straw paper, two on a peculiar fabric something 
 stififer than tissue, and something coarser than 
 homespun, and two on real paper — live for a 
 fortnight at least on the correspondence which 
 pours in. An "Occasional Correspondent" 
 writes to detail the effects in his town, an im- 
 portant centre of at least three hundred people; 
 a "Special" narrates the effects in the adjoining 
 hamlet, half a mile removed; "Our Own" writes 
 from the other end of the island, fully thirty 
 miles away: they all sign their names, and run 
 up to town the next day to receive the con- 
 gratulations of their friends. They arrive with 
 folded arms and brows knit. This illustrates 
 the majesty of literature, since even these small 
 dallyings with the muse produce such mighty 
 throes of the mental system. And in a month 
 all is repaired: the fields move again with the 
 yellow-green canes, the dark coffee bushes 
 blacken the hillsides, the roofs are all put on 
 brand-new, the bankrupts have got fresh estates, 
 or retain their old ones through the clemency of 
 their creditors, and all is as it was. And in the 
 He des Palmistes nothing changes but the men. 
 
 These are a heterogeneous race. They lie like 
 a parti-coloured pyramid, the single stone at the
 
 My Little Girl. 5 
 
 top representing his Excellency the Governor. 
 The lowest stratum is composed of Coolies. 
 These excellent beasts of burden supply the 
 place of the old slaves. I do not think they are 
 exactly kidnapped; but I believe it is demon- 
 strable that very few of them have distinct ideas 
 of their future when they embark on board the 
 emigrant ship off Calcutta or Madras. On the 
 other hand, their condition is certainly improved 
 by the step. They get better wages and a 
 larger access to drink; they do not work very 
 hard; they are well fed; and if they are beaten 
 with sticks, they may, if they like, have up their 
 employer for assault. To be beaten with sticks 
 carries, however, no sense of personal degrada- 
 tion with it, and generally hurts little, much 
 less than the docking of wages, which is the 
 only alternative. Consequently, despite laws 
 and fines, old Father Stick, the first lawgiver, 
 still retains a certain amount of authority. 
 Then, again, their children can go to school, if 
 there happens to be a school near; and when 
 they are taught to write, come in handy at forg- 
 ing leaves of absence, passes, and such-like small 
 helps to making life pleasant. At least once in 
 six months, too, a missionary comes their way, 
 and beguiles the time for half an hour after sun- 
 down by telling them they are going to that
 
 6 J7> Little Girl. 
 
 place where they will find all their good reso- 
 lutions. This raises an animated discussion for 
 the evening, and helps to fill up the missionary's 
 trimestrial letter. He writes this the next morn- 
 ing, after a comfortable dinner at the planter's 
 house, wjth half a dozen cigars, and two or three 
 goes of brandy and soda. The English col- 
 lector of those stray shillings which go to make 
 up the million a year spent in this noble work 
 may read the half-hour described as follows: — 
 "Tuesday. Rose half an hour before dawn. 
 Thought of Zech. li. 32. Rode, on my journey- 
 ing, through the gigantic forest to the estate of 
 Fontainebleau. Having obtained permission to 
 preach the Word, spent a long time in deeply 
 interesting conversation with the labourers in 
 the village. All w^ere eager to learn. Alamoo- 
 dee, an aged Tamul man of sixty-five, was par- 
 ticularly anxious to hear the good tidings. And 
 I was greatly pleased with the intelligent look 
 of Mounia and Cassis, two young Indian women 
 of about sixteen. I lent them a few tracts, 
 and they laughed, putting their fingers in their 
 mouths in the artless Indian manner. They 
 cannot read, but others can read to them. In 
 the evening, news came that the husband of 
 Mounia was beating her for some alleged mis- 
 conduct. How sweet it is to sow the seed!
 
 My Little Girl. j 
 
 Alamoodee, poor fellow, was brought in next 
 morning on a charge of drunkenness; but dis- 
 missed with a fine and caution. I have reason 
 to believe it was a conspiracy. The hard toils 
 of the humble missionary have often no reward 
 but hope." 
 
 The next stratum on our pyramid is coal- 
 black. This is composed of all the negroes 
 now left alive. Thirty-six years ago they were 
 emancipated — a hundred thousand, of all ages. 
 There are now about ten thousand. For, re- 
 ceiving their freedom with a joy which argued 
 well for the future, as their admirers said, they 
 proceeded to make a solemn covenant and 
 agreement — not on paper, for they had none^ 
 and could not write; nor by special Parliament, 
 for they never met; nor by mutual exhortation, 
 for they never talked about it — but by that more 
 certain method, the silent consent of the nation, 
 the inarticulate vox populi. They agreed, 
 one with the other, that they w.mid never 
 do any more work at all. And they never 
 have done any. They have kept this resolution 
 with the unbending obstinacy of the medical 
 student who promised his aunt that he would 
 lay aside his studies on the Sabbath. It has 
 been a pleasant time with them ; but somehow 
 they have not prospered. They are dying out.
 
 8 My Little Girl. 
 
 They live in little patches of garden, where they 
 plant potatoes and lettuces, bananas, beans, and 
 such things as grow by themselves and cost 
 little trouble. What they cannot eat them- 
 selves, they sell for rice and rum. When they 
 desire to make a feast, the nearest planter's 
 poultry yard supplies the materials. They 
 smoke their pipes in great peace, while the 
 vertical sun strikes upon their roofless hats and 
 penetrates pleasantly through the woolly pro- 
 tection of nature; they talk but little, and then 
 of soothing subjects, such as the cheapness of 
 rum, the excellence of their bananas, and their 
 own amazing sagacity; and they laugh on small 
 provocation, seeing great jokes and effects ot 
 humour when graver men look on with a smile. 
 Sometimes they call themselves — all out of the 
 gaiety of their hearts — carpenters, and, if you 
 trust them, will build you a house whose 
 windows are of unequal height and differing 
 dimensions. They laugh when you point out 
 this incongruity of things; and if you foolishh' 
 get into a rage, they only laugh the more — but at 
 a distance. Wlien they marry, they buy a large 
 mosquito curtain as a proof of respectabilit}-. 
 And their highest ambition is to have a piano. 
 Their wives and daughters love to go to 
 church in white kid gloves, and a parasol.
 
 My Little Girl. 9 
 
 Their husbands follow, walking behind in bare 
 feet, battered straw hats, and blue stuff coats. 
 Or, if they are richer, they have a black coat 
 and blue stuff trousers. The ladies are mightily 
 devout, and go through the external part of 
 religion with great fervency. The men kneel 
 down, and continue kneeling, with what is 
 called the sweet, sad intelligence of the African 
 race, till they catch the eye of a friend; then 
 you may see two frames convulsed with a 
 mighty struggle. Finally, quite overcome, they 
 go out into the churchyard, and laugh on a 
 tombstone till the service is over — taking turns to 
 laugh at each other, like an Aristophanic chorus. 
 
 By degrees they get old : their wool becomes 
 gray; the fine calf which once adorned that 
 part of the leg with us called shin, shrinks and 
 shrivels; the heel projects another two inches or 
 so behind, the frame gets bent — but the man is 
 the same. He does not know that he is old ; he 
 does not know how long he has lived, or how 
 long men usually live. Presently, to his utter 
 amazement, he positively dies; and thinks him- 
 self cut off prematurely, although he has num- 
 bered eighty summers. Certainly he has had 
 no winters,, because there is no winter there. 
 
 The best of them go fishing, and are very 
 handy with their boats. Some few have been
 
 lO jlfy Little Girl. 
 
 pushed on in the world; but their patrons gene- 
 rally drop them, on account of defects which 
 make them a little lower than those angels we 
 English once took the race to be. The half- 
 educated fellows are very bad specimens indeed. 
 A hog in black clothes, a monkey with a book 
 before him, would be fair types of their morals 
 and philosophy. As a rule, they drink them- 
 selves to death; and as there are, fortunately, 
 but few of them, they hardly count. 
 
 Let us get a step higher. The next stratum 
 is the oddest of all: it is the Chinese layer. I 
 have the greatest liking for this folk. There is 
 a profundity, coupled with cynicism, in their 
 look that few English philosophers possess. 
 They seldom laugh, they despise all people but 
 themselves, they make money diligently, live la- 
 boriously, fare badly, drink little, are clever arti- 
 zans, can be relied upon in matters of work; and, 
 with all these virtues, are so clogged and bur- 
 dened with vice that they cannot rise. To smoke 
 opium, to gamble all day, and to do one or two 
 other things that western civilization denounces, 
 form their ideal heaven. They are convivial, too. 
 Their gravity is the result of education, not of 
 nature ; it is grafted — not indigenous. Witness 
 the air of suppressed fun, inseparable from the 
 nature of the action, with which two of them
 
 My Little Girl. ii 
 
 carry a pig between them on a pole, or attend 
 a pork-devouring religious ceremony, or let off 
 crackers at the funeral of a friend, or sell you a 
 box of sardines. And, more remarkable still, 
 they are all alike. I do not know how they get 
 over the possible complications that might be 
 caused by this circumstance. I suppose care is 
 taken so far as the rights of property and the 
 domestic relations are concerned. At least, I 
 never heard but once of any case in which the 
 national likeness was taken advantage of. This 
 was when Ah-Kang — I knew him well: a good 
 fellow, but deficient in the finer shades of moral 
 principle — going into the shop of Kong-Fow, 
 found his poor friend lying dead behind his own 
 counter. He thereupon conceived the brilliant 
 notion of burying him in the garden, and taking 
 his place. This plan he carried into effect, and 
 for three months drove a good trade — his 
 friend's name and titles, painted by an imper- 
 fectly educated Creole, being all the time on the 
 door-post as follows: — 
 
 MR KONGFOW ESQU 
 
 IRE LICENSD DEE 
 
 LER IN TOBAC 
 
 CO RETAILER 
 
 OF SPIRRUTS 
 
 N.B. — DAY AND MARTIN'S REST RLACKINC.
 
 12 My Little Girl. 
 
 Then he was found out, I forget how. 
 
 Another step. We are among the mulattoes. 
 I suppose this is the most intelHgent class in the 
 community, because they are always saying so. 
 For the same reason, they are the most truthful, 
 the least addicted to the ordinary frailties and 
 backslidings of human nature, the most reli- 
 gious, the most trustworthy, the most enterpris- 
 ing, the most polished, and the bravest. 
 
 That no one else says so is a clear proof of 
 the malignity of other people. Scandal hints 
 that they hate their fathers for being white, and 
 despise their mothers for being black: their ene- 
 mies maintain that they have the vices of both 
 races, and the virtues of neither; and, though 
 they have barristers, physicians, and lawyers of 
 their own, assert that their science is worthless, 
 their eloquence froth, and their law chicaner}-. 
 When all is told, I dare say, if they could forget 
 their black blood, they would not be a bad set. 
 The thing that rankles in their bosoms, the in- 
 justice that sets their blood aglow, is that white 
 people, who shake hands with them on the Ex- 
 change, and meet them on terms of equality in 
 the courts of law, will neither enter their houses 
 nor sit at meat with them, nor introduce them to 
 their wives. The law, which formerly forbade 
 them to wear boots, has given them all the rights
 
 My Little Girl. 13 
 
 of civic equality ; but no law can remove the 
 prejudices of caste. Are they worse off than we 
 in Europe? Are there not houses where we, 
 who grace the district of W.C, enter only on a 
 kind of sufferance? Does not the Faubourg St. 
 Germain still exist, eighty years after the Re- 
 volution? Would the Duke of St. Smithfield, 
 whose grandfather began life as a journeyman 
 baker, and ended as an earl, sully his blue blood 
 by letting his fair daughter marry me — me, the 
 author? And are we, therefore, dear inhabitants 
 of Bloomsbury, to eat out our hearts in malice? 
 
 ■Our pyramid narrows. Next we come to the 
 planters and the merchants — the English and 
 the French. With the merchants we have 
 nothing to do. Let me try to show you a 
 planter's house. But first, for I am tired of my 
 pyramid, let me clear it off, and have done with 
 it. The next stratum is the governing body 
 — the officers sent out by England. Palmiste 
 Island is a Crown colony. Therefore, the 
 officers are generally men of good family, if of 
 small means. Their posts do not enable them, 
 as a rule, to save much. But they save a little; 
 and when the time comes for retiring, they have 
 something more than their pension to fall back 
 upon. They are not usually a remarkably bril- 
 liant set of men; but they are generally well
 
 14 My Little G'u I. 
 
 bred, and possessed of tact. The Government 
 cart goes on smoothly enough. There are few 
 real grievances, and there would be no imaginar}' 
 ones were it not for the daily papers. The 
 judges are just; the Crown law officers have 
 sufficient ability; the bishop is pious and bland; 
 the Colonial Secretary is cautious: things get 
 put by for a more favourable opportunity, and 
 then right themselves. And the top storey, the 
 apex, the crown of the building, his Excellency 
 the Governor-General of Prince George's Island 
 and its dependencies, gives dinners to the elite, 
 balls to society in general, receives whom the 
 Colonial Secretary sends to him, and composes 
 long despatches recommending reforms which 
 will make the colony a Paradise. He is obliged 
 to write them, to show his zeal; though it must 
 be a fearful bore. And, when they come home, 
 some young clerk in the Colonial Office, who 
 knows as much of Palmiste as of Timbuctoo, 
 annotates the laboured thoughts of the expe- 
 rienced statesman, and snubs him. This done, 
 according to rule, the despatches are put in a 
 book, and carefully bound up, to be preserved 
 for ever. There are now so many of these 
 hapless children of thought, smothered as soon 
 as born, and kept as calf-bound mummies in 
 Downing-strcet, that a few years since they
 
 My Little Girl. 
 
 IS 
 
 were compelled to move them all to the cellars. 
 Their weight was pressing out and crushing 
 down the walls, and it was feared that their pre- 
 sence, longer continued, might possibly result 
 in the demolition of the whole fabric. Shades 
 of departed Governors, pensionless wanderers 
 by Brighton sands, consider with gratitude the 
 Nemesis that waits on the contempt of yciur 
 labours !
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 HE estate I am going to take you to is 
 called Fontainebleau. All the estates 
 in the He des Palmistes have these 
 pretty French names. One is called Mon 
 Songe, another Mon Reve. There is a Trianon, 
 a St. Cloud, a Soreze, an Amboise, a Chenon- 
 ceux; there are Beau Plan, Belle Vue, Riche 
 en Eaux, Belle Riviere, Savanne; there are 
 Lucie, Eugenie, Adrienne, and Louise. All the 
 poetry in the heart of the owner is lavished on 
 the name of his estate. "All the same," as a 
 wandering jockey once observed to me, "as 
 the owners of the 'orses in the Derby" — a re- 
 mark which seems to throw a new and very 
 pretty light upon horse-racing. 
 
 Fontainebleau lay on the confines of the great 
 forest that filled the centre of the island. On
 
 My Little Girl. ly 
 
 one side rose hills — not the round, indolent hills 
 of England; but sharp, eager, ambitious little 
 mountains, scarped with precipices fifty and a 
 hundred feet high, jagged with peaks and cut 
 with passes, for all the world like a row of Alps. 
 These pretentious elevations tower upwards at 
 least five hundred feet, and are covered with 
 wood, except in small spaces cleared for coffee. 
 They look down upon the broad fields of Fon- 
 tainebleau. Planted with canes, the acres stretch 
 down the sloping land towards the sea, kindly 
 Mother Earth rounding, as it were, into a breast 
 of fertility. As the sun takes his swift, long 
 course midway in the heavens, the yellow-green 
 crops wear a thousand different shades of light 
 — now as the wind turns up the dark hidden side 
 of the leaf; now as it flutters out the bright 
 upper part; now when the cane is in flower, 
 when it blows about the feathery beauty like the 
 trappings of a helmet; or now, when the clouds 
 fly here and there in dark shadows along the 
 glorious colours; and always the sea breeze 
 raises the gentle waves of the field, like the sweet 
 unrest of a sea which never knows a storm. 
 
 An English corn field, when the sun shines upon 
 it, is a sight to admire; but an estate planted 
 with canes, in all their richness of colour and 
 beauty of form, is one to fill the eye with those 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 1 8 My Little Girl. 
 
 tears which rise at the contemplation of nature 
 at its best — tears from no divine despair, but 
 perhaps from a sense of the unfitness of man for 
 the earth. In the cities it is not felt; but in the 
 lonely corners of the world, in those tiny spots 
 of the ocean where God's finger seems to have 
 lingered longest, delicately shaping sweet river- 
 courses, shady glens, ravines, cascades, and quaint 
 mountain tops, where nature is most productive 
 and man most out of sight, the heart is sad- 
 dened, the eyes dimmed. 
 
 Fontainebleau was a very quiet place, and a 
 lonely. To north and east lay the great, silent 
 forest. To south only it opened out; and stand- 
 ing in the road one could see ten miles of land 
 — ten miles, rather, of waving canes — before the 
 ocean seemed to rise up like a wall, and bar the 
 prospect. Looking over the sailless sea — for no 
 ships ever came that way — the misanthrope 
 might derive a sense of freedom from feeling 
 that, far and wide, no land interposed between 
 the headland beneath him and the barren peaks 
 of the Antarctic shores, far to the south. But the 
 broad fields looked hot, thirsty, and parched. It 
 was better to turn northwards, and climbing over 
 the wall which kept out the deer, and was a 
 nightly gymnasium for the monkeys, dive into 
 the glades and recesses of the forest.
 
 My Little Girl. 19 
 
 I suppose it would have been difficult to lose 
 oneself in it. One mi^ht, perhaps, wander about 
 in it for a few days ; but sooner or later the end 
 of it must have been reached. It is not very 
 large — ten miles one way, by perhaps thirty 
 another. There are few paths in it ; but a 
 man has only to keep going by the sun to ar- 
 rive somewhere near his destination. And then 
 there are no perils in it. Nothing more harm- 
 ful lurks in its recesses than the monkey, a gi- 
 gantic beast — species, say, ourang-outang — of at 
 least a foot and a half high. There are also 
 deer, the little bristly jungle pig, and perhaps 
 a wild cat or two — that is, a tame cat gone 
 wild ; not a panther or a leopard, or anything 
 of that nature, understand. There was a tiger. 
 He got away from a menagerie, and betook 
 himself to the woods. Of his end there are 
 two legends. For some maintain that he died 
 of indigestion, having eaten an old negro who 
 disagreed with him ; others, with greater plau- 
 sibility, affirm that his nature has been changed 
 — animum cum caelo, mutavit — that he has 
 been distinctly visible in the gray of the morn- 
 ing, filing his teeth in boulders, and that he 
 lives retired in the mountains — a vegetarian, 
 shunning the sight of man. And this they al- 
 lege as a proof of the mildness and placability
 
 20 jMf Little Girl. 
 
 induced by the climate of Palmiste Island. 
 There was once, also, a crocodile. He, too, es- 
 caped, being yet quite young, and unfortunately 
 mistook a water-pipe for a cavern or retreat 
 made specially for his behoof. There, many 
 weeks afterwards, he was discovered, choked — a 
 gruesome body; and Englishmen must needs 
 take consecutive sodas and b.'s as a corrective 
 and preservative against any small matter of 
 putrefaction that may have entered their bodies 
 through incautiously drinking the water un- 
 mixed — a thing quite improbable, on the face 
 of it, and entirely contrary to their known habits. 
 Lastly, there was once found — as the ballads 
 say, I do not lie — half a snake, the tail half. 
 How it got there, where the other half was, 
 whether he had a sister or a brother, a father or 
 a mother, or a dearer and nearer one still, in the 
 jungle, was never ascertained. And in all the 
 annals of Palmiste, no other snake, crocodile, or 
 tiger was ever found in the whole island. 
 
 As a set-off against this immunity from 
 danger, the forest is almost silent and inexpres- 
 sibly dreary. Save here and there the faint 
 chatter of a monkey, or the occasional cry of a 
 coq-de-bois, the silence is profound and oppres- 
 sive. Few birds arc there in Palmiste — very 
 few in the forest. They have two natural
 
 My LiUlc Cirl. 21 
 
 enemies : monkeys and hurricanes. The former 
 take down their nests and destroy their eggs — 
 all out of pure mischief; and the latter blow 
 their nests and eggs and all into the sea. 
 
 But besides the mournfulness of its silence, 
 the mere aspect of the forest saddens if you 
 stay in it too long. For a bright, cheery, 
 glorious wood, where you may picnic, wander, 
 or build castles of future greatness, I prefer the 
 New Forest ; for a poetical, dreamy place, where 
 you may make poetry and chansons de geste, 
 that of Fontainebleau — in France, I mean; for 
 a sweet-smelling, sentimental wood, a place 
 where one can w^alk with one's love, and fall 
 into tender talk of eternity and heaven, and all 
 sweet hopes and confiding trusts, I prefer a pine 
 forest on the lower slopes of a Tyrolese Alp. 
 But for a place where death and decay stare 
 you in the face — where, if you stay your steps, 
 you fall presently to musing on a mis-spent life, 
 go to the forest in the centre of Palmiste. 
 There, when you mark the giant creeper crush- 
 ing the life out of some great monarch of the 
 wood, curling round him like the prieve, with its 
 countless arms, think of evil habits, and remind 
 yourself how man never shakes them off, and 
 how the soul is choked with them. Then 
 remember your own, and abandon hope. Or
 
 22 My Little Girl. 
 
 when you see the dense mass of trees — so thick 
 that they press against one another, so close 
 together that they never dream of such a thing 
 as leaves till they are thirty or forty feet high — 
 think of men in great cities, how thick they are, 
 and how they fight for life, and give up all 
 prospect of aught but toil, and labour, and 
 oblivion, till the end comes. Presently you will 
 come — it lies in your path — upon a large pillow- 
 like mass of green, soft moss; put your foot 
 upon it — it sinks through to the hip. This was 
 once a great tree. It lies where it has fallen ; 
 its wood is rotten and wasted; no one ever 
 noticed its beauty, and it served no purpose in 
 life or in death. Then draw your moral, sitting 
 in the shade. 
 
 I extract most of this description from a 
 discourse I once pronounced in my friend 
 Venn's rooms. He maintains that such a forest 
 as I have described would affect him with a 
 lively joy; and points out how all that I have 
 named would but serve to raise his spirits and 
 fill him with gratitude and hope. Nature can 
 be read in two ways. In all her moods there 
 are joy and hope, and in all there are mockery 
 and despair. I tell of the forest as it affected me. 
 
 There are two or three little watercourses 
 running out of the forest through the estate.
 
 My Little Girl. 23 
 
 which the simple islanders call rivers. These 
 bubbling streams speedily cut out little ravines 
 for themselves, and go brawling about among 
 the boulders at the bottom as if most important 
 business, not to be deferred a moment, hurried 
 them down. Here and there they disappear, 
 and you may hear them grumbling below. 
 When they emerge, it is to make a great leap, 
 as if for joy, into a basin where the water runs 
 round and round in a mighty hurry to get away 
 These ravines are dark and narrow: the steep, 
 sloping banks crowded with trees and brambles. 
 Rich and rare ferns lurk under the shadows 
 orchids almost priceless are found in the 
 branches; and you never by any chance meet 
 any one if you care to wander down the ravine, 
 except perhaps a bevy of Indian damsels with 
 their hair down, performing their ablutions, like 
 Bathsheba of old, in the open. 
 
 By one of these rivers stands the residence of 
 Fontainebleau. It is a large, deeply verandahed 
 wooden house, with wooden tiles for roof, all on 
 one floor. All the rooms open into each other, 
 and on the verandah. They are furnished with 
 a curious mixture of things costly and things 
 rude. There is a rough, common table side by 
 side with chairs that might do duty in Belgravia. 
 A pianoforte which has never been tuned, and
 
 24 My Little Girl. 
 
 never been opened for no one knows how many 
 years, is in one corner, littered with powder- 
 flasks and shooting gear; a tall bookcase, filled 
 with volumes whose bindings have once been 
 splendid, but which arc now dropping off the 
 books from damp; a few pictures, a great pile of 
 newspapers, and a general air of comfort and 
 negligence, mark a drawing-room where there 
 has been no lady for many years. The dining- 
 room is behind : it has a great table and a side- 
 board, both of which were once, it may be pre- 
 sumed, new, but which are now mere monu- 
 ments of neglected mahogany. It has no other 
 furniture, because the chairs of the house have 
 generally succumbed to time the destroyer; and 
 now at dinner time they take them out of the 
 drawing-room, and bring them back after dinner. 
 Not that they are ever wanted, for easy chairs 
 stand on the verandah, and cigars are best 
 smoked in the cool night air. 
 
 At the back of the house, outside, stands the 
 kitchen of the Indian cook — a place whence 
 come savoury things; but within which no one 
 was ever known to penetrate, except one man. 
 He came out with pale face and trembling limbs. 
 They gave him brandy. Presently he recovered. 
 But he never afterwards was known to touch 
 pudding in Palmiste. I believe, too, that he
 
 My Little Girl. 25 
 
 died young. And the bed-rooms, each furnished 
 with gay little iron bedsteads and mosquito cur- 
 tains, are, like the sitting-rooms, made to open 
 on the verandah. There are not many of these 
 inhabited now; for the gay days of Fontaincbleau 
 are over, and the gray-haired man who lives 
 there now has little companionship save that of 
 his son and his nephew. The society of the 
 town twenty-five miles away has nothing to do 
 with him. He is out of it now, and forgotten; 
 save once or twice a year, when at some great 
 hunting party in the forest he appears, pale and 
 melancholy ; and old men whisper that poor 
 George Durnford is the ghost of himself Time 
 was, they tell you, when George was the soul of 
 the island. The ex-cavalry officer, who got into 
 such a devil of a mess with his colonel, and had 
 to sell out; who came to Palmistc twenty years 
 ago, and bought Fontaincbleau; who married 
 Adrienne — la belle Adrienne — niece and ward 
 of Henri de Rosnay; who led the life of the 
 place, and was foremost in everything social and 
 genial — can it be the same person? 
 
 More of him hereafter. Let me finish with 
 the house. 
 
 About the verandah, or in the dining-room, or 
 about the kitchen, are the boys — Indians — who 
 belong to the service of the house. There are
 
 26 My Little Girl 
 
 some half-dozen of them, dressed in a sort of 
 tight cotton jacket, with Httle caps, looking, as 
 they are, full of intelligence and life. These, 
 with the bright, fearless look in the eyes, and 
 the slender grace of the limbs, vanish when the 
 boy passes the threshold of manhood; and he 
 becomes heavy, sluggish, and sensual. At pre- 
 sent, however, the boys are from eight to twelve 
 years old,- and make the best servants in the 
 world. Mendacious they are, it is true, and as 
 destructive as monkeys; but if one is going to 
 be thrashed for breaking a glass, it is just as 
 well to say that another did it. You get no 
 more, if you are found out. Logically, and with 
 respect to immediate results, they are quite right. 
 It has not yet entered into the heads of the 
 residents of Palmiste that they might Christianize 
 their servants. Certainly, the specimens turned 
 out by the missionaries are not encouraging. 
 The converted Hindoo is, in most cases, pre- 
 cisely the kind of man that 110 one will employ. 
 And though things may be better in those dis- 
 tricts of Southern India which have been largely 
 Christianized, I think that the less said about 
 missionary labour among the Indians the better. 
 At the side of the house stretches its great 
 garden, filled with all sorts of English vege- 
 tables, and all kinds of tropical fruits. Here
 
 My Little Girl. 27 
 
 are rows of pines which Covent-garden cannot 
 hope to equal. There are too many for eating, 
 and they are rotting on the stalk. Here is an 
 orchard of letchi trees, the fruit that Warren 
 Hastings tried to acclimatize in England, but 
 failed. I would he had succeeded. Here are 
 mangoes, with vanilla trained upon the trees. 
 Here are custard apples, oranges, citrons, and 
 guavas. Here, too, are strawberries, peaches, 
 mulberries, and grapes. You may look, how- 
 ever, in vain for apples, pears, and such things. 
 These grow not in Palmiste; and Englishmen, 
 eating fruits more delicious far than these, 
 grumble that they cannot get a pear, and would 
 almost go back to England to get a plum. 
 
 In front of the house lies its lawn — a broad, 
 rolling piece of ground, set with flower beds, 
 mostly neglected, and planted round with rose 
 trees. Side by side with English flowers are 
 others which remind you of greenhouses, Kew 
 Gardens, and the Crystal Palace. They are not, 
 however, so sweet as our own; and yonder bed 
 of mignionette fills the air with a perfume far 
 more delicate than any of the heavy laden 
 tropical plants. Here is a sensitive plant. Touch 
 it: all the leaflets near your finger close, and 
 shrink together in a kind of fear. Here is a 
 gorgeous dracaena. You remember one like it
 
 2$ My Little Girl 
 
 in the Palm House. Here is a honeysuckle 
 climbing up the wall of the house; and here, in 
 heavy masses over the verandah, are creepers 
 which if left unchecked would climb over and 
 embrace the whole house, and tear all down 
 together. 
 
 My picture of still life must finish. Throw 
 into the background a row of slender palms; 
 put in, if you can, that glimpse to the right of a 
 miniature gorge, some fifty feet deep; mark its 
 tree ferns, tall and symmetrical, with their circled 
 glory of leaves ; throw in for light, the soft, white 
 rays of a sun that wants yet half an hour of 
 setting; let your air be warm and mild; let a 
 breeze, cool and crisp, from the south-east, blow 
 through the branches; while, from the camp of 
 the Indians, not far away, imagine — for you 
 cannot paint it — a confused murmur of tongues, 
 cries of children, an occasional quarrel among 
 the women, the monotonous beat of the tum- 
 tum, and the drone of the Indian storyteller. 
 Then try to fancy that you have lived in all 
 this so long that Europe with its noisy politics, 
 and England with its fierce battle for life, and 
 London with its fevered pleasures and bitter 
 sorrows, seem all dreams of a former existence; 
 that the soft lassitude of the climate has eaten 
 into your very marrow, and that you no longer
 
 My Little Girl. 29 
 
 care to think, or to work, or to do anything 
 violent or in a hurry; that your chief pleasure 
 is to sit at early dawn on the verandah, with a 
 cigar, and see the day rise over the hills; or, 
 at evening, watching the southern cross, and 
 letting your thoughts roam here and there un- 
 checked; your chief hope — save at moments 
 when a sickness for home comes on you, and a 
 yearning for the life and vigour of England — 
 always to go on like this : to have no sickness, 
 to feel no sorrows, to be tormented by no sym- 
 pathy, to make no alteration or improvement, to 
 dream life away, to eat the lotos day by day, in 
 a land where it is, indeed, always afternoon.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OME back with mc ten years before my 
 tale begins. We are still at Fontaine- 
 bleau. It is a dark, dreary night in 
 January — cold, though it is the middle of the 
 hot season. A fierce gale, to which the wind
 
 My Little Girl. 31 
 
 blowing about the trees is a sort of fringe or 
 outside robe, is raging somewhere at sea. The 
 rain falls at intervals in a continuous sheet 
 of water; doors and windows are closed; and 
 George Durnford is sitting alone in his dining- 
 room, with an untasted bottle of claret before 
 him, and a bitter sorrow at his heart. That 
 morning he had followed to the grave the 
 wife who but two days ago was alive and well. 
 From a room close by comes the prattle of two 
 children, in bed, but not yet asleep. To them 
 the dismal ceremony of the morning was a 
 pageant which conveyed no meaning. One of 
 them has lost his mother; and he sits now on 
 his little white bed, a great-eyed, fair-haired, 
 solemn boy of two, with an uneasy sense of 
 something wrong, and a growing wonder that 
 the familiar hands do not come to smoothe his 
 sheets, and the familiar lips to kiss his good 
 night. The other — a year or two older, with 
 blacker hair and darker complexion— in the 
 opposite bed, is singing and laughing, regard- 
 less of the nurse's injunction to make no noise 
 and go to sleep. He is cousin Phil. And the 
 little two-year-old is Arthur Durnford. 
 
 The baby voices do not rouse the lonely 
 mourner in the room outside them. He sits 
 musing on his brief three years of love and hap-
 
 32 My Little GirL 
 
 piness; on the dreary scene of the stormy morn- 
 ing's funeral; of death and of sorrows that come 
 to mar the brightest promise. He thinks of the 
 day when he brought home his young bride, 
 flushed with joy and hope; and of her cold 
 waxen features when he took the last look at 
 the fair face that had nestled at his heart. The 
 hope and vigour of life seem suddenly taken 
 out of him, and he shudders as he remembers 
 the long years to come — perhaps thirty or forty 
 • — alone in misery. For all sorrow seems to be 
 endless when it begins; and, when the pain 
 dies away into a sad regret, its very poignancy 
 is remembered as a kind of evil dream. 
 
 The storm outside increases. Roused by the 
 crash of thunder, he raises his head; and then, 
 for the first time, he sees that he is not alone. 
 
 How long she has been sitting there, when 
 she came in, and how, he knows not. She is a 
 young mulatto woman, not darker than many 
 a black -haired woman of Provence, apparently 
 about twenty years of age. Her jet black hair 
 is rolled up in a wavy mass. She holds her hat 
 in her hand. Her dress is wet and draggled, but 
 her hands are not rough. In her face, as she 
 gazes steadfastly on Durnford, there is a look of 
 mingled triumph and pity. 
 
 He starts with surprise.
 
 My Little Girl. 33 
 
 " Marie ! — why do you come here ? I thought 
 you were in England." 
 
 She does not answer for a while, and then 
 begins in a sort of low, measured way — speak- 
 ing English fluently, but with something of a 
 foreign accent. 
 
 "Why do I come to-night, George Durnford } 
 I think I came to triumph over your sorrow, 
 because I heard about it in the town when I 
 landed yesterday. But I heard things as I came 
 along which forbid me to triumph any longer. 
 Why should I triumph } You, who loved me 
 once, would love me again if I chose. You, who- 
 deserted me for that good, dead girl — you see, 
 George, I can be just — would, if I chose, take 
 me again to be your plaything." 
 
 " Never," said Durnford. " Woman, can you 
 not understand that a man can cease to do 
 evil.?" 
 
 " But," she went on, as if he had not spoken, 
 " I do not choose. I will be no man's plaything. 
 You taught me something, George. You taught 
 me that a woman, to be what a woman should 
 be, must learn many things. We, the daughters 
 of a despised race, are good enough to be the 
 mistress of an hour, but not good enough to be 
 the companions of a life. We have our year of 
 fondness, and think, poor fools, it will last for 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 My Little Girl. 
 
 ever. We have but one thing to give you — our 
 love. You take it, and trample on it. We have 
 nothing but ourselves. That is yours; and 
 when you are tired of the toy, you throw it 
 away in the dirt. As I am only one of the 
 many — only a mulatto girl — I ought not to com- 
 plain. It has been my fate, and I accept it. 
 Besides, you are a gentleman. Not every girl 
 gets an Englishman for a lover. You were kind 
 to me ; you put ideas into my head ; you taught 
 me things;, you made me feel, without meaning 
 it, how great a gulf there is between your race 
 and mine ; and you showed me how to pass the 
 gulf. You did more- -not as a salve for your own 
 conscience, because I suppose your conscience 
 never pricked you about it; nor as a bribe for 
 me to go away and never trouble you again — 
 you gave me money on that day — the da}' 
 before you married — when you bade me fare- 
 well. I used the money well, George. Even 
 you will confess I used it well. I have been to 
 your great city — your big, cold, dreary London. 
 I put myself to school there. I have learned all 
 that a woman should learn, and more. Shall I 
 play to you .'' Shall I sing to you .'* Shall I 
 prove to you that even your cast-off mistress 
 can be, if she pleases, as perfect a lady as 
 No, George, I will make no comparison.
 
 My Little Girl 35 
 
 Adrienne, my mistress — my poor darling — whom 
 I played with and loved, I shall never be like 
 you !" 
 
 Durnford made an impatient gesture. 
 
 " I must say what I have to say. I want to 
 say a good deal. Besides, it pleases me to talk. 
 I have talked to no one since I left England, 
 and you must listen. . Don't think, to begin with, 
 that I love you any more. The poor, ignorant 
 creature that trusted you, and thought herself 
 honoured by having your arm about her, is 
 gone. George, she is dead. All that is left of 
 her and her life is a memory and an experience. 
 I remember, and I know. She could have done 
 neither. She would have gone away, back to 
 her own cousins — the swine who live in the huts 
 by the seaside, and scramble once a week for 
 the wretched fish that will keep them till 
 another week. She would have married some 
 black clown, as ignorant as herself, and far 
 more brutal; and would have brought her 
 children, up like their father. George, where is 
 my boy ?'• 
 
 Durnford pointed to the bed-room door. 
 
 She snatched a light, and came back directly 
 with little Phil, still asleep, in her arms — kissing 
 and crying over him like a madwoman. 
 
 "Oh! Phil, Phil — my darling, my darling! 
 
 3—2
 
 36 My Little Girl, 
 
 Could I leave you all alone ? Speak to your 
 mother, my son — my son! Will you never know 
 her? Will you never be proud of her, and 
 cling to her, and be good to her ? 
 
 The child opened his eyes, looked up sleepily, 
 and then heavily turned his face from her, and 
 Avas asleep again in a moment. 
 
 She took him back, and placed him again in 
 his cot, and took the light, and looked long and 
 steadfastly at the other. She returned, and sat 
 down again, sighing deeply. 
 
 "Your child is mine, Marie," said Durnford. 
 " What I swore to you then, I swear to you now. 
 He will be brought up like the other, educated 
 Avith him, and shall share with him." 
 
 "Will he never know the story of his birth .^" 
 asked the girl. 
 
 " It is my hope that he never will. He will 
 be called — he is already called — my nephew. I 
 told all to my wife. She had forgiven." 
 
 "When you die, will he, or will the other» 
 have this estate.?" 
 
 Durnford hesitated. At last, he looked steadily 
 at her, and said — 
 
 " My lawful son will be my heir. What wealth 
 I have shall be his. Your son will have a com- 
 petence; but I will not — I cannot, Marie, defraud 
 my heir of what is his."
 
 My Little Girl. 37 
 
 Marie sat silent for a time. 
 
 Then she began to walk about the room. 
 
 " I am not myself to-night, George. I was 
 angry as I walked here through the forest. I 
 am only repentant now. The old love for my 
 poor Adrienne drowns the resentment that filled 
 my heart an hour ago. I came to upbraid you 
 — I cannot. Her spirit is in this house. I felt 
 her breath as I leaned over the face of her boy. 
 I saw her face as I came in at the door. I feel 
 her here now, George. If I think more of her, 
 I shall see her. I do see her! She is here — before 
 me. Adrienne" — she bent forward with streaming 
 eyes and supplicating hands — "forgive me. For- 
 give the poor passionate girl that never did you 
 any harm, but whose heart has been filled with 
 bitterness against you. You did not wrong me, 
 my poor dear; and as for him who did — here, in 
 your presence, I forgive him. George, for three 
 long years, far away from here, among strangers, 
 I have had but one prayer every night. I have 
 prayed that misery might fall on you and yours. 
 Adrienne, Adrienne — speak to me, if you 
 can. Give me some sign that my prayer was 
 not answered. Let me go away at least for- 
 given." 
 
 As she spoke, the hurricane swept with all 
 its fury against the house. The wind howled
 
 38 My Little Girl. 
 
 like an accusing spirit. George rose from his 
 chair, pale and trembling. 
 
 " Woman," he cried, " you are answered." 
 
 But as suddenly the wind dropped, and with 
 one last effort blew back the shutter of the 
 window. Durnford hurried to replace it; and 
 with the driving rain that came in, like tears of 
 wild repentance, a poor dying dove was blown 
 through the window, straight to Marie's bosom. 
 
 *' I am answered," she said, folding the crea- 
 ture in her hands. 
 
 Neither spoke. Presently Marie fell on her 
 knees, with the dove in her hand, and prayed 
 aloud. Great tears rolled down Durnford's 
 face. When she had finished, he lifted up his 
 voice and wept, saying — 
 
 " God have mercy upon me, a sinner." 
 ***** 
 
 It was midnight. Marie rose from her knees, 
 another Magdalene. 
 
 "I must go," she said; "but first, George, 
 aid me to carry out my plan of life. I am 
 going back to London. I have got a great 
 voice — a splendid voice, George — a voice that 
 will bring me, they say, more money than I 
 can spend. I shall save it for the boy. To 
 make it useful, I must study and work. Let 
 me have some more money. I don't think it
 
 My Little Girl. 39 
 
 degrades me to ask it of you, does it ? My 
 real degradation no one knows, over there. 
 You must give me money, George." 
 
 He told her how he would help her in Eng- 
 land, and give her what he had. They were 
 both very quiet and subdued. 
 
 " I have seen you," she said, " and I have 
 not cursed you. But,' ah! my heart misgives 
 me. I came through the lonely forest to-night, 
 and heard sounds that mean misfortune." 
 
 "Marie, it is superstition." 
 
 " Perhaps. I cannot help it. It is in my 
 blood. And a voice whispered in my ear, as 
 I came along, that I should have no joy with 
 my boy; and that you would have no more 
 pleasure in life; that my fortune was to come, 
 but my misery and punishment with it. George, 
 was it no bad omen that my child turned away 
 his face from me t Is it good to come to a 
 house of sudden death and mourning.? Shall 
 I begin the world afresh with a brighter spirit 
 for this night of tears and repentance .''" 
 
 " You are shaken. Stay to-night. Take the 
 child to sleep with you. In the morning you 
 can go, if you will." 
 
 " No — now, now," she said. " I cannot stay 
 here. Take care of him, George — take care of 
 him. Some day, perhaps "
 
 40 My Little Girl. 
 
 " You cannot go through the forest to-night." 
 
 "I must — I cannot stay here. Farewell, 
 George. I think I shall never see you again. 
 Pray God to forgive us both. I will pray every 
 day. They say God hears if you go on praying. 
 And write to me sometimes to tell me of the 
 boy." 
 
 They stood one moment, face to face. George 
 took her hand; and then their faces met. There 
 was no passion now, in that last embrace. The 
 memory of the wife came between them like a 
 spirit. They kissed each other, like children, 
 in token of forgiveness, and in self-abasement; 
 and then, lifting the latch, Marie went out into 
 the darkness, and disappeared. 
 
 George Durnford, lighting a cigar mechani- 
 cally, went outside to the verandah. The Indian 
 guardian, whose duty it was to make the rounds, 
 and keep off nocturnal thieves, was coiled up in 
 a corner, fast asleep. The storm had died away. 
 A pure sky, bright with the southern constella- 
 tions and with a clear half-moon, was overhead. 
 George's eye fell on the cross of the south — that 
 heavenly sign that once filled the sailors with 
 hope. He felt the warm, soft air of the summer 
 night. Sitting down, he presently fell asleep. 
 When he awoke the day was breaking; the mill 
 was lighted up; the day's work was begun; and
 
 My Little Girl. 41 
 
 he pondered in his mind whether he had not 
 dreamt it all. 
 
 Little Philip, coming to him at six o'clock, 
 began to ask who had taken him out of bed. 
 And lying on the floor George Durnford found 
 a handkerchief with the name of Marie on it. 
 Then he knew that he had not dreamed this 
 thing. And he kept it in his heart.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 M5 ALEXANDER MACINTYRE used 
 to describe himself, as a dingy card 
 on Mr. Durnford's table testified, as 
 Professor of the Classics and Mathematics, In- 
 structor in Foreign Languages, Fencing, Fortifi-
 
 My Little Girl. 45 
 
 cation, Hindustani, and the Fine Arts. He was 
 a most accomplished man. With the exception 
 of the last-named department of learning — which 
 I fancy he inserted rather with a view to the 
 effect and roundness of the sentence than with 
 any intention of instructing in the Fine Arts — he 
 really knew and could teach the things he pro- 
 fessed. He was not a Porson in Greek, but he 
 made boys fairly good in Greek scholarship. 
 He would not have become senior wrangler, but 
 he knew a good lot of school mathematics. He 
 could really fence; he could talk Italian, or 
 French, or German, with equal fluency; and he 
 could and did swear horribly in Hindustani. 
 Finally, on occasion, he talked about Fortifica- 
 tion as glibly as Captain Shandy. 
 
 This great luminary of science was engaged 
 for some years as private tutor to the two boys 
 at Fontainebleau. He used to ride over on a 
 little pony from his house, some two miles off, 
 and ride back again in the evening. Sometimes 
 when he stayed to dinner, Mr. Durnford would 
 leave him on the verandah, smoking and sitting 
 in friendly proximity to the brandy bottle. 
 Then it was the delight of the two boys — for 
 Mr. Durnford had got into a habit, of late years, 
 of going to his own room about nine o'clock — to 
 observe their revered instructor drink tumbler
 
 44 ^^ Little Girl. 
 
 after tumbler of brandy and water, getting more 
 thirsty after each, and more rapid in his despatch 
 of the next. At the opportune moment. — that 
 is to say, when he was not too far gone — they 
 would emerge upon the scene, and engage him 
 in talk. He would then make a laudable effort 
 to give the conversation a philosophical and im- 
 proving turn. Getting into difficulties, he would 
 try to help himself out by another pull at the 
 brandy; and when, as always happened, he got 
 into fresh complications, he would fall back in 
 his chair, and make use of a regular and in- 
 variable formula. He would say, quite clearly 
 and distinctly — " I am a Master of Arts of the 
 University of Aberdeen — I'm the Maclntyre !" 
 Then he would become speechless; and the boys, 
 with a huge delight, would carry him neck and 
 heels to bed. In the morning he would rise at 
 six, and emerge with unclouded brow. Perhaps, 
 in the course of the day, he would find occasion 
 for a few remarks on temperance, with an ex- 
 cursus on his own moderation in spirituous 
 liquors. 
 
 He was a small, spare man, in glasses, with 
 sandy hair, a pale face, and a red nose. He 
 lived by himself, in a little house of three 
 rooms, two miles down the road. He had no 
 pupils except the two Durnfords, and at odd
 
 My Little G.rL 45 
 
 moments an uneasy consciousness would seize 
 him that when these went he would starve. Nor 
 had he any friends to help him. The voice 
 of rumour, which aggravates a man's vices and 
 subtracts from his virtues, said that he went 
 drunk to bed every night. As to his antece- 
 dents there were many reports. Some said 
 that he had been in the army, but was cashiered 
 for embezzlement while he was adjutant; others, 
 that he had been a courier, a billiard marker, 
 all sorts of things. Rumour lied, of course. 
 He had been none of those things. He had, 
 after a laborious and meritorious career at 
 Aberdeen, " gone in " for Scotch mission work 
 in Constantinople. Here he preached the Gos- 
 pel to the Jews, till he preached his belief 
 away. This becoming known to his employers, 
 he was turned out with ignominy. Then he 
 wandered about the Levant, living no one knew 
 how. After a few years, he turned up again 
 in England, and became a lecturer to some 
 society. Difficulties about the money ensued, 
 and Mr. Maclntyre once more left his native 
 shores. This time he came to Palmiste, with 
 a letter to Mr. Durnford, and set up as a public 
 teacher of everything in the principal town. 
 Troubles of all sorts fell upon him, and he re- 
 moved to the other end of the island — partly
 
 46 M)^ Little Girl. 
 
 to escape them, and partly to coach Mr. Durn- 
 ford's boys. He had a way of introducing re- 
 marks — which at first sight appeared to be of 
 the profoundest wisdom, and took in the un- 
 wary — with a magisterial and Aberdonian "ob- 
 sairve." He was sententious and deferent. He 
 had no morals, no principles, no self-will, no 
 self-control. All his better qualities were 
 wrecked on the quicksand of drink; and of 
 the hard-working, hopeful days of Aberdeen 
 nothing was left but the knowledge he had ac- 
 quired, and a habit of industry which never 
 deserted him. He was not, it must be con- 
 fessed, the best tutor possible for boys. But 
 education in Palmiste is difficult. 
 
 Mr. Durnford liked to keep his boys at home. 
 There was less harm to be learned there, at 
 all events, than in the hot, unhealthy town 
 where the college stood. And even Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre could teach them mere book learning. 
 So they stayed at home, and grew in years 
 and stature. 
 
 In appearance they were as different as in 
 manners. For Philip, the elder, was strong, 
 sturdy, and overbearing. Arthur was slight, 
 delicate, and yielding. If Philip wanted any- 
 thing, he always had it Philip, too, wanted 
 everything. The best pony was his, the best
 
 My Little Girl 47 
 
 dogs, the best gun. He was the cleverer — the 
 favourite with Mr. Maclntyre : sharp of tongue, 
 and cool of temperament. But he was not 
 popular. Arthur was. By his soft, feminine 
 ways; by the gentle sympathy which he showed 
 for all alike; by the kindly grace of his manner, 
 which he inherited from his mother, he won 
 affection where his cousin only gained fear. 
 The children ran after him when he walked 
 through the village; the women came to him 
 to adjust their differences; the Indians, when 
 they had a petition to offer or a point to 
 gain, which was nearly every day, waited till 
 they could get hold of the chota sahib — the 
 little master. Philip, though he pretended to 
 despise this popularity, was secretly annoyed 
 at it. It rankled in his heart that he, for his 
 part, commanded no man's affection. By de- 
 grees, too, as he grew up, he began to ask 
 questions about himself These his uncle put 
 aside, quietly but firmly. And gradually a 
 sort of feeling of inferiority took possession of 
 him. There was something — what, he never 
 guessed — that was not to be told him: some- 
 thing that had better not be spoken of, some- 
 thing that made him different from his cousin. 
 It was the germ of what was to grow into a 
 greaL fee — a tree whose fruit was poison, and
 
 48 My Little Girl. 
 
 whose very shade was noxious. But at this 
 time it only stimulated him. It made him 
 more eager to surpass his cousin; threw him 
 with fresh vigour into his studies; and urged 
 him to practise more and more the arts which 
 he thought would lead to success in life. These 
 — for the boy's knowledge of life was very 
 small — he imagined to be chiefly skill at shoot- 
 ing and riding. He did both splendidly. Ar- 
 thur did both indifferently. 
 
 Mr. Durnford seemed to take but little notice 
 of their progress. Still, from a word here and 
 there, they knew that he watched them. Nor 
 could Philip complain, when his uncle gave him 
 the best horse and the costliest gun that could be 
 got in the island, that he was overlooked. There 
 were few times when the grave man conversed 
 much with them. Sometimes, at breakfast — 
 that meal which means, in a planter's house, an 
 early dinner at half-past eleven, when the work of 
 the day, which has gone on for five or six hours, 
 is more than half over, which is followed by two 
 or three hours of rest and lazy talk — he would 
 relax, and tell them long stories of English life 
 and youthful adventure, at which their faces 
 were set aglow, and their hearts beating with 
 excitement. Or he would set forth the perils of 
 a young man's course ; hiding little ; letting them
 
 My Little Girl. 49 
 
 know some of the temptations that lie in the 
 way of life; telling them something of the battle 
 that lay before them ; and — for George Durnford 
 was now a religious man — backing up his pic- 
 tures with a homily on duty. Surely, there is but 
 one thing needful to teach boys — to do their 
 duty ; and one thing above all to train in them, 
 the power of will that will help them to do it. 
 On Sunday mornings, they would read the ser- 
 vice of the Church, the three together — Phil 
 taking the first lesson, and Arthur the second. 
 By this arrangement, the younger boy seemed 
 to get all the teaching of Christ, and the elder 
 all the passion and rebellious self-will of the 
 Israelites. 
 
 Once a week or so they generally rode, the 
 two boys together, but sometimes Mr. Durnford 
 with them, to see Madeleine. 
 
 Madeleine, some three years younger than 
 Arthur, was the one thing that kept the boys 
 alive to a sense of the social side of life. She, 
 like them, was motherless; and, like them, lived 
 with her father, M. de Villeroy, on a sugar estate, 
 his property. She was everybody's pet and play- 
 thing — a bright little black-haired beauty, whose 
 laughter kept the house gay, and whose wilful 
 ways were law. M. de Villeroy was one of those 
 grand Frenchmen — some day we shall see them 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 Afy Little Girl 
 
 all in their proper place again — whose manners 
 are the perfection of courtesy, and whose ideas 
 chiefly date from a time when Louis the Six- 
 teenth was king; or, to speak more truly, from 
 a time when Francis the First was king. Not 
 that his own birth dated from either of those 
 reigns. He and his were colonists in Palmiste 
 Island from very early in the last century. The 
 Marshal de Villeroy he spoke of as his cousin. 
 He had the right, if he wished, to call himself 
 marquis. He had a profound contempt for 
 roturiers, and held that gentleman was a name 
 that belonged to him by Divine right; but he 
 held, too, that the name involved duties — and 
 truth, honour, and bravery were the three points 
 of his creed. For Christianity, I fear that, like 
 too many of his countrymen, he considered it 
 as an admirable method of imparting notions of 
 order to the vulgar; and though he would not 
 openly scoff at it, yet, when alone with his friend 
 Durnford, he would let fall such slight indica- 
 tions of a contemptuous toleration as almost 
 justified the priests in calling him a Voltairean. 
 Voltaire — or M. Arouet, as he preferred to call 
 him — he always declared to be a man who had 
 done an infinite amount of mischief; and he held 
 all men of genius in equal dislike, from a per- 
 suasion that their mission in life was to prema-
 
 My Little Girl. 51 
 
 turely popularize the ideas of the nobility. The 
 Revolution, he would explain, was the work of 
 men of genius. The ideas which they propa- 
 gated had long been current among the more 
 cultivated of the nobility. These, however, for- 
 bore to carry to their bitter end the logical con- 
 sequences of their convictions. Nothing in social 
 and poHtical economy could be logical. All must 
 be compromise. But what the Revolution took 
 thirty years to achieve would, he maintained, 
 have been accomplished by the liberality of the 
 divinely appointed rulers of things in ten, with- 
 out bloodshed. 
 
 " Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre, " Mirabeau 
 was a gentleman," 
 
 To which M. de Villeroy replied that Mira- 
 beau's life was fatal to any kind of purity of 
 action; and that, despite any alleged in- 
 stances to the contrary, great things could only 
 be done by men of pure life. 
 
 We must not, however, waste time on M. de 
 Villeroy. He disappears directly out 'of the 
 story. But he was one of the few influences 
 brought to bear upon the boys' daily life. Mr. 
 Durnford, with his high standard of duty and 
 Christian honour ; M. de Villeroy, with his 
 standard of a gentleman's ideal; Mr. Maclntyre, 
 alternately presenting the example of a scholar 
 
 4—2 
 
 BWtRSnY OF ILLlNUft 
 LIBRARY
 
 52 My Little Girl. 
 
 — various, if not profound — and the drunken, 
 helpless helot; the ignorant, childish mass of 
 Indians and blacks on the estate; and pretty- 
 little Madeleine, to keep them gentle, and give 
 them that delicacy of feeling which only con- 
 tact with the other sex can impart. Let us 
 bear these things in mind, and remember in 
 the story to come how ever so little an acci- 
 dent may mar the growth of the most promising 
 tree. 
 
 The accident happened thus. Phil was now 
 about fifteen — a strong, handsome boy, whose 
 dark wavy hair and slightly olive skin were set 
 off by a pair of bright black eyes and regular 
 features, closely resembling those of Mr. Durn- 
 ford. It was some little time, he could not 
 himself say how it began, since the feeling had 
 sprung up, that I have alluded to, of his own 
 inferiority. As yet it was but an uneasy 
 thought, sometimes dying away altogether, 
 sometimes springing again full-grown into his 
 brain. But it was there. He awoke this par- 
 ticular morning with it, and went out, in the 
 early dawn, morose and sullen. Presently, 
 when Arthur joined him, and they walked about 
 v/ith their arms round each other's necks in 
 boyish fashion, the ghost vanished, and Phil 
 became himself again. They got their ponies
 
 My Little Girl. 53 
 
 saddled, drank their coffee, and rode off to meet 
 the tutor. 
 
 Presently they came upon him, plodding 
 slowly uphill, on his broken-kneed Pegu pony, 
 with his huge straw hat on and his cigar in his 
 mouth. 
 
 " Obsairve," observed the philosopher, as they 
 turned to go back with him, "man's just the 
 creature of habit." 
 
 He pronounced it " hahbit." 
 
 "So he is," said Phil, who immediately 
 guessed that his instructor had been more than 
 usually drunk the night before. " Somebody 
 else has made that remark before you, Mr. 
 Maclntyre." 
 
 " Don't take the word out o' the mouth o' the 
 prophet of the — I mean your tutor, young 
 man," said Mr. Maclntyre. " Man, as I said, is 
 the creature of habit." 
 
 They rode on in silence for a while, waiting 
 further light from the sage. 
 
 This presently came. 
 
 " Of all habits that flesh is heir to," he went 
 on, " let me caution you against intemperance. 
 Whisky, in my country, may be taken in mode- 
 ration. Brandy, never. You will obsairve that 
 it furs the tongue, confuses the brain, and pre- 
 vents that orderly sequence of thought inse-
 
 S4 My Little Girl. 
 
 parable from metapheesical study. Take the 
 advice of one who has seen the world, young 
 men; and when you go into it, be careful to 
 stop at the fourth or fifth tumbler. What is 
 taken after that gives headache." 
 
 "Have you a headache this morning, sir.-*" 
 
 " Philip, your question pains me. It is true 
 that I have headache, the result of eating im- 
 perfectly cooked steak last night. But your 
 question, in connection with my warning and 
 advice, might seem — I only say seem — to imply 
 suspicion that I had been drinking last night." 
 
 "Not at all, sir," said Phil. "Steak is indi- 
 gestible. Let me bring you a bottle of soda 
 when we get in." 
 
 "Ye're a good lad," answered Maclntyre, 
 " and I think I'll take it." 
 
 He took it, and they presently fell to their 
 studies till breakfast. The day passed as usual 
 till the afternoon, when the clatter of hoofs told 
 the approach of visitors. They were Madeleine 
 and her father. The boys ran to help her off 
 her pony, and they all three went off to the 
 garden together. 
 
 Madeleine's favourite was Arthur. But Philip, 
 as usual, wanted to appropriate her. Already 
 the girl was conscious of herself She took the 
 usual feminine delight in being petted and
 
 My Little Girl, 55 
 
 caressed; and accepted the homage of the boys 
 with the air that seems to come naturally to 
 beautiful women. She was born to be admired. 
 Women who have that destiny accept it without 
 any murmuring, and with no surprise. 
 
 Philip to-day, however, was cross-grained. 
 He did not want her to talk to Arthur — he 
 wanted to have her all to himself Then they 
 began to quarrel. It was a children's quarrel, 
 that might have been ended directly but for a 
 luckless remark of Philip's. 
 
 "Never mind, Madeleine," he said. "You can 
 play with Arthur if you like ; but when we grow 
 up you'll marry me." 
 
 " Indeed, I shall not," she said. " I am going 
 to marry Arthur," and went and held up her 
 face to be kissed by that blushing youth. 
 
 "Arthur!" said Philip, with great contempt. 
 
 ''Why, I can turn him over as easy as • 
 
 See." 
 
 He caught his cousin by the shoulder, and 
 turned him round, throwing him off, so that he 
 tripped and fell with his face to the ground. 
 Arthur, however, rose to the occasion ; and, 
 springing up, struck him smartly in the face. 
 
 The battle lasted for a moment only, and 
 Philip stood victorious. Madeleine ran to the 
 rescue of her prostrate lover.
 
 56 My Little Girl. 
 
 "Go away," she cried. "I believe what people 
 say of you. I will never speak to you again." 
 
 "And, pray, what do people say.^" asked 
 Philip. 
 
 "They say that you are cruel and selfish; 
 that you tease Arthur and vex him; and that 
 you want to get everything for yourself Go 
 away." 
 
 Philip went away. It was the first time the 
 boys had struck each other. He was angry with 
 himself, angry with Arthur, angry with Made- 
 leine. And in this mood he strolled along till 
 he found himself at the stables. Then he 
 thought he would have a ride. Going into his 
 own pony's box, he found the syce had not 
 rubbed him down, or even touched him since 
 the morning, and was now sitting — a gaunt, tall 
 Indian of six feet — eating rice in perfect uncon- 
 cern. Phil's temper boiled over.. He flew at 
 the man in a fury of rage — kicking, striking, and 
 cursing him. The poor groom was first appal- 
 led; and standing up sideways to the wall, he 
 lifted his leg and covered his face with his arms, 
 as some small protection against the blows. At 
 last they became insupportable, and in self-de- 
 fence he took the boy by the shoulders, and 
 held him at arm's length. 
 
 Hindustani is gifted, above all languages.
 
 My Little Girl. 57 
 
 with a capacity of swearing. The power of in- 
 sult is in no other language so great. Our own 
 noble vernacular, when judiciously used — say, 
 by the mate of an American sailing ship, or an 
 able seaman in our merchant service — can do a 
 good deal; but its resources are miserable indeed 
 compared with the strength and vivacity pos- 
 sessed by its sister branch of the Aryan family. 
 
 Phil had picked up this knowledge. He used 
 it now, pouring out great volleys of insult — words 
 which he had often heard, but never used before; 
 terms which conveyed reproaches he did not 
 even understand — on the head of the offending 
 groom. He, for his part, only looked scared; 
 until, stung beyond all endurance, he pushed 
 the boy back into the straw, seized the great 
 wooden bar of the loose box, and brandished it 
 over him, crying — 
 
 '^Bastard, I'll kill you!" 
 
 Phil looked at him, bewildered. Then, sud- 
 denly, he seemed to take in the whole force of 
 the word, and instead of offering any resistance, 
 or making any retort, he seemed to be suddenly 
 crushed, and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 The groom put down the bar, and began to 
 tremble. Then he furtively — something after 
 the manner of a burglar on the stage — stole out 
 of the stables. Between the stables and the
 
 58 My Little Girl. 
 
 nearest canes there was an open space, cleared 
 for some purpose of other, of a quarter of a mile. 
 Across this he sped, half doubled up, in long 
 strides, and was lost in the canes. 
 
 Three weeks elapsed before he showed up 
 again; then he was brought back, a monument 
 of emaciation. He had been hiding in the 
 forest, making predatory excursions at night to 
 the nearest canes, and on these he had lived. 
 The watchman apprehended him, and marched 
 him in at daybreak, brandishing his long stick 
 with an air of great importance and grandeur; 
 the miserable prisoner, who was about two feet 
 taller than his captor, slouching along after him. 
 And when he came to the house, seeing Phil 
 alone on the verandah, he fell, a mere mass of 
 terror and despair, and grovelled before him. 
 Phil kicked him up, and ordered loftily that he 
 should be sent back to the stables. 
 
 But when he was left alone, he was, for the 
 moment, stunned. Suddenly, it all burst upon 
 him. Without other evidence than the mere in- 
 sult of the Hindoo, he k7iew it was true. The 
 position he held in the house; the superior con- 
 sideration in which Arthur was held; the silence 
 of his uncle about his own father — all were 
 proofs to him. He rose and came into the 
 open air, as miserable as boy could well be.
 
 Mjy Little Girl. 59 
 
 Suddenly, however, another thought struck 
 him. 
 
 Imagine that you have been brought up to 
 beHeve — not by being taught in so many words, 
 but by power of association — that there are two 
 distinct races of mankind; that God has made 
 one for mastery and the other for subjection; 
 that while it is your duty, as the sovereign, to 
 rule wisely and mildly, you cannot but feel a 
 certain amount of contempt — proportioned, of 
 course, to your wisdom and mildness — for the 
 governed race. Suppose you have gone on, 
 being neither very wise nor very mild, till your 
 contempt has become overweening, and your 
 pride of race excessive. Then suppose, in the 
 height of your arrogance, you hear suddenly 
 that you are an impostor; that you belong to 
 the race you despise; that you are nothing more 
 nor less than one of the humblest of them. 
 This was Phil's thought. Like the first, it was 
 not a conjecture, but a certainty. Little as he 
 knew of the wickedness of the world, he knew 
 well enough that illegitimacy implied black 
 blood: nothing else was possible in Palmiste. 
 He thought, too, of his black wavy hair, his pale 
 olive skin; and he moaned in his agony. 
 
 There was one more test. He looked at his 
 nails. Beneath them was the blue stain that the
 
 6o My Little Girl. 
 
 African blood always leaves. And he gave up 
 all hope. 
 
 Then he sat down and sobbed. It all seemed 
 so cruel; it was so st:an^e and so dreadful. 
 The pride of life was gone. Nothing was left 
 but shame and degradation. He crouched 
 among the trees, and would have cried for 
 death, had death occurred to him as even a 
 remote possibility. He sat motionless, while 
 the Vv^eight of his grief bent down his young 
 shoulders. 
 
 As he sat there, the sun got lower. Presently 
 it disappeared behind the hills. Long fingers 
 of light came out, vibrating a sort of good night 
 to the world; and then it became dark. The 
 darkness weighed upon him. He got up, and 
 wandered out, thinking how he should go into 
 the house; and found himself near the stables. 
 There he saw some one with a lamp. It seemed 
 as if the lamp was unsteady, shifting about like 
 a light at a masthead. 
 
 After studying this phenomenon for a little 
 time, he went to discover its cause. I regret to 
 say that he found his preceptor, Mr. Maclntyre, 
 very drunk indeed, making shots at the stable 
 door, with the view of getting out his pony and 
 riding home to dinner. 
 
 He had been left alone all the afternoon, and
 
 My Little Girl, 6i 
 
 •finding a brandy bottle in the immediate neigh- 
 bourhood, had finished it, with these disastrous 
 results. 
 
 Phil helped him to open the stable door, and 
 saddled his pony for him. 
 
 "Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre, "the mind 
 of man, as you will find from a study of the 
 Philosophy of the Condeetioned, has a tendency 
 to— to— " 
 
 Here he fell over the bar that the groom had 
 left behind him. 
 
 "Mr. Maclntyre," said Philip, "you're drunk 
 again." 
 
 " Young man, no — no, young man. The curry 
 at breakfast was prawn cu — curry. It always 
 makes me so." 
 
 A thought struck the boy. 
 
 " Mr. Maclntyre," he said, " did you know my 
 father.?" 
 
 "Your father.?" repeated the drunken scamp. 
 " Of course I know your father. Mishter Durn- 
 ford's your father, and Marie's your mother — 
 pretty little Marie." Then he began maundering 
 on — " Pretty little Marie, pretty little girl — 
 wouldn't speak to me." 
 
 " Marie — what Marie .?" 
 
 " Marie — never had 'nother name. Went away 
 — ^went away to England — died."
 
 62 
 
 Mf Little Girl. 
 
 Philip turned away and left him, and presently 
 he heard the pony, who knew his way better than 
 his master, go clattering down the road. 
 
 He went in, washed and brushed himself, and 
 appeared at dinner, pale and quiet. Madeleine 
 and Arthur had it all their own way for once, for 
 he never even contradicted them.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IME passed on. Philip said nothing of 
 his discovery, only he became quieter. 
 The boy of fifteen in a year changed 
 into a tall, resolute young man, who might have 
 been taken for two and twenty. The light 
 moustache on his upper lip proclaimed his man- 
 hood. Boyhood grows more rapidly into adoles- 
 cence under the hot sun of Palmiste, and his firm 
 step and upright carriage announced one who, 
 at any rate, seemed ready to make a fight for it. 
 
 He never, but once, alluded to his conversa- 
 tion with Mr. Maclntyre. But one day, after a 
 long silence, Arthur being out of the way, he 
 reminded the tutor of what he had told him. 
 Poor Mr. Maclntyre was thunderstruck. He 
 remembered absolutely nothing of it. 
 
 "Tell me," he gasped, his face becoming fear-
 
 64 Mj^ Little Girl. 
 
 fully red — "tell me exactly what I said, Phil. 
 Ah! Loard, what an evil spirit brandy is!" 
 
 Phil told him. 
 
 " I suppose it was true," he added, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre rose and went out on the veran- 
 dah, looking round every corner to see if there were 
 any listeners about. Then he opened every door 
 — there were seven in the room — and looked in 
 each chamber. No one was at hand, save in the 
 dining-room. Here there were two of the Indian 
 boys amusing themselves with a rude dramatic 
 performance ; for one had put on a pair of spec- 
 tacles, and, with an empty bottle in his hand, 
 was staggering up and down, like one who was 
 well drunken, while the other looked on and ap- 
 plauded. Mr. Maclntyre himself wore glasses. 
 He could not, of course, imagine that the repre- 
 sentation was a description of himself ; but as a 
 friend of discipline, he felt bound to inflict chas- 
 tisement, and accordingly horsewhipped the one 
 he caught, who had been doing nothing, and 
 then he came back flushed with the exercise. 
 
 Sitting down again, and pouring out a glass 
 of brandy and water, he sighed out — 
 
 "Yes, Phil, it is true — more's the pity, my 
 poor bairn! It's just awfu', the wickedness of 
 ■the world. We fight against it, we philosophers,
 
 My Little Girl. 65 
 
 but we do awfu' little. It's quite true. But, 
 Phil, no one knows it. I know it, because I 
 brought you here, a wee bit thing of eighteen 
 months, and told the folk you were Mr. Durn- 
 ford's nephew. And Mrs. Durnford knew it, for 
 her husband told her. Eh, she was good. There 
 -must be a Heaven, boy, for some people — if 
 there's an after-life at all, which I vara much 
 doot. We, who have had our backslidings, 
 would not be comfortable in the same place 
 with her and her like. They would have their 
 own apairtments. I sometimes think, Phil, I 
 should be happier down below, near the Bar." 
 
 " And no one suspects .?" 
 
 " I sometimes think M. de Villeroy suspects. 
 He's just a devil, that man. He finds out 
 everything. Last week he came to me, and told 
 me that he'd found out how I had — " 
 • " Well ?" For the good man stopped. 
 
 " I think ril take another glass, Phil. Yes, 
 thank you. You were saying — " 
 
 " What became of my mother, then V 
 
 " I don't know, Phil. I can't tell you. She 
 went away. Your father told me she went to 
 England. Afterwards he said that she was dead. 
 She was lady's maid, companion, humble friend, 
 whatever you call it, to Mrs. Durnford before 
 her marriage. And remember, Phil, that she 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 My Little Girl. 
 
 was the handsomest woman in the island. 
 Hardly a touch of — " 
 
 "Stop," shouted Philip, crimson — "stop, I 
 won't hear it." 
 
 The tutor stopped, and presently went away, 
 seeing no further opportunity for either philo- 
 sophy or drink. 
 
 And, for good reasons of his own, he forbore 
 to inform Mr. Durnford of what had passed 
 between himself and Phil. 
 
 But, one evening, Philip had a little con- 
 versation with his uncle, as he still called him. 
 ' " If you can spare five minutes, sir," he said 
 one evening when Mr. Durnford had smoked his 
 cigar, and was showing the usual signs of de- 
 parture to his own quarters. 
 
 " Certainly, Philip— what is it ?" 
 
 He sat down to listen. Then Philip began, 
 with considerable trepidation, but with a certain 
 dignity of manner, to explain himself. 
 
 "You know, sir, that I am past sixteen.?" Mr. 
 Durnford nodded. "And I think you will allow 
 me to ask you if my father, of whom you have 
 told me nothing, gave me at his death any means 
 of entering life. I have seen, sir, for some time, 
 that there are points connected with our family 
 history that you do not wish known to me. I 
 shall never ask for information. My father, as
 
 My Little Girl. 6/ 
 
 you have told me, was in the army. I ask for 
 nothing more. He was a gentleman, because 
 you are a gentleman. That he did nothing to 
 disgrace himself in the eyes of the world, I 
 am sure." 
 
 "In the eyes of the world.? No," said Mr. 
 Durnford. 
 
 " That is all I wanted to have from your lips. 
 Now, sir, am I a beggar.? — that is, am I wholly 
 dependent on you.?" 
 
 Mr. Durnford did not answer for a few mo- 
 ments. 
 
 '* I am glad, Phil, that this talk has been 
 held between us. It must have come, sooner 
 or later." 
 
 "Why should it not come, sir.?" 
 
 " No reason at all — none. Only, family busi- 
 ness is always disagreeable. Let me tell you, 
 once for all, that your father's money was placed 
 wholly and unreservedly in my hands, for your 
 benefit. I have done for your benefit what I 
 could for you. You will be, at the age of twenty- 
 one, the master of four or five hundred pounds 
 a year. It is not much; but, with a profession,, 
 it is plenty." 
 
 " It will do, sir," said Philip. 'T am glad it is 
 so much." 
 
 "But what profession will you take.? You are 
 
 5—2
 
 €8 My Little Girl. 
 
 not a bookworm. The law would do little for 
 you. The church.^" 
 
 " Impossible." 
 
 " Quite so, as I was about to remark. Then, 
 what are we to do with you.^" 
 
 " I shall go into the army, sir. At least, I can 
 • carry a sword." 
 
 "And use it, too, Phil, I think. We will talk 
 about this afterwards." But they never did. 
 
 Early that year, while the hot rains of January 
 were still soaking into the steaming earth, and 
 the sun was vertical at noonday, there was 
 brought a rumour — vague at first, but too soon 
 -confirmed — that cholera had appeared in the 
 principal town. Up to that day, cholera had 
 been unknown. No scourge of pestilence had 
 ever fallen on the island that insurance compa- 
 nies ranked rather higher than England, and on 
 which they put a tropical per centage out of 
 mere fun, and with the cheerfulness of men who 
 are certain to make their money. Nobody ever 
 died young, except from drink. Nobody read 
 the lessons about the uncertainty of life as ap- 
 plying, even indirectly, to himself; and the very 
 parsons had forgotten that life was ever any- 
 thing but threescore years and ten — fully told. 
 So that when men first heard that the cholera 
 was come, they laughed.
 
 My Little Girl. by 
 
 There were various rumours as to its origin. 
 One said that a captain of a coolie ship had 
 put ashore, being then in quarantine, and having 
 spent the evening with four friends, had gone 
 back at night to his ship. But the four friends 
 died next day; and there was no one to tell 
 whether the captain had left the ship or not, 
 for all his sailors died. 
 
 Others said that it was produced by the 
 shameful excesses of the Chinamen in pork. 
 This was disproved by the fact that no China- 
 man died of cholera at all. They went about 
 in great glee, with mighty uplifting and pride 
 of heart — rubbing their hands when they came 
 upon some poor negro doubled up by the enemy 
 that seized him so suddenly and killed him so 
 easily. 
 
 Others, again, attributed it to the British 
 Government. That malignant power — conscious 
 for many years of the foe that threatened the 
 island — deliberately, and with malice prepense, 
 had left unguarded all the avenues by which it 
 might enter. The editor of the most respect- 
 able paper, daring to say that the enforcement 
 of the quarantine laws had been more rigid 
 than usual of late years, was set upon, one 
 starry evening, by a dozen public-spirited mu- 
 lattoes, and horsewhipped. That is, they began
 
 70 My Little Girl 
 
 to horsewhip him; but a soldier happening to 
 come round the corner, slung his belt and dis- 
 persed them, devious, rapidly flying. An ac- 
 count of the affair appeared in both the straw- 
 paper organs next day, in which the brave as- 
 sailants were held up to public admiration as 
 patriots of the deepest dye. They were com- 
 pared to Timoleon, to Brutus, to Harmodius, 
 to Mirabeau, to Soulouque, to Oliver Cromwell, 
 to Wilberforce, and to Toussaint L'Ouverture. 
 They were to have been brought before the 
 magistrate for assault; but he and all the officials 
 of his court died of cholera, and the affair 
 dropped. And, as the pestilence grew worse, 
 men's hearts failed them for fear. The town 
 of St. Denys had a population of some sixty 
 thousand. These w^ere dying at the rate of 
 three hundred a day. All day long, and all 
 night, the prisoners were kept at work digging 
 graves — not single graves, but long common 
 fosses, fifty feet long and eight feet deep. There 
 was no time to make coffins. As fast as the 
 bodies were brought, the upper part of the shell 
 in which they were laid was slipped out, and 
 the sand covered them up. The priests — is 
 there any fearlessness like that of a Catholic 
 priest.? — stood all day by the grave chanting 
 the monotonous funeral service, burials going
 
 Mf Little Girl. Jl 
 
 on all the time. Now and then one of the 
 gravediggers would be struck down, and carried 
 off, shrieking and crying, to a hospital. For if 
 a black is once taken to a hospital, he aban- 
 dons hope; and, should he come out again, is 
 received by his friends — not with the rejoicing 
 that would await one risen from the dead, but 
 rather with such disappointment as greeted 
 Martin Chuzzlewit when he came back from 
 Eden. 
 
 The shops were closed ; the wharves deserted ; 
 the streets empty, save for the frequent bearers 
 of the dead. Most mournful of all was the 
 absence of mourners. You might see a little 
 procession slowly moving down the street — one 
 big coffin and three little ones. Following 
 them, not some young and stalwart mourner — 
 not one whose life was still before him — but 
 a poor old down-bent black, the grandfather of 
 the little coffins, the father of the big one, hob- 
 bling sideways after the dead. Or if it was 
 one who had lived long and in high esteem, 
 his coffin would be followed by two or three 
 out of the hundreds who counted him friend, 
 and who, in better times, would have followed 
 him to the grave, and pronounced a funeral 
 oration over him. 
 
 Sometimes the closed shops never opened
 
 72 My Little Girl, 
 
 again at all; and then, long after the cholera 
 had gone, the police would go at dead of 
 night, or in the early morning, and execute 
 their dreadful task. 
 
 Englishmen got together — they always do in 
 time of danger. I once was in a French ship 
 with some half-dozen English passengers. One 
 was the most foul-mouthed, blasphemous man 
 I ever met — abaft the fo'c'sle, that is. We had 
 very bad weather for a week. For one whole 
 day we thought we should go down. Involun- 
 tarily, we of Great Britain found ourselves 
 grouped together by the davits, holding on. 
 Quoth the blasphemer — 
 
 " Since we are to go down, we English will 
 stick together, and let the damned Frenchmen 
 drown by themselves. Is there any fellow here 
 that can say a short prayer.!^" 
 
 It was a dreadful punishment to him for his 
 evil life, that he couldn't remember even the 
 shortest in the whole Church Service; and I am 
 quite sure> so staunch an Anglican was he, that 
 he would far rather have gone to the bottom 
 with no prayer at all, than with anything extem- 
 poraneous or irregular. Even the petition for 
 rain would have comforted him. 
 
 However, in St. Denys, the English mer- 
 chants sat together in each other's offices. They
 
 My Little Girl. 73 
 
 drank a good deal of brandy in those days, in 
 little occasional nips, that touched up the liver 
 if they did not keep off the cholera. No 
 business was done of any kind , nor was there 
 any pretence at it. No clerks came — these 
 were mostly mulattoes, and kept themselves at 
 home, with the shutters half-closed, sitting in a 
 horrible circle in the dark, and with a fearsome 
 fluttering at their hearts. If they perceived an 
 internal rumbling, they took a dose of cholera 
 mixture. If any one said he felt unwell, the 
 rest sidled from him; and if one was actually 
 seized, they generally all ran away. The doctor 
 in charge of the hospital — he was not a French- 
 man, nor was he English, and it would be in- 
 vidious to proclaim his race — ran away from his 
 post. He had a struggle of some days between 
 fear and honour. At last, as the sick were 
 brought in more thickly, honour lost ground. 
 He fled : " L'existence," he said, " avant tout." 
 It was an honest confession, and proved a sort 
 of martyr's creed ; for when he came back, after 
 the thing was all over, and the hospital swept 
 up again, clean and neat, he was astonished to 
 find that the Government — British, of course — 
 was taking a harsh view of the matter, and that 
 he was kicked out in disgrace. The straw-paper 
 organs made capital out of the event. The
 
 74 My Little Girl 
 
 writer of one crushing article crammed for it, 
 like Mr. Pott's young man. John Huss, the 
 early saints of the Church, Savonarola, Cran- 
 mer, Sir Thomas More, and Louis the Six- 
 teenth furnished illustrations for this admirable 
 treatise. 
 
 Nostrums came into great use. Men, at other 
 times supposed to be of sound mind, went 
 about peppering their noses with camphor 
 powder. Some swathed their bodies with flan- 
 nel, and some wore as little as they possibly 
 could. Some would, at intervals, apply cold 
 ice to the backbone — others, warm water. 
 Others, again, would breakfast off bitter beer 
 and boiled eggs, and dine on brandy and water 
 and soup. One man wrote to the paper calling 
 attention to the fact that few Englishmen died 
 of cholera; and that, as he had recently dis- 
 covered, the English colonists always washed 
 every morning, all over. This he recommended 
 to his own countrymen, as a thing not, indeed, 
 suddenly to be adopted, but to receive that 
 serious attention and thought which the gravity 
 of the step demanded. For himself, he con- 
 fessed he sometimes washed his feet; but rarely. 
 
 One poor Briton nearly came to terrible grief 
 He was a mariner; and one evening, finding 
 himself, some miles from St. Denys, overcome
 
 Afy Little Girl. 75 
 
 with liquor, he fell down by the wayside and 
 slumbered. Native policemen, coming by with 
 a cart, gathered him up as one dead; and a 
 grave being already prepared, they laid him in 
 it, fortunately removing the shell. The English 
 clergyman read the service, with sorrow for the 
 poor fellow cut off so suddenly, whose very name 
 was unknown, and who lay there perhaps to be 
 looked for, many a weary day, by wife and child- 
 ren. He had finished, and they began heaving 
 in the earth. As soon as it fell upon his face, 
 the shock awakened him. Starting up, still un- 
 steady, he began to bawl out, "Ahoy there! — 
 ahoy!" The aborigines fled, howling in terror; 
 nor would they ever accept any other version 
 of the story than that it was a veritable post- 
 mortem appearance, a spectre, that greeted 
 them. And the churchyard is haunted by it to 
 this day. 
 
 As for the sailor, he was taken home by the 
 clergyman, and took the pledge; which he kept 
 till he got to the next port. But he always swore 
 he would never get drunk again in Palmiste. 
 
 They were not all cowards. Brave deeds were 
 done. Foremost of all, the brave deeds of the 
 divine Sisters of Mercy. If I die, poor and alone, 
 forlorn and deserted, may one of these minister- 
 ing angels come to me with her sweet, unlovely
 
 ^6 My Little Girl. 
 
 face, and passionless tenderness of heart! Then 
 may she make me a Catholic, or a Ritualist, or 
 anything she like; — all for dear memory of the 
 things I have known her sisters do. For to them 
 all duties are equally holy and equally divine. 
 To them is nothing loathsome, nothing revolt- 
 ing; no form of disease or suffering too terrible 
 to help; no accumulations of misery and po- 
 verty, no development of sickness, sufficient to 
 keep them away. 
 
 Is it fair, without mentioning a living man's 
 name, to mention his deeds? Perhaps he will 
 never see it in print. This is what he did. In 
 the height of the cholera, two coolie ships put 
 into port, both with cholera raging on board. 
 They were promptly sent off to quarantine off 
 an islet — a mere rock, half a mile across — twenty 
 miles away. 
 
 Thence, after some time, news came somehow 
 to Palmiste that their apothecary was dead, and 
 the captain, and all the English sailors but a few. 
 And all the coolies were dying with cholera. 
 Who would go there? One young army surgeon 
 stepped out, so to speak, from the ranks. To go 
 there was to go to certain death. It was a for- 
 lorn hope. There would be no one to help him, 
 no one to talk to even ; no one to attend him if 
 he was seized. He went. For weeks he strug-
 
 Mj' Little Girl 77 
 
 gled with the pestilence, saving some from the 
 jaws of death, and burying others. The place 
 Avhich was a mere charnel-house, he turned into 
 a hospital — a Hotel Dieu. 
 
 The poor, terror-stricken Indians slowly re- 
 gained hope, and therefore health; and when 
 the evil time died away, he was able to bring 
 back half at least of his flock, rescued from 
 death. 
 
 It is a heroism that is beyond the power of 
 any Victoria Cross to reward ; and when it fires 
 the blood, and sets the heart aglow of him that 
 reads it, the doer of the geste has his fittest 
 crown of glory, though he never hear of it. 
 
 In the country, away down at Fontalnebleau, 
 they were comparatively safe. Few cases hap- 
 pened on the estate in the earlier stage; but 
 when it began to leave town it broke out in the 
 country. Mr. Durnford took no precautions. In 
 these matters he thought it was like a battle- 
 field. You could not, he said, devise any armour 
 against a cannon ball. 
 
 " Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre, taking a nip 
 of brandy, "some men are killed by a bayonet 
 thrust." 
 
 But one evening, when Phil and Arthur came 
 home from a stroll with their guns, they found 
 Maclntyre in a state of wild alarm on the ve-
 
 /8 Jy> Little Girl. 
 
 randah. Mr. Durnford had been seized. No 
 doctor had been sent for, because none was 
 within twenty miles. They had no medicine, 
 except brandy. Mr. Maclntyre had been giving 
 him copious draughts. He had taken a bottle 
 and a half without the smallest effect; and now 
 Mr. Maclntyre, seeing the boys go into the bed- 
 room, retreated to the other side of the house, 
 and began to drink the rest of the bottle, glad 
 to be relieved of his charge. 
 
 There was very little hope. They sent off 
 a dozen messengers for as many doctors. But 
 with the utmost speed, no doctor could arrive 
 before the morning. 
 
 All night long they watched and tended him. 
 Mr. Maclntyre by this time, what with terror 
 and brandy, was helpless. They could do lite- 
 rally nothing. But in the morning came col- 
 lapse, and comparative ease. The dying man. 
 lay stretched on his back, breathing painfully, 
 but conscious. Philip bent over him, and whis- 
 pered, with dry eyes and hard voice, while 
 Arthur was sobbing on his knees — 
 
 "Father, tell me of my mother.?" 
 
 Mr. Durnford turned his head and looked. 
 He would have spoken; but a trembling seized 
 his limbs, and his eyes closed in^death. 
 
 He was buried the next morning. All the
 
 My Little Girl. 79 
 
 people on the estate went to the funeral. But 
 Mr. Maclntyre was absent. For in the night 
 a thought struck him. It was but a week since 
 he had received, in hard cash, the half year's 
 salary due to him. Now he saw his occupa- 
 tion gone. Without any chance of finding 
 employment in the island, he would be left 
 stranded. He was staggered at first. Then 
 he reflected that no one knew of the payment 
 except his late employer. How if he could 
 get the receipt.'* So, when the funeral proces- 
 sion started, Mr. Maclntyre stayed behind — no 
 one noticing his absence. 
 
 The house clear, he stole into the dead 
 man's room. His desk was open, just as he 
 had left it. Here was a chance which it was 
 impossible to resist. 
 
 " It makes my heart bleed to wrong the 
 lads," said Maclntyre, wiping his eyes; "but 
 one must consider oneself" 
 
 Then he looked out the receipt from the file, 
 and put it into his pocket. That done, he 
 searched for the private account book, which 
 also fell into . his coat-tail pocket. Then it 
 occurred to him that it would be an admirable 
 thing to get a whole year's salary instead of 
 a half, and he began to hunt for the previous 
 receipt. This he could not find, though he
 
 8o My Little Girl. 
 
 searched everywhere. But he found something 
 which interested him, and he wrapped it in 
 brown paper, and took it also away with him. 
 It was a big, fat book, with clasps and a small 
 letter padlock, marked "Private." He went 
 down to his cottage, and cutting open the 
 clasps, he read it from end to end. 
 
 It was a sort of irregular journal, beginning 
 sixteen years before. It opened with a confes- 
 sion of passion for Marie. 
 
 " If this girl were but a lady — if only, even, 
 she were not coloured — I would take her away 
 and marry her. Why should I not marry her.? 
 What difference would it make to me whether 
 people approved of it or not.? . . . 
 
 " I saw Marie to-day. She met me in the 
 garden behind her mistress's house. How pretty 
 the child looked, with a rose in her black hair! 
 She will meet me again this evening." 
 
 And so on, all in the same strain. 
 
 In the leaves of the book were three short 
 notes, kept for some unknown reason, addressed 
 to his wife; but without date. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre, in a fit of abstraction, took 
 pen and ink, and added a date — that of Philip's 
 birth. There was another paper in the journal : 
 the certificate of marriage of George Durnford
 
 My Little Girl. 8 1 
 
 and Adrlenne de Rosnay. He took this out; 
 and shutting up the journal, began to reflect. 
 
 In the afternoon, when the sun grew low, he 
 went to the little Catholic church which lies 
 hidden away among the trees, about three miles 
 from Fontainebleau. 
 
 Just then it was shut up. For Father O'Leary, 
 the jolly Irish priest, who held this easiest of 
 benefices for so many years, had only lately 
 succumbed to age; and in the disturbed state 
 of the colony no priest had yet been sent down. 
 The presbytere was closed, the shutters up, 
 and the church door locked. 
 
 The tutor went to the back of the house; 
 forced his way in with no difficulty, by the 
 simple process of removing a rotten shutter 
 from the hinges. 
 
 Hanging on the wall were the church keys. 
 He took these, and stepped across the green to 
 the vestry door, which he opened, and went in 
 shutting it after him, whistling very softly to 
 himself. 
 
 Then he opened the cupboard, and took down 
 the two duplicate church registers of marriage. 
 They were rarely used; because in that little 
 place there were few people to get married, 
 except the Indians, who always went before the 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82i My Little Girl 
 
 registrar. Turning over the leaves, which were 
 sticking together with damp — Father O'Leary 
 was always the most careless of men — he came to 
 a place where one double page had been passed 
 over. The marriage immediately before it was 
 dated twenty years since ; that after it sixteen. 
 He looked at the duplicate register. No such 
 omission of a page had occurred. 
 
 Whistling softly, he filled up the form between 
 Marie — no other name — and George Durnford, 
 gentleman, for a date about a year before Philip's 
 birth. Then he attested it himself — "Alexander 
 Maclntyre" — in a fine bold hand; forged the 
 signatures of the others; and added, as a se- 
 cond witness, the mark of one Adolphe. Then 
 he rubbed his hands, and began to consider 
 further. 
 
 After this, he got the forms of marriage cer- 
 tificates, and filled one up in due form, again 
 signing it with the name of the deceased Father 
 O'Leary. Then he replaced that one of the two 
 books in which he had written the forgery, put 
 the forged certificate in his pocket, and the other 
 register under his arm; then locked up the cup- 
 board. 
 
 When he had finished his forgeries he looked 
 into the church. The setting sun was shining 
 through the west window full upon the altar, set
 
 My Little GirL 83 
 
 about with its twopenny gewgaw ornanr.ents. 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "A blind superstition," he murmured. "We 
 who Hve under the light of a fuller Gospel have 
 vara much to be thankful for." 
 
 He went back to the presbytere, replaced the 
 keys, and walked home with his register in his 
 hands. 
 
 He had no servant, and was accustomed, when 
 he did not dine at Fontainebleau, to send an 
 Indian boy to the nearest shop to buy some 
 steak, which he curried himself. He went into 
 the kitchen — a little stone hut built at the back 
 of the cottage — lit a fire of sticks, and proceeded 
 to burn the register and Mr. Durnford's private 
 journal. 
 
 The books would not burn at all, being damp 
 and mouldy. 
 
 "At this rate of progression," he remarked, 
 ** I shall be a twal'month getting through them. 
 Let us bury them." 
 
 He dug a hole in a corner close to his house, 
 buried his books, piled the earth over them, and 
 cooked his dinner with a cheerful heart. 
 
 "A good day's work," he murmured. "Half 
 a year's salary gained, and the prospect of a 
 pretty haul, if good luck serves. Marie dead, 
 O'Leary dead, one register gone, the certificates 
 
 6—2
 
 84 My Little Girl 
 
 in my possession. Master Phil, my boy, the 
 time will perhaps come when you will be glad 
 to buy my papers of me." 
 
 Mr. Durnford's death showed that he had 
 become a rich man. All his property went by 
 will to "my son," while of Philip no notice 
 whatever was taken. Only the lawyer wrote 
 him a letter stating that by a special deed of 
 gift, dated some years back, a sum of money 
 was made over to him, which had been ac- 
 cumulating at compound interest, and had now 
 amounted to five thousand pounds. This, at 
 Palmiste interest, was five hundred pounds a 
 year. As his father had told him, it was his 
 sole provision. 
 
 Philip's heart was stung with a sense of 
 wrong. That no mention was made of him — 
 that, through all his life, he had not received 
 one word of acknowledgment or affection — that 
 he had been evidently regarded as a mere en- 
 cumbrance and a debt, rankled in his bosom. 
 He said nothing, not even to Mr. Maclntyre — 
 who, now that he had no longer any further 
 prospect of employment, began to turn his 
 thoughts to other pastures. But he brooded 
 over his wrongs; and now only one thought 
 possessed him — to escape from a place which 
 Was haunted by shame.
 
 My Little Girl. 85 
 
 Arthur, too, wanted to go; and their lawyer 
 and adviser took passages for the boys, and 
 gave them proper letters to those who were to 
 take care of them in England till they were of 
 age. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre, the day before they started, 
 came to say farewell. He had an interview 
 with each of his pupils separately. To Arthur, 
 by way of a parting gift, he propounded a set of 
 maxims for future guidance, including a rule of 
 conduct for morals, which he recommended on 
 the ground of having always adhered to it him- 
 self; and he left his late pupil with a heavier 
 purse, and consequently a lighter heart. Mr. 
 Maclntyre, in all his troubles, had never yet 
 wanted money. As a Scotchman, he never 
 spent when he could avoid spending. 
 
 His conversation with Philip was of greater 
 importance. With much hesitation, and an 
 amount of nervousness that one would hardly 
 heve expected of him, he hinted that he was 
 possessed of certain information, but that the 
 time was not yet arrived to make use of it. 
 And then, biting his nails, he gave the young 
 man to understand that, if he ever did use it, 
 he should expect to be paid. 
 
 ** But what is your knowledge?" asked Philip; 
 " and if you have any, why, in the devil's name.
 
 86 My Little Girl. 
 
 don't you let it out at once ? And how much 
 money do you want ?" 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre leaned forward, and whispered 
 in his ear. 
 
 " Suppose my information proved your mo- 
 ther's marriage ? Suppose that a man — I'm 
 not for saying that I should be the man — 
 brought all this to light?" 
 
 "Poor Arthur!" said Philip. 
 
 "That's not the point," urged the other. 
 **To be plain. What would that information 
 be worth.?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 "Should we say five thousand pounds.'*" 
 
 " You mean that I am to give you five thou- 
 sand pounds for giving information which you 
 ought to give for nothing.? Maclntyre, you're 
 a scoundrel." 
 
 " Eh! mon," replied the moralist. 
 
 "Can you give me these proofs.?" cried 
 Philip, his voice rising. 
 
 " No, I cannot — not yet. And perhaps I 
 never shall be able to do so. Whether I do 
 or not depends upon yourself And don't be 
 violent, Mr. Philip Durnford. Remember," he 
 added, with a touch of pathetic dignity, " that 
 you are addressing your old tutor, and a Master 
 of Arts of the Univairsity of Aberdeen."
 
 My Little Girl 8/ 
 
 " Go to the devil," said Philip, " and get out 
 of this. Go, I say!" 
 
 I am grieved to say that Arthur, who was 
 sitting outside, was startled by the fearful spec- 
 tacle of his reverend tutor emerging with 
 Philip's hand in his collar, and Philip's right 
 foot accelerating his movements. 
 
 It was all done in a moment. Mr. Maclntyre 
 vanished round the corner, and his pony's 
 hoofs were speedily heard clattering down the 
 road. 
 
 Arthur looked up for explanation. 
 
 "Never mind, old boy," said Philip. "The 
 man's a scoundrel. He's a liar, too, I believe. 
 Arthur, give me your hand. I have been wor- 
 ried lately a good deal. But I won't wrong 
 you. Remember that. Whatever happens — 
 you shall not be wronged." 
 
 The next night they were steaming gallantly 
 away. The headlands of Palmiste lay low on 
 the horizon as the sun set, and touched them 
 with his magic painter's brush. 
 
 Arthur took off his cap, and waved it. 
 
 " When shall we see the dear old place again, 
 Phil.''" he said, with a sob in his throat. 
 
 "Never, I hope," said Philip. "It will be 
 to me a memory of sickly sorrow and disap- 
 pointment. Never. And now, old boy, hurrah
 
 88 My Little Girl. 
 
 for England and my commission! I am going 
 to forget^t all." 
 
 He stood there, with the bright look of hope 
 and fearlessness that so soon goes out of the 
 eyes of youth, and the sea breeze lifting his 
 long black hair, a possible — nay, a certain hero. 
 It is something in every man's life for once to 
 have been at peace with God — for once to have 
 thrilled with the warm impulse of true nobility. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
 
 BOOK II.— AT HOME, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OME in England. It is ten 
 years later on. We are in 
 Gray's Inn, on a certain 
 Saturday evening early in the year. The cham- 
 bers where we are met, like most of those
 
 90 My Little Girl. 
 
 in that ancient hostelry, have the appearance 
 of untidiness. UnUke most, they are clean 
 and carefully dusted. The furniture is well 
 worn, but comfortable — easy chairs with bits of 
 the padding sticking out here and there, and 
 the leather gone in'parts. The books are those 
 of a man who regards binding less from an 
 artistic than from a useful point of view, and is 
 not careful to preserve their beauty. In other 
 words, the books are greatly battered. There is 
 one table littered with papers: among them 
 may be seen some in a girl's handwriting. One 
 of the bookcases is filled altogether with books 
 not often found in a bachelor's room — children's 
 books, books a little more grown up, and books 
 of education. In the window-seat is a work- 
 basket. On the mantelshelf stands a glass full 
 of violets. There are antimacassars on the worn 
 old chairs and sofas; and amid the general air 
 of bachelordom, pipes, and lazy ease, there is, 
 one feels, a suspicion of some younger element, 
 the handiwork of a girl — the breath of youth 
 and grace — in these rooms whose walls are so 
 dingy, whose ceilings are so black, whose fur- 
 niture is so battered. 
 
 The tenant of this room is Mr. Hartley Venn, 
 who is now standing on the hearth-rug in the 
 act of receiving his visitors. Of these, one is
 
 My Little Girl. 91 
 
 his old friend Lynn, of the Inner Temple — a 
 grave man, who seldom speaks and never 
 laughs. He is sitting by the fire with a pipe in 
 his hand, not yet lighted, stroking his heavy 
 moustache. The other is our old friend, Arthur 
 Durnford — a tall man now, of four or five and 
 twenty, not long come up to town from Oxford : 
 a man of slight proportions, and somewhat 
 stooping shoulders. He wears his fair hair 
 rather longer than most men, and a light fringe 
 adorns his upper lip. A face of more sweet- 
 ness than power ; a face which may command 
 love and respect, but scarcely fear; a face at 
 which women glance twice in the street, because 
 there are in it such vast possibilities of tender- 
 ness. He has not been a successful student — if 
 you measure success by the schools. A second 
 class rewarded his labours, it is true ; and Arthur 
 retired content, if not greatly pleased, at the 
 result. Success he did not greatly care for; and 
 he was too rich and too lazy to descend into the 
 arena and fight with other men. Poverty has 
 its rights as well as its duties; and among these 
 is a prescriptive law — often enough violated — 
 that the rich should keep out of the battle. 
 Remember this, if you please. Messieurs the 
 Archbishops, Prime and other ministers, Deans 
 and dignitaries ; and next time you condescend
 
 92 My Little Girl. 
 
 to forward your invaluable, if prosy, contribu- 
 tions to current literature, reflect that they are 
 taken — and would be taken, if they were bad 
 enough to corrupt the taste of a whole genera- 
 tion — for the name that they bear. Then, be 
 humble; or, better still, don't send the rubbish 
 at all — I mean the words of wisdom — and let 
 some poor penny-a-liner get the guineas. But 
 Arthur Durnford's disposition led him rather to 
 seclude himself, and to forget that, with all but 
 a chosen few, life is a conflict. He was born for 
 but one object, dilettante literature — the investi- 
 gation of the useless, the recovery of lost worth- 
 lessness, the archaeological investigation of for- 
 gotten lumber. But of this, his high mission, he 
 is yet all unaware, and is at present starting 
 quite unconsciously in that road which will 
 eventually lead him to distinction. For the 
 rest, a heart as innocent and a life as blameless 
 as any girl's, and, like that of most girls, a life 
 as devoid of any active interest or any benefit to 
 other people. Some men are born for this kind 
 of passive life. Their years float along in a 
 kind of dream, or among occupations which 
 interest without exciting, and occupy without 
 wearying. Well for them if, as with Arthur, 
 accident has given them the means to gratify 
 their inclinations.
 
 My Little Girl. 93 
 
 Venn is the son of his father's old tutor, and 
 therefore, as he explains, a kind of uncle to him. 
 And to-night is the first time that they have 
 met. Venn found out Arthur himself, from some 
 Oxford friend and "information received." 
 
 " Durnford," he explains, introducing him to 
 Lynn, " is my educational nephew. I am his 
 tutorial uncle. That is, his father was a private 
 pupil at the Rectory when I was six years old. 
 Your father afterwards went to Palmiste Island, 
 I believe; yes, and made a fortune there — by — 
 by — doing those things and practising those arts 
 by which fortunes are made, did he not.^" 
 
 Arthur laughed, and said such was the case. 
 
 " Palmiste Island is of a more simple nature 
 than London, Lynn ; that is the reason why you 
 and I, in spite of our merit, have not got money. 
 Now that you know Mr. Arthur Durnford, we 
 will proceed to elect him, if you please, an 
 honorary member of the Chorus." 
 
 The ceremony of election gone through, Ar- 
 thur took an easy-chair, and Venn proceeded to 
 put bottles and glasses on the table. Then he 
 took up a position on the hearth-rug, and, with 
 his coat tails under his arm, turned to Lynn — 
 
 "The preliminary oration, Lynn.''" 
 
 " You make it," said Lynn, who had by this 
 time lighted his pipe.
 
 94 ^^y Little Girl. 
 
 Venn bowed solemnly, and put on an air of 
 great meditation, stroking his moustache. Pre- 
 sently he began — 
 
 "It is customary, at the election of a new 
 member into this society, to instruct him in the 
 nature of the duties and responsibilities he is 
 about to undertake. In the mysteries of the 
 Cabeiri— " 
 
 " Pass two thousand years," growled Lynn. 
 
 Venn bowed gravely. 
 
 "In deference to the opinion of my learned 
 brother, I pass to modern times. In the myste- 
 ries of Freemasonry, it is popularly supposed 
 that the candidate for admission is put to bodily 
 pain before receiving the terms of an oath so 
 tremendous that the secrets of the craft have 
 remained undisclosed from the time of Solomon 
 and Hiram, King of Tyre, to the present mo- 
 ment. The fraternity of the Chorus heats no 
 poker, and administers no oath; and one 
 penalty only awaits the offender — we expel 
 him." 
 
 "Was any one ever expelled.?" asked Durn- 
 ford. 
 
 " One, sir, was only last week expelled for 
 levity. His name was Jones. Jones, at least, 
 will never more be privileged to sit in the 
 Chorus."
 
 My Little Girl. 95 
 
 Here a loud knock was heard at the door. 
 Lynn opened it. It was Jones. 
 
 The orator, no way disconcerted, shook hands 
 with the new arrival with a greater show of de- 
 light than his words absolutely warranted, say- 
 ing, as he pushed him into a chair — 
 
 "Why do you come here, man, void of shame .^ 
 Did you not distinctly understand that you were 
 never to appear again on Chorus nights.?" 
 
 The new-comer, who was a smooth-faced, 
 bright-eyed little man in glasses, sat down, anc} 
 immediately began to twinkle. 
 
 "I come as a simple spectator," he said. "I 
 cannot keep away. 
 
 ' From sport to sport concealment's guile 
 
 Preys on this heart of mine ; 
 And when the worm provokes a smile, 
 I drown the grief in wine.'" 
 
 "Why," said Venn, " he is positively doing it 
 again ! Miserable man ! was it not for this we 
 expelled you.-*" 
 
 "It was," said Jones, with a groan. "It is 
 chronic. I am truly wretched." 
 
 "Silence, then; and you, young candidate, 
 listen. The Chorus was established ten years 
 ago as a refuge for the unsuccessful. It was in- 
 tended to answer the purposes, in a small degree, 
 of a literary and artistic club — admitting, how-
 
 96 My Little Girl. 
 
 ever, only those professional unfortunates who 
 can achieve no success. It is a club of the 
 unfortunate. When fortune comes to one of us, 
 he shakes his wings and goes. We who remain 
 wrap ourselves in the cloak of poverty and neg- 
 lect, and meet mischance with smiles. Of the 
 original twelve who formed the first brotherhood, 
 there remain but Lynn and myself. We do not 
 care now greatly to enlarge the circle. Jones, 
 here, was admitted five years ago. He is but 
 a chicken in disappointment, and has only just 
 begun to wait. I have already told you that he 
 was expelled, and why." 
 
 "Not," said Jones solemnly — 
 
 ' Not for a crime he did, nor 'cause 
 He broke their own or nature's laws ; 
 But for a simple trick he had 
 Of quoting what he learned and read.' " 
 
 Arthur began to feel as if he were standing on 
 his head. The other two took no notice of the 
 interruption. 
 
 " Society takes no heed of these unfortunates. 
 They are legion. They occupy that middle 
 ground which is above a small success, and can- 
 not achieve a great one. Lynn, here, would 
 scorn to be an Old Bailey barrister. Yet he 
 could do it admirably. He goes in for Equity, 
 sir, and gets no cases, nor ever will. Jones, I
 
 3fy Little Girl. 97 
 
 am sorry that you mitst be excluded. Jones, 
 among other things, makes plays. No manager 
 has yet put one on the stage." 
 
 " The manager of the Lyceum is reading my 
 last play now," said Jones. 
 
 "He always is," said Venn. "I am, for my 
 own part, a writer. I write a great deal. Some 
 evening, when Jones is not here, I will read you 
 a portion of my works." 
 
 "Pray," said Jones, "why not when I am here.-*" 
 
 "Because," said Venn, "the last time I read 
 you an essay you fell fast asleep." 
 
 "I did," said Jones; "so did everybody." 
 
 "I have, at times, offered my productions to 
 editors. They invariably refuse them. Under 
 these circumstances, I retire into myself, and put 
 together the Opuscula which will one day be 
 eagerly bought by an admiring public. On that 
 day Lynn will be made Lord Chancellor, Jones 
 will get a play acted which will run for three 
 hundred nights, and the Chorus will dissolve. 
 
 "You are to understand, then" — after a 
 pause, during which Jones pulled out his hand- 
 kerchief and wiped his eyes in grief at the 
 prospect of dissolution — "that we meet here 
 weekly between the first of October and the 
 first of April. During the week and in the 
 summer vacation, we make observations which 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 My Little Girl. 
 
 are afterwards communicated to the Chorus, 
 Thus we form a running commentary "on pass- 
 ing events, which Avill contain when published 
 an admirable collection of maxims calculated 
 both to inform and instruct. They are chiefly 
 of a moral tendency. Excluded by our mis- 
 fortunes from taking an active part in the 
 drama of life, we stand by and remark. We 
 are mostly resigned to our position. Some, 
 however, aspire. Dolphin, for instance— you 
 remember Dolphin, Lynn.?" 
 
 He grunted. 
 
 "Observe the dissatisfied air with which 
 Lynn receives that name. Dolphin aspired. 
 He now edits the Daily Gazette, and pays a 
 fabulous income tax. Dolphin was not a great 
 man. Of all the excellent remarks that have 
 been made in this room. Dolphin's were the 
 poorest. Waterford, too, another instance. He 
 now leads a circuit. Jones, what are you purs- 
 ing up your lips about.-* If you have any- 
 thing to say, get rid of it." 
 
 " I was thinking of Tennyson's lines," said 
 Jones, with great softness of manner. 
 
 * Prate not of chance — the name of kick 
 Is blown the windy ways about ; 
 And yet I hold, without a doubt, 
 He prospers most who has most pluck.'"
 
 Jkfy Little Girl, 99 
 
 "Are those Tennyson's words?" asked Durn- 
 ford, taken off his guard. 
 
 " You will find them in the two hundred and 
 fortieth page of 'In Memoriam,'" said Jones, 
 readily. " The stanza begins with the well- 
 known lines — 
 
 ' Balloon, that through the fleecy rings 
 Of bosomed cloud and mottled sky, 
 Floatest athwart the wondering eye, 
 A winged eagle without wings.'" 
 
 " And this creature," said Venn, " aspires to 
 be a dramatist. Let me finish. The one un- 
 failing rule, which is alone incapable of being 
 rescinded, is the rule of success. Any man 
 who succeeds is turned out. Ipso facto, he 
 ceases to be a member of the association. Suc- 
 cess is of all kinds, and we admit of no excuse 
 or palliation — the offender goes." 
 
 " How if he write a book which does not sell, 
 but is yet praised.^" 
 
 "He may, when his failure is quite established, 
 remain with us. More — we allow him to be 
 damned any number of times. Jones's works, 
 for instance: his novel — " 
 
 Here Jones visibly blushed. 
 
 " It was really very bad, and no one took the 
 least notice of it — not even the reviewers. Did 
 any one buy a copy, Jones .-*" 
 
 7-2
 
 100 My Little Girl. 
 
 " I believe," he said, "that there are still a few 
 copies on the publishers' shelves. These can be 
 had now at a reduction. The published price 
 was thirty-one shillings and sixpence." 
 
 "Your poems, Jones?" 
 
 "My poems," said the bard, "were not meant 
 to be sold : I give them to my country." 
 
 "It is very liberal of you. I will presently 
 detail my own experiences of failure. Suffice it 
 now to remark that I have never succeeded in 
 •anything. You will find in me, sir, as my friends 
 have already found in me, a very Tupper in 
 posse. I am the representative man of medio- 
 •crity — am I not, Lynn.?" 
 
 The grave Lynn nodded. 
 
 "''You say so." 
 
 " I will now give you — as Jones is not wholly 
 •acquainted with my fortunes, as Lynn is a good 
 listener, as you ought to know something about 
 me, and as it gives a sort of early Bulwer-Lytton, 
 or even a Smollett-like air to the evening's talk — 
 a brief sketch of the career of an unsuccessful 
 man. Jones, will you kindly undertake the bottle 
 and jug department.'' Lynn, be so good as to 
 put the kettle on. Durnford, my dear boy, take 
 tobacco, and help yourself to drink. Claret is 
 there, which I do not recommend. That bottle 
 of champagne is remarkable for its age. It is
 
 My Little Girl. loi 
 
 coeval with the Chorus. Ten years have passed 
 since it left its native public. It is not to be 
 opened, but stands there for respectability's sake. 
 There is port, if you like — it is not good. Sherry 
 is in the middle bottle. You can open it, if you 
 please; but I should not advise you to do so. 
 The bottled beer I can strongly recommend, 
 and the Irish whisky is undeniable. Jones, you 
 rhyming wretch, what will you take? Lynn, I 
 have your permission to talk to-night." 
 
 "Stop!" said Jones. "Have you got any- 
 thing to say before he begins, Lynn } Have 
 you, Durnford.'' This is your only chance. For 
 my own part, I can only say, with the poet 
 Wordsworth — 
 
 * Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard, 
 So gladdens me as this loquacious bird.'" 
 
 " Proceed, Venn," said Lynn — " and quickly, 
 for Jones is bubbling with another quotation." 
 
 "I will try not to be tedious. I began life 
 rather well, for I got into Eton as a colleger, 
 and actually gained a considerable quantity of 
 prizes. I also learned to wear my hat at the 
 back of my head, to despise trade, to run bills, 
 to make Latin verses, to regard science and 
 mathematics with a proper and reasonable con- 
 tempt, and to consider Eton as the apex of
 
 I02 My Little Girl. 
 
 civilization — ancient and modern. So far, I 
 resembled other boys. Occasionally I was 
 flogged. And I very early formed the germ 
 of that grand idea which I have since made the 
 subject of an admirable essay." 
 
 Jones wagged his head solemnly; whether 
 from admiration, envy, sympathy, approval, or 
 some other emotion, was never known. 
 
 " It is that all the mischiefs of the world are 
 due to the insufficient manner in which boys are 
 flogged. Some, sir, I am ashamed to say, are 
 never flogged at all. Jones, you were never 
 flogged." 
 
 " I was not," said Jones. " If it is any ex- 
 tenuation of my master's crime, I may mention 
 that he often caned me." 
 
 "I knew it," Venn returned, with an air of 
 triumph. "There are subtle influences about 
 the older and more classical instrument. It pro- 
 duces an efl"ect which in after-life is only to be 
 detected by those who have made an early 
 acquaintance with it. Caning is merely a brutal 
 mode of inflicting fear and pain. The poetry of 
 punishment is in the birch. The actual per- 
 formance, I admit — the mere physical process, 
 either active or passive — afi"ords little food for 
 reflection. But when I think of the efl'ects upon 
 the sufierer, I am carried away, gentlemen,
 
 My Little Girl. 103 
 
 cfiferor. There is the Anticipation, so full of 
 tumultuous fears and hopes, with its certainties 
 as to the future fact, and its uncertainties as to 
 vigour and duration; its bracing influence on 
 the Volition, its stimulating effect on the Forti- 
 tude, its cultivation of patient endurance. All 
 this, my friends, is truly poetical. Consider, 
 next, the After-glow. The After-glow is, in- 
 deed, a magnificent combination of sensations. 
 Nothing that I can remember to have experi- 
 enced comes near it. It lingers like the twi- 
 light; and, like the summer twilight, it lasts all 
 night. It warms like the memory of a good 
 action, or the blush of conscious virtue. It is as 
 soothing as the absolution of a bishop. It re- 
 moves as many cares as a confession, and it 
 wipes off sins like a pilgrimage." 
 
 He paused for a moment, and looked round. 
 There was a murmur of applause, Jones rubbing 
 his leg with a painful air of sympathetic abstrac- 
 tion. 
 
 "Let us go back to Eton. I was in the sixth, 
 and stood well to get into King's. Unfortu- 
 nately, the vacancy that should have been mine 
 came too late by half an hour. I had till twelve 
 on my last day, and a messenger bringing news 
 of a vacancy arrived, having loitered on the way, 
 at half-past twelve. The man, gentlemen, died
 
 104 ^y Little Girl. 
 
 young. I say nothing about Nemesis — I merely 
 ask you to observe that he died young. So I 
 went to St. Alphege. You, Lynn, were at the 
 same time at Trinity. At St. Alphege's, which 
 is not a large college, we passed our time in in- 
 tellectual pursuits which were not among those 
 encouraged by the Senate. This body, Durn- 
 ford, which resembles a similar institution at 
 Oxford, having, after long consideration, found 
 out the most useless branch of science and the 
 least useful method of studying classical litera- 
 ture, has fixed upon these as the only means of 
 arriving at any of the University distinctions. I 
 could not do mathematics, as I have said; and, 
 as they would not let me take classical honours 
 without knowing how to graduate the common 
 steelyard, and such useful scraps of knowledge, 
 I was fain to go out in the Poll. Sir, if it had 
 not been for the invention of that infernal steel- 
 yard — an instrument which I have never seen, 
 and never had the least necessity or desire to 
 graduate — I should this day have been a Fellow 
 of St. Alphege's. 
 
 "Having failed here, I returned home. I 
 found my family in some little confusion. My 
 brother Bob — you have met Bob, Lynn.^" 
 Lynn nodded. 
 ■ " An excellent fellow, Lynn — most good-
 
 jWy Little Girl. 105 
 
 hearted man, though he had his faults" — here 
 Venn rubbed his nose meditatively. "Bob had 
 just taken a stand. He announced, resolutely 
 and without any chance of misunderstanding, 
 that he was never going to do any more work. 
 The line he took was this. He said: 'I am 
 not clever enough to get money. I am clever 
 enough to look at other people getting money. 
 Perhaps a life of contemplation, for which I am 
 evidently intended, will lead to greater results 
 than a life of work. I simply, therefore, say to 
 the world in general, and my family in particu- 
 lar — Keep me. Give me a sufficiency to eat 
 and drink.' " 
 
 "And how did the world receive this de- 
 mand.?" 
 
 " That very small portion of the external 
 world which ever heard it declined to interfere. 
 But out of my father — who, though quite unable 
 to see Bob's logical position, could not let him 
 starve — he got a sufficiency to eat, and more 
 than a sufficiency to drink. However, Bob 
 having taken this unexpected line, I had to keep 
 myself; and did, after a fashion, till Bob and my 
 father died. Poor Bob! You remember him, 
 Lynn, coming out of the Crown, with his elbows 
 squared, quite drunk, and arguing with the 
 policeman } Admirable traits of character were
 
 io6 My Little Girl. 
 
 in that man. His wife allowed him a shilling 
 a day, and his whole study latterly was how to 
 make the most of the money. It went in six 
 drinks; and each drink involved a pipe and an 
 animated discussion in the tap-room. Bob, you 
 see, miscalculated his forces. He had not the 
 physique to stand up against a long course of 
 leisure, and he succumbed. When he died, at 
 the early age of thirty-five, he sent for me, and 
 made over to me, with his usual kindness and 
 thoughtfulness of heart, all he had to give me — 
 the care of his wife and boy. 
 
 "At this time, I was working for a living — 
 never mind how — I got it, but only just got it. 
 Every attempt that I made to do anything 
 better for myself failed. I had no energy, they 
 said ; or else no perseverance, or no luck, or no 
 determination, and so on. You know the kind 
 of talk. The fruits of life turned, when I 
 touched them, to Dead Sea apples. Then I 
 complicated matters by falling in love." 
 
 "Did you .^" said Lynn. "I never knew that 
 before." 
 
 "Yes, I was in love. Oh, yes; for some 
 months before I ventured to speak, and for 
 some months after." 
 
 "What did she say.?" 
 ■ "She said 'No,' in a very decided and resolute
 
 My Little Girl 107 
 
 manner. I did not so much mind that, as I did 
 the way in which she behaved afterwards. I 
 made then the discovery that there is nothing in 
 the world which more puffs out and inflates a 
 woman with pride than the fact that she has 
 had the heroism to refuse a man. For at least 
 three months after my rejection, there was the 
 mightiest feminine clucking ever heard about it. 
 Her strength was overtasked, they said; and 
 all the family went to Madeira with her. No 
 one asked after my strength; and I stayed in 
 London, and was regarded as a sort of invo- 
 luntary murderer. * 
 
 "Did she die, then.^" asked Lynn. 
 
 "Oh, no — not at all. She came back, very 
 fat. She is in London now; still unmarried, 
 and likely to continue so. It may sound un- 
 charitable; but, in the interests ot husbands, I 
 do hope that such a model of womanly heroic 
 virtue may never be married." 
 
 "I also," said Jones, "have had my share of 
 blighted affections." 
 
 "Have you, too, been in love.^" asked Lynn. 
 
 "I have," sighed Jones. "A most unfortunate 
 attachment — an impossible attachment. Yet 
 the dream was pleasant while it lasted." 
 
 He held his head down, blushing modestly, 
 and went on, in a broken voice —
 
 io8 3fy Little Girl. 
 
 "As a boy — slopes — Windsor — one of the 
 Princesses. Not my fault originally — mine to 
 nurse the passion." 
 
 "Which was it.?" 
 
 "The prettiest, sir." 
 
 "But how, when, where could you speak with 
 the Princess.?" 
 
 " We never interchanged words ; but the eye 
 spoke — at seventy yards. Poor thing! she's 
 married now. I hope she got over it. I did, 
 after a time." 
 
 Venn, bearing the interruption vv^ith an air of 
 sufferance, resumed his history. 
 
 "Getting over my love difficulties, I resolved 
 to fall into love no more, and went out of 
 society. I have kept out ever since; and, on 
 the whole, I prefer being out. Then I began to 
 write; and the real story of my failure begins. 
 You see, I was not absolutely obliged to do 
 anything when my father died, but I fondly 
 hoped to make literature a staff. It has never 
 been to me even a reed. I had, of course, faint 
 glimmerings of success, gleams of hope. Every 
 time Tantalus stoops to the water, he fancies 
 that this time, at least, he will reach it; and I 
 think that every now and then he gets a few 
 drops — not enough to quench his thirst, but 
 enough to revive hope. I\Iy gleams of success
 
 My Little Girl 109 
 
 were like that poor convict's drops of water. 
 They led to nothing more. I fancy every 
 editor in London knows me now. They say, 
 *0h, here's Hartley Venn again;' and I go into 
 the rejected pigeon-holes. So complete is my 
 failure, that even my own people have ceased to 
 believe in me — so complete, that I have ceased 
 to believe in myself." 
 
 He paused; and mixing a glass of whisky and 
 water, drank half of it off. 
 
 "You will remark — proceeding on the induc- 
 tive method — those whom God destines to fail, 
 He endows with excellent spirits. Jones is a 
 case in point " 
 
 " Why should sorrow o'er this forehead 
 Draw the veil of black despair? 
 Let her, if she will, on your head ; 
 Mine, at least, she still will spare." 
 
 This was Jones's interruption. 
 
 " I am, also, myself a case in point. Lynn is 
 not, which is one reason why I fear he will some 
 day desert me. My own equable temper is not, 
 however, wholly due to birth — partly to circum- 
 stances. You will understand me, Lynn, when 
 I explain that when quite a little boy I used to 
 sleep in the same bed with my brother Bob." 
 
 "Not the least in the world," observed Lynn. 
 
 " Dear me ! The way was this. We had a
 
 no My Little Girl. 
 
 wooden bed against the wall. Bob gave me the 
 inside, and insisted on my lying quite straight 
 on the edge, while he rolled up in the middle. 
 By this arrangement, I got the wood to sleep on 
 and the wall to keep my back warm, with such 
 small corners of blanket as I could wrest from 
 Bob as soon as he went to sleep. If immediate 
 effects led to open repining, I incurred punish- 
 ment at once. I learned a lesson from Bob, for 
 which I have never ceased to thank him, in re- 
 signation — cheerful, if possible — to the inevit- 
 able. Whenever, as happened to me this 
 morning, I get a MS. sent back, I say to my- 
 self, 'For this were you prepared in early life 
 by the Wood and the Wall.'" 
 
 Quoth Jones readily — 
 
 "You remember, of course, those lines in 
 Bunyan, quoted, I think, by Lord Willbewill.'* 
 Observe the peculiarly Bunyanesque turn of 
 the second line, with its subtlety of thought : — 
 
 'He that is down may fear no fall ; 
 The monk may wear his hood : 
 Give me, for moral warmth the Wall, 
 For moral bed the Wood.' 
 
 It was the answer to a riddle asked by the 
 Prince at the banquet given when Mansoul was 
 taken, and Diabolus evicted. It follows the
 
 My Little Girl. in 
 
 conundrum of the Red Cow, and is omitted in 
 some editions." 
 
 "Thank you very much," said Venn, not 
 smiling. " I have only one or two more ob- 
 servations to make. The curious in the matter 
 of unsuccess may consult, if they think fit, my 
 unpublished Opuscula. They will find there, 
 clearly set forth, the true symptoms of an un- 
 successful man. Thus, he may be known — not 
 to be tedious — first, by his good spirits, as I 
 have said; secondly, by his universal sympa- 
 thies ; thirdly, by his extraordinary flow of 
 ideas; fourthly, by a certain power of seeing 
 analogies; and fifthly, by his constantly being 
 in opposition. At all times he is a heretic. 
 The mere fact of a thing being constituted by 
 authority is sufficient to make him see, in more 
 than their true force, the arguments on the 
 opposite side." 
 
 " You remember, " interrupted Jones, with a 
 sweet smile, " the lines of " 
 
 " Stop, Jones," cried Venn, " I will not endure 
 it. Lynn, I have finished. We will now, 
 gentlemen, talk of general topics." 
 
 They talked, as usual, till late in the night. 
 It was past three o'clock when Venn said — 
 
 " This reminds me of a passckge in my essay 
 on 'The Art of Success.' I will read it you.
 
 1 1-2 My Little Girl, 
 
 The night is yet young. Where are the Opus- 
 cula?" 
 
 They looked at each other in dismay. Venn 
 searched for the essay everywhere; not finding 
 it, he remembered that he had taken it to bed 
 with him the night before, and went into the 
 next room to get it. When he returned, with 
 his precious paper in his hand, the room was 
 empty, and there were sounds of rapidly re- 
 treating footsteps on the stairs; for all had fled. 
 He shook his head in sorrow rather than in 
 anger, and looking at his watch, murmured — 
 
 " A general Exodus. They have left the 
 Desert of the Exodus. Past three o'clock! An 
 hour's sleep before daybreak is worth three 
 after it. Shall I have my beauty sleep.? No. 
 The cultivation of the intellect before all. 
 Hartley Venn, my dear boy, had you always 
 borne that in mind you would not now be the 
 Wreck you are." 
 
 He sat down and read, with an admiring air, 
 the whole of his long paper from beginning to 
 end. Then he gave a sigh of contentment and 
 weariness, and went to bed as the first gray of 
 the spring morning was lighting up the sky.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 ARTLEY VENN— whose account of 
 himself to Arthur was, on the whole, 
 correct — is, at this time, a man of eight 
 and thirty. In the course of his life he has tried 
 a good many things, and failed in every one. 
 He possesses a little income of between three 
 and four hundred a year, comfortably housed in 
 Consols, where he allows his capital to lie un- 
 disturbed, being as free as any man in the world 
 from the desire to get rich. He is by actual 
 profession a barrister, having been called twelve 
 years 'ago, at Lincoln's Inn. But as he has 
 never opened a law book in his life, or been 
 inside a court of justice, it may safely be as- 
 serted that he would have great difficulties to 
 encounter in the conduct of any case with which 
 a too credulous solicitor might entrust him. 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 My Little Girl, 
 
 Friends, anxious to see him "get on," once per- 
 suaded him to buy a partnership in an army 
 coaching estabhshment, the previous proprietor 
 retiring with a large fortune. All went well for 
 a year or two, when, owing to some of their 
 pupils never passing, and both himself and his 
 partner being hopelessly bad men of business, 
 they found themselves, at the beginning of one 
 term, with two pupils to teach. Naturally, the 
 affairs of the institution got wound up after this, 
 Hartley being the loser of the fifteen hundred 
 or so which he had invested for his share. Then 
 it was that he retired to Gray's Inn, and took 
 those chambers where we now find him. He 
 then became, as he was fond of calling himself, 
 a literary man — that is, he began that long 
 series of Opuscula of which mention has al- 
 ready been made. They were never published, 
 because editors invariably declined to accept 
 them : no doubt they were quite right. He 
 was full of reading and scholarship — full of 
 ideas; but he never acquired that way of put- 
 ting things which the British public desires. 
 
 He disliked revision, too, which bored him; 
 and he had a habit of reading his own things 
 over and over again till he got to know them all 
 by heart, and their very faults appeared beau- 
 ties. To some men a censor is absolutely
 
 Aly Little Girl. 115 
 
 necessary. I have often thought of setting my- 
 self up as a professed Hterary adviser, ready to 
 read, correct, suggest, and cut down, at so much 
 per page — say ten pounds. He had a sort of 
 uneasy consciousness that Hfe would pass away 
 with him without bringing any sort of kudos to 
 him; and though, from force of habit, he still 
 kept note-books, and covered acres of paper 
 yearly, he had begun to look upon his works as 
 precious private property, written for his own 
 recreation and instruction — a treasure-house of 
 wisdom for those years of old age when his 
 ideas would begin to fail him. There are hun- 
 dreds of men like him. Reader, thou who hast 
 never looked over a proof sheet, are there not 
 within thy desk collections of verses, sheets of 
 essays, bundles of tales, which it is thy secret 
 pleasure to read and read, and thy secret hope 
 to publish.^ Deny it not. We, too, have had 
 this time; and there is no such delight in read- 
 ing the printed page — especially when the world 
 has received it coldy — as in gloating over the 
 glorious possibilities of the manuscript. What 
 is the miser's joy, as he runs his fingers through 
 the gold, to the young writer's, as he sits, door 
 locked, pen in hand, as modest over the tender 
 fancies of his brain as any young girl at her 
 toilette over her charms ? 
 
 8-2
 
 Ii6 My Little Girl. 
 
 Venn is a smooth-faced man, with a bright, 
 fresh cheek — in spite of late hours — and a Hght 
 moustache. His hair is perfectly straight, and he 
 shows no signs of getting gray like Lynn, or 
 bald like Jones. His face is long, with a some- 
 what retreating chin — sign of weakness — and a 
 long drooping nose, the melancholy and reflec- 
 tive nose. He is not a tall man, and his shoulders 
 stoop somewhat. He has still an air of youth, 
 which I think will never leave him, even when 
 his hair is silvery white. And his expression is 
 one of very great sweetness ; for he is one who 
 has sympathies for all. They talk of him still 
 at the butteries of his old college, where, in his 
 hot youth, he played many a harmless frolic in 
 his cups, and where he endeared himself to all the 
 servants. Indeed, it was no other than Hartley 
 Venn who bearded the great Master of Trinity 
 himself on that memorable night when, return- 
 ing unsteadily from a wine, he accosted the 
 Doctor leaving the lodge, and there and then 
 challenged him to a discussion on the nature of 
 Jupiter's satellites. It was he, too — but why 
 recall the old stories.^ Are they not chronicled 
 at the freshman's dinner table, handed down 
 to posterity like the Legends of King Arthur.^ 
 The waiters at his favourite places of resort 
 regard him as a personal friend. They whisper
 
 My Little Girl. 11/ 
 
 secrets as to the best things up ; hide away 
 papers for him; tell him even of their family 
 affairs; and sometimes consult him on matters 
 of purely personal importance. It was through 
 Hartley, indeed, that I first conceived the idea 
 that waiters are human beings, with instincts, 
 appetites, and ambitions like the rest of us. It 
 is really the case. And at the British Museum, 
 such was the esteem with which the attendants 
 — he knew all their names, and would ask after 
 their wives and families- -regarded him, that he 
 used never to have to wait more than an hour 
 to get his books. And this, as every one who 
 uses the reading-room knows, is the height of 
 civility and attention. 
 
 An indolent, harmless, good-hearted man, who 
 could not run in harness ; who could do no 
 work that was not self-imposed, and who did no 
 work well except the self-imposed task at which 
 he had been labouring for twelve years — the 
 education of his little girl. 
 
 Everybody in the Inn — that is, everybody 
 connected with the administration of the place 
 — knew Laura CoUingwood. Everybody, too, 
 felt that the production of so admirable a 
 specimen of the English maiden reflected the 
 greatest credit on all parties concerned — on 
 the benchers, the barristers, the students, the
 
 Il8 My Little Girl 
 
 porters, and the laundresses; but especially on 
 Mr. Venn. 
 
 It was about twelve years before this time, 
 when Venn first took his chambers, and in the 
 very week when Mrs. Peck, his laundress, began 
 her long career of usefulness with him, that 
 he found one morning, on returning from the 
 Museum, a little child, with long light hair and 
 large blue eyes, sitting on the steps in the door- 
 way of his staircase, crying with terror at an 
 evil-eyed, solemn old Tom cat, who was gazing 
 at her in a threatening manner behind the rail- 
 ings. Unwashed, dirty, badly dressed, this little 
 rosy-cheeked damsel of six touched Venn's soft 
 heart with pity, and he proposed at first to pur- 
 chase apples, a proposition which he carried into 
 effect; and leaving her with a handful of good 
 things, proceeded upstairs with a view to com- 
 mit to paper some of those invaluable thoughts 
 which were seething in his brain. Presently, to 
 his astonishment, the child followed him up like 
 a little terrier, and, sitting down gravely upon 
 the hearth rug, began to talk to him with per- 
 fect confidence. Thereupon he perceived that 
 here was a new friend for him. 
 
 ''What is your name, absurd little animal.?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Lollie Collingwood."
 
 My Little Girl. 119 
 
 "And who are your amiable parents, Miss 
 LoUie Collingwood, and what may be their rank 
 in life? Where's your mother, httle one?" 
 
 " Mother's dead." 
 
 "Father, too?" 
 
 " Got no father. Grandmother told me to sit 
 still on the steps. Only the cat came. Here's 
 grandmother." 
 
 Grandmother was no other than Mrs. Peck 
 herself. Later on, she explained to Venn that 
 her daughter, who had left her to go into service* 
 and was a "likely sort o' gal" to look at, had 
 come back to her the year before with the 
 child. 
 
 " Said her name was Mrs. Collingwood. Said 
 her husband was dead. Oh! dear-a-dear-a-me! 
 Said he was a gentleman. And here was the 
 baby — great girl already. And then she pined 
 away and died. And never a word about her 
 husband's relations; and the child for me to 
 keep, and all. And bread's rose awful." 
 
 Hartley took the child on his knees, and 
 looked at it more closely. As he looked, think- 
 ing what a sad lot hers would be, the little girl 
 turned up her face to him, and laughed, putting 
 up her lips to be kissed with such a winning 
 grace that Hartley's eyes ran over. 
 
 " I'll help you with the child, Mrs. Peck," he
 
 120 My Little Girl. 
 
 said; "don't be afraid about it. Will you be 
 my little girl, Lollie?" 
 
 "I'se your little girl now," said the child. 
 And they gave each other the first of many 
 thousand kisses. 
 
 "Now, wait here with grandmother, while I 
 go to get some things for you." 
 
 He set her down, and went to the establish- 
 ment of a young lady, with whom he had a nod- 
 ding acquaintance, devoted to the dressmaking 
 mystery. The lady, by great good luck, had a 
 complete set of clothes for sale — property of 
 somebody else's little girl, deceased — and by 
 invitation of Venn went round to his cham- 
 bers, where, first by the aid of warm water 
 and soap. Dame Nature's handiwork was made 
 to look clean and white ; and then, with 
 needle and thread and scissors, the child 
 was arrayed in what to her was unspeakable 
 grandeur. 
 
 "That's my little girl, Miss Nobbs," said Hart- 
 ley, looking at the result with beaming eyes. 
 
 "Well, I'm sure, Mr. Venn! You might have 
 the good taste not to throw your child in my 
 teeth, I do think." 
 
 "My good soul, I didn't. Arc your teeth 
 broken. Let me look at them." 
 Venn, you see, was younger then.
 
 My Little Girl. 121 
 
 "Ha' done now, Mr. Venn. You and your 
 little girls, indeed!" 
 
 " My dear Miss Nobbs, you and I, I am sure, 
 have the greatest possible respect for each other. 
 Do not let me be lowered in your eyes. The 
 child is the grand-daughter of my laundress, the 
 aged but still industrious Mrs. Peck." 
 
 "Snuffy old woman she is! I can't think how 
 you can have her about you. And that is her 
 grand-daughter } " 
 
 "This is her grand-daughter — Miss Laura 
 Collingwood. I propose, Miss Nobbs, to devote 
 a portion of my leisure moments to the cultiva- 
 tion in this child of those mental accomplish- 
 ments and graces which have made you the 
 admiration of the quarter." 
 
 "Good gracious, Mr. Venn! — you'd talk a 
 donkey's hind leg off. Don't be ridiculous!" 
 
 "And, secondly. Miss Nobbs, I propose to 
 ask your assistance in providing her with a set 
 of suitable clothes." 
 
 "Now you talk sense. Let's see — she'll want 
 six pr' of socks, two pr' of boots, three new 
 pettikuts, four pr' of — yes, four pr' of " 
 
 "Let us not go into all the details," said 
 Venn. " I need hardly say. Miss Nobbs, that 
 in selecting you out of the many talented 
 and tasteful costumieres in our aristocratic and
 
 122 My Little Girl. 
 
 select neighbourhood, I rely entirely on that 
 professional skill which " 
 
 "Lord, lord!" said Miss Nobbs, "If all the gen- 
 tlemen talked like you, where should we all be, 
 I wonder? You let the child come to me to- 
 morrow, and then I'll do all I can for her. 
 You're a good man, I do believe, Mr. Venn, 
 though you are so full of talk." 
 
 " Take a glass of wine, Miss Nobbs, and drink 
 the health of Lollie." 
 
 This was the beginning of it all. Next day 
 the child was brought round, solemnly arrayed 
 in her new splendour, to be looked at. Hart- 
 ley kept her with him all the afternoon, and 
 gave her the first glimpse of the alphabet. This 
 he found so amusing, that he repeated it every 
 day until he had taught • the child, who was 
 wonderfully quick and intelligent, to read. 
 Then he laid in an immense stock of picture 
 books, and gave them to his little girl as fast 
 as she could read them; and then he taught 
 her to write. 
 
 Three or four years passed on in this way. 
 The afternoon lessons had never been inter- 
 rupted, save when Venn went away for a fort- 
 night or so in the autumn. They had gradually 
 lengthened out, so as to take up nearly the 
 whole day. Lollie came now between eleven
 
 My Little Girl. 123 
 
 and twelve, and did not go home till six, 
 arrangements being made with a neighbouring 
 purveyor to send up luncheon to Mr. Venn 
 every day at two, which was LoUie's dinner. 
 She was then ten or eleven years old — a child 
 with long fair curls hanging down her back, 
 knuckly elbows, and long legs, such as most 
 young ladies of her age may show. Only her 
 face is much the same as when Venn picked 
 her up on the doorstep, with a soft, confiding 
 expression. She promises well — little Lollie 
 — to grow up into a beautiful woman.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HE most perfect love and confidence 
 existed between Hartley and the 
 child. They were a strangely as- 
 sorted pair. He told Lollie, almost as soon as 
 she could understand anything-, all his projects
 
 My Little Girl. 125 
 
 — all his disappointments. She learned to know 
 him with that perfect knowledge which comes 
 of always reading one mind. She knew what 
 he would think, what he would say, what he 
 liked. Her whole life was in him, and all her 
 thoughts borrowed from his. For him, the girl 
 had become a necessary part of his existence. 
 Her education was his pleasure; talking to her 
 the only society he had; she the only person 
 in the world who seemed to care about what 
 he did and how he did it. 
 
 When she was ten or eleven, the child had 
 a fever. Then Hartley kept her in his own 
 chambers till she was well again. Her grand- 
 mother came, too — deeply resentful at being 
 put out, but afraid to murmur. When she 
 hovered between life and death, and prattled, 
 when delirious, of green fields, it was Hartley 
 who sat up night after night, watching her 
 with anxious eyes, while the old woman slum- 
 bered in the easy-chair. And when she got 
 better — for it was bright spring weather — he 
 took her away up the river for a fortnight; 
 where they rowed, and walked, and talked, and 
 the roses came back to little Lollie's cheeks. 
 
 There was no question of affection between 
 them, because there was no doubt. Do you 
 think Adam was always bothering to know
 
 126 My Little Girl 
 
 whether Eve loved him? Rubbish! He knew 
 she did. As for Hartley, what had he to think 
 about but the girl ? What had the girl to think 
 about but Hartley? Whom had she to love 
 except him ? What grace of life, what sweet- 
 ness, what joy, what hope, but in him — her 
 guardian, her teacher, her protector? 
 
 The fortnight up the river was the first break 
 Lollie had known from her town life. Hence- 
 forth it was her dream, her ideal of all that 
 constitutes real and solid pleasure. She had, 
 before the story begins, one more break in a 
 month by the sea. But this was not the same 
 thing, because there was a third person with 
 them. This was how it came about. 
 
 It was autumn, and Hartley was meditating 
 his usual brief flight to the seaside. The girl 
 was sitting in her usual place in the window- 
 seat, with her feet up, a book in her lap, and 
 in her hands some little work. 
 
 " Lollie," said Hartley, " how should you like 
 to go to the seaside with me ?" 
 
 She jumped off the seat with a cry of delight. 
 
 " I am not quite certain whether I can 
 manage it; but I am going to try. I shall ask 
 my sister to take you." 
 
 Her face fell. 
 
 " But that won't be going with you."
 
 My Little Girl. 127 
 
 " I shall go too. Listen, Lollie. I want you, 
 as you grow up, to grow up a lady. I am teach- 
 ing you the things that ladies are supposed to 
 learn at schools. But there are some things 
 which I cannot teach you. These you can only 
 learn from a lady. I refer, my child, not to 
 those little dialectic peculiarities, if I may call 
 them so, of our neighbourhood — " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Venn, don't say I talk like a little 
 street girl." 
 
 " Not to those idioms," he went on, as if obliged 
 to get rid of one sentence before he could frame 
 another — "invaluable as they are to the philo- 
 logist, but to the minor details of deportment." 
 
 She sat pouting. 
 
 " I'm sure you always said I behaved very 
 well." 
 
 " So you do, Lollie, my child ; and you have 
 always been the best of little girls. That is the 
 reason why you are going to be on your best 
 behaviour now. Put on your hat, and walk part 
 of the way Avith me to Woburn-place, where 
 Sukey lives." 
 
 Sukey was Miss Venn. Her real name was 
 Lavinia; but her brothers — Hartley and the un- 
 fortunate Bob already mentioned — agreed early 
 in life that so ridiculous a name should be sup- 
 pressed, and changed it, without her consent, to
 
 128 My Little Girl. 
 
 the homely name by which she was ever after 
 known. She, too, inherited a little money, with 
 a house, from her father, on which she lived in 
 considerable comfort, with the old family servant 
 Anne, and a subordinate maid. She was a fat, 
 comfortable sort of person, now approaching 
 perilously near to forty. She had given up all 
 ideas of matrimony, and chiefly occupied herself 
 with her different curates — because she never 
 could quite make up her mind between Low 
 and High Church — and with little things to eat. 
 Hartley used to go and see her once in three 
 months or so, every now and then asking her to 
 come and breakfast with him. On these occa- 
 sions he would provide kidneys — "to keep up 
 the family tie," he used to say. 
 
 Sukey received him with her usual cordiality, 
 and rang the bell for Anne to come up and 
 shake hands with him. 
 
 " I am going to the seaside for three weeks, 
 Sukey," said he; "and I want you to come with 
 me." 
 
 It was the very first time in his life that 
 Hartley had expressed any desire whatever for 
 his sister's company, and she was for the mo- 
 ment taken all aback. It took a considerable 
 time to get her to make up her mind that it 
 would do her good, and it was not till Anne
 
 My Little Girl. 1 29 
 
 herself interfered despotically that she gave 
 way. 
 
 "Very well," said Hartley; "then that's set- 
 tled. We'll go the day after to-morrow. Oh, 
 I forgot to say that I am taking my little girl 
 with me." 
 
 His sister changed colour. 
 
 " It is for your sake, my dear Sukey," he said, 
 persuasively — "for your sake entirely. Far 
 away from Anne, from your — your pill-box and 
 your little comforts, suppose you were taken 
 ill.'* So LoUie is to go with us to look after 
 you, and be your companion in hours of soli- 
 tude." 
 
 Sukey fairly burst out laughing. 
 
 " My hours of solitude, indeed ! Hartley, you 
 are the greatest humbug I ever knew. I am to 
 go with you because you want the child taught 
 to be a lady. Oh, don't tell me. A lady, indeed 
 — the daughter of a laundress!" 
 
 " Pardon me, dear Sukey. Her grandmamma 
 occupies that position. Her father was a gen- 
 tleman. Our grandfather, my sister " 
 
 "Was a bishop, Hartley. Don't forget that, 
 if you please." 
 
 "We had two, dear. It may be uncommon; 
 but such is the fact. In our family we had two 
 grandfathers. One of them was, if I may remind 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 I30 My Little Girl. 
 
 you, not wholly unconnected with the wholesale 
 glue and " 
 
 "Don't be provoking! Well, Hartley, though 
 I must say your taking up with the child at all 
 is the most ridiculous thing, and what you are 
 going to do with her I don't know; yet " 
 
 " Yet you'll go the day after to-morrow, my 
 dear Sukey. Come and breakfast to-morrow 
 at ten. That will not be too late for you. At 
 this season, sister, kidneys attain to a size and 
 flavour unknown as the year advances." 
 
 And this was the way in which Lollie got 
 her education. 
 
 Time passes on his way ; and, as is his wont, 
 takes from one to give to another. Little Lollie 
 grew from a rosy-faced child to a woman — not 
 so rosy, not so brimful of mirth and glee; but 
 bright, happy, intelligent, and beautiful. Do 
 you know the time — it may be a year, it may be 
 a month, it may be a day or an hour, according 
 to circumstances — which separates the child 
 from the woman.-* It is a curious time. Watch 
 the young maiden of seventeen. You will find 
 her fitful, fanciful, inclined to long reveries; 
 sometimes impatient and petulant. The old 
 habits of thought are passing away from her, 
 and the new ones are as yet strange and awk-
 
 My Little Girl. 131 
 
 ward. It is a time of transition. It lasts but a 
 little while; for soon the sweet spring breezes 
 blow, the buds of thought and fancy open into 
 blossom, and your child is a maiden, tempestiva 
 viro — fit for love. 
 
 It is at this time that Venn's little girl has 
 arrived. Hartley is conscious — dimly conscious, 
 of a change in her. At times an uneasy feeling 
 crosses him that the old childish customs must 
 be, some time or other, modified. Then he puts 
 the thought from him, glad to get rid of an un- 
 pleasant subject, and things go on the same as 
 before. Not that Lollie thinks any change will 
 ever come. To her, life means reading, playing, 
 working, in the old chambers; and pleasure 
 means going up the river in the summer, or to 
 the theatre in the winter, with her guardian. 
 
 It is a Sunday in early spring, one of those 
 which come in April, as warm as a July day, 
 and make the foolish blossoms open out wide 
 in a credulous confidence — which no experience 
 can shake — that the East wind is dead and has 
 been comfortably buried. " Courage," they say, 
 like Charles Reade's Burgundian soldier — 
 "courage, camarades, le diable est mort." 
 Taking advantage of the weather, Mr. Venn 
 has brought his little girl to Richmond, and 
 they are floating on the river, basking in the 
 
 9—2
 
 132 My Little Girl. 
 
 sun — Lollle holding the strings, Venn occasion- 
 ally dipping his sculls in the water to keep a 
 little way on the boat. 
 
 " I've been thinking, Lollie," he begins, after 
 half an hour's silence. 
 
 " Don't let us think now. Look at the flecks 
 of sunlight on the water," she replies, " and how 
 the trees are green already. Can you not write 
 a poem on the river, Mr. Venn.?" 
 
 "What we are to do with each other.?" he 
 went on, without noticing her interruption. 
 " We can't go on for ever like this, child." 
 
 "Don't, Mr. Venn. Let us be happy while 
 we can. Listen. There are the church bells — 
 the church bells!" she went on. "Why have 
 you never taken me to church. Mr. Venn ? 
 Why do we not go, like other people.?" 
 
 " There are various reasons why they go, none 
 of which seem applicable to us, Lollie. They 
 go because it is respectable : we are not respect- 
 able. Poor we are, it is true, and scrupulously 
 clean; but persons of no occupation, and cer- 
 tainly not respectable. Then, a good many 
 worthy people go because it is the custom : it is 
 not our custom. Because they want to wear 
 their best clothes: we, my dear, have no best 
 clothes at all. Because they want a little variety 
 , and excitement: you and I take our pleasure
 
 My Little Girl. 133 
 
 less sadly. And some go out of religion and 
 devotion — which we do not feel, at present." 
 
 She was silent Somehow, perhaps, she felt 
 that there was a sort of separation between her 
 and that respectable world of which she could 
 only know the outside. 
 
 " But when we do feel religious, we shall go, 
 shall we not.?" she asked. 
 
 Venn nodded. He was full of thought on this 
 new question of the girl's future. 
 
 " Here is a water-lily for you, Lollie — sit 
 
 steady — the first of the season Let 
 
 us number up your accomplishments, child. 
 You can play the piano — that is something. 
 You can sing a little — not much, it is true; your 
 voice being, as Sukey would say, what Pro- 
 vidence made it. Very odd that they put all 
 the failures on to Providence! You can read, 
 and talk, and write French. You know 
 Latin,; though why I taught you Latin I don't 
 know." 
 
 " If it was only to read Horace with you," 
 said the girl, half-pouting, " I really think 
 you might have taught me something else. 
 With his wine, and his lyre, and his eternal 
 egotism." 
 
 " He should have been here to-day, lying at 
 your feet, Lollie, crowned with myrtle, playing
 
 134 My Little Girl. 
 
 on his lyre, and singing, as he floated down the 
 sunny river, to the spring — 
 
 ' Diffugere nives, redeunt jam gramina campis, 
 Aiboribusque coma^/ " 
 
 " Which you translated, the other day, when 
 we read it — 
 
 *The year, for her reasons, keeps changing her sea- 
 sons; 
 Now the leaves to the Terrace return, and the crocus 
 to Kew. 
 Earth puts off her seal skin, and, clad in her real skin. 
 Smiles bright through her blossoms at Spring with 
 its sunshine and dew.'" 
 
 Venn laughed. 
 
 "Yes, child; that is, I believe, how Horace 
 might have written had he lived in these latter 
 days. You know how to touch the tender place 
 in my heart. If we have any pride, it is in 
 certain portions — unpublished — of the Opuscula, 
 where an imitation touches — we only say touches 
 — the original. But we were talking about 
 Horace. I introduced you to him, you know. 
 Surely you would like him — the fat little man, 
 melancholy because he is getting older — to be 
 with us now.''" 
 
 "Yes, pretty well; only I suppose he would 
 .have tired of us very soon. We are not grand
 
 My Little Girl. 135; 
 
 enough for him, you know. Ovid would have 
 been better. He would have told us stories, 
 like those we read together in the ' Metamor- 
 phoses,' about Cephalus and Procris, for in- 
 stance. But, no. I think I don't. care much for 
 your old poets. I tell you what we will do 
 when the summer comes, Mr. Venn : we will 
 come here with Alfred de Musset, and read ' La 
 Nuit de Decembre,' for contrast, while the sun 
 is high over our heads, in the shade of a willow 
 — shall we.^ I sometimes think — " here she 
 stopped. 
 
 "What do you think, Lollie.?" 
 
 A child, you see, can tell you all; but in the 
 transition state the thoughts grow confused. 
 For then the mind is like a gallery of pictures 
 lit up with cross lights, so that none can be 
 properly seen. She half blushed. 
 
 " Go on with my accomplishments, Mr. Venn." 
 
 "Well, we left off at the Latin. As for 
 Greek—" 
 
 "No, I will not learn Greek. You may 
 translate things to me, if you like." 
 
 "At the new College for Ladies, I believe 
 they make the damsels learn Greek. That 
 shows your prejudice to be unfounded." 
 
 " Never mind, I won't learn Greek." 
 
 "Well, then, I fear you have come to the
 
 136 My Little Girl. 
 
 length of your knowledge. Stay, it is not every 
 girl of eighteen who has read Hallam, or who 
 knows the literature of her country half so well 
 as you. Upon my word, Lollie, I begin to 
 think that our system of education is a success. 
 You are a very learned little person. A few 
 ologies, and we should be perfect. Unfortu- 
 nately, I don't know any, not one — not even the 
 ology of describing nasty things in ponds. How 
 long is it since the education began } Twelve 
 years. You are eighteen, child. We must think 
 about" — he stopped for a moment — "about 
 sending you to the new college, to carry off 
 the prizes," he went on. 
 
 She shook her head, and he rowed on — 
 Lolly thoughtfully dipping her glovelcss finger 
 in the bright water as the boat floated along 
 under the bank. 
 
 "Could we not come always and live in the 
 country, Mr. Venn.? Why do people choose to 
 spend their lives in a great town } See, now, we 
 could have a cottage, my grandmother and I, 
 and you should have a house, like that one, only 
 smaller, with willows over the river, and a sloping 
 lawn. We would sit out in the air all day, and 
 read and talk." 
 
 "And never get tired — never want a change.?" 
 
 "No, never. Why should we.? I have such a
 
 My L title Girl. 137 
 
 lot of things, sometimes, coming into my head — 
 questions, thoughts. I should like to put them 
 all down as they come to me, and then bring 
 them to you." 
 
 "Why don't you put them down, my little 
 girl.?" said Hartley, looking in her face with his 
 kindly eyes. " Why not come to me.'* And if 
 I can't answer them, we will try to find some-- 
 body who can. Tell me some of them." 
 
 "I hardly remember. Only the contrast of 
 the quiet and beauty out here with London 
 makes me sad sometimes, when I ought to be 
 happy. Do you think I am grateful, Mr. Venn.?" 
 
 "It is I who am not grateful, Lollie. Do you 
 know all you have done for me .? " 
 
 " No. I am selfish. I am always thinking of 
 what you have done for me. What have I done?" 
 
 " I can hardly tell you all, Lollie. I will tell 
 you something. It is about twelve years now 
 since I made out, quite clearly and unmistakably, 
 what fate had in store for me. The prophetic 
 voice said to me, 'Hartley Venn, you are no 
 good. You are a person without common sense, 
 without energy, without courage. You must 
 therefore make up your mind to obscurity. You 
 will not be able to marry — you must not fall 
 in love. You had better resign yourself to live 
 in your chambers until you require a nurse.' I
 
 138 My Little Girl. 
 
 said, 'Very well, my venerable sisters of the fatal 
 spinning machine. I would have asked a few 
 questions; but perhaps, as it is easier to ask than 
 get an answer, I had better hold my tongue. I 
 accept the position, ladies, with a general protest 
 against the inequality of things. I accept the 
 position. Perhaps,' I went on to say, with wither- 
 ing irony, 'I may not be so proud of your handi- 
 work as to wish for a continuance of my kind. 
 You may break up my mould, if you please, 
 and as soon as you please. It won't be wanted 
 again.* They hadn't a word to say in reply." 
 
 " I don't understand," said Lollie — " that is, 
 I only half understand. You mean that you 
 had not enough money for marriage.-*" 
 
 " Exactly so ; and that I did not see my 
 way to getting any. The prospect was not 
 alluring. But then, you see, that compensating 
 power in Nature, whom, I think, the Romans 
 should have made a goddess, one who would 
 go about administering compensatory gifts, gave 
 me — you, child; and I have been happy ever 
 since, watching you grow, and become wiser and 
 better; trying to show me what a lady ought 
 to be, and getting younger myself in catching 
 the enthusiasm of your youth. My little girl, 
 you have been the sunshine of my life!" 
 
 The tears came into Lollie's eyes.
 
 My Little Girl. 139 
 
 "You are too good to me, Mr. Venn. I 
 will try and remember what you have said to- 
 day. But don't say it again. Never say it 
 again, please." 
 
 "Why not, my child.?" 
 
 " I don't know. When you said that I was 
 your sunshine — ah! what, then, is my sunshine.? 
 A cloud crossed the river, and it seemed as if 
 your sunshine was suddenly taken away. It is 
 foolish — foolish — foolish!" she repeated, laugh- 
 ing; "but please don't say it again." 
 
 Venn was resting on his sculls, and looking 
 in her eyes with a vague sort of anxiety. Her 
 cheek was flushed, and her lips trembled. She 
 held out her hand to him, and smiled. 
 
 " Forgive me. I am your little girl — your 
 daughter — your ward — and you are my — " 
 
 " Not your father, child," returned Venn, 
 hastily. " Here is Teddington, Lollie. Let us 
 have no more confessions. Tell me some of 
 your thoughts while we go back, and keep a 
 look-out. Remember that day when you ran 
 me into a tree at Clieveden Woods." 
 
 "Oh, what fun it was!" she laughed; "and 
 it took us half an hour to get the boat out 
 again. Now, then, we shall be back in a quar- 
 ter of an hour. What shall I tell you — some 
 of my old thoughts.? I used to think that if I
 
 I40 My Little Girl. 
 
 was rich — very rich, you know — what a differ- 
 ent world I would make it. Every poor man's 
 house should be clean, every poor man should 
 be taught not to drink, there should be no 
 cruel want in the winter, bread and coals should 
 never *go up,' and the world should not know 
 what was meant by the word hunger. Those 
 were doll's thoughts, you know. Then I used 
 to think, when I got a little older, how that 
 one person — tolerably rich — might make a little 
 street his own, and by force of example show 
 people how they ought to live. Then I got 
 older still; and now I think what one person 
 could do, if he had the strength and the will, 
 without any money at all." 
 
 " How would he do it, and what would he 
 do.?" 
 
 " He might live among poor people, and find 
 out the way to help them without making them 
 dependent. A man could do it, if he was not 
 always trying to make people go to church. 
 A clergyman might do it, if he was not like 
 those I see about. But nobody will do it; and 
 the people are getting worse and worse." 
 
 " Don't think too much of the people, Lollie." 
 
 " But I must think of them, Mr. Venn. Do 
 I not belong to them.? Do I not live among 
 them.? They are all good to me; and it goes
 
 My Little Girl, 141 
 
 to my heart that I have been taught so many 
 things, and can do so little. Well, then, you see, 
 I think about other things — myself and my les- 
 sons, and you, and the dear old chambers, with 
 the chairs dropping to pieces. If I were rich, I 
 should cover the chairs, and get a new carpet, 
 and buy you a new dressing gown, and have the 
 walls painted over again, and make them so fine 
 that we should hardly know each other again." 
 
 "They do for us, Lollie." 
 
 "Ah, yes — they are delightful old chambers. 
 Do you know, Mr. Venn," she went on, with a 
 sigh, " I should like to know some young ladies. 
 I don't mean like Miss Venn, but quite young 
 girls, like myself. I see them walking in the 
 squares with each other and their governesses. 
 I wonder what they talk about. Do you know.^" 
 
 " I knew a young lady once," answered Venn, 
 meditatively. " She used to ask everybody if 
 they liked * In Memoriam,* and she used to talk 
 about dress a good deal." 
 
 "I suppose in those houses about Tavistock 
 and Russell squares they have everything they 
 want. Plenty of amusement, with all nice 
 people — ladies and gentlemen. They make all 
 their interest in study, don't you think .^ With 
 their opportunities, you know, they ought to. 
 They are always trying to do good to each
 
 142 My Little Girl. 
 
 other. They never have bad tempers, or say 
 unkind words to each other, Hke poor people. 
 They don't talk scandal, like poor people; and 
 they are not always thinking of finery, like poor 
 girls — not always craving for excitement, like 
 my class. It must be a delicious thing to be a 
 young lady. ' Manners makyth ye man,' as I 
 read the other day. Isn't it a funny thing -to 
 say.-* But I should like to see how manners 
 makyth ye woman. I imagine the life of one of 
 these young ladies. When I see one walking 
 along, looking so quiet, and thoughtful, and 
 proud, I say, *My dear, you are very happy; 
 you have no frivolous or foolish tastes, because 
 you are so well educated. You have read all 
 the best books, you know how to dress taste- 
 fully, you do not spend more than half an hour 
 a day over your things, you are full of schemes 
 for doing good, you are not always thinking 
 about sweethearts, but some time or other your 
 lover will come to you and take you away.' 
 Every woman must think of love a little, you 
 know. We are happy so — isn't that the reason, 
 Mr. Venn.? Then, I see them going to church. 
 It must be a beautiful thing going to church — 
 all kneeling together, without a thought except 
 of goodness and religion. You can teach me, 
 Mr. Venn, and educate me to all sorts of things ;
 
 My Little Girl. 143 
 
 but you can never make me like one of the 
 young ladies I see as I walk about." 
 
 "I don't want to, Lollie. I like you best as 
 you are. Let me pull her in. Now then, child, 
 take care how you step." 
 
 They went back by train, and dined together 
 at seven; then up to Venn's chambers, where 
 Lollie, who was very quiet and thoughtful, made 
 tea. After tea, she played for him one or two 
 of his favourite " Lieder ohne Worte," while he 
 smoked a pipe by the fireside, and looked at his 
 little girl. 
 
 She was a tall girl now — not little at all. Her 
 light hair had darkened into brown, her blue 
 eyes were of a deeper colour. She had a per- 
 fectly oval face ; her mouth was small, and her 
 lips perhaps a little too thin, tremulous ; her 
 nose straight and clear cut, her chin slightly, very 
 slightly, projecting — ^just enough to show possible 
 strength of will. Her wealth of hair wanted no 
 artificial pads to set it up and throw it off as it 
 lay, like an Apocalyptic crown of virtue, upon 
 her head. She was dressed in a blue alpaca, 
 simple and tasteful. She had thrown off the 
 jacket and hat she had worn all day, and her 
 little fingers rambled up and down the keys of 
 the old piano as if they knew, without any 
 telling, where the music lay. As she played—
 
 144 My Little Girl. 
 
 by the upturned eye, by the trembling lip, by 
 the fixed gaze — you knew that her soul was in 
 the music, far away. 
 
 Venn looked at her long and earnestly. What 
 was he to do with this treasure — this pearl of 
 maidens, that he had picked out from the very 
 gutter and made a princess } Did you ever 
 mark, in some rough, squalid field, rank with 
 coarse grass, foul with potsherds and rubbish, 
 some sweet wild flower, blossoming all by itself 
 — the one single pretty thing in the compound } 
 Nature is always providing such wild flowers. 
 Over the ruinous wall she trains the ivy, on the 
 broken-down ramparts she plants the wallflower; 
 she will not that anything should go on without 
 some touch of beauty to redeem the rest. On 
 the seas are the loveliest sunsets, in the Desert 
 the Children of Israel had their mirage. So you 
 have seen, in some coarse, rough place in Lon- 
 don, in some reeking manufacturing town, among 
 faces blotched, faces smirched, faces besotted, 
 faces sharp with the gold hunger, faces heavy 
 with the remembrance of crime, faces vulgarized 
 by common and stupid vices, faces low, bad, 
 base, some one face in a crowd so bright, so pure, 
 so beautiful, so lofty, that it seemed to redeem 
 the ugliness of all the rest. And such was the 
 face of Lollie.
 
 My Little Girl. 145 
 
 Venn put down his pipe, and stood behind 
 her as she played. She looked up in his face 
 without stopping. 
 
 "You are happy, child.?" he asked, taking her 
 face in his hands, and kissing her forehead in his 
 paternal way. 
 
 "As if I am not always happy here!" 
 
 A cold chill passed through Venn's heart ; for 
 he then, for the first time, perceived that there 
 was another side to this picture. 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 i^^^NOTHER side to the picture! Yes. 
 pM\3 For twelve long years the girl had 
 been growing at his feet, coming to 
 him daily, sitting beside him as he unfolded 
 the treasures of knowledge to her, and taught 
 her, within the bounds of innocence, all he knew 
 himself. She came in the morning — she left 
 him about six ; for eight hours or so she was his 
 constant companion. Then she went away, out 
 of his thoughts — according to his habit; and he 
 went to his club, to his restaurant, to his half- 
 dozen friends, talked, smoked, drank brandy 
 and water, and came home again. 
 
 And what did she do.? 
 
 She went home — what she called home — to 
 Puddock's-row. 
 
 There was once, in the old times, an unfor-
 
 My Little Girl 147 
 
 tunate young person whose fate it was to be 
 half her life an animal — I believe a cat, if my 
 memory, a treacherous one at best, does not 
 play me false; the other half she might spend 
 in the ordinary delightful figure of the girl 
 of the period. So, too, Melusine, daughter of 
 Pressine of Avalon, and wife of the Knight 
 Raimondin, who was obliged to forbid her hus- 
 band ever to look upon her on Saturdays, when 
 she put on, from waist downwards, the scales 
 and skin of a serpent. Little Lollie very early 
 in life realized that her life was to be some- 
 thing like one of these ladies — of whom, how- 
 ever, she had never heard. From ten to six, 
 or thereabouts — Sundays as well as week days 
 — civilization, light, ease, cleanliness, comfort, 
 culture; all the pleasures that can be had in 
 talking, learning, writing, and music; a life of 
 affection, thoughtfulness, and care; a time spent 
 with a man so much older than herself, that 
 even now that she was grown up she looked 
 upon him as almost her father, and loved him 
 as much as any father could be loved. From 
 ten to six, a sweet innocence of trust, the growth 
 of twelve years' intercourse, of the outpouring 
 of confidence which she could give to no other 
 person in the world. From ten to six the 
 modest pride that the girl had in being the 
 
 10 — 2
 
 148 My Little Girl. 
 
 object of all this grace and tenderness in her 
 Bohemian protector. 
 
 But from six to ten, Puddock's-row. 
 
 To know Puddock's-row aright, you must 
 visit it at least every night in the week, at each 
 successive season. As the progress of my story- 
 might be hindered in the description of eight 
 and twenty nights, let us only give a few- 
 general details. Lollie's grandmamma occu- 
 pied a first floor — four and sixpence the two 
 rooms — in the Row, and was considered a rich 
 and fortunate woman. She had only one set 
 of rooms to attend, and Venn only gave her 
 six and sixpence a week for all her motherly 
 care; and LoUie did not know that her own 
 pension money, weekly administered, in addi- 
 tion to this, by Venn, was all they had to live 
 upon. The inhabitants of the Row looked 
 upon the girl with respectful admiration. Of 
 her virtue there could be but one opinion, and 
 but one of her beauty. She was the pattern 
 of the court; and moralizing mothers, when 
 they were sober enough to point the moral and 
 improve the tale, were apt to fix her success 
 as a theme, and narrate her story to envying 
 daughters as that of one who had risen by her 
 own merits. 
 
 They were a kindly, dissolute, improvident
 
 My Little Girl. 149 
 
 race — always sinning, always repentant, always 
 sick and sorry. There was the old lady at the 
 end of the court, who worked hard all the week 
 and got drunk every Saturday night, and was 
 wont to come out at twelve, with her hand to 
 her head, crying aloud unto the four winds, "Oh, 
 Lord, how bad I be!" There were the family 
 of five brothers at No. 2, who fought most nights 
 in pairs, the other three looking on. There 
 were two or three laundresses of the Inn, who 
 were even worse, as regards personal habits 
 and appearance, than poor old Mrs. Peck, and 
 envious of her superior fortune. There was a 
 swarming population all day and all night; 
 there was no peace, no quietness, no chance 
 for anything but endurance. 
 
 And in the midst of all this the poor girl had 
 to spend her evenings and her nights. Some- 
 times she would cry aloud for shame and 
 misery. Sometimes, when she was left alone, 
 the squalor of her surrounding circumstances 
 would appear so dreadful, so intolerable, so 
 miserable, that she would resolve to beg and 
 implore Mr. Venn to take her out of them. 
 Sometimes she would shut out the world around 
 her by building castles in the air, and so forget 
 things. Only, as time went on and things did 
 not change but for the worse, she found it be-
 
 150 My Little Girl. 
 
 coming daily more difficult to keep up the illu- 
 sions of hope, and persuade herself that all this 
 would have an end. 
 
 The poor grandmother was a trial. I am 
 afraid the wicked old woman purloined half the 
 money that Venn gave her for his ward, and put 
 it into a stocking. She was not a nice old 
 woman to look at. She had disagreeable 
 habits. She was not reticent of speech. She 
 was interested mainly in the price of the com- 
 moner kinds of provisions, such as the bloater 
 of Leather-lane. And when she was in a bad 
 temper, which was often, she was a Nagster. 
 From habit, Lollie always let her go on till it 
 was bed-time. Then, at least, she was free, for 
 the little room at the back belonged to her. 
 She could have comparative quiet there, at any 
 rate. The old woman preferred sleeping among 
 her pots and pans, as she had been brought up 
 to do, in the front room. Besides, she was 
 afraid of her grand-daughter, and yet proud and 
 fond of her. She felt more comfortable when 
 the child was gone to bed, and she could nag 
 all to herself — audibly, it is true, and with the 
 assistance of a little bottle containing some of 
 Mr. Venn's brandy. On the whole, she was well 
 pleased that she had but little of the girl's 
 society. For like will to like; and many were
 
 My Little Girl. 151 
 
 the cheerful little gatherings, not unenlivened 
 with gin, which took place on that first floor, 
 what time LoUie was gone to the theatre with 
 Mr. Venn, with ancient contemporaries of this 
 dear old woman. 
 
 I think I see her now. "Tout ce qu'il y a 
 du plus afifreux," An antique "front" always 
 twisted awry over a brow — marbled, indeed, but 
 not with thought. A countenance in which 
 deep lines were marked with a deeper black 
 than covered the rest. Small, cunning eyes : if 
 you lead a small, cunning life, your eyes do 
 most inevitably become small and cunning of 
 aspect. Fat lips, such as might come from 
 always eating roast pork — the greatest luxury 
 with which Mrs. Peck was acquainted. A bon- 
 net never removed day or night. A dress — but, 
 no, let us stop. Is there not a sort of sacrilege 
 in describing, only to mock at her, a poor old 
 creature who was what the conditions of life 
 made her.? Let us bring honour and reverence 
 to old age. For Mrs. Peck no more shall be 
 said. To her virtues very kind. Hartley Venn 
 was to all her faults very blind. She cribbed 
 everything. She never cleaned anything. She 
 smashed everything. She cheated. But she 
 was Lollie's grandmother. 
 
 Lollie's education we have sufficiently de-
 
 152 My Little Girl. 
 
 scribed. It had, as we have hinted, one capital 
 defect. There was not one word of rehgion 
 about it. Venn — not because he was an infidel, 
 which he was not; nor because he wished to 
 make an experiment, which was not the case; 
 but simply out of pure carelessness and indiffer- 
 ence, and because he never went to church him- 
 self — taught his little girl no religion whatever. 
 She knew, from reading, something — the some- 
 thing being the most curious medley possible, 
 from a mixture of every kind of Latin, French, 
 and English authors. Venn respected maidenly 
 innocence so far as to keep harmful books, as he 
 thought them — that is, directly harmful — out of 
 her way; but he gave the child first a literary 
 taste, and then access to writers whose ideas of 
 religion were more "mixed" than would have 
 been good for the most masculine intellect. 
 The Bible she had never even seen; for the 
 only copy in Venn's possession had, many years 
 before, tumbled behind the bookcase, and was 
 thus lost to view. And of ladies she knew but 
 one, Miss Venn, who still asked her to tea once 
 or twice a year, treated her with exemplary 
 politeness, and sent her away with a frigid kiss. 
 Miss Venn, you see, was suspicious. She always 
 fancied her brother was going to marry the girl; 
 and therefore made it her business to try and
 
 My Little Girl 153 
 
 make her understand the great gulf which com- 
 parative rank establishes between people — 
 grandchildren of bishops, for instance, and 
 grandchildren of laundresses. 
 
 She had two lovers — past and rejected, bien 
 entendu. One was a gallant young lawyer's 
 clerk in the Inn, about her own age, who ac- 
 costed her one morning with a letter, which she 
 handed, unopened, to Venn. It contained ho- 
 nourable proposals. Venn descended to the 
 court where the aspirant was waiting for an 
 answer, and there and then administered a light 
 chastisement with a walking-cane; the policeman 
 — he of the big beard and the twinkling eyes, not 
 the thin one — looking on with a grim but de- 
 cided approval. 
 
 Then there was Sims the baker. A quite 
 genteel young man of a Sunday, if you sec him 
 got up in his best, blue tie, and flower in his 
 button hole, with a cane. He attacked the 
 fortress through the grandmother, and per- 
 suaded her to 'accept the first ofl"erings of love, 
 in the shape of certain fancy ones, which greatly 
 pleased the old lady. To her astonishment, the 
 child threw the gifts out of window; and 
 Mr. Venn went round the next day and had a 
 serious talk with the young man. He put on 
 mourning the next Sunday, and walked up and 
 
 /
 
 154 My Little Girl 
 
 down the Gray's Inn-road all day In the dis- 
 guise of a mute. But Lollie never saw him; so 
 his silent sorrow was thrown away, and he re- 
 turned to his Sally Lunns. 
 
 And this is all her story up to the point when 
 we left her in Venn's chamber playing to him. 
 
 It was between nine and ten o'clock that she 
 left Gray's Inn for home — not five minutes' 
 walk, and one which she always took alone. 
 Here she had a little adventure. For as she 
 was striding fast along the pavement of Hol- 
 born, she became aware of a "gentleman" walk- 
 ing beside her, and gazing into her face. It 
 was one of those moral cobras, common enough 
 in London streets — venomous but cowardly, 
 and certain to recoil harmless before a little ex- 
 hibition of daring. He coughed twice. Lollie 
 looked straight before her. Then he took off 
 his hat, and spoke something to her. Then, 
 finding she took no notice of him, he took her 
 hand and tried to pass it under his arm. 
 
 "We are old friends, my dear," he said, with 
 an engaging smile. 
 
 She shook him off with terror, crying out. 
 
 There were a few people passing at the time 
 who were astonished to see one gentleman take 
 another gentleman by the coat collar, and kick 
 that gentleman into the gutter.
 
 My Little Girl. 155 
 
 "Insulted a lady," said the champion to the 
 bystanders, and going back to LoUie. 
 
 "Yah!" cried the little mob, closing round 
 him, for he was dozvn. And when Lothario 
 emerged from that circle, his hat was battered 
 in, and probably a whole quarters salary of 
 mischief done to his wardrobe. The moral of 
 this shows how prudent it is not to be taken at 
 a disadvantage. Also that it is best to get up 
 at once if you are kicked into the gutter, and to 
 cross the road ; and, thirdly, that as the mob is 
 sure to join the winning side, it is best to be the 
 victor in all street encounters. Some historians 
 give no moral at all to their incidents; for my 
 part, my morals are my strong point. When I 
 do not give one, it is only because the moral 
 may be read in so many ways that even three 
 volumes cannot stretch so far. 
 
 " Permit me to see you safely part of your 
 way at least," said Lollie's knight. 
 
 He was a gentleman, though apparently of a 
 different kind to Mr. Venn, being very carefully 
 and elaborately dressed. His face she hardly 
 noticed, except that he had a small and very 
 black moustache. But she was so frightened 
 that she was not thinking of faces. 
 
 "I live close by," she said. " Permit me to 
 thank you, sir, for your brave interference. I
 
 156 My Little Girl 
 
 have never been insulted before. You have 
 done me a great service. Good night." 
 
 She held out her hand with a pretty grace. 
 He took it lightly, raised his hat, saying — 
 
 " I am very happy. Perhaps we may meet 
 again under more fortunate circumstances. Au 
 revoir, mademoiselle; sans dire adieu." 
 
 She smiled, and turned into Gray's Inn-road. 
 She looked round once. No; her champion 
 was a gentleman — he was not following her. 
 Why did he speak in French.? — ^ Au revoir, sans 
 dire adieu.' She found herself saying the 
 words over and over again. Nonsense ! — of 
 course she would never see him again; and if 
 she should, he was only a stranger to her. 
 
 She told Venn in the morning, who flew into 
 a great rage, and promised always to take her 
 home himself when she left his rooms later than 
 six. In the course of the day he calmed down, 
 and delivered an oration — I am sorry I have no 
 space for it here — on the nature and properties 
 of the common or street snob.
 
 ^.^^W: 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ONCE compared life to the 
 letter Y. This letter, start- 
 ing with a trunk, presently 
 ;^ diverges into two branches, 
 which represent respectively 
 the two lines of life: the good and consequently 
 happy — that is the thin line to the right; and
 
 158 My Little Girl 
 
 the bad and consequently miserable — the thick 
 black one to the left. It is an elementaiy com- 
 parison, and hardly shows the sage at his best. 
 For as to happiness and misery, they seem to 
 me somehow dependent on public opinion and 
 the length of a man's purse. A man with a 
 hundred thousand a year may really do any- 
 thing — not only without incurring ignominy, but 
 even with a certain amount of applause. He 
 will not, of course, practise murder as one of 
 the Fine Arts, nor will he cheat at whist, and he 
 will have little difficulty in resisting the ordinary 
 temptation to commit burglary. But for the 
 poor man public opinion is a mighty engine of 
 repression. Virtue is his stern, and often bitter, 
 portion. Public opinion exacts from him a life 
 strictly moral and rigidly virtuous. In all places 
 except London, it forces him to go to church: 
 in a manner, it drives him Heavenwards with a 
 thick stick. The rich man, in whose favour any 
 good point — even the most rudimentary — is 
 scored, may be as bad as he pleases; the poor 
 man, against whom we score all we can, is just 
 as bad as he dares to be. This is one objection 
 to the Pythagorean comparison. Another is, 
 that young men never set off deliberately down 
 the thick line. It is, I admit, a more crowded 
 line than the other; but then there are constant
 
 My L it tie Girl. 159 
 
 passings and re-passings to and fro, and I have 
 
 seen many an honest fellow, once a roysterer, 
 
 trudging painfully, in after years, along the 
 
 narrow and prickly path, dragged on by wife 
 
 and children — though casting, may be, longing 
 
 looks at the gallant and careless men he has 
 
 left. 
 
 " I knew that fellow, Philip Durnford," an old 
 
 friend of his told me, " when first he joined. He 
 was shy at first, and seemed to be feeling his 
 way. We found out after awhile that he could 
 do things rather better than most men, and 
 more of them. If you cared about music, Durn- 
 ford had a piano, and could play and sing, after 
 a fashion. He could fence pretty well, too; 
 played billiards, and made a little pot at pool: 
 altogether, an accomplished man. He was free- 
 handed with his money; never seemed to care 
 what he spent, or how he spent it. Queer thing 
 about him, that he was a smart officer, and knew 
 his drill. I think he liked the routine of the 
 regimental work. Somehow, though, he wasn't 
 popular. Something grated. He was not quite 
 like other men; and I don't suppose that, 
 during the whole six years he was in the regi- 
 ment, he made a single good friend in it. Per- 
 haps he was always trying to be better than 
 anybody else, and he used to flourish his con-
 
 i6o My Little Girl. 
 
 founded reading in your face; so that some of 
 the fellows were afraid to open their lips. We 
 didn't seem to care — eh? about John Stuart 
 Mill. Then, he wouldn't take a line. The fast 
 man we can understand, and the man who 
 preaches on a tub and distributes tracts, and 
 the army prig we know, and the reading man; 
 but hang me if we could make out a man who 
 wanted to be everything all at once, and the 
 best man in every line. I can assure you we 
 were all glad when we heard that Durnford was 
 sending in his papers." 
 
 That was the state of the case. Phil Durnford 
 started heroically down the thin line. When we 
 meet him again, he is in the thick, the left- 
 handed one, with the mob. This is very sad; 
 because we shall have to see more than enough 
 of him. You see, he wanted patience. He would 
 gladly have won the Victoria Cross, but there 
 was nothing in that way going just then. He 
 would have liked to climb quickly up the tree 
 of honour. But this is a tree which can be only 
 attempted under certain conditions. Had he 
 been a drummer in the French army, about the 
 year 1790, he might have died Marshal of the 
 French Empire. But he fell not upon the 
 piping times of war. So he went in for being 
 a dashing young officer: rode — only he did not
 
 My Little Girl i6i 
 
 ride so well as some others ; gambled — only 
 not with the recklessness that brought glory to 
 others; and was a fast man, but without high 
 spirits. In personal appearance he was hand- 
 some, particularly in uniform. His cheek showed 
 — what is common enough in men of the 
 mixed breed — no signs of that black blood 
 which always filled his heart with rage when- 
 ever he thought of it. His hair was black and 
 curling, his features clear and regular. Perhaps 
 he might have been an inch or two taller with 
 advantage; while his chin was weak, and his 
 forehead too receding. 
 
 Always weak of will, his heroic element has 
 now, though he is only six and twenty, almost 
 gone out of him. He looks for little beyond 
 physical enjoyment of life: he has no high 
 aims, no purposes, no hopes. Worse than all, 
 he has no friends or belongings. So his heart 
 is covered with an incrustation, growing daily 
 harder and deeper, of selfishness, cynicism, and 
 unbelief. When the devil wanted to tempt him 
 to do something worse than usual, it was his 
 wont to show him his finger-nails, where lay 
 that fatal spot of blue which never leaves the 
 man of African descent, though his blood be 
 crossed with ours for a dozen generations. 
 Then he waxed fierce and reckless, and was 
 
 VOL. I. 1 1
 
 1 62 My Little Girl. 
 
 ready for anything. If the consciousness of 
 descent from a long line, which has sometimes 
 done well and never done disgracefully, be an 
 incentive to a noble life, surely the descent from 
 a lower and inferior race must be a hindrance. 
 
 He thought nobody knew it, and trembled 
 lest the secret should be discovered. Every- 
 body knew it. The colonel and the major had 
 been in Palmiste, and knew more. They knew 
 that George Durnford, late of the loth Hussars, 
 had only one son by his marriage, and never 
 had any brothers at all. Then they put things 
 together, and formed a conclusion, and said 
 nothing about it, being gentlemen and good 
 fellows. 
 
 No brandishing of the sword in front of a 
 wavering line of red; no leading of forlorn hopes 
 — nothing but garrison life and camp life: what 
 should a young man do.^ Here my former in- 
 formant comes again to my assistance. 
 
 "Durnford," he said, "used to be always try- 
 ing to outpace some other fellow. Don't you 
 know that a hunchback always makes himself 
 out a devil of a lady-killer; and a parvenu is 
 always the most exclusive; and a fellow with a 
 nose like a door-knocker always thinks himself 
 the handsomest dog in the regiment.? Well, 
 you see, Durnford was a mulatto, an octoroon,
 
 My Little Girl. 163 
 
 or a sixteenth-oroon, or something-. He'd read 
 in a book, I suppose, that mulattoes were an 
 inferior race; so nothing would do for him but 
 showing himself an exception to the rule by 
 proving himself our superior — all the same as 
 making himself out a bird by trying to fly. He 
 muddled away his money. But, bless you, he 
 couldn't really chuck. Chucking is a grand gift 
 of nature, cultivated by a course of public 
 school, army coach, and garrison life. Durnford 
 did not understand the art. Now, young Blythe 
 of ours, when he heard of the step vacant, wrote 
 to his governor about it. Well, the governor 
 actually sent him the money, instead of paying 
 it into Cox's. The young beggar screamed with 
 delight. 'O, Lord!' he said, 'look what the go- 
 vernor's done!' And chucked it all in a fort- 
 night, without purchasing the step at all. Durn- 
 ford could never come up to that, you know. 
 He didn't drink much; but there was one thing 
 men liked in him. If loo was on, Durnford 
 never played sober against men screwed. Al- 
 ways reputed the soul of honour in that respect. 
 But he wanted too much. He would have liked 
 to be popular among all classes, and he was 
 popular among none." 
 
 My friend, upon this, took to philosophizing 
 upon the nature and basis of popularity. 
 
 II— 2
 
 1 64 My Little Girl. 
 
 "I believe," he said, with some plausibility, 
 "that a fellow is popular if he is believed to be 
 better than he seems. One man. A., is a fright- 
 ful villain, but he loves and respects B., another 
 tremendous scoundrel and ruffian, because he 
 thinks him possessed of some noble and elevat- 
 ing qualities wanting in himself. He once saw 
 B. toss a halfpenny to a beggar, and say, * Poor 
 devil.' Now that showed a fine vein of native 
 •generosity. You don't like a man you think to 
 be worse than yourself, because he must belong 
 to such a devilish bad lot; and the formula of 
 A., the big rascal, is always that he 'may not be 
 ■ a religious man, by gad,' but there are some 
 things which he would not do. . . . Well, you 
 see, that poor beggar Durnford was believed to 
 be worse than he really was. He did it himself 
 Used to scoff at religion: which is bad form, in 
 my opinion — religion being the business of the 
 chaplain; and I'd just as soon scoff at the 
 adjutant or the sergeant-major. That did him 
 harm; and in spite of his riding and fencing, 
 and all the rest, he really had very little 
 strength in his body. Fellows said he padded." 
 
 When we pick up Philip, which is on the 
 
 evening when he — for it was he — gallantly came 
 
 . to the rescue, he has not yet sold out, but is 
 
 enjoying the beginning of a long furlough from
 
 My Little Girl 165 
 
 Malta. His affairs are not yet desperate, 
 though he has got through a considerable por- 
 tion of his fortune; having less than half of it 
 left, and a good pile of debts, whenever it shall 
 suit him to pay them. I fear that the account 
 his old brother officer gave of him was, on 
 the whole, correct. Certainly, Philip Durnford, 
 having had a six years' run of "pleasure" and 
 dissipation, knew most things that are to be 
 learned in that time, and was almost beginning 
 to think that the years had been purchased 
 by too great an expenditure of youth, health, 
 and capital. 
 
 When the girl left him, he stayed for a mo- 
 ment looking after her, as she tripped up the 
 street with her light and buoyant step, and turn- 
 ing on his heel with a sigh, strode off westward. 
 He went to Arthur's club. Not finding him 
 there, he went to his lodgings, and caught him 
 reading in his usual purposeless, studious way. 
 
 "What are you going to do, Arthur," asked 
 Philip, lighting a cigar, and taking the best 
 easy-chair, "with all your reading.-^" 
 
 "Spare me," said Arthur. "I am one of the 
 men who are always goitig to do everything. 
 Frankly, it is useless. I want some one to pull 
 me out of my own habits. But you, Phil, have 
 got energy for all the family."
 
 i66 My Little Girl. 
 
 "I've used some of it to-night," said Phil, 
 laughing, and telling his story. "Such a pretty 
 girl, Arthur. Oh! such a beautiful girl — tall, 
 sir, and as straight as an arrow. I should like 
 to meet her again. I don't believe too much in 
 the sex, but I do believe in the possibility of 
 my making a fool of myself over one, at least; 
 and, by Jove! it would be this one." 
 
 " Take care, Phil." 
 
 "Were you never in love, Arthur.? Come 
 now, gentle hermit, confess. Was there not 
 some barmaid in Oxford.? Was there never a 
 neat-handed Phillis — ne sit ancillae tibi amor 
 pudori — at the college buttery.?" 
 
 "I have not been in love, Phil," said Arthur, 
 lifting his fair, serious face, "since we left Pal- 
 miste; and then I was in love with Madeleine." 
 
 "Poor little Madeleine! So was I, I believe. 
 And where is she now.?" 
 
 " She was sent to Switzerland, after her 
 father's death, to be educated." 
 
 " The education ought to be finished by this 
 time. Why don't you go, old fellow, and 
 search about the playground of Europe .? You 
 might meet on the summit of the Matterhorn. 
 * Amanda' he, and 'Amandus* she, and all 
 Would be gas and fireworks." 
 
 Then they began to talk about old times and
 
 My Little Girl. i6j 
 
 boyish freaks; and Philip's better nature came 
 back to him, for a time at least. He saw little 
 of Arthur. They had not much in common. 
 When they did meet, it was in great friendship 
 and kindliness. But they were almost strangers; 
 and it was only now — Philip being home on 
 furlough and Arthur just come up to London — 
 that they had come together at all since the old 
 days in Palmiste. 
 
 I forgot to mention one curious thing in 
 Philip's life. On the first day of the year, some 
 unknown person always paid into his account 
 at Cox's the sum of two hundred pounds. This 
 came with a recurrence so regular that Phil 
 looked for it, and counted on it. He put it 
 down to a freak of Arthur's. Certainly, Arthur 
 had a good deal more of his own than he at all 
 knew what to do with. But it was not Arthur 
 — who, living so simply himself, did not under- 
 stand that his cousin might sometimes be in 
 want of money. Philip took the money, spent 
 it, and wished it had been more ; and he said 
 nothing about it to Arthur. The fountain of 
 benevolence, you see, is a source which may 
 possibly be muddled and spoiled by the un- 
 called-for tears of gratitude.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 O about this time, Hartley Venn began 
 to be seriously troubled about the 
 future of his protegee. He realized, 
 for the first time, that she was now a woman ; 
 and yet he was loath to change any of the little 
 customs which had gone on so long. For in- 
 stance, that kiss at arrival and departure. A 
 man of thirty-eight is certainly old enough to 
 be the papa of a girl of eighteen. On the other 
 hand, many men of thirty-eight are not too old 
 to be the lovers of girls of eighteen. He could 
 not put a stop to that^ tender little caress. And 
 yet, of late days, he caught himself blushing, 
 and his pulse quickened, when his lips touched 
 her forehead and her lips touched his cheek. 
 Only quite lately this feeling of constraint had 
 sprung up. Not on her part: the last thing the
 
 My Little Girl, 169 
 
 girl thought of was love on the part of her 
 guardian. There was no constraint with her — 
 only that hesitation and doubt which came from 
 the birth of new ideas within her. The germ of 
 many a thought and aspiration is sown in child- 
 hood, lying concealed in the brain till the time 
 of adolescence makes it appear and brighten 
 into life. 
 
 Then Hartley, putting the question of love 
 out of sight, resolutely refusing to admit it at 
 all into his mind, set himself to work out, as 
 he called it, a practical problem. As he was 
 the most unpractical of men, the result did 
 not appear likely to " come out." 
 
 He appealed, in his distress, to his sister 
 Sukey. 
 
 "You've educated that child," said his sister, 
 "till she can laugh at young ladies. You've 
 put your notions into her head, till she is as 
 full of queer thoughts as you are yourself 
 She talks about nothing but philanthropy, 
 and history, and what not. She is like no 
 other girl under the sun. And then you come 
 and ask me what you are to do with her. Do 
 you want to get rid of her.?" 
 
 " Get rid of her ! Why, Sukey, you must be 
 mad to think of such a thing. No. I want 
 to put her in some way — "
 
 I/O My Little Girl. 
 
 "Of earning a livelihood. Quite proper. 
 And time she did it. By rights she should 
 be a kitchen-maid. Not that I am unkind to 
 her, dear Hartley," she added, as her brother 
 flashed a warning look at her — " not at all. 
 And she is, as I believe, a very good girl — 
 spoiled, of course. What do you say, now, to 
 the bonnet-making.!*" 
 
 Hartley shook his head. 
 
 " She shall not work for her bread, Sukey. 
 I have taken a decisive step. I've made my 
 will, Sukey. You don't want any more money. 
 Bob's boy is looked after by his mother's 
 people. And, besides, you can leave him your 
 money, you know." 
 
 "I always intended to," said his sister. "You 
 needn't go on. You have left all yours to 
 Laura. Well, of course, it's a shame, and all 
 that. But you can do as you like with your 
 own. What do you want my advice about.''" 
 
 "That is just the difficulty. I want, some- 
 how, to do something for her that will take 
 her into a brighter atmosphere, out of the dingy 
 surroundings of her life." 
 
 " She lives with her grandmother, does she 
 not.-* At least, I have always understood that 
 this was the very proper arrangement." 
 
 "Yes; where her grandmother lives I have
 
 My Little Girl. 171 
 
 never thought about till the other day. Sukey, 
 my dear, I am a selfish animal. It was all to 
 please myself that I made a toy of the child. 
 To please myself, I watched her intelligence 
 grow under my hands ; only to please myself, I 
 put into her head ideas and knowledge. In my 
 own selfish gratification, I have made her ten 
 times as well taught as young ladyhood is apt 
 to be. I have never thought about what was 
 to come of it — or of me. And now — now — she 
 is a woman — and I — " 
 
 Sukey laughed. 
 
 "My poor dear Hartley, and youi* — you are 
 in love with her! I knew it was coming, all 
 along. Of course, it is a blow. After all your 
 brilliant prospects, and the grandson of a bishop, 
 and a Master of Arts, and a barrister-at-law, 
 and a scholar, and all — and — oh! dear, dear! 
 But I always expected it, and always said it. 
 If you will kindly ring the bell and call Anne, 
 she will tell you that I have prophesied it any 
 time this last six years." 
 
 When a misfortune comes upon you, it is, at 
 least, a consolation to your friends to have fore- 
 told it. But Hartley was walking up and down 
 the room, not listening. 
 
 " In love with her.^ I in love with Lollie.^ I 
 have loved her ever since she looked up in my
 
 172 My Little Girl 
 
 face, the very first day I saw her, and put up 
 her h"ps to be kissed. In love with her? I have 
 never thought of it. Upon my word, Sukey, I 
 have never even thought of it till the last few 
 days. It is nonsense — it is absurd. I am 
 twenty years older than Lollie. She looks on 
 me as her father: told me so last Sunday. 
 Love! Am I to think of love, at my age.? I 
 thought it was all put away and done with. 
 Sukey, forget what you have said. Don't raise 
 up before me the vision of a life with such love 
 as that. Let me go on having the child's 
 childish affection and trust. It is all I am fit 
 for. It is more than I deserve." 
 
 Hartley was not a demonstrative man. It 
 was rare, indeed, that the outer crust of a good- 
 natured cynicism was broken, and the inner 
 possibilities laid open. 
 
 "Ask her, Hartley, if she can love you." 
 
 "No, no; and lose all that I have!" 
 
 "Shall I ask her, then?" 
 
 "You, my dear sister?" he replied, laughing. 
 "He that cannot woo for himself is not v/orth 
 being wooed for. No. Let things be as they 
 are. Only I should like to see a way — " 
 
 "At any rate, there is no such great hurr>\" 
 , "If she had any creative power, it might be 
 worth while to make her a novelist. But she
 
 My Little Girl 173 
 
 hasn't. She only imitates, Uke most of her sex 
 — imitative animals. Man, you see, originates. 
 Woman receives, assimilates, and imparts. In 
 a higher state of civilization, women will be 
 teachers in all the schools from Eton down- 
 wards. Flogging, I suppose, will then — " 
 
 "Hartley, do be consecutive." 
 
 "I've tried her at writing, and she really 
 makes very creditable English verses. Her 
 Latin verses are a failure, principally because 
 she will not study the accuracies of language." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you have taught her 
 Latin.?" 
 
 "Why not.? Of course I have. We read 
 together portions of Horace, Ovid, Virgil, and 
 other poets. Lollie is a very fair Latin scholar, 
 I assure you. Well, I suggested that she should 
 write a novel; and after a great deal of trouble, 
 we concocted a plot. That was last year. We 
 went up the river, and elaborated it all one 
 summer's afternoon. It was a capital plot. 
 Three murders which all turned out to be no 
 murders, a bigamy, and the discovery of a will 
 in a bandbox, formed the main incidents. Un- 
 fortunately, we couldn't string it together. The 
 result was not satisfactory; and we took it out 
 one day, tied a great stone to it, and buried it 
 solemnly above Teddington Lock. It lies there
 
 174 My Little Girl. 
 
 still, in a waterproof oilskin; so that when the 
 river is dredged for treasure in a thousand years' 
 time it may be found, and published as a rare 
 and precious relic of antiquity. There we are, 
 you see. We can't be literary or musical; our 
 gifts and graces are so wholly receptive, that we 
 cannot even become a strong-minded woman. 
 What are we to do?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know. I only half under- 
 stand what it all means." 
 
 "It means, Sukey, plainly, that the time is 
 staring me in the face when I must do some- 
 thing for the child which will bring her into 
 the world, and — and — away from my old 
 chambers, where the atmosphere, very good for 
 children, may prove deleterious for a young 
 woman." 
 
 "If she could be honourably married," said 
 Sukey. 
 
 "I suppose," murmured her brother, "that 
 would be the best thing." Then he shook him- 
 self together, and brightened up. "My dear 
 sister, I never come here — it is wonderful to me 
 why I come so seldom — without getting the 
 solution of some of those problems which, as 
 I am not a mathematical man, do sometimes 
 so sorely worry me. Married, of course! She 
 shall be married next week."
 
 My Little Girl. 175 
 
 "But to whom, Hartley ? Do not laugh at 
 everything." 
 
 "Eh?" His face fell. "To be sure. I never 
 thought of that. There is Jones — but he has no 
 money ; and, besides, I should certainly not let 
 her marry Jones. And Lynn — but he is poorer 
 than Jones, and I should not let him have my 
 
 little girl. Then there is Sukey, you 
 
 have floored one problem only to raise another 
 and a worse one. To whom shall I marry her.?" 
 
 He put on his hat, shook his head mournfully, 
 and went away. Next day he propounded 
 some of his difficulties to Lollie. 
 
 "And so, after a long talk with my sister, the 
 most sensible woman that at present adorns the 
 earth, she gave me, Lollie, the answer to the 
 question I have been troubling myself with 
 for so long. She says, my child, that there is 
 only one way : you must be comfortably and 
 honourably married. Her very words." 
 
 "I, Mr. Venn.-*" The girl looked up and 
 laughed in his face, with those merry blue eyes 
 of hers. "What have I done that I must be 
 married.?" 
 
 "Don't raise difficulties, Lollie," he said, in a 
 feeble way. "After all the trouble we had in 
 getting Sukey to give us the right answer, too." 
 
 She laughed again.
 
 176 My Lit He Girl. 
 
 "I suppose I am not to be married unless I 
 like?" 
 
 "Why, no — I suppose not. No. Oh, certainly 
 not. But you will like, won't you.'*" 
 
 " And who am I to marry } " 
 
 "Why, you see, Lollie — " He grew confiden- 
 tial. "The fact is, I don't know. Jones won't do." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no. He is too — too — undig- 
 nified." 
 
 "Mr. Lynn.?" 
 
 " Certainly not. Is there any one else .''" 
 
 " Not at present, my child. But we shall see. 
 Let us look around us. London is a great place. 
 If London won't do, there is all England; be- 
 sides the rest of Great Britain, Berwick-upon- 
 Tweed, and the colonies." 
 
 "What does it all mean, Mr. Venn.?" she 
 asked, sitting at his feet on the footstool. " Last 
 Sunday you were talking in the same strain. 
 You are not going away, or anything, are you .?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I have not offended you, have I V 
 
 He patted her cheek, and shook his head 
 
 And you love me as much as always, don't 
 
 you .? ' 
 
 " More, Lollie, more," he said, in a queer, 
 constrained voice. But she understood nothing.
 
 My Little Girl. 177 
 
 " Then, what is it ? Do you think I am not 
 grateful to you ?" 
 
 " Don't, child— don't talk of gratitude." 
 
 " Do you think I do not love you enough ? 
 Oh, Mr. Venn, you know I do." 
 
 Perhaps it would have been well if he had 
 spoken, then, the words which rose to his lips — 
 
 " It is that I think you can never love me as I 
 love you — no longer as your guardian, but your 
 lover; no longer as a child, but with the hungry 
 passion of a man who has never known a 
 woman's love, and yearns for your love." 
 
 But he was silent, only patting her cheek 
 in a grave and silent way. 
 
 "Would you really like me to be married, 
 Mr. Venn.?" 
 
 He left her, and began walking about; for 
 the spectre which he had deliberately refused 
 to see stood before him now, face to face — the 
 spectre of another feeling, newer, sweeter, alto- 
 gether lovely. But he faced it still. 
 
 "Can there be a better thing for a girl than 
 to be married, Lollie.? I wish what is best for 
 you." 
 
 " Would it be best for me to give up coming 
 here every day.?" 
 
 " No, child, no," he replied, passionately. 
 
 "Then why want me to.?" 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 1/8 Mj/ Little Girl, 
 
 "It would break my heart not to see you 
 here every day," he went on, not daring to look 
 her in the face. "But — but — there are other 
 things. Lollie, I want you to be happy during 
 those long hours when you are not with me." 
 
 She turned red, and the tears came into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "I have been, as usual, a selfish beast," he 
 said. " I have only, since Sunday, realized in a 
 small degree what a difference there is, of my 
 making, between you and the people in whose 
 midst you live. Lollie, you are a lady. Believe 
 me, there is no girl in all England better 
 educated than yourself. I think, too, there is 
 no girl so beautiful." 
 
 She looked at him with surprise. He had 
 never before even hinted at the possibility of 
 her being beautiful. 
 
 "Am I pretty.? Oh, Mr. Venn, I am so glad." 
 
 " Mind," he went on, careful to guard against 
 possible error, "I only think so. I've got no 
 experience in these things, you know." 
 
 "Ah!" she replied. "And very likely you are 
 mistaken. I suppose all girls like to be beau- 
 tiful, do they not.? And you are not in such a 
 very great hurry to see me away, married, or 
 anything else, are you.?" 
 
 He smiled in his queer way. Hartley Venn's
 
 My Little Girl. 179 
 
 smile was peculiar to himself — at least, I never 
 met anybody else with it. There was always a 
 sort of sadness in the curve of his sensitive lips. 
 He smiled with his eyes first, too, like the 
 damsel in Chaucer. 
 
 "Hir eyen greye and glad also, 
 That laugheden ay in hire semblaunt, 
 First or the mouth by covenant." 
 
 " Not in a hurry at all, Lollie — only I 
 thought we would talk things over some day. 
 Now, let us do something. It is six o'clock. 
 We will dine together, and go to the theatre. 
 Shall we.^ Enough of sentiment, and of con- 
 fidences enough. We will rejoice. What does 
 Horace say.'* — 
 
 ' Hie dies vere mihi festus — '" 
 
 " That is delightful," said Lollie, clapping her 
 hands. " When you begin to quote, I know you 
 are happy again. Let us have no more talk of 
 marrying, Mr. Venn. One thing, you know,'" 
 she said, placing her hand on his arm — " I could 
 never marry anybody but a gentleman ; and as 
 no gentleman will ever love me, why I shall 
 never marry anybody at all; and we shall go on 
 being happy together, you and I — 
 
 *I1 n'y a que moi qui ai ses iddes la. 
 Gai la riette — gai, hra, lire.'" 
 
 And so, singing and dancing, she put on her 
 
 12 — 2
 
 i8o My Little Girl. 
 
 hat and gloves, and taking Hartley's arm, went 
 out to the restaurant which knew them well. As 
 she passed through the portals of the dingy old 
 Inn, with her springing step and the laughing 
 light of her happy face, the old porter rubbed 
 his eyes, the policeman assumed an attitude of 
 respectful attention, and the cads who loafed 
 about for odd jobs became conscious of some- 
 thing in the world superior to beer and a dry 
 skittle-ground. Whenever I meet a maiden 
 happy in her beauty, methinks, in my mind's 
 eye, I see again Aphrodite springing up anew 
 from the ocean. Happy Aphrodite! She reigns 
 by no virtue of her own. She is not wise, or 
 strong, or prescient; she does not hold the 
 thread of destiny; she is unconnected with the 
 electric department; she has no control over 
 the weather; she is not consulted in the dis- 
 tribution of wealth or honours; and yet she is 
 Queen among goddesses, Empress over gods — 
 Regina Caeli.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HE days passed on, and Lollie 
 thought no more of her champion. 
 But Philip thought of her; and, 
 when he took his walks abroad, 
 more often than not bent his steps down 
 Oxford-street and Holborn, praying silently
 
 1 82 My Little Girl. 
 
 that he might chance upon her again. He 
 might have walked up and down Holborn for 
 ever on the chance of seeing her again, and yet 
 missed her altogether. But one day, thinking 
 of something else, he was walking round a 
 square in Bloomsbury, when, raising his eyes 
 from the ground — I believe he was thinking of 
 his bets — he saw the maiden of his exploit 
 tripping along a few yards before him. There 
 was no mistaking her. She came along, with a 
 light, elastic step, full of youth and health, with 
 her frank, sweet face, her deep blue eyes, and 
 her tall, lithe figure: only by day she looked 
 ten times as well as by night. 
 
 She, too, saw him, and blushed. 
 
 Philip took off his hat. She hesitated a 
 moment, and held out her hand. 
 
 "I ought to thank you properly," she said. 
 *' I was very much frightened." 
 
 Philip took her hand and turned. The girl 
 went on, and he with her. You see, it was one 
 of the radical defects of her education that she 
 positively did not know the dreadful "wrong- 
 ness" of letting a man, not properly introduced, 
 speak to her and walk with her. 
 
 " I shall tell Mr. Venn I met you," she said. 
 " He will be glad. Come and see him yourself, 
 for him to thank you."
 
 My Little Girl. 183 
 
 " May I ask — excuse me, but I do not know- 
 Mr. Venn." 
 
 " He is my guardian. I am going to him 
 now. He lives in Gray's Inn." 
 
 It seemed strange to the girl that all the 
 world did not know Mr. Venn. 
 
 Philip did not know what to say. As he 
 walked along by her side, he turned furtive 
 glances at her, drinking in the lines of beauty 
 of her face and form. 
 
 " Do you live near here.^" 
 
 " No — I am here by accident. I am living in 
 St. James's-street, in lodgings. I am on leave 
 from my regiment. 
 
 "I don't think," said Lollie, "that I should 
 much like to be an officer." She always took 
 the male point of view, from habit. " I should 
 like best to be a writer, a dramatist, or perhaps 
 a barrister. But I should like to wear the uni- 
 form. Once I saw a splendid review at Windsor, 
 when the Viceroy of Egypt was here. Are you 
 in the cavalry?" 
 
 "No. I am in the line." 
 
 "Why do you not go into the cavalry.? It 
 must be delightful to charge, with all the horses 
 thundering over the ground. Do you like your 
 profession.?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so — as well as anything."
 
 1 84 My Little Girl. 
 
 "You know," said the girl, "it is absurd for a 
 man to take up with a thing, and then take no 
 interest in it. I should like something I could 
 throw my whole heart into." 
 
 "I could only throw my Avhole heart away 
 upon one thing," Philip replied, softly, and with 
 a half-blush ; for he was afraid he was making a 
 foolish observation. 
 
 "What is that.-* If I were you, I should take 
 it up at once." 
 
 '^**I could only throw my whole heart away — 
 upon a woman." 
 
 Laura received the remark as one of profound 
 philosophical importance. 
 
 "That is a very curious thing. Not a right 
 thing at all. I should think it would be so 
 much better to put your heart into work." 
 
 "Tell me," said Philip, in a half-whisper, "do 
 you not think love a worthy object of a man's 
 life.?" 
 
 "I really do not think anything about it," said 
 the girl. "And now I must leave you, because 
 I am going down here, and so to the Inn. 
 Won't you come in and be thanked by Mr. 
 Venn.?" 
 
 "No, it is enough to be thanked by you. 
 May I — am I impertinent in asking you — will 
 you tell me your name.?"
 
 My Little Girl. 185 
 
 "I am called Laura Collingwood," she an- 
 swered, freely and frankly. "What is yours?" 
 
 "Philip Durnford." 
 
 "Philip Durnford — I like the name. Mr. 
 Venn has a friend of your name, but I have not 
 met him yet. Good-bye, Mr. Durnford." 
 
 "One moment. Shall we never meet again .^" 
 
 He looked so sentimental that Laura burst 
 out laughing. 
 
 "You look as if you were going to cry. I 
 think we shall very likely never meet again." 
 
 Phil grew desperate. His hot Southern blood 
 rose at once. 
 
 "I must speak — laugh at me if you like. I 
 have been hanging about Oxford-street in hopes 
 of meeting you, and for no other reason. I 
 think you are the sweetest-looking girl I ever 
 saw, and — and — I am a fool to say it, when I 
 have only spoken twice 1 love you." 
 
 She looked at him without a blush on her 
 face — quite coldly, quite openly, as if it were 
 the most natural thing in the world for a man 
 to tell her this at the second meeting. 
 
 " Do you mean you want to marry me.''" 
 
 The question, so abruptly and boldly stated, 
 took Philip by surprise. 
 
 "Of course I do," he cried, hastily — "of 
 course I do."
 
 1 86 My Little Girl. 
 
 "Oh," she replied slowly, "I don't know. 
 You see, I've no experience in marriage matters. 
 I must ask Mr. Venn what he thinks about it. 
 He told me the other day he should like to 
 see me married. I shall see what he says 
 about it, first. We must never do serious things 
 in a hurry, you know." 
 
 Surely, the quaintest answer that ever man 
 had to a proposal. Philip felt as if he were 
 in a dream. 
 
 "Won't you come and see him yourself?" 
 she asked. 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " I have been too hasty," he said. " Pardon 
 me. I am rude and uncouth. Miss Colling- 
 wood, I ask your forgiveness." 
 
 "I wonder what for?" thought Lollie. But 
 she said nothing. 
 
 " Let us wait," he said. " Marriage is a very 
 serious thing, as you say. I am worse than 
 a fool. Believe only that I love you, as I 
 said. And meet me again. Let me learn to 
 love you more, and try and teach you to love 
 me." 
 
 " I will ask Mr. Venn." 
 
 " No," said Philip, with a sharp pang of con- 
 science, " do not ask him. Wait. Meet me 
 once more first, and let me speak to you again.
 
 My Little Girl 187 
 
 Then you shall tell him. Will you promise 
 me so much ? Meet me to-morrow." 
 
 " I promise," said Laura. " But — " 
 
 " Thanks — a thousand thanks. You will 
 meet me to-morrow, and you will keep the 
 secret." 
 
 He took off his hat, lightly touched her 
 fingers, and walked away. 
 
 Lollie went in to Mr. Venn. It was four in 
 the afternoon, and the sage was hard at work 
 on his last essay. 
 
 "I thought you would never come, child. 
 What did Sukey say.?" 
 
 " Miss Venn is better, and much obliged for 
 the papers; and, oh, Mr. Venn, I've had an 
 adventure, and I've got a secret!" 
 
 "What is the adventure, Lollie.''" 
 
 " That is the secret. I will tell it you as 
 soon as I can. Tell me, Mr. Venn, is it wrong 
 to have a secret.-*" 
 
 "That is a wide question, involving a profound 
 study of all casuistry and debated points from 
 Thales to Mill. I would rather refer you to 
 their works generally." 
 
 "Well, then, may I have a secret.?" 
 
 "Fifty, my dear, \i you will. You look a great 
 deal better to-day, Lollie ; and if this east wind 
 would be good enough to go away — where
 
 1 88 My Little Girl. 
 
 would it go to, and what becomes of all the 
 
 other winds when they are off duty?" 
 "Eurus keeps them in a bag, you know." 
 **So he does — so he does. Well, in spite of 
 
 the east wind, let us go and look at the shops, 
 
 Lollie." 
 
 They did; and at ten, after a little music and 
 
 talk, the girl went home as usual, but feeling 
 
 strangely excited. 
 
 Let us follow her newly found lover, and tell 
 how his evening was spent. 
 
 Just now this part of the day was usually de- 
 voted to the billiard-room of the very respectable 
 club to which he had been elected on his arrival 
 in England. He was an indifferently good player. 
 — nowhere in good company, but could hold 
 his own in bad. He had no scientific knowledge 
 of the angles of the table; he handled his cue 
 clumsily; and was not within thirty-five points 
 in a hundred of the best players at his club. 
 Besides, he was not really fond of the game: it 
 was the money element that made him play at 
 all ; and he never cared to play without having 
 from half a crown to a sovereign on his game. 
 Philip was that very common animal, a born 
 gambler. Now, pool always presented the at- 
 traction of chance ; so Mr. Phil played much
 
 My Little Girl. 189 
 
 more at this than he did at billiards. He 
 generally got put out of the game among the 
 first Still, there is always a large element of 
 luck about it ; and though you are knocked out, 
 there is a chance of a bet or two on the lives left 
 in. It was a mild enough affair — three-shilling 
 pool and shilling lives, just enough to keep the 
 spark of gambling alive. At the pool-table, as 
 a matter of course, Philip picked up a few 
 friends — Captains Shairp and Smythe, late of the 
 — th, in which regiment they had lost all their 
 money, and perhaps a little of their honour; 
 living now, it is whispered, largely on their wits. 
 Gentlemen such as these play well at most 
 games, whether of chance or skill. They have 
 a habit of making friends with new members of 
 the club; though it is observed that these friend- 
 ships seldom last long. And yet, Smythe and 
 Shairp were two of the most agreeable, polite, 
 open-hearted fellows it is possible to conceive. 
 No men corrected the marker's mistakes so 
 softly : no men called to the waiters for a drink 
 in so jolly and affable a tone. Yet nobody cared 
 for their society. Perhaps the captains were to 
 blame for this. Who knows } On the other 
 hand, people might be wrong in whispering 
 away their fair fame. The fact is indisputable 
 — they had the misfortune to be disliked.
 
 1 90 My Little Girl. 
 
 Philip Durnford knew nothing of all this when 
 he joined his club; and so, in two days' time, he 
 nodded to the captains as they chalked their 
 cues for business, chatted in a week, and was a 
 friend in a fortnight. Perhaps, if Smythe and 
 Shairp had known the exact amount of Mr. 
 Philip's balance at his agents, they might not 
 have been so free and open-handed in the mat- 
 ter of cigars. 
 
 It was on the evening of this, his second meet- 
 ing with Laura, that Philip dined at his club, and 
 went quietly into the billiard-room after dinner: 
 intending to play till nine, and then go to the 
 French play, where he had a stall — centre of the 
 second row. The evening proved a sort of turn- 
 ing-point in his career; for, unluckily, he never 
 went to the French play at all. His two friends 
 had also two friends with them — very young 
 fellows, with the air of wealth about them. In 
 a word, pigeons being plucked. Two or three 
 other men were playing in the pool with them : 
 among these was young Mylles, cornet in the 
 Hussars, the most amiable and the silliest young 
 gander in the club: a little looked down upon, 
 because his father had been connected with the 
 soap-boiling interest. Said Shairp, when Phil 
 proposed to put down his cue and go — 
 
 '•' If you would stay, we could make up two
 
 My Little Girl. 191 
 
 rubbers. Pray don't go — that is, if you can 
 stay." 
 
 It poured in torrents. Phil looked out into 
 the wet street, hesitated, and was lost. 
 
 The card-room was cozy enough — bright and 
 warm; though the rain pelted hard against the 
 windows, and came spitting down the chimney 
 into the fire. Over the fireplace hung the usual 
 rules against heavy bets and games of chance — 
 a fact which did not restrain the astute Shairp. 
 He said, after a rubber — 
 
 "By Jove ! Whist is a very fine game, and a- 
 very noble game, and all that ; but at the risk 
 of being thought an ass, I must say it is not 
 exciting enough to please me." 
 
 Captain Smythe concurred. 
 
 So did Phil. He hated whist with all his 
 heart. He was a bad player. 
 
 " I really think, now, if you will excuse me, 
 I shall go to the play. It is past ten already, 
 and I want to see Mdlle. Dufont." 
 
 " But you can't go out in this rain, you know. 
 It's absurd to have a cab to cross the street in. 
 Wait a bit." 
 
 Phil waited. Another rubber was played 
 through. Smythe walked to the window, threw 
 up his arms over his head, and yawned loudly.
 
 192 Mf Little GirL 
 
 " Smythe's tired," said Shairp. 
 
 " So am I," said Phil. 
 
 " We might have a Httle something else for a 
 change, eh?" 
 
 "Ah," said Smythe, "we might. Confound 
 it, though, we can't play here, and" — pulling out 
 his watch — " I've got a most particular appoint- 
 ment at eleven." 
 
 "I haven't had a hand at loo for — let me 
 see — six months, I know, if it's a day," said 
 Shairp. 
 
 His friend had ten objections — overruled in 
 ten seconds. 
 
 One of the party never played at loo, and left 
 them. The younger pigeon, who had just got 
 into newly furnished chambers, said — 
 
 "It paws so with wain, or we might go to 
 my diggings. What a baw it is ! One's boots 
 would be sopped thrwough before one could get 
 into a Hansom." 
 
 So they played at the club. 
 
 "Just ten minutes, you know," said Shairp 
 and Smythe. 
 
 The ten minutes grew into an hour and a half 
 The stakes were doubled twice, and the game 
 was "guinea unlimited," when the pigeons were 
 so thirsty that they risked ringing the bell. 
 
 " Brandy and soda, waiter."
 
 My Little Girl. 193 
 
 The drinks arrived, and with them a hint that 
 they were breaking the rules of the club. 
 
 Phil was the heaviest loser, and with his 
 money he lost what is of much more value at 
 games of chance — his temper. He answered 
 the polite message of the servant with an oath. 
 Two minutes afterwards the steward came. 
 Civilly he pointed to the rules hanging over the 
 fireplace, and asked the gentlemen to desist. 
 
 Shairp and S my the said he was quite right, 
 and mentally calculated what they had won by 
 handling the money in their pockets. 
 
 But Philip acted differently. He said — 
 
 *' It's an infernal silly rule, that's all I've got 
 to say." 
 
 "■ It is the rule, sir," said the nettled servant. 
 
 "Then d — n the rule, and you too." And he 
 tore the cardboard from the nail it hung on, and 
 tore it into a dozen pieces. Some fell in the 
 fender, some in the fire. 
 
 " I say, [Durnford," said Shairp, " I think 
 that's rather strong." 
 
 Phil laughed. The man said he must report 
 the act to the secretary, and left the room. 
 
 They played till there was a single. Then 
 everybody but Philip and one of the two pigeons 
 had had enough. They were either winners 
 on the night, or had not lost. So the pigeon, 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 -^fy Little Girl. 
 
 backed by Phil, insisted that they could not 
 leave off yet; and the party of seven ad- 
 journed in two four-wheelers to the pigeon's 
 chambers. 
 
 Here, when the fire was lighted, and they had 
 tried the quality of their host's liquors, the game 
 went on. A fresh place, new cards. 
 
 " My luck will change, you'll see," said PhiL 
 But it did not, and as all his ready money was 
 gone, he put in I O Us, written on scraps of 
 paper and signed P. D., with an apology. 
 
 "A man can't carry the Bank of England 
 about with him," he said. 
 
 " I suppose he is good," whispered Shairp, 
 
 *' Right as the mail," replied Smythe. 
 
 So they went on, and the two friends took 
 Phil's paper as readily as their young pigeon's 
 notes. 
 
 The game waxed warm. The stakes got 
 high. Their host emptied two gold-topped scent 
 bottles filled with sovereigns out of his dressing 
 case on to the claret cloth of his card table, and 
 they were gone in three rounds. The bottles 
 held fifty a-piece too. 
 
 "My usual luck," growled PhiHp. "Looed 
 again." 
 
 " I never saw anything like it," said Smythe. 
 ** It must turn, though, and we need not hurry."
 
 My L it tie Girl, ,195 
 
 "Oh, no — play for ever if you like, he-ah," 
 said their host. He was getting rather tipsy. 
 
 But Shairp and Smythe, who had earned 
 their money, got fidgety, and began to feel 
 very sleepy. 
 
 Shairp nodded in his chair. Smythe looked 
 at his watch every few minutes, although there 
 were three French clocks in the rooms, chiming 
 the quarters, and his own watch had stopped at. 
 half-past three. 
 
 Phil's luck had not turned, and he was very 
 much excited. His head ached, his eyes ached,, 
 the brandy he had drunk had made his legs feeL 
 queer, and his temper was what a gentleman's 
 is when luck has been against him all night. 
 
 There were frequent squabbles as to the 
 amount of the pool, the division of it into 
 tricks, as to who was looed and who was not; 
 but oftenest about who had not put his money 
 in. 
 
 Little silly, honest Mylles was now the 
 soberest of the party — always excepting the 
 two confederates — and he was only kept out 
 of his bed in his father's house in Eaton-square 
 by the feeling that he ought not to be the first 
 to run away, as he had not lost much. 
 
 Phil was inaccurate, and Mylles corrected him 
 more than pnce. The others supported Mylles's 
 
 13—2
 
 196 My Little Girl. 
 
 view, and this riled Phil. At last, when Phil 
 exclaimed — 
 
 *' Somebody has not put in again," he looked 
 pointedly across the table. 
 
 "I put in," said Shairp, wide awake. "I know 
 mine. It was two half sovs and a shilling." 
 
 " I saw you," said Smythe, quite careless 
 whether the assertion possessed the merit of 
 truth or not. 
 
 " parcit 
 
 Cognatis maculis similis fera," 
 
 " I know I put in," said Shairp and everybody. 
 
 "Then it's put on to me again," said Phil, 
 snappishly. 
 
 "You did not put in, I know," said Mylles, 
 quietly. " I saw who put in." 
 
 "That be d d," said Philip, his features 
 
 swelling and his lips twitching. 
 
 The cornet turned a little pale. 
 
 " If you mean those words, I must leave the 
 room. 
 
 "Consider them repeated," said Philip, in a 
 fury. 
 
 " I must go," said Mylles, rising. 
 
 "Go, then; and be d d to you." 
 
 To two persons present it did not matter. 
 Their end was served — for the night. The 
 -thre^. gentlemen who heard it were shocked.
 
 My Little Girl. 197 
 
 and ran after Mylles. But he could not be 
 prevailed on to come back. 
 
 When they returned without him, Phil was 
 laughing immoderately, with laughter half real, 
 half affected. 
 
 " I'll tell you what I'm laughing at," he said. 
 " I was thinking what a scene Thackeray would 
 have made out of all this." 
 
 "Thackeray, at least, would never have be- 
 haved so to anybody," said the soberest of the 
 men. 
 
 Phil laughed, feeling a good deal ashamed, 
 and the party separated. Phil, with a note of 
 the amount of the I O Us— a good deal heavier 
 than he at all expected — and a promise to send 
 cheques the next morning, went home to bed. 
 
 It was broad daylight, and therefore tolerably 
 late. 
 
 As he felt for the latch-key, he found the 
 ticket for the stall in his pocket. 
 
 "Wish I'd gone there," he sighed. 
 
 Morning brought repentance. He sent his 
 cheques; he sent in his resignation to the club; 
 he sought out Mylles and apologized; and then 
 — most fatal act — he met S my the, and accepted 
 a proposal of that gallant officer's to put his 
 name down at the Burleigh Club.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 F you want to see Marguerite waiting 
 for Faust, as likely a spot as any to 
 find her is the left-hand walk, below 
 the bridge, in St. James's Park — that part of the 
 walk which is opposite to the Foreign Office, 
 and has an umbrageous protection of leaves and 
 branches. I am told that the British Museum 
 is another likely place. Certainly, it has never 
 yet been satisfactorily explained why so many 
 pretty girls go there. South Kensington is 
 greatly frequented by young ladies who delight 
 in those innocent dallyings with a serious 
 passion which we call a flirtation. According 
 to some authorities, the Crystal Palace is the 
 most likely place of all. But my own expe- 
 rience leads me to select St. James's Park. 
 There, between the hours of ten and one, or
 
 My Little Girl. 199 
 
 between three and five — because Marguerite 
 dines with her family at one^you may always 
 see some pretty rosy-cheeked damsel strolling, 
 apparently with no purpose except that of 
 gentle exercise, up and down the shady walks. 
 Sometimes she stops at the water's edge, and 
 contemplates the ducks which adorn the lake, or 
 impatiently pushes the gravel into the water 
 with the point of her parasol. Sometimes she 
 makes great play with her book. But always 
 she is there first ; for very fear, poor child, that 
 she may miss him. And he always comes late. 
 
 On this particular morning — a fresh, bright 
 morning in May — the east winds having gone 
 away earlier than usual, and the leaves really 
 beginning to feel tolerably safe in coming out, 
 a young girl of eighteen is loitering up and 
 down, with an anxious and rather careworn 
 look. Big Ben chimes the quarters, and people 
 come and go. But she remains, twisting her 
 glove, and biting her lips with vexation. The 
 appointed time was half-past ten. She was 
 there at a quarter before ten. It is now eleven. 
 
 "And he said he would be there punctually," 
 she murmurs. 
 
 Presently, she leaves off tapping the ground 
 impatiently. Her cheek flushes. Her eyes be- 
 gin to soften. She hesitates. She turns into
 
 200 My Little Girl. 
 
 the shadiest part of the walk, while a manly- 
 heel comes crunching the gravel behind her. 
 There is no one in the walk but a policeman. 
 He — good, easy man — as one used to the ways 
 of young people, and as experienced as the 
 moon herself, turns away, and slowly leaves 
 them alone. 
 
 "Laura," whispers the new-comer, taking both 
 her hands. 
 
 She makes pretence of being angry. 
 
 "Philip! And you promised to be here at 
 half-past ten." 
 
 " I could not help it, child. Regimental 
 duties detained me." 
 
 "But your regiment is at Malta." 
 
 "That is it. Correspondence. Letters which 
 had to be answered." 
 
 Lovelace himself never told a greater fib. 
 
 And presently they sit down and talk. 
 
 "See what I have brought for you, Laura," 
 says the lover, lugging out a pair of earrings, in 
 the child's eyes worthy to be worn by a duchess. 
 "Will you wear them, and will you think of me 
 every time you put them on.!*" 
 
 Laura takes the earrings, and looks up at him 
 in a grave and serious way. She has none of 
 the little coquettish ways of girls who want to 
 play and sport with their lovers, like an angler
 
 My Little Giri. 201 
 
 with a fish. That was because she had never 
 associated with girls of her own age at all. 
 Straightforward, and perfectly truthful, she an- 
 swered him now with another question. 
 
 "Will you tell me again what you told me 
 when we met last — the second time we ever 
 met.?" 
 
 "I told you that I loved you, and I asked you 
 to marry me. Tell me in return that you love 
 me a very little. If you give me back a tenth 
 part of my love for you, Laura, I should be rich, 
 indeed in love." 
 
 "I don't know," she answered, looking him 
 full in the face. "I like you. You are a gentle- 
 man, and — and handsome, and you are pleasant. 
 Then you fall in love with me, which, I am sure, 
 must be a silly thing to do. That's against 
 you, you know. But how am I to know that I 
 love you.-*" 
 
 "Do you want to see me?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, frankly; "else I should 
 not be here now." 
 
 "Do you love anybody else.?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 "Do you think of me.?" 
 
 "Why, of course. I've been thinking of no- 
 thing else. It is all so strange. I've been 
 dreaming of you, even," she added laughing.
 
 202 My Little Girl. 
 
 "And you have said nothing to Mr. — what 
 is his name, your guardian?" 
 
 "Mr. Venn? No — nothing. I only told him 
 I had a secret, and wanted to keep it for the 
 present." 
 
 "Good child." 
 
 "Then, I told him yesterday that I was 
 coming here — all part of my secret — at half- 
 past ten." 
 
 "You told him you were coming here?" said 
 Philip, starting up. "Then he is quite sure to 
 come too." 
 
 "Mr. Venn is a gentleman, Mr. Durnford," 
 said Laura, with great dignity. "He trusts 
 people altogether, or not at all." 
 
 "By Jove!" murmured Phil, "he must be a 
 very remarkable man." 
 
 "Mr. Venn told me to keep my secret as long 
 as ever I pleased. So that is all right. And 
 now I must tell you two or three things about 
 myself, and we will talk about love and all that 
 afterwards, if you like." 
 
 "No; let us talk about love now. Never mind 
 the two or three things." 
 
 "But we must, you know. Now, listen. Who 
 do you think I am ? Tell me honestly, because 
 I want to know. Quite honestly, mind. Don't 
 think you will offend me."
 
 My Little Girl. 203 
 
 "Well — honestly, I do not know and cannot 
 guess. You dress like all young ladies, but you 
 are somehow different." 
 
 "Ah," replied Laura, "I never shall be like 
 them." 
 
 "But, child, you are a great deal better. 
 You don't pretend to blush, and put on all sorts 
 of little affectations ; and you haven't learned 
 all their tricks." 
 
 "What affectations — what tricks.^" 
 
 " And I like you all the better for it. Now, 
 tell me who you are, and all about your- 
 self." 
 
 " My mother was a poor girl. My father was 
 a gentleman — I am glad to know that. He 
 died before I was born. My grandmother is a 
 poor old woman, who gets her living by being 
 a laundress in Gray's Inn. And if it had not 
 been for Mr. Venn, I should have been — I don't 
 know — anything. He took me when I was five 
 years old, and has been educating me ever since. 
 I never spoke to any lady in my life, except 
 Miss Venn, his sister. I never go anywhere, 
 except with Mr. Venn ; and I never spoke to 
 any gentleman, except Mr. Venn's most intimate 
 friends, until I met you. I have no relations, 
 no friends, no connexions. I belong to the 
 very lowest stratum of London life. Now, Mr.
 
 204 -^y Little Girl. 
 
 Durnford, you have all my story. What do 
 you think of it?" 
 
 His face wore a puzzled expression. 
 
 "Tell me more. Have you no brothers.^" 
 
 "No, none." 
 
 "That's a good thing. I mean, of course, it 
 is always best to be without brothers and 
 cousins. Don't you think so.?" 
 
 " I don't know. It must be nice to have one 
 brother all to yourself, you know. There's a 
 large family of brothers, grown-up brothers, 
 living next door to my grandmother's. They 
 get tipsy every Saturday evening, and fight. 
 I should not like brothers like them. To be 
 sure, they are stonemasons." 
 
 "And now tell me more about your guardian, 
 Mr. Venn. I suppose he is a fidgety old gentle- 
 man — likes to have you about him to nurse him, 
 and all that.?" 
 
 Lollie burst out laughing. 
 r " Mr. Venn is not an old gentleman at all. 
 Older than you, of course, ever so much. He 
 must be thirty-seven, at least." 
 
 "Oh!" Philip's face lengthened. "And does 
 Mr. Venn never — never make love to you on his 
 own account.?" 
 
 She laughed the louder. 
 
 "Oh, what nonsense!" she cried — " Mr. Venn
 
 My Little Girl. 205 
 
 making love to me. He has told me twice that 
 he wants me to marry a gentleman. That was 
 why I agreed to meet you again." 
 
 "So there was no love for me at all," said 
 Philip. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't talk like that," replied 
 the girl. "I've told you already. What more 
 can I say.'* You asked me if I loved anybody 
 else. Of course I do not. Then you asked me 
 if I liked you. Of course I do. And if I have 
 been thinking about you. Of course I have. 
 Now, sir, what more do you want?" 
 
 "Laura, if you loved me, you would long to 
 see me again; your pulse would beat, and 
 your face would flush, when you met me. But 
 you are cold and passionless. You know" — 
 his own face flushing — "that I think of no one 
 but you. You know that — that there is nothing 
 in the world I would not give to win you. And 
 yet you play with me as if I were a statue of 
 marble." 
 
 She looked at him in a kind of surprise. 
 
 *'I don't understand you at all. What am I 
 to say? You tell me you love me. That makes 
 me very proud, because it is a great thing to be 
 loved by a gentleman. I am grateful. What 
 more do you want? My pulse doesn't beat any 
 faster when I see you coming along the walk —
 
 2o6 My Little Girl. 
 
 not a bit. If it did I would tell you. Tell me 
 what it is you want me to do, and I will do it. 
 But of course you would not like me to tell you 
 anything but the truth." 
 
 She looked at him with her full, earnest eyes. 
 His fell before them. They were so reproach- 
 ful in their innocence and purity. 
 
 *T want nothing, Laura," he said, in a husky 
 voice — "nothing. Only I love you, child, and 
 you must be mine." 
 
 "Oh!" she replied, clapping her hands. 
 "Then I will tell Mr. Venn at once. He will 
 be glad. And you shall come up with me to 
 see him." 
 
 "I am afraid that will hardly do," said her 
 lover, feebly. "No. Listen, Laura, dear. Mr. 
 Venn knows you have a secret, and has given 
 you permission to keep it, hasn't he?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then we will keep it. We will keep it till 
 the day we are married, and then we will go 
 together to his chambers, you and I, and you 
 shall say — 
 
 "'Mr. Venn, I have done what you wanted 
 me to do. I have married a man who loves me 
 — who is a gentleman; and I have done it, first 
 because you will be pleased, and secondly be- 
 cause I Jove him too.'"
 
 My Little Girl. 207 
 
 She pondered a little. 
 
 "I wonder if that is right. Don't you think I 
 ought to tell him at once?" 
 
 "Oh, no — certainly not yet. Not till we are 
 actually married. Think how gratified Mr. Venn 
 will be." 
 
 She was not yet satisfied. 
 
 *'I will think it over," she said. "Mr. Venn 
 always says that going to bed is the best thing 
 for bringing your opinion right. Whenever he 
 is troubled with anything, he goes to bed early, 
 and in the morning he is always as happy as 
 ever. I am quite sure he would be very glad to 
 be told all about it at once. Some day, how 
 proud and happy we shall all be to have known 
 him." 
 
 "Very likely; and meanwhile, Laura, nothing 
 will be said to him." 
 
 "No — I will go on keeping the secret. But, 
 Philip, it will be so delightful when we can all 
 three go together up the river. Do you know 
 the Bells of Ouseley.? We often go there in the 
 summer, row down the river, you know, have 
 dinner, and row back again in the evening for 
 the last train. There is nothing in the world so 
 delightful." 
 
 "But if we are married, you may not be able 
 to be 30 much with Mr. Venn."
 
 208 My Little Girl. 
 
 Her face fell. 
 
 "Tell me," she said. "Marriage does not 
 mean that I am to be separated from Mr. Venn, 
 does it.-* Because if it does, I would never marry- 
 any one. No, not if he loved me — as much as 
 you say you do." 
 
 "Marriage, my little innocent pet," said Philip, 
 laughing, "means sometimes that two people are 
 so fond of each other that they never want any- 
 body else's society at all. But with you and 
 me, it will mean that we shall be so proud of 
 each other, so pleased with each other's society, 
 that we shall be glad to get Mr. Venn, whom 
 you are so fond of, to share it with us. He 
 shall be with us all day if you like, as many 
 hours in the day as you spend with him now. 
 But all the rest of the day you will spend with 
 me, and my life will be given up to make you 
 happy." 
 
 She looked at him again with wondering eyes, 
 softened in expression. 
 
 "That sounds very pleasant and sweet. I 
 think you must be a good man. Are you as 
 good as Mr. Venn.?" 
 
 "I don't know how good Mr. Venn is." 
 
 "I could tell you lots of things about Mr. 
 Venn's goodness. There was poor Mary. That 
 is four years ago now, and I was a very little
 
 My Little Girl 209 
 
 girl. I don't know what she did ; but her father 
 turned her away from his doors, and she was 
 starving. I told Mr. Venn, and he helped her 
 to get a place in a theatre, where she works now. 
 Poor Mary! I met her the other day; and when 
 she asked after Mr. Venn, she burst out crying. 
 Then once, when old Mrs. Weeks's son Joe fell 
 off the ladder — it was a terrible thing for them, 
 you know, because he broke his leg, and was 
 laid up for weeks, and nothing for his mother 
 while he was in the hospital — Mr. Venn heard 
 of it, and kept the old woman till Joe came out 
 of the hospital again. I saw him, one Sunday, 
 carrying a leg of mutton himself, wrapped up in 
 the Observer, to Mrs. Weeks's lodging. And I 
 think Joe would cut off his head to do good to 
 Mr. Venn." 
 
 Big Ben struck twelve. 
 
 "There's twelve o'clock. And he will be 
 waiting for me. Good-bye, Philip. I must 
 make haste back." 
 
 "Keep our secret, Laura." 
 
 "Yes; he said I might. Good-bye." 
 
 "Meet me here next Monday. To-day is 
 Friday. I will be here at ten. Will you.?" 
 
 She took his hand in her frank and honest 
 way, and tripped away. Presently, she came 
 running back. 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 My Little Girl. 
 
 "Please, Mr. Durnford," she said, "give me 
 some money for a cab. I cannot bear that he 
 should wait for me." 
 
 "He." Always Mr. Venn first in her thoughts. 
 She took a florin from the silver Philip held 
 out to her, and ran out of the park. 
 
 He lit a cigar, and strolling round the orna- 
 mental water, began to think. 
 
 What did he mean to do about the girl } 
 At this point he hardly knew himself, except 
 that he was madly in love with her. It was but 
 the third time they had met. He loved her. 
 The passion in his heart was born a full flower, 
 almost at first sight. He seemed, now, no 
 longer master of himself, so great and over- 
 whelming was his desire to get this girl for 
 himself. But how.? He knew very well that 
 there was little enough left of the original five 
 thousand. How could he marry on a subaltern's 
 pay.-* How could he take this young lady, with 
 her very remarkable education and history, her 
 quaint and unconventional ideas, and her igno- 
 rance of the world, into his regiment.? And 
 lastly, how about Mr. Venn.? There was another 
 thing. When she accepted him — which she did, 
 as we know, after a fashion quite unknown to 
 fiction and little practised in real life — when she 
 listened to his tale of love, it was all in reference
 
 My Little Girl. 21 1 
 
 to Mr. Venn. The very frankness with which 
 the innocent girl had received his suit was gall- 
 ing to a man's pride, especially if it happen to 
 be a man with a strong sense of personal supe- 
 riority. Had he been a hunchback, had his legs 
 been bowed and his back double, had he been 
 an idiot and a cretin, she could not well have 
 been colder or less encouraging. She did. not 
 love him, that was clear; but was he sure that 
 all this innocence was real.? Could a London 
 girl be so brought up as to have no sense of the 
 realities of life.? Would it be possible that, a 
 girl would accept a man, promise to marry 
 him, on the very first offer, solely because 
 her guardian wanted her to marry a gentle- 
 man.? 
 
 Some men's passions are like a furnace, not 
 only because they are so hot and burning, but 
 also because they are only fanned by cold air. 
 Had Laura met her lover's fond vows by any 
 corresponding affection, he would have tired of 
 her in a week. But she did not, as we have 
 seen. Met him with a cold look of astonish- 
 ment. " Love you .? Oh, dear, no. I cannot 
 even tell what you mean by love. Yes, I love 
 Mr. Venn." Amaryllis, pursued by Corydon, 
 laughs in his face, and tells him that she will 
 marry him because she loves Alexis, and Alexis 
 
 14 — 2
 
 212 My Little Girl. 
 
 wants her to marry somebody. And yet poor 
 Corydon loves her still. 
 
 Corydon, meditating these things, and trying 
 — to do him justice — to repel and silence certain 
 wicked voices of suspicion and evil prompting 
 which were buzzing in his ears, slowly walked 
 round the ornamental water, and emerged into 
 Pall-mall. On either shoulder was seated a 
 little devil, one of the kind chiefly employed for 
 West-end work — young, but highly promising 
 and well-informed. 
 
 "You love her," said one. "She is young 
 and innocent, unsuspecting and credulous." 
 
 " She does not love you," said the other; "she 
 only wants to please the man she really loves." 
 
 And so on, amusing themselves as such little 
 imps are wont, while he sauntered along the 
 •^^ sweet shady side," a prey to all kinds of 
 imaginings and doubts. Perhaps, after all, the 
 imaginings came from the depths of his own 
 brain, and not from any little imps at all; and 
 certainly, the existence of these animals does 
 present enormous difficulties to the speculative 
 philosopher, and since the times of the Rev. 
 Mr. Barham they have not been prominently 
 before the public. If they have any functions 
 to perform in this generation, I should think 
 they arc used chiefly to influence men like our
 
 My Little Girl. 213 
 
 poor Philip — whose strength of will has been 
 corrupted by evil habit, by vanity, by false 
 shame — to draw a veil over what is good, to 
 represent the bad as fatal, inevitable, and not 
 really so bad as has been made out. 
 
 Now, as he turned the corner of Waterloo- 
 place, a thing befell him which must really have 
 been the special work of the Chief of the Me- 
 tropolitan Secret Iniquity Force, I may seem 
 harsh in my judgment, but the event will 
 perhaps justify me. 
 
 There came beating across the street, from 
 the corner of Cockspur-street to the far corner of 
 Waterloo-place, with intent to go down Pall- 
 mall, a team of animated sandwiches. With 
 that keen sense of the fitness of things which 
 always distinguishes the profession, they had 
 selected this as the fittest place to advertise a 
 spectacle at the Victoria Theatre. The ways of 
 this curious and little-studied folk afford, some- 
 times, food for profound reflection. I have seen 
 the bearer of a sandwich, on one side of which 
 was inscribed the legend, "Silence, tremble!" 
 and on the other words more sacred than may 
 here be lightly written, heavily drunk outside a 
 public, while a friend engaged in making known 
 the Coal Hole and the Poses Plastiques was 
 expostulating with him on his immorality. The
 
 214 My Little Girl. 
 
 perfunctory preacher had not taken his own text 
 to heart. The principle is exactly the same as 
 that by which the Cambridge undergraduate 
 from far Cathay, who confesses that there is but 
 one God and Mohammed is his prophet, passes 
 that barrier to distinction called the Little Go, 
 wherein he has to master Paley's " Evidences of 
 Christianity," and goes back to his native land 
 and to Islam. 
 
 This particular procession consisted of thirteen 
 men. On the proud shield which each bore in 
 front and behind was blazoned a scene of almost 
 impossible splendour and magnificence, while a 
 single letter on each enabled the whole to be 
 read by the curious, as the pageant streamed 
 past, as "Titania's Haunt." "Streaming past" 
 is poetical, but scarcely correct. It rather 
 shuffled past. Most of the knights, or esquires 
 — scutiferi — were men well stricken in years, 
 their faces lined with thought, or it may have 
 been experience. After some five or six had 
 passed along, one experienced a feeling as of red 
 noses. Their dress was shabby and dirty; their 
 looks were hopeless and blank; some of them 
 seemed to have once been gentlemen; and the 
 spectator, looking at the men who carried rather 
 than the thing they bore, was touched with a 
 sense of pity and fear.
 
 My Little Girl. 215 
 
 Poor Helots of our great London. You are 
 paraded, I suspect, by the philanthropists — per- 
 haps it is the great secret unsuspected work of 
 the Society for the Suppression of Vice — who 
 make you carry a shield to hide their intentions 
 and spare you unnecessary shame. They spend 
 their money upon you — not too much, it is true 
 — that we may have before our eyes a constant 
 example of the effects of drink. March! Bands 
 of Hope, with colours flying and music playing; 
 sing " Sursum, corda," and strengthen resolution 
 by speeches and hymns. But on your way 
 home, look at this poor creature of sixty, who 
 was once delicately nurtured and carefully 
 brought up — a scholar and a gentleman — and 
 tremble lest you give way. For the sand- 
 wich men mean drink, drink, drink. Better to 
 have these woebegone faces before us as we 
 walk down the street than the Lacedaemonian 
 Helot staggering foolishly in front. 
 
 Phil stood and watched them dodging the 
 cabs. One by one they got across that difficult 
 and dangerous corner where there ought to be 
 an island every three yards to protect us. Pre- 
 sently, the bearer of the letter I arrived on the 
 kerb and fell into line. Philip dropped his cigar 
 and started. The man was looking straight 
 before him. His face was perfectly white and
 
 2i6 My Little Girl 
 
 pale, and without hair. His locks were of a 
 silvery white, although he could hardly have 
 been much more than fifty. His nose — a fat, 
 prominent organ — was deeply tinged with red; 
 his mouth was tremulous; crow's-feet lay under 
 his eyes, which were small, bright, and cunning, 
 set beneath light brown or reddish eyebrows. 
 The aspect of the man, with his white hair, 
 smooth face, red nose, and bushy eyebrows, was 
 so remarkable that many people turned to look 
 at him as they passed. 
 
 Philip walked with the procession, keeping- 
 behind him. 
 
 A tall hat, well battered by the storms of life, 
 a thick pea jacket, and a thin pair of Tweed 
 trousers seemed to make all his dress. 
 
 Presently, Philip touched him on the shoulder- 
 
 The man turned upon him with a glare of 
 terror which to a policeman would have spoken 
 volumes. 
 
 Philip looked at him still, but said nothing. 
 He shuffled along with the rest, trembling in 
 every limb. Then Philip touched him on the 
 shoulder again, and said, in a low voice — 
 
 **Obsairve, Mr. Alexander Maclntyre." 
 
 The ex-tutor looked at him in a stupid way. 
 
 *T know you, man," said Philip. "Come out 
 of this, and talk."
 
 My Little Girl. 217 
 
 They were at the corner of Jermyn-street. 
 To the surprise of his fellows, Letter I suddenly 
 left the line, and dived down Jermyn-street. 
 They waited a little. He was joined by a 
 gentleman ; and after a few moments, he slipped 
 his head through the boards, and leaving them 
 on the pavement, hurried away. 
 
 This was what passed. 
 
 "You will remember me presently," said 
 Philip. "I am Philip Durnford. There is my 
 card. Get food, clothes, not too much drink, 
 and come to my lodgings at eight o'clock this 
 evening. Here is a sovereign for you." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre spoke not a word, but took 
 the coin and watched his patron go striding 
 away. Then he bit the sovereign to see if it 
 was good — a dreadful proof of his late misfor- 
 tunes. Then he laughed in a queer way, and 
 looked back at his boards. After that, of course, 
 he went round the corner. Gentlemen down in 
 the world always do. There was a public-house 
 round the corner. He felt in his pocket, where 
 jingled threepence, his little all, and dived into 
 the hostelry. A moment after, he came out, his 
 eyes bright, his mouth firm, his head erect, and 
 walked briskly away.
 
 ir N the evening, about nine 
 
 o'clock, Mr. Maclntyre 
 
 ^ presented himself at 
 
 Philip's lodgings. He 
 
 was greatly changed for 
 
 the better. With much prudence he had 
 
 spent the whole of the sovereign in effecting
 
 My Little Girl. 219 
 
 an alteration in his outward appearance, calcu- 
 lating that his old pupil would be at least good 
 for two or three more golden tokens of esteem. 
 He was now, looked at from behind, a gen- 
 tleman of reduced means; everything, from 
 his black coat to his boots, having a second- 
 hand and "reach me down" look, and no- 
 thing attaining to what might be called a per- 
 fect fit. The coat was obtained by exchange or 
 barter, the old pea jacket having been accepted 
 in lieu of payment; while the other articles 
 were the result of long haggling and beating 
 down. He looked, however, complacently on 
 his new garb, as indicating a partial return to 
 respectability. 
 
 Philip greeted him with a friendly shake of 
 the hand. 
 
 "Why, man, do you mean to say that a 
 sovereign has done all that.?" 
 
 "All," said his tutor. "I'll just tell you how I 
 did it. First, the trousers. Saxpence the man 
 allowed for the old ones, which I left with him. 
 They're just dropping to pieces with fatigue. 
 Eh, they've had a hard time of it for many 
 years. Then I got a secondhand flannel shirt. 
 He wouldn't give me anything for the old one. 
 Then I got the coat for my pea jacket — which, 
 though a most comfortable garment, was hardly,
 
 220 My Little Girl 
 
 you'll obsairve, the coat for a Master of Arts of 
 
 an old and respectable Univairsity." 
 
 "Well — well. Did you get anything to eat?" 
 
 "Dinner. Tenpence. I'm no saying that I'm 
 not hungry." 
 
 Philip rang the bell, and ordered some supper, 
 which his guest devoured ravenously. 
 
 "Short commons of late, I am afraid?" 
 
 "Vera short, vera short! I'll trouble you for 
 two — three more slices of that beef Ah, Phil, 
 what an animal is the common ox! You feel 
 it when you come to be a stranger to him. 
 And bottled stout. When— eh, man?" 
 
 He took a pull which finished the bottle, and 
 proceeded to eat ; talking, at intervals, quite in 
 his old style. 
 
 "Obsairve. The development of the grateful 
 feeling, commonly supposed to be wanting — 
 thank ye, Phil, one more slice, with some of the 
 fat and a bit of the brown — wanting to the 
 savage races, must be mainly due to the prac- 
 tice of a higher order of eating. My supper has 
 lately been the penny bloater, with a baked 
 potato. No, I really cannot eat any more. The 
 spirit is willing — for I am still hungry, Phil — 
 but the capacity of the stomach is limited. I 
 fear I have already injudiciously crowded the 
 space. Is that brandy, Phil, on the sideboard?"
 
 My Little Girl. 221 
 
 Philip rose and brought the bottle, with a 
 tumbler and cold water, and placed it before 
 him. 
 
 "Brandy," he murmured. "It has been my 
 dream for four long months. I have managed, 
 sometimes, a glass of gin. But brandy! — oh, 
 blessed consoler of human suffering! Brandy!" 
 He was clutching the bottle and standing over 
 it with greedy eyes. " Brandy! — water of life! — 
 no, water that droons the sense of life — that 
 brings us forgetfulness of everything, and re- 
 stores the fire of youth — stays the gnawings 
 of hunger. Brandy! And they say we musn't 
 drink! Oh, Phil, my favourite pupil, for those 
 who have memories, brandy is your only me- 
 dicine." 
 
 He filled a tumbler half full of spirit, added a 
 little water, and drank it off at a draught. Then 
 he looked round, sighed, sat down, and, to 
 Philip's astonishment, burst into violent sobbing. 
 This phenomenon was quite unprecedented in 
 the history, so far as Philip knew, of his late 
 tutor. 
 
 "Nay," he said, kindly, "we shall manage to 
 mend matters somehow. Cheer up, man. Have 
 another glass." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre gave a profound sniff, and 
 looked up through his tears.
 
 222 My Little Girl. 
 
 "Give me a pocket handkerchief first, Phil. 
 I want to blow my nose. I pawned my last — 
 it was a silk one — for tenpence ha'penny." 
 
 Philip brought him one from his bed-room, 
 and he began to mop up. 
 
 Then he took another glass of brandy and 
 water. 
 
 "Tears — it is indeed a relief to have an old 
 friend to talk to — tears are produced from many 
 causes. There are tears of gratitude, of joy, of 
 sorrow, even of repentance, if you think you are 
 going to be found out. Mine are none of these. 
 They rise from that revulsion o' feeling pro- 
 juiced by a sudden and strong contrast. Ob- 
 sairve. The man unexpectedly or violently re- 
 moved from a state of hopeless destitution to 
 the prospect of affluence must either cry or 
 laugh — and not even a philosopher can always 
 choose which. I have got decent clothes, an 
 old friend ; and my brains — a little damaged by 
 a hard life, perhaps — are still greatly superior 
 to the average." 
 
 "And you have been really destitute.?" 
 
 "For four months I have been a walking ad- 
 vertisement. Part of the time I was getting 
 eighteenpence a day as one of the Associated 
 Boardmen. Eh, Philip Durnford, think of your 
 old tutor becoming an Associated Boardman!
 
 My Little Girl. 223 
 
 Then I got dru — I mean I took too much one 
 day, and they turned me out in the cold. I 
 starved a day or two, and then got employment 
 at one-and-threepence, which I have had, off and 
 on, ever since. It is not a difficult employment. 
 There is little responsibility. No sense of dig- 
 nity or self-respect is required. On the Sunday, 
 there is no work to be done; consequently, for 
 four months I have cursed the Sawbath — the 
 Lord forgive me ! Don't ask me too much, 
 Philip : it has been a sad time — a terrible time. 
 I am half-starved. I have had to associate 
 with men of no education and disagreeable 
 habits. A bad time — a bad time." He passed 
 his hand across his forehead, and paused a 
 moment. "A time of bad dreams. I shall 
 never forget it, never. It will haunt me to my 
 grave — poison my nights, and take the pleasure 
 out of my days. Don't ask me about it. Let 
 me forget it." 
 
 " Tell me only what you like," said Philip. 
 
 "The passions, I have discovered, the follies, 
 and the ambitions of man depend a'togither on 
 the stomach. The hungry man, who has been 
 hungry for three months, can only hope for 
 a good meal. That is the boundary of his 
 thoughts. He envies none but the fat. He has 
 no eyes for beauty. Helen would pass unnoticed
 
 224 My Little Girl. 
 
 by a sandwich man, only for plumpness. He 
 has no perception of the beauties of nature, save 
 in the streakiness of beef; none for those of 
 art, save in the cookshops. He has no hatred 
 in his heart, nor any love. And of course he 
 has no conscience. Obsairve, my pupil, that 
 religion is a matter for those who are assured 
 of this world's goods. It vanishes at the first 
 appearance of want. Hence a clause in the 
 Lord's Prayer." 
 
 " You — I mean your companions between the 
 boards — are honest, I suppose.'*" 
 
 " Ah, well — that's as it may be. It is one of 
 the advantages of the profession that you must 
 be honest, because you can't run if you do steal 
 anything. No line of life presents fewer oppor- 
 tunities for turning a dishonest penny. Other- 
 wise — you see — stomach is king at all times; 
 and if not satisfied, my young friend, stomach 
 becomes God." 
 
 *'Tell me, if you can, how you came to fall 
 into these straits." 
 
 "Infandum jubes renovare dolorem. Eh! — 
 the Latin tags and commonplaces, how they 
 stick. It is a kind of consolation to quote them. 
 When you saw me last was on that unfortunate 
 occasion when you treated your old tutor with 
 unwarrantable harshness. I have long la-
 
 My Little Girl. 225 
 
 merited the misconception which led you to that 
 line of conduct. Verbal reproach alone would 
 have been ill-fitting to your lips; but actual per- 
 sonal violence ! Ah, Phil ! But all is forgiven 
 and forgotten. You went away. I applied to M. 
 de Villeroy for a testimonial. I still preserve the 
 document he was good enough to send me. It 
 is here." 
 
 He produced a paper from a bundle which he 
 carried in an old battered pocket-book. 
 
 ''There are papers here, Phil, that will in- 
 terest you some day, when you have learned to 
 trust me. Now listen. This is what your poor 
 father's old friend said of your old tutor." 
 
 He shook his head in sorrow, and read — 
 
 "I have been asked to speak of Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre's fitness for the post of an instructor of 
 youth. I can assert with truth that I have on 
 several occasions seen him sober; that Mr. 
 Durnford, his late employer, never detected him 
 in any dishonesty; that his morality, in this 
 neighbourhood, has been believed in by no one; 
 and that, in his temperate intervals, he is some- 
 times industrious." 
 
 " There, Philip. Think of that." 
 " You do not show that testimonial much, I 
 suppose.?" said Philip. 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 My Little Girl 
 
 " No," replied the philosopher. " I keep it 
 as a proof of the judeecial blindness which 
 sometimes afflicts men of good sense. M. de 
 Villeroy is dead, and so it matters little now. 
 Do you know where Miss Madeleine is.?" 
 
 "No. In Palmiste, I suppose." 
 
 "There ye're wrong. She's in London. I 
 saw her yesterday with an old lady in Regent- 
 street, and followed her home. She's bonny, 
 vera bonny, with her black hair and big eyes. 
 Oh, she's bonny. But uplifted with pride, I 
 misdoubt. Why don't you marry her, Philip.^ 
 She's got plenty of money. Arthur v/ill marry 
 her if you don't. Give me Arthur's address." 
 
 "You want to borrow money of him, I sup- 
 pose.?" 
 
 "No. I want just to ask him to £iz>e me 
 money. Ye're not over-rich, I'm afraid, Philip, 
 yourself, my laddie." 
 
 Philip laughed. 
 
 "My father gave me five thousand pounds. 
 All that is left of it is in our old agent's 
 hands in Palmiste. I get ten per cent, for it. 
 As I only got a hundred and fifty last Fe- 
 bruary, a good lot of it must be gone. And 
 I've had another little dig into the pile since 
 then." 
 
 "Ay, ay.? — that's bad; that's vera bad. But
 
 My Little Girl. 227 
 
 perhaps a time will come for you as well as the 
 rest of the world." 
 
 "Arthur can help you, and I dare say will. 
 But you must not tell him too much." 
 
 " I do not intend to tell him anything," said 
 the man of experience, loftily. " Except lies." 
 
 "Tell me something, however," said Philip. 
 " Tell me how you got into such a hole." 
 
 " I went to Australia from Palmiste. Spent 
 all my money in Melbourne, trying to get some- 
 thing to do, and at last I got put into the school 
 of a little township up country, where my chief 
 work was to cane the brats. Such an awfu' set 
 of devils! That lasted a year. Then there came 
 a terrible day." 
 
 He stopped and sighed. 
 
 " I shall never forget that day. It was a 
 Saturday, I remember. The boys were more 
 mutinous than usual, and I caned them all — 
 there were thirty-five. And when one was 
 caned, the others all shouted and laughed. 
 At twelve, I read the prayers prescribed by 
 the authorities, with my usual warmth and 
 unction. Then I dismissed the boys. Nobody 
 moved. There was a dead silence, and I con- 
 fess I felt alarmed. Presently, the five biggest 
 boys got up, and approached my desk with 
 determined faces. I had a presentiment of 
 
 15-2
 
 228 ' M_y Little Girl 
 
 what would happen, and I turned to flee. It 
 was too late." 
 
 *'What did they do to you.?" 
 
 "They tied me up, sir. They tied me up to 
 my own desk, and then they laid on. They gave 
 their reverend dominie the most awful flogging 
 that ever schoolboy had. None too small, sir, 
 to have a cut in. None so forgiving as to shirk 
 his turn. Not one, Philip, relented at the last 
 moment, and spared some of his biceps. Pair- 
 feet silence reigned ; and when it was over, they 
 placed me back in my chair, with my cane in 
 my hand; and then the school dispersed. What 
 I felt, Philip, more than the ignominy, was the 
 intense pain. A red-hot iron might projuice a 
 similar but not a greater agony, if applied 
 repeatedly on every square inch over a certain 
 area of the body. A thirty-handed Briareus, 
 if he turned schoolmaster, could alone rival 
 the magnitude of that prodeejious cowhiding. 
 
 " Next day I left the town. It was during 
 church time; but the boys were waiting for 
 me, and as I stole out with my bundle in my 
 hand, they ran me down the street on a rail, 
 singing 'Drucken Sawnie!' That was a very 
 bad time I had then. 
 
 *' I tried Sydney after that, and got on pretty 
 well in business — till I failed; and then the
 
 My Little Girl. 229 
 
 judge wanted to refuse my certificate, because, 
 he said, the books were fraudulently kept. That 
 wasn't true, for they were not kept at all. So I 
 came away, and got to the Cape. A poor place, 
 Phil — very poor, and dull; but the drink is good, 
 and the food is cheap. I learned to speak Dutch, 
 and was very near marrying the daughter of a 
 Dutch farmer, well to do, only for an unlucky 
 accident. Just before the wedding, my cruel fate 
 caused me to be arrested on a ridiculous charge 
 of embezzlement. Of course, I was acquitted; 
 but the judge — who ought to be prosecuted for 
 defamation of character — ruined me by stating 
 that I only got off by the skin of my teeth, be- 
 cause the jury understood English imperfectly. 
 I came back to England, and went down to see 
 my relations. My cousin, only four times re- 
 moved — the baillie of Auchnatoddy — ordered 
 me out of his house, and wadna give me bite 
 nor sup. Then I came up to town, and here I 
 am, ever since. Ye won't do me an ill turn by 
 telling Arthur my story, will you, PhiHp.?" 
 
 " Not I ; particularly as you have only told 
 me half of it." 
 
 " May be — may be. The other half I keep to 
 myself" 
 
 It was as well he did, for among the second 
 half were one or two experiences of prison life,
 
 230 My Little Girl. 
 
 which might not have added to his old pupil's 
 respect for him. These other adventures he 
 omitted, partly perhaps out of modesty, and 
 partly out of a fear that their importance 
 might be exaggerated. 
 
 The astonishing thing was, the way in which 
 he emerged from all his troubles. They seemed 
 to be without any effect upon his energies or 
 spirits. Utterly careless abqut loss of character, 
 perfectly devoid of moral principle, he came up, 
 after each disaster, seemingly refreshed by the 
 fall. Mother Earth revived him ; and he started 
 anew, generally with a few pounds in his pocket, 
 and always some new scheme in his head, to 
 prey upon the credulity of good and simple men. 
 That he had not yet succeeded, argued, he con- 
 sidered, want of luck rather than absence of 
 merit. 
 
 His projects were not of very extraordinary 
 cleverness. But he was unscrupulous enough to 
 succeed. Cleverness and freedom from scruples 
 do somehow seem the two main requisites to 
 produce the success of wealth. The cleverest 
 rogue becomes the richest man, often the most 
 revered. He has been known, for instance, to 
 get into the House of Lords. Mr. Gladstone 
 will always, if he spends ;^20,ooo on the cause, 
 make him a baronet. But quite lately a new
 
 My Little Girl 231 
 
 feeling had come over Mr. Maclntyre. He was 
 beginning to doubt himself. For four months 
 he had lived on about three half-crowns a week, 
 and as the days went on, and he saw no chance 
 of escape, he grew more and more despondent. 
 It was a new sensation, this of privation. He 
 suffered, for the first time in his life. And also, 
 for the first time, he saw no way to better 
 things — no single spot of blue in all the ho- 
 rizon. Rheumatic twinges pinched him in the 
 shoulders. He was fifty-three years of age. He 
 had not a penny saved, nor a friend to give him 
 one. In the evening he crept back to his mise- 
 rable lodging, brooding over his fate; and in the 
 morning he crept out again to his miserable 
 \<^ork, brooding still. 
 
 But now a change, unexpected and sudden. 
 Hinc illae lacrimse. Hence those tears of the 
 tutor, wrung from a heart whose power of phi- 
 losophy was undermined by a long-continued 
 emptiness of stomach. That night he slept on 
 Philip's sofa; and the next day, after taking a 
 few necessaries — such as a shirt, a waistcoat, 
 collar, and so on — from his benefactor's ward- 
 robe, making philosophical reflections all the 
 while, he devoured a breakfast of enormous di- 
 mensions, and proceeded to call upon Arthur. 
 
 "Ye'U remember, Mr. Philip Durnford," he
 
 232 My Little Girl. 
 
 said, putting on his hat — " by the way, lend me 
 two or three pounds, which I shall repay from 
 what I get from Arthur: I must have a better 
 hat — ye'll remember to forget the little con- 
 fidential narrative I imparted to you last night 
 It is not always possible to preserve the pru- 
 dence of a philosopher, and to know what things 
 should be said and what concealed — quae di- 
 cenda, que celanda sint. I told you more than 
 I should. But I trust to your promise." 
 
 He found Arthur at work in his usual pur- 
 poseless way. That is, he was surrounded by a 
 great pile of books, and had a pen in his hand. 
 Arthur was not happy unless he was following 
 up some theory or investigating some "point," 
 and had a Sybaritish way of study which led to 
 no results, and seemed to promise nothing: a 
 kind of work which very often lands the student 
 among the antiquarians and archaeologists. But 
 there was a tone about Arthur which impressed 
 Mr. Maclntyre with a sense of constraint and 
 awkwardness. Philip he somehow felt to belong 
 to his own stratum of humanity. With Philip 
 he was at ease, and could talk familiarly. Arthur 
 belonged to that higher and colder level where 
 self-respect was essential, and any confidences of 
 the criminal Christian would be out of place. 
 Philip, for instance, had insisted upon his forti-
 
 My Little Gill. 233 
 
 fylng his stomach against the rawness of the 
 morning air with a glass of brandy before going 
 out. Arthur, on the other hand, offered him no- 
 thing; but, giving him a chair, stood leaning 
 against the mantelshelf, and contemplating his 
 visitor from his height of six feet. 
 
 " I hope you are doing well, Mr. Maclntyre," 
 he began. 
 
 "I am not doing well," replied the Scotch- 
 man — "I'm doing very badly." 
 
 " I do not ask your history since I saw you 
 last." 
 
 " Mr. Arthur Durnford, you are my old pupil 
 — I may add, my favourite pupil — and you are 
 privileged to say what you please. My life is 
 open to any question you may like to ask. The 
 failure of a school in Australia, through my — 
 my firmness in maintaining discipline; that of a 
 prosperous place of business in Sydney, through 
 an unexpected rise in the Bank rate; and the 
 breakdown of my plans in Cape Town, brought 
 me home in a condition of extreme penury. 
 From this I was rescued by the generosity of 
 Lieutenant Philip Durnford, who has most libe- 
 rally assisted me out of his very slender means — 
 his very slender means. Ask me any questions 
 you like, Mr. Durnford; but do not, if you please, 
 insinuate that I have anything to conceal."
 
 234 My Little Girl. 
 
 He smote his chest, and assumed an air of 
 Spartan virtue. 
 
 "Well, well. Only, the fact is, Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre, I remember that the last time I saw 
 you, you were receiving punishment from Philip's 
 hands for some disgraceful proposals." 
 
 " Pardon me — Mr. Philip was under a mis- 
 take. This, I believe, he will now acknowledge. 
 I have forgiven him." 
 
 "I hope he was mistaken. Anyhow, my 
 opinion of you, formed as a boy, could not 
 possibly be favourable." 
 
 "At the time you speak of, I was suffering 
 from deepsomania. I am now recovered, thanks 
 to having taken the pledge for a term of years. 
 Now expired." 
 
 " What are you doing now.''" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 "What have you been doing.?" 
 
 " Starving." 
 
 "What do you want to do.?" 
 
 " I want you to find me some money. I cannot 
 promise to pay it back, because I am too poor 
 to promise anything. But if you will advance 
 me fifty pounds, I think I can do something 
 with it." 
 
 Arthur took his cheque-book, and sat down, 
 thoughtfully.
 
 My Little Girl 235 
 
 " I will do this for you. I will lend you fifty 
 pounds, which, as you are a thrifty man, ought 
 to last you six months. You will spend that 
 time in looking about you, and trying to get 
 work. At the end of six months, if you want 
 it, I will lend you another fifty. But that is all 
 I will do for you. And I shall specially ask 
 Philip not to give you money." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre was not profuse in his thanks. 
 He took the cheque, examined it carefully, 
 folded it, and put it in his pocket. 
 
 " I knew you'd help me," he said. " I told 
 Philip so this morning. Can I forward you in 
 your studies now.^ The pheelosophical system 
 of Hamilton, for instance." 
 
 "Yes; never mind my studies, if you please. 
 Is there anything else I can do for you.?" 
 
 " I do not ca' to mind that there is. I'll look 
 in again, when there is. Have you seen Miss 
 Madeleine, Mr. Durnford, since she came to 
 London.?" 
 
 "Madeleine? No. Is she in London.? What 
 is her address.? — how long has she been 
 here.?" 
 
 " I dare say I could find out her address. But 
 it might cost money." 
 
 He looked so cunning as he said this, that 
 Arthur burst out laughing.
 
 236 Mj/ Little Girl. 
 
 " You are a cool hand, Mr. Maclntyre. How 
 much would'it cost ? — five pounds ?" 
 
 " Now, really, Mr. Arthur, to suppose that a 
 man can run all over London for five pounds ! 
 And that to find the address of your oldest 
 friend." 
 
 " Well, twenty pounds 1 — thirty pounds } 
 Hang it, man, I must know." 
 
 " I should think," said the philosopher, medi- 
 tating, " it might be found for forty pounds, if 
 the money was paid at once." 
 
 Arthur wrote another cheque, which Mac- 
 lntyre put into his pocket-book as before. 
 
 "This does not prejudice the fifty pounds in 
 six months* time } " he said. " Very well. I 
 remember now that I have her address in my 
 pocket. I followed her home and asked a ser- 
 vant. Here it is — No. 31, Hatherley-street, 
 Eaton-square." 
 
 " Did you speak to her } " 
 
 " Is it likely } " replied Mr. Maclntyre, think- 
 ing of his boards. 
 
 " Confess that you have done a good stroke of 
 business this morning," said Arthur. " Ninety 
 pounds is not bad. You can't always sell an 
 address for forty pounds." 
 
 " Sell an address } My dear sir, you mistake 
 me altogether. Do not, if you please, imagine
 
 My Little Girl 237 
 
 that I am one of those who sell such little infor- 
 mation as I possess. Remember, if you please, 
 that you are addressing a Master of Arts of an 
 ancient — " 
 
 " You are quite yourself again, Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre," said Arthur. " Good morning, now. 
 Keep away from drink, and — " 
 
 " Sir, I have already reminded you that — " 
 
 ''Good morning, Mr. Maclntyre." 
 
 He went away, cashed both his cheques, and, 
 taking lodgings, proceeded to buy such small 
 belongings as the simplest civilization demands 
 — such as a hair brush, linen, and a two-gallon 
 cask of whisky. Then he ordered the servant 
 to keep a kettle always on the hob ; sat down, 
 rubbed his hands, lit a pipe, and began to 
 meditate.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 T was quite true. Madeleine was in 
 England. 
 
 Eight years since, Madeleine, before 
 leaving her native island, had ridden over to 
 Fontainebleau to take farewell of a place where 
 she had spent so many happy days. The house 
 was uninhabited and shut up, hut the manager 
 of the estates was careful to keep it in repair. 
 It all looked as it used to. The canes, clean and 
 well kept, waving in the sunlight, in green and 
 yellow and gray ; the mill busier than ever, with 
 its whirr of grinding wheels ; the sweet, rich smell 
 of the sugar ; the huge vats of seething, foaming 
 juice, and the whirling turbines. But the old 
 verandah was no longer strewn with its cane 
 mats and chairs; and when the doors were 
 opened for her, the house felt chill and damp.
 
 Jlfy Little Girl. 239 
 
 She lifted the piano lid and touched the keys, 
 shrinking back with a cry of fright. It was like 
 a voice from the dead — so cracked, and thin, 
 and strident was the sound. In the boys' study 
 were their old school-books lying about, just as 
 they had left them ; in a drawer which she 
 opened, some paper scribbled with boyish 
 sketches. One of these represented a gentleman, 
 whose features were of an exaggerated Scotch 
 type, endeavouring to mount his pony. The 
 animal was turning upon him with an air of 
 reproach, as one saying, " Sir, you are drunk 
 again." This was inscribed at the back, " Phi- 
 lippus fecit." Then there was another and more 
 finished effort, signed Arthur, of a girl's head in 
 chalk. Perhaps the merit of this picture was 
 slender; but Madeleine blushed when she looked 
 at it, and took both pictures away with her. 
 
 There was no other souvenir that she cared to 
 have ; and leaving the house, she paid a visit to 
 the garden. Oh, the garden! Wliere once had 
 been pineapples were pumpkins; where had been 
 strawberries were pumpkins; where there had 
 once been flower beds, vegetables, or shrubs, 
 were pumpkins. Pumpkin was king. He lay 
 there — green, black, or golden — basking in the 
 sun. He had devoured all, and spread himself 
 over all.
 
 240 My Little Girl. 
 
 So Madeleine came away; and under the 
 maternal wing of the Bishopess — whose right 
 reverend husband, as happens once in two 
 years to all colonial bishops, had business con- 
 nected with his diocese which brought him to 
 England — was duly shipped to Southampton, 
 and presently forwarded to Switzerland, 
 
 Education. Her guardian was a Frenchman 
 by descent, a Swiss by choice. He had enlarged 
 views, and brought up the girl as a liberal Pro- 
 testant. He had her taught the proper amount 
 of accomplishments. He made her talk English, 
 though with a slight foreign accent, as well as 
 French; and, what was much more important, 
 gave her ideas as to independence and uncon- 
 ventionality which sank deep, and moulded her 
 whole character. Insomuch that one day she 
 announced her intention of going away and set- 
 ting up for herself. 
 
 " I am of age," she said. " I want to see the 
 world a little. I want to make up my mind 
 what to do with myself." 
 Old M. Lajardie chuckled. 
 " See what it is," he observed, " to bring up a 
 girl as she ought to be brought up. My dear, 
 if it had not been for me, you would at this 
 moment be wanting to go into a convent." 
 She shook her head.
 
 My Little Girl. 241 
 
 "I know the sex, child. You belong to the 
 class which takes to religion like a duck to 
 water. This being denied you, you will take 
 to philanthropy, usefulness, all sorts of things. 
 That is why I taught you English, because 
 England is the only country possible for a full 
 exercise of these virtues. Then you are of a 
 temperament which would have induced blind 
 submission in a man, and makes a delightful 
 obstinacy in a free woman." 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear guardian — " 
 
 "And then, my child, there is another quality 
 in you, which would have made you the most 
 rapturous of sisters, which will make you the 
 best and most devoted of wives. You will 
 marry, Madeleine." 
 
 " It is possible," she said. " It may come in 
 my way, as it does in most people's lives. But I 
 do not count upon marriage as a part of my life." 
 
 "You are rich, Madeleine. You have — well, 
 more than your fair share of beauty. Black 
 hair and black eyes are common; but not such 
 splendid hair as yours, or eyes as bright. There 
 are girls as tall as you, but few with so good a 
 figure." 
 
 "Don't, guardian," said Madeleine, with a 
 little moue and a half-blush. " I would rather 
 you told me of my faults." 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 My Little Girl. 
 
 " I know the sex, I tell you," repeated the old 
 man. " When I was young — ah, what a thing it 
 is to be young! — I made a profound study of the 
 sex. It is quite true, Madeleine, though I am 
 only an old man who says it, that even Madame 
 Recamier herself, in her best days, had not a 
 more finished style than yours. You will suc- 
 ceed, my child. You will be able to marry any 
 one — any one you please." 
 
 "You do not imagine, I suppose, that I am to 
 fall in love with the first rich young man who 
 tells me that he loves me.^ As if there was 
 nothing in the world for woman to think of but 
 love." 
 
 "Most women," went on her critic, "like to be 
 married to a lord and master. I prophecy for 
 you, Madeleine, that your husband will be con- 
 tent to obey rather than to command. So, 
 child, you shall see the world. Let me only 
 just write to our friend, Mrs. Longworthy, 
 who will act as your chaperon. You will find 
 yourself richer than you think, perhaps. All 
 your money is in the English funds, and the 
 interest has been used to buy fresh stock. 
 Go now, my ward — I will think over what is 
 best to be done." 
 
 The old man attended her to the door, 
 and, shutting it after her, went through a little
 
 My Little Girl. 243 
 
 pantomime of satisfaction. That done, he took 
 down a volume of Voltaire's "Philosophical 
 Dictionary," and wagged his head over the 
 wisdom that he found therein. 
 
 "Independent," he murmured. "Rich, self- 
 reliant, able to think, not superstitious, not in- 
 fected with insular prejudices, philanthropic, 
 beautiful. She will do. Elle ira loin, mon 
 ami," he said, tapping his own forehead. "You 
 have done well. When revolutions come, and 
 lines of thought are changed, it is good tp 
 have such women at hand, to steady the men. 
 France rules the world, and the women rule 
 France. Hein.? it sounds epigrammatic. Has 
 it been said before.^" 
 
 So to England Madeleine came. A chaperon 
 was found for her in the widow of an old friend 
 of M. Lajardie — a certain Mrs. Longworthy, 
 who was willing — and, more than that, able — to 
 take her into society. They took one of those 
 extremely comfortable little houses — the rent of 
 which is so absurdly out of proportion to their 
 size— close to Eaton-square : a house with its 
 two little drawing-rooms and greenhouse at the 
 back — a little narrow as regards dining-room 
 accommodation, but broad enough, as Mrs. 
 Longworthy put it, for two lone women. 
 
 Madeleine's chaperon was only remarkable 
 
 16 — 2
 
 244 ^y Little Girl. 
 
 for her extraordinary coziness and love of 
 comfort. A cushiony old lady — one who sat by 
 the fireside and purred; and, when things went 
 badly with her, went to bed and stayed there till 
 they came round again. An old lady who went 
 to church every Sunday, and, like the late 
 lamented Duke of Sussex, murmured after each 
 commandment, " Never did that : never did 
 that." So that the rules of prohibition did not 
 affect her own conscience. For all the rest, 
 she entirely trusted and admired Madeleine, and 
 never even ventured on a remonstrance with 
 her. 
 
 Madeleine was what her guardian described 
 her. In her presence most men felt themselves 
 above their own stratum. There was a sort of 
 gulf; and yet, with all the men's experience, the 
 clear light of her eyes seemed to read so far 
 beyond their actual ken. If she liked you, 
 and talked to you, you came away from her 
 strengthened and braced up. Beautiful, she 
 certainly was, in a way of her own: striking, 
 the women called her — a word which the sex 
 generally employ when they feel envious of 
 power and physique beyond their own. Rolls 
 of black hair ; a pale and colourless cheek ; a 
 small and firm mouth; clear and sharply defined 
 nostrils; eyes that were habitually limpid and
 
 My Little Girl. 245 
 
 soft, whi:h yet might flash to sudden outbreaks 
 of storm ; and a figure beyond all expression 
 gracieuse. A woman who could talk; one 
 whom young warriors, having to take her in to 
 dinner, speedily felt beyond them altogether ; 
 one who lifted a man up, and made him breathe 
 a purer air. This is, I take it, the highest func- 
 tion of woman. We cannot, as a rule, run com- 
 fortably in single harness, but are bound by the 
 laws of our being to have a mate of some kind. 
 It is surely best for us to find one whose sense 
 of duty is stronger than our own, and whose 
 standard is higher. We may have to do all the 
 work; but we want a fellow in the harness to 
 show us that the work is good, and that it be- 
 hoves us to do it well. 
 
 Madeleine was not, it is certain, one of the 
 girls whom a certain class of small poets love to 
 style "darling," "pet Amoret," "sweet little lily." 
 Not for any man's toy; no animated doll to 
 please for a while, and then drop out of life ; nor 
 yet that dreadful creature, a "woman's rights" 
 woman. Perhaps she was not clever enough. 
 
 Arthur Durnford called upon her the same 
 day on which he got the address. He was a 
 little prepared to gush, remembering the little 
 sylph with whom he used to play twelve years 
 ago. But there was no opportunity for gushing.
 
 246 My Little Girl. 
 
 The stately damsel who rose and greeted him 
 with almost as much coldness as if they had 
 parted the day before, silenced, if she did not 
 disconcert, him. 
 
 "I knew that we should meet again some 
 time," she said; "and I had already written to 
 Palmiste for your address. Mrs. Longworthy, 
 this is my old friend, Arthur Durnford, of whom 
 I have so often told you." 
 
 He saw a little, fat old lady, with a face 
 like a winter apple, crinkled and ruddy, sitting 
 muffled up by the fireside. 
 
 "Come and shake hands with me, Arthur 
 Durnford," she cried, in the pleasantest voice he 
 had ever heard. "I knew your father when he 
 was a wild young fellow in the Hussars. Let 
 me look at you. Yes, you are like him. But 
 he had black hair, and yours is brown. And 
 you stoop — I suppose because you read books 
 all day. Fie upon the young men of the 
 present! They all read. In my. time there 
 was not so much reading, I can tell you, but a 
 great deal more love-making and merriment. 
 Now, sit down and talk to Madeleine." 
 
 She lay back on her cushions, and presentl}' 
 fell fast asleep, while the two talked. 
 
 They talked of Palmiste and the old days. 
 And then a sort of constraint came upon them,
 
 3fy Little GirL 247 
 
 because the new days of either were un- 
 known. 
 
 "Tell me about yourself, Arthur," said Made- 
 leine. "I am going to call you Arthur, and you 
 shall call me Madeleine, just as we used to. 
 Mrs. Longworthy — oh, she is asleep." 
 
 "No, my dear — only dozing. Wake me up 
 by telling me something pleasant." 
 
 "I was going to tell Arthur that I am sure 
 you would like him to come here a great deal — 
 I should." 
 
 "That ought to be enough, Mr. Durnford. 
 But I should, too. We are a pair of women, 
 and we sometimes sit and nag at each other. 
 Don't look at me so, Maddy — if we don't 
 actually do it, we sometimes want to. Come a 
 great deal, Mr. Durnford. Come as nearly 
 every day as you can manage. It is very good 
 for young men to have ladies' society. We shall 
 civilize you." 
 
 "You are very kind," Arthur began. 
 
 "But I must say one thing. Do not come 
 early in the morning. I consider that the day 
 ought to be a grand processional triumph of 
 temper. That is why I always take my break- 
 fast in bed. Handle me delicately in the morn- 
 ing, and a child may lead me all day. Come, if 
 you want to see me, in time for luncheon, at
 
 2/1 8 My Little Girl. 
 
 two ; if you want to see Madeleine, at any time 
 she tells you." 
 
 "And how is Philip?" asked Madeleine. 
 
 "Who is Philip?" said Mrs. Longworthy. 
 
 " My cousin, the son of my father's brother." 
 
 "Your father, my dear boy, never had any 
 brothers." 
 
 " Pardon me, Mrs. Longworthy." 
 
 She shook her head, and lay back again. 
 
 "And what is your profession, Arthur?" 
 
 "I have none." 
 
 " What do you do with yourself?" 
 
 " I waste time in the best way I can. I read, 
 write a little, make plans, and the days slip by." 
 
 "That seems very bad. Come and help me 
 in my profession." 
 
 "What is your profession?" 
 
 " Come some morning at ten, and I will tell 
 you. Send Philip to call upon me." 
 
 As Arthur went out of the room, he heard 
 Mrs. Longworthy saying — 
 
 " I am not wrong. I am quite right. George 
 Durnford was an only son. And so was his 
 father. The De Melhuyns, quite new people, 
 told me all about it." 
 
 A sudden light flashed upon Arthur's mind. 
 He knezv, in that way in which knowledge of 
 this sort sometimes comes, that Philip was his
 
 My Little Girl. 249 
 
 half-brother. He was certain of it. He rea- 
 soned with himself; set up all the objections; 
 proved to himself that the preponderance of 
 chances was against it; marshalled all the op- 
 posite evidence ; and remained absolutely cer- 
 tain of the truth of his conviction.
 
 UT Arthur went round, the 
 same evening, to Philip's 
 
 f^SQ^^A lodgings. 
 ^:^^^T "How much did Macln- 
 
 tyre charge you for Made- 
 leine's address?" asked the man of larger ex- 
 perience.
 
 My Little Girl 251 
 
 Arthur coloured — 
 
 "Well, we did drive a bargain. Why did you 
 not send it to me ?" 
 
 " First, because I did not possess it ; secondly, 
 because, if I had, Maclntyre was so entirely 
 frank with me as to what he intended, that it 
 would have gone to my heart to spoil his little 
 game. Tell me how Madeleine is looking." 
 
 " Here is the address. Go and see her your- 
 self." 
 
 " Is she milk and water? But of course — " 
 
 " Go and see her yourself." 
 
 " I don't know that I shall, Arthur. We are 
 different, you and I. You are an eligible parti 
 — I am only a detrimental." 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, there is no question of 
 that sort of thing. Madeleine is not like the 
 ordinary girls you meet." 
 
 "Oh," said Philip, "is she not.? I don't go 
 into society much myself, because I feel out of 
 my element in that rank of life in which my 
 fortunes allow me to circulate. The domestic 
 business, with the conventional young woman, 
 lacquered with accomplishments which get rub- 
 bed off when the babies come ; the piano for 
 the last new piece, and the song for the dear 
 creature who breathes hard and thinks she 
 sings ; the mind without an idea outside the
 
 252 My Little Girl. 
 
 narrow circle in which it has been trained — I 
 do not think, Arthur, that my idea of happi- 
 ness is quite this." 
 
 "Well, well; but all women are not so. 
 Madeleine is not." 
 
 "Give me," he went on — "give me some girl 
 brought up out of ladies' circles and women's 
 ways : brought up by a man : full of ideas, 
 thoughts, and quaint fancies ; pretty, in a way 
 that the Tyburnian misses are not pretty ; able 
 to talk, able to amuse you, able to please you, 
 when the little stock of accomplishments is all 
 run through." 
 
 He was thinking of Lollie, 
 
 "A lady, and not brought up by ladies V said 
 Arthur. 
 
 " I was in 'society' the other day : five and 
 twenty young ladies, whispering bitter things of 
 each other, bursting with envy and malice. I 
 want a girl who does not look on all other 
 girls as rivals and enemies. I talked to one 
 of them." 
 
 " You did not expect the poor girl to pour 
 out her soul at the first interview." 
 
 " She had -very little to pour. That little was 
 poured. I came away early." 
 
 " That is not society. Come with me to see 
 Madeleine."
 
 My Little Girl 253 
 
 The other, who was in his bitterest mood, 
 sneered in reply — 
 
 " They are all alike. Every woman wants to 
 be admired more than other women in the room. 
 That is the first thing. Without that, there is 
 no real happiness. Then they want to be rich : 
 not because they may live well, for they do not 
 understand eating and drinking : not for the 
 sake of art, because they only know the art 
 chatter. If they felt art, do you think they 
 would dress as they do.-* No, sir; they want 
 money in order to make their acquaintance 
 envious. For themselves, what a woman desires 
 and likes most in the world is to be kept warm. 
 Give the squaw her blanket, or the lady her 
 cushion, and she is happy. Warmth, wealth, 
 admiration : those are the three things she 
 desires. What can we expect.? Read the litera- 
 ture about women, from Anacreon to the comic 
 papers. We have conspired together against 
 the sex. We have agreed to keep them foolish 
 and vain — to limit their aspirations to dress; 
 and deuced well we have succeeded." 
 
 Arthur laughed. 
 
 "Take the Newgate Calendar, Phil, to repre- 
 sent manhood, if you like. Just as well exag- 
 gerate the faults of women and make them re- 
 present womanhood. Women love admiration
 
 254 -^y Little Girl. 
 
 because it is an instinct. Their influence is 
 through their beauty. It is a net spread by 
 nature to entrap and catch men, in order that 
 they may be led heavenwards. Wild beasts, 
 like you, who prefer the woods, full of pitfalls 
 and snares, to the soft green glades — " 
 
 " Rubbish," said Philip. 
 
 " Not rubbish at all. Don't despise women — 
 don't cry them down. Go in for marrying, 
 and try the domestic happiness you declaim 
 against." 
 
 " All which means that you are 6pris with 
 Madeleine yourself, I suppose. It is, perhaps, 
 the best thing you can do. But look at the 
 other side of the picture. Suppose that what 
 we call the highest kind of life — by which you 
 mean, I take it, the calm cultivation of all that 
 is artistic, unbiassed by passion and undisturbed 
 by regrets — is out of your reach, because you 
 can't afford it, don't you think it prudent to say, 
 ' Young man, you are not intended to marry. 
 Do not be an accomplice in the production of a 
 generation of paupers. On the other hand, get 
 as much as you can out of life with the re- 
 sources at your disposal."* 
 
 " Every man may lead the higher life." 
 
 "Perhaps, if he remains unmarried. What 
 kind of higher life is that in which one trembles
 
 My Little Girl. 255 
 
 at the butcher's bill, and eats out his heart 
 thinking of the children's future? And, besides, 
 your higher life — what is it? Bah! Wine, love, 
 song! Get what you can, and leave the gods 
 the rest. It is their care, I suppose — this ' rest,' 
 whatever it is." 
 
 But he did call on Madeleine. Went to see 
 her the very next day. Madeleine was alone, 
 as it was one of Mrs. Longworthy's sick days — 
 or, as she put it, one of those days when temper 
 got the better of her. 
 
 Madeleine was not so unconstrained with him 
 as with Arthur. Perhaps it was something in 
 his look — perhaps the memory of old childish 
 quarrels. People very seldom take kindly in 
 after-life to those who have teased them as chil- 
 dren. She was colder than to Arthur — asked 
 but few questions of him, and turned the con- 
 versation on things general. Philip, in his un- 
 happy way, chafed at his reception, because he 
 knew how Arthur had been welcomed — putting 
 it down as due to that fatal taint of blood. 
 
 "Do you like the army as a profession?" 
 asked Madeleine. 
 
 "There is not much to like or dislike in it," 
 he replied, carelessly. " It does to carry one 
 along." 
 
 "To carry one along — yes, but not as the
 
 256 My Little Girl. 
 
 highest object of one's life, I suppose you 
 mean?" 
 
 " I certainly did not mean that," replied Philip. 
 " I know nothing about highest objects in life. 
 My life consists in getting as much enjoyment 
 as my income will admit. Very low aims, in- 
 deed, are they not.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "At the same time, suppose I was to go in 
 for the higher kind — very odd thing, Arthur is 
 always talking about the higher life — I suppose 
 I should do it because I enjoyed it best. Do 
 you not think soV 
 
 "Yes. But one ought not to be thinking 
 about enjoyment." 
 
 " Pardon me — I only said that one does think 
 about enjoyment." 
 
 " There is duty, at least," said Madeleine. 
 
 "Yes — my duties are light and easily ful- 
 filled. When I have got through those, there is 
 nothing left but to fill up the time, as I said, 
 with as much amusement, enjoyment, frivolity, 
 whatever you like, as my money will cover. As 
 we are old acquaintances, Madeleine, it is just 
 as well that I should not pretend to anything 
 but what I am. Now, tell me, if I may be im- 
 pertinent, what you think I ought to do.?" 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " Life is so terrible
 
 My Little Girl. 257 
 
 a thing at best, so full of responsibilities, of evils 
 that must be faced, and dreadful things that 
 cannot be suppressed, that I don't know what to 
 say. It seems to me as if the whole duty of the 
 rich man — " 
 
 " I am not a rich man." 
 
 " The man of leisure — the man of culture, were 
 to throw himself among the people, and try to 
 raise them — " 
 
 "You would make us all philanthropists, 
 then.?" 
 
 " I hardly know. If only — without societies 
 and organizations — people would go among the 
 poor and teach them : help, without money, you 
 know. But one can only do oneself what one 
 feels right." 
 
 Here, at least, was a woman different from the 
 type he had set up the preceding night — dif- 
 ferent, too, from Laura. 
 
 " You are talking to a mere man of the world," 
 said Philip, rising. " We have no ideas of duty, 
 you know— only a {*^v^ elementary rules of right 
 and wrong, which we call the laws of honour. 
 My friends, for instance, always pay up after each 
 event. On the other hand, it is dangerous to 
 have to do with them in the matter of horses — 
 and they will take any advantage that fairly 
 offers in the way of a bet. We like gathering in 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 My Little Girl 
 
 club smoking-rooms, drinking good wine, smok- 
 ing good cigars. We like to be well dressed, to 
 do certain things well, such as riding, billiard 
 playing, and so forth — " 
 
 "But, Philip, does not this life tire you?" 
 " I assure you, not in the least. Greatly as I 
 must fall in your eyes by the confession, I de- 
 clare that I do not care one straw for my fellow- 
 man. You tell me the people are starving. I 
 say, there are poor-rates, rich men, and our 
 luxurious staff of parsons, beadles, and relieving 
 officers to help them. You say they are badly 
 taught. Where, then, are the schools.? I meet 
 with the poor man in the street, and read of him 
 in the paper. He has, it appears to me, two 
 phases in his character. He either fawns or 
 bullies. He begs or tries to rob. I am told 
 that he gets large wages in the summer, which 
 he spends in drink, and has nothing left for the 
 winter. If I were a poor man, and knew that I 
 should be pitied by charitable people directly I 
 was hard up, I should do just the same thing. 
 What is the poor man to me.? I owe him no- 
 thing. I do not employ him. I do not get 
 rich by his labour. Therefore, you see, I am 
 quite indifferent to his sufferings, quite awake 
 to his vices, and quite careless about his vir- 
 tues."
 
 My L ittle Girl. 259 
 
 Madeleine looked at him with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "You are frank, indeed," she said. "But 
 believe me, you are quite wrong. I must teach 
 you that the poor, whom you despise, are not 
 worse than ourselves — better than your friends, 
 if I may say so, because they help each other, 
 and have sympathy. Why are you so frank .^ 
 Why have you told me so much about your- 
 self.?" 
 
 "Because I am anxious that you should know 
 me as I am," replied Philip. 
 
 "But I am sorry you told me what you are. 
 After all, you have exaggerated. I shall wait 
 for a woman's love to soften you." 
 
 A wondrously softened look did pass over 
 Philip's eyes. He was thinking of the girl whom 
 he was to meet the next day. 
 
 "Love," he said, "the old story. If I am to 
 be reformed, I would rather meet my fate that 
 way than any other. Forgive my bluntness, 
 Madeleine. You see I do not belong to your 
 world." 
 
 " But do belong to my world. It really is a 
 better one than yours. Of course, we have our 
 little faults ; and we may be slow for you, and 
 sometimes — what is it, that quality for which 
 the French have no word, because they never 
 
 17 — 2
 
 26o My Little Girl 
 
 understand it ? — what is it that people are when 
 they not only do their duty, but overdo it ? " 
 
 "You mean your world is sometimes priggish." 
 
 " That is the word — not a lady's word, I 
 know ; but Mrs. Longworthy tells me when I 
 make mistakes. And this word does so beauti- 
 fully fit its meaning. Yes, priggish. Only Eng- 
 lish and Germans are that, I cannot tell why. 
 But come into my world." 
 
 Philip shook his head. 
 
 "You are on one side of the stream, and I 
 am on the other, and the stream is widening. 
 Arthur is on your side, too. We can still talk. 
 The time may come when the river will be so 
 wide that we cannot even do that." 
 
 '* I think I know what you mean," she replied. 
 " Cross at once, and stay with us — with those 
 who — who love you, in memory of old days." 
 
 " You cannot cross a river," he said, smiling, 
 "without a bridge or a boat. Just at present I 
 see none. The bridges are all higher up, behind 
 me ; and so are the boats. And the two paths 
 are getting farther and farther apart. Good-bye, 
 Madeleine." 
 
 He left her with these w^ords. Very oddly, 
 they recall my illustration from the works of 
 Pythagoras a few chapters back. That must be 
 because " les esprits forts se rcncontrent."
 
 My Little Girl. 261 
 
 "Tell me," said Mrs. Longworthy, at dinner 
 ** what kind of man is this Mr. Philip Durnford." 
 
 " He is not so tall as Arthur, has black hair, 
 a black moustache, and large, soft eyes — almond- 
 shaped eyes." 
 
 " Oh ! Did you ever see eyes like his any- 
 where else .'' " 
 
 *' Yes ; they are like the eyes of the mulattoes 
 in Palmiste." 
 
 " Humph !" said Mrs. Longworthy. 
 
 " He dresses very well, and he talks very well. 
 Only, my dear Mrs. Longworthy, you know 
 what I^told you about the garden at Fontaine- 
 bleau, when I saw it last." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well, Philip Durnford's mind is like that 
 garden — all overgrown with pumpkins."
 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ET us have," said Venn, trimming the 
 lamp on Chorus night, *'a cheerful 
 evening. What fresh disappointment 
 has any one to communicate ? " 
 
 " A lawyer," said Lynn, " who would have 
 sent me some cases has absconded with other 
 people's money. That is all that has happened 
 to me." 
 
 " He may possibly come back," said Jones. 
 *' My manager, who had accepted my play, is a 
 bankrupt. Perhaps Setebos, who troubles every- 
 thing, ruined him to prevent the play coming 
 out. I mourn for him. 
 
 * He was not fair to outward view ; 
 He was not nice to see : 
 His loveliness I never knew 
 Until he smiled on me.'"
 
 My Little Girl. 263 
 
 "As an honorary member of the Chorus," 
 said Arthur, " I can hardly be expected to have 
 any misfortunes — consequently, I have none." 
 
 "This," said Venn, with a beaming face, "is 
 quite like old times. I, too, have had my dis- 
 appointment. I had spent the last twelve 
 months in revising and polishing the Opuscula. 
 They are now as complete as a Greek statue. 
 I proposed them to a publisher. He kept my 
 letter for a month, and then sent me a refusal. 
 It is his loss pecuniarily, the world's loss in- 
 tellectually." 
 
 "It is very sad," sympathized Jones. "And 
 yet, I dare say, you would not exchange your 
 literary fame for my dramatic glory.?" 
 
 "One great compensation of affliction," Venn 
 observed, "is the law of self-esteem. No man, 
 whatever his drawbacks, would change with any 
 other man. We admire ourselves for our very 
 afflictions. We lie on our bed of torture till 
 even the red-hot gridiron becomes a sort of 
 spring mattress; and then we pity the poor 
 devils grilling next to us. Following out this 
 idea, as I intend to do, I shall write a life of 
 that Jew whose teeth King John pulled out day 
 by day. I shall show that he rather enjoyed 
 it as he got on, and looked for it every morn- 
 ing, till the teeth were all gone. Then he
 
 264 My Little Girl 
 
 talked about it for the rest of his life. So, 
 too, the old woman, who hugs her rheumatism 
 to her heart." 
 
 "Ourselves are too much with us: late and soon, 
 Still at the mirror do we waste our powers ; 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours. 
 We give ourselves our praise — a sordid boon." 
 
 Jones made the above remark, which fell un- 
 noticed. 
 
 "Another compensation," said Lynn, "may be 
 got from the magnitude of misfortunes. To 
 have had more funerals than anybody else 
 confers a distinction on any woman. To have 
 had more MSS. rejected than anybody else con- 
 fers a distinction upon you, my dear Venn." 
 
 "Let us change the subject," Venn replied, 
 with a blush, showing that he felt the delicacy 
 of the compliment. " I have now to submit to 
 the Chorus a scheme by which all our fortunes 
 may be made." 
 
 He drew forth a bulky manuscript, tied with 
 tape. They all rose, and began to look for 
 their hats, with one accord. 
 
 Venn replaced the roll in the drawer with a 
 sigh. 
 
 "You may sit down again," he said. "You 
 will be sorry, some time, not to have heard the 
 prolegomena to the scheme. But I will only
 
 My Little Girl. 265 
 
 read the prospectus. You are aware, perhaps, 
 that a million a year is collected for the 
 Conversion of the Blacks." 
 
 " It is a fact over which, in penniless moments, 
 I have often brooded," said Jones. 
 
 "Then," said Venn, triumphantly, "let us 
 raise the same sum for converting the Whites." 
 
 "What are we to convert them to.?" 
 
 "I shall give nothing for converting any- 
 body," Lynn growled. 
 
 "Don't talk like an atheist, Lynn; because 
 this is a philanthropic scheme, and, besides, one 
 out of which money may be made. We shall 
 Christianize the world. We shall teach the peo- 
 ple that their religion needs not consist in going 
 to church every Sunday, and sometimes reading 
 a * chapter.' We shall begin with the House of 
 Lords. There is a great field open among the 
 peers and their families. The House of Com- 
 mons — which comes next upon my list — will, 
 after a few years' labour among them, be so 
 changed that the constituents won't know their 
 own members again. No more putting into 
 office because a man makes himself disagreeable 
 out of it; no more bolstering a measure because 
 it is brought forward by a minister; no more 
 legislating for class interests; no more putting 
 off for a better day. And, above all, a stern
 
 266 My Little Girl. 
 
 sense of Christian duty which will limit every 
 speaker to ten minutes, like a Wesleyan preacher 
 at a field meeting. Next to the House of Com- 
 mons, we shall take the Inns of Court. Oh, my 
 readers " 
 
 " You are quite sure that you are not quoting- 
 from the prolegomena.?" said Jones. 
 
 " Pardon me — I was about to delight you 
 with perhaps as fine a piece of declamation as 
 you have ever heard. Now you shall not have 
 it. The Inns of Court will be taken by a series 
 of door-to-door visitations; and the missionaries, 
 who will not be highly paid, will receive special 
 allowances for repairs to that part of their dress 
 most likely to be injured. If one converts a 
 barrister, he shall be promoted to the conversion 
 of the bench. If one converts a judge, he shall 
 be still further promoted to the conversion of 
 certain ex-Lord Chancellors. In the army, after 
 a few months of our work, you will find so great 
 a change that the officer will actually work at 
 his profession; the same rules will be maintained 
 for officers as for men — those about getting 
 drunk, and so forth. And in the navy, similar 
 good effects will be produced. The best results 
 will be obtained in the trading classes. For 
 then the grocer will no more sand his sugar 
 and mix his tea; the publican will sell honest
 
 My Little Girl. 267 
 
 drink; and all shall be contented with a modest 
 profit." 
 
 "Of course," said Lynn, *'the missionaries will 
 behave in exactly the same way as if they 
 were at Jubbulpore or Timbuctoo — go in and 
 out, uninvited; and, like district visitors, they 
 Avill make any impertinent observations they 
 please?" 
 
 "Of course; and the consequences will be 
 part of the day's work." 
 
 "I quite approve of the scheme," said Jones. 
 "Only, I don't see my own share in it." 
 
 "You are to be secretary, Jones. It is your 
 name that we shall put forward." 
 
 " Then I retire." 
 
 "Do not, Jones, let a promising scheme be 
 ruined at the very outset by an obstinate 
 selfishness. What matters it if the world does 
 scofT.?" 
 
 But Jones was obdurate. 
 
 "Then, Jones, you shall have nothing, while 
 Lynn and I will divide all the profits. I go 
 on to a second scheme. This will not be so lu- 
 crative, but still safe. It is nothing less, gentle- 
 men, than the establishment of a Royal Literary 
 College — a college devoted to the art and mys- 
 tery of writing — not, understand, for the old 
 and worn-out purposes of conveying thought.
 
 26S My Little Girl. 
 
 but for the modem purpose of conveying amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 "It sounds well," said Jones. "Of course, as 
 it is the project of the Chorus, it will fail. 
 
 'Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
 Why do ye fall so fast V " 
 
 "And now listen to the prospectus, which you 
 will find to be drawn up with great care. 
 
 " * ROYAL LITERARY COLLEGE. 
 
 "'The promoters of this institution, bearing 
 in mind the enormous increase in the popula- 
 tion, the consequent increase in the number of 
 readers, and the necessity of providing for their 
 daily, weekly, and monthly requirements, pro- 
 pose to establish a college expressly for the 
 training of popular mediocrity. They have ob- 
 served with pain that, in spite of the efforts of 
 able editors, a great deal of time is still spent 
 in providing papers containing thought. And 
 though a large number of these leaders of po- 
 pular amusement care nothing for the merits of 
 a paper, provided it be written by a well-known 
 man, there are yet a few who study to present 
 their readers with what they require least — food 
 for reflection. Among other objects, it is pro- 
 posed to prevent this lamentable waste of time 
 and energy; and, in doing so, to anticipate the
 
 My Little Girl, 269 
 
 tastes of the age and the wants of the reading 
 pubHc. Literature, in fact, is to be reduced to 
 a science. The increased demand for literary 
 men by no means represents an increased supply 
 of genius. On the contrary, the promoters are 
 of serious opinion that genius was never at so 
 low an ebb as at present, and the art of writing 
 upon nothing, although it has not yet been 
 systematically taught, never at so high a pitch. 
 In order to convince themselves of this, the pro- 
 moters, by means of a sub-committee, have care- 
 fully studied the whole popular literature of the 
 last twelve months. They are happy in being 
 able to report that there has not been, so far as 
 their labours have permitted them to discover, a 
 single new truth introduced to the British pub- 
 lic, not a single good thing said, nothing old 
 newly set, and not one good poem by a new 
 man. This they consider highly satisfactory 
 and gratifying. And it is in the hope of per- 
 petuating, improving, and extending this state 
 of things, that they desire to found the Royal 
 Literary College. 
 
 " * In the ordinary course of events, it cannot 
 be but that an occasional genius will arise. 
 Should such appear by any accident among 
 the students of the college, he will be promptly 
 and firmly expelled. But the college will
 
 2/0 My Little Girl. 
 
 gladly welcome any one, of either sex, who, 
 having a quick memory and a facile pen, is 
 quite justified in considering himself a genius; 
 and every allowance will be made for the weak- 
 nesses of humanity, should any student give 
 himself, or herself, the airs of genius. 
 
 " ' As students of both sexes will be admitted 
 within the college, the promoters, considering 
 how great a stimulus poverty is to work, will 
 encourage, by every means in their power, early 
 marriages. In case of husband and wife being 
 both students, arrangements will be made to 
 enable them to starve together, with their in- 
 nocent progeny, outside the college walls. No 
 chaplain will be appointed, as the promoters 
 desire to consider the college quite undenomi- 
 national. In deference, however, to popular 
 opinion, a chapel will be built, in which service 
 will be held on Sundays, in as many Christian 
 denominations as time permits. The hall will 
 be set apart for the more advanced thinkers^ 
 who will not, however, be allowed to smoke 
 during the delivery of orations. 
 
 "'The great festivals of the College will be 
 Commemoration Day, Old Dramatist Day, Old 
 Chronicle Day, Scandalous Chronicle and Me- 
 moirs Day, Horace Walpole Day, Boswell Day, 
 and French Play Day. On these days will be
 
 My Little Girl. 271 
 
 celebrated the names of those great men who, 
 by their Avritings, have furnished models for 
 copying, or provided storehouses for plagiarists. 
 Every student will be expected to produce a 
 panegyric in his own line. Those which, in the 
 opinion of the examiners, have most merit — 
 from the Literary College point of view — will be 
 printed and kept for one month. The successful 
 students will read them out in the college hall ; 
 but no one will be compelled to listen. 
 
 "'There will be no holidays or vacations. 
 Every student will absent himself as often as he 
 pleases. On Sundays, conveyances will be pro- 
 vided for intending excursionists. 
 
 " * The college library will not, on any account, 
 receive the works of the college students. 
 
 "'In the examinations for scholarships and 
 degrees, if any composition, in the eyes of the 
 examiners, should be found to partake of the 
 nature of philosophy, research or erudition ; or 
 should the reading of any composition de- 
 mand the exercise of thought ; or should any 
 reflect on the glory and dignity of light litera- 
 ture, the offender shall be publicly reprimanded, 
 and, on a repetition of the offence, shall be dis- 
 gracefully expelled. No objection will be made 
 to the offering up of prayers for any erring 
 student.
 
 2/2 My Little Girl. 
 
 " * The college Avill be divided into several 
 sections. These, which are not yet quite settled, 
 will be somewhat as follows : — 
 
 "T. Poetry. — Students will be recommended 
 to take a year's course at this, after the regular 
 three years at any of the other branches. 
 Several gentlemen will be invited to lecture 
 from time to time. Mr. Browning on the Art of 
 Obscurity and Apparent Depth ; also on the 
 Art of going on for Ever. Mr. Swinburne on 
 the Attractiveness of the Forbidden, and on the 
 Melody of the English Language. Mr. Tupper 
 on Catching a Weasel Asleep, applied to the 
 British public. Mr. Buchanan on the Art of 
 Self-laudation. Mr. Rossetti on the Mystery of 
 Mediaeval Mummeries ; also on the Fleshly 
 School and on the Art of Poetical Pretension. 
 Mr. Tennyson on quite a new subject : The 
 Yawning of Arthur ; or, Guinevere Played Out. 
 
 " * The students will be required to read the 
 mortal and perishable works of some of these 
 poets. They will also be examined in the 
 poems of Southey, Cowper, the imitations of 
 Pope, and the magazine poetry of the day, par- 
 ticularly that which decorates the monthlies. 
 
 "'II. The second branch will be the writing
 
 My Little Girl. 273 
 
 of essays. It is, of course, superfluous to say- 
 that A. K. H. B. will be invited to undertake 
 the department of Commonplace and Glorified 
 Twaddle. He will be assisted, provided their 
 services can be secured, by the authors of the 
 monthly magazine essays. A large number of 
 clergymen, including the Master of the Temple 
 and several of the bench of bishops, will be 
 asked to instruct in reeling off 'goody' talk 
 by the foot or yard, as required, for religious 
 papers. 
 
 "'Certain essay writers will be excluded 
 altogether — among them will be Emerson and 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes ; while but a sparing 
 use will be allowed of Sir Arthur Helps. 
 
 "'The authors from whom cribbing will be 
 recommended are Steele, Addison, Goldsmith, 
 and Johnson. Montaigne will also be largely 
 used. 
 
 "'HI. Historical Articles. — This depart- 
 ment is exceedingly difficult to arrange. It is 
 hoped that Canon Kingsley may be induced to 
 give a lecture on the Historical Forgiveness of 
 Sins, based on that celebrated essay of his where 
 he has shown that Raleigh's sins were forgiven 
 because a baby was born unto him. He may 
 also be asked to give over again his Cambridge 
 
 VOL L 18
 
 2/4 ^^y Little Girl, 
 
 course. The gentleman who writes the weekly- 
 articles in the Saturday abusing Mr. Froude will 
 be invited to illustrate the method of establish- 
 ing a raw, and always pegging at it. He will 
 also be asked to give a lecture on Mr. Freeman^ 
 called * Moi et Moimeme.' But the arrange- 
 ments for the historical course are not yet com- 
 pleted, and the promoters beg for further time. 
 
 " * IV. We come next to leading articles. On 
 this head it will only be observed here that the 
 paper which has the largest circulation, what- 
 ever that may be, will be chosen as the model. 
 The Saturday, the Spectator, the Exami7ier, and 
 a few other papers which occasionally address 
 the intellect, will be excluded from considera- 
 tion. 
 
 "'V. The department of novels will receive 
 the most careful attention, and the most pro- 
 found study. All the students, without any 
 exception, will be required to pass through it ; 
 and no student shall receive a degree, a diploma, 
 or any certificate of honour, until he has pro- 
 duced a three-volume novel, complete, finished, 
 and ready for the publisher. The professor of 
 the branch should be, if he will undertake the 
 duties, Mr. Anthony Trollope. There will be
 
 Mj/ Little Girl 27^ 
 
 lecturers to point out the secrets of manufacture 
 in all the sub-divisions: the principal of these 
 will be the religious novel, in which the works of 
 Miss Yonge and Miss Wetherell will, of course, 
 form the most useful guides to the student. 
 Lord Lytton will serve for the student of the 
 sentimental, the political, and the highly co- 
 loured unreal. There will be several forms of 
 the muscular novel, including the rollicking, the 
 Christian hero, the sentimental, the pint-pewter 
 crushing, and the remorseful. Ouida, Miss 
 Broughton, Charles and Henry Kingsley, and 
 Mr. Lawrence, will be the chosen m.odels for this 
 sub-division. 
 
 " ' For the sensational, there can be but one 
 model. 
 
 "'For the plain work of the department,. 
 the mere storytelling, with puppets for cha- 
 racters, of course Mr. Wilkie Collins will be 
 the guide. 
 
 " ' If there should be any student who would 
 rashly propose to make a picture of real life, he 
 will be set to study Charles Reade; but not in 
 the college, from which Mr. Reade's works will 
 be excluded. 
 
 "The promoters will have great pleasure In 
 receiving tenders and designs for a building. 
 
 18—2
 
 276 My Little Girl. 
 
 Names of candidates will be received at once by 
 the secretary, Mr. Hartley Venn, M.A.' 
 
 "There!" said Venn, "what do you think of 
 that ?" He sat down and wiped his forehead. 
 " I have thought of you both. You, Lynn, shall 
 be the standing counsel, with a large retaining 
 fee. You, Jones, shall be professor of the dra- 
 matic art. You will observe that, out of regard 
 to your feelings, I abstained from mentioning 
 this department. I myself shall be the first 
 warden, with a salary of ^2,000 a year."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 WORLD and the two 
 worlds of the "boys," as she 
 called them, were all three 
 wide enough apart. Wo- 
 man-like, she tried to bring them into her own 
 groove, and began by asking them to dinner.
 
 2/8 My Little Girl 
 
 Arthur went with a sort of enthusiasm. The 
 queenly beauty and the imperiousness of the 
 young lady — so great a contrast to his own 
 shrinking indecision — fired his imagination. In 
 her he saw something of what he himself might 
 have been but for his fatal shyness. Philip went 
 too, at first unwillingly, but presently with a plea- 
 sure which astonished him. His pastime seemed 
 to be to rouse the spirit of antagonism in Made- 
 leine ; and he delighted to rouse her to wrath by 
 opposing to her enthusiasm the cold barrier of 
 cynical selfishness. 
 
 "If it were not," she said one night — "if 
 it were not that I know you exaggerate your 
 opinions, I should hate you." 
 
 " Do not hate me," Philip answered ; " because 
 hatred is an active passion. I dislike a lot of 
 people, but I never take the trouble to hate 
 anybody — not even a bore." 
 
 " Then do not talk as if self was the only thing 
 in the world." 
 
 "I must, Madeleine, if I talk at all. You 
 would not have silence at your table, would 
 you } And Arthur never says anything. Arthur 
 has made a wonderful discovery, which is going 
 to cover him with glory. Has he told you V 
 
 " No. What is it, Arthur .? " 
 
 Arthur blushed vividly.
 
 My Little Girl. 279 
 
 " It is only a point of archaeological interest," 
 he said. " There has been a dispute in the 
 Archaeological Institute for years about the 
 number of buttons that went to the shirt of 
 mail, and I have at last been enabled to settle 
 the question." 
 
 "There," said Philip, triumphantly, "what did 
 I tell you.?" 
 
 Madeleine sighed. It seemed to her so sad 
 that one of the boys should openly worship self, 
 and the other should fritter away his time in the 
 pursuit of useless knowledge. 
 
 In the course of the evening she delivered an 
 animated oration on the subject, while Mrs. 
 Longworthy slumbered by the fire. The boys 
 stood before her, each in his turn receiving 
 punishment : Philip enjoying it above all things, 
 and Arthur, because he saw that she was in 
 earnest, with blushes and shame. 
 
 " It is all true, Madeleine, every word," he said. 
 
 " So it is," said Philip. " We are a disgraceful 
 pair." 
 
 " You are the worse, Philip, by far," went on 
 the fair preacher; "when I look at you, and 
 think what you might be doing — " 
 
 " See, now, Madeleine," Philip said ; " tell us 
 exactly what we can do, and we will have a try 
 at it. The care of other people may possibly
 
 2So My Little Girl 
 
 have a charm in it which is unknown to us at 
 present Who knows ? I may yet be preaching 
 on a tub, while Arthur collects halfpence in his 
 hat I fancy I see him now." 
 
 '* You turn ever}^thing serious into ridicule," 
 said ^Madeleine. 
 
 " Seriously," Arthur said, " my life is wasted. 
 I suppose antiquarian research is useless to 
 the world. I am afraid, however, I shall 
 never quite give it up. What can I do .' Do 
 you want any money for your objects, Made- 
 leine .^" 
 
 " No — no — no," she replied, impatiently. 
 *' How often am I to tell you that the real work 
 of charity is done without mone}' ? Now, listen, 
 and I will tell you what a man of leisure should 
 do. It is the interest of ever\-body that the con- 
 dition of the poor should be raised ; — by schools, 
 by giving them instruction in the arts of life, by 
 giving them sufficient wages for good work, by 
 maintaining their self-respect." 
 
 Philip began to groan softly. 
 
 " I will come to what I mean most." She 
 blushed a little, and went on : — " I have got a 
 friend, a middle-aged woman, who gives all her 
 life to the care of a certain house, where she re- 
 ceives and finds work for women. We give 
 them as much work as they can do, at a fair
 
 My Little Girl. 281 
 
 price. We ask no questions — we form no 
 society. Some of them live in the house, 
 others in the neighbourhood. We do not let 
 them work all day, and we give them instruction 
 in housework, in medicine, and all sorts of 
 things that may be useful to them when they 
 marry, as most of them do." 
 
 " I suppose," said Philip, the irrepressible, 
 " they are driven to church three times every 
 Sunday." 
 
 "Not at all. We never interfere with their 
 religion. Some of them are pious : some, I 
 suppose, are not. We have one broad principle 
 — that our work shall not be mixed up with 
 religion in any way." 
 
 '' Good." 
 
 *' And what do you do with their work V 
 
 '* It goes to a shop which belongs to us. We 
 can sell as cheaply as any other, in spite of our 
 high wages ; because, you see, there is no 
 middle-man." 
 
 " Madeleine, you are a Radical." 
 
 " I know nothing about that. I am deter- 
 mined to do what I can to have women properly 
 paid. All that come to me shall get work, even 
 if we lose ; though I think we shall not lose by 
 it, so long as I have any money left. Now, you 
 two can help me."
 
 282 My Little Girl. 
 
 " I never learned to sew," said Philip, looking 
 at his fingers. 
 
 " The girls and women have got brothers and 
 sons. We cannot find work for them too, but 
 we want to get up a night school. Will you 
 come down and teach .?" 
 
 They looked at each other with alarm. 
 
 " Of course we will," said Arthur, " if you wish 
 it." 
 
 " Then come to-morrow." 
 
 They went. 
 
 It was in Westminster that Madeleine's 
 *4iouse" stood: properly speaking, three or four 
 small houses knocked into one. They went 
 with her at seven o'clock, both feeling horribly 
 ill at ease. 
 
 She took them upstairs into a room made out 
 of two by taking down the wall between, where 
 a dozen boys were assembled, under the care of 
 a young man whose pale cheeks and thin figure 
 concealed a vast amount of courage and en- 
 thusiasm. With him — a young martyr to the 
 cause which yearly kills its soldiers — we have 
 here nothing to do. 
 
 " This is our school," said Madeleine. " Mr. 
 Hughes, these two gentlemen will try to do 
 something for us — if you will put them in the 
 way."
 
 Jlfy Little Girl 283 
 
 Mr, Hughes bowed — but looked suspiciously 
 at his two new assistants. 
 
 " Come, gentlemen," he said, " there are your 
 pupils — the more advanced boys. Mine are 
 down below." 
 
 He divided the boys into two sets, one at 
 either end ; giving Philip care of one and Arthur 
 that of the other. 
 
 " You will be firm, gentlemen," he whispered. 
 *'Don't let any single step be taken to destroy 
 discipline. We have to be very careful here. 
 Here are books for you." 
 
 He gave Philip a geography, and Arthur a 
 little book containing hints or lectures on all 
 sorts of elementary subjects, chiefly connected 
 with laws of health, rules of life, and of simple 
 chemical laws. Arthur sat down mechanically, 
 and turned pale when he opened the book ; for 
 of science he was as ignorant as the Pope him- 
 self In a few moments Philip came over to 
 him. 
 
 "What have you got, Arthur.-*" 
 
 " Here's science — what am I to do with it V 
 
 " I don't know. Pve got geography. What 
 am I to do with that V 
 
 "Draw a map on a board, and tell them 
 something about a country. Anything will do." 
 
 Philip went back and faced his class. They
 
 284 My Little Girl. 
 
 were a sturdy, dirty-faced lot of young gamins, 
 all whispering together, and evidently intent on 
 as much mischief as could be got out of the new 
 teacher. Behind him was a black board and a 
 piece of chalk. 
 
 "What country shall we take, boys?" he 
 asked, with an air of confidence, as if all were 
 alike to him. 
 
 "Please, sir, yesterday we had Central Africa, 
 and Mr. Hughes told us a lot about travellers 
 there. Let's have some more about Living- 
 stone." 
 
 Philip was not posted up in Livingstone. He 
 shook his head, and tried to think of a country 
 he knew something about. Suddenly a bright 
 thought struck him. 
 
 "Did you ever hear of Palmiste Island, boys.''" 
 
 They never had. 
 
 "By Jove," thought Philip, "I shall get on 
 splendidly now." 
 
 As he was drawing his map of the island, he 
 heard Arthur, in a hesitating voice, beginning 
 to describe the glory of the heavens; and nearly 
 choked, because he was certain that five minutes 
 would bring him to grief 
 
 He began to talk as he drew his map, de- 
 scribing the discovery of the island, the first 
 settlers, and their hardships ; and then, warming
 
 My Little Girl. 285 
 
 to his subject, he told all about sugar making 
 and coffee planting. From time to time, 
 Arthur's voice fell upon his ear; but he was too 
 busy drawing his map, and decorating the cor- 
 ners of the board with fancy sketches, illustrat- 
 ing the appearance of the people, niggers' heads, 
 Chinese carrying pigs — for Phil sketched very 
 fairly — and he did not look up. Presently he 
 turned round. All Arthur's boys had deserted 
 their instructor and come over to him, while 
 their unhappy lecturer, in silence, sat helpless in 
 his chair, book in hand. As for his own boys, 
 they were all on the broad grin, enjoying the 
 lesson highly. 
 
 Philip stopped — 
 
 "I say," he said, "this won't do, you know. 
 Go back, you boys, to your own end." 
 
 "He aint no good, that teacher," said one of 
 the boys, with a derisive grin. 
 
 Arthur shook his head mournfully. There 
 was something touching in his attitude, sitting 
 all alone, with his book in his hand. Perhaps 
 Arthur had never felt so humiliated in his life 
 before. It was perfectly true: he was no good. 
 In the brief five minutes during which he lec- 
 tured, he made more mistakes in astronomical 
 science than generally falls to the lot of man to 
 make in a lifetime. Some of the boys, who had
 
 286 My Little Girl. 
 
 been to national schools, found him out in a 
 moment, and openly expressed their contempt 
 before seceding to the other end of the room. 
 
 " He aint no good, that teacher," said the boy. 
 " You go on with your patter. We're a-listenin* 
 to you. Draw us some more pictures. Make a 
 white man latherin' a nigger." 
 
 " Obsairve," as a friend of ours would say, the 
 instinctive superiority of race. 
 
 " Boys," said another, rising solemnly, " this 
 one aint no good neither. He's a-gammonin' of 
 us. There aint no such a place. I sha'n't stay 
 here to be gammoned on." 
 
 He was about four feet nothing in his boots, 
 this young Hampden. Phil, cut to the heart by 
 the ignominy of the thing, caught him a box of 
 the ears that laid him sprawling. The urchin 
 raised a howl, and, falling back from his friends, 
 pulled the form over with him, so that the whole 
 row of a dozen fell together. The yells were 
 terrific for a moment ; and then, seized by a 
 common impulse, the boys grasped their caps 
 and fled down the stairs like one boy. 
 
 " Arthur ! " said Philip. 
 
 " Philip ! " said Arthur. 
 
 "You never experienced anything like this 
 before, I suppose 1 " 
 
 " Never."
 
 3fy Little Girl. 287 
 
 Just then Madeleine herself appeared, followed 
 by Mr. Hughes. All the forms lay on the floor; 
 for in the brief moment of tumult every boy 
 had seized the opportunity of contributing some- 
 thing to the noise. And at either end of the 
 room stood one of her new allies. Arthur, with 
 his arms helplessly dangling, holding the unlucky 
 book of science, Philip trying with his pocket- 
 handkerchief to rub out some of the pictures. 
 
 Madeleine looked from one to the other. 
 
 "Take this wretched book, somebody," said 
 Arthur, as if the volume chained him to the 
 spot. " Do take the book." 
 
 Mr. Hughes took the book, and Arthur turned 
 to Madeleine. 
 
 " It's a failure, Madeleine," he said, with a sad 
 sigh. " They only laughed at me." 
 
 "And what have you been doing, Philip .?" 
 
 " I've been getting on capitally," he said, try- 
 ing to efface the pig and the Chinaman. " I've 
 been giving a lesson on geography." 
 
 " Illustrated," said Mr. Hughes, quietly, point- 
 ing to the pig. 
 
 " Yes, illustrated. I've been telling the boys 
 about Palmiste, Madeleine ; and they actually 
 refused to believe there is any such place." 
 
 " Is much mischief done, Mr. Hughes } " asked 
 Madeleine.
 
 288 My Little Girl, 
 
 The question was like a box on the ear to 
 both. They looked at each other, and Philip 
 began to laugh. 
 
 " Honestly, Madeleine," he said, " I am very 
 sorry. We have done our best. I thought 
 we should have to hear a lesson, and was not 
 prepared to give a lecture." 
 
 " Never mind, sir," said Mr. Hughes. '' I dare 
 say we shall soon mend matters; and perhaps 
 your pictures amused the children." 
 
 " You may take me home, both of you," said 
 Madeleine. 
 
 She said no more, though she was greatly 
 disappointed at the failure of her scheme. 
 
 " Madeleine," said Philip, in the carriage, *' I 
 am inclined to think that, on the whole, I can 
 serve my fellow-creatures best by not teaching 
 them." 
 
 " Try me again, Madeleine," Arthur whispered.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ETTLING down in most respectable 
 lodgings, in Keppel -street, Russell - 
 square, with a clear six months before 
 him of no anxiety for the next day's dinner,, 
 Mr. Maclntyre felt at first more elation than 
 becomes a philosopher. We must excuse him. 
 When a man has had seven years of shifts, 
 hardly knowing one day what the next would 
 be like, racking his brain for contrivances to 
 keep the wolf from the door, busy with never- 
 ending combinations for the transference of cash 
 from other people's pockets to his own, a clear 
 holiday of six months seems almost like an 
 eternit}^ 
 
 After a few days of seclusion and whisky 
 toddy, Mr. Maclntyre awoke to the conclusion 
 that something would have to be done. Reason 
 
 YOU I. 19
 
 290 My Little Girl. 
 
 once more asserted her sway. His first idea was 
 to take pupils; and accordingly he invested a 
 small sum in second-hand books^ another in re- 
 ports and examinations, and another sum in ad- 
 vertisements. No pupils came at all. Another 
 thing he did was to go to a lawyer, and instruct 
 him to write a certain letter to a firm of lawyers 
 in Palmiste. They were directed to search the 
 register of marriages at the church of St. Joseph 
 for that of George Durnford with Marie ; to 
 make a formal and attested copy of it, and to 
 send it to London — the whole being strictly 
 secret and confidential. 
 
 And then, this being fairly put into hand, as 
 he found he had a good deal of time upon his 
 hands, he began to spend it chiefly in the so- 
 ciety of Philip, watching him closely, getting his 
 secrets out of him, communicating his opinions, 
 trying to get a real influence over him. 
 
 '* Obsairve," said the philosopher one night to 
 Philip himself, " there are some kinds of men 
 who go uphill or downhill, according as they 
 are shoved. They have no deliberate choice in 
 the matter; because, if they had, they would 
 prefer the better path. While they are hesitat- 
 ing, some one comes and gives them a gentle 
 shove downwards." 
 
 " What is the meaning of all this, Macin-
 
 My Little Girl. 291 
 
 tyre ? " asked Philip, ignorant of the applica- 
 tion. 
 
 " Ay, ay — the wise man talks in parables, and 
 is understood not. Ye've heard of Mr. Baxter, 
 and his * Shove to heavy Christians,' Phil ? He 
 was a sagacious man. There may as well be 
 shovers up as shovers down. I do what I can, 
 but it's vera little — vera little, indeed. In me, 
 my pupil, you behold an up-shover ; in yourself, 
 — one who is shoved upwards." 
 
 In his easy way, having very few friends and 
 long leave, Philip fell back a good deal on Mac- 
 Intyre. First, the man amused him ; then he 
 took pleasure in his company, because he flat- 
 tered him ; thirdly, he fell into the snares of a 
 will stronger than his own, and confided eveiy- 
 thing to him, Maclntyre, not by any means a 
 ■deep, designing villain, had yet a game of his 
 -own to play. He read the character of his ex- 
 pupil, and began to consider his own plan 
 almost as good as carried out. 
 
 "See," he seemed to say, while he and Philip 
 sat opposite each other in the evening, smoking 
 and talking — *'see how goodly are the fruits in 
 the neighbourhood of the Dead Sea. Let me 
 give you a friendly shove in that direction. 
 Obsairve, how sickly is the perfume — how faint 
 the odour of the Jericho rose. Truly, the apples 
 
 19 — 2
 
 292 My Little Girl. 
 
 of the plain are better than the grapes of 
 Eshcol. I have been myself, all my life, in 
 search of these fruits; unsuccessfully, I admit, 
 through no fault of mine. For I had no scruples. 
 I fought for my own hand. I was a beggar 
 bom; and, because circumstances were too 
 strong for me, I am a beggar now, at fifty- 
 three. But mine is the true road, and your 
 philosopher knows no scruples." 
 
 Phil's secrets were simple. The young fel- 
 low was in debt, of course, but not badl}-. 
 More than half of his little fortune was gone. 
 He always had a heavy balance against him 
 in his speculative transactions. Worse than this, 
 he was in love. 
 
 AH these things considered together, Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre was perhaps justified in rubbing his 
 hands at night. What did he do, though, with 
 those two or three bits of yellow paper which he 
 was always reading, holding to the light and 
 examining, before he put them up again in the 
 dirty old pocket-book Avhich he carried inside 
 his waistcoat ? 
 
 "I think," he murmurs, "that in three months,. 
 or six at most, it may be done. It shall be 
 done. The pear will be ripe. Bah! it must 
 drop into my hands."
 
 J/y Little Girl. 293 
 
 He talked over the love matter. That was 
 the most pressing business. 
 
 " Ye cannot do it, Phil," he said — "it's beneath 
 yourself." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Philip, colouring. "I can 
 make no mesalliance." 
 
 "Pardon me, you can. And if you knew all 
 „ . . . Obsairve, young man, he who — " 
 
 " I know, I know. Do not philosophize. I 
 suppose you cannot imagine such a thing as 
 love, Maclntyre?" 
 
 "No, I think not. I've been married, though; 
 so I know very well what is not love." 
 
 "I believe you have been everything," said 
 Philip. 
 
 " Most things I certainly have. And most 
 things I have made notes of. As, for instance, 
 that the British officer does not, as a rule, marry 
 the girl of inferior position whom — " 
 
 "Maclntyre, stop!" cried Philip, "Do not try 
 me too far, I have been a gambler, if you like 
 — a profligate — anything you like to call me ; 
 but I swear that I have never had that sin laid 
 to my conscience." 
 
 "Aweel, aweel," said Maclntyre. "Was I 
 tempting you .'' You apply a general propo- 
 sition to a particular case. A most illogical race 
 .the English always were."
 
 294 ^y Z^V/Ze' Girl. 
 
 He changed the subject ; but kept on recur- 
 ring to it, night after night ; while PhiHp, meet- 
 ing Laura but once a week or so, was daily 
 growing more and more passionately in love 
 with the girl. 
 
 " A marriage beneath your station, Philip," he 
 said one night, enigmatically, " would be mad- 
 ness to you, just now." 
 
 "And why just now V 
 
 " Because you will have to take your proper 
 place ; give up the soldiering, and become a 
 country gentleman — that is, as soon as you like 
 to hold out your hand and ask." 
 
 " What is the man talking about V 
 
 *' Never mind — we can ^y^it- Mind, I say 
 nothing about the young leddy." 
 
 " She is too good for me." 
 
 *' Na doot — na doot. They always are. She's 
 all that you imagine, of course, and more behind 
 it. But after a month, ye'd wish ye hadn't done 
 it. Eh, what a pity that there is nothing short 
 of marriage 1 Hand-fasting would be some- 
 thing." 
 
 It was the second time he had thrown out this 
 hint. This time Philip did not spring from his 
 chair. He only looked at him thoughtfully, and 
 shook his head. 
 
 " I must have her, Maclntyre — I must have
 
 My Little Girl. 295 
 
 her. Only this morning I saw her. See, here is- 
 a lock of her pretty hair. How soft it is, the 
 dear little lock that I cut off with her own scis- 
 sors ! And here is her face in my locket. Look 
 at it — you, with your fifty years of cold philo- 
 sophy — and warm your blood for a moment. 
 Think of what you would have been, if you had 
 met her when you were young, when you were 
 five and twenty! Eh, Mephistopheles.^ Did you 
 ever have any youth V 
 
 " I'll tell you about my youth some other 
 day," returned the preceptor — '* not now. Well, 
 it's a bonny face, a bonny face; and a good 
 face, too." 
 
 " By Heaven, sir," Philip went on, " there's no- 
 woman like her — not one. 
 
 * There is none like her, none, 
 Nor shall be till our summers have deceased.' 
 
 You know, you know — 
 
 * Her sweet voice ringing up to the sunny sky, 
 Till I well could weep for myself, so wretched and' 
 
 mean, 
 And a lover so sordid and base.' 
 
 It isn't quite right: but never mind. I feel the 
 touch of her fingers in mine this moment, man 
 of the icy veins. I tell you that I feel the warm 
 blush on her cheek when I kissed her; I hear 
 the sweet tones of her voice — the loveliest and
 
 .296 J/jy Little Girl. 
 
 sweetest you ever heard. And she trusts me,'* 
 he went on, with a sort of sob — "she trusts me, 
 and thinks I am good. Good ! She is not 
 happy with the secret, poor child. She longs to 
 tell this Mr. Venn, who is a friend of Arthur's, 
 all about it." 
 
 "And has she told Mr. Venn.?" cried Mac- 
 Intyre, greatly excited. 
 
 "Why, no. I tell her not to." 
 
 "Don't let her, Phil. Keep it secret. What- 
 ever you do, don't let Mr. Venn know." 
 
 Phil was in a hot fit that night, and Maclntyre 
 let him down with his simple remonstrance. 
 
 Next day he was despondent, because things 
 looked badly for a horse he had backed. He 
 began again. Philip answered, surlily — 
 
 "I am going to marry her, pillar of Pres- 
 i)yterian scrupulosity. My mind is made up." 
 
 "I knew a man once," said Maclntyre, filling 
 his tumbler with brandy and water, "much in 
 your predicament. He was in love with a girl 
 beneath him." 
 
 " Now you are going to invent some lies of 
 your own," said Philip. 
 
 Maclntyre half rose. 
 
 "Sir, do not insult your own guest. If it was 
 not for — for this full glass of grog, I'd go at 
 •once."
 
 My Little Girl. 297- 
 
 ** No, no — I beg your pardon. Go on with 
 your parable." 
 
 " It is no parable. Truth, sir — plain, unvar- 
 nished truth, will always be found better than 
 parable. This, sir," tapping his breast, "is a 
 wholesale depot of truth. I knew the man of 
 whom I am telling you well. A friend of his 
 had been once an ordained Presbyterian minis- 
 ter. He said to him, ' I will marry you pri- 
 vately. The marriage is pairfectly good north 
 of the Tweed. What it is south, I do not know.. 
 It will be time to raise the question after the 
 ceremony is completed.' Well, Philip, they 
 were married. My friend performed the service 
 in his own house. The question has never been- 
 raised, and never will be raised, because the 
 marriage turned out happily — in consequence or 
 the demise of the leddy." 
 
 " Is that true V Philip asked. 
 
 " Quite true. I was the man who married 
 them." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre's powers of fiction are already 
 too well known for me to waste any time in 
 comment upon this speech. No tear, I have 
 reason to believe, blotted that falsehood from 
 the paper where it was taken down. 
 
 " I was the man," said Alexander the Great 
 without a blush.
 
 298 My Little Girl. 
 
 " Were you ever in orders — you ?" asked Phil. 
 
 " I — why not ? I was ordained, called, set 
 aside, whatever you call it. It is true that I 
 vvas young and inexperienced." 
 
 '* Good Lord, what a man it is !" 
 
 " I began by preaching in Edinburgh ; but I 
 failed in my very first appearance. They said I 
 wanted unction. I don't know what I wanted. 
 1 had learned my discourse by heart the day 
 before. Unfortunately, I took too much on the 
 Saturday night ; and in the morning, what with 
 the whisky and what with the position, and the 
 sermon half forgotten, I fear I made but a 
 poor appearance in the pulpit, a sort o' stickit 
 minister. I never preached there again." 
 
 " What did you do next V 
 
 " They wanted a missionary for the Jews in 
 Constantinople. I went there. I stayed seven 
 years. I converted three Jews, who, as I after- 
 wards found, had been converted by all my 
 predecessors in turn. They did not cost much; 
 and as their names were always changed, they 
 helped to make up the quarterly report. How- 
 €ver, I had to give that work up ; and I believe 
 my three converts all relapsed. Eh ! the hun- 
 dreds of pounds those three rascals cost our 
 country. 1 say nothing, Phil ; but you will think 
 over my parable, as you please to call it. Mind,
 
 My Little Girl. 299 
 
 I believe the marriage was pairfectly legal. You 
 may find out, afterwards, whatever you please. 
 Remember, the Church of Scotland is not yet 
 disestablished. It is as respectable as your own 
 Church." 
 
 "Truly," said Philip, saluting him. 
 
 "I say, sir," repeated the reverend divine, "it is 
 as respectable as yours. Otherwise, I should 
 not be in it." 
 
 "Quite so," said Philip — "quite so." 
 
 "My friend, you see," he went on, "argued 
 thus, by my advice: 'If I choose, I can at any 
 time investigate t"he question of legality. On 
 the other hand, my wife will always believe her- 
 self married. There will be no question of a 
 very ugly word, because the Church will have 
 done her part. A blessed thing it is, Philip, 
 that there is a Church to protect the world." 
 
 He stopped for a moment, and took a sip of 
 half a pint or so of brandy and water. Then 
 his speech became suddenly thick. 
 
 "A real-a-tooll-a 'Icssed 'spensation of Provi- 
 dence. What that friend of mine, in love and 
 all with most beautiful creech', would have done 
 withou' th' Church, impossible to say." He 
 steadied himself with an effort. " Phil, my dear 
 boy, brandy always makes mc ill. Gi' me a ma' 
 hat, ye blettherin' deevil, telling your stories,
 
 30O My Little Girl. 
 
 and keeping your old tutor out of bed. Gi' me 
 ma hat, and le' me go. I'll tell ye the rest to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Philip, left alone, began to meditate. The 
 evil suggestion of his tempter lay at his heart 
 like a seedling waiting to put forth its leaves. 
 There was, over and above the other difficulties 
 of the position, that of living if he were to 
 marry. A very considerable slice of the five 
 thousand was gone, that was quite clear.. 
 About the rest he was not quite clear, but 
 there could not be much. 
 
 "What matters.?" he murmured. ''I will .sell 
 out, and we will do something — love like the 
 birds, by gad. But I must and will have the 
 girl." 
 
 He took out the locket again, and looked at 
 the face which lay in it, with its bright, innocent 
 smile. As he looked, his face softened. 
 
 "It is a shame," he said, "a shame. That 
 scoundrel, Maclntyre. No, child, no. I will \\ 
 
 never wrong you." 
 
 END OF VOL. L
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOI9-URBANA 
 
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