^tPc^ 
 
 LI B R.ARY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 U N IVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 V.I
 
 LEO. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 By button cook, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "a PRODIGAL SON," " PAUL FOSTER'S DAUGHTKR, 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL. 
 
 M.DCCC.LXIII.
 
 \_The riijJit of Translation is reserved *\
 
 y> 
 
 VD 
 
 ^ 
 
 V 
 no 
 
 I 
 
 
 O CONTENTS OF VOL. I, 
 
 Chap. Page 
 
 I. A Drone in the Hite I 
 
 II. An Opera by Rossini 33 
 
 III. The Misses Bigg's Seminary for Young Ladies 68 
 
 IV. Apartments Furnished : 100 
 
 V. Harlequin and Columbine 126 
 
 VI. Dr. Hawkshaw's Patient 144 
 
 v:: VII. A School Friend 160 
 
 VIII. Mr. Lomax of the Wafer Stamp Office 191 
 
 ^ IX. Mrs. Simmons's Lodger 227 
 
 a. 
 
 »/i X. "Ac Cafe" 26') 

 
 E O. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. 
 
 Our Babylon has been seldom afflicted with the 
 violent improvements which have often ravaged 
 continental cities. We sometimes tender to the 
 genius of alteration a corner building here and 
 there, or permit a rookery to be pierced, or oust 
 poverty from a back slum, — but we never sacri- 
 fice a w^hole hecatomb of houses ; we never sweep 
 away at once an entire street, to establish a new 
 boulevard or open up a magnificent vista. Our 
 changes are in the nature of nibblings rather than 
 great bites. Yet is our London gradually wearing 
 VOL. I. /^^ 1
 
 2 LEO. 
 
 a new ilice. By careful cosmetlcizing and adroit 
 dressing it c:rows more and more comely of aspect. 
 Light is permitted to penetrate where once it was 
 barely known, save by hearsay and accidental 
 reflection ; gas-pipes thread the thoroughfares, 
 and water is generally laid on, and a subterra- 
 nean city toils for the sake of order, and decency, 
 and cleanliness, in the world above ground; and 
 of course these things are matters of congratula- 
 tion. Still, it is with regret we learn now and 
 then of the loss of some relic of an older age — 
 even though it may have been an abuse, it was 
 vet a landmark in our own history, in our town's, 
 in our globe's. The new white teeth we buy 
 of our dentist are very excellent, admirable, 
 ornamental — even useful, — but that preceding 
 extraction of stumps was decidedly a painful 
 business. 
 
 Has Improvement gone round with double-tie 
 brush and set a mark of destruction in white- 
 wash upon a pleasant row of houses known as 
 Sun-dial Buildings, in tlie Temple ? Have these 
 been partitioned into lots, and numbered and lined 
 until they resemble the diagrams of dishes in the 
 cookery books which profess to give instruction 
 how to carve? Has the iconoclastic labourer.
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. 3 
 
 pickaxe in hand, mounted on tlie walls, and with 
 aid of 'pulley and rope, been busy sending baskets 
 of bricks — mockeries of game-hampers, presents 
 from the country — to his fellows below, toiling 
 behind a high hoarding, as though ashamed, as 
 well they might be, of their occupation ? The 
 reader must for himself answer these cjueries. 
 But if Sun-dial Buildings yet exist, as of yore, 
 red-tiled, ramshackle, worm-eaten, smoke-grimed, 
 defiant of architectural and sanitary reformers, — 
 gifted with all the inevitable picturesqueness of age 
 and dirt — I pray you go view the premises. And 
 should incentive be wanting to this mission, pro- 
 blematical and unsatisfactory as I concede it may 
 be under the progressive economy of metropolitan 
 improvements, why then, let me give you motive 
 for inquiry. It is in Sun-dial Buildings that the 
 first scene of our nouel is laid. 
 
 Unto which of the learned and illustrious Inns 
 did the Buildings pertain ? Were they of the 
 Middle or the Inner Temple? Did their inha- 
 bitants fight beneath the armorial ensign of the 
 Pegasus or of the Holy Lamb ? Nay, why should 
 I pause to set down such particulars ? To these 
 questions, also, it were better to obtain answer 
 on the spot. 
 
 1—2
 
 4 LEO. 
 
 On a certain black door on the first-floor land- 
 ing of one of the houses in Sun-dial Buildings 
 two names were inscribed in thick white paint. 
 It was quite necessary that they should be marked 
 with some distinctness, for the staircase was very 
 dark, and visitors had to grope their way, poring 
 over the names they were in quest of, as travellers 
 at night strain their eyes to read finger-posts. By 
 making out each letter separately — perhaps by 
 feeling them after the manner of blind people 
 reading their embossed books — the words finally 
 deciphered were, "Mr, A. Page:'' and under- 
 neath, " Mr. R. HooPEE." 
 
 The black door gave entrance, however, to very 
 light and pleasant rooms. These had formerly 
 been tenanted by old Mr. Tangleton, the veteran 
 special pleader, who w^as said to have lived in 
 Sun-dial Buildings for nearly half a century, and 
 during that period to have consumed more port 
 wine (fruity and full-bodied), played more rubbers 
 at whist (long, guinea points), and produced pleas 
 of more cunning and curiousness, and of a higl},©}" , 
 degree of intricacy and incomprehensibility, than 
 :any three other men in the Inn put together — 
 wdiich was saying a good deal, undoubtedly. JFor 
 some years preceding his demise, the old gentle-
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. 5 
 
 man Iiad never stirred outside liis black door, 
 seldom from his great greasy arm-chair by the 
 fireplace, hindered partly by increasing age and 
 infirmity, and partly by a love of ease and a 
 stanchly conservative hatred of alteration ; and 
 at the time of his death he had grown to a size 
 so enormous — having been always a man of gigan- 
 tesque mould — that, it was rumoured throughout 
 the Buildings, his coffin had to be lowered from 
 his front windows by means of strong ropes, the 
 undertaker's men having positively declined the 
 responsibility of conveying a burden so extraor- 
 dinary, down the rather tortuous staircase in the 
 usual way. The chambers were then found to 
 be in a state of terrible dilapidation. The white- 
 washer had never once set foot in the place 
 during the period of Mr. Tangleton's tenancy. 
 In the corners of the rooms swung cobwebs, so 
 thick, and interwoven, and strong, that they 
 would probably have made very trustworthy 
 hammocks for middle-weight rats. The Turkey 
 carpet was in holes, and every trace of pattern had 
 been trodden out, or was else secreted beneath a 
 closely-sown surface of dust. The walls, not hidden 
 by the shelves upon shelves of law-books, were 
 black with dirt and age, the paint peeling from
 
 6 LEO. 
 
 tliem, and curling off in large sheets here and there, 
 as though, like snakes, they were shedding their 
 skins. The ceilings were so cracked that they 
 looked as though they w^ere tesselated with a 
 brown, monotone material unskilfully put together; 
 they were clouded angrily with dust and smoke, 
 while in places the plaster had fallen, and an 
 interlacing of laths was exposed to view — ^just as 
 the warp and woof of cloth are visible when the 
 nap is thoroughly rubbed away. But the old 
 special pleader dead and buried — (he left no will, 
 and the great bulk of his enormous w^ealth de- 
 volved upon his laundress, a one-eyed woman of 
 eighty, who, it seemed, had been also his wife for 
 some years,) — Mr. Arnold Page entered upon 
 possession of the chambers, and wrote A, Page 
 upon the exact spot on the black door which 
 had formerly borne the memorable name of 
 Tangleton. 
 
 Certainly the rOoms hardly looked the same as 
 when they were under the rule of Tangleton. 
 The painter, the decorator, the upholsterer, had 
 rendered valuable aid. Silken curtains profusely 
 gimped, and corded, and tasselled, now draped 
 windows which had once stood nude, and dirty, 
 and cracked. Outside were Venetian blinds to
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. 7 
 
 ward off the fierceness of the sun, and dlmhiish 
 the glare of light from the river. Gold- 
 mouldings edged the rooms ; velvet pile carpets 
 caressed the feet of the visitor, and deadened the 
 creaking of boots and the noise of footfalls ; 
 antiq'Ue, carved, oaken book-cases replaced the 
 common shelves of the late special pleader ; and 
 light literature now reigned in places which had 
 known before nothing but reading of the heaviest 
 and most legal description. Bronze and gilt chan- 
 deliers depended from the ceilings ; pier glasses 
 towered up from the marble mantelpieces above 
 the polished steel stoves ; paintings in admirable 
 frames, adorned the walls ; while scattered about 
 the room, were statuettes in Parian, real and 
 good bronzes, cut-glass candelabra, and various 
 delicate specimens of Dresden and old Chelsea 
 china. Substantial furniture — all oak — chairs of 
 various patterns, and elaborately easy, padded 
 couches. Yes, and a grand-piano, and a flower- 
 stand in the window crowded with plants, and 
 positively a canary bird hopping about from 
 perch to perch, proud of his golden plumage, 
 which eclipsed even the brilliant lacquer of his 
 cage. 
 
 It was hardly to be wondered at, therefore.
 
 8 LEO. 
 
 that the gentleman who had brought about all 
 this splendour should be the object of some 
 curiosity and canvassing amongst his fellow diners 
 and students in Hall. Of course, information 
 about him was speedily forthcoming, as it is forth- 
 coming concerning any and every body, if you are 
 careful to ask for it often, and loudly, and per- 
 sistently enough. 
 
 " Page ! — oh , y es ! — Arnold Page — Pages of 
 Woodlandshire — good family — tidy estate, I be- 
 lieve. Yes ! — he's a swell — lots of money — wish 
 I had. Oh, no ! he isn't going to practise at the 
 bar — only called for the fun of the thing. Why, 
 he keeps a man-servant, who wears a cockade 
 in his hat ; an awful chap, because Page holds a 
 commission in the Woodlandshire Yeomanry, I 
 suppose; or because his father was a Waterloo 
 man. Oh, no ! he ain't proud ; not a bit ; very 
 good sort of fellow, I believe, and clever too, 
 when he likes to give his mind to a thing. You 
 see, he started with odds in his favour — two to 
 one, I should say. Born with a silver spoon in his 
 mouth, that's the fact— wish I had been. No, he 
 don't care for the Temple port ; he's got a better 
 tap over at his chambers ; such a swell place — 
 fitted up like a drawing-room, bless you," &c., &c.
 
 A DRONE IN THE IIIVE. 9 
 
 Some such statement, containing the above 
 particulars, was not unfrequently asked for and 
 given. As to why a gentleman so prosperous as 
 Mr. Page had chosen to eat his terms and abide in 
 old Tangleton's chambers in the Temple, it was 
 less easy to arrive at a satisfactory explanation. 
 Fortune having made already other and better 
 provision for him, he could not be said to aspire 
 to any of those political preferments which involve 
 a seven years' standing as an indispensable qualifi- 
 cation. Mr. Arnold Page, of Oakmere Court, 
 Woodlandshire, was secure in the possession of 
 very considerable wealth and first-rate social 
 position. His father — a soldier who had seen active 
 service under the great Duke, and who had been 
 dead many years — had sat for the county, and 
 the rumour went that young Mr. Page would offer 
 himself as a candidate on the occasion, if not 
 of the next vacancy certainly of the next but one, 
 without a doubt being entertained that his so doing 
 would result in success. It was only, people said, 
 his disinclination to place himself in opposition to 
 the present member, a very old gentleman, and a 
 connexion of the Page family, that had prevented 
 his loner ao;o contesting the election and taking his 
 seat in Parliament as one of the members for the
 
 10 LEO. 
 
 county of Woodlandshire. In that case, lie would, 
 of course, as his father and grandfather had done 
 before him, have found his way to the benches 
 occupied by the influential party in the House 
 who are presumed to represent the landed and 
 agricultural interests of the country ; for political 
 conviction runs through a fiimiiy and is as 
 hereditary as gout or insanity. In his Eton and 
 Oxford days, of course, a young fellow takes up 
 with revolutionary sentiments, or entertains odd 
 notions about Venetian constitutions. Doges, and 
 Councils of Ten ; but he passes through these as 
 through the measles and the chicken-pox, to arrive 
 finally at those confirmed mental disorders which 
 have ranged his progenitors before him sturdy 
 combatants under a prescribed Parliamentary 
 standard and converts to the political creed of a 
 party. At* present, however, it miglit be prema- 
 ture to discuss what course Mr. Page would 
 pursue in the event of his return as a member for 
 Woodlandshire. There was little evidence as yet 
 of his having assigned to himself any special career 
 other than that of an independent gentleman 
 residing en garcon in very admirable apartments 
 in the Temple. 
 
 You could obtain from Mr. Page's windows.
 
 A DEONE IN THE HIVE. 11 
 
 between the massive old walls and buttresses of 
 the Hall on the one side, and a graceful group of 
 limes on the other, very pleasant glimpses of the 
 river Thames — now silver-bright in the sun, now 
 rather jaundiced by the heavy-laden London clouds 
 broodino' over it. You could watch the hare and 
 tortoise progresses of the smart little steamboats 
 and the round-shouldered barges ; you could note 
 youthful amateurs plying their oars in the wherries 
 in a manner singularly unlike the steady, ready, 
 adroit performance of the waterman in the bur- 
 letta, and also the dapper boating gentleman 
 poised so dexterously in his skeleton outrigger, 
 lookino^ almost as thoufrh he were ridino- on a 
 
 o o o 
 
 walking-stick with a two-pronged fork on either 
 side by way of rowlocks ; and you could trace 
 out, too, the low-lying Lambeth shore, very 
 patched and uneven, brown and Dutch-like, 
 bristling with chimneys and canopied with smoke. 
 You were within ear-shot of the spirt, and pelt, and 
 clatter of the fountain, and of the chatter of the 
 birds, and the prattle of the children, and the 
 rustle of the leaves in the memorable and historic 
 gardens of the Temple. 
 
 The London season quite in decadence : autumn 
 weather setting in, mist quenching heat : the last
 
 12 LEO. 
 
 drawing-room held, and the Court ah'eady from 
 town ; the closing performances of the opera 
 announced, grouse- shooting at hand. Parliament 
 up, more, dissolved: candidates busy courting their 
 constituents, unparliamentary society thinking of 
 papering its blinds, and having made up its 
 book and its party for Goodwood, of taking its 
 jaded, fevered cheeks to be fanned and renovated 
 by cordial sea-breezes and beach exposure and 
 exercise ; Jane busy with her bandbox, sewing 
 it up in canvas after the manner of her sex en 
 voyage ; John engaged with the straps and buckles 
 of his knapsack ; much over-hauling of Murray, 
 discussions upon passports, visas, and railway and 
 steamboat time-tables ; great productions of 
 alpenstocks ; small men once more slapping 
 their chests and talking of doing the Matterhorn, 
 and Captaui Martingale starting yet again to 
 break the bank at Baden Baden — this time for 
 certain. 
 
 Dusk: the birds and children asleep, the 
 gardens deserted and quiet, Mr. Arnold Page sits 
 at his open window, and the fragrance of cigars 
 floats out into the evening air. A half-emptied 
 bottle of claret stands upon a small table at his 
 side. Mr. Page looks at his watch.
 
 A DKONE IN THE HIVE. 13 
 
 " Another quarter of an hour, Jack," lie says, 
 " and I must be off. I promised to meet the Carrs 
 at the opera. It's their last Tuesday. I ought by 
 rights to have gone round to Westbourne Terrace 
 and dined with them ; but I must now join them 
 at the theatre. I shan't be long after the overture. 
 Help yourself, Jack." 
 
 Jack was a rather small, spare gentleman, 
 curled up in a large arm-chair. A tumbled sort of 
 gentleman — careless in his dress, not particular as 
 to the brushing of his coat, or his boots, or his hair. 
 He looked as if he had rolled himself accidentally 
 or been hurled by somebody else into the chair, 
 rather than as though he sat down in it deliberately 
 in an ordinary way. He was huddled together in 
 a creased mass; though sometimes he would stretch 
 a leg over the arm of the chair, sometimes, indeed, 
 over the back, and leave it hanging there, whilom 
 exposing a wide expanse of sock between the end 
 of his trousers and the commencement of his 
 unskilfully-laced boots. 
 
 Lazily, listlessly, and as though the slight effort 
 necessary were a matter of considerable inconve- 
 nience and trouble. Jack filled his glass, puffed 
 at his cigar, and then buried his hands deep in 
 his pockets, sinking his chin upon his chest.
 
 14 LEO. 
 
 Arnold Page looked at liim quietly. There was 
 a pause. 
 
 " Well, Jack, you don't seem to say much," 
 said Mr. Page, at length, in a tone of reproach. 
 
 " Forgive me. You see I get rather knocked 
 over when important news comes too suddenly 
 upon me. And I never could make up my mind 
 in a hurry about anything." 
 
 Jack sipped his claret; this speech was evi- 
 dently rather an effort for him, and he needed 
 refreshment after it. lie surrounded himself 
 with smoke, jerked his hair from his eyes, and 
 resumed. 
 
 " Of course, you know, I should like to say 
 all that's right and do what's proper and that. 
 But — matrimony — isn't it rather serious and re- 
 sponsible, and that sort of thing, you know, old 
 fellow ? — I think Pve heard so." 
 
 " So have I," Mr. Page remarks, rather drily ; 
 '^ but you see, Jack, a man must marry at some 
 time or other." 
 
 « Do you think so ? " 
 
 " Isn't marriage inevitable ? " 
 
 " Hum. Pve heard that death is. They can't 
 mean the same thing, I should think." 
 
 " What a Pagan you are ! " and Mr. Page
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. 15 
 
 itses from his seat and begins to pace up and 
 down the room. "Of course I'm quite aware 
 that the announcement of an event of this nature 
 is accepted by one's friends as a hint to cultivate 
 whatever talent for epigram they may happen to 
 possess. I'm prepared for all manner of smart 
 things being levelled at me. They'll not be sharp 
 enough to cut very deeply. So I scorn even to 
 hold up a buckler of any kind before me. We'll 
 talk of the feeling of the business by-and-by. 
 Mere sentiment, and heartland that, are, of course, 
 quite secondary considerations, according to the 
 modern plan of looking at things. Isn't it a good 
 reason for getting married, that one's bored with 
 single life, as it seems to be a good reason for 
 getting a divorce that one's bored w^ith matri- 
 mony ? " 
 
 "Please don't talk like a man in a play, old 
 fellow," says Jack, imploringly; "I can't keep 
 up with you: I can't, indeed. You see, you've 
 got no end the pull of me. You've rehearsed 
 your part. If I do happen to pump up a 
 smart impromptu on the occasion — and I ain't 
 a good hand at that sort of thing at any time, 
 I admit, freely — why, you've a lot of smashing 
 speeches, all ready cut and dried, to come down
 
 16 LEO. 
 
 upon a fellow with. Don't stalk about, swinging 
 your arms, like a restless light comedian. Do 
 sit down. I'm not going to say anything horrid 
 on the subject. I merely want to understand it. 
 If you put sentiment out of the question, I confess 
 I don't see my way." 
 
 " I marry," Mr. Page says, sitting down laugh- 
 ing, " for a nurse for my old age. I'm getting 
 on. Jack. I detected three gray hairs in this 
 front curl this mornino;. At a ball the other 
 night, a child of seventeen — a pretty little bit of 
 a thing, that looked like a rosebud in tarlatan — 
 declined to waltz with me, and whispered to her 
 sister that I was too old. It was rather hard to 
 say that of a man under thirty. But one can 
 trace one's age in the faces of one's contempo- 
 raries. You don't look anything like so young 
 as you used to, Jack. For Fanny Clipperton — 
 whose first season I remember well — she was quite 
 the town rage — well, she's now the mother of 
 seven children, and looks forty." 
 
 " Rubbish ! a man's no older than he looks. 
 You'll pass for a youngster for a good many more 
 years, in spite of what chits of seventeen may 
 choose to say, with their idiotic nursery notions. 
 AVhy should you grow old, who've never had a
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. 17 
 
 care, or a trouble, or a gloomy thought ? When 
 your face wrinkles, it will only be from your 
 having had to smile too often and bear an over- 
 load of happiness." 
 
 " Well, then, I marry because it's the right 
 thing to do. And Til go and live with my wife 
 at Oakmere Court, and look after my tenants. 
 I'll cram Burn's Justice of the Peace, sit on the 
 mafifistrate's bench, and come down hot and strono; 
 upon poachers. 1 don't see why I shouldn't play 
 the part of country gentleman very well ; and 
 I'll take my seat, perhaps even office, when the 
 time arrives for the innino;s of our side of the 
 house. Besides, marriage gives one importance, 
 strengthens one's hand — I shall gain in political 
 influence." 
 
 ^' Hum ! and the lady is " 
 
 " Is the daughter of old Carr, avIio owns 
 Croxall Chase — a very fine estate ; it adjoins 
 mine in Woodlandshire." 
 
 "An old family?" 
 
 " Well, no — a railway contractor ; tlie grand- 
 fiither founded iron and the family and made all 
 the money, or nearly all. But what of that? 
 Family doesn't matter in these days ; and I've 
 no great right to stickle about the matter. It's 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 LEO. 
 
 true that when I'm Lulllcd I go back to the 
 bishop of Queen Elizabeth. But entre 7ious, I've 
 grave doubts about it. Certainly there are a 
 good many missing links. I can only be sure of 
 the serjeant-at-law of Queen Anne, and that isn't 
 much, though he did bring Oakmere into the 
 family ; and I've a horrid suspicion that his father 
 was a tradesman in an adjoining county. We 
 ask no questions as to ancestry now. It's only 
 the insurance offices who are curious on that 
 subject, and then only to find out whether or 
 not one's progenitors died of consumption or 
 insanity : not out of any respect for a pedigree." 
 
 '' I thought you'd let Oakmere to that prig 
 Lomax, of the Wafer Stamp Office. I beg your 
 pardon, I forgot he was your brother-in-law." 
 
 " He's my brother-in-law, and a prig too, and 
 he's tenant of Oakmere — what does that matter ? 
 Of course, when I marry, he turns out. My 
 living there as a bachelor would be too absurd." 
 
 " Hum. Do you know, Arnold, I think we'd 
 better pass to the sentimental side of the question. 
 Somehow, I don't see '//gu in all these motives, 
 and they only make me giddy." 
 
 " You're right. Jack. I was only submitting 
 to convention. The modern view of marriage
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. 19 
 
 is that it's a transaction, or a partnership, from 
 which both members of the firm are to derive 
 commercial advantages. Men are for ever takin^r 
 up this sort of tone now ; but then men are 
 always making themselves out to be both wiser 
 and worse than they really are — it's the reaction 
 from cant — it's the converse of hypocrisy- — sham 
 venality — the compliment that virtue pays to 
 vice. For we live in a very polite, easy-going 
 ao-e. We bow and smile when we used to call 
 
 o 
 
 names and cudgel. "We rather like to hold a 
 candle to the old gentleman now and then — two 
 candles, if he prefers it. You see he's a very 
 old institution, and it's safest to be well with him. 
 One can't tell what may happen." 
 
 ^' I'm sure you've studied all this before-hand." 
 
 " No matter, if I have ; I marry old Carr's 
 daughter." 
 
 "Well, why?" 
 
 " Because I love her." 
 
 "Earnest?" 
 
 "Infidel. Yes. Why not?" 
 
 " Is it a great passion this time ? Are we as 
 tremendously ^pris — may I say spoony — as in 
 the old days with Miss — what was her name ? — 
 Miss Angela ?" 
 
 o
 
 20 LEO. 
 
 " Be quiet. No ; I've got over the attitudi- 
 nizing part of love. Tliat old grand serieux style 
 of thing doesn't do often ; one goes in at first for 
 a fancy sort of article. Very pretty, and attrac- 
 tive, and showy ; but no wear in it, bless you — 
 not a bit. I've got a stout, steady, broadcloth 
 now, sir, that will last my life and look well to the 
 last. That first love is like a first tooth : very 
 pearly and charming ; and a great fuss is made 
 over it, of course; but it's not very service- 
 able, and it drops out one fine morning, 
 replaced by a better, stronger, more durable 
 affair." 
 
 " Well, here's her health. Is she pretty ?" 
 
 " Judge for yourself. Here's a sketch of her : 
 it's rather slight, but I did it myself, and I'm to 
 have more sittings." (He produced a water-colour 
 drawing from a portfolio.) " Don't look upon it 
 as finished." 
 
 " A brunette ! I think I like a brunette best. 
 You talk to a blonde, but a brunette talks to you. 
 It saves no end of trouble. By George ! this is 
 very capitally done. You've a great talent for 
 this sort of free-handed sketchy work. IIow 
 stunning that strong light is upon the waves of 
 her hair. How well you've given the reflection
 
 A DllOXE IN THE HIVE. 21 
 
 from that white gush of lace round her neck. 
 You'd have made a hit in Art, Arnold. It's 
 awfully jolly." 
 
 " For heaven's sake, sink the artist, look upon 
 it as a man." 
 
 " She's pretty. Very pretty. Are her eyes 
 really such a charming soft hrown as that? Are 
 her eyebrows so beautifully marked? Her nose 
 so delicate in form ? No ; you've flattered her, of 
 course." 
 
 " I have done her but half justice," said Arnold 
 Page, stoutly. 
 
 '"' I beg your pardon. I was thinking you were 
 already a husband. One ought not to expect 
 candour from a lover. Anyhow, it's a very 
 first-rate drawing, Arnold." 
 
 " Thank you. Now amuse yourself with that 
 claret, while I put myself into a dress-coat and 
 choker." And Mr. Page left the room. 
 
 " A very pretty little darling," mused his friend, 
 still contemplating the portrait ; " though, of 
 course, she doesn't really come up to this. 
 People, somehow, never do come up to their 
 pictures. There's always something hid — some 
 dodge about the business. Has he taken a three- 
 quarter view of her because her eyes ain't
 
 22 LEO. 
 
 straight, or to conceal a slight defect on the 
 ofF-side of her nose? Anyhow though, I think 
 she must be nice-looking. Certainly she's very 
 jolly colour ; but that may be all his doing. She 
 seems the sort of woman a fellow might be deuced 
 happy with. He's a lucky dog, that Arnold. 
 He'll be fortunate in his marriage as in everything 
 else. But it will be an awful business for us 
 others when he marries. We shan't see anything 
 of him : a house in Belgravia — Mrs. P. in satin — 
 and flunkeys in plush — grand dinners ; you come 
 away, and feel as though you'd just escaped from 
 custody ; the wife turns up her dear little nose, 
 and thinks it's only right to wean her husband 
 from the dreadful set he knew before their mar- 
 riage ; and A. P. is as much hid from us as 
 though he'd gone up into the clouds. Sometimes 
 I think ril marry myself. Only I never seem to 
 have any money; and the bride's aunts and 
 uncles — what beasts the bride's aunts and uncles 
 always are! — invariably regard that as an objec- 
 tion. Why will people make such a bore, and a 
 nuisance, and an ignominy of marriage ? But it's an 
 awful world. Life's nothing but one great trouble." 
 He refilled his glass, and curled himself in his 
 chair again more slothfully than ever.
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. ^3 
 
 "Look licrc. Jack Lackington," said Arnold, 
 full dressed, returning. 
 
 '* Yes, I see, you look stunning." 
 
 " I don't mean that. I want you to listen to 
 Avliat I'm going to say. One talks a lot of fearful 
 nonsense about all sorts of thino-s. It's as Avell 
 to be serious for a little now and then. Don't 
 make any mistake about Avhat I've been telling 
 you. I marry for no nonsensical motive about 
 estates, and Parliament, and politics, and that ; it's 
 not for her fortune, but distinctly for herself, that 
 I love old Carr's daughter." 
 
 ** One loves every fortune, but one doesn't love 
 every girl," murmured Jack Lackington, inter- 
 rupting. But Arnold did not heed him. 
 
 " If she had not a rap in the whole world, I 
 should love her, and I should marry her all the 
 same. She's a dear, good, tender little soul, 
 whom, as a child, I played with and loved. I 
 have known her quite from her baby days, and 
 I'll make her a good husband, and do all man can 
 to make her happy — and that although I couldn't 
 make a long speech to her about my love, and 
 could no more write verses to her — believing in 
 them myself — than I could fly. It's a sober sort 
 of love I offer her; a little dull, perhaps: but it's
 
 24 LEO. 
 
 not the less honest. There, old boy, I've done, 
 and I'm off. I shall miss the overture for certain, 
 and barely be in time for the grand duet, going 
 as hard as I can pelt. Sit here as long as you 
 like. You've got the cigar-box before you ; if 
 you want more claret, you kno^Y where to find 
 it, and by all means help yourself. I shall be 
 back after the opera, but it will be late; for 
 William TelTs a prodigious length. I shan't go 
 to the club ; I hate the club at midnight. I shall 
 have a smoke here before I turn in. If you get 
 sick of waiting and make off, mind you close the 
 door after you. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by," said Mr. Lackington, without 
 moving; and he added, as his friend left the 
 room, " He was getting decidedly prosy, talking 
 of his love and his marriage — de-cidedly prosy — 
 no mistake at all about it." 
 
 For some time Mr. Lackington continued to 
 sit, or to lounge rather, smoking cigars and sip- 
 ping claret. A second bottle had been opened 
 prior to the departure of Page. Apparently, 
 Mr. Lackington was possessed with the import- 
 ance of finishing this bottle. 
 
 " It's no use leaving any," he said, as he held it 
 up to the liglit to see how much it contained ;
 
 A DEONE IX THE HIVE. 25 
 
 " and it's very tidy drink. Arnold lias a neat 
 taste in wines. So have I, for that matter ; but, 
 as I don't know a confiding wine-merchant, I 
 can't say that it's of much use to me." 
 
 It was cpettino; a little cold now as the nioht 
 came over. Mr. Lackington moved uneasily in 
 his chair, shivering rather. 
 
 "I wish Arnold were here. He'd shut the 
 window for me.'' 
 
 Presently there was a knock at the door. 
 
 " I wonder who that is ! I suppose I ought to 
 go and see. Never mind. If it's important, 
 they'll go on knocking ; if it isn't, they'll go away, 
 and I shan't have to move. I think I should 
 prefer that." 
 
 But the knocking continued. Slowly Mr. 
 Lackington uncoiled himself and went to the door. 
 
 " Is Mr. Page in ? " asked a strong, rather 
 harsh voice. 
 
 A tall, gaunt-looking man, with ragged black 
 whiskers, rusty clothes, his hat set carelessly on 
 the back of his head — perhaps because he could 
 not get his broad protuberant forehead into it — 
 stood in the doorway. 
 
 " Oh, it's you. Wood, is it ? Won't you come 
 in?"
 
 26 LEO. 
 
 " Isn't Arnold in ? " 
 
 (e 
 
 No, he's gone ont — Into society somewhere — 
 the opera, I think he said. Come in." 
 
 " No — I won't come in," said the tall man ad- 
 dressed as Wood; but he entered as he said so, 
 and Jack Lackington closed the door behind him. 
 
 " Where's Robin ? " asked Wood. 
 
 " He's out somewhere. I think it's one of his 
 practising evenings. He's very musical, you 
 know." 
 
 "Yes, I know. But it was Arnold I wanted 
 to see : how is he ? " 
 
 " Oh, he's all right. "No, by the way, I'm 
 forgetting. I can only give you bad news of 
 him." 
 
 " Bad news ! — why, what's the matter ? " 
 
 "Don't look so serious. He's the victim of a 
 bad attack from which he'll probably not recover ; 
 at least, he'll feel the effects of it all his life." 
 
 " Don't worry me with these infernal enigmas, 
 which you think good jokes," said Wood, sternly. 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I* mean that Arnold's going to be married." 
 
 "Is he, indeed? I'm sure I'm very glad to 
 hear it." 
 
 " Glad, are you ? Yes, of course that's the
 
 A DKONE IN THE HIVE. 27 
 
 right, and conventional, and usual tiling to say ; 
 it's what is expected of one. But that apart, 
 I know I'm not glad — I know I'm deuced sorry." 
 
 " Why should you be sorry ? Is there any- 
 thing to be regretted in the marriage ? I'm sure 
 Arnold would do nothing that was unworthy 
 of him, and that there must be every chance 
 of his being happy, as he well deserves to be, 
 in his marriage." 
 
 " Yes, that's all very w^ell ; but I like to look 
 a little deeper into the matter than that. Do you 
 know what it means, Arnold's getting married ? 
 Please to look at it from another point of view 
 than the genial, pleasant, complimentary one that 
 you are so fond of. Arnold's getting married 
 means our losing him; it means his giving up 
 this crib, and all the jollity of his life here ; it 
 means cuttino; us — altocrether — dead. You don't 
 suppose that Mrs. Arnold Page, whoever she may 
 be — I've never seen her, for that matter, but I've 
 not a doubt about the line of conduct she'll adopt 
 — you don't suppose that Mrs. Arnold Page will 
 care to see the grim mug of Mr. Hugh Wood 
 reflected on the brilliant surface of her mahogany, 
 or will be particularly anxious for the strong- 
 smelling pipe of Mr. Phil Gossett perfuming her
 
 28 LEO. 
 
 house, or the sprawling figure of your humble 
 servant tumbling her furniture. Don't you know 
 what an intense stunner Arnold Page is, and 
 don't you feel that his getting married is enough 
 to plunge all us poor beggars into the deepest 
 crape and the densest mourning? By George! 
 sir, there'll never be another ray of sunshine in 
 this place when Arnold's out of it — the birds will 
 leave off singing, the fountain will give over 
 playing, the river will sparkle no more — it will 
 all be as drearj^ as a prison ; our lives without 
 Arnold Page will be like a picture by an old 
 master — with all its golden glazing peeled off." 
 
 ^^ You're a very selfish fellow, Lackington, it 
 seems to me," said Hugh Wood, gravely. 
 
 " Well, isn't selfishness natural — isn't it good to 
 be natural ? " 
 
 " I think it's good to rejoice in a friend's hap- 
 piness, and not to turn away moodily, wrapping 
 oneself up in twopenny regrets that one's personal 
 comforts and likings may be a little interfered 
 with. Can't you think more of Arnold Page and 
 less of Jack Lackington ? " 
 
 " I can't, honestly. To me, the latter — a 
 trumpery dog, no doubt — seems very much the 
 first to be considered."
 
 A DKONE IN THE HIVE. 29 
 
 " I don't understand yon, Lackington — I tell 
 you frankly, — and I don't think I ever shall, 
 any more than I shall ever understand your art, 
 as it appears in those pictures on the wall yonder. 
 It seems to me a very poor thing, at a time when 
 Arnold's happiness is in the scale, to be weighing 
 against it the loss of the patron it may entail 
 upon you, or the claret and cigars it will deprive 
 you of." 
 
 Jack Lackington flung the end of his cigar 
 out of the window, with a brisker action than 
 was usual with him, as he said, — 
 
 "Perhaps you don't, as you say, understand 
 me — and, of course, that's a very good reason 
 for abusing me. I don't set up for much. I 
 know I'm a lazy, idle, good-for-nothing sort of 
 fellow, and that I'm fonder of lying on my back 
 smoking, than I am of work ; and that I'm hard 
 up, and in debt, and seedy, and down-at-heel 
 altogether; and that such art as I produce is 
 incomprehensible to you — (that mayn't be alto- 
 gether such a bad compliment to tlie art as you 
 perhaps imagine). I can admit all this; and 
 more; that Arnold's been a good friend to me, 
 and bought pictures of me, perhaps because he 
 understood and liked them, perhaps because he
 
 30 LEO. 
 
 didn't do either, but wanted to put money in my 
 pocket, and bread in my mouth, and clothes on 
 my back, and keep me straight generally and 
 out of prison. I know all about all this — no 
 one better. But it seems to me that if Arnold 
 chooses to call me his friend, and make me 
 welcome here, and give mc all the claret and 
 cigars in the place, it doesn't become Mr. Hugh 
 Wood to step in and cry ^ halt,' and put the 
 cork in the bottle and shut up the cigar-box; 
 that's my notion of the case, as it's my notion 
 also, that if Arnold had need of the pictures, 
 or any work that I could do for him, he 
 should have had them without price being once 
 thought of between us. Only as it is, money 
 isn't much to him and it's a good deal to me. 
 So he gives it to me, and I take it ; and it doesn't 
 occur to either of us tliat we've been the least 
 soiled by the transaction." 
 
 Hugh gazed at the artist, amazed, evidently at 
 so unaccustomed a manifestation of earnestness. 
 
 " I said more than I ought," he remarked, 
 quietly ; " put it down please to my not under- 
 standing you." 
 
 " I will," and Mr. Lackington's languid manner 
 returned. '' I'm not a fighting-man, Hugh. 1
 
 A DRONE IN THE HIVE. 31 
 
 make joii a present of that information. I some- 
 times hold up my fists bravely enough; but I 
 always put them down again, if I find the other 
 side really means business. I daresay what you 
 said was right enough. Sit down and smoke." 
 
 " No ; it's tempting Providence. We don't like 
 each other ; we understand that : we should only 
 quarrel. I'll be off. I merely wanted to tell 
 Arnold that I was going to spend part of the 
 vacation in Woodlandshire, and to ask if I could 
 do anything for him." 
 
 ^' I'll tell him if he comes back before I leave." 
 
 Hugh Wood moved to the door ; but he 
 returned to say, in a softer, kinder tone than he 
 had hitherto employed, 
 
 " By the way, Lackington, if you're really 
 hard up, can I lend you some money ? " 
 
 " Well," the artist replied, after a pause ; " five 
 shillings luould be an accommodation." 
 
 With a puzzled air, as though half afraid that 
 he was being laughed at. Wood drew a handful 
 of silver from his pocket, and held it to Lack- 
 ington. 
 
 ** Well ; thank you," he said, simply ; " as 
 you're so pressing, I'll make it seven and sixpence 
 — an extra half-crown is always useful."
 
 32 LEO. 
 
 He picked out tlie money with a deliberation 
 that seemed fairly to bewilder Hugh Wood. 
 
 " What's the name of the lady Arnold is going 
 to marry?" he asked, by way of saying some- 
 thing. 
 
 " She's of a Woodlandshire family living near 
 Arnold's place. Carr, I think, he said the name 
 was," and Mr. Lackington filled his glass again. 
 
 This occupation perhaps prevented his remark- 
 ing that Hugh Wood left the room with a pale 
 face and a strange look in his eyes. 
 
 " The great question now is," said the artist, 
 once more alone, " whether it is or not worth 
 while to open another bottle. Oh ! if drawing 
 the cork wasn't such a trouble ! "
 
 33 
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSINI. 
 
 If you can fancy a clierub who habitually stuck 
 a disc of glass in his right eye, who had cultivated 
 a streak of floss silk upon his upper lip ; who 
 had left off wings and taken to tiny shirtcollars, 
 and a gauzy strip of white neckerchief; who 
 had also, by an extraordinary process of develop- 
 ment, put forth under his head a little light trunk, 
 with limbs and extremities complete ; making his 
 height in all about five feet three inches, and his 
 weight seven stones and two pounds: if, I say, 
 you can fancy all this, why you then have a 
 very respectable notion of the personal appearance 
 of Lord Adolphus Fairfield (Lord Dolly he was 
 commonly called: he was just the man to have 
 his name abbreviated ; people felt it was too 
 long for hhn and did not fit him, and that it was 
 necessary to dock it and run a tuck in it, as it 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 LEO. 
 
 were), the grandson of tlie late, and the younger 
 brother of the present, Marquis of Southernwood ; 
 Lord Marigold, who filled the office of Chancellor 
 of the Duchy of Brompton during the brief 
 administration of the Earl of Birmingham, and to 
 whom, as the reader is, of course, well aware, the 
 country is indebted for that admirable provision 
 known as the Marigold clause, contained in the 
 Franchise Bill, and of so vital an importance to 
 the interests of the half-a-crown householders, 
 having predeceased his father, the late Marquis 
 of Southernwood, some years: falling a victim, 
 indeed, to an acute cerebral disorder at Naples in 
 the spring of 18 — • {vide Burke). The body, 
 embalmed and brought home, was interred with 
 much splendour in the mausoleum attached to 
 Gashleigh Abbey, the family seat, in the county 
 of Woodlandshire. By his marriage with the 
 Honourable Blanche Guinever, daughter of John 
 Logwood, second B.aron Lambeth, his lordship had 
 issue one son, George Arthur Lancelot Gas- 
 ton, who succeeded in due course to the titles of 
 his father and grandfather, and is, indeed, at 
 this period of our history, the present (being 
 the sixth) Marquis of Southernwood. It is to 
 the brother of this distino^uished nobleman that
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSINI. 35 
 
 we have now the honour of introducing the 
 reader. 
 
 Lord Dolly Fairfield's little hands were covered 
 with the smartest and smallest of blush -tinted 
 gloves ; they were made expressly for him ; (I 
 could name the shop at which he obtained them, 
 but I should require to be paid heavily for an 
 announcement so much in the nature of an 
 advertisement;) his little feet were cased in the 
 trimmest and brightest of lacquered boots; his 
 flaxen locks were arranged in the daintiest 
 curls ; if I dared I would say that he was the 
 prettiest little nobleman that ever was seen. At 
 the mess-table of the 600th Liirht Dragoons (of 
 which crack regiment he was a distinguished 
 officer,) he was known as " Cupid" and "Tiny." 
 He was too good-natured to resent these liberties. 
 He was always laughing his pleasant noisy 
 school-boy laugh — about an octave of notes — 
 all musical and agreeable; and he seemed quite 
 as well pleased, (unlike some eminent jesters,) to 
 laugh at himself as at any one else. And the 
 courage of the little gentleman was beyond dis- 
 pute. He was a mere child when the 600th went 
 into action in the south-east of Europe on the 
 occasion of a great charge being made by the 
 
 3-2
 
 36 LEO. 
 
 Britisli cavalry. His superior officers were left 
 dead upon the field, but the boy cornet rallied the 
 remnant of his troop, and was able to bring them in 
 tolerable order from under fire. He was wounded 
 in three places, but he never lost heart nor 
 presence of mind, nor, it was said, his glass from 
 his right eye. There was no question about the 
 pluck of little Lord Dolly after that eventful 
 day. 
 
 Smihng and nodding many recognitions. Lord 
 Dolly made his way with some difficulty and 
 stumbling over hats, and feet, and crinolines, to 
 his stall at the opera. His graceful bows of 
 apology and conciliation on the occasion of any 
 little contretemps of this nature were delightful to 
 witness. He tripped along with volatile ease and 
 eventually tossed himself lightly, as though he had 
 been an omelette, into his arm-chair. He looked 
 about him for a few moments, then thrust two of 
 his fino-ers into the laro;e hand of a tall, abstracted 
 gentleman, occupying the next seat, as he whis- 
 pered, — 
 
 " Hullo ! Chalker, old man, how are you ? " 
 His friend, I may say, at once, for I deprecate 
 needless mystery, was the Honourable Dudley 
 Chalker, eldest son of Lord Sandstone. Chalker
 
 AN OPERA BY PtOSSIXL 37 
 
 was a melanclioly-looking man, with weak eyes 
 and a strong moustache : his nose projected and 
 his chin receded a little too much for intellectual 
 expression ; the parting of his hair was so beauti- 
 fully and accurately in the centre of his head, that 
 it looked as though a result so marvellous must 
 have been obtained by machinery ; he passed for 
 handsome in certain circles, and entertained a 
 strong opinion upon that subject himself He tried 
 to smile upon his lively little friend ; the result of 
 his efforts was not a success; indeed, it might 
 almost have been called a painful exhibition. 
 
 Lord Dolly, it must be confessed, did not pay 
 much heed to the music. He was busy with a 
 colossal opera-glass, examining the occupants of 
 the boxes — '• spotting his friends " he termed the 
 process. 
 
 The theatre was a London opera-house, with a 
 European reputation for the excellence of its 
 performances. The bills at the door announced in 
 bright green letters the opera of the evening to be 
 ilossini's Gugliehno Tell. 
 
 The conclusion of the first act permitted Lord 
 Dolly to talk with greater freedom and noise. 
 
 " Rum lot of people here to-night, ain't there, 
 Chalker? Evidently a party from Hounsditcli
 
 38 LEO. 
 
 up there -witli tlie diamonds on tlie first tier. 
 Eminent butcher, I should say, in the stage box. 
 Who's got into Plumer's stall ? He ain't such 
 a bad sort of fellow, Plumer, you know, is he ? ' 
 But that man must be his tailor, I should think. 
 Do look at his shirt-front, my dear Chalker, do, 
 as a personal favour. I knew that Piumer owed 
 him money, but I didn't think that he was going 
 to pay him in this sort of way. Seems to me 
 they let anybody in just now at the butt end of 
 the season. The house is pretty full though, isn't 
 it ? only they won't bear looking into much ; 
 not with a glass. Where did they pick up that 
 dear old lady in the Yeres' box? My eye! what 
 a turban ! Everybody's going away — that's the 
 fact. I suppose you'll be oflp soon, Chalker, won't 
 you ? Going to the family dungeon in Wales 
 this time ? I pity you ! I know what that is. 
 Southernwood wanted to come that dodge over 
 me, only I woiddn't stand it. I had enough 
 of Gashleigh Abbey in the winter. They go in 
 so awfully for High Church, and that sort of 
 thing now, you know : it's the marchioness's doing. 
 If Southernwood ever asks you to dine with him 
 on a Friday, take my advice, and don't you go. 
 Nothing but salt fish, sir : second course, prayer-
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSINI. 39 
 
 books served up with hymn sauce, I call it. It's 
 pious^ perhaps, but it isn't filling, not at the price. 
 He ain't such a bad sort of fellow, though, you 
 know. Southernwood : stumped up like a man 
 when I got into that hole about little Solomon's 
 bill. You weren't here on Saturday. We had 
 a new v\^om.an in the Piiritani; not bad-looking, 
 by any means — but such ancles ! They say she's 
 a good singer, though, and we're to have her 
 next year. I thought myself she was rather a 
 squaller ; but the people seemed to like her. Yes ; 
 I was to have o'one' awav with Flukemore in his 
 yacht, with Storkfort, Clipstone, and a lot more 
 fellows. I don't know why we go, I'm sure. We 
 all hate j^achting, I do believe : I know we're 
 always awful ill. We were to do the Mediter- 
 ranean or Spitzbergen, or somewhere: I forget 
 the name of the place; but old Flukey he gets 
 muddle-headed somehow ; never thought about 
 Parliament being dissolved — up, you know : goes 
 walking about Piccadilly as bold as brass. Of 
 course Barney Levy was on to him in a moment. 
 Poor Flukey ! he was quite knocked over with 
 astonishment. He's done nothing but cry out, 
 'By Jove!' — you know his way — every five 
 minutes, ever since. We shall get him out to-
 
 40 LEO. 
 
 morrow, tliougli, if no more detainers have come 
 in. He ain't such a bad sort of fellow, Fluke- 
 more, you know. That looks deuced like little 
 Polly Trevor there in the pit-tier. Don't you 
 see ? — in a blue wreath ; black-muzzled party 
 with her; dirty hands and diamond rings — that 
 sort of thing ; something in the Manchester ware- 
 house line, I should say." 
 
 Lord Dolly, it will be seen, had a pleasant 
 flow of conversation. In this respect, he had 
 decidedly the advantage of his friend, the Honour- 
 able Dudle}^ Chalker, whose powers of speech 
 were limited, or who made but slight calls upon 
 his vocabulary. Mr. Chalker confined himself 
 almost entirely to two Avords, or rather utter- 
 ances. He jerked out " Aw ! " when he de- 
 sired to convey acquiescence or approval, while 
 to express dissent or reprobation, he produced a 
 sound something like " Baw ! " It was astonishing 
 what long conversations he was able to maintain 
 b}^ means of these two simple sounds, especially 
 when the person he conversed with possessed the 
 volubility of little Lord Dolly. 
 
 " You look a little seedy, Chalker, old boy, 
 I think. I'm afraid you overdo it with soda- 
 water, you know. It's very nice, but a fellow
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSINI. 41 
 
 can't live on it; and having it brought to you 
 in bed is, I think, an excess. Is it true that the 
 governor found out about the deferred annuity? 
 It was deucedly well managed: did the Ostrich 
 Insurance Office no end of credit, only Sand- 
 stone's such an infernally wide-awake old bird. 
 You see, he's done all that sort of thing himself. 
 Hullo I the Carrs haven't gone away yet. You 
 know them, don't you, Chalker? Nice sort of 
 people ; simple and that, you know : no humbug, 
 or pretence, or anything of that kind. That little 
 girl will be worth a doose of a lot of money, I 
 believe. Ton my soul, she's very pretty; don't 
 you think so, Chalker ? Oh, you like those 
 great lumpy blonde women with ringlets, like 
 riukemore's mother-in-law. She really is a 
 charming little girl, though. I sometimes feel 
 quite spoony about her. I know Southernwood 
 was very anxious for me to take up the case. 
 But, you see, Arnold Page is in it; at least, so 
 everybody says. You know him. He ain't such 
 a bad sort of fellow, you know, Arnold: — rather 
 eccentric, and that. Cut his rooms in tlie Albany 
 to go and live down in the city somewhere — the 
 Temple, I believe. Queer fellow ! Going in to 
 be Lord Chancellor, or something of that sort
 
 42 LEO. 
 
 I suppose: got a wig and gown all ready. He 
 has — 'pon my soul ! showed them me ; kept in 
 in a box in his library. Yery eccentric — but a 
 good sort — knows a queer lot of people ; artists, 
 you know, and singers, and that. He does all 
 that sort of thing himself, you know — very well, 
 too — deuced clever ! I often wonder he don't 
 send things to Fundi. Why, he's up there in 
 the Carrs' box. Yes ; I'm afraid that's a decided 
 case. He's a s^ood-lookinc^ fellovv', Arnold, don't 
 you think so, Chalker? I'll go up and talk to 
 the Carrs after the next act- By George ! how 
 those Cholmondeley girls have gone off — do look ! 
 Why, they're quite pale and scraggy ; and they've 
 only been out two seasons — shocking ! only just 
 left off sugar-plums, and going in for liver pills 
 already. By George ! its serious." 
 
 The box occupied by the Carrs was on the 
 tier above the grand tier. It was engaged for 
 every Tuesday of the subscription, and was well 
 situated on the curve of the theatre. IMr. and 
 Mrs. Carr wore a homely aspect; there was be- 
 tween them the likeness so often to be remarked 
 between a husband and wife, who have passed 
 too'ether many years of married life. The as- 
 similation of habits of thouMit and action had
 
 AN OPERA BY EOSSINI. 43 
 
 produced at last a resemblance of expression and 
 even feature. Thej were elderly people, solid, 
 rather stolid-looking. Mr. Carr crowned a creased 
 red face with a flaxen wis; of an old-fashioned 
 pyramidic form, that well covered his forehead, 
 and interfered a little with his tufted grey eye- 
 brows ; these repeated the angular line of his wig, 
 rising to a point some inches above his nose — of 
 the flabby Roman order — and imparting a resigned 
 and melancholy expression to his face. He sat 
 in a compact mass — very still — giving drowsy 
 attention to the music, and as though motion 
 would break some important spell, and the down- 
 fall of his wig, or the crumpling up of his collar 
 or cravat, or shirt-front would result. His hands, 
 in loosely - fitting white gloves, with a super- 
 fluous inch, like a harmless talon, projecting at 
 the end of each finger, he kept constantly before 
 him folded one above the other in a neat and 
 compact parcel. He had the appearance of being 
 very harmless and respectable and a little over- 
 fed. The same characteristics distinguished his 
 wife. She was gorgeously attired in maroon 
 velvet. She w^ore a blonde head-dress a trifle 
 excessive in regard to flowers, and on her 
 shoulders a superb orange-tawny India shawl.
 
 44 LEO. 
 
 In lier youth, many years back, she had been noted 
 for the beauty of her raven tresses. For some 
 inscrutable reason, unless it was as a matter of 
 compliment to the taste of her husband, she now 
 substituted for these a front of light flaxen, 
 retained in its place by a fillet of black velvet 
 and a diamond. She was kind-hearted and good- 
 natured, although inclined to fits of silence and 
 dulness that looked almost like aberration of mind. 
 For this, however, exj^lanation might be offered. 
 She could never be said to have fairly recovered 
 the loss of her only and darling son, Jordan Carr, 
 who had been unfortunately drowned, while 
 bathing at Oxford, some ten years prior to the 
 date at which our history has commenced. To 
 this poor young man and his melancholy fate the 
 good old lady's thoughts were continually recurring. 
 Hence, perhaps, her frequent attacks of speech- 
 lessness and dejection. 
 
 The only surviving child of the Carrs was 
 the child of their old age, a daughter, Leonora 
 Agnes Carr, born many years after their son 
 Jordan. Most tenderly did they cherish this their 
 only treasure. For the old gentleman he quite 
 idolized his little Leo. 
 
 She was a beauty ; if it be permissible to put
 
 AX OPEKA BY ROSSINI. 45 
 
 size altogether on one side as having nothinor 
 to do with the question; for she was very little. 
 Contemplate her as she occupies the best chair 
 in the opera-box ; her parents persistently in 
 the background as though thrown into shadow by 
 the radiance of her loveliness. A dainty little 
 brunette, with a complexion not hard and tough as 
 that of some dark beauties I wot of, whose only 
 chance of producing colour on their dusky cheeks 
 is by a thick application of it artificially on the 
 outside; but fine, and satiny, and delicate in 
 texture, permitting now and then a beautiful rosy 
 underflush to glow through it ; luminous, melting 
 brown eyes, made still more soft in colour by the 
 shadow of her superb fringe of silken eyelashes ; 
 her features small and delicate, the mouth being 
 quite perfection in form and colour ; the shape of 
 her head admirable ; the profuse dense brown hair 
 growing in a charming curved line with a peak in 
 the centre, rather low on her forehead, as the hair 
 of the brunette beauty should always grow ; her 
 eyebrows well marked, her figure, though very 
 slight in frame, very limber and graceful in move- 
 ment. When she turned or bent quickly you did 
 not hear tlie creaking of cordage, pulleys and 
 busks — awful sound, which accompanies the change
 
 46 LEO. 
 
 of position of certain graceful creatures, whose 
 waists and shoulders have been brought by inge- 
 nuity Into quite the three-cornered tart style of 
 female figure, and are of course, as a consequence, 
 greatly admired by the world in general. Upon 
 her head Leonora wore no ornament save that 
 natural one of her soft hair, dexterously twisted 
 and plaited and twined in shining cables at the 
 back. Round her neck was a cord of gold sus- 
 pending a locket set with diamonds. Her slender 
 wrists were decked with bracelets of coral and 
 dead gold. Through her lace dress was to be seen 
 the rich gleams of maize-coloured satin; while 
 her ample skirts were caught and confined by 
 bunches of corn-flowers. Her toilette altogether 
 was excellent in taste and effect and did great 
 credit to all concerned in it. (I may as well say 
 at once that to secure accuracy in regard to all 
 matters of millinery that may from time to time be 
 under mention In the course of this narrative, and 
 to obviate all chance of impeachment upon a sub- 
 ject of importance so vital, the proof sheets have 
 been submitted to the careful supervision of an 
 eminent court dressmaker in Bond Street, whose 
 decisions as coming from an adept would of course 
 be recognized as final anywhere. In the same way
 
 AN OPERA BY EOSSINI. 47 
 
 I have not ventured to introduce any topic of a 
 legal character without having first obtained the 
 assurance of an eminent sheriff's officer, that the 
 law as stated by me was beyond all question.) 
 
 Leonora Carr leant upon the damask cushions 
 
 of the box, listening to the honied music of Rossini. 
 
 Perhaps after a pretty woman's smile, the next 
 
 charming thing is a pretty woman's frown. 
 
 Just as the best singers can execute musical 
 
 difficulties without disfiguring the arrangement 
 
 of their features, so a pretty woman can frown 
 
 and still look very winning and beautiful indeed. 
 
 There was the slight plait of a frown upon the 
 
 brow of Leonora. The immediate effect upon 
 
 the spectator of the air of melancholy so produced 
 
 was an earnest desire to kiss the red lips of the 
 
 little lady very tenderly, and ask her what was 
 
 the matter. To my certain knowledge there were 
 
 six gentlemen in the stalls, their ages varying 
 
 from twenty-two to seventy, and ten in the pit 
 
 (one of them being connected with a nevv^spaper), 
 
 who were moved by a burning anxiety to go 
 
 through such a proceeding. But another moment 
 
 and they might turn away their opera-glasses ; 
 
 there was no longer need for their intervention, 
 
 Leonora's frown had vanished. A gentleman had
 
 48 LEO. 
 
 entered the Carrs' box. The sunny beauty of 
 Leonora's smile ! Look to the stage, gentlemen of 
 the stalls and pit. That smile of happiness is not 
 for you ! 
 
 " Dear Arnold, how late you are I " 
 
 So the gentleman who entered the box was 
 greeted. He pressed the hands of both Mr. 
 and Mrs. Carr, and then the tiny fingers of 
 Leonora; as though he had kept the best for 
 the last, after the manner of judicious school- 
 boys with respect to their choicest sweetmeat. 
 
 The old people made room for him ; they 
 retreated still farther to the background of the 
 box ; Arnold Page took the vacant chair in 
 the front, close to pretty Miss Leonora. 
 
 " I thought you were to come and dine with 
 us ? " said the lady, rather reproachfully. " I 
 expected you ; why didn't you come, sir ? " 
 
 " Forgive me, Leo dear, I was prevented. 
 Some one called, I couldn't well get away, and 
 Westbourne's such a long way off." 
 
 " That horrid Temple," she murmured, and 
 she pouted. I have made mention of both her 
 frown and her smile. Well, her pout in point 
 of attraction, Avas somewhere midway between the 
 two; possessing certain of the charms of both.
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSIXI. 49 
 
 ** Town gets very empty," said Arnold, look- 
 ing tlirougli liis opera-glass round the house. 
 "I see our friend Dolly's still here, though. 
 I suppose the yachting expedition he was telling 
 us of has gone off. Do you like this opera, Leo ? " 
 
 ^'Yes, very much," she answered, with rather 
 an air of indifference though, it must be owned. 
 
 " How well Tamberlik's singing to - night," 
 said Arnold. "I don't think I ever heard him 
 in better voice. I'm glad I got in time for the 
 ^ Dove sono ; ' I heard Duprez in this part 
 some years back in Paris, but I don't think I 
 liked him so much : true, he was gone by 
 then. He had more passion, but I don't think 
 he was so musical as Tamberlik. What an 
 exquisite air this ' Chore Mathilde 'is I I do be- 
 lieve it's one of the finest love-songs ever com- 
 posed. It's almost as sublime as the ^11 mio 
 tesoro ' of Mozart." 
 
 Leonora was pouting again. Indeed the pout 
 grew to a frown at last, as she said, 
 
 "Don't talk like a newspaper critic," she 
 said. 
 
 Arnold laughed good-naturedly. 
 
 "Don't laugh at me either, sir." 
 
 "What shall I do, then?" Her little hand 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 LEO. 
 
 came near liim on the ciisliion. It was con- 
 cealed from the audience by a superb bouquet; 
 Arnold gave the little hand ever so gentle 
 a little squeeze. The frown dwindled into 
 a pout which subsided into a glorious smile. 
 Leonora looked perfectly satisfied and happy 
 again. 
 
 "There's only one more Tuesday," she said, 
 " and perhaps then we shall not be in town — 
 only think — this may be our last opera night ; 
 so I want you to be very good, and nice, and 
 kind to me. I shan't be sorry to go away, I'm 
 £!:ettino; rather tired of London. I don't know 
 where we shall go to ; some quiet sea-side place, 
 I suppose, where I shall read all the novels I'm 
 supposed to have read this season — at least all 
 of them I can get from the circulating library 
 — and I shall sit on the beach all the morning, 
 and wear a hat. Ah ! such a hat, so pretty ; 
 with such a dear little scarlet feather ! if you're 
 very good, I'll show it to you the next time 
 you come to Westbourne Terrace. And we're 
 to go down to Woodlandshire. It's dull there, 
 but very pretty; and I shall make great friends 
 this time with dear Mrs. Lomax. You know 
 whv, sir; and I've promised before I go to
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSINI. 51 
 
 drive down to Kew to see little Edith and llosy 
 at Miss Bigg's school. Your nieces, sir." 
 
 " Tour nieces, too," Arnold interrupted, laugh- 
 ing, " or shall we say oicr nieces ? " 
 
 " Be quiet, sir," and Leonora laughed too, 
 with very brilliant eyes. "You must be very 
 good, or else I shall change my mind about 
 that. I'll drive down to-morrow if it's fine. Have 
 you any message, uncle Arnold ? " 
 
 " No, aunt Leo ; I know you will take care 
 of the sugar-plum department. I've, therefore, 
 only kisses to send to the little ducks. I'll 
 give them to you : twelve for Edith, and twenty 
 for little Kosy; you shall have them by-and- 
 by. Take care to remind me to give them to 
 you, in case I should forget." 
 
 "I'll ask mamma if that's a proper observa- 
 tion. I'm sure people didn't talk like that 
 when she was a girl. Do you think that 
 Madame is pretty? I think she is, deci- 
 dedly. Her voice is beautiful; only Mathilde 
 is not a very good part, is it ? One thing's quite 
 clear, she doesn't know what to do with her train. 
 Who's that next to Lord Dolly in the stalls ? " 
 
 « His friend Chalker, Dudley Chalker. He's 
 related distantly to Lomax." 
 
 4—2 

 
 52 LEO. 
 
 " Oil, I know ! he danced witli me at the 
 Yeres'. Isn't he rather a silly ? I think he is ; 
 he did nothing all throngh the quadrille but pull 
 his moustache." 
 
 '^Ask Arabella Vere what her opinion is on 
 that subject." 
 
 " I don't believe Arabella cares the least tiddy 
 bit about him. You men are always fancying 
 that girls are in love with you." 
 
 " Y-^ell I I suppose they are sometimes." 
 
 " Yery seldom, indeed ; I should think it's a 
 most unusual occurrence." And Leonora gave 
 a very bright kindly glance — perhaps to pre- 
 vent Arnold's putting too serious a construction 
 upon her words; and added a silvery little 
 laugh, still further for his comforting : and pre- 
 sently 1 think the little hand was having another 
 little squeeze behind the bouquet. 
 
 Arnold turned to the backo-round fio-ures in 
 the box ; he had been neglecting them rather. 
 
 " Do you like this music, Mrs. Carr ? " he 
 inquired. 
 
 " Charming, charming," the old gentleman 
 answered, rousing himself, thinking probably that 
 the question was addressed to him. And he 
 began to make believe great interest in what
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSINI. 53 
 
 was going on ; and to nod his head to the music 
 in a way that rather endangered his pyramidic 
 wig, and to beat time with an extended finger. 
 
 " It's pretty ; very pretty," said Mrs. Carr. 
 vacantly. " I'm fond of music. I don't know 
 anything about it, but I'm fond of it. I 
 never could play myself, but I always liked 
 to hear others play. Leonora plays sweetly on 
 the piano; she was taught by Signer Fuoco, at 
 Miss Bigg's school, and afterwards had lessons 
 of the celebrated Da Capo. My son Jordan — 
 you've heard me speak of him I dare say, 
 Arnold, though I don't think you ever knew 
 him ; he'd have been just your age if he'd lived, 
 your age to a day, Arnold — my son Jordan 
 had great musical ability; he played on the 
 cornopean and the German flute : and played 
 beautifully — entirely by ear, he was self-taught. 
 Jordan would have liked this opera; he could 
 play part of the overture on the piano with 
 one hand; it sounded beautifully with the soft 
 pedal down. Carr, dear, move your chair, 
 you're on my dress. Leo, darling, you look pale. 
 Would you like my salts ? " 
 
 The old lady had a way of speaking rapidly 
 a few sentences without pause between them, and
 
 54 LEO. 
 
 then relapsing into complete quietude just as a 
 clock which only strikes after long intervals 
 of silence. And it was very rarely that she 
 spoke without mention of her late son Jordan. 
 To Arnold it may be said she always evinced an 
 almost maternal affection, probably for the reason 
 that he constantly reminded her of her lost 
 darling, who would have been the same age to 
 a day had he lived, as she was often stating. 
 She sometimes even would maintain that there 
 was a strong likeness between the two — though 
 this was believed to be a matter of sheer delusion 
 on the part of the old lady. Certainly when- 
 ever she appealed to her husband for confirmation 
 of her idea, he would always reply kindly but 
 simply, 
 
 " No, Agnes dear ; I don't see the likeness. I 
 have told you so before." 
 
 But she none the less persisted in her opinion. 
 
 " I hope Lord Dolly will come up and see us, 
 don't you, Ar?" said Leo. "I shouldn't like to 
 leave London without saying good-by to him." 
 
 " Oh, he's sure to come up, I should think ; he 
 alwa^^s does, you know. I'll go and fetch him if 
 he doesn't come soon." 
 
 '' I like little Lord Dolly, don't you, Ar ? "
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSINI. 55 
 
 " It's impossible to lieJp liidng him. He's suck 
 a good little fellow. He's a great friend of mine." 
 
 '' He's a darlino; to waltz with. You're such 
 a monster. You're a great deal too big for waltz- 
 ing. Do you know that, Ar ? " 
 
 "You can't think what an intense comfort it 
 is to me." 
 
 " Where are you turning your opera-glass. 
 Oh, I know: you're looking for your friends in 
 the gallery ! How can you, Arnold ? " 
 
 " I'm not a bit ashamed of them, Leo." 
 
 ^' But you don't call them gentlemen^ do you, 
 Ar ? " and the little lady began to pout again. 
 
 "I call them my friends, Leo. Isn't that a 
 sufficient answer ? " 
 
 Leo glanced at him quickly, probably to 
 ascertain if he were really in earnest, perhaps to 
 question too a certain rather sharp ring in his voice. 
 
 " I think you must be a Radical, sir. I shall 
 talk to papa upon that subject, and ascertain 
 his opinions, I don't like Radicals. They want 
 to make out that all people are equal, and that 
 ladies ought to be taken down to dinner by 
 coal-heavers, and dance with dustmen, and do 
 unpleasant things of that kind. Isn't that what 
 you want, Arnold ? "
 
 56 LEO. 
 
 "Not quite, dearest. I've no very intimate 
 friend in the coal-lieaving interest, and I don't 
 think I should introduce him to you if I had. 
 And' I'm not at all a Radical, Leo. Don't be 
 at all alarmed. My political sentiments are quite 
 safe and sound." 
 
 " Oh, of course women don't understand any- 
 thing about politics," and Leo tossed out her 
 little chin with a droll air of impatience. " But 
 I know who you're looking for in the gallery, 
 Mr. Red Republican. There's that Mr. Hugh 
 Wood, for one person." 
 
 " You've nothing to say against him, I should 
 think. You met him at the Comptons', and his 
 father's a Woodlandshire rector." 
 
 '' I don't like his father and I don't like him. 
 He's very ugly, and he never knows what to say. 
 Then there's Mr. Lackington" (she laid in each 
 case an ironical stress upon the mister) — " you see 
 I know all their names — a pre-Raphaelite 
 painter — isn't that what he calls himself? I'm 
 sure I tried hard to understand his pictures 
 because you seemed to think so much of them, 
 thougli they were hung up so high at the 
 Academy, and I thought them very foolish and 
 affected, and not at all nice and pretty, as I
 
 AN OPERA BY KOSSINI. 57 
 
 like pictures to be. And I saw you shaking 
 hands with Mr. Lackington, — such a shabby, 
 badly-dressed, gauche young man. Then there's 
 Mr. Gossett, a medical man, isn't he, Ar ? I've 
 never seen him; but he must be an awful 
 creature from all accounts. And Mr. Hooper, 
 a farmer's son, one of papa's tenants, a poor 
 little humpbacked " 
 
 '^ Leo ! " Arnold interrupted, in a tone of 
 reproach. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Ar, but you know I can't 
 like him. He frightened my pony once down 
 in the park at home, and I was very nearly 
 thrown." 
 
 " But he stopped the pony for you after- 
 wards." 
 
 " Yes, he did ; and I was very much obliged 
 to him ; but still, you know, I don't think I could 
 ever like him; that is, not much — and, then, a 
 farmer's son, you know, Ar ! What makes you 
 like them, Ar ? I should like to like what 
 you like, if I only could." 
 
 "I'm afraid their great offence in your eyes, 
 Leo, is that they are not often met with in 
 society, and that they go to the gallery of the 
 opera-house, because they are fond of music.
 
 58 LEO. 
 
 and find it clieaper up tliere than down below 
 in the stalls, next to brilliant Mr. Chalker. If 
 yon prefer Chalker to Hugh Wood, and Lack- 
 ington, and Robin Hooper, why I don't, that's 
 all, Leo." 
 
 " Don't be cross with me, sir. I don't prefer 
 Mr. Chalker— I don't like Mr. Chalker. But I 
 do like Lord Dolly." 
 
 " Hush ! here he is." 
 
 " How d'ye do, Mrs. Carr ? How d'ye do. Miss 
 Carr ? How d'ye do, Mr. Carr ? How are you, 
 Arnold ?" And his little lordship was pressing their 
 hands with his slender fingers, laughing his merry 
 boy's laugh, bowing and bending, pouring out his 
 usual stream of pleasant small talk with a fashion- 
 able seasoning of " chaff," his gibus imder his 
 arm, his colossal opera-glass in his left hand, and, 
 of course, his glass in his eye. 
 
 " Like this opera. Miss Carr ? Oh, yes ; first- 
 rate you know — classical music — good as Beetho- 
 ven — that sort of thing; but just a little heavy — 
 ever so little, don't you think so? Yes; capital 
 singer, Tamberlik. No end of a good singer — 
 getting a little fat though, don't you think ? 
 Good fun when the man what 's-his-name shoots 
 the apple off his son's head. First-rate — know
 
 AN OPERA BY EOSSINI. 69 
 
 how it's done ? No ; lie don't fire off at all — arrow 
 comes out of tlie apple, through the post at the 
 back. Good trick, eh? Pretty-looking woman 
 danced the Tyrolienne to-night, wasn't she ? Soon 
 leave town now, I suppose, Mrs. Carr? You '11 be 
 glad to get into the country again, I daresay. Oh, 
 yes — long season — knocked up — awful bore — that 
 sort of thing. Lose the best part of the season 
 in London ? Yes ; so we do, very foolish, and 
 absurd, and that. Weather's changing now — 
 getting quite autumn — dear me, yes. What are 
 our chances as to grouse tliis year, Mr. Carr? 
 Yes; I was going yachting with Flukemore — 
 postponed the thing for the present. Don't think I 
 shall be down in Woodlandshire until the winter. 
 Much obliged. Yes ; I '11 certainly ride over to 
 the Chase, if I should come down. Where are 
 you going, Arnold? Tyrol — Alps — that sort of 
 thing. Very true — sick of it myself. Switzer- 
 land does get chuck-full of snobs, somehow. Sort 
 of continental Margate — that sort of thing. Are 
 you going to contest Woodlandshire? not this 
 time, I suppose. You'd have Southernwood's 
 support, I think. Yes, Miss Carr, it was Dudley 
 Chalker; he's been admiring you awful — made 
 quite a conquest of him, I assure you. No,
 
 60 LEO. 
 
 Littledale went away without proposing. Poor 
 Fanny Forde quite ill in consequence — old Forde 
 raging like a mad bull — made sure of his daughter 
 being a countess. No ; it's quite true, 'pon my 
 word. Bra ! Br-r-ra ! Fine fellow, Tamberlik. 
 lie don't sing the ' Suivez mol ' badly, does he, 
 Miss Carr? I wish I could chuck up my voice 
 and catch it again like that. Are you going? 
 You'll be sure to give my kind regards to Mr. 
 and Mrs. Lomax, when you see them. Hope 
 I shall have the j)leasure of seeing you again. 
 Not next Tuesday? Dear me, the theatre tcill 
 look empty without you." And so on. 
 
 " Don't leave us at the door of the theatre," 
 Leonora whispered coaxingly to Arnold. " Come 
 round to Westbourne Terrace, do, there 's a dear. 
 I 've so many things to say to you." 
 
 " Come out after the opera, Arnold, old man, 
 and have a cigar, w^ill you ? or come on to the 
 club, or to the Albany. I've got some decent 
 hock now — Southernwood sent it to me ; or we'll 
 go a little round, if you like, for a change. We'll 
 get old Chalkcr to come too. He ain't such a 
 bad sort of a fellow, Chalker, you know — is he ? " 
 
 But Arnold found the lady's proposition the 
 more tempting.
 
 AN OPEEA BY ROSSINI. 61 
 
 " I think going round by Westbourne must be 
 quite tlie nearest way to the Temple," he said, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Well, but the carriage can take you there 
 afterwards. Papa will speak to Andrews about it." 
 
 "No, darling, we won't make Andrew's life a 
 burden to him. It 's a fine night, I believe ; and 
 I can easily get a cab from Oxford Street." 
 
 " You ought to kept a cab, Arnold. I 'm sure 
 you 'd find it very convenient." 
 
 " I tried it once ; but I found it very trouble- 
 some. Somehow the cab was always at one end 
 of the town when I was at the other. It seemed 
 to me at last that I was only keeping it to enable 
 my tiger to enjoy carriage exercise. I thought 
 that reason was barely a sufficient one, so I put 
 down the cab." 
 
 " When Jordan was at Oxford he used to drive 
 a tandem," Mrs. Carr said. " Jordan drove beau- 
 tifully, though he was sometimes upset. He was 
 fond of very spirited horses. I was frightened to 
 death to see him drive. But his father and myself 
 always agreed that he should be humoured in 
 everything that was reasonable. He 'd have been 
 just your age if lie 'd lived, Arnold ; your age to 
 a day. No; I never drive myself — not now —
 
 62 LEO. 
 
 I used to drive a pony phaeton round our park, 
 but I'm not equal to it now. Leo dear, you'd 
 better have that window up or you '11 catch cold, 
 comino; out of the hot theatre. Poor Jordan 
 once caught a dreadful cold from merely sitting 
 with his back to an open window. Do you 
 remember, Carr ? " 
 
 " Yes, Agnes, I remember," said the old 
 gentleman, quietly. 
 
 " I nursed him for weeks. Dear me, how ill 
 he was." And Mrs. Carr relapsed again into 
 silence. 
 
 " That's a regular case, you know, Chalker, old 
 man, between that fellow Arnold and that little 
 girl — a regular case; and a very nice little girl 
 she is too, let me tell you, Chalker — not at all 
 a bad sort of girl in point of fact. A man might 
 do a deuced sight worse. I call her a — a howling 
 poppet ! " 
 
 This designation of little Miss Carr, from its pos- 
 sessing a sort of Ojibbeway smack, or from some 
 other remarkable characteristics, evidently struck 
 the Hon. Dudley Chalker as being intense and 
 forcible. It had all the effect upon him that a 
 blow in the chest might be expected to produce
 
 AN OPERA BY KOSSIXI. 63 
 
 upon an ordinary man. He lost his breath to 
 begin with ; he opened his weak eyes very 
 widely indeed, pulled wildly at his moustache, and 
 ejaculated " Aw I " three distinct times, with 
 effusion; as a supplementary demonstration of 
 surprise, he next took to blinking violently for 
 some minutes. 
 
 Lord Dolly was apparently all the better for 
 the relief to his feelings occasioned by his open 
 expression of opinion relative to Leonora Carr. 
 He returned to the consideration of everyday 
 interests. 
 
 " This is the neatest thing you've had in 
 cheroots, Chalker, for no end of time. It does 
 you great credit." 
 
 The little nobleman blew as bio; a cloud as a 
 giant might have blown. 
 
 "To-morrow we must see about getting old 
 Flukey out of that lock-up. It makes a fellow 
 awful nervous though, trusting himself in those 
 places ; one never knows what may happen. Sup- 
 pose, you know, Chalker, they were to nobble on 
 to me ! " 
 
 Chalker murmured — " Baw ! " 
 
 The utterance seemed to be as eloquent as the 
 occasion demanded.
 
 6-1 LEO. 
 
 " I want to speak to you, Ar, before you go," 
 said Leonora, joining him in the hall as he jore- 
 pared to leave the house in Westbourne Terrace. 
 
 '' What is it, Leo ? " he asked, kindly. 
 
 She took his hand, pressing it gently between 
 her two soft little palms. 
 
 " Have I done wrong to-night, Ar ; tell me ? " 
 
 ^'•' No, dearest ; how can you do wrong ? " 
 
 " But I have ; I 've said things I ought not to 
 have said. I have spoken of your friends badly 
 — and it was foolish and wicked of me — and 
 you, Ar, so good and kind to me always. I 
 had no right to say what I did. Forgive me, 
 Ar ; I won't do it again, at least, I'll try not to. 
 Forgive me." 
 
 " Silly little Leo," said Arnold, smoothing her 
 silky tresses, " there is nothing to forgive." 
 
 " Yes, but there is." 
 
 " Why will you think so seriously of such 
 nonsense ? " 
 
 " It isn't nonsense. But I see you forgive me ; 
 thank you, Ar. And you won't think the worse 
 of me for what I said ? You won't love me the 
 less?" 
 
 " Surely not, Leo." 
 
 The soft brown eyes looked strangely bright
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSIXI. Go 
 
 even tlirougli a veil of tears, but this on the 
 whole perhaps decked rather than dimmed their 
 lustre. A pause of a minute. 
 
 "You may kiss me, Ar, if you like," she 
 said, gently, with a little winning smile running 
 along the line of her lips. She held up her face : 
 so that he shouldn't have to stoop too low, 
 perhaps. 
 
 What a commino-lino; of innocence and half- 
 conscious coquetry and tenderness and merriment, 
 the tears still dewing her eyelashes ! 
 
 Mr. Arnold Page availed himself of the privi- 
 lege permitted him. Probably under like circum- 
 stances most people would have done as he did. 
 
 " Darling little Leo ! " he said, as he looked 
 about for a cab to take him to the Temple. 
 
 Soon after he added — 
 
 " I wonder if that fellow Lackington has left 
 my place yet ? I feel inclined for a cigar and a 
 chat before turning in." 
 
 He found Mr. Lackington in the chambers in 
 Sun Dial-buildings, but asleep on a sofa wdth an 
 empty bottle at his side. He was in the dark ; he 
 had been too lazy to light a candle. 
 
 " It will be a shame to disturb him ; but It will 
 be better for him to have the window shut," said 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 GG LEO. 
 
 Arnold Page, and lie closed the window, leaving 
 the painter to his repose. 
 
 " Dear little Leo ! " he said again. She was 
 a pleasant subject to return to, unquestion- 
 ably. 
 
 We need not follow further the steps of Lord 
 Dolly and his friend, nor is it immediately 
 material to the objects of our history whether 
 or not Flukemore obtained his liberty. Sufficient 
 to say, for the present, that on the morning after 
 his visit to the opera, the Honourable Dudley 
 Chalker required a large dose of his favourite 
 soda-water before he could be put upon his feet, 
 and even then he was for a long time speechless, 
 and not a very exhilarating spectacle. Some 
 hours later, however, he was sufficiently recovered 
 to show himself at his club (the Junior Adonis, St. 
 James's Street), and give a friendly " Aw," to 
 certain of his acquaintances there, including Lord 
 Dolly — as pink and fresh, flaxen and trim, as a 
 school-girl. No wonder they called him " Cupid; " 
 lie looked the part; only you are required to 
 imagine the son of Cytherea as a modern, very 
 fashionable divinity, attired in broadcloth, and 
 "about town ;" smoking cheroots when notsuckino;
 
 AN OPERA BY ROSSINI. 67 
 
 his ivory-topped cane ; and a splendid seat upon a 
 colossal, rakish-looking, bay blood mare, pranc- 
 ing in the Row — now thinning like the trees 
 in the park, for the glory of the season had 
 departed. 
 
 5—2
 
 ()8 LEO. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE MISSES bigg's SEMINARY EOR YOUNG 
 LADIES. 
 
 EriTH and Rosa, the daughters of Mr. Francis 
 Lomax, of the Wafer Stamp Office, Whitehall, 
 and of Great Upper Eaton Place, at present 
 resident at Oakmere Court, Woodlandshire, the 
 property of his brother-in-law, Mr. Arnold Page 
 — Edith and Rosa, little girls of the respective ages 
 of eleven and nine years, were pupils at the 
 Misses Bigg's seminary for young ladies, Chapone 
 House, Kew Green, This establishment was of 
 no mean fame. It had been in existence many 
 years. It was expensive — it was exclusive. It 
 recognized in no way the ^^ mutual system." A 
 €oal-merchant could not place his daughter 
 under the charge of the Misses Bigg — still less 
 could he hope to pay for his child's education with 
 so many tons of fuel per quarter. The Misses
 
 THE MISSES bigg's SEMINARY. 69 
 
 Bigg steadily declined to receive into tlieir 
 academy the children of persons engaged in trade. 
 They had even entertained doubts at one time in 
 regard to the offspring of professional men. It 
 was with a sigh that Miss Adelaide Bigg had 
 accepted the charge of the two daughters of that 
 eminent advocate Lisper, Q.C., of the Northern 
 Circuit. She admitted, with tears in her eyes, 
 that she perceived distinctly in that proceeding 
 " the thin end of the wedge." But Miss Adelaide 
 Bigg entertained strong opinions. She had been 
 heard to declare that the secrets of scholastic 
 success were exclusiveness — exclusiveness — ex- 
 clusiveness. Her cry at one time had been the 
 peerage, the whole peerage, and nothing but the 
 peerage. She was one of those alarming 
 creatures known as *^ superior women." She 
 adhered to her opinions with a tenacity that had 
 something terrible in it. But she was compelled 
 to yield to what it pleased her to designate " the 
 frightful inroads of democracy." She confessed 
 that she had suffered deeply for the cause of 
 the aristocratic families. It was believed that 
 the books of the establishment could have shown 
 a sad list of debts due to the Misses Bigg in 
 respect of some of their most distinguished pupils.
 
 70 LEO. 
 
 She was found one morning quite dead in her chair. 
 She had been reading the Court Circular. In the 
 list of presentations at a drawing-room of the 
 Sovereign, she had discovered the names of no 
 less than six of her former pupils. It is not 
 known how much loss in money those pupils 
 represented. 
 
 The sm^viving sister, Miss Dorothea Bigg, was 
 a less superior Avoman than the late Miss Adelaide. 
 She had not the firmness of mind nor the dignity 
 of manner, nor, it was said, the intellectual culture 
 of her departed sister. It is possible, indeed, that 
 the seminary was existing rather on the strength 
 of its reputation in the past than because of the 
 extent of its merits in the present. Yet Miss 
 Dorothea did all in her power to cherish the 
 fair fame of the institution. The children of 
 commerce were still kept without the gates. The 
 terms had not been reduced — the number of the 
 pupils was still limited — the name of "the Misses 
 Bigg" was still preserved on the door-plate, 
 still headed the half-yearly bills and the prospec- 
 tuses. The nobility and gentry were informed 
 now, as of old, that at the Misses Bigg's seminary, 
 Chapone House, Kew Green, a limited number of 
 young ladies were received. Terms — One hundred
 
 THE MISSES bigg's SEMIXxVRY. 71 
 
 and fifty guineas per annum, including board and 
 instruction in every essential of a sound English 
 education. Religious and Moral Culture under 
 the immediate and personal superintendence of 
 Miss Dox'othea Bigg. (This had reference, pro- 
 bably, to an examination of the pupils every Sunday 
 afternoon in the catechism and collect of the day. 
 There were said to be reasons why Miss Bigg did 
 not venture to interfere in any other educational 
 matters. Certainly, her French was Britannic in 
 point of accent, while, grammatically considered, 
 it could only be called shaky.) The French, 
 German, and Italian languages constantly spoken, 
 and French made the medium of instruction 
 (whatever that might mean). The Piano, Harp, 
 Guitar, Drawing, Painting in Oil and Water 
 Colours, German, French, Italian and Latin 
 by first-rate professors, each twelve guineas. 
 Dancing, three guineas a quarter. Seat at 
 Church, two guineas. Use of Instruments, two 
 or three guineas, according to age. The Use of 
 the Globes and Calisthenics, four guineas. 
 Laundress, eight guineas. Charge for remaining 
 during vacations, twelve guineas. A half year's 
 notice required before the removal of a pupil. 
 Each lady providing her own plate and linen.
 
 72 LEO. 
 
 While, after these announcements, the prospectus 
 went on to state that " the Misses Bigg, deeply 
 impressed with the intense responsibility devolving 
 upon those to whom may be entrusted the absolute 
 charge of children at a distance from their homes, 
 desire that it may be understood that young 
 people from abroad or the colonies consigned to 
 their protection, it will be their especial care to 
 make the objects of an untiring, affectionate, and 
 maternal solicitude ; not simply in so far as their 
 educational progress may be concerned, but also 
 in regard to the even more important considera- 
 tions affecting their religious and moral welfare 
 and training, their personal comfort and happiness, 
 and their health, for the preservation and promo- 
 tion of which last Chapone House presents 
 peculiar advantages. It is most favourably 
 situated, on a gravelly soil, overlooking the 
 Royal Gardens of Kew, the air being at the 
 same time both mild and bracing, and particu- 
 larly recommended by the Faculty. References 
 rigorously insisted on, and permitted to the 
 Right Reverend Blacknican Savage, Lord Bishop 
 of Otaheite ; the Venerable G. Todd, Archdeacon 
 of Bunglowputty, East Indies ; the Hon. J. 
 Crow, Secretary of the Legation, Dixie's Land;
 
 TPIE MISSES BIGG'S SEMINARY. 73 
 
 and to the numerous parents of pupils who 
 have received the blessings of education at the 
 Misses Bigg's Seminarv, Chapone House, Kew 
 Green." 
 
 This excellently planned prospectus had all the 
 effect of what is called, I believe, "a strong 
 bill" at the theatres. It attracted attention — 
 it drew. The limited number of pupils was 
 generally complete, even though it had been 
 necessary for particular reasons to look a 
 little lower than the aristocratic families, and 
 to receive the children of the professional 
 classes. 
 
 But among the Misses Bigg's pupils you could 
 not always distinguish those who sprung from an 
 aristocratic and those from a less precious stock. 
 When Miss Leonora Agnes Carr was one of the 
 limited number of young ladies, you would have 
 been inclined, I think, to attribute to her an origin 
 quite as recherche as that of the Hon. Maud Eve 
 Elaine, only daughter of Hubert Lord Stonehenge. 
 There had been no question about the reception of 
 little Leonora into the school. Miss Dorothea was 
 pleased, she said, to see Miss Carr an inmate of 
 Chapone House; and she was able to rely for cer- 
 tain, as she well knew, on the periodical receipt of
 
 74 LEO. 
 
 old Mr. Carr's cheques in payment for the educa- 
 tion of his child. 
 
 But the Misses Bigg had other claims to the 
 estimation of the world. They were the daughters 
 of the eminent poet Bigg, the author of that 
 superb epic, so favourably noticed by all the Low 
 Ohurch reviews of the period. The Course of Life, 
 in twenty cantos. (Alas! Dorothea would pro- 
 nounce the word canters, now that Adelaide was 
 no longer alive to correct her.) Bigg, in his 
 youth the gentleman of ton, the friend of Fox 
 and Sheridan, the companion of George the 
 Debonair, a grand man and a handsome, as 
 is evident from his portrait still hanging in 
 the Misses Bigg's best drawing-room, at 
 Chapone House — a massive personage with bril- 
 liant eyes and a fascinating smile, a bottle nose, 
 and his hair well combed over his forehead : 
 Bigg, the beauty, the girth and symmetry of 
 whose leg had been even the envy of his sove- 
 reign, and, indeed, the subject of a bet on the 
 part of that urbane monarch (was not Sheridan 
 invited to decide the wager? and did he not give 
 his opinion in favour of the superior size of calf 
 being on the side of his royal master ? — a partial 
 judgment, as it was always believed, and for which
 
 THE MISSES BIGG S SEMINARY. 75 
 
 Bigg never forgave him) — Bigg, who in his 
 maturity had repented of the unwisdom of his 
 youth, and his money gone and the gout come in 
 his hands and feet, had invoked the Muse — how 
 successfully, there was his sublime work — that was 
 the proper phrase to employ concerning it — to bear 
 witness. It w^ent rapidly through sixteen editions. 
 " Can you 'ave anythink more sublime than 
 that ? " asked Binks, the publisher. The Course of 
 Life, a soul poem, in twenty cantos. It was 
 considered at certain prayer and tea parties a 
 great thing that Bigg should have had a caU so 
 beneficial as was implied in the production of The 
 Course of Life, while unquestionably it was a 
 great thing for Bigg that he could make so advan- 
 tageous a call upon the public as was compre- 
 hended in the sixteen editions of his great work. 
 Did he not also receive a pension from the Earl 
 of Birmingham's government? — not a large sum, 
 of course, but still sufficient to supply the bard 
 with as much of his favourite snuff and beloved 
 rum-punch as he could possibly require for the 
 rest of his life — his needs in these respects not 
 being trifling ; while, au reste, he lived upon the 
 exertions of his daughters, the Misses Bigg, of 
 Chapone House. Altogether, Bigg had probably
 
 76 . LEO. 
 
 enjoyed his life as much as most of us, and rather 
 more than some. A youth of pleasure and an 
 old age of comfort, and all at the expense of other 
 people. 
 
 There are some Ministers who keep office 
 under all forms of government. Bigg had hob- 
 nobbed in tokay with giddiness and gaiety ; by- 
 and-by he was enjoying tea and muffins with 
 primness and prudery. Of course it's easy to 
 be inconsistent and to change your convictions ; 
 the difficulty is to bring to a good market 
 your altered opinions. Bigg was successful in 
 this respect. He posed himself as a convert. 
 Now, in the case of a convert, of course it 
 is an advantage for him to have enjoyed pre- 
 viously as bad a character as possible. If we 
 are to wash the black man white, let us have him 
 as jetty as may be at starting, and there will be 
 so much more credit in the concern ; let us have 
 a whole-bred negro rather than an octoroon. The 
 well-known early naughtinesses of Bigg were so 
 many testimonials in his favour. An influential 
 evangelical congregation straightway took up Bigg, 
 and he took up them and their sentiments hot and 
 strong. He became a valuable member of their 
 body. His success was tremendous. He lectured
 
 THE IMISSES bigg's SEMINARY. 77 
 
 in the chapels of the party. He could point to 
 himself as at once the frightful example and the 
 moral result of his own teaching. Money was 
 turned away from the doors, and he crowned his 
 triumph hy the production of The Course of Life 
 in twenty cantos. This is not the place to review 
 that remarkable book. Its enormous sale has 
 been already the subject of observation. Passages 
 of it were set to music and sung in the chapels 
 of the faithful. It was the gift-book of families 
 of the persuasion ; and it was, of course, bound in 
 calf, whole extra, with gilt edges, and, with the 
 autograph of Miss Dorothea on the fly-leaf, one 
 of the prizes bestowed upon successful students at 
 Chapone House, Kew Green. I am afraid that 
 some of these did not rate highly either the 
 poetry or the piety of Bigg's book. 
 
 " Portrait of my father, at the age of thirty- 
 seven, by Cadmium, R.A., well-known as the 
 rival of Lawrence, exhibited at Somerset House 
 in 18 — " Miss Dorothea would say, for the 
 edification of visitors, pointing a gristly, knuckly, 
 black - mittened hand in the direction of the 
 picture over the mantelpiece. " Black shade of 
 the poet Bigg at the age of sixty-two, considered 
 a wonderful likeness. My father when a boy.
 
 78 LEO. 
 
 with Eppiiig Forest in the background; he was 
 born in Essex, at the village of Chingforcl, in 
 the year 17 — . Water-colour study of my father 
 when a child, by the celebrated artist, P. Madder. 
 My father, even quite as an infant, was remark- 
 able for the beauty of his countenance ; those 
 works of art in the corner are two other por- 
 traits of the poet Bigg, by the eminent and 
 fashionable amatoor, Prince Ernest Blisterhazy. 
 My father with his hat on ; m}'- father with his 
 hat off. Medallion portrait of my father, by 
 Moulder, the sculptor ; the shape of my father's 
 head was generally considered to be very re- 
 markable. The protooberances on the forehead 
 are certainly singular ; they are not in the least 
 exaggerated. The bust on the staircase, which 
 you passed as you came up, was by Chis- 
 well, R.A., a very admirable work, slightly 
 idealized, very highly estimated by persons of 
 distinction ; it was on seeing that bust that his 
 majesty, the late King George the Fourth, 
 struck by the likeness, gave an order for his 
 own bust in his coronation robes to be executed 
 by Chiswell. It was the same bust that his 
 Majesty afterwards most graciously presented to 
 the Emperor of China, and it is now one of
 
 THE MISSES BIGG'S SEMINARY. 79 
 
 the most cherished ornaments of the imperial 
 palace at Pekin. Favourite chair of the poet 
 Bigg ; the desk at which the poem of The 
 Course of Life was written; the poet's table; 
 the poet's pen-wiper ; the poet's pen ; a copy of 
 the first edition of The Course of Life, bound in 
 morocco — valuable from its possessing on the 
 title page impromptu lines upon his work, ad- 
 dressed to my father and in her own handwriting 
 by the poetess. Lady Grinderstone, authoress of 
 Strains of the Soul, or the Evangelical Hymnal, 
 From this window you can perceive the poet's 
 favourite seat in the little arbour at the bottom of 
 the garden ; it is completely covered with nastur- 
 tiums in the summer time. The poet Avould often 
 sit there for hours meditating upon his great 
 poem, and generally upon philosophical and 
 sacred topics. He would sometimes take his tea 
 in that arbour " (more often, however, his hot 
 rum - and - water, and clay pipe ; only Miss 
 Dorothea made no mention of those constant 
 friends and companions of the poet, probably 
 because they appeared to convey too material a 
 notion of the poet's manner of life) ; " he would 
 rather remain hours in that spot than enter the 
 house, and be liable to the interruption of an
 
 80 LEO. 
 
 important train of tliought. Specimen of my 
 father's handwriting at the age of eighty-three, 
 considered very remarkable for its distinctness, 
 being written at so advanced an age ; " and so 
 on. It will be seen that there was little danger 
 of the fame of the late Bigg dying out in the 
 seminary ; certainly, whatever else he was, he 
 was a poet in his own household. 
 
 '' The picture over the ' shifFoneer ' is by the 
 celebrated Cromer; he was formerly professor 
 of drawing and painting at this institution. It 
 represents a fancy sketch of my late sister 
 Adelaide " (at this moment Miss Dorothea w^as 
 popularly supposed to remove a stray tear from 
 the corner of her eye with the aid of a long 
 bony finger, that looked rather like a stick of 
 yellow sealing-wax). " It is considered a good 
 likeness by many, though it always appeared to 
 me that it did not do justice to the intellectual 
 expression of my late sister, which was very 
 remarkable. Upon her head she wears a turban 
 of primrose-coloured satin. She is depicted in 
 the character of St. Cecilia. It w^as a fancy of 
 the artist's which my late sister did not approve, 
 and which I am not prepared to defend. She 
 is playing upon an organ of the form supposed
 
 THE MISSES BIGG'S SEMINARY. 81 
 
 to be in use at that early period." (The musical 
 iustrument thus described, it is needless to say, 
 "was of the pattern, with which happily art has 
 made us fully acquainted, and which appears 
 to have resulted from an accidental combina- 
 tion, admirable for a still-life study, — of a patent 
 mangle and a row of gas-pipes). , 
 
 The drawing-room of Chapone House was rather 
 grim and gaunt, hard and white. It was crowded 
 with straight lines; it looked as though it had been 
 starched and ironed. The visitor was always 
 possessed with a doubt and a difficulty as to 
 where he should sit; the forbidding aspect of 
 the formal files of chairs lining the room at 
 once compelled him to abandon all thought of 
 finding relief in those quarters. He would no 
 more have dreamt of removing one from its 
 place against the wall than he would have 
 contemplated pulling out one of Miss Bigg's 
 front teeth. The furniture was all shrouded 
 in white holland, just as though it was so much 
 furniture that had departed this life, and had 
 got its grave-clothes on all ready whenever the 
 undertaker might come to announce that he 
 was prepared to complete the business by 
 decent interment. A chandelier in a white 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 LEO. 
 
 bag, like an inverted and collapsed balloon, 
 hung from tlie centre of the ceiling. The 
 steel grates, glittering with polish, looked as 
 though they knew nothing about fire, and wood, 
 and coals, and such vulgarities : while they con- 
 cealed their emptiness, like diners -out before 
 dinner, behind superb shirt-fronts, thick with 
 frilled decorations. For the poker, smooth, 
 shining, slender — if it had been a gold stick in 
 waiting it could not have enjoyed more of a 
 sinecure. 
 
 Miss Dorothea Bigg was a very tall woman: 
 she looked even taller than she really was, from 
 her strenuous forbearance to diminish her appear- 
 ance of height by amplitude of skirt. She re- 
 sorted to no artificial means to project the folds 
 of her dress, and, as a consequence, these hung 
 limply in long lines ; so that, in point of fact, 
 the drapery screening her ancles was but little 
 wider than where it covered her shoulders. Her 
 figure was rectangular in pattern, her face very 
 long and thin ; the stiffly plaited cap exactly 
 followed the outline of her head, and its sad- 
 coloured ribbons were tied under her chin with 
 a tightness that was most probably painful. Her 
 eyebrows were strongly marked, her eyes a dull
 
 THE MISSES BIGG'S SEMINARY. 83 
 
 black, her moutli large, sliawing when she spoke 
 not merely many of her discoloured teeth, but 
 a good margin of the gums in which these were 
 set. The little black dab of a front that she 
 wore upon her forehead might almost have been 
 a petrifaction, it was so harsh and rigid. She 
 had a general complaint that the weather was 
 " very chilly " (certainly the climate in the 
 Chapone House drawling-room was rather severe) ; 
 and was for ever huddling a shabby cachmere 
 shawl about her sharply-pointed shoulders, while 
 she rubbed her hands one over the other briskly, 
 until the grating of her mittens, as they came 
 into contact with each other, became quite audible. 
 She was not very erect, being almost too tall and 
 slight for that ; so that she advanced with rather 
 a bending, sloping air, like the progress of a 
 fire-escape or a camelopard. 
 
 The limited number of young ladies could 
 perceive from the windows that a handsome 
 barouche had stopped at the gate of Chapone 
 House. The Mangnall's question-class were under- 
 going examination by Miss Mullins, who, being 
 Irish by birth and accent, was engaged to teach 
 English at the Misses Bigg's seminary. 
 
 " I think it's Leo Carr," whispered the young 
 
 G— 2
 
 84 LEO. 
 
 lady nearest the window to her neighbour, and 
 soon the information went round the class. Soon 
 two pink - cheeked, blue -eyed, yellow- haired, 
 thoroughly English-looking little girls began to 
 blush with pleasure, and their little hearts to 
 thump quite anxiously. 
 
 " It's for ws," murmured the daughters of 
 Francis Lomax, Esq., of the Wafer Stamp 
 Office. 
 
 "Silence!" cried Miss Mullins. "I'll have 
 no looking out of the whindow during studhies. 
 Miss Mhortimer. I'll throuble you to name 
 some of the eminent men who flourished in 
 the reign of Heliogabalus. Oh, so you didn't 
 hear the question ! Thin, perhaps. Miss Hengist 
 will inform you." 
 
 "Origen of Alexandria, one of the fathers of 
 the Church, who repulsed the attacks of Celsus, 
 the Epicurean philosopher," Miss Hengist, with 
 breathless eagerness, jerked out the reply. 
 
 " Quite right. Miss Hengist," remarked Miss 
 Mullins. "Miss Mhortimer will be so good as 
 to write the lesson out six times. Miss Lomax — " 
 Little Edith started like a pony making a first 
 acquaintance with whipcord — " what kings in 
 ancient history afford the most striking proof
 
 THE MISSES BIGGS SEMINARY. 8a 
 
 of the vicissitudes to which human life is 
 subject ? " 
 
 Poor Edith's cheeks became yet more crimson, 
 and her breathing very quick indeed. Like Miss 
 Mortimer, she had permitted her attention to 
 wander from Mangnall to the barouche at the 
 gates. The hawk-eyes of Miss Mullins were 
 detecting the deficiencies of the little lamb; a 
 severe sentence was about to be pronounced, 
 when the door of the school-room was flung 
 wide open, and Miss Dorothea Bigg entered. 
 
 Leonora Carr was alone in the £[aunt drawino- 
 room. Mrs. Carr had accompanied her daughter 
 to the school, but the old lady had declined the 
 trouble of descending from the carriage to enter 
 Chapone House, and attempt conversation with 
 Miss Bio^£^. 
 
 " Don't ask me to get out, Leo dear," said 
 Mrs. Carr, " for I can't do it. I don't like Miss 
 Bigg. I never did like schoolmistresses, they're 
 so formal, and so hungry-looking. Miss Bigg 
 is a very estimable person, I daresay, and her 
 school was very highly recommended to me, or 
 I should not have entrusted you to her care ; 
 but it always seems to me that she wants to 
 pick holes in everything I say, and it makes me
 
 86 LEO. 
 
 quite nervous : and it's so long since I went to 
 school that I begin to tliink I'm talking bad 
 grammar. Bring Edith and Rosy out and we'll 
 take them for a drive — children like a drive — 
 and we can go on to the pastry-cook's on Rich- 
 mond Hill. Children are fond of the pastry- 
 cooks. Take my card-case; you can leave my 
 card and your papa's." 
 
 And Mrs. Carr leant back in the well-padded 
 barouche, while Leonora tripped lightly up the 
 vividly white steps of Chapone House. The old lady 
 struirii'led at first with the drowsiness with whicli 
 the o-entle rockino; of the well-built and balanced 
 carriage always affected her. By-and-by she was 
 nodding and dozing comfortably. (She took her 
 three glasses of sherry at lunch regularly, in 
 pursuance of the advice of her favourite physi- 
 cian, the famous Sir Cupper Leech.) Leonora 
 had entered the drawing-room and confronted 
 her former instructress, Miss Dorothea Bigg ; 
 who, on the sound of carriage wheels, had — 
 according to her custom — made for that apart- 
 ment, so that, on the entrance of visitors, she 
 might be — to use a theatrical term — " discovered " 
 seated on the hard sofa, at right angles with the 
 icy-looking fireplace, studying the penultimate
 
 TJEIE MISSES bigg's SEMINARY. 87 
 
 canto of the poet Bigg's Course of Life. As 
 "Miss Carr" was announced, slie rose to greet 
 her visitor, having first carefully marked the 
 place at which her reading had been interrupted, 
 by means of an elaborately embroidered card 
 book-marker ; the words " Read, mark, and digest," 
 appearing on it in coloured beads almost like an 
 illumination legend, with long streamers of sea- 
 green ribbon at either end. 
 
 Leonora, in spite of her slight form and not tall 
 stature, was possessed of a good share of courage 
 and strength of will. She was prepared for some- 
 thing of a conflict with her old schoolmistress, whom, 
 I may as well say at once, she cordially hated ; in 
 fact, as a rule, it is only those ultra and impossibly 
 well-conducted children of the story-books (who, 
 by the way, generally die young, I notice — and 
 what a comfort that is ! ) who love their teachers. 
 She had made up her mind as to the part she 
 would play in the interview. She would be very 
 cold, and stiff, and dignified. She had dressed for 
 the part evidently, under the idea of impressing 
 the schoolmistress: a superb brocaded silk, rustling 
 noisily as she moved and struck the furniture 
 with her ample skirts ; her tiny hands in the most 
 delicately tinted gloves, holding her card-case, and
 
 88 LEO. 
 
 a handkerchief that was, in fact, a mere filmy 
 square of lace. 
 
 " She'll try to kiss me, I know her," the little 
 lady said to herself; " but I'll take care that she 
 doesn't. I don't know that I'll even shake hands 
 with her — I hate her." 
 
 *^ My dear Leonora," said Miss Dorothea, rising 
 from the sofa with a great cordiality, and showing 
 her teeth freely, which proceeding, indeed, con- 
 stituted her notion of a smile, " how kee-ind this 
 is. How glad I am to see you, my dear che-ild. 
 Welcome again to our 'umble dwelling, to Chapone 
 House." 
 
 She extended her arms ; she was evidently 
 about to fall upon her late pupil and embrace her 
 affectionately. (They bore about the relation to 
 each other in size and form, that a lighthouse 
 would bear to a diving-bell.) But the aspect of 
 little Leo rather quenched this needless ardour. 
 The expression of her face was very prim and 
 demure indeed ; her lips were drawn together 
 into a compact little line ; the brown eyes beamed 
 very steadily and solemnly. She made a profound 
 curtsey, the edges of her dress quite crackled upon 
 the carpet as she descended among her flounces. 
 She put forward two fingers of her left hand, as
 
 THE MISSES bigg's SEMINARY. 89 
 
 slie said, feebly, languidly, half closing her eyes, as 
 thouojh she were short-siMited and could so see 
 better — 
 
 " Miss Bigg, I believe ? I hope I see you well." 
 
 The schoolmistress felt the effect of this de- 
 meanour. 
 
 "T hope your ma is well, Leonora. I hope 
 your excellent pa enjoys his health," she said, with 
 rather a dashed manner. 
 
 Leonora listlessly produced two cards and 
 pushed them gently across the table. 
 
 *^ Kind regards and inquiries," she murmured 
 affectedly. " I have come to see Edith and Kosa 
 Lomax, by request of their mamma. Will you let 
 them come to me ? " 
 
 " They are now in class," Miss Bigg adopting 
 the formula usual on like occasion, and with a 
 pretended hesitation. " As a rule we don't like 
 the studies of our young ladies to be interrupted." 
 
 '' That is of no consequence," Leo said grandly. 
 " Of course I must see them. I have come 
 here with that object only." 
 
 " Little minx," muttered Miss Dorothea, as 
 she left the drawing-room in quest of the young 
 ladies inquired for. ^*' I should like to give her 
 a good shaking, I should."
 
 90 LEO. 
 
 Leo's face changed as her enemy departed. 
 She wore quite an expression of triumph. 
 
 '^ Oh, if she only knew how frightened I really 
 am of her/' she exclaimed, and by way of relief 
 to her feelings she made a disrespectful moue at 
 Cadmium's portrait of the author of Tlic Course 
 of Life over the mantelpiece, and another at 
 Cromer's sketch above the '^ shiffoneer " of Miss 
 Adelaide Bigg in the character of St. Cecilia. 
 Leonora had known Adelaide in the flesh (she 
 had not had much to speak of), and had not 
 loved her greatly. 
 
 " How I hate this room ; it gives me quite 
 a creepy, crawly sensation," soliloquized Leonora. 
 " How well I remember that great, ugly, upright, 
 piano in the corner, with its frayed, faded yellow 
 silk. And all those dreadful pictures. Bigg 
 was a hideous-looking man, although he was a 
 poet — at least, they say here that he was. Ah ! 
 and that precious china card-basket, riveted in 
 three places ; and those old-fashioned bronze 
 and brass and glass lustres, and that looking- 
 glass, which makes one look quite green. AVhat 
 yards and yards of brown holland; wax flowers 
 in the middle of the table ; stuffed birds be- 
 tween the windows ; Bigg's poem, first edition, in
 
 THE MISSES BIGG'S SEMINARY. 91 
 
 morocco, and his cliair, and desk, and penwiper, 
 the old fright ; and Miss Adelaide's album, with 
 original lines never published, by Hannah More, 
 or Mrs. Hemans, or Mrs. Barbauld, or some one, 
 I'm sure I forget. I never could make out what 
 they meant, I know that. And old Dorothea's 
 Church Service in dirty red velvet with brass 
 edges. How I hate the whole place ! Ah ! here 
 she comes again." And Leonora hurriedly re- 
 sumed a studied position of much grace, but con- 
 siderable affectation. 
 
 Edith and Rosa Lomax entered the room. 
 There had just been time to perform a hurried 
 toilette as to their countenances : these had 
 been rubbed with a moist towel by an expeditious 
 servant, who had also, being a clever and handy 
 woman, found time to apply a brush vigorously 
 to their yellow hair ; the process being almost 
 as brief and rapid as when a brisk baker rasps 
 a burnt French roll. After Leonora had kissed 
 the fresh, cool cheeks of her young friends she 
 detected a distinct flavour of soap lingering upon 
 her lips. 
 
 " How do you do, dear ? " she inquired, still 
 preserving her line-lady manner, for Miss 
 Dorothea was still present.
 
 92 LEO. 
 
 " I'm before Edith in French," says little Rosy 
 with a triumphant sparkle in her blue eyes, 
 
 "Are you, dear? I'm sure you ought to be 
 very grateful to those who take so much pains to 
 instruct you." 
 
 Leonora's languid eyes rest for a moment on 
 the schoolmistress, who, not entirely free from 
 suspicion, bows a grim acknowledgment of the 
 compliment conveyed by the remark. 
 
 " I hope your pupils give you satisfaction. 
 Miss Bigg," and Leonora bows her head with 
 wonderful courtesy. 
 
 " I have no grave cause of complaint against 
 them," Miss Bigg replies, slowly sighing. 
 
 Soon a reluctant permission is obtained for 
 the little girls having a drive in Mrs. Carr's 
 barouche. 
 
 " It's unusual," the schoolmistress remarks, 
 ff very unusual ; yes, and inconvenient ; and 
 against the rules. It is only the relatives of 
 the young ladies who are permitted to remove 
 them from my care for ever so short a time." 
 
 She watched the effect of these observations 
 upon Leonora. They had no success in the 
 way of quelling that young lady. She adhered 
 to her demand; the children by their anxious
 
 93 
 
 glances and gleaming eyes endorsing her views 
 of the case as earnestly as they dared. 
 
 "I suppose I must consent," Miss Bigg said. 
 "I suppose I must make an exception in your case, 
 Leonora, my former esteemed pupil. Though it's 
 to be much regretted that they should be deprived 
 of the benefit of Miss Mullins' admirable in- 
 struction in English ; she is now occupied with 
 her class." 
 
 " Somehow," little Rosy said to her sister, as 
 they put on their bonnets, " I don't think I 
 like Leo so much as I used to do ; do you, Edith ? 
 She's rather fine and grand, and stuck up ; don't 
 you think so ? " 
 
 "What nice gloves she has on, and what a 
 darling parasol," Edith remarks. (She is already 
 acquiring a taste in dress.) 
 
 " I suppose they'll drive to Richmond. I hope 
 they'll take us to the pastry-cook's," and Rosy 
 claps her little red hands, moved to that demon- 
 stration by visions of tarts. 
 
 " For shame. Rosy, thinking of such things. 
 How can you be so greedy ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, miss ; but you'll eat quite as many 
 things as I shall, if you get the chance. If Mrs. 
 Carr asks me if I'll have some c^iniier-beer I shall
 
 94 LEO. 
 
 say, yes. I like to see it fizz up. It's so nice, 
 only it always brings the tears into my eyes. 
 Don't you love ginger-beer, Edith ? I do." 
 
 Meanwhile Miss Carr has visited the school- 
 room, interrupting, by permission of Miss Bigg, 
 hesitatingly accorded. Miss Mullins' Mangnall's 
 Questions class. She has resumed her acquaint- 
 ance with certain of her old fellow pupils and 
 playmates ; she is very kind, and smiling, and 
 gracious ; a little too condescending, they agreed 
 afterwards ; but she is rather fall of her grand 
 manner in the neighbourhood of Miss Bigg. The 
 young ladies crowd round her, admiring her 
 greatly. Miss Mortimer thinks " her bonnet 
 lovely, and in charming taste." Miss Hengist 
 holds that her brocaded silk is sweetly pretty, 
 and most fashionably made. It is true that that 
 Miss Bobbin ventures to sneer at the visitor after 
 her withdrawal, denouncing her even as a " judy," 
 and a " guy " (whatever those terms may signify : 
 they were regarded by her associates as bitterly 
 and needlessly hostile). But then Miss Bobbin 
 had never been admitted to the friendship of 
 Leonora. Miss Bobbin was notoriously a rude 
 girl: rude in her speech, and opinions, and actions. 
 She had been known to call Miss Mullins names
 
 THE MISSES bigg's SEMINARY. 95 
 
 even to lier face, while slie had on one occasion 
 actually slapped the French teacher. There 
 had even been a talk at one time of expelling 
 her the school : so the girls whispered to each 
 other. No one could be surprised at anything 
 Miss Bobbin might say. No one could care 
 either. What could you expect ? Was not her 
 father the large miilowner, the member for that 
 dreadful place Shuttlecombe, in the north of 
 England — a fiery Radical and democrat ; a 
 dangerous man, as many country gentlemen had 
 freely stated. Lord Stonehenge had at one time 
 meditated removino; his daughter from contact 
 with the man Bobbin's daughter. But somehow 
 that nobleman s intentions were constantly a very 
 long way ahead of his conduct. 
 
 " Take care of your fingers, dears, as he shuts 
 the door. Mind their frocks, Andrews. Rich- 
 mond, and, Andrews, stop at the pastry-cook's." 
 So Mrs. Carr gives instructions. "Well, my 
 dears, you look very well. Your mamma will 
 be glad to hear that. I shall see her next week. 
 I suppose you're already looking forward to the 
 Michaelmas holidays. Talk to them, Leo — amuse 
 them — there's a dear." 
 
 Leo's manner had undergone a complete change.
 
 96 LEO. 
 
 Even critical Rosy was satisfied upon that 
 subject now. 
 
 " You darlings," she cried presently, quite 
 boisterously, " how glad I am to see you ! Come 
 and kiss me again both of you. I was obliged to 
 be grand and stately before that horrid old thing. 
 Bigg. Isn't she an old dragon. Rosy ? " 
 
 " She is," Rosy says at once, with frank 
 acquiescence. 
 
 *^ Now we can have some fun ! " 
 
 And there is great prattling and laughing, and 
 something between a squeak and a crow from 
 Rosy ; very noisy indeed, waking up echoes 
 amongst the stately elms of Kew Gardens — 
 amazing Mrs. Carr. 
 
 '' Oh, Leo ! You do tickle me so dreadfully ! " 
 
 " Ah ! this is all very well," Leo remarks with 
 mock sedateness. "You'll have to behave very 
 differently, by-and-by. You'll have both of you 
 to treat me with great ceremony and respect. A 
 whisper to both of you. Perhaps I'm going to 
 become aunt Leo. Think of that ! " 
 
 " You're not ; what stuff ! " Rosy exclaims^, 
 incredulous. 
 
 " Suppose that I and uncle Arnold — — " 
 
 " Are you going to marry uncle Ar, Leo ? '^
 
 THE MISSES bigg's SEMLNiAIlY. 97 
 
 Edith asks — she is a little girl of quick per- 
 ception. 
 
 "Perhaps, Edie." 
 
 " Marry uncle Ar ; oh, what fun ! " and Rosy 
 claps her hands again, partly, perhaps, because the 
 carriage stopped just then at the foot of Richmond 
 Hill, at a well-known shop. 
 
 "What a feast they had at that pastry-cook's! 
 What a number of maids-of-honour they con- 
 sumed (how cannibally it sounds ! ) ; and Rosy had 
 ginger-beer, and tears in her eyes, and the froth 
 and bubbles of the draught all over her lips, and 
 nose, and cheeks. She enjoyed herself immensely, 
 and did not feel in the least ill after her exertions. 
 She was blessed with the digestive powers of 
 a young ostrich. 
 
 " And now tell me, dears, something about the 
 school. When did my pet little Baby Gill go 
 away ? I did not see her in the class-room, and I 
 forgot to make inquiry about her." 
 
 Four blue eyes opened very widely at this 
 question. 
 
 " She hasn't gone away at all." 
 
 " Where is she then ? " 
 
 " She's very bad. Haven't you heard, Leo ? " 
 
 " Naughty ? no, she was never naughty." 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 LEO. 
 
 " No; she's ill. We haven't seen her for days. 
 No one has seen her. She's np at quite the top of 
 the house. No one has seen her. We don't 
 know what's the matter with her." 
 
 " How cruel of me to be laughing and talking 
 here, and never thinking of the poor little soul 
 before. I'll see her when I go back though/' Leo 
 says, self-reproachfully. 
 
 " I don't think Miss Bigg will let you see her." 
 
 *^ Hum ! I'm of a different opinion. Miss Edie." 
 
 " Miss Bigg," said Leonora, " before I return to 
 town, I am most anxious to renew my acquaint- 
 ance with my little friend, Barbara Gill. I am 
 sorry to learn that she is unwell — confined to her 
 room, indeed." 
 
 "I regret. Miss Carr, to inform you that 
 it is quite impossible to comply with your re- 
 quest." 
 
 " Miss Bigg, I should wish you to understand," 
 said Leo, firmly, "that I don't leave the house 
 until I have seen Barbara Gill." 
 
 Miss Bigg turned quite pale. It was hard to 
 say whether with anger or from alarm. Her 
 hand shook so that she removed it from the 
 table.
 
 THE MISSES bigg's SEMINARY. 99 
 
 *^ Miss Carr, it is impossible/ she muttered. 
 
 "Miss Bigg, I don't tliink so." And Leo 
 turned the light of he;' brilliant eyes full on the 
 white face of the schoolmistress. 
 
 7—2
 
 100 LEO. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 APARTMENTS FURNISHED. 
 
 Nine o'clock and past. A thickening mist: lost 
 in it, London looks like a huge fresco, over which 
 some barbarous hand has spread a first coat of 
 whitewash; or a giant corpse, strange and blurred, 
 and awful in its outlines, swathed in grave-clothes 
 of gauze. All colour has gone, with all distinct- 
 ness and delicacy of drawing. Nothing now save 
 confused masses of shadow, more or less opaque ; 
 iind here and there suggestions of shape that 
 speedily dwindle into vagueness : the lamps in 
 the roadways seem to be mere sparks glimmering 
 behind thick horn or ground glass, they emit 
 so dim and feeble a light. The mist everywhere ; 
 now setting in a dense inanimate cloud ; now 
 ^shifting capriciously in wreathed streaky vapour. 
 Not the saifron-hued foo^ of evenino's later in 
 the year : not tlie fine old tawny November, with 
 plenty of body in it and crust about it. The light
 
 APARTMENTS FURNISHED. 101 
 
 India muslin mist floating round the traveller, 
 rather than the yellow India shawl fog that wraps 
 so suffocatingly tight, with a consistency so dense 
 and oppressive. 
 
 A woman hurrying, running, arrives breathless 
 at the toll-gate on the Surrey side of Hungerford 
 Suspension Bridge. With trembling eagerness 
 she thrusts a piece of money into the gate-keeper's 
 hand, and then pushes at the turnstile. 
 
 '* Stop a minute." 
 
 "For God's sake let me through," she cries 
 passionately. 
 
 The man is not greatly moved ; he examines 
 the coin she has given him, bites it, examines it 
 anew. 
 
 " I can't take this." 
 
 " Is it bad ? " and she takes out her purse with 
 quick nervous fingers. 
 
 " Not as I knows on ; but I can't take it. It's 
 furrin money." 
 
 She gives him an English shilling. 
 
 " Here, stop ! Your change ! " 
 
 But she has hurried through, and is now some 
 yards on her way, running as fast as she can. 
 She heeds not even if she hears him. Soon she is 
 lost in the mist.
 
 102 LEO. 
 
 "Rum mis, women are," tlie gate-keeper remarks. 
 " I never could make out whether they like saving 
 or spending money most. Sometimes they'll stand 
 higgle-haggle for hours all about twoj)ence half- 
 penny, the next moment they'll fling all they've 
 got in the world out o' window. Rum uns I call 
 them." 
 
 He nodded and winked, and shook his head, 
 entirely, it would seem, for his own gratification ; 
 for he was quite alone, and even his blackbird in a 
 wicker cage in a corner of the room was fast 
 asleep; and spun the shilling in the air, and 
 commenced to conjure with it — swallowing it and 
 bringing it by turns out of his eyes and his 
 ears and his nose, a neat performance; it was 
 a pity there were no spectators to enjoy it and 
 applaud. 
 
 "Hi, hillo! O! oho!" 
 
 How thick it is on the Surrey side of the river. 
 A cabman has mistaken his way, and believes 
 himself at Waterloo Bridge when he is only at 
 Hungerford. He is now backing on the pavement, 
 coming with a thump on the kerb-stone, or trying 
 to turn round a lamp-post in a peculiarly purpose- 
 less manner. 
 
 " Cabby's lost his 'ead ; or the fog's been and
 
 APAETMENTS FURNISHED. 103 
 
 got in it and fuddled liim." So the gate-keeper 
 comments. 
 
 The woman runs on, very quickly and lightly ; 
 yet, evidently, she is distressed. She is painfully 
 breathless. She holds one hand to her side and 
 presses it tightly there : she suiFers from what the 
 Faculty would call "lancinating pains in the side;" 
 what the people describe briefly as " the stitch." 
 She stops for a moment to lean against the chain 
 of the bridge and recover herself. She is quite 
 hot with running, and she dabs her forehead 
 Avith her handkerchief, and loosens the strings 
 of her bonnet and the wrappings round her 
 throat. 
 
 " This is better than the darkest night," she 
 murmurs, glancing round approvingly. " How 
 my heart beats. I feel quite sick with running. 
 I must rest for a minute, only for a minute. 
 Surely there will be no danger in that." And 
 she appears to discuss with herself the propriety of 
 pausing. 
 
 A fragile-looking woman, with a pallid face 
 and large, limpid, intent eyes — one can see so 
 much, the mist notwithstanding — her dress of 
 a neutral tint that readily blends with the prevail- 
 ing obscurity. Flying along as she had been.
 
 104 LEO. 
 
 she looked like a creature of air, an incarnation 
 of the mist: her face discernible long before 
 the lines of her figure and the shape of her 
 flowing skirts were to be traced with any degree 
 of distinctness. 
 
 " Directly, directly ; I will start again directly." 
 
 She is occupied with self-communing. 
 
 The mist becomes very dense. The bridge 
 seems as though it were hung in the clouds : the 
 water below, the land at either end, are ahke 
 screened from sight. The few passengers grow 
 bewildered. Some shout as they advance, to warn 
 those coming in an opposite direction. A footstep 
 is heard close to where the woman is resting: 
 another second, and a hand as though groping its 
 way along, touches her shoulder. 
 
 " What's this ? " asks some one, puzzled. 
 
 How the woman starts, as though she had been 
 stabbed with sharp steel or seared with hot iron. 
 
 " Let me go ! don't touch me ! " 
 
 And she is off runnino; ac-ain at her utmost 
 speed. 
 
 " Well, I never," says the voice, gruffly, and as 
 though indignant at such unnecessary vehemence ; 
 " who wants to touch you ? Women should never 
 come out in fogs, they always get frightened.
 
 APART]\IENTS FURNISHED. 105 
 
 People should never lose their presence of mmd. 
 God bless me! how thick the mist is over the 
 river. I wish I was well home. But I daresay it 
 will be better on the Middlesex side." 
 
 It was better on the Middlesex side ; the woman 
 found it so. It would vary a good deal — now 
 coming densely over, now lifting off, as it were, 
 and growing thinner and lighter; remaining so 
 for a few minutes, then darkening again, like a 
 coquette at a masquerade toying with her mask, 
 now showing, now hiding her face. 
 
 On flew our fugitive, fog or no fog. She was 
 soon in the Strand. She stood for a moment as 
 though in doubt whether to proceed eastward or 
 westward. Then she turned to the east, running 
 again. The mist was decidedly clearer now, and 
 many people looked back wonderingly after she 
 had passed them. Some even, with that broad, 
 wilful jocoseness common in the London streets, 
 seeing her advance rapidly, set up a cry to startle 
 her, or stretched out a hand, as though to detain 
 her. This frightened her terribly. She sprung 
 aside or dashed across the road, and then, as 
 though convinced that there was greater safety in 
 the quieter thoroughfares, she turned abruptly out 
 of the Strand and soon found herself in a tangle of
 
 106 LEO. 
 
 streets in the neigliboiirhood of Clare Market. 
 She went on, however, at random apparently, and 
 at last emerged m Lincoln's Inn Fields. The 
 mist seemed here, as it always does seem in open 
 places, to be denser again, as bad even as it had 
 been on the bridge. Again she stopped. 
 
 " Where am I ? where shall I go ? what place 
 is this ? Oh, if I had but one friend in London ! " 
 
 The words were uttered breathlessly; yet in 
 tones very soft and plaintive. 
 
 " Have you lost your way ? " 
 
 She started back, a policeman stood at her 
 elbow. 
 
 " Holborn," she gasped out ; " where is it ? is 
 it near?" 
 
 She was tremblinsj with frio-ht. 
 
 '' Cross the square, go through that farther 
 corner, and you're in it." 
 
 Again she was hurrying on. But she soon 
 quitted Holborn for the same reason, as it seemed, 
 that she had turned from the Strand. The noise 
 and stir, the number of passengers and vehicles 
 alarmed her. She was in Gray's Lm Lane ; but 
 she left it abruptly by a street on the right hand. 
 A little way on, and she was leaning against the 
 dense walls of the House of Correction, Cold Bath
 
 APARTMENTS FUT^NISHED. 107 
 
 Fields. She was on liio-lier 2;round now, tlie foo- 
 was comparatively slight and transparent. But 
 she could run no more. She tottered as she 
 walked — she was so fatigued and exhausted — 
 almost fainting. A few more paces, and she 
 stopped to read the name of a street inscribed 
 on a corner house, well lit up by a lamjD-post 
 close at hand, and the glare of a public-house 
 on the opposite side of the way, the proprietor 
 of which was evidently bent upon brilliance, at 
 no matter what expenditure in gas. 
 
 " Coppice Row," she made out with some little 
 difficulty. "I wonder where that is? in what 
 part of London? I must have come some miles." 
 Her voice was broken, and she was now pressing 
 both hands to her side. "I can go no farther. 
 Oh, that I could sit down and rest." 
 
 The corner house was a newsvender's — the 
 shop window crowded with publications of various 
 kinds ; newspapers suspended by strings covering 
 even the door-posts, so that they looked something 
 like the masts of a ship in full sail. All sorts 
 of particoloured placards spotted the outside of 
 the house and drew attention to the merits of this 
 wonderfully cheap newspaper, or tltat intensely 
 interesting miscellany. And the proprietor of the
 
 108 LEO. 
 
 shop dealt also in tobacco, snufF, cigars, and pipes. 
 Mechanically, the woman's eyes wandered over 
 the shop window; suddenly they rested upon a 
 piece of paper wafered against the glass; it 
 announced in feeble characters and faint ink that 
 furnished apartments were to be let, and that 
 inquiry was to be made within. 
 
 " Why not here as well as anywhere else ? " she 
 asked herself. " It cannot be dear here ; '' and she 
 passed in at the door of the shop. 
 
 A fat man, in a Scotch bonnet, behind the 
 counter, was ladling snuff out of an earthern jar 
 by means of an instrument in form something 
 between a spoon and a shoe-horn twisted the wrong 
 way. The customer was a child waiting in the 
 shop, pressing its nose against the edge of the 
 counter, and clutching tightly a few warm half- 
 pence in its tiny, not clean, red hands. 
 
 "A quarter of a bounce of blackguard for 
 father — there you 'ave it," said the man, wrapping 
 up the snuff in a scrap of paper adorned with 
 a rude representation of a Scotchman performing 
 a national dance over a vapid conundrum. " Any- 
 thing: lielse ? What's for mother ? " 
 
 "No 103 of the Felon's Aunt, and this week's 
 number of the Chronicle of Crime," the child
 
 APARTMENTS FURNISHED. 109 
 
 cried out in a shrill treble ; the sentence pointed 
 rather by breathlessness and anxiety, than any 
 strict system of punctuation. 
 
 " Very good ; " and the man, from a confused 
 huddle of periodical publications, looked out those 
 required. 
 
 The transaction completed, and the hot half- 
 pence thrust into the till, the child looked up 
 with wide-open inquiring eyes, — it had probably 
 never been taught that it w^as rude to stare 
 — an early lesson in well-regulated nurseries 
 — at the pale woman who now entered the 
 shop. 
 
 " You let apartments, I believe ? " she asked, 
 in a low^ voice. 
 
 "Private door, please," answered the man in 
 the Scotch bonnet. " This is the shop entrance ; 
 don't ask here, but at the private door." 
 
 He spoke pompously, but not unkindly. A 
 fat bland man, with a wxak streak of hair upon 
 his upper lip ; a meaningless face, dull grey eyes, 
 and a husky voice. 
 
 The woman seemed a little alarmed at this 
 rebuff. She left the shop, however, and slowly 
 approached a private door at the side. She 
 raised her hand to the knocker, apparently un-
 
 110 LEO. 
 
 aware that another person was standing close to 
 her on the step. 
 
 " I have knocked/' a voice said calmlj. She 
 was so startled that she gave quite a scream of 
 alarm. 
 
 '^ Pray forgive me. I'm afraid I have frightened 
 you." 
 
 The words were spoken in tones so kind and 
 sympathetic as to dispel at once all fear or sus- 
 picion. Still her heart was beating with painful 
 violence. 
 
 She then perceived, close in the angle of the 
 doorway, a small figure, a boy crouching, as she 
 was at first inclined to believe. Upon a closer 
 examination, however, she discovered that a man 
 was leaning against the door-post in a position 
 almost as upright as he could assume, for indeed 
 he was deformed; a very short man, his head 
 sunk deep between his shoulders ; one foot twisted 
 and clubbed. He must have been less than five 
 feet in height altogether. 
 
 " Pray pardon me," he went on in rather a 
 troubled voice. " I ought to have been more 
 careful. You have been out in the fog, perhaps, 
 and that has made you timid, and inclined to 
 start at trifles. I know what it is to do that.
 
 APAKTMENTS FURNISHED. Ill 
 
 I am dreadfully nervous myself at times ; at least 
 I was I should say. I am better and stronger 
 now. (How long they are at the door ! ) But 
 now you are quite safe you know, and the fog 
 is clearing off. You will soon be quite well 
 again, when you have rested." 
 
 The deformed's manner was so gentle, and his 
 tone of voice so tender, that the woman seemed 
 quite moved. She turned, in order to see him 
 better. She found that he had small delicate 
 features, not regular, yet prepossessing ; long fair 
 hair that fell on his shoulders, but then they were 
 very high and rounded ; a pale complexion and 
 earnest-looking eyes. Some feeling of sympathy 
 seemed to be established at once between the man 
 and the woman. But she was at a loss, appa- 
 rently, how to address him. She spoke at last 
 with effort, and as though at a loss for words. 
 
 " Help me," she said to him simply — faintly. 
 
 Her hands clasped together as she made this 
 appeal. 
 
 " Indeed I will, if I can. Show me how to help 
 you." 
 
 " I am most wretched — most miserable ! " and 
 she covered her face sobbino^. 
 
 " Don't cry, don't cry ! " The deformed took
 
 112 LEO. 
 
 her hand. He started. " How hot your hand is. It 
 quite burns. You are ill. You are suffering 
 from fever." 
 
 Her face was deathly pale. 
 
 '' Hush ! " she said, in a low voice. '^ Help me. 
 They let lodgings here ; I must take them. I grow 
 quite giddy. I must go in und lie down." 
 
 '^ I'll knock again ; " and he plied the knocker 
 boldly. " Why do they keep us so long ? You 
 should not be standing here." 
 
 The door was opened almost immediately by 
 the newsvender in the Scotch bonnet. 
 
 " Now what is it ? " he asked, peevishly, '' what 
 is it ? I have nothink to do with this department. 
 I have nothink to do with the 'ouse or the 
 lodgings, nothink whatever. They're entirely 
 under Mrs. S.'s control, and I never interfere, 
 never. My sphere " (he said spere) *' is the shop, 
 and, if you please, I'll stick to it." 
 
 The words came from him flaccidly. Perhaps 
 the fact of his tongue being too large for his mouth, 
 aggravated his slipshod manner of speech. But 
 he seemed proud of his elocution, nevertheless, 
 and gazed, while he spoke, above the heads of those 
 whom he addressed. Suddenly he recognized the 
 deformed.l
 
 APAKTMENTS FURNISHED. 113 
 
 " All ! Mr. Hooper " (of course lie omitted the 
 H.), "how de do. I beg your pardm, I'm sure. 
 I didn't see it was you. Mr. Gossett is in. You 
 see it ain't my place to attend to the door, only 
 Mrs. S. haven't come in yet ; and as for that girl 
 Nancy, one might as well keep no servant at all, 
 as I'm always a-telling Mrs. S. : 'alf-an-hour 
 fetching the supper beer, or filling a scuttle of 
 coal, or what not. Oh ! here comes Mr. Gossett." 
 
 The newsvender withdrew ; of the woman 
 standing at the side of Mr. Hooper, he took no 
 notice. 
 
 " Robin, old man, how are you ? " cried a deep, 
 strong, hearty voice. " Why, I thought you were 
 lost in the mist. Come in. I'm in splendid voice. 
 I've touched G below the line." And he com- 
 menced to sing — 
 
 L'or est une chimere, 
 Sachons-nous en scn'ir 
 Le vrai bien sur la terre 
 N'est-il pas le plaisir ? 
 
 Rum-ti-iddity. Rum-ti-iddity, &c. &c. 
 
 " That's getting near Levasseur, I think ? But 
 what's the matter ? " 
 
 A short, broad gentleman, with a rather bald 
 head, a long moustache, and a pipe in his mouth, 
 appeared at the door. He had been talking as 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 - LEO. 
 
 
 
 he descended the staircase, and was unaware of 
 what had been happenmg on the step. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter, Kobm? You're as 
 white as a sheet." 
 
 "Look here, Phih Help me, for Heaven's 
 sake ! Here's a woman fainting, I think ; help 
 her in; carry her; we can never leave her like 
 this. Help her, Phil, for God's sake ! " 
 
 Thus appealed to, Mr. Gossett, as the news- 
 vender had called him, without a word, threw 
 away his pipe, took up the woman, and carried 
 her upstairs into the room over the shop. It was 
 a comfortable-looking room, in spite of the rather 
 shabby, over-worn furniture. Mr. Gossett, who 
 had carried her as though she had weighed but a 
 few ounces, gently laid the poor woman on the 
 sofa. 
 
 " Thank you," she murmured, drowsily, raising 
 herself. " I shall be better soon." But she closed 
 he eyes, and fell back. 
 
 " How did this happen, Rob ? How pale she 
 is." 
 
 " She came to the door just as I was knock- 
 in"". I know no more. She seemed very 
 faint and exhausted then, and was panting for 
 breath, and trembling. I'm afraid I frightened
 
 APARTMENTS FURNISHED. 115 
 
 licr rather/' lie added sadly. " I'm so little, 
 and in the darkness of the doorway she over- 
 looked me, and afterwards gave quite a scream 
 and shook all over. There's no danger, Phil, is 
 there ? Tell me, you don't think there's any 
 danger ? Say so, Phil." 
 
 " I don't know what to think, to tell you the 
 truth." 
 
 " Oh, Phil, but you sliould know. You're a 
 doctor — your a medical student. Is there any 
 danger ? " 
 
 Mr. Gossett looked rather bewildered. He 
 tugged at his black moustache. 
 
 ^^I'm only a student, Rob, remember. Don't 
 expect too much." There was a half comical 
 glance in his eyes as he said this. Then he 
 turned again, with all seriousness, to the sufferer. 
 
 " K she should be dead ! " cried Robin, in a 
 tone of agony. 
 
 ^^ Don't be frightened, Rob; she's not dead; 
 her pulse still beats — though — though," — and the 
 face of the medical student grew grave — " indeed 
 it's hardly perceptible. Get some cold water, 
 Rob; quick as you can, old boy. You'll find 
 some in my bedroom, close by:" and he 
 unfastened the top of her dress. Loosening her
 
 116 LEO. 
 
 collar, he smoothed the hair from her face, 
 fanning her with his handkerchief. 
 
 "How white she is," said Robin Hooper. " She's 
 like marble ; and how beautiful, isn't she ? Oh, 
 Phil ! don't let her die." 
 
 " Hush ! She is better, I think ; the cold 
 water has roused her." 
 
 Slowly the woman opened her eyes ; her lips 
 parted; the colour had quite gone from them; 
 gradually she seemed to become conscious of her 
 situation. Her eyes rested upon Robin Hooper, 
 the deformed man. She made an effort to speak. 
 
 " Save me," she moaned, very feebly, and 
 stretched forth a small, thin, white hand. He 
 pressed it reverently — tenderly. 
 
 "There's a knock at the door," said the student. 
 " It must be Mrs. Simmons. Run, Rob, and beg 
 her to come here." 
 
 He spoke with seriousness, if not alarm. Robin 
 
 hurried from the room. He moved rapidly, 
 
 though his foot compelled him to limp very 
 
 much. He was heard talking eagerly on the 
 
 staircase. 
 
 " You must, Mrs. Simmons, indeed you must ; 
 
 do, there's a dear soul." 
 
 A tall, stout woman, rather red-faced, entered
 
 APARTMENTS EURNISHED. 117 
 
 tlie room. She spoke loudly, and her manner 
 was a little abrupt. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Hooper," she said, '^ when once you 
 get an idea into your head there's certainly no 
 getting it out again. What am I to do ? Haven't 
 I troubles enough ? I'm sure one would think so. 
 What with this house over my head, and a pack 
 of noisy lodgers, like that Mr. Gossett there, and 
 only me to do for them all, and a slut of a girl 
 to look after — that isn't worth her salt, let alone 
 her tea and sugar — and a good-for-nothing hus- 
 band that's all plague and no profit, and a lot 
 of children quarrelling and bothering after me 
 from morning till night, — haven't I enough to 
 do, but what you must bring home a sick woman 
 here — a woman, by all that's respectable — and 
 turn the place into a hospital and me into a nurse ? 
 Anything else? What next? Well, where's 
 the patient ? " 
 
 She had advanced by this time to the sofi, 
 upon which the woman was lying in a deplorable 
 state. Her tone and manner changed at once, 
 and she went down on her knees, taking the 
 woman's hand and chafing it. 
 
 " Poor soul, how ill she looks ; very ill indeed, 
 poor woman. Poor girl, rather. Why, she's a mere
 
 118 LEO. 
 
 child. How slight, how pretty, too. But we must 
 rouse her from this faint, Mr. Gossett, or -" 
 
 Robin could not repress a cry of alarm. 
 
 '^ Bless the man, what's the good of making 
 that noise ? " Mrs. Simmons said, sternly. " What 
 use do you expect that will be ? You'd better by 
 half run and fetch a doctor. It's always safest 
 to have one in. There's no knowing what may 
 happen." 
 
 *^ I'll go round to St. Lazarus — it's only a step 
 from here," said Mr. Gossett, starting up. 
 
 "As quick as you like; the poor child's very 
 white, very weak." 
 
 "I'll go, I'll go," cried Kobin. "Pray let me 
 go. I can run very fast, very fast hideed, I 
 can ; as fast as anybody." 
 
 "I think not," said Gossett, kindly. "I think 
 you had better let me go. Trust me, Rob, I'll 
 go full speed." 
 
 Robin glanced sadly at his mis-shapen foot, 
 and sighed. 
 
 " Perhaps you can go quicker than I can. 
 Only make haste, there's a good old Phil !" 
 
 Mr. Gossett was off without another word. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Simmons, do you think she's really 
 very bad ? "
 
 APARTMENTS rURNISHED. 119 
 
 '' Look at that face. Did you ever see anything 
 more like a corpse ? " 
 
 Robin turned away as he said in a broken 
 voice — 
 
 " Half an hour ao-o she was nothing: to me. I am 
 a poor over-sensitive deformed fool, very likely ; 
 but, if she were to die, I should never be happy 
 again." 
 
 He spoke with some passion, trembling, and 
 his eyes shining very brightly, as he tossed his long 
 fair hair from his forehead. 
 
 " You've a kind heart, Mr. Robin," said Mrs. 
 Simmons, gently ; " a very kind heart ;" and she 
 shook his hand. 
 
 " Do all you can for her." 
 
 " Indeed I will. If for no other reason, why 
 then for your sake, Mr. Robin. But the poor 
 thing looks very bad." 
 
 Some time passed before the doctor arrived. 
 All the ordinary efforts to rouse the sufferer were 
 without effect. 
 
 "Now, then, what's all this about?" asked 
 Dr. Hawkshaw, from St. Lazarus Hospital, enter- 
 ing with Mr. Gossett. " What have you brought 
 me from the hospital for ? It was a mere chance 
 I was there — an interesting case in the accident
 
 120 LEO. 
 
 ward." He seized the woman's wrlst^ a little 
 
 roughly, so Robin thought ; but probably the doctor 
 
 knew what he was about. 
 
 " Did she look like this when you first met her?" 
 
 he inquired of Robin Hooper, as he placed his 
 
 hand upon her heart. 
 
 " Yes, very much like that," answered Robin. 
 
 " Indeed I remember thinking at the time that she 
 
 looked like " 
 
 " Like what ? " asked the doctor, sharply. 
 " Like a woman who had seen a ghost." 
 " Pooh ! Stuff ! What's a ghost ?— a symptom 
 of disease, not a disease itself. It proceeds from 
 the stomach. Ghosts always proceed from the 
 stomach ; they signify bile, disordered brain, inac- 
 tive liver ; the system in a devil of a state, and 
 so on. Never lose your head, Mr. Gossett. It's 
 an important thing to recollect in our profession. 
 But the fact is, men have a great tendency 
 towards losing their heads : especially young 
 men. Throw that window open. The girl's in 
 a weak state of health ; her nerves have been 
 acted upon violently; she's been over-exerting 
 herself— frightening herself. More cold water, 
 Mrs. Simmons ; don't be afraid of it. There, she's 
 better already. She breathes. A little sal volatile
 
 APAKTMENTS FUENISHED. 121 
 
 as soon as she can swallow, and we'll soon put her 
 on her legs again," &c. &c. 
 
 It was some short time after this that Mrs. 
 Sinnnons descended to the very small parlour at 
 the back of the news-shop, now closed for the 
 night. 
 
 « What is the matter, Mrs. S.?" asked the fat 
 man, in his husky peevish voice. " What ^as been 
 going on upstairs ?" 
 
 " Don't bother," said his wife, sharply. " Have 
 you eaten all the supper, or have you left me 
 anything? I've had nothing since my tea at five 
 o'clock, and I'm quite famished. Why don't you 
 answer, Simmons?" 
 
 " Lor', Eliza, don't snap at one like that. There's 
 a sassage on the 'ob. I left it a purpose for you. 
 I've 'ad my supper 'ours ago. I really couldn't 
 wait. That shop do fatigue a feller so. Dear 
 me, I'm afraid that sassage is quite cold. You see 
 I didn't think to keep the fire in, because I was 
 just agoing to bed when you come down." 
 
 " You're a selfish pig, Simmons," said his wife, 
 so calmly, and with so complete an air of con- 
 viction, that the reproach seemed to be almost 
 deprived of off'ence. " Give me a pickle, and
 
 122 LEO. 
 
 pour me out a glass of beer. I shall be better 
 presently." 
 
 Mr. Simmons did not Iiurrj himself, but even- 
 tually attended to his wife's requirements. Sud- 
 denly she put down her knife and fork, and looked 
 sternly at her lord. 
 
 " There's a smell of spirits here. Simmons, 
 you've been drinking." 
 
 He turned very red in the face. He removed 
 his Scotch bonnet, to rub his shining bald head 
 with a large many-coloured handkerchief. Perhaps 
 the bonnet was worn so constantly to conceal his 
 loss of hair. 
 
 " Now, Eliza, there's no call to rail at me," he 
 said, deprecatingly ; " supposing it being a misty, 
 depressing evening, and me knocked up with 
 working 'ard all day in the shop, and having a 
 symptom of a coflE* upon me, which you know, 
 Eliza, I'm delicate on my chess, and 'ow my 
 ashmer troubles me at times ; and supposing I sit 
 down to a bit of supper quite alone, and you, 
 Eliza, absent — and which you know I never like 
 to have my Gupper by myself — and supposing I 
 do mix myself just a small glass of 'ollands, or 
 what not, before I go to bed, surely, Eliza " 
 
 " There, there, that will do," said Mrs. Sim-
 
 APARTMENTS FURNISHED. 123 
 
 mons^ abruptly. But tlie stream of her husband's 
 oratory was not to be stayed so easily. 
 
 " And which, of course, Eliza," he went on, 
 " if I'd thought you would have objected, or 
 would have liked me to have kept supper waiting 
 for you, or the kettle biling, or the fire in, or the 
 sassages 'ot, or have mixed a glass of 'ollands for 
 you, with pleasure I'd have done it ; or " 
 
 " There, Simmons, do stop and let me eat my 
 supper; when once you get the talks on there's 
 no bearing you. It's the Hollands gets into 
 your head, and makes more a fool of you than 
 ever." 
 
 Mr. Simmons, with a rather fatuous expression 
 of face, twirled the ends of his feeble moustache. 
 He gazed with a half-frightened, half-admiring air 
 at his wife, as she made steady progress with her 
 supper. 
 
 " But what \is been going on upstairs ?" he soon 
 recommenced ; " are any of the children ill ? " 
 
 " No, thank Heaven ! or I don't know what we 
 should do." 
 
 " What is the matter, then ? Have Mr. Gossett 
 got a party?" 
 
 *' No, he hasn't. But there's a poor girl upstairs 
 been very faint and ill. I'm sure at one time
 
 124 LEO. 
 
 I didn't think slie'd live from one minute to 
 another." 
 
 "In ??!?/ house!" and Mr. Simmons started up. 
 " I won't have it. Suppose slie were to die ? — 
 only think ! " 
 
 " You be quiet ; sit down ! " she said angrily. 
 " What made it your house? what have you got 
 to do with the lodgers ? If I choose, I'll have a 
 score of people come and be sick and ill and die 
 here ; and I'll have a coroner's inquest in every 
 room in the house — attics included. Lor' bless 
 me ! haven't I enough to do without your chatter- 
 ing and worrying? I've to play in a new part of 
 I don't know how many lengths, at the Paroquet, 
 on Monday ; and I haven't looked at a line of it 
 yet. I've all the children's socks to mend ; I've 
 the lodgers to attend to ; and this poor girl half 
 dead in Phil Gossett's room. Little enough sleep 
 shall I get to-night, I know that." 
 
 She had turned away for a minute ; when she 
 looked at her husband again he had dozed off 
 quietly in his chair — very fat and placid, and 
 not wise-looking. Whereas his own talk had a 
 certain enlivening effect upon him, the observa- 
 tions of others were often attended with a directly 
 contrary result.
 
 APARTMENTS FURNISHED. 125 
 
 " The fool I was to marry Simmons ! " she 
 exclaimed, quietly. " I thought him a handsome 
 man and a love of a figure, I remember, years 
 ago, when he was playing Harlequin at Bath. 
 Clever he never was ; but who would ever have 
 expected then he would have grown so fat and 
 so ugly, and so selfish. Ugh ! But here's the 
 doctor again. Lefs hear how the patient goes
 
 126 LEO. 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 HAKLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 
 
 Lovely woman will stoop to folly ; to do so is 
 part of her graceful, tender, pliant nature — she 
 can't help it. Ever since the world began — and 
 so on, I suppose, until it ends — Eve and her 
 daughters have been and will be prone to commit 
 numberless silly, charming, absurd, fond, admir- 
 able actions. Like those fashionable West-End 
 mercers, who seem to be unable to carry on their 
 business without periodically snapping the bonds 
 of rational trade ; inoculating their shops with 
 a bedlamite virus, and breaking out into a deli- 
 rious " Sale without eeserve ! " ''^ An alarming 
 SACRIFICE ! " or a " Selling off under cost Price, 
 
 WITH NO reasonable OFFER REFUSED ! " — who, with 
 
 the poetical untidiness of mad Ophelia sticking 
 sordid straws and hedge-flowers amid her beau- 
 tiful tresses, glory every now and then in soiling 
 their superb plate-glass with shabby bills and
 
 HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 127 
 
 placards, littering their floors and counters with 
 valuable merchandise, hanging silk dresses from 
 second-story windows, and crinolines from chim- 
 ney-pots, — just so, lovely woman is afflicted with 
 a recurrent passionate desire to break the even 
 pathway of her life by landmarks of events — to star 
 her career with crises — to sell off occasionally, 
 so to speak, at an alarming sacrifice, and without 
 any sort of reserve, and to let herself go to any- 
 one that will bid, refusing no kind of off'er, 
 reasonable or unreasonable — perhaps the more 
 unreasonable the better. 
 
 If to enforce some such teaching as this, an 
 example were required, it might be found in 
 the story of Miss Montresor, of the T. R., Bath, 
 who, some years ago now, ran away with hand- 
 some Jemmy Simmons, the harlequin. It was 
 in da3^s when a flavour of the old EUistonian 
 glory still lingered about the T. R., Bath. The 
 city of King Bladud and Beau Nash — like a 
 faded coquette who yet promises herself one or 
 two more seasons of low dresses, galops, and 
 ball-room champagne, before she is resigned to 
 a poke bonnet and the role of a sister of charity 
 — was still playing ecarU while drifting to evan- 
 gelicalism. A remnant of the old guard remained.
 
 128 LEO. 
 
 keeping up, as it were, a running fight with time ; 
 their numbers were frightfully diminished, but 
 they closed their ranks ; they kept shoulder to 
 shoulder, they presented a bold front — many bold 
 fronts, I may say. A limited plialanx of bewigged 
 old ladies, radiant with diamonds, burning with 
 rouge, furiously fragrant with musk and berga- 
 mot, in glossy satins and beautiful blonde — their 
 threadbare necks richly jewelled, and their rather 
 palsied hands glittering with rings and bracelets— 
 often filled certain boxes of the theatre, and bestowed 
 a persistent patronage upon the manager — for one 
 reason, that the theatre offered a good, open, public 
 mode of defying the opposition, of running counter 
 to, and manifesting contempt for, the opinions of 
 prudery and puritanism. And to match the old 
 ladies, there were plenty of old gentlemen — nicely- 
 padded and buckled, curled, dyed, toupeed, well- 
 repaired, and made up altogether — headed by the 
 old Marquis of Southernwood, who had engaged 
 a box for the whole season, and lolled in it night 
 after night, leering at the actresses and ogling the 
 ladies of the audience — a juvenile, flaxen-headed 
 gentleman of seventy-eight, with bloodshot eyes 
 and artificial teeth, debonair manners, and most free 
 conversation. Under these auspices a certain air
 
 HAIILEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 129 
 
 of fashion still remained to the T. R., Bath, and the 
 manager put money in his purse, and secured all 
 available metropolitan and provincial talent, and 
 included many attractive-looking young ladles In 
 his troupe; and amongst others, Arabella Montresor 
 — her real name was Eliza Perkins, and she was 
 said to be the daughter of old Tom Perkins, well 
 known as the proprietor of Perkins's Dairy, Kentish 
 Town. (I know that once, during a squabble in the 
 ladies'-room of the theatre, Miss Montresor fairly 
 burst into tears when that giddy Miss Vivian — 
 Polly Vivian she was often known as — screamed out 
 with markedly offensive shrillness, " Milk below, 
 O ! " and appeared to insinuate that Miss Montre- 
 sor, at an early period of her life, had even carried 
 out the cans.) And in addition to Miss Montresor 
 and Miss Vivian, there was also the fascinating 
 singing chambermaid, Louisa Delafosse. 
 
 The career of Lord Southernwood is, I am 
 thankful to say, so well known that I am spared 
 the necessity of setting it forth here with any 
 particularity. In nursery books and infant stories, 
 as we are all aware, a wicked ogre every now 
 and then makes his appearance, to the agony of 
 childhood. So in turning over that grown-up, 
 drawing-room collection of fairy tales, the PeeragCy 
 
 TOL. I. 9
 
 130 LEO. 
 
 we come here and there upon Bogey noblemen — 
 (at least, we used to ; the Bogey nobleman is be- 
 coming extinct almost, or is seldom to be lighted 
 on now out of fashionable works of fiction). 
 George Henry Ernest Gaston, fifth Marquis of 
 Southernwood, had become a little too notorious. 
 He was a Bogey nobleman if there ever was one. 
 He was rusticated for a time. He retreated from 
 London to Bath ; the air of which city has been 
 often found beneficial to invalid reputations — 
 balmy to battered characters. The marquis was 
 not unkindly received. The Dowager Lady 
 Rougeminster, a giddy flirt of sixty-six, said he 
 was a naughty old thing, and that she was quite 
 shocked at him, and wondered how he dared to 
 come near her; and then hid her face with her 
 fan (trimmed with marabouts and a mirror in the 
 centre), and made room for him by her side on the 
 sofa. After this, of course, other thoughtless 
 young creatures, ranging in age from sixty to 
 eighty, could not but follow suit. They owned 
 that he was too bad — a great deal too bad — and 
 the things he said sometimes were really dreadful, 
 my dear, quite dreadful ; but still they listened, 
 and laughed, and told the free old cavalier to 
 go along with him, while they took care not to
 
 HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 131 
 
 lose sight of liim, and to pamper, and flatter, and 
 pay court to liim. So he occupied an important 
 position in Bath society. 
 
 What great things people are always missing 
 by a very little ! Arabella Montresor missed 
 being Marchioness of Southernwood by just 
 five minutes. The very night she eloped with 
 handsome Jemmy Simmons, the harlequin — but 
 five minutes before she started — there had been 
 thrown to her from the Southernwood box, a 
 bouquet circling a billet from the Marquis of 
 Southernwood, proffering her his hand in marriage. 
 She smiled her thanks for the bouquet. She 
 never knew of the billet until some time afterwards. 
 How the old gentleman, heated with his wine and 
 trembling with age and excitement, roared applause 
 and thumped his kid-gloved old hands upon the box- 
 cushions till a cloud of dust arose, and his flaxen 
 curls nearly fell into the orchestra ! She flung the 
 flowers aside and herself into the arms of her 
 harlequin. 
 
 Poor Arabella Montresor — or Eliza Perkins, if 
 you prefer it — stooped to folly with a vengeance. 
 She gave herself away without reserve — an awful 
 sacrifice : and she didn't love the harlequin a bit. 
 It was pure madness, and impulse, and accident. 
 
 9—2
 
 132 LEO. 
 
 She was pretty, good — intelligent, if not very 
 accomplislied or refined. He was low, dull, 
 selfish, heartless. He had only his good looks, 
 his charming figure, his agile feet, to recommend 
 him. Why then did she marry him ? Because 
 she hated Louisa Delafosse, who — poor Louisa ! — 
 adored the harlequin. 
 
 Louisa was a favourite at the T. R., Bath. 
 The remnant of the old guard honoured her 
 with their especial approval. The old gallants 
 applauded her until their chalk-stoned fingers 
 ached again. She fairly divided the favour of the 
 house with Arabella. And she could sing 
 nicely, too, perfectly in tune ; whereas Arabella's 
 ear Avas defective, and when she attempted to 
 be musical, the audience held their heads. 
 Now, on the occasion of that very eminent 
 tragedian Calverley visiting Bath — secured at an 
 enormous sum for six nights only — Arabella was 
 cast for Gertrude, and the part of Ophelia was 
 given to Louisa Delafosse, — Calverley, of course, 
 appearing in his favourite character of Hamlet. 
 The Queen is not a very grateful rule, and Ara- 
 bella did not get a hand. But Louisa — what a 
 hit she made — how charmingly she sang ! She 
 fairly took away the honours of the evening even
 
 HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 133 
 
 from Calverley. He was in a tremendous rage, 
 of course. He said he had never been so insulted 
 in his life. She said that he pinched her shame- 
 fully, on purpose, till she nearly screamed in 
 the " go to a nunnery " scene, and that she could 
 and did show the marks of his ill-usage to the 
 whole company for days afterwards. Arabella 
 cried herself to sleep, dreaming of vengeance. 
 
 Perhaps she could have overlooked, and in 
 time forgiven, this her rival's triumph. But her 
 troubles were not to end here. The success of 
 Miss Delafosse as Ophelia induced the manage- 
 ment to entrust the charming lady with other 
 important parts. Hitherto her position in the 
 theatre had not been a high one. She had 
 only smiled and sung in burlettas, or prattled 
 and danced in farces. She had even been one 
 of the fairies — how derogatory ! but then her 
 figure was very admirable — in the opening 
 scenes of the pantomime. Now she was told to 
 study Cordelia, to play to Calverley's Lear : — 
 Desdemona to Calverley's Othello. Arabella was 
 to be content with Goneril — with Emilia. So 
 the night before one of these disgraces was to be 
 inflicted upon her, after playing Mrs. Beverley 
 to a crowded house, and after the episode of the
 
 134 LEO. 
 
 Southernwood bouquet, Miss Montresor ran away 
 with Jemmy Simmons. She would make her 
 rival, she said, pay a high price for her success — 
 that price was the harlequin. The news was 
 brought to Miss Delafosse during her performance 
 of Cordelia, and she went straightway into 
 hysterics on the stage. Her screams quite terrified 
 the audience. The Marquis of Southernwood 
 was extremely angry. He looked quite livid, by 
 contrast with the velvet cushions of his box. He 
 hated to hear even, much more see anything of 
 illness. " Don't let that woman come on the 
 stage again!" he screamed with an oath. His 
 will was law. 
 
 Jemmy Simmons was of the style of beauty 
 which women and hair-dressers have aa'reed to 
 estimate very highly. The reader will not require 
 that he should be more particularly described. 
 For Arabella, she was avenged : and, of course, 
 miserable for the rest of her life. She soon 
 probed to the bottom of her husband's motive for 
 marrying her. She was simply in his eyes the 
 woman who drew the largest salary in the 
 theatre. They quarrelled desperately. He would 
 have beaten her if he had dared. He contented 
 himself with squandering her money. He could
 
 IIAKLEQUIN AND COLU^.IBINE. 135 
 
 do nothing on the stage but dance. He had no 
 other talent of any kind whatever. He was a good 
 harlequin, that was all ; but he was a favourite with 
 the public, and always commanded a good engage- 
 ment at Christmas. At last his habits began to tell 
 upon him ; he failed in his leaps ; he fell down 
 in his dances ; the stage manager apologized to 
 the house : — Mr. Simmons had sprained his ancle 
 at the rehearsal that morning ; indulgence was 
 requested, and, of course, given with applause. 
 What a wretchedly deboshed sot he was, in spite of 
 his splendid figure and his beautifully spangled 
 dress ! But at last his figure went. He grew fat, 
 his breath became so short, he could no longer 
 play through the part. Handsome Jemmy Sim- 
 mons's harlequin days were over for ever. 
 
 Arabella Montresor had by her marriage lost 
 the chance of advancement in her profession. 
 Even if she had declined to become Mar- 
 chioness of Southernwood, she might have 
 secured, through his lordship's interest, a liberal 
 engagement on metropolitan boards. But her 
 marriage, and then her family ! Young Sim- 
 monses began to flock round her, and she 
 looked very matronly ; she grew stout ; her com- 
 plexion might almost be called rubicund now.
 
 136 LEO. 
 
 She wearied of wandering about from town 
 to town in the provinces. An engagement 
 had been offered her at the Paroquet Theatre, 
 Hoxton, and she had accepted it. The terms 
 were not very liberal: but a permanency was 
 secured. The Simmons' family wandered no 
 more. They settled in the house at the corner 
 of Coppice Row. 
 
 Mr. Simmons — he could fairly be called Jemmy 
 no longer — the father of a large family, and the 
 husband of Mrs. Montresor (so she was called in 
 the bills of the Paroquet), Mr. Simmons was no 
 longer handsome. A fat man, with a meaningless 
 face, hiding his bald head in a Glengarry cap — 
 with dull, sodden-looking eyes and husky voice ; 
 his beauty had gone with his spangles. He had 
 been always fond of smoking pipes and reading the 
 papers: there was a sort of ironical justice in 
 fixing the man behind the counter of a shop that 
 dealt in tobacco and news. He yielded to liis 
 wife now more than he had done in his old, 
 gay, good-looking times. She insisted upon 
 his doing work of some kind, or she knew 
 that he would be at mischief, which, in his case, 
 meant the public-house. So he presided over 
 the news-shop ; upon the express stipulation^
 
 HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 137 
 
 however, that he was not to be called upon 
 to interfere in any of the arrangements of the 
 other parts of the house. Mrs. Simmons was an 
 industrious, hard-working woman. She let as 
 many rooms as she could spare to lodgers; she 
 superintended the whole house; and with her 
 lodgers, and her children, and her appearances as 
 the heroine of Paroquet melodramas, indeed she 
 had enough to do. 
 
 Mr. Phelp Gossett (he answered also to the 
 name of " Phil "), student at St. Lazarus's 
 Hospital, w^as one of Mr. Simmons's lodgers. He 
 had come up from the country, to pursue his 
 medical studies in the metropolis. He had at 
 first taken expensive apartments at the West End 
 of the town. Gradually, however, the straitened 
 condition of his funds had compelled him to 
 remove to less costly regions ; and he had drifted 
 away accordingly, like a ship ineffectually an- 
 chored, until he had run ashore at Coppice Row. 
 Mrs. Simmons welcomed him to her first floor. 
 Other people might possibly have objected to a 
 medical student lodger. At least, I have under- 
 stood that lodging-house keepers often do object, 
 on the ground that, as a class, medical students 
 are addicted to noise. But Mrs. Simmons made
 
 138 LEO. 
 
 no demur. Slie was accustomed to noise; slie 
 had been in noise all lier life ; she was noisy 
 herself (particularly in last acts at the Paroquet) ; 
 her husband was often noisy (especially when he 
 came home late at night — unwell) ; her children 
 were always noisy. Mr. Gossett was at liberty 
 to make as much noise as he pleased, provided he 
 paid for his rooms. 
 
 Mr. Gossett availed himself to the full of his 
 privileges in Mrs. Simmons's house. But, per- 
 haps, he was not noisy precisely in the way con- 
 templated. Ostensibly, he studied medicine; in 
 reality, it would seem, he practised music. 
 Through all his wanderings from house to house, 
 from the West End to Coppice Row — and he 
 had tarried in a good many apartments on his 
 way — moving when the noise he made was objected 
 to, or his purse became too light — he had carried 
 with him his dearly-beloved piccolo piano, and, 
 of course, his grand, deep bass voice. He was 
 for ever thumping on his piccolo ; he was for ever 
 bawling out bass melodies, or busied in producing 
 notes of a depth and volume sufficiently alarming 
 to his audience. He studied fierce dramatic 
 music; he affected long, passionate scenas, of a 
 wild and demoniac character. He was acquainted
 
 HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 139 
 
 more especially, it may be noted, with the music 
 of the parts of Caspar in Der Freischiitz and 
 Bertram in Robert le Diable. He frightened the 
 infant Simmonses dreadfully at first with his 
 vehement delivery of incantation music. Even 
 Mr. Simmons admitted that, in all his life, he 
 had never heard so powerful a voice — " He never 
 'ad, never, though he'd known 'Icks of Birming- 
 liam, who was thought a sight of for lungs, as 
 likewise Borleigh and Barker ; but he didn't think 
 they come up to Mr. Gossett, blessed if he did 
 — not for row." While Mrs. Simmons was of 
 opinion that Mr. Gossett had decided operatic 
 talent. Mr. Gossett was pleased with this homage ; 
 he decided to remain in Coppice Row, and sung 
 thenceforth louder than ever. He permitted his 
 moustache to grow as long as it would, and 
 brushed back his hair from his face; it was said 
 at one time that he " shaved up," as the technical 
 term is ; that is, that he made himself artificially 
 bald, shaving his hair to a peak on his forehead, 
 turning up the points of his moustache, and cul- 
 tivating a tuft upon his chin, to carry out tho- 
 roughly the prescribed theatrical notion of a demon 
 bass singer. Such was the friend of crippled 
 Robin Hooper — Philip Gossett, of St. Lazarus's
 
 140 ^ LEO. 
 
 Hospital, medical student — in whose rooms a poor, 
 fainting, friendless woman had been nursed by 
 Mrs. Simmons and attended by Dr. Hawkshaw. 
 
 She had now been removed, however — very 
 weak and suffering — to another part of the house, 
 but the friends were still occupied with the strange 
 occurrence. If for a few minutes they wandered 
 from it to other topics, they were always sure to 
 return to it again. There was in it for them, 
 actors in the scene, a kind of fascination. 
 
 Kobin lay curled on the sofa, exhausted and 
 fatigued, yet wakeful and restless from nervous 
 excitement: his back dreadfully twisted, and his 
 head deeply sunk in his shoulders, his thin 
 fingers plaiting themselves together, and his eyes 
 hectically bright. His sensibilities were ever 
 acutely, almost painfully alive — his organization 
 febrile, his fancy morbidly vivid. If pain were 
 inflicted on another in his presence, he seemed 
 to suffer by the reflection of it — he writhed and 
 winced with the sufferer. He was haunted by 
 that pale face and look of pain. 
 
 Phil Gossett had been interested — alarmed 
 even; but the impression was Avearing oft*, for 
 now some hours had passed. He was able to 
 hum at intervals, and as in his heavy promenades
 
 HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 141 
 
 about the room lie neared the corner in which 
 his piccolo was placed, he could seldom resist 
 playing (with the soft pedal down) a few notes of 
 one of his favourite airs, or gently testing his 
 depth of voice by the piano. He did this, how- 
 ever, without too much noise; for Robin had 
 more than once implored him to desist, lest any 
 annoyance should be occasioned to Dr. Hawk- 
 shaw's patient upstairs. 
 
 " How I wish," said Robin, " that I had studied 
 medicine." 
 
 " You made a good beginning, Rob, though 
 it seems quite a long time now since you were 
 entered at St. Lazarus." 
 
 " Ah ! but I couldn't go on. It killed me, that 
 place. To see all those poor suffering people in 
 the w^ards turning their sad eyes to me as I 
 entered. I never grew reconciled to it. It was 
 just as dreadful to me every day. I could shut 
 my eyes and yet see their faces, as I can see her's 
 now. Will the colour never come back ? Will 
 her eyes always shine so — like stars, in her 
 hollow face ? I wonder how she is now, Phil- 
 shall I go and ask Mrs. Simmons ? " 
 
 *•' Better not. She's a good soul ; she'll do all 
 she can, I'll answer for her. How kind she was
 
 142 LEO. 
 
 to me when I had that bad throat, you remem- 
 ber. Besides, it's all right now, you know; 
 Hawkshaw said so." 
 
 " But do you think so, Phil ? Really ? Don't 
 cheat me with telling me so, if you don't think 
 so really. I'm quite well and strong now, and 
 calm. You knew I could bear to hear it." 
 
 " Let me feel your pulse. Feverish, old boy, 
 feverish. You're not too strong, Rob." 
 
 *^ But I could bear to hear the truth." 
 
 " You thought you could bear the dissecting- 
 room — do you remember? Yet you swooned 
 dead away." 
 
 " Don't speak of it ; " and Robin covered his 
 face with his hands. Then he started up. " But 
 I could bear this, Phil. After all, what is it ? A 
 woman picked half-dead out of the streets — whom 
 I have never seen before — whom, likely enough, 
 I shall never see again — what does it matter to 
 me whether she lives or dies ? I say, Phil, w^hy 
 
 should I care ? Yet no " — and he shuddered — 
 
 " for God's sake, don't let me talk like that ! Yes, 
 it does matter — dead — it would be cruel sufferine: 
 
 o 
 
 to me. Tell me you don't think she'll die, Phil — 
 do tell me so ! " 
 
 " This is what you call calmness, is it ? Why,
 
 HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 143 
 
 you're all of a tremble, you silly old Rob you. 
 No; I tell you, I don't think she'll die. Her 
 state was a little critical for a time. Hawkshaw 
 owned as much ; but it's all right now. Hawk- 
 shaw wouldn't have left her if he hadn't been 
 sure of that." 
 
 « Thank you, Phil." 
 
 " And now you'd better get some rest, Rob ; 
 though I fear Arnold will be anxious about you." 
 
 " He knew I was coming here; and, indeed, he 
 must forgive me, for I cannot go now; not that 
 I'm sleepy, but I want to hear how she goes on." 
 
 "I little thought when I heard your knock, 
 Rob, of all that was going to happen. I looked 
 forward to lots of music. You've a jolly tenor. 
 I'm certain we could manage that 'Ah Vhonnete 
 homme^ duet splendidly. Shall we try softly, 
 just for five minutes? " 
 
 " No," said the cripple, firmly ; " I wouldn't do 
 it for worlds." 
 
 Mr. Gossett saw that his friend was in earnest, 
 and, with a sigh, closed the piano.
 
 :44 LEO. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 DR. HAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 
 
 Mrs. Simmons entered a small room on an upper 
 floor in the house in Coppice Row, treading 
 very softly indeed. You would hardly have 
 imagined that a lady of her size could have 
 passed along so lightly. For the figure of 
 Arabella Montresor was much less delicate than 
 it had been; she had increased in weight since 
 the time when she was playing, at Bath, Mrs. 
 Beverley in The Gamester to the delight of the 
 late lamented fifth marquis of Southernwood. 
 
 Mrs. Simmons advanced to a bed on which 
 a fragile-looking, pallid woman was lying, ap- 
 parently asleep. Very beautiful, notwithstand- 
 ing her wanness and want of colour; yet with 
 something of the awfulness of a corpse, as 
 she lay there so white and motionless. But she 
 lived. You could see the drapery of the bed
 
 DR. HAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 145 
 
 gently stir; you could watcli tlie trembling and 
 swaying about of a soft lock of hair that had 
 fallen about her face, as her breath rose 
 and fell in heavy and protracted sighs. Yery 
 beautiful! Her long fair hair — of the hue the 
 ancients would have called " honey-coloured," 
 and the old Italian masters have loved with true 
 and intense art-love — floating from her face in 
 undulatino- lines, encirclin^^ her head like the 
 golden nimbus of a saint. How abundant those 
 tresses, how graceful, how admirable, with a 
 ripple on them as of a sea smiling and sparkling 
 in the amber of sunrise ! 
 
 For some moments Mrs. Simmons stood con- 
 templating the sleeper, almost as though retained 
 by a kind of fascination. Then moved by a 
 sudden thought, she knelt down to look at the 
 woman's left hand — very small, and soft, and of 
 a charming form, resting outside the coverlet. 
 She ventured even to touch the hand, turning 
 it gently so that she might the better examine 
 it. Still the woman slept on. 
 
 "No," Mrs. Simmons said to herself, and she 
 was examining, it would seem, more particularly 
 the third finger of the hand. "No, there is no 
 ring." 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 LEO. 
 
 Then she took up a handkerchief of cambric 
 edged with lace. 
 
 " A very pretty handkerchief." 
 
 She turned to each corner separately, in search 
 of the name or initials of the owner. In one 
 corner she noticed a small hole cut or torn, it 
 was not quite clear which. 
 
 " The name has been cut out. Why, I wonder ? 
 Who is she? Why has she come here? What 
 does it all mean ? Surely, under all the circum- 
 stances, there can be no harm in searching her 
 pockets ? " 
 
 Perhaps, before she had time to answer her 
 own question, Mrs. Simmons was busy with the 
 dress of the sleeper, and had turned over many 
 small articles found in the pocket. 
 
 " She's well dressed ; quietly, but very nicely ; 
 a gold watch and chain, brooch and small ear- 
 rings, two keys, a portmonnaie, with some gold 
 in it, and some silver coins ; what are they ? 
 French I should think ; and these ? Why, surely 
 these must be Indian ; and what's this ? A scrap 
 of paper with an address on it, half rubbed out. 
 I can't read the first word. Something House, 
 Kew, it looks like. Why, surely " 
 
 She paused, passing her hand across her fore-
 
 DR. IIAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 147 
 
 head, with rather a theatrical manner. Uncon- 
 sciously, perhaps, she had raised the tone of 
 her voice ; perhaps the habits of her life ren- 
 dered it nnavoidable that she should favour loud- 
 ness of speech and decided gesticulation. 
 
 "Surely, she cannot have escaped from an 
 asylum ? " 
 
 She stood still glancing upwards, in a manner 
 she had found attractive at the Paroquet, as 
 though she had particularly addressed herself to 
 the occupants of the seats in the front row of 
 the gallery. 
 
 " No ! she is not mad, my life upon it. Soft ! 
 She wakes ! " 
 
 At the Paroquet this would of course have 
 been the cue for the band to have played slow 
 and mysterious music, with muted violins. Mrs. 
 Simmons, with theatrical stealthiness, and as though 
 keeping time to imaginary chords, moved towards 
 the bed. 
 
 The woman opened her eyes : like dead violets, 
 they were so beautiful in colour, and yet for 
 the moment light and life were so entirely absent 
 from them. 
 
 "Where am I?" she asked, softly raising 
 her hands languidly to her head. There was a 
 
 10—2
 
 148 LEO. 
 
 look of trouble, bewilderment, alarm, upon her 
 face. 
 
 " Don't be frightened," said Mrs. Simmons ; 
 " you are quite safe now." 
 
 " Where am I ? " she repeated. 
 
 " You are quite safe ; you are among friends." 
 
 " Friends ? Have I any friends ? " She appeared 
 to be trying to recollect; she shuddered. 
 
 " Surely you have friends," said the actress, 
 drawing the bed-clothes round the invalid. Then 
 in answer to her glance of inquiry, she continued, 
 " Am I not your friend ? " 
 
 "You will help me?" 
 
 " To be sure I will," Mrs. Simmons exclaimed, 
 stoutly. 
 
 A footstep was heard outside the door. 
 
 " Too much talking, I think," said Dr. Hawk- 
 shaw, entering. 
 
 A thin gaunt hard-looking man with wiry, 
 iron-gray, short-cut hair ; with high cheek-bones, 
 and little scraps of whiskers sprouting on their 
 summits. Untidily dressed ; a crumpled wdiite 
 cravat twisted round his neck ; long cuff's to his 
 coat — when he turned these back, a severe 
 *^ operation " sort of look was given to his long, 
 sallow, nervous hands — a heavy watch-chain
 
 DR. IIAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 149 
 
 swinmnoc from his fob. His dress was not 
 planned to be professional. When, years back, 
 he had commenced practice, he had assumed 
 the style of attire customary among gentlemen 
 of the middle class; and he had been too busy 
 ever since to study the varyings of fashion, or 
 to make any change in the cut or colour of his 
 clothes. His patients were a little afraid of 
 him at first, for his manner was not imme- 
 diately conciliating ; he was severe in tone and 
 abrupt in action; but they relied upon him the 
 more in the end. There was such an air of 
 strength and soundness about him ; and certainly 
 in those small, mobile, gray eyes of his, when 
 you had got to know him thoroughly, you 
 could read much kindliness and real tenderness 
 of heart. Above all you should have heard how 
 the students of St. Lazarus's spoke of him, and 
 how they relished his sturdy, sagacious, eminently 
 practical lectures. 
 
 " You're better," he said to his patient. " You've 
 slept pretty well. Still you're giddy, and sickly, 
 and weak, and you haven't a ha'porth of appetite, I 
 should think. However, we'll soon put all that 
 right. How old are you ? " 
 
 " Eighteen."
 
 150 LEO. 
 
 '• What's your name ? " 
 
 " Janet," she murmured after a pause. 
 
 "Janet what?" he asked sternly, but not 
 rudely. " That's only half a name." 
 
 She looked troubled, and turned away her eyes 
 from her questioner : a faint blush dawned on her 
 pale face. Something she said at last, but in 
 a very low voice. The doctor bent down, the 
 better to hear. 
 
 '• Janet Milne ? " he inquired, as though doubt- 
 ful whether he had heard aright. 
 
 She bowed her head. 
 
 "Well, Miss Janet Milne " he continued; 
 
 then he paused as though waiting for correction, 
 looking at her curiously, but she did not sj^eak. 
 ^^ You must be careful how you over-fatigue and 
 frighten yourself again, or the consequences may be 
 even more serious. But we'll take care of you this 
 time, and soon make you well. Mrs. Simmons is an 
 excellent nurse. Keep yourself as quiet as you can. 
 Do you wish to send to any friends or relations to 
 let them know where you are, or tell them how 
 you are going on ? " 
 
 " No," she answered eagerly. 
 
 " You have friends, relations ? " 
 
 "None."
 
 DR. IIAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 151 
 
 " Where do you live ; where is your home ? " 
 
 *^ I have no home." 
 
 « Hum ! " The doctor withdrew. Out of the 
 room, he spoke to Mrs. Simmons, 
 
 " She's telling stories," he said. " Never mind ; 
 don't worry her with questions just at present ; 
 she's still in a highly nervous state. What has 
 she done ? where does she come from ? She's 
 young, pretty, isn't she? at least I should say 
 passable. I don't consider myself a judge of 
 such matters. What can have happened to 
 her?" 
 
 *' I think it must be somehow connected with a 
 love affair," Mrs. Simmons suggested. Her 
 theatrical experiences had taught her that love 
 occasioned many complications — at any rate on 
 the stage. 
 
 "Perhaps so. I've heard that love is a dan- 
 gerous disease ; but I'm not sure of it's diagnosis. 
 It's not in the medical books, and they don't bring 
 the love-sick to the hospital, thank heaven ! " The 
 doctor seemed to be only half in jest. 
 
 "People in love, or who fancy themselves in 
 love, do very extraordinary things," Mrs. Simmons 
 observed. 
 
 It is possible that her thoughts were re-
 
 152 LEO. 
 
 curring to certain remarkable events in her own 
 life. 
 
 " So I've heard," the doctor said drily ; " but, as 
 far as I can make out, love proceeds in most cases 
 from the stomach, and those suffer the most from it 
 who have weak chests and bad digestions, and don't 
 take sufficient exercise. I have heard it attributed 
 to the heart ; but that I don't believe. It cannot 
 be the same thing as fatty degeneration, though it 
 may look like it. Good-by. By the way, if you 
 see Mr. Gossett tell him I'm sorry he wasn't at 
 lecture this morning. That's his voice, I'm sure. 
 Singing he calls that? Does he, indeed? Dear 
 me ; I wonder what sort of noise he would make, 
 now, to represent howling or roaring. Good--by. 
 Take care of Miss Milne. I'll look round to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "The shop empty! — where's Simmons? Oh, if 
 he's gone again to that Spotted Dog! What do 
 you want, my little man ? " (This to a customer.) 
 " I'm sure I don't know w^here to find No. 150 of 
 the Revelations of a Lachjs-maid ; and what has 
 become of my part in the Lone Hut on the Moor, 
 or the Murderer and the Marquis I I put it down 
 somewhere for half a minute, and now I can't think 
 where I did put it. I hope the children haven't
 
 DR. HAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 153 
 
 got hold of it — or tlie cat. Ever so many lengths, 
 and not a line do I know of it yet ; and have I — 
 gracious heaven ! — I do believe I have not got a 
 clean white muslin frock for the last act. I will 
 not go down on my knees on that filthy stage in 
 my new blue silk. I will not, I say ; and Nancy, 
 do hold the baby's back straight, and mind its 
 precious head; and have you cleaned the front 
 attic's boots ? And Mr. Gossett rinsiins: for coals 
 and a pint of half-and-half Oh, dear, dear me ; 
 who would be me, I should like to know, if they 
 could be anybody else ? " 
 
 Poor Mrs. Simmons, nee Arabella Montresor ; or, 
 to be very particular, Eliza Perkins ! 
 
 Some days later Robin Hooper and Mr. Lack- 
 inorton were conversino;. 
 
 " Now, tell me, Rob," said Mr. Lackington, 
 " is there any more news about the fairy of the 
 fog ? You knight-errant, have you been rescuing 
 any more maidens in distress ? Have you dis- 
 covered anything more about her ? " 
 
 " I have not discovered more about her, for one 
 reason, perhaps, that I have not tried to do so. 
 What right have I, or has any one, to pry into her 
 history. Was it not enough to know that she was 
 poor and suffering and needing assistance ? "
 
 154 LEO. 
 
 " I'm half afraid of you, Rob, wlien you put on 
 your chivalric air. I feel like a modern snob 
 running up against a gentleman of tlie cliain-mail 
 period. I confess I'm caitiff enough — isn't ^caitiff' 
 the right word, Rob, under all the circumstances of 
 the case ? — to be curious in the matter ; Gossett 
 tells me she's beautiful." 
 
 " She is very beautiful." 
 
 " With golden hair, eh ? I should like to see 
 her. I should like to make a sketch of her. I've 
 a notion of painting a woman with golden hair 
 dressed in sea-green satin sitting in a punt gather- 
 ing water-lilies ; a fierce red sunset gleaming 
 upon her through very tall rushes. Wouldn't it 
 look well, Rob? I don't know what it would 
 mean in the least ; but I think the meaning of 
 a picture should always be left to the spectator, 
 don't you?" 
 
 " I don't see why painters should trouble them- 
 selves or the spectators with painting conun- 
 drums." 
 
 "You know you always leave the moral of a 
 fable to be guessed. But about this fairy of the 
 foff. Who is she? How is she? AVhat's she 
 going to do ? Do you think she would sit to me 
 for the lady in the punt ? "
 
 DR. HAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 155 
 
 '^ Her name is Janet Milne ; she has reasons I 
 believe for making no further revelation regarding 
 herself; she is much better ; she is still with 
 Mrs. Simmons ; she will endeavour to obtain 
 pupils and so earn a subsistence, for she is poor — 
 she has avowed that much ; I do not think she 
 w^ould care to sit to you. Now you know as 
 much as I do concerning her. I seek to know no 
 more than she chooses to make known. It seems 
 to me that we are bound to respect her desires 
 in this respect, and if we can aid her in any other 
 w^ay that we are also bound to do so. I know 
 that 1 will, to the utmost of my power." 
 
 " You've the heart of a Bayard, Rob." 
 
 "In a very weak and crippled and broken- 
 down body. Jack." 
 
 '^ Has Arnold seen her, this mysterious 
 lady?" 
 
 " No. I have told him about her, and he has 
 promised to render his assistance in any plan for 
 her benefit." 
 
 " Should I see her if I were to call at Mrs, 
 Simmons' ? " 
 
 "Probably not." 
 
 " Ah ! Rob, you are locking up your treasure 
 very securely ! Are you afraid lest she should
 
 156 LEO. 
 
 fall in love with any one else : with me for 
 instance ? It sounds very monstrously, of course ; 
 but I hdve been loved; w^omen are so weak and 
 illogical ; or with Arnold, say ? Of course, Mr. 
 Robin Bayard, by all the laws of three volume 
 novels, she ought to be in love with you ; but if 
 she shouldn't be ? " 
 
 " For shame Jack," cried Rob, fervently, " how 
 can you speak in this way of her, of me ? Do you 
 respect nothing, no one ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon." 
 
 *^ How can you speak of Arnold so ? " 
 
 " Oh, by the way, yes. I forgot about Arnold. 
 He's out of the question, of course; that is, I 
 should think he was. He's received his sen- 
 tence, poor fellow. We may speak of him as a 
 'lifer,' I suppose. Have you seen the lady, 
 Rob?" 
 
 " Yes ; my father's farm is on Mr. Carr's 
 estate. I have often seen her down in Wood- 
 landshire." 
 
 '' Arnold showed me her picture. He'd painted 
 it himself. Deuced well, too, I can tell you. 
 Arnold would succeed in the fine arts if he had 
 but application. That's the great thing, Rob. 
 It struck me that she was a very nice-looking
 
 DR. HAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 157 
 
 girl, with superb brown eyes ; but she's little, I 
 believe; a sort of chimney-ornament Cleopatra, 
 isn't she, Rob ? " 
 
 " I don't like the definition ; Cleopatra I never 
 admired. Her fierceness, coarseness, muscularity, 
 it seems to me, nearly extinguish her fascination. 
 There is nothing of these about Leonora Carr. 
 She is proud-spirited ; an only child, an heiress, 
 and has been in some danger of being spoiled. 
 But she is very charming — a sort of Titania from 
 a brunette point of view ; very delicate and 
 sprightly, tender and winning. I marvel no more 
 that Arnold should love her, than that she should 
 love Arnold. I think there is every promise of 
 happiness in their union." 
 
 " Yes, for them ; but for us ? " 
 
 Robin looked as though he did not under- 
 stand. 
 
 " There seems to me something selfish about 
 matrimony, which people haven't properly taken 
 into account. It's like two people in a large party 
 separating from the rest, sitting down, and getting 
 absorbed in a game of chess, instead of contri- 
 buting to the general amusement of the com- 
 pany." 
 
 " What do you mean ? What would you do ?
 
 158 LEO. 
 
 Abolish marriage ? I believe, Jack, you are 
 no better than a Mormon," said Robin, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Don't you see that Arnold's marriage will 
 abolish us ? We may be his friends ; do you think 
 we shall be Mrs. P.'s? I fancy that when the 
 wife informs the husband that she'd rather not 
 receive his friend Mr. So-and-so, somehow the 
 husband in time leaves off brinc^inff that gentle- 
 man home to dinner, Arnold will drop us, Rob, 
 in plain words." 
 
 *^ Arnold will be good and true, as he has ever 
 been," said Robin hotly. 
 
 " Well, well, we shall see. Any news of 
 Hugh Wood?" 
 
 " He's gone into the country to stop at the 
 rectory. I don't think he's very comfortable 
 there. He's not very good friends with his father, 
 I'm afraid. They never get on well together 
 somehow." 
 
 " I've a notion about Huo;li Wood, which I'll 
 tell you some day. Hallo, do you hear that noise ? 
 It sounds like an earthquake ; it's only Phil 
 Gossett singing. He's discovered another low note 
 in his voice, an awful depth, it seems to come out 
 of tliQ heels of his boots. How are you, Phil, old
 
 DK. IIAWKSHAW'S PATIENT. 159 
 
 man. Now, you fellows, strike up duets wliile I 
 smoke. I don't know which aids the art-mind 
 the most, music or tobacco ; we'll decide to-night. 
 Perhaps one of you has got silver enough to pay 
 for some beer. Thank you, Rob."
 
 160 LEO. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 
 
 *^ I THINK, Miss Bigg," said Leonora to the 
 schoolmistress, " that you do not sufficiently 
 consider the change that has taken place in our 
 relative positions. I am no longer your j^upil. 
 I claim to have some influence here. I am about 
 to be connected, by marriage " (she blushed a 
 little, lowering her eyes here), " with the young 
 ladies who have just quitted the room. I shall 
 probably have some voice then in their education. 
 I am also acquainted, intimately in some cases, 
 with the families of others among your pupils. I 
 think, upon consideration, you will decide that 
 it is not advisable to compel me to return to town 
 without seeing little Barbara Gill." 
 
 Leo spoke very calmly, without raising her 
 voice, without movement or action. Her tones 
 were very silvery, yet they were firm, decided. 
 Altogether, there was a determined air about the
 
 A SCHOOL-FKIEND. 161 
 
 little lady. It was evident that she did not 
 intend to be trifled with or denied. The school- 
 mistress quailed before her. 
 
 " Miss Gill is not well," she said at last, 
 feebly. 
 
 " I am aware of that fact. It is an additional 
 reason for my desiring to see her." 
 
 Miss Bigg looked uncomfortable. She drew 
 the folds of her shawl nervously together. She 
 complained, in a mutter, that it was "chilly," 
 though her face shone and the stiff curls of her 
 front grew quite dank with heat. She fidgeted 
 with the poet Bigg's sublime work on the table, 
 and nearly pulled the streamers off the book- 
 marker inscribed "Read, mark, digest." Her 
 head swayed to and fro with a sort of palsied 
 action. 
 
 " It is not usual," she began at last, "' for any 
 but the relatives of the young ladies under my 
 charge " 
 
 " Pardon me. Miss Bigg, that is not the ques- 
 tion. Will you be good enough to inform me 
 whether I am or not to be allowed to see Miss 
 Gill?" 
 
 The schoolmistress rolled her handkerchief 
 into a hard tight ball, and with it pressed her 
 
 YOL. I. II
 
 102 LEO. 
 
 eyes by turns severely. There were no tears 
 rendering this proceeding necessary ; but it is 
 probably one of the rules of grief that the fewer 
 tears you can produce the more you are bound 
 to apply your handkerchief. For wet mourning 
 cambric is of course desirable — but for dry it 
 is indispensable. 
 
 "Leonora! how can you?" Miss Bigg sobbed, 
 shaking the words out of herself with an effort, 
 as she rocked to and fro upon her chair. " To 
 think that I should be thus spoken to by a former 
 esteemed pupil ! What would my late sister 
 Adelaide have said? What would have been 
 the feelings of my late father, the poet Bigg, 
 upon such an occasion. To think that anybody 
 who had received the blessings of education at 
 Chapone House, Kew Green, should be able 
 afterwards to address me in such a way. How 
 shocking! How awful, I may say ! And you, 
 Leonora ! above all others ! upon whom I have 
 lavished a maternal affection, an unceasing 
 solicitude, beyond anything mentioned in the 
 prospectus or to be expected at an establishment 
 of this nature." 
 
 " Miss Bigg," Leo said, quite calmly, " I really 
 think you had better give me an answer. Mamma
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 163 
 
 is waiting in the carriage, and will be anxious 
 to return to town." 
 
 "Miss Gill is very ill. There," Dorothea 
 answered pettishly. 
 
 "You have had medical advice, of course? 
 What doctor is in attendance upon the poor 
 child?" 
 
 " Who do you suppose was to pay the doctor's 
 bill ? " 
 
 "You have had no doctor? Oh, Miss Bigg, 
 how shameful!" said Httle Leo, looking very 
 moved and angry. 
 
 Dorothea's head shook, like the head of a prac- 
 ticable Chinese jSgure roughly handled. 
 
 "It's very easy to talk about doctors," she 
 jerked out ; " to hear some people talk one 
 Avould think that doctors cost nothing. But 
 then some people will send for the doctor when 
 their little finger aches. I don't. I never have, 
 and I never will. Let other people say or do or 
 think what they may." 
 
 Miss Dorothea followed a habit I notice to be 
 favoured by her sex, of resorting to innuendo in 
 her angriest moments. As certain marksmen hit 
 one mark by aiming at another, so Miss Bigg 
 sought to wound Leo, not so much by a direct 
 
 11—2
 
 164 LEO. 
 
 and individual attack, as by a general onslaught 
 upon a host of '^ other people." It is just as 
 well to fire into a covey as to wait and single 
 out a particular bird. 
 
 " You tell me. Miss Bigg," said Leo, quite 
 calmly, her voice and manner in charming- 
 contrast with the schoolmistress's snappishness 
 and loss of temper — " You tell me that little 
 Barbara is seriously ill — so ill that I may not 
 see her — so ill that, as I understand it, you 
 have thought it advisable to separate her 
 entirely from the other young ladies, your 
 pupils: and yet you have not called in medical 
 aid ! Is there not something very strange about 
 this. Miss Bigg? Does it not strike you that 
 when ]\Irs. Lomax comes to be informed that 
 a pupil at Chapone House has been treated in 
 this extraordinary way, her confidence in the 
 mistress of the school will be very much shaken, 
 and that she will be prompted at once to remove 
 her children from your care ? " 
 
 There was evident indecision in Miss Bia-ix's 
 proceedings. She wavered between submission 
 and resistance. She was now weak and sup- 
 posititiously tearful. Anon she was spasmodically 
 strong and angry. Again she brought her tennis-
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 165 
 
 ball of a handkerchief to bear upon her eyes, 
 pressing them painfully. 
 
 " I never would have believed, Leonora, that 
 you would have turned against me like this — that 
 you would have tried to injure me. Your old 
 mistress, who did all she could for your happiness 
 here ; who favoured you beyond any of the other 
 young ladies, till they grew quite jealous on the 
 subject — quite. Were you not allowed to write 
 home oftener ? to have more pocket-money ? to 
 have more sugar in your tea ? Was I ever so 
 strict with you as with everybody else ? Didn't I 
 give you when you left, with my own hands, a 
 copy of my late father's sublime work, bound in 
 whole calf? Didn't I inform your dear mamma 
 that you were the best conducted pupil who had 
 ever entered the seminary? And after all the 
 pains I have taken with your religious and moral 
 culture, to think I should be treated like this ! 
 Threatened even ! and by my most favoured 
 pupil. But I was too partial. I spoiled you. I 
 am rightly punished ; as we sow so we must reap. 
 I receive the reward of my weakness, my folly, 
 my injustice. Yet who would have believed in 
 conduct so unche-ristian-like emanating from a 
 pupil of Chapone House?"
 
 1G6 LEO. 
 
 In the extremity of lier indignation Miss Bigg 
 put this question, not to Leonora, but over her 
 head — to where the picture of the poet cooling 
 his bottle-nose over the marble mantelpiece, to 
 where the fancy sketch of the late Adelaide in a 
 turban, in the character of St. Cecilia, before the 
 patent mangle and the gas pipes, adorned the 
 walls. The appeal was so emphatic and vehement 
 it was almost a marvel that the painted semblances 
 of Miss Bigg's departed relatives made no reply. 
 It is but justice to say, however, that Leonora 
 was but slightly stirred by it. She rose from her 
 chair. 
 
 '^^ I am to understand, then. Miss Bigg, that you 
 refuse my request." 
 
 " Don't, my dear child, don't talk to me like that. 
 ¥^hat can little Miss Gill be to you?" 
 
 " She is very much to me," said Leonora; "and 
 I must see her." 
 
 " But if her illness should be something dan- 
 gerous — something infectious ?" 
 
 " Can it be so. Miss Bigg ? Can there even be 
 a chance of this, and you have not called in me- 
 dical assistance ? " 
 
 " Ah, Leonora, you little understand how often 
 a person in my position is made the victim of
 
 A SClIOOL-rEIEND. 167 
 
 cruel injustice. I seldom speak upon these sub- 
 jects. I try to make no difference between my 
 pupils ; if I made a difference in your case, Leo- 
 nora, it was not without an effort to the contrary, 
 and, as I said, I am punished. I do all I can 
 to avoid distinctions, even in carving or dis- 
 tributing the gravy at dinner, or the daily 
 punishments, or the prizes at the close of the 
 half-year. I try to forget that while for one child 
 I am paid punctually, as sure as the Bank of 
 England, for another 1 have to make application 
 after application, half-year after half-year, and 
 still I fail to obtain payment. The money that 
 has been lost to the school in this way! and 
 sometimes the more distinguished the family 
 of the pupil, the more intimate its connexions 
 with the aristocratic families of the country, as 
 detailed in that book on the table — The Peerage 
 and Baronetage of the United Kingdom — the 
 more difficulty, my dear, has arisen in my receiv- 
 ing payment of my accounts." 
 
 " I regret to hear all this, of course. Miss Bigg," 
 said Leonora, with a glance of surprise ; " but 
 I don't really see what it has to do with the 
 question whether I am or not to see poor Miss 
 Gill."
 
 168 LEO. 
 
 " Don't, my clear, don't/' cried Dorothea, " I'm 
 coming to that. How I contrive to keep m}^ head 
 above water and the seminary open is more, I'm 
 sure, than I can explain. And the young people 
 consigned to me from the colonies — admirably re- 
 commended, most unquestionable references — 
 young people handed over to my entire and absolute 
 charge, to board, and clothe, and educate; to 
 maintain even during the holidays ; to have every 
 extra ; to learn everything mentioned in the 
 prospectus ; their bringing up to be of the most 
 choice, and elaborate, and expensive character; 
 and yet even for these, would you believe it, the 
 money is often not forthcoming ! My dear, it's 
 ruin, positive ruin ; a few more consignments of 
 this sort and I shall be actually deprived of house 
 and home. And how can one obtain payment? 
 And what can one do with the children? One 
 must keep them ; one can't turn them out of the 
 place ; and yet who is to find means for their 
 support ? " 
 
 '' Well, Miss Bigg " 
 
 " Be patient, my dear. Take the case of this 
 child Gill. For four years has she been an inmate 
 of this institution. Her father an officer in India. 
 Most highly recommended to me. The child
 
 A SCHOOL-FEIEND. 169 
 
 consigned to me. What could I do but receive 
 it ? Could I foresee what would happen ? Could 
 I imagine that not one shilling should I receive 
 for the maintenance and education of that child ? 
 I have written letter after letter ; each mail carries 
 out a fresh application for the discharge of my 
 account, or at least a portion of it. I receive no 
 reply — not the slightest notice is given to my 
 letters — not a halfpenny of payment made to me. 
 What can I do ? Can flesh and blood bear this 
 sort of thing ? And yet what redress have I ? 
 What am I to do with the child ? I must go on 
 keeping her until I hear from India, or until 
 doomsday, I suppose." 
 
 " I had no idea of this. Miss Bigg." 
 " No. I have made a point of concealing these 
 things from my pupils and from their friends and 
 relatives. It would do no good to the school if 
 these circumstances were made known and talked 
 about. And now, to crown the matter, the child's 
 ill — perhaps has even brought infection into the 
 school. Suppose it's scarlet fever, and every 
 girl catches it, and the school is broken up ; 
 what's to become of me then, I should like to 
 know?" 
 
 " Why should you think the child's illness
 
 170 LEO. 
 
 infectious? You say you have called in no 
 doctor." 
 
 "I can't afford it; that's the simple answer 
 and explanation. There is quite enough money 
 owing to me on Miss Gill's account without a 
 long doctor's bill being added to it. I have done 
 what I can for her; and I've kept her separate 
 from the other pupils. I'm bound to consider 
 them ; and for the future " 
 
 " For the future," Leonora interrupted, " I will 
 see that you are paid all charges in regard to 
 Miss Gill; and I will see that the best medi- 
 cal advice is obtained for her. And now, if 
 you please, you will show me to Miss Gill's 
 room." 
 
 *^ You persist in seeing her ? " 
 
 " I have said I will not leave the house until I 
 have done so." 
 
 " Booth shall take you to her room," said 
 Dorothea, subdued as she rang the bell. " I have 
 made the best arrangements for her that were 
 possible under the circumstances. They are not, 
 however, quite so comfortable as I could wish." 
 
 Booth entered the room : a middle - ao-ed 
 woman, in a rusty cinnamon-coloured silk dress, 
 a plain frowning woman, who had been many
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 171 
 
 years attacliecl to tlie establishment, in the 
 character of superior servant or housekeeper, 
 and had in some way, either by persistence 
 in paying her mistress the compliment of 
 imitation, or, from the resemblance, said to be 
 produced by constant association, grown to look 
 like a sort of duplicate or cheap edition of Miss 
 Bigg. She had the same hard screwed-up ringlets 
 in petrified coils upon her forehead; the same 
 grim smile — being not so much a smile, indeed, as 
 a cheerless exhibition of teeth and gums; the 
 same forbidding brow and dull black eyes — like 
 unpolished ebony ; but she was not nearly so tall 
 as Miss Dorothea, while she was much stouter in 
 figure. She had endeavoured to struggle with 
 her contour and suppress her roundness by means 
 of increased tightness of dress; this imparted a 
 stuffed, pincushion look to her shoulders and their 
 vicinity, the notion of that semblance being 
 enhanced by the fact that pin-heads were to be 
 traced projecting from various portions of her 
 figure. Upon provocation she had even been 
 known to produce a dozen or so from her mouth 
 quite unexpectedly, like a conjuror. She had 
 been a great favourite of the late Miss Adelaide 
 Bigg, who had, upon one occasion, spoken of
 
 172 LEO. 
 
 her as " that inestimable woman. Booth." It 
 had become the fashion after this to recognize her 
 at everj opportunity as an " inestimable woman ; " 
 though this was not the opinion of the pupils. 
 When the honourable, witty, and pretty Miss 
 Pincott was a pupil at Chapone House (she was 
 afterwards the third wife of John Logwood, the 
 second Baron Lambeth, and distinguished for 
 her zealous patronage of religious potichomanie, 
 stained-glass windows, poetic literature and 
 Puseyism), she used to call Booth " Sarnem," 
 and Miss Adelaide Bigg, who was then living, 
 " Geslcr," the young lady assigning to herself the 
 role of William Tell, and heading a mutiny 
 of the other young ladies against the constituted 
 authorities, which resulted ultimately in her 
 removal from the seminary. These nicknames, 
 however, still lingered among the school tradi- 
 tions, as, indeed, did the story of pretty Miss 
 Pincott's revolt. Insubordinate pupils were often 
 known to speak of Booth as " Sarnem " still ; 
 but of course her fidelity to the heads of the 
 establishment was a sufficient cause for her bein^; 
 held in severe reprobation by the young ladies. 
 She was not a very pleasant person — Booth — 
 from any other than Miss Bigg's point of view.
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 173 
 
 Her religious opinions, it may be stated, were 
 of a particularly depressing nature. Notwith- 
 standing, she seemed quite to rejoice in their 
 gloom, much as lovers enjoy dusk. She de- 
 scribed Miss Dorothea as a " gospel- woman," what- 
 ever that might be. She called going to church 
 " sittino; under a minister," and indulo-ed oc- 
 casionally in other phrases of like mystery. She 
 considered herself and Miss Bigg as " of the 
 elect," holding probably that they had by an 
 admirable foresight secured reserved seats in a 
 state of future bliss, whereas other people must 
 go in with the crush, or take themselves else- 
 where. Her sentiments, indeed, in that respect 
 might be described as possessing a decidedly 
 sulphuric flavour. 
 
 " Will you please to step this way. Miss Carr ? " 
 said Booth; and she conducted Leo from the 
 gaunt drawing-room. They passed up the wide 
 handsome staircase of Chapone House. The 
 upper flights of stairs were shabby-looking, tor- 
 tuous, ill-lighted, narrow. There was no gay 
 ribbon of many-coloured carpet down the centre, 
 no dapper margin of pure white — mere tawny 
 deal, unpainted, creaking, with unsteady balus- 
 ters. They were shut from the view of the
 
 174 LEO. 
 
 superior parts of the house bj a door kept con- 
 stantly closed. 
 
 Up these dark steps, her silken skirts rustling 
 and whistling angrily against the sides of the 
 limited, ill-lighted path, Leo passed, convoyed by 
 Booth. They stopped at a door, and entered to- 
 gether a small low-roofed attic. The room was 
 clean, but comfortless-looking ; the slanting walls 
 made very acute angles of the side of the cham- 
 ber, lighted by a small window cut in the ceiling 
 as it seemed; but, indeed, it was hard to say 
 where the ceihng ended and the walls commenced. 
 It was some few minutes before Leo's eyes became 
 sufficiently accustomed to the light of the room to 
 distinguish that on a small bed in a corner, the 
 only canoj^y a slope in the whitewashed roof, the 
 figure of a little girl, apparently asleep, lay curled 
 up, a crumpled stream of light flaxen hair upon 
 the pillow, and her thin arms stretched forth, 
 the hands with the palms upwards, and the 
 fingers flaccidly curled. 
 
 "Is she asleep?" Leo inquired in a whisper, 
 turning to Booth. 
 
 " She's fond of shanuning, I think. Miss Carr," 
 Booth answered harshly. " She's often drowsy, 
 though, of late. Come ; wake up. Miss ; you're
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 175 
 
 wanted," she called, in a grating voice, to the 
 child. 
 
 "Hush! don't speak to her like that," Leo 
 interrupted somewhat angrily. She approached 
 the bed and stooped down the better to examine 
 the face of the child — very wan and sharp-featured 
 and pale, save where a blotch of scarlet glowed 
 unnaturally upon her cheek bones. 
 
 " Oh, my poor Baby, how you are changed ! " 
 Leo cried in a moved voice, the tears leaping to 
 her eyes and her heart in a tremble. " What a 
 little thin hand! Oh, and now it burns! My 
 poor, poor Baby ! " 
 
 "Yes, she's very feverish. But I think she's 
 getting better. I give her nothing but gruel; 
 she's very weak, or she pretends to be. I think 
 she shams a good deal, to try and get off learning 
 her hymns. But I'm as sharp as she is, that's 
 one comfort." 
 
 " Baby, dear," said Leo, softly calling her, and 
 pressing tenderly the wasted burning little hand. 
 
 " Come, look sharp," cried Booth. 
 
 " You needn't trouble yourself any further. 
 Booth, thank you," said Leo ; and there ■was 
 something in the tone of her voice that made 
 the superior servant draw back.
 
 176 LEO. 
 
 Slowly the child opened her large blue eyes, 
 fixing them upon Leo, but in a scared, doubting 
 way at first ; then, as if shrinking from the con- 
 viction they forced upon her. 
 
 '^ Leo ? " she murmured at last in a tone of 
 inquiry. 
 
 " Yes, Baby, it's Leo come to see you." 
 
 '^ Dear Leo," said the child, and she held out 
 her arms, trying to circle Leo's neck, while her 
 eyes gleamed with a hectic lustre, and she raised 
 her head pouting her parched lips. How well 
 Leo knew the action, and she kissed again and 
 again her little school-friend, hugging her frail 
 form close to her heart. 
 
 *' Oh, Leo, I thought you w^ould never come. I 
 thought you had forgotten me quite. I thought 
 I should die and never see you again." 
 
 "Forgive me. Baby, I've been very wrong to 
 stay so long away from you ; but indeed I did not 
 know that you were ill — indeed, I had not really 
 forgotten you — only for the moment. Baby, dear." 
 
 " I have so longed to see you : I have so 
 often thought of you. I w^ould have writteh to 
 you if I could — if Miss Bigg would have let 
 me, and if my hand hadn't shaken so. There's 
 no one now to be so kind to me as you always
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 177 
 
 ■were, Leo, dear. There's no one now to help me 
 with my geography and my French exercise, as 
 you used to ; no one cares for me now, and I've 
 been so sad, and so friendless, and so ill ; but I 
 feel better now that I have seen you again, 
 Leo. You won't forget me again, Leo, will you ? 
 Promise me you never will." 
 
 " Indeed, Baby, I never will." 
 
 And again the thin arms were woven round 
 lier neck, and the fevered lips pressed to hers. 
 And after this it seemed how great a pleasure 
 to the poor sick child to interweave her tiny 
 burning fingers tightly with her visitor's, while 
 a smile lit up her wanned features, with yet a 
 wet line of tears upon her sunken cheeks ! 
 
 "How long have you been ill, my poor 
 Baby?" 
 
 " For two weeks I think, dear. I know I 
 have been up here two Sundays, for I heard 
 the bells ringing and the girls getting ready 
 for church. But oh, the time has seemed so 
 long, Leo, so dreadfully long, and I have felt 
 so sick and lonely! I tried hard not to cry, 
 because I knew it was wrong of me, and babyish, 
 and that I am growing a great girl now — and 
 that you wouldn't like me to be crying for 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 LEO. 
 
 so little, would you, Leo ? But the tears would 
 come, and even now I can't help crying, though 
 I don't know why quite — for I'm very very glad 
 to see you again, Leo. But oh, it was dreadful 
 before you came ! " 
 
 " I'm sure. Miss Gill, there's been no cause 
 for your crying. Haven't you had a nice 
 room all to yourself — why, if you'd been a 
 parlour-boarder you couldn't have had more. 
 Here you've been, surrounded with every comfort, 
 and haven't I been for ever and ever coming 
 up to see you, and bringing you your salts, and 
 your gruel, and what-not, all regular and 
 comfortable, and sitting wath you asking you 
 your catechism, or hearing you your hymns — for 
 nobody's ever too ill to attend to their religious 
 dooties, you know — nobody ; I'm sure it's very very 
 wrong and wicked, and ungrateful of you, to be 
 making complaints like this against those as have 
 been wearing themselves out with benefiting you. 
 How can you. Miss ? " 
 
 So Booth interrupted — the child sinking back 
 with a shudder at the sound of her harsh, coarse 
 voice. 
 
 " That will do. Booth," said Leonora, calmly 
 turning to her. " There is no occasion for your
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 179 
 
 remaining here longer. You will leave the 
 room, if you please. I know the way down." 
 
 Booth looked very much as though she medi- 
 tated resistance. Her fierce brows came down 
 lowering over her dull black eyes, and her head 
 rocked much after Miss Dorothea's manner. The 
 superior servant paused for a moment as though 
 searching for a weak place in the enemy's lines. 
 Certainly she found none. She wheeled round 
 and rigidly left the room. 
 
 " One thing," she said outside, ^' standing 
 here, I can make out all they say; if that little 
 slut says more than she ought, why, I'll let her 
 know, that's all." 
 
 '^ Oh, Leo, how brave you are, to talk to her 
 like that ; ain't you afraid of her ? She frightens 
 me so, and she is so cruel and cross; and she 
 says such dreadful things to me sometimes. Tell 
 me, Leo, do you think I shall die ? " 
 
 " What, you, Baby, so young ? What can put 
 such fancies into your head? No, deai*, you'll 
 soon be w^ell and strong and yourself again. 
 Why shouldn't you ? " 
 
 " I don't know, but she says that very likely 
 I shall die — that years ago a pupil died here, in 
 this very room, Leo, and she was younger than 
 
 12-2
 
 180 LEO. 
 
 I am, and had hair just of my colour, and she 
 says that most likely I shall go too, just as the 
 other young lady did." 
 
 " It's very wrong and wicked of her. Baby, and 
 you mustn't believe a word of what she says, and 
 she's a cruel, bad woman to speak to you of such 
 things." 
 
 (Outside the door a superior servant's arm was 
 moving menacingly.) 
 
 " And tell me, Leo, if I die, do you think it's 
 true as she says, that evil spirits will torture me 
 for ever and ever ? Tell me, Leo ; only — only 
 don't say it's true." 
 
 And the childish eyes, wide open, gazed pite- 
 ously, appeal ingly, into her friend's face, and Leo 
 felt herself locked ever so tightly in the wasted 
 arms. 
 
 *^ No, no, my darling Baby," cried Leo, fervidly. 
 *^ It's not true, it's not true. Don't think of such 
 things. Baby ; " and then she murmured, — " Oh, 
 how shameful ! " 
 
 " The hussy ! the heathen ! " groaned Booth 
 without. 
 
 " Oh, Leo, it makes me so glad to hear you say 
 so. I'm sure that what you say is right, and true. 
 I can believe every word that you say, Leo. I'll
 
 A SCIIOOL-iTvIEND. 181 
 
 try not to be frightened any more. I'll try to 
 forget what she said. I'm sure what you say is 
 right." 
 
 She looked quite happy in her new faith, putting 
 her whole heart in her belief, as children will 
 do. AVho does not envy them the power of 
 doing so ? 
 
 " It's like what Jenny used to tell me, long — 
 long — oh, ever so long ago." 
 
 « Who's Jenny, dear ? " 
 
 ^^ Jenny was my sister, long ago, in India, when 
 I was quite a little thing, before I came to Eng- 
 land — before they sent me here to learn my lessons 
 — but I can remember it quite well. Jenny always 
 told me that when we died we should be more 
 happy than we had ever been ; and we should go 
 to join mamma, who died when I was a baby, and 
 who is an angel now in heaven ; and she'd be so 
 glad to see us ; and we should all be so happy 
 tocjether. Won't that be so, Leo ? " 
 
 " Yes, Baby, you'll go to join mamma, but not 
 yet. You'll grow to be a woman, yet, as tall as I 
 am — taller, perhaps" (and a smile flitted along the 
 curves of her lips). " But where is Jenny, 
 now ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said the child, with a sad.
 
 182 LEO. 
 
 bewildered look. " Perhaps Jenny's gone to 
 mamma, without waiting for me. Yet Jenny was 
 ■yevy fond of me, and used to nurse me, and kiss 
 me, and romp with me, always. Yes — Jenny and 
 papa; but that's so long ago, now — oh, so long 
 ago. Perhaps they've forgotten all about me now. 
 Yet I don't think Jenny would do that," the child 
 added, meditatively. 
 
 " And have you no other friends. Baby, that 
 you can remember ? " 
 
 " No. I don't think I can remember any more." 
 
 *' No friends in England ? Did no one ever 
 come to see you here ? " 
 
 " No. Oh, yes — once. The captain of the 
 ship who brought me over. He came once. I 
 used to call him ' uncle,' and he used to make me 
 laugh so ; but he never came again." 
 
 Some further talk did Leo have with her little 
 friend. Then — 
 
 " And now. Baby, I'm afraid I must leave 
 you." 
 
 ^^ Must you, Leo! Oh, don't go yet. Five 
 minutes more, Leo. Please, only five minutes. 
 And you'll come again, won't you, Leo ? " 
 
 " Yes. ril come again. I'll be sure to — very, 
 very soon."
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 183 
 
 " You won't forget, Leo ! Oh, don't forget. I 
 shall be so, so sad if you forget." 
 
 Leo answered with a kiss. 
 
 " And you'll be a good, brave girl, and you 
 won't get frightened again, whatever they may 
 say or do. And then, if I can — and I think 
 I can — I'll come very soon, and take you with 
 me. You'll be glad to come with me, won't 
 you. Baby? And we will be so happy toge- 
 ther, and we'll go down in the country, and make 
 you quite well again ; and we'll have such fun ; 
 and you shall ride on my white pony, think of 
 that ! and try and be brave, and get well as soon 
 as ever you can. Good-by, dearest I " 
 
 " Good-by, Leo. Kiss me once more. Be 
 sure you don't forget me. Once more. Good- 
 by." 
 
 " Your ma. Miss," said Booth, outside, " has 
 sent in to say she's tired of waiting, and hopes 
 you'll be ready to return to town." 
 
 " You must take great care of little Miss Gill, 
 Booth," Leo said, in her sweetest accents, not heed- 
 ing the message, malignantly delivered — " great 
 care, if only for my sake." 
 
 There was a sound as of a chinking of money. 
 
 " What's money ! " Booth was muttering, as she
 
 184 LEO. 
 
 followed Leo's silken skirts down tlie staircase. 
 " What's money, I should like to know, but dross, 
 and filth, and rubbish ? " 
 
 It was noticeable, however, that she was found 
 shortly afterwards putting away carefully certain 
 coins in a green purse as long as a stocking, decked 
 with sharp steel rings and tassels. 
 
 *^ I have seen Miss Gill," Leo remarked to Miss 
 Bigg, nervously grating her mittens together at 
 the foot of the stairs. ^' I am distressed at her 
 state. I remember what I said concernino; her. 
 Do you remember it, too. I shall send down the 
 best medical assistance that can be procured in 
 London. Meanwhile, you will write to me, if you 
 please, daily, how she is going on. You will send 
 me, also, a note of what is due to you on her 
 account, and I will be careful to speak to papa 
 upon the subject. Pray don't let me have cause 
 to complain of any negligence as to these matters. 
 Good morning, Miss Bigg." 
 
 The little lady graciously entrusted for a moment 
 two of her fingers to be scratched by Miss Bigg's 
 mittens, and then rustled into the barouche at the 
 door of Chapone House. 
 
 " Drive quickly, Andrew^s. Home, of course,*' 
 said Mrs. Carr. *' Dear me, Leonora, what a louir
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 185 
 
 time you have been, you've made me get quite 
 tired and sleepy, and cramped sitting here by 
 myself. I'm afraid we shall be late for dinner, and 
 you know your father hates unpunctuality, es- 
 pecially at dinner. Men are all alike in that 
 respect. Jordan was very angry when he was 
 kept waiting for his meals. I remember on one 
 occasion he left the house because the dinner 
 was rather behind-hand, and declared he would 
 dine off cold meat at a tavern, sooner than wait 
 any longer. I was very much annoyed at the 
 time, I remember. What, that little Miss Gill 
 unwell, is she ? I'm sure I'm very sorry — why 
 do you call her Baby ? Why, she must be nine 
 or ten years old, I should think. Oh, because 
 her name's Barbara ; a foolish name, I think. 
 Yes, I remember her very well. You brought 
 her down to Croxall one Christmas — or was it 
 Midsummer — oh, both was it? A pretty little 
 thing, well mannered, but timid, with red hair, 
 hadn't she — oh, flaxen was it? Jordan's hair 
 was a bright auburn — a beautiful colour. He 
 was not like you, Nora — not much — just a little 
 about the mouth perhaps, and he had the same 
 way that you have of putting up your chin 
 sometimes. He was a good deal like Arnold
 
 186 LEO. 
 
 in features, only not quite so tall, not witli liis 
 boots off. Of course, the child must have medical 
 advice, the very best, certainly. Very ill, is 
 she ? Dear me ; poor little thing — poor little 
 soul ! Why, my dear, you've got tears in your 
 eyes — don't cry about it, she'll get well again; 
 of course she will. The illnesses I nursed you 
 through when you were a child ! But you were 
 always very good when you were ill — very quiet 
 and patient. Jordan was not; he was cross and 
 obstinate, and wouldn't keep in bed, or take his 
 physic. But then he had such a high spirit, 
 and men are always impatient, and lose their 
 temper when they're ill; they can't help it. I 
 always thought that Miss Bigg was very mean. 
 I said she was a screw the first time I ever saw 
 her. I was always afraid that she wouldn't give 
 you enough to eat. It's very wicked not to give 
 children enough to eat. I never liked the woman 
 from the first, although she was very highly 
 recommended to me. Indeed, I was opposed to 
 your going to her school, only your father in- 
 sisted ; he laid so much stress upon the import- 
 ance of your associating with young people of 
 your own age, lest you should grow up odd 
 and old-fashioned, and conceited and spoiled. I
 
 A SCIiOOL-FEIEND. 187 
 
 ■wanted him to educate both you and Jordan at 
 home, but he wouldn't. He was very firm about 
 it — almost angry at last, so I gave way. I never 
 opposed his wishes beyond a certain point ; it 
 was not often that he was so obstinate. So 
 Jordan went to Eton, and you to Miss Bigg. 
 The elder sister was living then ; she was a 
 superior woman to this one in every respect ; she 
 had a better manner, and was really clever, I 
 believe. No, the poor child mustn't be left in 
 that way; of course, it's hard upon Miss Bigg, 
 but she ought to do her duty for all that. She'll 
 be paid in time, I suppose, unless the child's re- 
 lations are all dead. Whole families die off very 
 suddenly sometimes. I read in the paper the 
 other day of twelve people being poisoned by 
 eating horseradish. I never touch it myself on 
 that account, and, besides, I don't like it. Yes, 
 my dear, I'll make a point of speaking to your 
 father about it this A^ery evening, after he's had 
 his nap ; he's generally in the mood to listen 
 and do what I ask him then. And I'll send 
 round to Sir Cupper Leech the first thing in 
 the morning, to beg that he will go at once down 
 to Kew, and look at the poor child, and prescribe 
 for her, and we'll take her away from Miss Bigg
 
 188 LEO. 
 
 at tlie very earliest opportunity. Dear me, what 
 a bad liabit Andrews lias of pulling up suddenly ; 
 he always startles me, and I'm sure he'll take 
 the wheel off against that lamp-post some day. 
 I must speak to your father about it. Only 
 five minutes, my dear, to dress for dinner, don't 
 be longer. I'm sure that silk will do very well. 
 Your father's fond of that dress, it's one of the 
 best that Miss Bradshaw ever made for you." 
 <S<c. &c. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that good old Mrs. 
 Carr delivered the above sentences in the form 
 of a continuous and set speech. Her remarks 
 were made from time to time durinoj the drive 
 from Kew Green back to Westbourne Terrace, 
 and ^vere interspersed with other observations, 
 not of sufficient importance to be preserved, with 
 interruptions from Miss Leonora Carr, in the 
 shape of comments and questions, and, above all, 
 the recital of the illness and sad state of Baby 
 Gill. For convenience' sake only have we 
 welded into one paragraph the gist of the con- 
 versation in the barouche, omitting the share of 
 the younger lady. 
 
 But Sir Cupper Leech had left London. He
 
 A SCHOOL-FRIEND. 189 
 
 "svas enjoying a physician's holiday. He had 
 stopped at Mayence on a Rhine trip, to test 
 thoroughly the effects of his favourite Steinwein 
 on the Britannic constitution. He was personally 
 occupied in experiments upon this subject. He 
 had some notion of recommending the wine 
 (in pints at luncheon) as an admirable " dirigent, 
 and corrigent, and tonic : " it seemed to him 
 likely to become a fashionable medicine with his 
 aristocratic patients. 
 
 Sir Cupper Leech would not return for three 
 weeks or a month. So said his servant (in a 
 handsome livery, a senna-coloured coat, with 
 Turkey rhubarb plushes). But a physician round 
 the corner in Mount Street was attendino; to 
 Sir Cupper's practice for him. 
 
 This proved to be Doctor Hawkshaw, senior 
 Physician of St. Lazarus's Hospital, Regius Pro- 
 fessor of Phlebotomy and Materia Medica, and 
 author of the celebrated works on " Insanity and 
 Brain Cells," "The Physiology of Fatty De- 
 generation," " The Pathology of the Stomach," 
 the editor of the new issue of " Pepper on the 
 Kidneys," and other important medical authorities. 
 
 Dr. Hawkshaw was very indefatigable. In 
 addition to his own large practice, to his hospital
 
 190 LEO. 
 
 duties, to his medico-literary labours, he seemed 
 always able to do more ; to attend to the patients, 
 or deliver the lectures, or visit the hospitals of 
 his colleagues. He never left town ; he knew 
 nothing of Steinwein. He was devoted to his 
 profession — his life might be described as one 
 long prescription. 
 
 He had been attending a young lady in Coppice 
 Row, on his way to St. Lazarus's Hospital ; but 
 he now said that he should call no more, as she 
 was in a fair way of recovery. He opened 
 Mrs. Carr's note addressed to Sir Cupper, 
 and straightway turned his horses' heads towards 
 Kew.
 
 191 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 
 
 The Honourable Dudley Chalker was in the 
 Highlands. In the north he was the same Dudley 
 Chalker he had been in the south; not different 
 on the elastic heather to that he had been in his 
 spring-seated stall at the opera. Certainly, he 
 was not more conversational: acquired no new 
 power of language. He ejaculated " Aw ! " when 
 the Mountain Dew stung his throat and brought 
 the tears from his weak eyes to trickle on to 
 his strong moustache, thatching his upper lip so 
 thickly with far-projecting eaves, like the roof 
 of a chalet And he murmured " Baw ! " when 
 the penetrating mist soaked through his clothes 
 and struck cold upon his cuticle. A few weeks 
 and he Avas to bend his steps to what it had 
 pleased Lord Dolly to designate " the family 
 dungeon in Wales ;" in other words, to Granite 
 Castle, the seat in that principality of the Honour-
 
 192 LEO. 
 
 able Dudley's father, Hugh, ninth Baron Sand- 
 stone. 
 
 Arnold Page had encountered little Lord Dolly 
 at the Junior Adonis Club, Pall Mall, of which 
 institution both were members. 
 
 " We've got old Flukey out," quoth his lord- 
 ship ; " had the doose of a job though. The old 
 ])oy got quite to like his quarters in that lock-up. 
 Said, ^ By Jove ! ' (you know his way), ' he never 
 was so comfortable in his life before ; had the best 
 of everything, none of his duns knew where to 
 find him, while the society was first-rate.' Barney 
 Levy didn't behave so very badly in the matter. 
 We all did it between us somehow. Doosid lucky 
 we didn't delay it. There was a whole host of 
 detainers came down an hour after we'd done 
 the trick. Close shave, wasn't it ? All Flukey's 
 fault. He w^anted such a lot of pei'suading to 
 come out. You see, when he does take an idea 
 into his head — he don't often, I admit — it's no 
 end of trouble to get it out again. He sticks to 
 it, sir, like glue. Obstinate old beggar ! How- 
 ever, it's all right now. The yachting affair's 
 coming off. Ever seen his yacht? Pretty little 
 thing, the Pewit. I call her the Mudlark 
 Flukey don't like it much ; but he ivill hug the
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 193 
 
 shore and run her aground so awfully. We're 
 off to-morrow; don't know where to. Clipstone's 
 going. Storkford was, but he's been missing 
 these three days, and we don't know where to 
 look for him. If he don't turn up to-night we 
 shall go without him. I think he's hiding to 
 avoid us ; he does get so dreadfully ill on these 
 yachting trips. So we all do, for that matter. 
 You're better engaged, I suppose? Lucky dog, 
 with that pretty Miss Carr, eh? By George! 
 who wouldn't stand in your boots if they'd only 
 got a chance? Well, good-by, old man; wish 
 you joy. Oh, it won't be immediately. Good- 
 by. I shall look you up directly I come 
 back." 
 
 And Cupid put to sea in the Pewit, under the 
 command of his friend. Lord Flukemore. A 
 most perilous voyage, considering that the sea- 
 manship of that nobleman was not of first-rate 
 quality, and that he was as likely as not to steer 
 his comrades to the bottom. But Englishmen love 
 risky pleasures ; they cannot be alwaj-s having war 
 and its forlorn hopes; for one reason, the ex- 
 pense is so enormous ; still they manage to pursue 
 peril by way of pastime, inventing dangerous dd- 
 lassements, less costly, perhaps, but almost as 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 LEO. 
 
 certain to provide similar chances of a serious 
 issue. 
 
 The marble halls and gilded saloons of the 
 Junior Adonis were deserted. The smoking- 
 room had been seized upon by the whitewashers, 
 and was crowded with scaffolding poles, by 
 order of the committee, all out of town. There 
 was hardly any one to read the newspapers save 
 the waiters. The magazines were uncut. The 
 porter of prodigious girth slept throughout the 
 day undisturbed. Buttons kept up a course of 
 healthy exercise, and wore the nap from certain 
 portions of his uniform by perpetual sliding 
 down the banisters. The chief cook was enjoy- 
 ing his vacation at Hombourg. He wore there 
 a froo:c:ed frock-coat and was taken for a foreimi 
 nobleman incog, by more than one travelling 
 Btock-exchancre Eno-lishman. The charwoman sat 
 alone in the scullery, telling her own fortune ; 
 it had not been a very bright one hitherto, for 
 iifty years — but there was to be a change now ; 
 she was to marry well, a rich fair gentleman, 
 ride in a coach and six, and have eleven children. 
 So said the dirty cards she always carried in her 
 pocket. 
 
 London was very empty. The government
 
 MR. LOMAX OF TPIE WATER STAMP OFFICE. 195 
 
 of the country was being carried on by one 
 Minister, in whom nobody placed particular 
 confidence. But somehow he seemed to be 
 quite equal to the occasion ; at any rate, there 
 was no one in town to question his competency ; 
 perhaps it's easy to govern the country in the 
 autumn. The justice of the nation was being 
 distributed by one judge — a puisne, of course, 
 who sat at chambers for half an hour once a 
 week ; it was quite enough. There was very 
 little litigation going on, for one reason, I suppose, 
 because the lawyers were all away enjoying 
 themselves — perhaps, as a consequence, the clients 
 were doing the same. 
 
 "Are you going down to Oakmere?" asked 
 Robin Hooper of the gentleman residing with 
 him in Sun-Dial Buildings, Temple. 
 
 «•' Yes, Rob, I'm going. I put it off from day 
 to day," answered ISlv. Arnold Page. " I suppose, 
 because there's something of a duty attached to 
 the thing. They rather bore me at Oakmere 
 in fact; but of course I must go. It's only fit 
 that I should show myself to the tenants, and 
 that sort of thing. I shall go very soon now. 
 Indeed I've just got a letter from my brother- 
 in-law, Lomax, a2:>ropos of my going. I don't 
 
 13—2
 
 196 LEO. 
 
 get on very well with Lomax ; but I believe he's 
 a veiy good fellow, really, and has my interest 
 warmly at heart." 
 
 The letter referred to ran thus : — 
 
 " Wafer Stamp Office, WhiteJialL 
 *'My dear Arnold, — I want very much to 
 see you. I was in hopes you would have been 
 down at Oakmere before this. Georgina has 
 had your room ready for the last three weeks. 
 In any case, can you call upon me here to-day 
 or to-morrow in the afternoon, before three? 
 I generally leave town for Oakmere by the 3.45 
 express ; but I want to have a little conversation 
 with you upon a matter of business. I'll be sure 
 not to bore you more than I can possibly avoid. 
 " Your affectionate brother, 
 
 " Francis L. Chalker Lomax. 
 *^ A. Page, Esq., Sun-Dial Buildings." 
 
 " Of course I must go and see w^hat he wants," 
 said Arnold, rather moodily. And he went. 
 
 There are no distinctions of dress by which we 
 are enabled to detect on the instant the particular 
 grade of a gentleman serving the nation in a 
 G overnment office. At the bar we have merely to 
 feel the stuff* of the advocate's robe to determine
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAEER STAIMI^ OEEICE. 197 
 
 whether he be a leader or a junior, or to look for 
 an apparently sore place on his wig, hidden by a 
 circle of court-plaster, to decide if he be or not a 
 serjeant-at-law. In the army or navy we may 
 ascertain rank by counting buttons, or weighing 
 bullion tags, or measuring scraps of lace, or 
 examining if the shoulders be adorned witli 
 epaulettes — gold swahs, I think the hero (A. B. Sea- 
 man) terms them in nautical melodramas. The 
 field-marshal is known more by his white satin 
 ribbons even than his baton. The rear-admiral 
 must announce his position by bearing his flag at 
 tlie mizen-top-gallant-masthead, while the vice 
 bears his at the fore-top-gallant, and the full-blown 
 admiral his at the main-top-gallant. The coronets 
 of the nobility proclaim their respective titles. 
 We know that the baron may circle his head with 
 six golden balls or pearls, and no more, while the 
 viscount is limited only in this respect by the cir- 
 cumference of his cranium; that the earl may 
 raise the pearls on eight pyramidal points, with a 
 dainty alternation of strawberry-leaves, while in 
 the number of these leaves is the superiority of 
 the duke over the marquis asserted. But in the 
 Government office who is to decide which is the 
 underling and which is the official of supreme
 
 198 LEO. 
 
 consequence? There is nothing in the external 
 presentment of the men to aid our selection. The 
 very smartest man I ever knew in my life 
 without exception was Jack Green, of the 
 r. O. The exquisite taste of that man in dress 
 was something marvellous. It would have done 
 honour to a prince of the blood. He was 
 in the choicest society, and he seemed to cast 
 a lustre about any salon. He was, of course, 
 conceived to hold an appointment under Govern- 
 ment of an extraordinary value and importance. 
 It was in some circles even a moot-point whether 
 he would or not be compelled to go out with the 
 Ministers. I was never surprised at this high 
 appraisement of my friend ; he deserved his social 
 successes, all of them, including even the rich wife 
 he ultimately secured. His manners were so dis> 
 tinguished, his cool impudence was so unparalleled, 
 his whiskers were so marvellous, his costume so 
 faultless, while his powers of small talk were quite 
 those of a Cabinet Minister. But all this while — 
 the salary of Jack Green at the F. O. was but 
 one hundred and twenty pounds per annum, and 
 not a farthing more. How he contrived to do all 
 he did upon that not large income — and I have good 
 reason for believing that he possessed no further
 
 UJX. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 199 
 
 property of any kind whatever — is one of those in- 
 scrutable mysteries into which men dare not inquire. 
 Though he looked like a Secretary of State, or at 
 least a head of a department, he was in reality 
 quite a junior clerk. Yet, see to what a pinnacle 
 society raised him, owing to its ignorance of offi- 
 cial matters, to the lack of distinctive uniforms in 
 the Civil Service, and to Jack Green's own adroit- 
 ness, and good broadcloth, and fine whiskers, and 
 conversational powers ! 
 
 It is not, then, evidently to the men themselves 
 that we must look for outward signs determining 
 their official position. "We must cast about for 
 other tests, and eventually perhaps we shall decide 
 that the question resolves itself into one of carpets. 
 For so far as I can make out, the height 
 of official ambition is to sit in a room furnished 
 with a Turkey carpet — after that there seems 
 only the Premiership, or perhaps an arch- 
 bishopric worthy of aspiration. The Turkey 
 carpet is the symbol of undoubted superiority 
 and chieftainship in the Civil Service. There 
 may be minor distinctions touching deal desks 
 and Spanish mahogany furniture; but on the 
 floor the whole business rests. You enter the 
 office at the age of sixteen, say, at a salary of
 
 200 LEO. 
 
 eighty pounds, subject to certain deductions to 
 provide for your eventual superannuation, and 
 your possible widow, and you copy letters from 
 ten till four in a room, the boards of which 
 are bare, several other young gentlemen of 
 your own standing occupying with you the 
 apartment. You advance in age, your salary 
 increases, you progress through cocoa-nut mat- 
 ting, kamptulicon, and Kidderminster, wdth pauses 
 more or less prolonged at each of these stages, 
 with fewer and fewer comrades sharing your 
 room as you advance, until at last you reach 
 that great official goal — a separate room, with a 
 Turkey carpet. Beyond this pitch of luxury it 
 does not seem possible to ascend — even in the 
 wildest dreams of the most imaginative of our 
 civil servants ; and some of them, I assure you, 
 are gentlemen of extreme gifts in this respect. 
 
 Mr. Lomax, of the Wafer Stamp Office, was a 
 Turkey carpet man. In age he was about forty, 
 he might even have been a little more, for he 
 was a carefully dressing man, and carefully 
 dressing men, I find, are always rather older 
 than they seem. A handsome man, wdtli a 
 sharp, thin, aquiline nose, large, light blue eyes, 
 the pupil a mere speck that never dilated or
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 201 
 
 lent new light or colour to the rather stony- 
 looking irids, and beautifully arched eyebrows — 
 (he had a habit of smoothing these out with his 
 little finger perhaps to show his superb diamond 
 ring) — it was these, possibly, aided by his small 
 lipless pinched mouth, that gave to his face 
 a certain supercilious expression, which many 
 of his friends accounted very aristocratic. He 
 was tall, slight, stooped a little as he walked, 
 from constant bending over his desk, as he ex- 
 plained. He wore habitually a superfine blue 
 frock-coat with much velvet about the collar; a 
 cravat of a lighter blue, beautifully white linen, 
 his starched wristbands carefully drawn down to 
 his knuckles, his hat glossy as new satin, and his 
 boots brilliantly polished. Winter or summer, 
 he wore light-coloured gloves and carried a neat 
 slim green silk umbrella. He was carefully shaven, 
 only a slight fragment of whisker, the shape of a 
 pine on an Indian shawl, was left on his cheeks ; 
 his well -formed chin was decorated with a dimple, 
 and his hair, thinning very much over his white 
 forehead, was yet adroitly arranged, the oiled 
 locks remaining being ingeniously interwoven so 
 as to conceal as much as possible this little 
 deficiency. He had a certain stiffness about the
 
 202 LEO. 
 
 neck; he never turned his head without turning 
 also his whole body ; this perhaps Interfered with 
 the abstract grace of his movements, but still It 
 imparted a degree of dignity and importance to 
 his manner. A double eye-glass, gold-rimmed, 
 swung from his neck on a broad ribbon ; 
 he had a long sight, which rendered it neces- 
 sary for him to magnify near objects ; he 
 always arranged these glasses, securing them by 
 their spring on the curve of his nose, which 
 possessed what engineers call a heavy gradient, 
 before he commenced to read or write; and the 
 action, simple in itself, yet seemed to invest these 
 ordinary occupations with a ceremonious and 
 impressive character. He was a man who, it 
 was evident, had set a high value upon himself, 
 and somehow it happened in most cases that 
 he succeeded in brlnmne; round to an almost 
 identical opinion everybody wdth whom he cam,e 
 in contact. 
 
 The Wafer Stamp Office was proud of its 
 chief — for he was the head of that important 
 branch of the Inland Revenue. And it must 
 not be imagined that it w^as an easy thing 
 to gain the good opinion of the Wafer Stamp 
 Office considered collectively, or that its applause
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 203 
 
 was given upon insufficient grounds. With the 
 exception, perhaps, of the F. O. (in which of 
 course my friend Jack Green, to whom reference 
 has ah'eady been made, is included), the Wafer 
 Stamp is probably the best dressed Government 
 office in London. There was an attempt at one 
 time to set the Admiralty, I believe, above it in 
 point of whiskers, but the ill-advised effort was 
 happily not persisted in. Certainly the manners 
 and habits of the Wafer Stamp officers are of the 
 most distinguished character. Nearly every man of 
 them at some time or other in his life has waltzed 
 with a lady of title. They never smoke short 
 pipes even in the seclusion of their own apart- 
 ments. They never carry halfpence or wear 
 cleaned gloves. Even quite the junior clerks 
 come to the office in Hansom cabs, and appear, 
 
 after four o'clock, in the Row, calmly and 
 securely seated on the most homicidal-looking 
 horses money can hire. These things may not 
 represent quite the exquisite pitch to which 
 matters are carried at the F. O., but it must 
 be conceded that they approach near it. 
 
 It was part of Mr. Lomax's duty to despatch 
 to expostulating members of the community long 
 letters on foolscap, setting forth quite a whirl of
 
 204 LEO. 
 
 titles of Acts of Parliament, and an array of 
 elaborate and argumentative sentences, to con- 
 vince the objectors how completely and certainly 
 they were liable to be assessed for Wafer Stamp 
 Duty. He had interviews with the public, or 
 such of them as were persistent in the idea of 
 their non-liability, in his snug Turkey carpeted 
 room at Whitehall. He had two manners, two 
 distinct manners, on the occasions of these in- 
 terviews. He had his grand, solemn, impressive 
 manner, which was very effective indeed, and 
 almost convincing. He waved his paper-cutter 
 like the leader of a slow movement in a symphony 
 as he sat stiffly on his padded Spanish mahogany 
 writing chair. "I assure you," he would say 
 in solemn accents, "the Commissioners have no 
 desire to put a strained interpretation upon the 
 Act under which they derive their powers. I 
 must really ask you to be cautious how you 
 venture to bring, or even to hint, such a charge 
 against the Commissioners. I really cannot con- 
 sent to sit in this room and hear you so express 
 yourself. I must counsel you at once to pay the 
 amount levied upon you to your district col- 
 lector without the delay of another hour, or we 
 shall be compelled, however reluctantly, to in-
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 205 
 
 struct the Government solicitor to take proceed- 
 ings. I should warn you also that, under clause 
 360 of the Act of last session, the Commis- 
 sioners have power to inflict a fine of treble 
 duty upon the discovery of any attempt at eva- 
 sion." With a severe glance at his visitor he 
 would ring his handbell with a rigid forefinger. 
 '^ Good morning. Door, Pawson " (to the porter), 
 " door ; show this gentleman out." And he had 
 his affable, almost jocose, manner. He would 
 stand in front of his fire, with a straddling 
 action of his legs, kicking out his feet now and 
 then from sheer animal spirits and playfulness 
 (like a young horse turned into a meadow), or 
 as though inflicting punishment upon an imagi- 
 nary foe. ''Not liable, my dear sir, not liable; 
 ha! ha! a good joke: of course you're liable. 
 We're all liable. I'm liable. I'd get off" if I 
 could, but I can't. Pay it, my dear sir ; pay it 
 at once, without further to-do, you'll find it the 
 cheapest in the end. We're terrible fellows 
 here, I can tell you; if we once make an 
 assessment we stick to you — never lose sight of 
 you; and, if you give us any trouble, by 
 George, sir, we let the Attorney-General and 
 the Lord Chancellor, and all the law officers
 
 206 LEO. 
 
 of the Crown, loose upon you like a pack of 
 hounds. You'll give in tlmi. Ha ! ha ! Take my 
 advice. Give in now. Pay it; pay it." And 
 somehow the tax generally was paid. It "was 
 hard to say w^hich of Lomax's manners was the 
 most successful. 
 
 Certainly it was difficult to resist the charm of 
 his plausibility, of his readiness, of his calm con- 
 cise way of putting things. His voice firm, yet 
 musical ; his articulation very distinct ; his smile 
 winning, showing just a flash now and then of his 
 small white teeth ; and then the convincing action 
 of his delicate hands waving from his faultless 
 wristbands, the diamond glittering as they sawed 
 the air. He was handsome, aristocratic, clever, 
 and standing on his official Turkey carpet, he 
 had greatly the advantage of his opponent. He 
 had been the younger son of a family, well 
 connected, but not rich. His mother was a 
 Chalker. He had married well ; Arnold's sister 
 Georgina, the only daughter of the late General 
 Page, of Oakmere Court, Woodlandshire : not 
 quite so well, perhaps, as he had expected, for 
 the bulk of the general's property, including the 
 land, had gone to his son. But still this 
 was all a lon^ time ago now ; the sister was
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 207 
 
 some years older than the brother; children had 
 blessed the marriage ; his wife was a clever and 
 accomplished, and had been a very beautiful, 
 woman. The husband had little reason to com- 
 plain; and he had reached the Turkey carpet 
 stage of official prosperity. 
 
 Arnold was ushered by Pawson into the Turkey 
 carpeted room. 
 
 " Ah, my dear Arnold, how are you ? Glad to 
 see you, my dear boy," cried Mr. Lomax, cheerily 
 (he adopted his jocose manner generally with his 
 brother-in-law, treating him rather paternally and 
 patronizingly, viewing him as a young and inex- 
 perienced, and not very gifted, stripling). " How 
 goes on the Temple and our law studies. You're 
 not too assiduous, I'm afraid. Ha! ha! Well, 
 well, we mustn't be too severe upon the young. 
 Perhaps, at your age, I was fonder of play than of 
 work. It's different now — perhaps I can't help 
 myself Sit down. Pawson, place a chair. Put 
 Mr. Page's hat on the side-table. I'll ring when 
 I want you. I^xcuse me, while I sign these few 
 letters. There's The Times close to you." (Reads) 
 " ' Sir, — I have the honour to inform you that 
 the Commisioners ' Dear, dear ! Commis- 
 sioners with one s again. How very careless these
 
 208 LEO. 
 
 young fellows are. Hum — hum — 1mm. Well, I 
 suppose that will do. You see, Arnold, people 
 icill object to pay their taxes. Very foolish, isn't 
 it. Yes; of course it is; because they have to 
 pay in the end. Ha ! ha ! Treble duty, some- 
 times, for trying to evade. Hope you don't intend 
 to make any default. I shall show you no mercy, 
 I assure you. I shall send a broker into the 
 Temple, and seize upon all those pretty pictures 
 you have got there. Ha ! ha ! Here, Pawson, 
 I've sig-ned these letters. Ask Mr. Fitz-Elliott if 
 there's anything more he wants of me ? No ! 
 Very well, then. Now, Arnold, we've got half 
 an hour to ourselves. I go by the 3.45. Very 
 convenient the Waterloo Station, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Have you anything particular to tell me ? " 
 asked Arnold. 
 
 " One or two things ; not very particular, my 
 dear boy, but I wanted to hear your opinion. 
 By the way, Georgina's very angry that you 
 haven't been down to see her for so long a time. 
 You'll have enough to do to make your peace 
 with her when you do go, I can promise you. 
 But, as I tell her, the town offers so many attrac- 
 tions to a young man, and it is dull at Oakmere — 
 really dull ; and then I know the thought of
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 209 
 
 business to be done there lias kept you away, 
 I know it as well as possible. YouVe been fright- 
 ening yourself with the notion of accounts to be 
 examined, and lists looked into, and new leases 
 to be signed, and interviews with the tenants, 
 and all that sort of thing. Ha! ha! I've done 
 what I could to spare you that. Altogether I 
 don't wonder that you hesitate to quit that 
 snug place of yours in the Temple, where 
 you have every comfort round you, and all your 
 friends and associates at hand, for of course at 
 your time of life it's with the men of your own 
 standing that you want to associate, not with 
 families and fogies — like me, for instance. Yes ; 
 for I'm growing a fogy, Arnold. Ha ! ha ! posi- 
 tively a fogy. Well, well, but you must come 
 soon, if it's only to see the great improvements 
 I've been making about the house and grounds. 
 I've thrown out a conservatory in front of the 
 drawing-room window. Georgina keeps her plants 
 there, and her birds, with a fountain in the 
 middle. You can't conceive how very pretty in 
 effect this is. Then I've made a new terrace 
 walk on the left side of the Italian garden. I've 
 rebuilt the pinery, and now I'm throwing out 
 a new wing on the west side of the house. It 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 LEO. 
 
 will be very comfortable in winter ; capital parlour 
 and billiard-room, with a charming boudoir above 
 for Georgina; the one on the other side was so 
 terribly cold, and so confined. I'm quite sure," 
 added Mr. Lomax, perhaps in answer to a peculiar 
 expression in the face of his brother-in-law, 
 *^ I'm quite sure I shall have your hearty approval 
 of all I've done. Of course, these alterations 
 have cost money — that I needn't say ; but still I'm 
 sure you'll like them." 
 
 " I hope so," said Arnold, rather seriously, 
 ** but I have an objection to the old place being 
 pulled about. It always seemed to me to be very 
 complete and comfortable, either for winter or 
 summer; however, perhaps it is my own fault 
 for not being down there oftener than I have 
 been. I had no idea when you spoke of making 
 a few changes, that you had such extensive plans 
 in contemplation." 
 
 " My dear fellow, you'll be delighted with 
 them, take my word for it. Georgina has super- 
 vised the whole business. She has exerted herself 
 to quite a surprising extent, and you know what 
 exquisite taste she has in things of this kind — 
 really exquisite." 
 
 Arnold did not look so satisfied on this head
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STA:MP OFFICE. 211 
 
 as the husband of the lady. (But then we know 
 how brothers underrate their sisters.) 
 
 *^ Was it to tell me this you wanted to see 
 me ? " asked Arnold. 
 
 "No, my dear boy, only in part. You've 
 really great natural talent for business, Arnold, 
 if you would only do yourself justice ; that remark 
 shows it — that desire to go at once straight to 
 the gist of a matter. Quite right and proper ; 
 I applaud you for it. I really do. It's an age 
 of periphrasis, beating about the bush — circum- 
 locution, as people say, laughing at our office 
 manners, and it's very true — very true, indeed. 
 No ; what I wanted to say to you was this : I'll 
 put the matter into as few words as possible, for 
 I know you don't want to be detained any longer 
 than can be avoided, and I know that / want 
 to catch the 3.45 to Oakmere. Ha ! ha ! well 
 then, look here. The Oakmere property was 
 yours, under your father's will — subject to an 
 annual charge of no great amount in favour of 
 your sister, Georgina, for her life. Now has it 
 ever struck you that the property has been 
 greatly over-valued? No, I daresay not. But 
 I've been looking into the matter. Your father 
 always regarded it as representing a certain in- 
 
 14—2
 
 212 LEO. 
 
 come of so much, and lie lived up to that amount. 
 You have followed m his footsteps. I can't blame 
 you for so doing. Your expenses have been less 
 than his, still they have been heavy, and the plain 
 fact of the matter is, that you have both been 
 living at a rate in excess of the income arisino; 
 from the property." 
 
 ^' Is this so ? " inquired Arnold, with an air 
 of surprise. 
 
 ^^ It is indeed. I have been at some pains to 
 go into the matter. Now, as you must be aware, 
 this state of things cannot go on for long without 
 you're feeling the shoe pinch you." 
 
 " I had no conception of this." 
 
 " Nor had I. Still there is no cause of alarm. 
 The fact is — the plain fact is, that the property has 
 been badly handled — very badly handled; there has 
 been great neglect; there has been a want of super- 
 vision. The tenants have had too much their own 
 way, and the estate has deteriorated dreadfully, 
 I must say, since it came into your father's hands, 
 and entirely owing to a bad system of manage- 
 ment. No doubt, too, your father was imposed 
 upon by the people about him. He was a man, 
 perhaps rather likely to be imposed upon. He 
 was so frank and true and generous himself,
 
 MR. LOJklAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 213 
 
 that he was very slow to believe ill of any 
 one. In many points, Arnold, you resemble him 
 remarkably." 
 
 « But the remedy ? " 
 
 "Well, is simple enough — a different system, 
 some retrenchment, a less draught upon the 
 income of the estate, and, what is very important, 
 a liberal expenditure upon the property in the 
 way of improvements. We've fallen behind the 
 age, in fact. We have to deal with land now, as 
 with everything else, upon a very different system 
 to that formerly prevailing. The thing is very 
 clear, only people were some time before they 
 found it out. Improve your property, and you 
 improve your rental. The more money you 
 spend upon your land, the more money over 
 and over again your land will return to 
 
 you." 
 
 Arnold rose and walked about the room rather 
 disturbed in manner. 
 
 " I am afraid," he said, " I have to reproach 
 myself with much neglect. I ought to have 
 seen to all this before ; it ought not to have been 
 left to you to make these discoveries ; but some- 
 how I've fallen into a habit of takino; thino;s 
 too much for granted.
 
 214 LEO. 
 
 " Come, come — you mustn't take a too serious 
 view of the thing ; there's nothing to be alarmed 
 about, or to grieve over. It was only likely, 
 that when with my steady business notions — ha ! 
 lia! you must give some credit to official habits, 
 Arnold — that when I came to look into the matter 
 I should lay my hand upon one or two little defects 
 and shortcomings like this." 
 
 " But what would you have me do now, 
 Lomax ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you, very briefly, for the time's 
 running on" (he glanced at his handsome gold 
 watch). " I'll tell you how to improve your 
 property, and without present loss of income, 
 for no man likes retrenchment; I know that 
 very well. We talk of it as an easy thing, but 
 it's really doosid difficult. I ought to know; 
 I've tried it often enough. Ha ! ha ! Well, look 
 here : in the first place, we must raise money upon 
 mortgage of the Oakmere property." 
 
 ^^ Mortgage ! Do you remember how my father 
 used to speak of mortgages ? " 
 
 ^' Yes, yes, my dear boy, I remember ; he 
 had old-fashioned ideas upon the subject, and 
 circumstances are really so diffi3rent to what 
 they used to be. And you will not really
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 215 
 
 be borrowing money, you will be investing 
 it. Now, look here. Say we borrow a sum 
 of fifty thousand upon the estate — at five per 
 cent. We might even get it at four and a 
 half; there are always people who will only 
 lend money upon land — timid investors, say, or 
 trustees who are bound to invest their trust 
 funds upon real or government securities. You 
 can always borrow upon land in that way, and 
 at a comparatively low rate of interest. Well, 
 say we raise fifty thousand upon mortgage of 
 the estate ? " 
 
 " But wouldn't it do as well," Arnold interrupted, 
 " to borrow of my banker, upon a deposit of the 
 title deeds ? " 
 
 Mr. Lomax looked curiously at his brother-in- 
 law for a moment. 
 
 " Yes," he said, after a pause, " certainly, that 
 course is open to you. It is quite a matter of 
 opinion. I see myself many objections to borrow- 
 ing money of a banker in that way. You let 
 him too much into the secrets of the prison-house. 
 One doesn't want one's banker to know every- 
 thing. And it's a mortgage after all; if that's 
 what you're fighting against, it's an equitable 
 mortgage, as you very well know. Besides,
 
 216 LEO. 
 
 suppose lie calls in his money, you must go else- 
 where for a loan then, and there's — at least I 
 think so — a sense of obligation about borrowing of 
 one's banker — to any important amount. I should 
 say at once go to a third party for the money ; 
 an Insurance Office, or public company with money 
 to lend, for instance. There's the Ostrich now. 
 I happen to know that the Ostrich would be glad 
 to lend a large sum in this way." 
 
 " Well, pardon my interruption ; continue, 
 ^^lease." 
 
 " Well, we raise this money — never mind how 
 at present, we raise it — fifty thousand, say." 
 
 *' Isn't that a very large sum — more than is 
 necessary ? " 
 
 " You see the expense is much the same ; the 
 examination into title and preparation of deeds 
 much the same, whether you raise five thousand 
 or fifty. But I will show you why I name a 
 large sum. You sink half, say, in the improve- 
 ment of your property — of course you cannot look 
 for immediate return from that; the rest you re- 
 invest. How ? In a Avay which Avill bring you 
 sufficient to keep down the interest of the mort- 
 gage, and yet leave you a balance of income even 
 above that you are at present enjoying. Invest
 
 ME. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 217 
 
 in railway, mining, insurance companies ; I can 
 put you in the way of securing most admirable 
 investments in things of that kind." 
 
 " But won't that be speculating ? " 
 
 " My dear Arnold ! You don't call buying 
 Bank stock speculating, do you — because its price 
 varies with the condition of the market ? Well, 
 these things I have mentioned are just as safe as 
 Bank stock, though of course they are liable in 
 the same way to fluctuation in value. Now, from 
 peculiar circumstances, I happen to know of some 
 very admirable investments — investments beyond 
 the reach of the general public; for of course 
 there's always a public greedy enough and grasp- 
 ing enough after such things. But, in fact, these 
 investments don't come into the market ; they're 
 kept well out of the market by persons well 
 informed in the matter, who know the reason 
 why, and all about it." (He unlocked a drawer 
 in his desk, and took out a bundle of papers, 
 which he turned over as he spoke.) " Here are 
 some shares now to be had in the Ostrich 
 Insurance Company — a really splendid thing — 
 safe to pay twelve per cent., and indeed I see no 
 reason why it shouldn't pay twenty, or even five- 
 and-twenty. Then there's this new Mining Com-
 
 218 LEO. 
 
 pan J, — the Dom Ferdinando El Rev Silver Mining 
 Company, at Tezcotzinco, a most superb tiling. 
 It's close to the Dom Bobadillo, which has paid 
 its shareholders very nearly ninety per cent. ; the 
 income accrumg upon its shares, ten pounds paid 
 up only, is something enormous. Then there's the 
 Cape Comorin, Hyderabad and Delhi direct Rail- 
 way, with an imperial guarantee of six per cent., 
 and the positive certainty of a return of fifteen per 
 cent, from passenger traffic alone in the course 
 of a very short time. You know, these things — 
 it's all very well to talk about speculation — but 
 these thino^s are as 2:ood as o-old, as safe as the 
 Bank of England." 
 
 "But do I understand you to say that I can 
 obtain shares in these undertakino;s without havincr 
 to pay enormous premiums ? " 
 
 '^ You can have them almost at par — almost at 
 par — owing — owing to a remarkable train of cir- 
 cumstances — a recurrence of which is hardly 
 possible." 
 
 Arnold, wondering, looked at his brother-in- 
 law. Mr. Lomax seemed a little nervous and 
 fidgety as his white hands collected the papers 
 and thrust them into the drawer again, turning 
 the key upon them. He walked to the window.
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WAPER STAMP OFFICE. 219 
 
 Some men, if they have an important communi- 
 cation to make, like always to have their backs 
 to the light, their faces in shadow. Perhaps 
 Mr. Lomax was of this way of thinking. 
 
 " I may say at once plainly and openly — I 
 really don't see why one shouldn't be perfectl3'' 
 frank about what — after all, is simply a matter 
 of business — I may say at once then, that I can 
 procure you shares in these remarkable invest- 
 ments, the profits accruing from which I consider 
 to be absolutely certain. In fact, the shares 
 which I propose should be transferred to your 
 name, stand at present in mine. And in this way. 
 You may remember, that I was left guardian 
 of my poor brother George's children. George 
 had married well, you know — a daughter of 
 Strongbow, the great boiler-maker — so under 
 his will I found myself trustee, for the benefit 
 of my nieces, of a very considerable amount of 
 funded property. The land went to his eldest 
 son. Well, 1 considered myself bound to do the 
 best I could for the benefit of the orphans. I 
 was the surviving trustee, the money stood in 
 my name. I thought they ought to get a better 
 return than the Bank would give them ; I sold 
 out ; I re-invested the money in these securities.
 
 220 LEO. 
 
 and others of a similar kind. Well, the eldest 
 girl is, as you know, grown up now. She is 
 engaged to be married to young Lord Mardale. 
 Her share of the money left by her father will 
 have to be transferred into the names of the 
 trustees of her marriage settlement. Well, it 
 seems that, strictly speaking, I had no right, in 
 spite of the evident advantages of the change — 
 and the great increase of income to be derived 
 from it — I had no right to invest the money in 
 other than government or real securities— and 
 I am bound therefore to reinstate the sum of 
 money, precisely as it stood originally invested ; 
 and you will perceive that I am in fact upon the 
 horns of a dilemma, when I inform you that I 
 am under a pledge — a distinct pledge unfortu- 
 nately — I cannot think now how I could have 
 been so foolish as to have tied my hands in such 
 a way — a pledge not to bring these securities 
 into the market, because a forced sale, in this 
 way, might give rise to alarming reports, and 
 produce, indeed, disastrous consequences." 
 
 " Notwithstanding the eligibility of the under- 
 taking?" 
 
 " Notwithstanding even that. You will see, 
 then, that I occupy a situation of some little diffi-
 
 ]MR. LOMAX OF THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 221 
 
 cultj. On the one hand, I am bound to buy into 
 the funds ; on the other, I am forbidden to sell out 
 my railway and other securities. I must own that 
 I have laid myself open to a charge of indis- 
 cretion." 
 
 '' What's called a breach of trust, in fact." 
 
 " Well, yes ; something of that kind ; though 
 you will understand that I have been acting — if a 
 little irregularly — still purely with a view to the 
 benefit of my wards. You will see, too, that quite 
 apart even from your own interests — for I desire to 
 put the thing fairly before you — it is a matter of 
 convenience to me to find a private purchaser of 
 these shares." 
 
 " Couldn't you take them yourself? " 
 
 " No ; all my available funds are tied up in a 
 way that I dare not disturb." 
 
 Arnold hesitated. 
 
 '^ Let me see. Your eldest niece — why, that 
 must be Caroline — wasn't that the girl you pro- 
 posed to me that I should marry ? " 
 
 *^ Well ; yes. I think I did say something about 
 it once. She's a very charming girl, and very 
 accomplished. I'm sure a very desirable woman 
 for any man to marry." 
 
 " And I suppose if I had married her, the ques-
 
 222 LEO. 
 
 tion about the chano:e of investments wouldn't have 
 arisen." 
 
 Mr. Lomax looked suspiciously out of his light 
 blue eyes. Had he admitted too much ? He quite 
 blushed ; and his white hands shook. He made a 
 dash at his jocose manner, and gained it — very 
 nearly. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " he laughed, with some effort. 
 " Well; if my brother-in-law had married my 
 niece, you see that in the complication of relation- 
 ship that would have arisen, perhaps we should 
 have forgotten these little nuances of strict right 
 and wrong in the matter of trusteeship. How- 
 ever, that's all over. You're to marry our friend 
 Carr's daughter. Caroline must console herself 
 as w^ell as she can, ha ! ha ! with Lord Mardale, 
 and the money will be reinstated — invested in 
 the name of their trustees in the funds, or in 
 what securities they please. I shall have washed 
 my hands of it — and these shares, most desirable 
 things, I must say — I only wish I could afford 
 to keep them myself — will stand in future in the 
 name of Arnold Page, Esq., of the Temple, Lon- 
 don, and Oakmere Court, Woodlandshire, eh ? " 
 
 " Well," said Arnold, slowly, " you see it's a 
 question one can't decide upon on the instant."
 
 MR. LOMAX OF THE WATER STAMP OFFICE. 223 
 
 " Very true ; at the same time you must 
 remember on the other hand, that the matter 
 cannot be left open very long. You must turn 
 it over in your mind. I should be sorry to 
 influence you either one way or the other — of 
 course, if you don't take the shares some one else 
 will ; at the same time I do think it would be a 
 pity, a great pity, if you were to miss so excellent 
 an opportunity of retrieving your position, and 
 at the same time of improving your estate." 
 
 '^ But there will be calls upon these shares, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " Well, yes. No doubt, as time goes on, there 
 will be calls on the shares. What, then ? You'll 
 be able to meet them. They'll give full notice, 
 and you'll be always able to provide the money. 
 Besides, upon your marriage with IMiss Carr, 
 there can be no doubt that our friend and neigh- 
 bour will put you in possession of a very hand- 
 some amount, in ready money, paid down on 
 the nail, as people say." 
 
 "Do you think he would like his daughter's 
 money to be applied in such a way ? " 
 
 " How could he object ? How could he pre- 
 vent it? I mean that he could have no possible 
 objection. The advantages of these investments
 
 224 LEO. 
 
 must be patent to every one. Besides, there's 
 another view I should like you to take of this 
 matter. What do you propose to do with yourself 
 in the future? What career do you think of 
 adopting ? You have many elegant and delightful 
 pursuits at present: literature, music, the fine 
 arts, and so on. Yery charming, indeed. But 
 tliese are simply pastimes, after all; you must 
 aspire to something beyond these. Of course, 
 you've a very good chance of sitting for Wood- 
 landshire some day. Why not try to qualify 
 yourself for a public and parliamentary life? 
 Say, you take these shares ; you acquire an 
 interest in business undertakings of very con- 
 siderable importance. What is there to hinder 
 you with your influence and position from step- 
 ping into the Direction, having a voice in the 
 management of these concerns? I should really 
 like to see you with a little more ambition, 
 Arnold. You don't do yourself justice ; you don't, 
 indeed. You have remarkable intelligence, great 
 natural talent ; you might really distinguish your- 
 self in the conduct of affairs of this kind. I 
 have not the least doubt the Ostrich would be 
 glad to have you on its Board. I am quite 
 sure that the directors of the Dom Ferdinando
 
 ]\IK. LOMAX or THE WAFER STAMP OFFICE. 225 
 
 would see you among them with a great deal 
 of pleasure. Of course my position here as a 
 servant of the Government forbids my dreaming 
 of anything of this kind. But there is nothing 
 to prevent you. You would find a director- 
 ship after all would take up little enough 
 of your time, while it would be, in a way, 
 educating you for a future share in the carrying 
 on of public affairs. Believe me, you should 
 think twice before you fling away an opportunity 
 of this really valuable kind. Seriously, I must 
 say that your present system of life — so far, of 
 course, as I am able to judge — seems to me of 
 a sadly and dangerously lotos- eating character. 
 You will fall into lethargic habits of mind, from 
 which you will find it very difficult to rouse 
 yourself." 
 
 " There's truth in what you say," said Arnold, 
 musingly. 
 
 " Of course there is, my dear boy ; indolence 
 grows on men terribly. Go on like this, and 
 3'ou'll be a fat man before you are five-and-thirty ! 
 Ha ! ha ! one thing, hard work preserves one's 
 figure. Ha! ha! by George" — (the watch again) — 
 " I've missed the train ! what will Georgina say ! 
 Well, well, it can't be helped ! I must dine in town, 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 LEO. 
 
 that's all, and you must dine ^YItll me, Arnold, 
 you must indeed. We've got a new cook at the 
 Mausoleum. Frangipani his name is. Let me see, 
 you belong to the Junior Adonis — Ah ! that's a 
 little too fast for me ; I find the Mausoleum very 
 quiet and comfortable. We'll take a turn in the 
 park first, though I suppose there's hardly a soul 
 left there now. Pawson, I'm going." 
 
 They dined at the Mausoleum accordingly — 
 the Burgundy was excellent. 
 
 " What would old Mr. Carr say to my becoming 
 a director of a public company, I wonder ! " Arnold 
 asked himself, as he returned to the Temple. 
 
 " If he knew that the title deeds were already 
 pledged ! " muttered Mr. Lomax, as he took his 
 seat in a late train to Oakmere. 
 
 He was well known on the line; the railway 
 servants saluted him with effusion.
 
 22; 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 
 
 The notification to the effect that apartments were 
 to be let furnished, and that inquiry concerning 
 them was to be made within, which, as we have 
 shown, had whilom been wafered to the window 
 of a newsvender's shop in Coppice Row, Clerken- 
 well, was now withdrawn. Mrs. Simmons had 
 secured her full complement of lodgers. The 
 young lady who had been for a few days a patient 
 in the hands of Dr. Hawkshaw, of St. Lazarus 
 Hospital, and a cause of much anxiety to Mr. 
 Robin Hooper and (but in a less degree, by 
 reason of the distractions of his medical and 
 musical studies) to his friend, Mr. Phelp Gossett, 
 had become tenant of the vacant rooms, and there 
 was a disposition to agree upon the whole that 
 she was what was called " a desirable lodger." 
 The peculiar circumstances, however, attending 
 her first introduction to the house, though remem- 
 
 15—2
 
 228 LEO. 
 
 bered less vividly, were by no means forgotten. 
 Certain mysteries still obscured the motives of 
 much of her conduct, and, of course, there were 
 not wanting in Coppice Row and its vicinage 
 commentators upon these. Coppice Row had 
 never been disinclined to discuss the doings 
 of its friends and acquaintances. The guests, 
 residents for the most part in Clerkenwell, 
 who assembled nightly in the parlour of the 
 " Spotted Dog," and had constituted themselves into 
 a sort of Amateur Committee of Public Safety, 
 keeping a strict and jealous eye upon both the 
 interests of Europe and the privileges of their 
 own immediate parish, and for whose watchfulness 
 no occurrence at home or abroad was either too 
 magnific or too minute ; the conclave at the 
 *^ Spotted Dog " had had in due course this sub- 
 ject before them for consideration. " Brother " 
 Simmons — for the members of the assembly 
 bestowed upon each other that prefix, probably 
 from some confused association of their pro- 
 ceedings with the formulae of courts of law and 
 Masonic lodges (otherwise, they were fond of 
 maintaining a parliamentary tone, though in that 
 was traceable at times a decided and undis- 
 guisable tap-room fervour) — Brother Simmons
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 229 
 
 had been invited to inform liis colleagues fully 
 upon the topic before them. In the peculiar 
 phraseology of the assembly in such cases, he was 
 desired " to contribute to the harmony of the 
 evening," by stating all he knew relative to his 
 wife's lodger. This " harmony of the evening," 
 indeed, seemed to be quite the motto and watch- 
 word of the meeting — stress was constantly laid 
 upon it as upon a most precious palladium — just 
 as the words " trial by jury," say, or " civil 
 and religious liberty," are recognized among 
 more important communities as representing insti- 
 tutions pregnant with value. Brother Simmons 
 had responded to that toast (for so, curiously 
 enough, he proceeded to describe the invitation), 
 in an address of considerable length and in- 
 considerable intelligence. But, in plain truth. 
 Brother Simmons could not give information to 
 the meeting, for the simple reason that he had no 
 information to give. He knew nothing whatever 
 concernino; his wife's lodger. The matter was out 
 of his department. And he was the less likely 
 to obtain knowledge on the subject, from the fact 
 that his attendance at the " Spotted Dog " meeting 
 was in direct opposition to the injunctions of his 
 wife. A severe reprimand awaited tlie return
 
 230 LEO. 
 
 of the newsvender and ex-harlequin to his own 
 fireside. Mrs. Simmons seldom spared her hus- 
 band. She had found by experience that a 
 merciful or sentimental policy in regard to him 
 was an error that recoiled seriously upon herself. 
 And, after all, there was little enough to be told 
 even by Mrs. Simmons as to the lodger. Dr. 
 Plawkshaw had drawn from her the confession 
 that her name was Milne — Janet Milne. " She's 
 a lady, that I know," said Mrs. Simmons, "and 
 the baby's as good as gold in her arms. And 
 the way she takes it from that girl Nancy is 
 qiiite a picture. A lady every inch of her." 
 Mrs. Simmons was satisfied, then, to ask few 
 questions concerning the new comer. Perhaps 
 her professional duties had begotten in her a 
 certain respect and liking for a mystery. How 
 many melodramas at the Paroquet had hinged 
 upon an awful secret ? She looked forward very 
 likely to revelation at the proper time, when the 
 band would have its cue for the appropriate music 
 and the green curtain would loosen in the flies 
 ready to descend and close the drama. She could 
 wait till then. 
 
 Miss Milne had entered upon the occupation of 
 the vacant rooms. Her stock of money was
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 231 
 
 slender, as Mrs. Simmons had ascertained when 
 she examined the contents of her lodger's pocket. 
 But the charges in the Coppice Row Establish- 
 ment were not high, and Mrs. Simmons had 
 every confidence, as she stated, in the integrity 
 of the new comer. True ; she had no luggage, 
 and expenditure had been inevitable to procure 
 certain wardrobe necessaries. But even then a 
 balance had been left. The purchases had been 
 of the most moderate kind. And the w\ay in 
 which she took the baby from Nancy ! with 
 such a delightful regard for the safety of its 
 back! After that there was no fear that Mrs. 
 Simmons should press harshly for the settlement 
 of her little account for board and lodging. 
 
 "A perfect lady," quoth the actress. "I'm 
 sure it's quite a treat to talk with her, after the 
 people one does meet, and the things one has 
 to put up with, and Simmons conducting himself 
 like the monster he is. It's a comfort to have her 
 in the house. And the baby — bless it ! — taking 
 to her ever so kindly. I can leave the house with 
 twice the confidence now, without fidgeting my- 
 self, as over and over again I have done, with the 
 notion that Nancy has let it fall and bruised 
 its precious head ; or that Amelia's been drinking
 
 232 LEO. 
 
 out of tlie boiling kettle, or set fire to herself; or 
 that little Jemmy's been breaking every window 
 in the place, or put his sister's eyes out with 
 his peg-top. And to think of her helping me 
 to turn my old green silk, ironing it out with her 
 own white hands, and making it up again for me. 
 Why, it looks for all the world as good as new ; 
 and I'm sure it never fitted me half so well before 
 as it does now. And all done so nicely and 
 simply, without any fuss or bother, or making me 
 feel that she was conferring an obligation, or a 
 favour, or anything of that sort. Poor thing ! so 
 young and so pretty, with such gentle ways about 
 her, and such a sweet soft voice. Yet she must 
 have seen some trouble too, or she'd never look so 
 sad ; and she's very delicate — one can see that at 
 once: so pale, and slight, and starting at every 
 noise, even when the door opens suddenly — as 
 timid as a hare. Wants to be a governess, she 
 says, though she has never given lessons before. 
 Well, I'm sure she'd be a treasure to any family 
 — the best in the land. And such a nice way as 
 she's got with children, managing them so nicel}', 
 without any noise, and the poor things getting so 
 fond of her too. Why, there's little Jemmy, who 
 can't bear his lessons as a rule, and runs from
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 233 
 
 his spelling-book like a mad dog from water — 
 why, the child will stand by her side all the 
 mornincr while she teaches him the French for 
 this, that, and the other; opens his eyes as wide 
 as may be, and gets it all off by heart quite 
 wonderfully. It's the way she has of teaching — 
 that's what it is ; and I'm sure it's a first-rate 
 thing for little Jemmy. I know I wish I knew 
 French. Many's the pound a person may make 
 by their knowledge of it. Why, there's young 
 Mobbs, the prompter's son, a mere boy though he 
 is married, and his wife, a sweet-tempered young 
 thino; ensjao-ed in the ladies' dressincr-room at the 
 theatre, and put to bed with twins only last Mid- 
 summer, — poor lamb! she never had any talent for 
 the stage, for she's a bad stammer, and her figure's 
 not good, and you must have that to succeed 
 at the theatre, — well, young Mobbs is a very 
 clever Frenchman, I'm told; and has constant 
 employment to translate for the theatre. He's as 
 good as a regular engagement to translate from 
 the French ; sends in an act a week, and draws 
 his thirty shillings from the treasury for it every 
 Saturday night, regular as clock-work ; and he 
 says it only takes him a few hours' work. That's 
 brag, very likely, for young Mobbs is conceited.
 
 234 LEO. 
 
 But still, Avliat a splendid tiling it would be for 
 little Jemmy, if lie should ever be able to do 
 anything as good as that — thirty shillings a 
 week for knowing French I I'm sure you'll be a 
 good boy and stick to your book, and learn as fast 
 as you can, and do all that kind Miss Milne tells 
 you. Won't you. Jemmy ? There's a dear child. 
 Kiss his mother, then, precious. And what a 
 sweet singer she is, Mr. Gossett. Ah ! you're 
 a judge. I'm sure I never heard such singing. 
 Pure as a bell her voice is. I'm not a musician 
 m^^self, and I haven't much ear. I never could 
 sing myself, not to speak of. Even in my 
 young days, when down at Bath, I always disliked 
 the part of Ophelia on that account. I felt that 
 I wasn't the thing in it. But I know good 
 singing when I hear it as well as anybody; 
 and I'm sure Miss Milne's voice sounds to me 
 the perfection of music. There ; and I don't care 
 who says it doesn't." 
 
 " She's got a very jolly soprano," says Mr. 
 Gossett, thus appealed to. He was sitting in his 
 shirt-sleeves before his piccolo piano. He had 
 been thundering Rossini's Pro Peccatis, with 
 superb volume of voice, dwelling on the sonorous 
 bass notes of the music with an intense enjoyment
 
 MKS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 235 
 
 — perhaps dragging the time a little here and 
 tliere, to exhibit fullv the glorious character of his 
 portamento, " A very jolly soprano. I heard her 
 give out a little roulade the other day as she came 
 downstairs^ accompanying something I was play- 
 ing on the piano. By George, it was beautiful. 
 Perfectly in tune, and exquisitely sweet in quality. 
 Produced, too, without the slightest effort and 
 with no nonsense at all about it, because she could 
 not have known that I could hear her." 
 
 " Oh, she's above all that," said Mrs. Simmons, 
 decisively. 
 
 " I should like to hear her sing the " Quand je 
 quittais," from Robert. Wouldn't it be fine ? Or 
 the final trio — with Rob in the tenor part — to my 
 Bertram — how glorious ! " And Mr. Gossett twirled 
 up his moustaches, thrust his hair behind his ears, 
 rolled his eyes — assumed, in short, his most de- 
 moniac expression, and began singing furiously — 
 
 O tourmcnt! supplied 
 Mon fils, mon scul bonlicur, 
 A mes voeux sois propice, 
 J 'en appcllc ii ton eoeur. 
 
 I rather think that would bring the house down 
 — even a frigid London opera audience ; don't you 
 think so, Mrs. S. ? "
 
 236 LEO. 
 
 " How pretty slie'd look in the peasant girl's 
 dress," said Mrs. Simmons. "I wear a dress very 
 like that in The Murder of the Red Barn, and 
 it's very becoming. I always get two rounds of 
 applause directly I come on in it. Was that the 
 baby crying ? " 
 
 "And shouldn't I look fine as Bertram — all 
 black velvet and flame-coloured lining, and a big- 
 cloak to stretch out like bat's wings ? By George ! 
 I think as soon as I can get any money I'll have 
 the dress made ; one can't tell how soon it may 
 come in useful. What o'clock is it ? I must be 
 off to lecture. Where did I put that book I was 
 reading — Madden on Monomania"^ Oh, here it 
 is. By the way, Mrs. Simmons, if Miss Milne 
 would like to practise on my piano when I am 
 away, it's quite at her service ; I dare say she 
 would, particularly if she's as fond of music as 
 I am. I ought to have thought of it before. 
 I shall be home to tea, I dare say, at the usual 
 time. Tell Rob, if he should happen to call when 
 I'm out." And Mr. Gossett hurried away to his 
 medical duties. 
 
 " If I dared, I'd ask her to give Amelia a 
 musical lesson," said Mrs. Simmons. "People 
 may make money any day by knowing music.
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGEE. 237 
 
 There's a brother-in-law of one of the young 
 ladies at the theatre makes an excellent thino: of 
 it, accompanying songs at a music hall. I've never 
 heard him, but they tell me he plays beautifully. 
 Yes ; I dare say Miss Milne w^ould like to practise 
 now and then on Gossett's piano. I'll tell her of 
 it at once. It would be a first-rate thing for 
 Amelia if she knew music." 
 
 Miss Milne availed herself of Mr. Gossett's 
 good nature. She would often play on the piccolo; 
 sometimes she would sing, accompanying herself 
 — growing quite abstracted and forgetful as the 
 music drew her from herself and the present into 
 a marvellous world of its own. The melody over 
 — the charm broken — there were tears in her 
 glowing eyes, and her heart was throbbing almost 
 painfully. 
 
 " How exquisite ! " said a voice close to her, 
 on one of these occasions. She sprang away 
 trembling, amazed, frightened. But she smiled 
 soon at her own alarm. Robin Hooper stood at 
 her side. 
 
 " Do you like it ? " she asked ; " it is a simple 
 air by Palestrina, a little old-fashioned, perhaps, 
 but it always seems to me to be full of beauty 
 and tenderness ; and it moves me quite absurdly —
 
 238 LEO. 
 
 it makes me forget everything. I must really 
 2:ive over singino- it." 
 
 ^' oil, no/' said Robin ; ^^ pi'ay, don't do 
 that." 
 
 "Fm strailgely nervous and timid now," she 
 said. " I don't know what's come to me. I used 
 to think I was quite brave at one time, but 
 now " — and she hesitated. 
 
 "You've been ill, you know," Robin urged, 
 soothingly ; " you've only just recovered ; you 
 mustn't expect too much all at once." 
 
 " But I'm well now — well enough to leave here ; 
 and I must leave, too, very soon." 
 
 " When will you go ? " he asked, with some 
 anxiety. 
 
 She paused for a few moments, as though strug- 
 gling with herself. 
 
 "^ You have been very kind to me, Mr. Hooper," 
 she said at length, in a low, hurried tone. " Believe 
 me, I shall never forget your kindness, even if I 
 were to go from here now and never see you 
 again." 
 
 He was about to interrupt, but a slight move- 
 ment of her hand stayed him. 
 
 " I have met with great kindness here — not 
 from you only — more than I had any right to
 
 MRS. SUMMONS'S LODGER. 239 
 
 expect — more than I can ever hope to repay — 
 great goodness — great forbearance. But there 
 are many reasons why I should now leave this 
 place and my friends here — for they have been 
 true friends. Perhaps one reason is sufficient. 
 What avails to disguise the fact ? — I am poor — 
 I have my bread to earn." 
 
 Again he was about to speak — to offer her 
 pecuniary aid, perhaps. She thought so evidently, 
 for the blood crimsoned her cheeks and neck, and 
 she lowered her eyes. Robin felt quite hot, and 
 trembling, and wretched, seeing this. How he 
 had pained her! Would she ever pardon the 
 gross good nature which was thinking of offering 
 her money ? How thankful he was that he had 
 not put his thought into words. Forgiveness then 
 had been impossible — quite. But she seemed to 
 be annoyed at her own confusion ; perhaps ashamed 
 of the pride from which it sprung. 
 
 " I have a deep sense of your kindness," she 
 went on — she had noticed his embarrassment, 
 understood it, and hurried, even at some self- 
 sacrifice, to relieve it — " and I have a deep fliitli 
 in your willingness to assist me in any way. I 
 shall not forget that the first kind words I heard in 
 this great city came from your lips ; and, indeed.
 
 240 LEO. 
 
 I should not scruple to beg your aid again, in 
 any shape, should I need it. I am sure I should 
 not have to ask in vain." 
 
 " How noble ! — how generous ! — how good she 
 is ! " murmured Robin ; " and how she reads my 
 heart! My life is at her service — she may be 
 sure of it — now — at any time." 
 
 "It has been unavoidable," she continued, "that 
 some mystery has surrounded my coming here. I 
 would have had it otherwise, if I could. But at 
 present, this must be so — less for my sake, per- 
 haps, than for others. Some day, perhaps, I 
 may be able to disclose everything ; it is due 
 to you who have been so kind to me — to all 
 my good friends here — that I should do so. 
 Suffice it that I am poor and friendless. If I 
 have relations in London," she said, with much 
 agitation, " believe that strong reasons exist for 
 my not applying to them for assistance — for my 
 not making myself and my situation here known 
 to them. Call me still Miss — Milne — Janet Milne 
 — a governess — or one trying so to earn a living." 
 
 " You have given lessons before?" Robin asked, 
 timidly. 
 
 " No," she answered ; " but I must do so now. 
 I can teach music, French, singing. I have Kved
 
 241 
 
 niucli abroad. Give me your aid to obtain em- 
 plo}'ment in teaching these things." 
 
 " Be sure that I will/' cried Robin, fervently, 
 *' to the utmost of my po\Yer. I will solicit, too, 
 all my friends to assist you. I will ask Arnold 
 Page, he is well connected ; and through his sister, 
 Mrs. Lomax, there can be no doubt that we shall 
 be able to find something that may suit you. But 
 do not overtax your strength. Are you sure you 
 are well enough to leave this place yet? Are 
 you sure you can undertake the fatigue of such 
 duties ? And pray don't be anxious ; — you are 
 safe now, and you have fi-iends who will never 
 cease to labour for your welfare." 
 
 Earnestly Robin encouraged and soothed her. 
 There was something very winning about the 
 enthusiastic way in which he entered into her 
 plans. Janet's eyes brightened ; a smile gleamed 
 upon her lips. A sense of relief and hope came 
 over her, and her usual rather sad, suffering look 
 faded away for the time. 
 
 '^ You are sure to get what 3^ou want ; I haven't 
 a doubt of it," said Rob. " People will be very 
 glad of such an opportunity; and I know, Miss 
 Milne, that the children that have you for their 
 preceptress will be very lucky children indeed. 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 LEO. 
 
 And when you've gone away from here, you 
 won't quite forget us all — say that you won't. 
 This queer house, and all its funny ways — for 
 they are funny, are they not ? Mrs. Simmons 
 and the children, and Phil Gossett and his great 
 bass voice, and — and me. I wish you'd seen 
 Arnold. He's such a splendid fellow is Arnold. 
 It always does one good to see him. There ! I'm 
 glad to see you smiling at all the nonsense I talk ! 
 And would you have the great kindness to sing 
 that song again, which I interrupted when I came 
 in, and half spoiled ? Thank you. I'm so fond 
 of music. You see " (a glance at the poor 
 curved foot) " I've been an invalid myself, and 
 music has been so great a consolation to me. 
 But I'm better now — quite strong and well. And 
 we'll look in the newspapers every da}^ You see, 
 it will be very convenient : we can get them dow^n- 
 stairs the first thing in the morning, and search 
 the advertisements for something to suit you. 
 There are often advertisements for governesses 
 Avho have acquired French abroad. You must 
 keep up a good heart. Miss Milne; there's not 
 a doubt that we shall find something to suit you." 
 Some such conversation had passed between 
 Robin Hooper and Janet; and we may be sure
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 243 
 
 that lie was as good as his word, and read the 
 advertisement columns of The Times with an 
 attention he devoted to no other portions of that 
 wonderful paper, and pestered his friends with 
 recommendations of Miss Milne as a young lady 
 most competent to give instruction in music, 
 French, singing, and the ordinary branches of an 
 English education; and desired that they would 
 be so good as to pester all their friends in the 
 same way, and especially married ladies and the 
 mothers of families. Indeed, Eobin's interest in 
 Miss Milne was of so pronounced a character, 
 that it was hardly surprising that his friends 
 should make it the subject of some comment. 
 
 " I think Mr. Hooper comes here oftener than 
 he used," Mrs. Simmons remarked, significantly. 
 " It may be because so many of his friends are 
 gone out of town. Still, I don't believe that Tm 
 the attraction ; " and here the good lady looked 
 very roguish indeed. " Nor you either, Mr. 
 Gossett — no ; nor you, my precious baby darling. 
 Oh " (with a change of voice), " no ! baby mustn't 
 be naughty ; baby mustn't tear up my part, or 
 what will they say at the theatre ! " 
 
 « Ah, Rob ! " quoth Mr. Gossett, '' what it is 
 to be susceptible ! You're twisting certain golden 
 
 16—2
 
 244 LEO. 
 
 tresses round your heart, and you'll be surprised 
 some day to find you can't undo the tangle. 
 You'll burn your wings, my little moth, if you 
 will go so near the candle. You've decided feve- 
 rish symptoms — quick pulse, eyes over bright, exci- 
 table manner. We shall have to make you up 
 a bed in St. Lazarus Hospital. We'll try and do 
 Avithout the knife if w^e can. As for the lady " 
 
 " I don't like such jests," said Rob, hotly. 
 "There are some things that should be spoken 
 of lightly. Please don't mention her again like 
 that. Of me you may say what you will ; only, 
 you know, there are chances against my loving 
 or being loved. I'm but a poor sickly cripple. 
 Remember that when you jest: it will give a 
 pleasant sting to what you say." 
 
 " My dear Rob, you're really angry I You 
 know I wouldn't say a word to grieve you for the 
 world." 
 
 "Forgive me, Phil; I lose my temper some- 
 times, without a cause : I don't know why. Don't 
 say another word about it." 
 
 " That's right, old boy ! And now let's have 
 some music. What shall it be — our crack duet 
 from Robert, or would you sooner have the one 
 from Mo'ise, your pet ? "
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 245 
 
 " Wait a few minutes, Phil. I don't think I 
 can sing jitst yet. My breath's a little short." 
 
 But it was true none the less that Mr. Robin 
 Hooper found his way from the Temple to 
 Coppice Row more frequently than formerly. 
 
 "Mr. Hooper," said Miss Milne, one day, with a 
 slightly troubled look, her violet eyes turned from 
 him — " Mr. Hooper, can you tell me if it is far 
 from here to this address ? " She handed to him 
 a scrap of paper. 
 
 " Kew Green," he read. There w^as something 
 written above it which he could not quite de- 
 cipher. " Oh, no ; it is not very far. You can 
 get an omnibus from Piccadilly, or from the 
 Strand. The Brentford omnibus will take you 
 to the foot of the bridge ; or the Richmond will 
 take you over the bridge, across the Green 
 itself." 
 
 " I must go there," she said ; " I have wanted 
 to go before. If" and she stopped. 
 
 " Would it not be better that some one should 
 accompany you ? " he began, and then he blushed. 
 " Will she think I am urged by curiosity ? " he 
 asked himself. " Will she think that I want to 
 force my company upon her ? " And he grew 
 quite wretched. " How she will despise me I "
 
 246 LEO. 
 
 Then lie added aloud, " I mean that I thmk — I 
 have no doubt — that Mrs. Simmons would be 
 happy to go with you. Would it not be better 
 so ? It will be a protection to you. You are not 
 very strong yet. You are not used to walking 
 by yourself, perhaps. The crowds in the streets 
 may alarm you; they are rather alarming at 
 first." 
 
 "I came here alone/' she said. "You had 
 forgotten that. No ; I will go alone. It is not a 
 very terrible journey," and she smiled. " It was 
 not that I wished to say. But, if anything should 
 happen — if I should not return " 
 
 " Not return ! " cried Robin, aghast. ^^ You 
 will not leave us so suddenly, without saying 
 good-by even ! " 
 
 " I think it not likely. I think it most unlikely. 
 Pray be calm. But," she went on hurriedly, 
 " under a certain train of circumstances which I 
 must not, wdiicli I cannot now explain, my return 
 might be prevented " (the thought seemed to 
 make her tremble), " or great difficulties might 
 be placed in the way of it. Should this be so — 
 pray don't let my words disturb you so much — I 
 do not apprehend there will be any cause for this 
 precaution; but, should anything happen to pre-
 
 MRS. SIMMOXS'S LODGER. 247 
 
 vent my return here, jou will let me write to 
 you ; and, should I be placed in a situation of 
 difficulty, you will give me such aid as you can 
 when I shall ask it ? " 
 
 " Indeed — indeed I will." 
 
 " Thank you. Enough ! Do not doubt that 
 you will see me in a few hours ; but remember 
 this conversation, should I not reappear before 
 dark. But not a word of it to Mrs. Simmons 
 until you hear from me. Good-by." She put 
 out her hand : he pressed it reverently. 
 
 " What does this mean ? " Robin asked himself, 
 when he was alone again. " Is she in any real 
 danger ? Shall I follow her ? Shall I try to 
 pierce this cloud of mystery? No: she would 
 never forgive me. Yet if harm should happen to 
 
 her ," and he paced the room in great anxiety 
 
 and trouble, dragging his lame foot after him. 
 " Can she have enemies ? Is it commonly pos- 
 sible ? Oh, I wish I had them here, that's all ! " 
 And he added, after a pause, " And I wish I was 
 as strong as Phil Gossett." He felt the muscle 
 of his arm curiously, contemplatively. 
 
 Janet stood in the awful presence of Miss
 
 248 LEO. 
 
 That lady was discovered, as usual, in lier gaunt 
 drawing-room, studying the calf-bound edition of 
 her parent's sublime work. She marked the place 
 at which her reading had been disturbed, after her 
 accustomed manner, with the embroidered card — 
 '' Read, mark, digest " — and the green streamers. 
 As usual, she exhibited her teeth, under the 
 delusion that she was smiling cordially upon her 
 visitor. But her manner became a little less 
 winning as she began to appreciate the diffident, 
 frightened manner of Janet. 
 
 " You desire to see one of the pupils of this 
 establishment ? " she asked, with grim courtesy. 
 
 " Yes," was the answer, in a soft, trembling 
 voice. " Miss Gill — a pupil here. Is she well ? 
 Tell me that she is well ! " 
 
 The schoolmistress started, but recovered her- 
 self. Her lips closed. Her efforts at cordiality 
 were checked in mid career. She stiffened her- 
 self — a process of congelation came over her — her 
 back seemed to be especially frozen — very hard 
 indeed. 
 
 "Why do you wish to see the child Gill?*' 
 she inquired, in her coldest tones ; yet with some- 
 thing of amazement, if not alarm, in her dull 
 black eves, like burnt-out coals.
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 249 
 
 " Let me see her," said the visitor, appealingly ; 
 *' I am the only friend she lias in the world." 
 
 " You are not aware, perhaps, that it is one of 
 the rules of this seminary that the pupils shall be 
 visited only by their relations." 
 
 " I am her relation " 
 
 " Indeed ! " and Miss 'B\g:rr crazed into the 
 trembling eyes of the other with a cruel incredu- 
 lity and suspicion. " A relation ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed I am — her sister — her only 
 sister." 
 
 " Oh ! " Miss Bigg jerked out — apparently not 
 crediting the statement, resolved not to discuss 
 the matter further, but rather to avail herself, as 
 best she might, of the admission of relationship — 
 true or false. " Pray, are you aware that there 
 is a large sum — a very large sum — due to me on 
 account of Miss Gill's education and board in this 
 seminary ? " 
 
 " I feared that such might be the case." 
 
 " Are you prepared to pay the money due ? " 
 and Miss Bigg pretended to believe that her 
 visitor was about to settle the account then and 
 there, and took out the keys of her desk, and 
 seized a pen, as though at once to fill up and 
 sign a receipt in full.
 
 250 LEO. 
 
 "No," answered Janet, "I cannot do this. I 
 have not this money. Indeed I have not. Still, 
 let me see her ; pray let me see her ! " 
 
 And the tears clustered on her eyelashes, like 
 diamond fruit on silken branches. 
 
 Miss Bigg was not easily moved. She was 
 revolving in her own mind the consequences, so 
 far as she w^as concerned, of an interview between 
 the pupil and her sister. 
 
 " Stop a minute," she said ; " there's no hurry, 
 it seems to me. I have a question or two to put. 
 Where's your father ? Where's the father of Miss 
 Barbara Gill, who consigned her to my care a 
 long time back, who w^as in India then ? Where 
 is he now ? " 
 
 ^^He is in England now," said Janet, with 
 lowered eyes ; " at least I think so." 
 
 " You think so. Don't you know ? Where do 
 you live?" 
 
 " I — I may not tell you." 
 
 '' Not tell. Oh ! ho ! this is very pretty. How 
 am I to believe your story? Not tell where 
 you live! Perhaps you call that respectable. 
 Well ; opinions differ. I don't, so I tell you— ' 
 there." 
 
 And Miss Bigg forgot her dignity entirely, she
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 251 
 
 was so carried away by her wrath. She grew 
 quite red in the foce; her head was shaken 
 violently, as though she were in an express train 
 at its topmost speed ; her figure rocked to and 
 from, like a ship in a storm, with an appropriate 
 accompaniment of creaking, as of timbers — arising, 
 perhaps, from the tension of the laces and the 
 convulsion of the buckram of that article of attire 
 which generally points out the waist in female 
 figures — and she snapped her grisly fingers in 
 the face of Miss Janet. 
 
 " And who's to pay me ? Tell me that ! " she 
 went on. " Who's to pay me for the board and 
 education of this child ? Do you suppose that I'm 
 made of gold, that I should find money for 
 such a purpose — and for all these years? It's 
 shameful, it is, — shameful. A wicked, cruel rob- 
 bery, that's what it is. And now you come here — 
 
 as bold as brass — as cool as " (I'm afraid she 
 
 was so far forgetting herself and her position as 
 to be very nearly saying — ^^ as a cucumber " — an 
 obviously-vulgar simile; but she stopped herself 
 just in time, fortunately) " as cool as — as any- 
 thing. You're her sister, are you? You can't 
 tell where you live, or where your father lives — 
 or won't tell; isn't that it rather? Your father
 
 252 LEO. 
 
 a Captain? I don't believe he's any more a 
 Captain than I am ; a bankrupt scoundrel and 
 thief, that's what I call him. Why doesn't he 
 pay me the money he owes me? tell me that; 
 the impostor, the cheat, the swindler ! " 
 
 And for some time, very angry indeed. Miss 
 Bigg poured forth a well-sustained fire of vitupe- 
 ration into her cowed and trembling opponent. 
 (You see, like love, anger is a great leveller.) 
 
 " Let me see her ! " appealed Janet. 
 
 " And not only must I find money for her 
 education and board, but I must be put to all 
 sorts of trouble besides. I must have all sorts of 
 people coming here at all times of the day — first 
 one and then the other — and my servants kept 
 running up and down stairs for this child; and 
 never to get a halfpenny for her ; it's too bad, it 
 is — a o^reat deal too bad ! " 
 
 And Miss Bio^o: brouo;ht her clenched hand 
 down heavily upon the sublime work upon the 
 table, regardless of the very expensive binding 
 and of all reverence for her father the poet, in her 
 desire to give due emphasis and force to her 
 words. 
 
 "Now it's yoi(. coming here; now it's Miss 
 Carr — a conceited hussy, I should like to whip
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 253 
 
 her well. Now it's a doctor from London, 
 coming down express in liis own carriage, as if 
 the apothecary from Brentford wasn't good 
 enough. Now it's a Frenchman " 
 
 " A Frenchman ! " interrupted the visitor, white 
 with terror, trembling all over. 
 
 " Yes, a Frenchman," reiterated Miss Bigg, 
 " bowing, and sniggering, and shrugging his 
 shoulders, and talking his horrid gibberish." (In 
 her anger. Miss Bigg did not perceive how this 
 remark confirmed a current rumour as to her 
 defective acquaintance with the French lan- 
 guage.) 
 
 " Heaven ! " gasped Janet, " has he been here, 
 then!" 
 
 " But Miss Mullins made short work of him 
 and his broken English. She could give him as 
 good French as he brought; and she ought to, 
 considering the salary I pay her. Nothing but 
 carriages coming in at the gates, and knock, 
 knock at the doors ; and everybody worried out 
 of their lives with fright; and all for this puny, 
 sick child." 
 
 " Is she ill ? " interrupted Janet, starting up. 
 " Let me see her ! Don't send me away I — 
 don't, don't, for heaven's sake! Indeed, indeed
 
 254 LEO. 
 
 it's not my fault that yon have been wronged, as 
 you say ! Indeed, if I had the money, I would 
 pay you ten times over, if need were, only — only 
 let me see my poor little sister ! 
 
 " If, indeed ! No ; you've found your way 
 here, and you may find your way back, for all 
 the . good you've done. I've had quite enough 
 of your sister, I don't want you ; and if I had 
 your bankrupt flither here — well ! I'd give him 
 a piece of my mind, that's all. There; it's no 
 use your talking." 
 
 " Oh, don't turn from me ! " cried Janet, 
 piteously. " Let me see her, I beg of you — on 
 my knees " 
 
 *' Hush I get up ; there's some one at the door ; 
 don't be foolish." 
 
 Meanwhile, a tall, thin, carelessly-dressed man 
 had entered a room on the upper floor. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " he asked, sternly. 
 " Why do you keep that poor child mewed up in 
 this low-roofed place ? " 
 
 " She's a bit poorly," answered an ill-favoured 
 woman, carelessly. It was Booth, and she was 
 regarding the patient — poor Baby Gill — not too 
 affectionately. Perhaps the inquiries concerning
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 255 
 
 the child had given trouble to the household at 
 Miss Bigg's seminary. " But she ain't so bad as 
 she makes out, it's my belief; there's a good bit 
 of shamming about her illness — there always is 
 about most children. She'd try to make you think 
 that she's ever so weakly, just to shirk her hymns 
 and religious dooties." 
 
 " Don't be a fool," said the doctor calmly ; '' and 
 open that window and let some fresh air in. One 
 can hardly breathe in this place. What is it, my 
 dear ? " he went on, turning to the invalid kindly 
 and taking her thin, worn hands into his — large, 
 muscular. ^* Don't tremble, my dear — don't be 
 frightened. There's no one going to hurt you. 
 It's only the doctor come to take care of you, and 
 make you well again." And he smoothed her 
 silky yellow hair from her burning forehead, and 
 then paused suddenly, looking into her large, 
 feverishly-bright eyes. " Surely I've seen this 
 face before, or one strangely like it. It must be 
 so. But where ? In one of the w^ards of 
 St. Lazarus? I can't think. Bah! what does 
 it matter? Out of the hundred faces I see 
 every day is it wonderful there should be two 
 alike?" 
 
 He talked to the child kindly, soothingly.
 
 256 LEO. 
 
 ^* There's no shamming here," he went on, with his 
 fingers on her wrist. " Yery weak, very feverish. 
 We must put some fat upon these poor cheeks, 
 little one, I think." And he stroked gently her 
 burning face. " You've no appetite, have you, 
 my dear ? but you're thirsty. Yes, very thirsty. 
 Don't cry, my dear. We'll soon make you well, 
 if I have to take you away with me in my 
 pocket. That's right — that's a little like a smile, 
 I think." He laid his hand upon her forehead. 
 " We must have no learning hymns or anything 
 of that sort. Here, you woman, I'm speaking to 
 you — no worrying the child about her duty and 
 her collect, or nonsense — do you hear ? " 
 
 (" Awful language ! " muttered Booth, to whom 
 these words were addressed. " I wonder a 
 thunderbolt don't fall on him. But these doctors 
 are all alike. They'll suffer for it by and by — 
 that's one comfort ; and a joy fid thought for the 
 elect it is, too.") 
 
 He had placed his stethoscope — it was always 
 ready in his hat, he never went anywhere without 
 it — upon the chest of the child. He put his ear to 
 the end of the tube, listening attentively. His was 
 not a fiice that betrayed much of what was passing 
 in his mind. He had schooled his muscles to
 
 257 
 
 maintain a rigidity of expression — a calm, a repose, 
 that nothing could disturb. Only a very close 
 observer could have noted some change in the 
 glance of his bright, kindly, grey eyes. There was 
 a look of sadness, of tenderness, not traceable 
 in them before. His examination concluded, 
 there seemed to be a new gentleness in the way he 
 once more smoothed the soft hair of his little 
 patient, and drew the clothes of the bed com- 
 fortably round her. 
 
 " You must take care and not catch cold, my 
 dear. What's your name? Barbara Gill, isn't 
 it ? Yes. Well, my little Miss Gill, we must do 
 all we can for you, and try and make vou well: 
 and you'll be a good little girl, won't you? and do 
 all that I tell you ? And we must get some medi- 
 cine made up for you; and ?/ow" — (he added, to 
 Booth, in a stern whisper) — " you'd better take care 
 and do all that I tell you, or it will be the worse for 
 you. I'll sj)eak to the schoolmistress downstairs. 
 You need not come down. I know my way, 
 and I'll write a prescription in the drawing- 
 room. You be sure and have it made up at once." 
 
 "Bad symptoms," he said to himself, as he 
 passed rapidly down the stairs. 
 
 He arrived at the drawing-room just in time to 
 
 VOL. I. .17
 
 258 LEO. 
 
 hear a voice cry in piteous tones. " Pray, let me 
 see my sister." 
 
 He entered as Janet rose from her knees. He 
 advanced to her kindly — " You here, my dear 
 
 Miss " he stopped, a probing gaze fixed upon 
 
 her. She started back, confused. 
 
 " Dr. Hawkshaw ! " she gasped, the colour 
 rushing into her face. 
 
 " The sister of the pupil upstairs," Miss Bigg 
 said, savagely waving her hand — that awkward 
 gesture implying introduction. 
 
 "I have the pleasure of knowing Miss — Gill,^'' 
 he said, giving the name after a pause, and 
 dwelling upon it significantly. He stretched out 
 his hand and shook hers warmly. '^ Miss Gill 
 has been a patient of mine. There is a strong 
 likeness between the sisters." 
 
 Frightened at first, Janet now drew some 
 courage from the doctor's friendly manner. 
 
 " How did he come to know her, I wonder ! " 
 muttered Miss Bigg. 
 
 " You wish to see your sister ? I have just left 
 her. Come upstairs — this way. I need not 
 trouble you. Miss Bigg — I can show the young 
 lady the way." 
 
 Outside the drawing-room door, Janet was
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 259 
 
 about to speak — to express her thanks — her 
 gratitude — to say, indeed, she hardly knew 
 what. 
 
 "Never mind. Miss— Gill,'' he said, smiling. 
 " I think I can keep a secret as well as any one. 
 Doctors don't tell tales. There is no need of 
 any explanation. Perhaps I know all about it, 
 as it is; and if I don't, perhaps it doesn't very 
 much matter. Be sure I will forget — when I 
 leave here — that my late patient in Coppice Row 
 and the young lady I meet here visiting her 
 sick sister are one and the same person, though 
 their names are different. Not a word, my 
 dear. When you have need of a friend, why 
 you know my address." (He pressed her hand.) 
 " Go in at that door, my dear. Never mind 
 the rude old woman you'll meet there. You'll 
 have the help of another pretty little lady, and 
 I'm sure, together, you'll be more than a match 
 for her." 
 
 Janet, engrossed by the object of her mission, 
 had observed neither the handsome barouche, nor 
 the compact brougham — technically termed a pill- 
 box, I believe — standing at the entrance of 
 Chaponc House, and evidencing visitors. 
 
 She entered the room on the upper floor. A 
 
 17—2
 
 260 LEO. 
 
 young lady, who had retreated during the 
 attendance of the doctor at the bedside of tlie 
 patient, had resumed her position there. Janet, 
 pale and nervous, approached the bed. 
 
 " Oh, heaven ! How she is changed!" she said 
 at last, in a choking voice. The tears dimmed 
 her sight. She brushed them away. It seemed 
 to be only with an effort she could recognize 
 the lineaments of her sister in the thin face of the 
 sufferer before her. 
 
 " Baby, dearest ! " she cried, in a tone of 
 anguish, and she sunk upon her knees at the 
 side of the bed. 
 
 "Who is it? Leo, dear, tell me?" said the 
 child, with wide open eyes, twining her arms 
 round her friend, and something scared at the 
 agitation of the new comer. 
 
 " Don't you know me, Baby. I'm your sister — 
 Jenny — surely you remember Jenny !" 
 
 "Jenny!" repeated the child, staring lialf 
 vacantly. 
 
 " Yes ; your sister Jenny ! A long while ago — 
 you remember me now? I see you do." Some 
 gleam of recognition shone in the child's large, 
 wondering eges. 
 
 " Kiss me, Jenny," she said, after a few
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGER. 2G1 
 
 moments. " Yes ; I remember you : that is, I 
 think I do. But you're so big to what my Jenny 
 used to be. Still, you're like her — yes — Jenny 
 had eyes like that. But you're crying. Jenny 
 never cried — only once — that was when mamma 
 went away to be an angel. Don't cry — and you'll 
 be kind to me, won't you? — as the Jenny of a 
 long time ago used to be — as Leo has been always. 
 Yet, no; you can never be so good and kind 
 to me as Leo has been. Dear Leo," and the 
 wasted arms clung yet more closely to Leo. Janet 
 turned to her with streaming eyes, her golden 
 hair crumpled, her cheeks tear-stained. 
 
 " You have been kind to my poor little sister. 
 God bless you for it ! And He will — be sure He 
 will. And, indeed, she has had need of friends. 
 Oh, my poor, poor Baby, that I should see you 
 thus!" 
 
 " Could I help being kind to her ? " said Leo's 
 soft voice ; " and it is wrong to praise me so, for 
 I have much to reproach myself with. I have 
 neglected her sadly until now. I am very glad 
 to see you," she went on, simply, pressing Janet's 
 hand. " Baby has always been my friend, and 
 you will be my friend too." 
 
 " God bless you ! " said Janet, greatly moved.
 
 262 LEO. 
 
 " I owe you already more than I can ever hope to 
 repay." And she surrendered herself to a pas- 
 sionate burst of weeping. The tears clustered in 
 Leo's eyes : for emotion is very infectious. She 
 rose to withdraw. 
 
 " Don't go yet, Leo ! " cried the child ; " don't 
 leave me jet I can't bear to be alone, not even 
 with her — with Jenny. Don't cry, Jenny ; I am 
 beginning to love you again — I am indeed — and 
 — and I think I shall be well again — indeed T do, 
 now that you are both so kind to m.e." 
 
 '' My poor, poor sister ! " 
 
 *' Please tell me. Doctor Hawkshaw," quoth 
 Miss Carr, " is there any danger ? When may 
 we move her ? " 
 
 " There are bad symptoms, my dear young 
 lady," answered the doctor. "I can say little more 
 at present ; and I think you mustn't stay too long 
 in the sick room, there may be risk for you. As 
 to removal — it would be the best thing to be done, 
 for she is not well attended to here ; but we must 
 leave it for a day or two. I will come down 
 to-morrow, if possible. I have left a prescrip- 
 tion, with full instructions. Give my best com- 
 pliments to your mamma. And you are going
 
 MRS. SIMMONS'S LODGEll. 263 
 
 to take Miss Gill back to town ? Well, well ; 
 perhaps that will be better. I was waiting to 
 see if I could be nseful in that way. We will 
 do all we can for our little patient, be sure 
 of it." 
 
 " Get home as quick as you can, John," said 
 the doctor, as he stepped into his carriage. 
 '' Poor child ! Organic disease, I'm afraid ; but 
 it's as well to get her away from that infernal old 
 woman and her hymn-book." 
 
 And the doctor, who was never idle, took up a 
 book he had with him in the carriage, and began 
 making, with his gold pencil-case, marginal ob- 
 servations and corrections. They would be useful 
 when a new edition was called for of his valuable 
 work on the Physiology of the Stomach. 
 
 There w^as some excitement in Coppice Row 
 when it was known that Mrs. Simmons's lodger 
 had returned in a superb barouche, and that the 
 charmingly-dressed young lady in it (her bonnet 
 made an immense sensation in the neighbour- 
 hood) took a most affectionate farewell of her — 
 even to kissing her — with the w^ords, " I shall see 
 you again very soon. Good-by, dear." 
 
 " You don't know what a relief it is to me to
 
 264 LEO* 
 
 see you back again quite safe and sound," cried 
 Kobin to Janet, as she re-entered. " Do you 
 know how I've been amusing myself? I've been 
 readinc: all the advertisements in The Times — not 
 merely those which state that a governess is wanted, 
 but all the others as well. It's interesting ; but I 
 did it to kill time until you came back. Look 
 here now, this is a curious advertisement — in 
 the second column ; " and he read aloud, — " ' To 
 Janet. — Cher Ange, eeturn then. Why 
 "will yotj not ? would tou kill your inconsol- 
 ABLE Anatole ? ' Hullo ! Good heaven ! Why, 
 what's the matter? Hi! Quick! Mrs. Sim- 
 mons! Some water! Could it refer to her? 
 She's fainted dead away ! "
 
 265 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AU CAFE. 
 
 There are Engllsli quartiers in Paris, as we all 
 know. For that matter, tlirougliout France, 
 especially along its coasts, — it being simply in 
 the nature of things that the Briton should feel at 
 home in the presence of the waves, — are there num- 
 berless little, true-blue, stanch, Anglican settle- 
 ments planted here and there — exotics that have 
 taken firm root in a new soil, without the sacrifice 
 in the remotest degree of the characteristics of 
 their derivation — nay, rather as a matter of prin- 
 ciple, clinging the more to national prejudices and 
 opinions, and maintaining national habits and cus- 
 toms, from the fact that they are in a foreign and 
 unsympathizing presence, and that it is indispens- 
 able, therefore, to demonstrate utterly that Eng- 
 lishmen will be Englishmen all the world over 
 under any condition of circumstances. Formally, 
 perhaps, we have surrendered Calais ; but we
 
 266 LEO. 
 
 hold the more Boulogne, and many another 
 French sea-port, while in the capital we possess, 
 of course, among other properties, the superb 
 quadrilateral stronghold, known as the Hotel 
 Meurice. And there are French colonies in 
 England, confined, for the most part, to the chief 
 citj, however ; for the Gallic proclivities are not 
 nautical nor provincial, still less pastoral. It is in 
 London then we must look chiefly for the French 
 quartier ; and we shall find also German settle- 
 ments, where a large consumption of sour krout 
 occurs, and of beer, and great smoking, and 
 mystic conversation — philosophical, but foggy; 
 and where the melodies of fatherland, part sung, 
 waken the echoes of the walls ; and much simple 
 kindliness and good will, with some proneness 
 to the muddle-headed, prevail. And there are 
 Italian settlements, especially thriving during 
 operatic and southern revolutionary periods ; 
 and Greek colonies, addicted to pastry and card- 
 playing, the games being of a kind unknown to 
 northern regions. (It is said that playing with 
 each other, the Greeks play quite fairly. Per- 
 haps when Greeks meet Greeks there are reasons 
 why a different line of conduct is not possible.) 
 It is not only the Jews, therefore, who wander.
 
 AU CAFE. 267 
 
 carrying their country witli them and the predi- 
 lections of their people — their undying love for 
 fried fish, the passover cake, the olive, the old 
 clothes, and the best side of a bargain. Me- 
 thinks other nations do likewise. The English- 
 man greets a compatriot in a distant clime 
 — greets him cordially — without prejudice, it is 
 possible, to his privilege of cutting him when they 
 encounter subsequently at home in Pall Mall — 
 and for a season they are friends ; and they will 
 rally round them other Englishmen, and they 
 will cherish the customs of their country : form- 
 ing, indeed, the nucleus of a colony. And so 
 with the aliens sojourning here ; so we have 
 Leicester Square ; and so we have the cafe in the 
 neighbourhood of that square, to which the reader 
 is now to be introduced. — This way, if you please : 
 the Cafe de VUnivers, 
 
 The name was inscribed on the door, over the 
 door, upon the door-posts, the gas lamp, and in 
 gilded letters upon the window panes. The cafe 
 was evidently proud of its name, and thrust it 
 before the spectators at every possible opportunity. 
 An alderman, recently knighted, could not have 
 derived more enjoyment from his title. It was not 
 a large establishment ; it might even not unfairly
 
 268 LEO. 
 
 "be called a small one. The Cafe de V Universe with 
 a little squeezing, might perhaps have accommo- 
 dated about a score of guests. Plaits of dingy- 
 figured muslin screened the window and the 
 door, admitting light, yet excluding the public 
 gaze. The cafd was eminently French in cha- 
 racter. It had not suffered by its change of 
 venue in this respect. It was French from the 
 flow^er on the ceiling to the pumps of the gayxon. 
 It might almost have been transplanted direct from 
 Paris. Indeed, there was much of the precari- 
 ous nature and delicate health of the transplant 
 about it. It was as an emigre bereft of his 
 possessions, and considerably pinched by bad 
 fortune, and a comfortless climate. Its state 
 was a little sickly at present — faded, degenerate. 
 What might have looked like splendour in an 
 original state had a certain cheap and tawdry 
 appearance under the change of air and situation. 
 Certainly the decorations were grand — j^reten- 
 tious ; but they were cheap. You could note 
 the fact in the thin cotton-velvet, straw-stuffed 
 cushions; in the glaring but inexpensive paper 
 on the wall ; in the gorgeous but green-hued 
 looking-glasses, and their thinly-gilt, fly-speckled 
 frames ; the chipped crocker}^ ; and the marble
 
 AU CAFE. 269 
 
 tables, cofFee-stained, and pencilled with the cal- 
 culations of the domino-players. But perhaps 
 noting these things, we are inquiring too curiously. 
 What did it matter that the prosperity of the Cafe 
 de VUiLwers was not too well assured? Think 
 of the comfort the place was to the French 
 colony in tlie neighbourhood. Half-closing his 
 eyes, or glancing through glasses rose-tinted by 
 memory and imagination, the exile might here 
 dream that he was back again in his own beau- 
 tiful country — might be led to forget for a time 
 the brumal horrors of this land of his refuge ; his 
 ears were refreshed with the accents of his own 
 language, uttered by his own countrymen, the 
 rattle .of the dominoes, the clatter of spoons, the 
 tinkling of glasses, the clash of crockery, and now 
 and then the click of the ivory balls in collision 
 on the French billiard-board in the room adjoin- 
 inix. While, for the regalement of his nose, was 
 there not ever tlie pungent odour of French cook- 
 infj redolent throufvliout the establishment ? 
 
 There was a dame de comptoir, in black silk, 
 amply flounced; a lace head-dress, about the size of 
 a pen-wiper, trimmed with cherry-coloured rib- 
 bons; with glossy blue-black hair, tight to her head; 
 and large, hard, bright eyes. She wore massive
 
 270 LEO. 
 
 earrings, a coral necklace, a substantial brooch, 
 bracelets — flexible serpents, with green enamel 
 heads, and brilliant sham rubies for eyes — and 
 paste rings upon her large fingers, rather less 
 white than her worked cuffs, prol)ably from having 
 been washed less carefully. Her features were 
 large ; but she was handsome. It was even said 
 that there had been no less than three duels among 
 visitors at the cafe on her account. She was so 
 greatly admired — so loved even — though she 
 steadily refrained from exhibiting any preference 
 for one of her idolaters over the others. Her 
 age was doubtful. She spoke of her jeunesse in 
 melancholy tones, as of a thing of the past ; but 
 it was by no means certain that she would permit 
 any one else to adopt like language. She had 
 experienced sorrows, she admitted, dabbing tear- 
 less eyes with her handkerchief ; but, then, most 
 Frenchwomen, according to their own showing, 
 have suffered similarly, Avithout being apj^arently 
 much the worse ; and one is inclined, in such 
 cases, to pay respect to an established form rather 
 than to expend sympatliy upon an individual 
 grief which may be purely supposititious. Her 
 complexion was a mystery : Nature had been 
 greatly assisted — indeed, as has often happened.
 
 AU CAFE. . 271 
 
 had called in so powerful an ally as to be 
 overcome, instead of aided. The native hue 
 of the dame de comptoir was very nearly lost 
 under the warm coating derived from the rouge- 
 pot, under the plentiful use of the powder- 
 puff ; while yet evidences remained prompting 
 unfavourable ideas ; here and there, under the 
 white dust, certain unpleasing rednesses were 
 traceable — ^just as you may discern the stars 
 for all the white scud veiling them. Still — and, 
 notwithstanding, too, her strong, square animal 
 jaw, gross mouth, and double chin — the lady 
 was an object of great admiration at the Cafe de 
 VUnivers. Was she married or single? No one 
 knew, though some had theories of their own on 
 the subject. But the question is more English 
 than French ; and we have said that the cafe was 
 eminently French. She was called Madame 
 always: Madame Despr^s. The habitues of the 
 cafe did not trouble themselves with inquiries 
 touching any Monsieur of that name. 
 
 Madame sat at her counter, doing nothing in- 
 dustriously, save when an account was to be 
 received or an order given. A glass-case before 
 her contained brandied cherries; behind her, 
 ranged upon a shelf, were various liqueur bottles ;
 
 272 LEO. 
 
 at her side, a collection of cigars. She had a 
 grand, calm manner, full of self-possession, and 
 what may be called a laborious smile, too studied 
 to be cordial, and maintaining its set creases upon 
 her fleshy face long after the cause producing it 
 had ceased. She bowed her head to her friends 
 entering or departing, and to the frequenters of 
 the cafe, with a courtesy which had yet somethhig 
 in it of condescension. 
 
 The frequenters of the Cafe de VUnivers were, 
 for the most part. Frenchmen. And the little 
 Gallic colony thrived on cheap, but comfortable 
 terms, for it was one of the advantages of 
 the place, that you really couldn't spend much 
 money in it, however profusely you might be 
 inclined. Yet there were a few English visitors 
 now and then — we shall refer to them more par- 
 ticularly by-and-by — just as there might be in a 
 French settlement of greater extent, in any part 
 of the globe. 
 
 The cafe is busy this evening. Louis, the 
 waiter — the garcon, of course, I should say — 
 with the close -shaven blue chin and cheeks, 
 and the white apron — has enough to do. Louis, 
 the waiter, who, being a Swiss, seems on that 
 account to cultivate the outward seeminix of a
 
 AU CAFE. 273 
 
 mulatto; who talks fluently any language under 
 the sun, just as the conjuror's bottle is able, on 
 the shortest notice, to produce any liquor you 
 please to call for, — I feel that Louis would be 
 quite equal to replying to me in Chinese, if 
 I could manage to address to him a query in 
 that language; but there, you see, is my diffi- 
 culty, — I have really forgotten all my Chinese — 
 (I believe that is the correct mode of confessing 
 ignorance now-a-days), — Louis, the waiter, flits 
 from table to table, with his colossal pots of hot 
 coffee (with chicory) and hot milk, and is very 
 busy indeed. There is the clatter of spoons, the 
 rattle of dominoes, the clash of crockery, and the 
 click of the billiard-balls in constant cannonading 
 in the next room. The Cafe cle VUnivers is in 
 full swing this evening — is, indeed, quite noisy, 
 while ever and anon a musical clock strikes up a 
 merry waltz tune, not because the hour or the 
 half-hour has come round, but for independent 
 reasons, and at uncertain periods, the music well 
 executed, with an allowance for an occasional 
 wheeziness and uncertainty, and a shirking of 
 particular notes, as in the case of a veteran 
 performer. The little marble tables are nearly 
 all surrounded with guests. 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 ' LEO. 
 
 The doors open and close noisily after their 
 manner. Another visitor has entered ; you might 
 know the fact from the eust of fresh air that has 
 
 o 
 
 rushed into the apartment, rather to the improve- 
 ment of the general atmosphere of the place. 
 The new comer is an habitue. He has removed 
 his hat in compliment to Madame Despres. 
 She has smiled upon him more radiantly than 
 upon any one else — so a savage-looking man 
 in a velvet cap has whispered to his neighbour, 
 bald, with a superb beard ; at least, ive may 
 note that the smile has brought deeper creases 
 into her face. The new comer has even inter- 
 changed words with her, has gone so far as 
 to kiss his hand to her. Madame's deprecating 
 gesture seemed to be not so much intended 
 to stay him as to invite him to proceed, 
 and her smile has become even more forcible. 
 She has placed her ringed — not white — hand 
 before her face, not touching it, for fear of dis- 
 turbance to its surface, and she has ejaculated, 
 " Fi done ! " A little further interchange of 
 pleasantries, and the new comer quits the counter, 
 to saunter down the room in quest of a seat. We 
 may note his appearance as he passes. 
 
 A very little, very wizened, very old man —
 
 AU CAFE. 275 
 
 yes, old in spite of the j^rofuse clusters of curls 
 which give an unnatural size to his head and fall 
 over his high velvet collar, and hide his ears, and 
 decorate his temples ; a head of hair that is in- 
 deed a good deal more than natural — opaque, 
 lustreless, coarse black, like the mane of a horse, 
 without a hint of parting anywhere — without a 
 trace of epidermis ; and (you can see now that he 
 Jias removed his small grease-polished French hat, 
 so curiously curved as to its rims) towering above 
 his forehead in a dense and lofty toupet. What 
 a strange face ! — a tanned yellow in hue, full of 
 deep hollows, covered with a network of wrinkles 
 — a criss-cross of ruts rather, they are so in- 
 dented, as with a broad-graver — quite an ara- 
 besque of age. There is something skull-like 
 about the face, with its large, protrudino- fore- 
 head, its boneless, gristly, fragment-like nose, and 
 the grinning teeth — very uneven these, many 
 missing as in a regiment coming from under 
 fire — the row machicolated, like the battlements 
 of a fortress ; and the eyes, small black specks 
 on a blood-shot ground, restless ever, glittering 
 in their hollows like snakes in caverns. There 
 is sometliing terrible-looking about this habitue of 
 the Cafe de VUnivers — this vivified mummy, with 
 
 18—2
 
 276 LEO. 
 
 his skeleton's head crowned by his exuberant wig, 
 with his manners of gallantry, his young-man 
 airs, with his leer and his smile — he has been 
 known to press his trembling claw hand upon his 
 left breast and vow adoration for Madame Despres. 
 It is reputed that he is constantly producing love 
 verses in French and English. There is a doubt 
 whether he was or not one of the gentlemen who 
 " went out" because of Madame. Be sure he has 
 given his '' proofs," that he is prepared to go on the 
 ground again with any one at any time. Why, 
 there was a tremendous scene at the cafe one 
 evening : ask any of the hahiiues, and you will 
 obtain a recital — but in a low voice, for fear the 
 new comer should overhear. A young man — 
 Auguste — merry, frank, light-hearted, a clock- 
 maker, it was thought, a frequenter of the caf6, 
 had amused himself with ridiculing the old gentle- 
 man — Le Margids he was called there amongst 
 themselves ; it was a ]^>laisanter'ie, that was all — he 
 was not a marquis. Auguste had puffed in his 
 face tobacco-smoke ; had retained from him his 
 favourite journal ; had trod upon his foot — not 
 accidentally ; had laughed in his face when re- 
 quested to apologize ; had called him vieux papa ! 
 — you see? terms of abuse — pauvre nigaiid, im-
 
 AU CAFE. 277 
 
 hecile, &c. Oh ! the rage of the marquis ! He 
 had spat on the floor, ground his teeth, smashed 
 his wine-glass, trembled witJi passion, and then 
 he had lanced himself at the throat of the poor 
 Auguste. They were separated, but with diffi- 
 culty. Madame herself had interfered: she had 
 forbidden Auguste to return. More ; it was very 
 extraordinary; it was believed that they had met; 
 and Auguste had not since been seen by his 
 friends. It was not known wdiat had become of 
 him. Truly it was marvellous. Did Monsieur 
 desire to see the Debats? 
 
 Yet he did not give promise of being a 
 very formidable antagonist, this little old gentle- 
 man. He tottered as he walked ; his back was 
 bowed ; his knees were bent ; he was scrupulously 
 polite; he removed his hat in recognition of his 
 acquaintances as he passed down the room — for 
 his more intimate associates he had airy gestures 
 and wavings of his hands. He had a favourite 
 seat towards the end of the room, near the stove, 
 and for this he generally made. Since the Auguste 
 episode few were inclined to dispute with him the 
 possession of this seat ; indeed, he was regarded 
 as a privileged guest, although his connection 
 with the cafi had not been of very long standing.
 
 278 LEO. 
 
 or had at least been intermittent. Louis, the 
 (jargon, seemed to reserve special newspapers for 
 his perusal. Louis was acquainted with the re- 
 qviirements of the visitors ; he brought, without 
 instruction, the daily dose of absinthe or vermouth. 
 Reading his paper, the visitor regaled himself with 
 those peculiar refresliments, taking snuff now and 
 then from a grand enamel and silver-gilt box with 
 a painted porcelain design on the lid, rather more 
 artistic, perhaps, than decorous, and stroking a thin 
 tuft he had produced on his sharp chin — a dyed 
 tuft, you could see that; the hairs were quite 
 white at their starting points, though blue-black 
 farther on; — running his dusky fingers through 
 his jet locks in the most natural way in the world. 
 He read through tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses — 
 it was wonderful how they could retain their 
 perch upon his shrivelled nose. He enjoyed in- 
 tensely the caricatures, rather free in character, 
 in a Parisian humorous broad-sheet fastened on 
 to a staff as though it were a flag. He shook 
 with laughter at some of the jokes not too obvious 
 to English intelligence; you could see liis head 
 swaying about in his high black satin stock. In 
 the cold weather he wore a cloak of blue cloth, 
 lined with red camlet, gathered closely round the
 
 AU CAEE. 279 
 
 neck, so that it gave rather a hunchback appear- 
 ance to the wearer, and culminating in a collar of 
 ragged rabbit fur. Beneath this a bottle-green 
 dress-coat of an old fashion, high at the back, 
 short in the waist, with puckers on the shoulders, 
 and long sleeves, the cuffs covering his knuckles ; 
 it was plentifully speckled with bright buttons, 
 and was probably quite the mode about the period 
 of peace of Amiens. His close-fitting black 
 trousers were tightly strapped under his highly- 
 polished boots. He was proud of his feet ; in 
 leisure moments he might often be seen engaged 
 in contemplating them. Certainly they were 
 neat-looking and well-shaped ; albeit there was a 
 suspicion that his boots pinched him. It was 
 thought that his rage against Auguste arose in 
 a great measure from the insult offered to his 
 feet. 
 
 There were, as we have said. Englishmen visit- 
 ing the Caf^ de VUnivers; amongst others we may 
 name that promising artist Tom Norris, pupil 
 of the great French artist St. Roche, who had 
 acquired, during a two years' residence in the 
 Trench capital, and much lounging in the atelier 
 of that eminent painter, a decided French aspect 
 and accent, a contempt for British art — some-
 
 280 - LEO. 
 
 thing to the indignation of Mr. Robin Hooper, 
 who knew the gentleman, and had respect for 
 native talent, — a taste for Bohemian life from 
 a French point of view— not the most desirable — 
 and little else. Tom Norrls, returning to his 
 native England with denationalized opinions and 
 predilections, to his intense joy, discovered the 
 tiny French settlement at the Cafe de VUnivers, 
 He was speedily enrolled as an habitue. He beat 
 up his friends and acquaintances of the days prior 
 to his labours in the atelier of St. Roche. Artists 
 are the most gregarious of people. Wherever 
 you meet one, you may be sure that there are 
 others not far off — just as lighting upon a grain 
 or two of gold or silver betokens that a mine of 
 the precious metal must be in the neighbourhood. 
 Of course, Tom Norris soon carried off his old 
 comrade Timson, — a student of the Academy, 
 who received the gold medal for the best draw- 
 ing from the life, and never since did much else. 
 He came to the surface like a fish for that fly, and 
 then went down again into the depths. Timson 
 — the most good-natured, simple, and amiable 
 of men, who would go anywhere or do anything 
 for anybody ; who had no thought of to-day, not 
 to mention to-morrow, content to live in the past
 
 AU CAFE. 281 
 
 with Ills medal and best drawing from the life, 
 Timson, — who came io the Cafe de VUnivers, and 
 sat down and made himself at home in it^ quite 
 as a matter of course, and as though he so 
 achieved the sole mission of his life. And Timson 
 inducted a certain artist-friend, initiating him 
 in the pleasures of Tom Norris's cafe — a certain 
 Mr. Lackinonton — who somehow brous^ht occasion- 
 ally in his train a student of medicine and music, 
 by name Mr. Phelp Gossett, and now and then, 
 but less frequently, a poor crippled fellow, whom 
 no one could help liking, called Robin Hooper. 
 Even the handsome presence of Arnold Page had 
 sometime adorned the place. 
 
 It was not often that the whole of this party 
 was gathered round one of the little marble tables 
 of the Cafe de V Univers ; but occasionally such 
 an event happened, when there was the noise 
 of very pleasant Britannic conversation wakening 
 the echoes of the place — rousing, but not offending 
 the refugees — giving work to the datne de comptoir 
 — and employing, but not in the least destroying 
 the equanimity of Louis, the gargon. Nothing, 
 I think, ever would have disturbed the equanimity 
 of Louis, the garcon. Waiters are generally 
 tranquil and self-possessed, or they would be
 
 282 LEO. 
 
 probably unfitted for their profession. But the 
 calmness of Louis approached the sublime. He 
 had been engaged at Vienna during the '48 
 business. But not even a revolution could 
 dethrone Louis from his serenity. He was 
 employed at a cafe, of course. He was commu- 
 nicative on the subject sometimes, when bushiess 
 was a little dull. The cannonading made a great 
 noise, certainly, monsieur. On one occasion a 
 ball entered the cafe, and struck a demi-tasse from 
 his hand. He was bearing °it to im Anglais — a 
 gentleman prisoned in the town by the events 
 of the day. What did you do, Louis, when 
 the demi-tasse was knocked from your hands ? 
 " M'sieu ! " says Louis, surprised (but with calm- 
 ness) that such a question should be asked, " I 
 brought another to the Anglais /" 
 
 Pleasant those talks round the marble table, 
 with the cigarettes, the coffee, the chocolate, the 
 incidental petit verre, and other cheap delights. 
 The talk of young men, effortless, gay, careless, 
 hopeful, light-hearted — it seems to me is the very 
 best of conversation. The communion of the 
 sages may be more redolent of wisdom ; but the 
 soundness of age even cannot compensate for 
 the gossamer grace of youth. There is Jieaj^t in
 
 AU CAFE. 283 
 
 the talk of young men. Listen to tlie fogies 
 in the club smoking-room — can you catch even 
 an echo of that ! 
 
 " There are comforts about this place," says 
 Robin Hooper, " and yet there are some things 
 I don't like in it. That woman at the door, for 
 instance." 
 
 " You don't admire her ? " cries Tom Norris. 
 " Mon ami I What injustice ! She is superb ! 
 Regard, then, her bust: it is like the antique." 
 (Having lived two years abroad, he spoke his 
 native tongue with some difficulty and foreign 
 accent, and idiomatically. He was rallied about 
 this manner of his a good deal. But that did 
 not affect him much : he was rather dull at a 
 joke. Jests fall harmless on a man armed with 
 dulness, as cannon balls from the sides of an 
 iron-clad ship.) " St. Roche painted a figure like 
 to her. It represented Revolution — or was it the 
 genius of Liberte ? I forget. It is no matter. 
 A grand figure, half-nude, leaning upon a guillo- 
 tine: in one hand a flaming torch, in the other 
 a blood-stained — what you call it? — a chopper? 
 no ; it is not that — axe — merci ! Her foot 
 upon a crown ; upon her head a Phrygian cap. 
 It was magnijique truly, and it was as INIadame
 
 284 LEO. 
 
 Despres. Therefore, I adore lier. Do you 
 see?" 
 
 " She is like a tigress, I thmk," continues 
 Robin, " with her broad jaw, her strong mouth, 
 her glittering e3^es. And there is something 
 stealthy and cat-like about her action. When 
 she smiles, I feel my heart turn quite cold." 
 
 ^^ She is grand," says the pupil of St. Roche. 
 " I should like to paint her life-size." (He pro-, 
 nounced the words — of course, because he could 
 not help it — loife-soize.) " But in this dog of a 
 country — pardon me, my friend; it is not to 
 abuse your land — which, alas ! is also mine — but 
 to express what I think — in this dog of a country, 
 what avails to paint life-size. Bah ! it's useless." 
 
 *^ And then," and Robin glances round the 
 room, '' all these strange-looking men quarrelling, 
 as it seems, over dominoes and such trifles. How 
 fierce they look ! What angry mustachios ! 
 What yellow complexions !" 
 
 " Well, there is a good deal of bile about, 
 I'm thinking," remarks Mr. Gossett. " The 
 foreigner always strikes me as a fine subject for 
 blue-pill. What's that tune the clock has struck 
 up, Rob? La! la! la!— la! la! la! Isn't it an 
 early waltz of Strauss's? I think it is. That
 
 AU CAFE. 285 
 
 fellow playing at billiards in the back-room seems 
 to have a decent tenor voice. He be^-an hummino: 
 just now that beautiful air from Guido e Ginevra, 
 It would suit you, Rob ; it's a little high, but 
 you could manage it with practice." 
 
 " I've been trying all day to make out what 
 my income is derived from my profession," says 
 Timson, meditatively. "The fact is, I've had 
 a paper served upon me by the tax-gatherer." 
 
 " What a burning shame ! " they all agree. 
 
 " Well, you know, I think it is hard upon 
 a fellow," Timson goes on. " He never did it 
 before. Why should he begin now ? " 
 
 " Come to Paris, Timson. There's no income- 
 tax there. France is the real land of free- 
 dom!" 
 
 " Don't interrupt him, Norris ; he's telling a 
 story." 
 
 " I dare say you're right, Tom ; and most likely 
 I'll go there. I was only about to say, that on 
 looking through my accounts, the conclusion I 
 arrived at was that my profession was a yearly 
 loss to me. I sell nothing, and I have to buy 
 heaps of canvases and paints, brushes and things. 
 I don't know how I do it, I'm siu*e ; because, 
 you know, I've no other money. It's quite a
 
 286 . LEO. 
 
 mystery to me how I get on — how I manage to 
 live at all. Here, Louis, another cup of coffee 
 and a cigar." 
 
 '' Return, then, with me to Paris. They have 
 love there — in that city, for arts — for artists. You 
 will prosper there, my Timson," says Norris. 
 
 Mr. Gossett breaks in suddenly — 
 
 " I've discovered such an excellent plan of 
 study. I'm getting up my medical learning at 
 a tremendous pace. It's on a sort of memoria 
 teclinica principle. You can't remember one 
 thing separately, but you remember it in con- 
 junction with something else. Well, I study 
 music and medicine together, just as at school 
 we used to learn Greek through Latin. For 
 instance, there are twelve ribs — an octave and 
 a half; five false ribs — answering to the lines in 
 music ; twenty-four vertebrae — or three octaves ; 
 four bones in the metacarpus — like the spaces in 
 music ; and so on through the whole business. 
 The skeleton's nothing more than an upright 
 grand piano, and I can play what tunes I like 
 upon him. Isn't it a superb idea ? I look at his 
 ribs, and I see the whole scale marked out — whole 
 operas composed. I've written out the full de- 
 scription, and I sing it to a Gregorian chant. It's
 
 AU CAFE. 287 
 
 very impressive ; something like tliis " (sings in a 
 deep bass voice) : — " ' The Tarsus is composed of 
 seven large bones: a firm and elastic arch — for 
 supporting the body,' and so on. Splendid, isn't 
 it ? I shall get on capitally like that. And then, 
 you know, there's descriptive music. Fancy the 
 Pericarditis Polka, with exact imitations of the 
 pulsation of the heart under various forms of 
 disease. The Kidney Quadrilles ! The Varicose 
 Valse; or — what a sublime opportunity for a 
 composer ! — The Stomach Symphony. I defy 
 anybody not to learn upon such a superior 
 system. I shall get through the college as easily 
 as a circus clown through a paper balloon. It's a 
 new discovery. I've a great mind to patent it. 
 My fortune's made. A medical man must suc- 
 ceed who can soothe his patients with song while 
 he cures tliem with medicine. Many a sick man 
 would jump up and begin to dance if he found me 
 at his bedside singing the drinking-song out of 
 Der FreiscMtzJ^ 
 
 These remarks, noisily delivered, — Mr. Gossett 
 was not fond of sotto voce singing or speaking, — 
 roused many of the exiles, who glanced curiously 
 at the gathering of men round the little marble 
 table, and were confirmed in the notion they had
 
 288 LEO. 
 
 for some time entertained, to the effect that the 
 English were a droll people. 
 
 " Who's this coming in ? " 
 
 " Why, it's Jack Lackington ! How are you, 
 Jack?" 
 
 " I've had such a dance after you, Kob. I 
 called in the Temple, but I found the oak 
 sported; then I went on to Gossett's, but I 
 missed you again. I thought it just possible you 
 might be here, and I knew I should find some- 
 body I know. How are you, Norris? How's 
 French art getting on ? By George ! look at 
 that Frenchman over there, how the light falls on 
 his bald head and the rouo-h rim of his beard. I'll 
 make a little study of him, if I can ; " and he 
 drew a sketch-book from his pocket. " I might 
 paint him as St. Jerome." 
 
 " Yes ; and Madame Despres as the angel," 
 added Norris. 
 
 It was noteworthy that while Mr. Lackington 
 was accustomed to idle a good deal in his 
 studio, he was sometimes, out of it, moved 
 by extraordinary inclinations to be industrious, 
 and to be seen busily engaged in most in- 
 convenient places — in crowds, at the theatre, 
 in the streets, at dining-rooms, and, as in
 
 AU CAFE. 289 
 
 the present instance, at the cafe — filKiig his 
 sketch-books. But perhaps, after all, desultory 
 employment like that is hardly to be regarded 
 as serious work — it is only a preparation for it 
 — not nearer the real thino; than mendinc* a nen 
 is to writincr. His sketches of this kind were 
 as numerous as they were clever ; his finished 
 works were very much more rare. There was 
 about the man some inability to concentrate him- 
 self, or he was without any real sense of the value 
 of completion. 
 
 " There's that old French poodle here again," 
 he Sciid, looking at the elderly gentleman whose 
 appearance we have described ; " he must be an 
 awful age, that old man. If he doesn't take care, 
 I'll make another sketch of him. Timson, I 
 never see you at work of this kind. If you don't 
 stick to your profession, and carry it always about 
 with you, as I do, you'll never get on. There's 
 nothing like application. Do you think, Norris, 
 that fellow's at all likely to be the Wandering 
 Jew ? or, what do you say, Rob — Tithonus, per- 
 haps ? But, Lord ! it must be a long time since 
 Aurora cared much about him. She's quite got 
 over her little weakness by this time, I should 
 think." 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 LEO. 
 
 The object of these remarks sipped his absinthe, 
 apparently quite unconscious that attention had 
 been drawn to him. The sketch of the bald 
 foreigner had been stopped. The model had felt 
 a draught and put on his hat — a rusty, slouched 
 felt hat. Mr. Lackington's plan was interfered 
 with. 
 
 " By the way, Rob," he said, turning over the 
 leaves of the book, " I've stolen a march upon 
 you. I went up into Gossett's room ; I looked 
 through the crack of the door. What do you 
 think I saw? — wdiat do you think I heard? Ha-! 
 ha! Fair Rosamond is discovered. I made this 
 sketch. I could only get a profile view of her. 
 Do you think it like?" 
 
 Robin took the book eagerly. ; Phil Gossett 
 looked over his shoulder. 
 
 " Janet ! " he cried, lustily ; *' and, by Jove ! 
 a capital likeness ! " 
 
 Tithonus threw down his newspaper, surely 
 with needless impetuosity. He nearly pushed 
 his absinthe oflP the table. He rose: there was 
 a strange look in his eyes — a combination of 
 cunning and excitement. He moved towards the 
 table at which the friends were seated. 
 
 " Pardon me, Messieurs," he said, with almost
 
 AU GATE. 291 
 
 exaggerated politeness, bowing low, pressing his 
 claw hands upon his breast; "the Charivari, is it 
 on your table ? No ; it is my mistake ; it is the 
 Moniteur of last week." He stood just behind 
 Mr. Gossett as he spoke ; he could not help seeing, 
 between the heads of that gentleman and Robin 
 Hooper, the sketch they were intent on. "Ah!*' 
 in a voice of rapture, " what a charming head ; it 
 is superb — angelic. Monsieur is an artist, then ! 
 Ah! it is exquisite. I am no artist, but I can 
 appreciate. Pardon me my rudeness, but I could 
 not help seeing. I adore art. I could not restrain 
 the expression of my admiration." 
 
 He spoke fluently in English, though with a 
 foreign accent. Robin closed the book, with 
 angry abruptness. His eye met the Frenchman's, 
 and a. feeling of alarm, he knew not why, came 
 over him. The Frenchman, smiling and bowing 
 redundantly, returned to his seat. He had seen the 
 sketch. He sat now with his back to the group, 
 absorbed, as it seemed, in the Charivari, with 
 which Louis the imperturbable had furnished him. 
 Perhaps the friends were not aware that in this 
 way he could watch very closely their reflections 
 in a green-hued glass opposite. By-and-by, how- 
 ever, he turned round again ; he put down his 
 
 19—2
 
 292 LEO. 
 
 paper ; he rubbed his eyes^ as though fatigued 
 with reading ; he leant upon his elbows, covering 
 his face Avith his hands. Only by very close 
 observation of him could you discover that he 
 was still watching his neighbours stealthily through 
 his fingers. 
 
 Robin shivered. He seemed to have conceived an 
 indescribable, unreasoning repugnance to the man. 
 
 " Did you notice him, how he glared at the 
 sketch ? " he whispered to Phil. " Why was it 
 produced here ? It was shameful — it was cruel ! 
 Lackington should be more prudent, more careful. 
 What has she done that her name should be made 
 a by-word in such a place as this ? I hate that 
 man ! " 
 
 "Tithonus?" 
 
 " He has got eyes like a reptile. Did you 
 notice them ? " 
 
 '•' ^ Eye of newt and toe of frog,' " muttered 
 Phil Gossett, and he began to hum some of 
 Locke's Machetli music ; and then added, *^ No, 
 by the way ; his feet are very neat." 
 
 " It seems to me that he is capable of any- 
 thing, that man. There is something absolutely 
 diabolical about his expression." 
 
 '- Do vou think so ? " ]\Ir. Gossett asked, his
 
 AU CAFE. 293 
 
 calmness in strong contrast with his friend's ex- 
 citement. "No. He does not come up to my 
 notion of the diabolical. In the first place, he 
 has not got a bass voice, nor a moustache ;" and 
 he proceeded to draw a fancy portrait of the 
 Prince of Darkness, for which he might himself 
 have been the sitter. 
 
 Lackington's sketch was not again referred to. 
 If Tithonus was listening to hear more of that 
 subject, he must have been disappointed. The 
 conversation had taken a new turn. Tom Norris 
 was relating a wonderful story, which had re- 
 cently been startling Parisian ateliers ; a young 
 artist, a Belgian, a pupil of St. Roche, had been 
 murdered by a Quadroon girl, a modUe, in a fit of 
 jealousy it was supposed. She had sharpened a 
 palette-knife, and stabbed him in the back, as, 
 after posing her, he had turned away to his easel. 
 He had fallen dead at once. (Mr. Gossett sug- 
 gested that the vertebrae had been severed.) He 
 was a young man of much promise, and greatly 
 regretted. The murderess, it was supposed, had 
 escaped in a suit of his clothes, and had reached 
 Algiers ; but still there were hopes that she would 
 be captured. It was a wonderful story, full of 
 interesting detail ; and Tom Norris was loud in 
 
 19—3
 
 294 LEO. 
 
 praise of the Parisian police, rather at the expense 
 of the London constabulary, and in favour of the 
 French administration of justice as compared with 
 the English. Indeed, he preferred everything 
 French — even to the accent in speaking English, 
 as we have shown. Is there not, now-a-days, 
 rather a denationalizing tendency prevalent ? Of 
 old, the travelling Briton returned to his native 
 shores, denouncing in round terms, as abomi- 
 nations and absurdities, the manners and customs 
 of foreign nations. But to-day it is rather the 
 fashion for a man to learn so much abroad that 
 he comes back with no inconsiderable contempt 
 for the usages of his friends at home. Perhaps, 
 this is because a diflPerent class is travelling now. 
 Both modes of conduct may be open to objection; 
 but of the two I think I prefer the first: there's 
 a sturdy, stanch, thorough-going flavour about 
 it. I always feel inclined to shake hands with an 
 Englishman who, having seen some others, jn'o- 
 nounces solemnly his opinion that his own is the 
 greatest and most glorious country in the world ; 
 and I have besides what amounts almost to a 
 passion for roast beef 
 
 It grew late. The friends broke up their con- 
 clave and departed.
 
 AU CAFE. 295 
 
 The old Frenchman coughed, three times, a 
 peculiar, artificial cough. A man came out of the 
 billiard-room; it was the man Lackington had 
 begun to sketch, with the bald head and ragged 
 beard. He wore a greasy velveteen coat; his 
 clothes altogether were worn and rusty ; he had 
 a dirty red scarf twisted round his throat, with no 
 trace of shirt or shirt collar to be seen. He was 
 very thin, with sunken cheeks and prominent, 
 starting-out eyes. He had a half-fed look. He 
 was always in a perspiration, and polishing his 
 head with a torn handkerchief. He approached 
 Tithonus ; he stooped down. Tithonus whispered 
 into his ear. 
 
 " Le hoiteux f " he asked. Tithonus nodded. 
 
 " Le petit diahle boiteux ! " he said, with a smile. 
 It was not an attractive smile. The man put on his 
 hat and sauntered out. Certain of our friends 
 were leave-taking outside. Probably their homes 
 were in different directions. The man looked up 
 at the sky as though anxious about the weather. 
 He held out his hand to feel if it were raining. 
 He busied himself with the manufacture of 
 a cigarette. Presently the group broke up. He 
 followed slowly a detachment of it. 
 
 " It was she," mumbled Tithonus ; and he took
 
 296 LEO. 
 
 from his pocket a ragged book, and made a note in 
 it with a blunt pencil, which he moistened with 
 his tongue to make it mark the more freely. 
 He then leant back in his chair, lost in contempla- 
 tion. For a long time he remained so without 
 change of position. Then he smiled strangely, 
 and took from his silver-gilt box a copious pinch 
 of snufF. 
 
 The hours went by. All the other guests had 
 departed. The gas in the billiard-room was 
 turned off. The lights in the outer room had 
 been lowered. Still, Tithonus stirred not. 
 
 There seemed to be no desire to hurry him. 
 Louis took no notice of him. He was busy 
 piling up the chairs upon the table, preparatory to 
 the room being swept in the morning. Madame 
 Despres had quitted her raised seat; had made 
 for herself a rich cup of chocolate ; had enjoyed 
 two small glasses of parfait amour. She was 
 now engaged with the pictures of the Charivari, 
 the meaning of which it did not appear that 
 she comprehended clearly. Tithonus, motionless, 
 silent, retained his seat. He was evidently 
 a favoured guest. If he had chosen to re- 
 main all night, it was probable that he might 
 have had his way. The shutters were up, the
 
 AU CAFE. 297 
 
 outer door of the cafe was closed ; Louis had now 
 even removed his apron. He was reading French, 
 English, and German newspapers indifferently. 
 
 There was a tap upon the shutters. It was 
 twice repeated. Tithonus rose and moved to the 
 door. Passing Madame, he bowed, removing his 
 hat; then paused to mumble certain words of 
 compliment. Madame smiled radiantly. He 
 jested. She patted him gaily on the shoulder. 
 He took her large hand, caressed it between his 
 two shrivelled claws, then pressed it reverently 
 to his lips, and so went out. Louis murmured 
 and shruo-ired his shoulders. Madame sailed 
 towards him. 
 
 " Enfant, " she said, " you forget : Monsieur 
 Anatole is rich : Monsieur Anatole is miUionnaire.^^ 
 
 M. Anatole stood under a lamp-post. The man 
 with the bald head handed him a scrap of paper. 
 M. Anatole read in a low voice : — " ' Mr. R. 
 Hooper, Mr. A. Page (probably the former), 
 Sun-Dial Buildings, Temple.' Hem ! There is a 
 mistake, I think," he said. '^But we must see. 
 "We must not lose the scent now." Again he 
 whispered in the ear of his companion. The 
 man nodded. Soon after they parted. 
 
 ]\L Anatole paused to take a pinch of snuff.
 
 298 LEO. 
 
 " Never mind," he mumbled. " I shall find 
 her. I put out my hand — so." He extended his 
 arm. " I draw it in — so, and in my clutch — la clilre 
 'petite ! Never fear. Who will prevent me ? " 
 
 And he walked on leisurely. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY S3IITH, ELDER AND CO., 
 
 LITTLE GREEN ARBOUR COURT, OLD BAILEY, E.C.