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 *^neft, motllation an^
 
 DOCTOR VICTORIA, 
 
 A PICTURE FROM THE PERIOD. 
 
 MAJOR-GENERAL G. G. ALEXANDER, C.B. 
 
 Fiction is a fabric woven by Fancy with threads of Truth. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO., 
 
 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 
 i88i. 
 
 [Ail Rights Rese}'>ed.]
 
 TO 
 
 S A Pv A H BECK H A li V E Y, 
 
 WHOSE FKIENDSIIir AKD RARE GIFTS 
 
 HAVE BROUGHT ME .SO MANY 
 
 HOURS OF PLEASURE.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAniCK J PAGE 
 
 I. THE END OF A SIIOKT LIFE - - - 1 
 
 ir. TWENTY YEAKS AFTER - - - - 10 
 
 III. " HOME " - 21 
 
 lY. AN AFTEKNOON " TEA " IN RELCIIAYIA - 80 
 
 \. THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE - - - 44 
 
 YI. A FEW FAGES FKOM A JOURNAL - - 57 
 
 YII. DEEl'DALE AND ITS INMATES - - - 77 
 
 Yin. CUriD SHOOTS HIS SHAFTS - - - 92 
 
 IX. MIDSUMMER-EYE - - - - - 107 
 
 X. AYAITINCr FOR THE YERDICT - - - 117 
 
 XI. RICHT OR WRONG? ----- 129 
 
 XII. OUT IN THE RAIN ----- 144 
 
 XIIL THE major's " LITTLE GAME " - - - IGl
 
 viii Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIV. m THE COUNTRY - - - - - 183 
 
 XV, ^IID AUTUMX LEAVES - - - - 191 
 
 XVI. WORKIXG FOR THE WORLD - - - 212 
 
 XVn. ''DEAD AT LAST" ----- 227 
 
 xvin. BEER wixs ------ 235
 
 DOCTOR VICTORIA. 
 
 ^>Ht 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE END OF A SHORT LIFE. 
 
 " Its flight was upward : 
 
 Let no cynic say 
 It was not lieavenward. 
 
 "What ! that one poor ray, 
 Because it wandered — 
 
 Hapless went astray — 
 Is gone for ever, 
 
 Quenched and cast away 
 In endless night ! 
 
 No ! it were false ; 
 For Perfect Love stood by, 
 
 And gave His aid 
 To guide its path on high." 
 
 The rays of the setting sun stream through 
 the mountains which form the northern and 
 southern shores of the beautiful lake of Thun, 
 and light up with a roseate glow the glorious 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 group of snow-clad peaks of which the Jung- 
 frau is the queen. The day is dying, and 
 never, never could its beauty have been 
 greater, more wonderful, than now. Brighter 
 and brighter, higher and higher, that heaven- 
 born blush moves onward, upward, till, all 
 aglow with golden light, the highest point 
 retains it lovingly, then loosens its embrace, 
 and cold, pale hues spread stealthily o'er 
 all, and tell of night and darkness soon to 
 come. 
 
 In a chalet under the Nieder Horn, 
 perched high above the lake, the last flush 
 of departing life had lighted up and brought 
 back all the beauty — aye, in the presence of 
 the sanctifier Death, all the purity which 
 belongs to innocence and youth — to a dying 
 girl. 
 
 A girl in face and form, but yet a mother, 
 for a sleeping babe lay folded in her wasted 
 arms. 
 
 Her bed had been so placed by the open, 
 window, that the full glory of this her last 
 earthly sunset was spread out before her ; 
 but it seemed as if she did not dare to gaze 
 upon its beauty, for she had turned away her 
 head from it. And as she now lay, with her 
 cheek pressed against the slumbering babe
 
 The End of a Short Life. 3 
 
 upon her bosom, she, from time to time, gave 
 a little low wail, which spoke of mental agony 
 too deep for words. 
 
 It was a little low wail, but low as it was, 
 it attracted the attention of the only other 
 person in the room, who rose from her seat — 
 she did so with difficulty, for she was very 
 lame — and drew near the invalid's bedside. 
 
 ** Violet, you must be calru." 
 
 The speaker, whose naturally harsh voice 
 seemed softened by emotion, was a person 
 approaching middle age, with a pale and 
 anxious face, bearing traces of many trials and 
 much sorrow. To have judged from the ex- 
 pression of her mouth alone, it might have 
 been concluded that those trials — whatever 
 their nature might have been — had hardened 
 her character and made her utterly unsym- 
 pathetic to the wants and feelings of others ; 
 for it was one of those mouths which, though 
 it would not have been without beauty in a 
 man, had a stern determination about its 
 every line — whether in movement or at rest 
 — which took away from it every trace of that 
 indescribable, though well-defined, sweetness 
 of expression which is one of woman's most 
 charming characteristics. 
 
 But if the harsh lineaments of her mouth 
 
 1—2
 
 4 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 repelled, there was a depth of tenderness in 
 those dark-grey eyes which revealed a warm 
 and loving heart. 
 
 Two distinct and opposite natures seemed 
 to be united in one person. 
 
 It was impossible to look at those eyes and 
 not think of what she must have been in youth, 
 or at that mouth without being reminded of 
 the hardening effects of the lessons taught 
 by age. 
 
 '* Violet, you must be calm." 
 
 The soft grey eyes were dim with tears, 
 but the voice seemed hard even to harsh- 
 ness. 
 
 " The doctor says that if you would get well, 
 you must keep quite quiet." 
 
 '^ Aunt dear, I shall never get well. I am 
 dying." 
 
 The stern mouth quivered ; it was but for 
 a moment. 
 
 '^ My child, there is still hope. You are 
 young. The doctor tells me you are only 
 weak, and that you are free from all disease." 
 
 '* But one — a broken heart 1" 
 
 There was no hardness about the mouth now, 
 and even the tone of the voice was softened : 
 
 '^ Hush ! My poor Violet, you must not 
 speak like this ! You must live ! You must
 
 The End of a Short Life. 5 
 
 try — to live ! If not for your own sake, for 
 the sake of this poor child !" 
 
 There was something in the last word 
 which seemed to renew the failing strength 
 of the dying girl. 
 
 " My child ! my child !" she said. " My 
 curse ! my shame! Oh that I had died before 
 its birth !" Then, encircling it more closely in 
 her arms, and raising its little hands to her 
 lips : '' My beautiful — my precious one — why 
 did I give you life 1 Oh, it was shameless ! 
 — a cruel, cruel wrong ! But who had thought 
 a man could be so base ? Ah, coward ! 
 monster ! What ! forsake your child ?" She 
 was silent for a moment. Then, softly, as if 
 in supplication : " O God, forgive me ! I was 
 so young and weak — so young and weak. 
 Why didst Thou let it be '? Sweet Jesus, 
 pity us, and take us both — my child and me 
 — I dare not come alone ! She shall protect 
 me with her innocence. Yes, I am guilty, 
 but I do repent. Oh, save me 1 save me ! 
 Ah, His touch is cold— so icy cold ! It is the 
 ■ hand of Death !" 
 
 Then, as if exhausted and worn out by the 
 exertion she had made, she shuddered con- 
 vulsively and hid her face in her hands, as if 
 to shut out some hideous object.
 
 6 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 The hard, stern mouth was closed more firmly 
 than ever ; it seemed pitiless even to cruelty, 
 but the dark-grey eyes were suffused with 
 tears. 
 
 For a time the ticking of a clock, on a table 
 near the door, was the only distinct sound ; 
 then the silence was broken by an occasional 
 little bleat, which showed that the slumbers 
 of the sleeping babe had been disturbed, and 
 that it would soon awake. 
 
 Again the sick girl spoke — this time slowly 
 and calmly, with longer intervals between her 
 words, 
 
 " Marmaduke," she said, " you will not 
 leave me — 'twould break my heart — I know 
 you will not leave me ! No — no ! — you are 
 too good — too kind ! Did I not give you all ? 
 My love ! — I had no more — and this poor 
 little life !" Then, raising herself on her pillow, 
 she stretched out her hands imploringly : 
 " Marmaduke, you must not go ! You shall 
 not leave your child ! — it is your child !" 
 Her voice had become loud and piercing ; in 
 an instant it subsided into a low wail of 
 despair : '' What, gone ? gone 1 Deserted in 
 my need ? Oh, who shall hide me — save me 
 — from my shame ?" 
 
 She fell back upon her pillow, and seemed
 
 The End of a SJiort Life. 7 
 
 to sleep, notwithstanding the shrill and pas- 
 sionate cries of the now wideawake infant, 
 who resisted every effort made by the owner 
 of the dark-grey eyes to soothe it. But they 
 had the effect of bringing another actor upon 
 the scene. 
 
 It was a young woman in the dress of a 
 peasant, who, opening the door quietly but 
 quickly, hurried up to the screaming child, 
 and endeavoured to soothe it by her caresses. 
 
 *' You do not well," she said, in the peculiar 
 patois spoken in the Bernese Oberland — '' you 
 do not do well to let the mistress talk. I 
 heard her high-toned words. She, the good, 
 gentle one. And this poor lambkin, too, has 
 lost her sleep." 
 
 So saying, she took the infant in her arms, 
 and singing, only as loving nurses can sing, 
 laid it upon her breast. 
 
 She sang so softly, it was difficult to catch 
 the words : 
 
 " ' Hush thee ! oh, hush thee ! 
 
 The angels are singing. 
 To my white one, my wee one, 
 
 A crown they are bringing ; 
 A crown of bright stars 
 
 Fresh plucked from the sky. 
 Hark ! the angels sing softly ; 
 
 Sleep, sleep ! God is nigh." '
 
 8 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 The eyes of the infant were again closed in 
 sleep, and as the nurse rocked it backwards 
 and forwards, the clock seemed to tick more 
 loudly, as if to mark the cadence, whilst she 
 sang, again and again : 
 
 " ' Hark ! the angels sing softly ; 
 Sleep, sleep ! God is nigh.' " 
 
 The roseate glow was passing from the 
 mountains, as Margaret Marsh — she of the 
 dark grey eyes — knelt by the side of the 
 dying Violet ; and as she pressed her lips — 
 tender now as her eyes- — upon that pallid 
 cheek, a tear would not be restrained, but fell 
 upon it. 
 
 ^'Violet— dear Violet 1" 
 
 The tear — it fell before the words — seemed 
 to bring back the ebbing tide of life. 
 
 *' Aunt, dear!" the voice was scarce a whisper 
 now, '^ don't cry. I have been very weak and 
 wicked. If I had not been so weak, I had 
 not been so wicked. Forgive me !" 
 
 " From the bottom of my heart, my child." 
 
 " Promise me." 
 
 " What can I promise V 
 
 '^ To love my poor child as your own." 
 
 " I will give her all my love. She shall be 
 the child of my old age." 
 
 ^' Do not let her be weak, like her mother.
 
 The End of a Short Life. 9 
 
 Let her have a good name — not Violet. Call 
 her Victoria — after a good woman and a good 
 queen. Aunt dear, I die happy. Kiss me." 
 
 The last ray from the setting sun had leapt 
 from the highest peak, and as it did so, it 
 seemed as if a chill had passed through 
 Nature's heart, so pale and wan the shade 
 which fell upon her. 
 
 So too had the last hectic flush of life 
 passed from the cheek of the dying girl : a 
 few incoherent words, "It is dark !" "So 
 dark !" '* Marmaduke 1" one deep-drawn sigh 
 — and yet another spirit was released, from its 
 earthly bondage, and Violet Marsh had ended 
 her short life. 
 
 At the same moment, whilst earth hid her 
 face in the gloomy shroud of night, one soli- 
 tary star rose rapidly above the Jungfrau's 
 snowy screen. It was but a lone star ; but as 
 its silvery rays fell on that fair face, making 
 it shine forth as the face of an angel, to the 
 mourner by the couch, as she turned her eyes 
 to heaven, it was more than a lone star — it 
 was a messenger of peace from the Eternal.
 
 10 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 TWENTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Twenty years have passed away since the 
 events in the last chapter. Twenty long 
 years ! How difficult to realise what those few 
 words mean ! 
 
 Change upon change — a never-endmg 
 substitution of the new for the old ! And 
 yet the stream of time rolls on so silently, 
 that to those who float down it, it often seems 
 as if it had neither currents nor motion. 
 
 Change upon change ! With no two inci- 
 dents of our lives alike; those of the Past 
 producing a Present never to be renewed. 
 
 Change upon change ! The Future flying 
 before us in our youth, and hastening to meet 
 us in our age. 
 
 An eternity of changes, with but one eter- 
 nal law — to change. 
 
 And so our scene has changed. We are
 
 Tiventy Years After, 11 
 
 no longer amongst the mountains of the Ber- 
 nese Oberland, we are in the midst of the 
 roar and movement of the great metropolis. 
 We are in London. 
 
 A fine soft April day. In the Parks the 
 trees are beginning to bud and the grass to 
 grow. Everywhere Nature is casting off her 
 russet garb, and as she does so, those who live 
 in the country regard her changeful moods 
 with anxious thoughts for the future fruits 
 and flowers. Here in this great, grimy, 
 smoke-stained city, Spring brings other cares; 
 for nowadays, all that we do is done so seri- 
 ously, that even our daily pleasures are made 
 to assume that form. 
 
 It was half-past three in the afternoon, and 
 the sun, which had shone out somewhat 
 brightly in the morning, was now peering 
 through the spread of yellow smoke and 
 fog which in London is the usual afternoon 
 substitute for sky, when a continuous roll of 
 carriages announced that Fashion was abroad, 
 and about — according to the old phrase — " to 
 take the air." 
 
 Poor Fashion ! who, when it is the season, 
 must be content to take such air as the cold 
 east wind, mixed with the city smoke and river 
 fog, may chance to give her.
 
 12 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 But now the wind was from the west ; and 
 if there were any fog few people observed it, 
 for during the last few noonths they had seen 
 little else. 
 
 Amongst the many carriages which oscillated 
 with pendulum-like precision between the ex- 
 tremities of that portion of the Park which 
 Fashion has seized on and sanctified as her 
 own, there was one which stood out from all 
 its competitors — for there is competition now 
 in all things, even in carriages — so that it 
 could not fall to attract the attention of the 
 most casual observer. Yet it was only a 
 brougham, drawn by a pair of bright bays 
 with plain black harness, and a coachman and 
 footman in simple dark liveries. But though 
 nothing could have been more unostentatious 
 than the whole turn-out, no one could see it 
 without feeling that it was an aesthetic 
 success. 
 
 " A nice turn-out that of the Yorkes." 
 
 So said the Hon. Pierrepoint Phipps, late of 
 the Guards, to Major Decimus Fitz- Jones, 
 late of the Greys, as they walked slowly side 
 by side, with that air of contemplative 
 dejection which is one of the most striking 
 peculiarities of masculine loungers in the 
 Parks.
 
 Twenty Years After, 13 
 
 " Yes. Good steppers, and a perfect match. 
 I positively believe " 
 
 What the major s belief at that particular 
 'moment may have been, remains a mystery 
 to this day ; for the word *^ match " had no 
 sooner been uttered, than the Hon. Pierre- 
 point Phipps — commonly called P. P. by his 
 intimates, and by some who were not his 
 intimates, behind his back — exclaimed with 
 unwonted animation, for he prided himself on 
 his sang-froid : 
 
 ''How much do you think they are 
 worth ?" 
 
 " At least four hundred." 
 
 *^ My dear fellow, you are too absurd ! I 
 meant the girls — not the horses." 
 
 The gallant major was about to reply, but 
 it seemed fated that on this day his brief 
 utterances — Fitz- Jones was always brief — 
 were doomed to be interrupted; for he had 
 scarcely delivered himself of one of those 
 deep gutturals with which languid men about 
 town are wont to call their words together 
 and set them up in sentences, when various 
 exclamations and an excited movement in 
 the crowd gave evidence of something un- 
 usual having taken place. 
 
 Turning quickly in the direction of the
 
 14 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 spot towards which the attention of the 
 public seemed to be concentrated, the cause 
 of the excitement became evident. 
 
 The carriage with the bright bays had' 
 driven on until it had reached that portion 
 of the line where from time to time the 
 mounted policemen on duty, with that im- 
 posing air common to all who exercise 
 authority, from an admiral of the fleet to a 
 custom-house officer, waved back the advanc- 
 ing carriages, and brought them to a sudden 
 stand. Directly this was done a stream of 
 pedestrians was graciously permitted to move 
 on, and under another policeman's protecting 
 care to effect a crossing, through dangers 
 which, without his aid, would have been only 
 inferior to those of a passage through the 
 '^ pack " in the Arctic regions. 
 
 The deaf old lady and her nieces from the 
 country, who on such occasions always 
 manage to be last, had just completed their 
 frantic charge, and reached the opposite side 
 in a state of breathless exhaustion ; the 
 policeman had given the signal, and the 
 bright bays who led the line, as if to spite 
 the coachman, had answered his intimation 
 that they were to go on by a playful plunge, 
 when a young child, whose friends had
 
 Twenty Years After, 15 
 
 arrived at the crossing just as the embargo 
 on the carriages was taken off, rushed into 
 the road, and before anyone could prevent it 
 was apparently entangled in the horses' legs, 
 and in another moment would have been 
 trampled under their feet, but that through 
 the horses rearing, partly from fright and 
 partly from being pulled back upon their 
 haunches, a short respite was given from 
 what seemed all but certain death.^ 
 
 A cry of terror came from the bystanders ; 
 but, as frequently happens when prompt 
 action is needed, everyone, including the 
 child's friends, seemed to be perfectly para- 
 lysed. 
 
 Fortunately, however, there was one ex- 
 ception. A tall, well-dressed girl sprang 
 forward, and seeing at a glance that it would 
 be impossible, from the position of the child, 
 to stoop down and lift it up before the horses 
 were upon her, she seized them by their 
 heads, and with an exertion of strength 
 which seemed marvellous from so slight a 
 form, swung them round, so that their fore- 
 feet came to the ground clear of the child, 
 who was taken up all .but unhurt. 
 
 A sound which seemed almost like a sigh
 
 16 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 of relief came from the crowd, followed by 
 loud cheers. 
 
 '' A monstrously plucky girl !" exclaimed 
 the Hon. Pierrepoint Phipps. 
 
 " Knows how to handle a horse," chimed in 
 the major. 
 
 It was the highest compliment he was ever 
 known to pay — even to a man. 
 
 In the meantime she, whose courage and 
 presence of mind had led to such a happy 
 result, was endeavouring to escape from the 
 overwhelming expressions of gratitude with 
 which she was greeted. She had bent down 
 and kissed the now weeping child, and was 
 on the point of turning away, when a livery 
 servant — the footman of the carriage — came 
 hurriedly towards her, and touching his hat 
 respectfully, informed her that her ladyship 
 — Lady Arabella Yorke — desired to speak 
 with her. 
 
 A shade of annoyance flitted across the 
 young lady's face ; it was but momentary, 
 and she followed the servant without remark 
 to the carriage, which had been drawn up by 
 the side of the rails, a short distance off. ^ 
 
 Lady Arabella Yorke, its occupant — the 
 wife of Mr. Yorke, the richest of rich brewers, 
 and most respectable of men — had lost no
 
 Twenty Years After, 17 
 
 time in making herself acquainted with the 
 details of the accident, and having assured 
 herself that nothino- serious had occurred, 
 sent her footman in search of the young lady 
 whose action in the matter had been pro- 
 nounced by her ladyship's coachman as "stun- 
 ning." 
 
 Lady Arabella's carriage had been sur- 
 rounded by a small circle of sympathising 
 friends ; amongst whom were the Hon. 
 Pierrepoint Phipps and Major Fitz- Jones, and 
 the conversation had become animated. 
 
 *•' I shall never drive in the Park again," 
 said Lady Arabella. '' This has been a scene, 
 and I hate scenes. Children should not be 
 allowed to come near our public drives." 
 
 *' I wish you could have seen her," said the 
 Hon. Pierrepoint Phipps. ^' She was magni- 
 ficent. As she stood before the horses she 
 reminded me of a— of a — beautiful Grecian 
 statue." 
 
 " She knows how to handle a horse," re- 
 marked for perhaps the thirteenth time tlie 
 major ; for it was no easy matter for him to 
 get rid of an idea when it had once seized 
 hold of him. 
 
 '^ Do you know who or what she is ?" asked 
 Lady Arabella. 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 No one seemed to know more than that 
 she was young, and tall, and ladylike, and 
 good-looking. 
 
 They had just commenced discussing 
 whether she might not be this or might not 
 be that, when the near approach of the sub- 
 ject of their discussion produced a sudden 
 silence. All eyes were turned inquiringly 
 towards her, but curiosity was changed into 
 astonishment when Lady Arabella — whose 
 near sight prevented her from recognising 
 anyone at a distance — greeted the stranger 
 as an acquaintance, and in a tone which 
 clearly showed that the meeting, under other 
 circumstances, might not have been a parti- 
 cularly agreeable one. 
 
 '' Victoria ! Good gracious, child! is it 
 you ? How can you be so thoughtless 1" 
 
 ''In what way?" asked the young lady, 
 with a quiet dignity which rebuked the 
 patronising petulance of Lady Arabella, 
 though she spoke so calmly that it seemed 
 as if she did not think it worth her while to 
 resent it. 
 
 ''You might have been killed! Oh, Vic- 
 toria, Victoria ! when will you learn to act 
 like other people and think of yourself ? You 
 really are too eccentric. Besides, it is not
 
 Twenty Years After, - 19 
 
 right that you should be walking in the Park 
 alone." 
 
 Lady Arabella's friends had bowed and 
 walked on at the young lady's approach, yet 
 it was not without a blush that she replied 
 curtly : 
 
 *' It is the shortest and best way to where 
 I am going." 
 
 ** But you should not go out in London by 
 yourself. It is not comme ilfaut." 
 
 The young lady had resumed her usual 
 manner, and there was something of playful- 
 ness in her smile as she said : 
 
 '' Walking is not always a matter of choice, 
 and I certainly should prefer an escort if I 
 could find an agreeable one." 
 
 " Since you are going in the same direction, 
 I will drive you across the Park." 
 
 With a bow of assent — it almost seemed 
 as if she did not realise that she was receiv- 
 ing a favour — the young lady stepped into 
 the carriage. 
 
 "Stop near the Marble Arch," was the 
 direction to the footman as he closed the 
 carriage-door. 
 
 '^A friend of the family's?" asked the 
 coachman — who had only been a short time 
 in Mr. Yorke's service — of the footman, as 
 
 2—2
 
 20 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 soon as the latter had reseated himself on 
 the box. 
 
 '' Yes," said the footman. " She lives 
 down in Middleshire, and is often at our 
 place. '* 
 
 " Lots of pluck. What's her name ?" 
 " Her name is Marsh — Miss Victoria 
 Marsh — but we always call her amongst our- 
 selves Miss Vic."
 
 ''Home:' 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "home." 
 
 Lady Arabella, with scant courtesy — for 
 her temper had been ruffled, or, as she would 
 have expressed it, her " nerves had been 
 shaken" — took leave of her companion at the 
 northern entrance of the Park. 
 
 The short drive had been one continuous 
 lecture, and she had talked herself into such 
 a state of exhaustion that when the footman 
 touched his hat inquiringly she could only 
 gasp out the word " Home !" and fall back 
 upon the pillows, which were always specially 
 arranged for her support. 
 
 Poor Lady Arabella ! She too has had to 
 pay the penalty which would seem to belong 
 to wealth and rank and fashion — a weak 
 back. 
 
 " Home 1" The distance is not great, and 
 it does not take long .before the order has
 
 22 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 been obeyed. Lady Arabella has reached 
 her home. 
 
 A large house in one of our largest squares. 
 One of those localities where the senses be- 
 come oppressed by the weight of wealth 
 which is exhibited on every side, and through 
 which the poor man cannot pass without 
 asking himself how it is that he has escaped 
 being rich. 
 
 One of those localities which fashion 
 favours and calls ^'good;" in which is 
 brought together a crowd of people who are 
 not only placed by fortune in a position 
 which has spared them all those trials, humi- 
 liations, and heart-burnings which belong to 
 poverty and form part of its heritage : but 
 are enabled to gratify every taste, however 
 noble or ignoble, and make all that is beau- 
 tiful in art or applicable in science, minister 
 to their enjoyment. 
 
 To some the sight of this may be an in- 
 citement to exertion : what others have 
 done, they too may do. " Excelsior !" 
 
 And the success of the few is made a rule 
 of encouragement for the many. 
 
 But to those whose lot has been cast in the 
 lowest depths of destitution, the sight of this 
 superabundance of superfluities but serves to
 
 " Home:' 23 
 
 intensify their misery through the contrast 
 which it presents to their own sufferings. 
 The sight of Paradise can bring no joy to 
 those who are in Hades. Benevolence forgets 
 this when it doles out its aid, and charitable 
 people are shocked to find that there is so 
 deep a gulf between the two extremes of 
 poverty and wealth that even sympathy can 
 scarcely bridge it over. 
 
 But Lady Arabella has reached her Bel- 
 gravian home, and a loud rat-tat-tat has in- 
 formed the neighbourhood of her having done 
 so. On the instant the double doors ily wide 
 open ; two tall powdered footmen hasten for- 
 ward to unroll a carpet so that the passage 
 between the carriage and the mansion may 
 be made undefiled; two more, equally tall 
 and powdered, stand motionless on either 
 side of the entrance ; the footman who has 
 been out with her ladyship is at his post, 
 ready to open the carriage -door ; a page is 
 to be seen at the foot of the staircase ; whilst 
 in the distance, mounted some few steps 
 above him, looms, in a graceful attitude, 
 expressive of expectation, another model 
 specimen of over-fed humanity. The other 
 servants had been chosen for their height, 
 good looks, broad shoulders, and big calves,
 
 24 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 but the groom of the chambers, Mr. Mortimer 
 — his enemies basely asserted that his real 
 name was Chunks — belonged to that superior 
 class who are required, in addition to those 
 personal advantages, to possess great dis- 
 crimination, unfailing gravity, and undeniably 
 good manners. All these were possessed by 
 Mr. Mortimer in a very high degree : and 
 were it not that his grammatical construction 
 was somewhat peculiar, and that the letter H 
 had been a source of trouble to him from his 
 youth^ he might easily have passed, amongst 
 strangers, as a university man who had come 
 out in honours — Oxford, not Cambridge — or 
 even in his happier moments as a Privy 
 Councillor, or an ex-Cabinet Minister. 
 
 It is doubtful, however, whether Mr. 
 Mortimer would have felt flattered had the 
 latter mistake been made. He had once 
 walked across the park behind the, then, 
 Prime Minister. He returned in a state of 
 virtuous indignation. 
 
 "Mr. Cox," he said, to the batler, "I am 
 hignorant, and I know it. Had I been 
 heducated " — his difficulty with his aspirates 
 was chiefly in the long words — " I should not 
 have been what I am, and there is no know- 
 ing to what I might not have rose to. I do
 
 ''Homer 25 
 
 not know much, but this I do know, that if 
 her Majesty were to make me the Prime 
 Minister of this great and glorious country, I 
 would act in a proper haristocratic manner, 
 and I would not disgrace myself, nor deaiean 
 myself, nor lower myself by a- walking through 
 the Park in an old pair of boots a-busted at 
 the sides. It made me sick to see it." 
 
 Meanwhile, Lady Arabella has managed, 
 with the assistance of — including the coach- 
 man and the footman of the carriage — seven 
 full-grown men and a boy, to effect an entrance 
 into her own house, and is now once more at 
 home. 
 
 But it must not be supposed that such an 
 interesting spectacle had been without spec- 
 tators. 
 
 The unrolling of the carpet had arrested 
 the progress of a young man who was either 
 not in a hurry, or else objected to wading 
 through the mud round the carriage, and he 
 soon became the centre of a small group, to 
 which the inevitable baby in the perambulator, 
 who would seem to be always on the watch 
 for such opportunities, was hurriedly wheeled 
 up. Thanks to the skilful generalship of his 
 little sister who pushed him forward in a 
 manner which showed she was utterly regard-
 
 26 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 less of the fact that other people had toes, he 
 obtained a front place, from which he sur- 
 veyed the scene with a roingied expression of 
 deep interest and the most placid composure. 
 
 What a strange world this world must be 
 to babies ! not unfrequently, when they look 
 out upon it from their nurses' arms, it is not 
 difficult to detect a tinge of pity in their 
 large, wondering eyes. 
 
 There was one individual in that small 
 group of spectators whose appearance was so 
 remarkable, that he could not have been 
 passed by without notice. 
 
 It was a gaunt, bent old man, whose 
 threadbare suit of black had reached that 
 painful state of shiny shabbiness which 
 gives the idea of the wearers having endea- 
 voured to coax back its original gloss by the 
 application of some compound of an unctuous 
 nature. It is possible that, in the first in- 
 stance, the process might have been attended 
 with a certain degree of success ; but at the 
 present time it was quite evident it had 
 been carried too far, for there is a limit to all 
 things, and with old coats, just as with old 
 men and old women, a point may be reached 
 beyond which revival becomes impossible, and 
 any attempt to produce it only brings out
 
 '' Home:' 27 
 
 more clearly, and with a ghastly distinctness, 
 the melancholy ravages which the wear and 
 tear of time has occasioned. His hat was in 
 perfect keeping with his coat ; it had the 
 same shiny, shabby, doubtful sort of look, 
 and his well-patched boots were polished into 
 a state which made any injurious comparison 
 between the covering of his feet and that of 
 his head impossible. 
 
 That he was extremely poor there could be 
 no doubt. But that he had once seen better 
 days was equally apparent, for there was an 
 air of deliberation and ease about all his 
 movements which can seldom be acquired, 
 but which is natural to, and is rarely lost by, 
 those whose early youth has been spent 
 amidst the refinements of good society. 
 Some of his old tastes, too, still seemed to 
 cling to him, for he wore a flower in his 
 button-hole — it was only a sprig of wall- 
 flower — and though his gloves, like their 
 owner, were very much the worse for wear, 
 they were tight-fitting, indeed too tight- 
 fitting, judging from the extensive repairs 
 they seemed to have undergone — and were 
 kept scrupulously buttoned. 
 
 A dejected, broken-down, miserable-looking 
 old man, whose face was so full of sadness.
 
 28 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 subdued by resignation, that he might have 
 sat for a portrait of one of the early martyrs, 
 had it not been that from time to time all 
 expression passed away from it, and left 
 nothing behind but a helpless, vacant stare. 
 
 He had arrived on the scene just as the 
 carpet had been laid down, and stood quietly 
 waiting for Lady Arabella to pass, when he 
 caught sight of a small piece of paper on the 
 pavement. It was only a small scrap, but he 
 stooped and seized it with eagerness ; his 
 whole appearance was changed in a moment : 
 his limbs trembled with emotion, and as he 
 raised it to his eyes it almost seemed as if he 
 had recovered some long-lost talisman which 
 w^as to bring back the joys and pleasures of 
 some happier time. Alas ! vain hope. In 
 another instant he had flung it away, and his 
 former air of dejection seemed deepened by 
 despair, as he muttered, in a low tone, again 
 and again : 
 
 '' If I could but find it ! if I could but find 
 it I" 
 
 When he had finished speaking he would 
 have moved on, but one of the footmen kept 
 him back, for Lady Arabella had alighted 
 and was on the point of sweeping by. A 
 flash of intelligence lighted up his wan and
 
 " Home:' 29 
 
 wasted face as his eye rested, as if for the 
 first time, upon the scene before him. 
 
 *' Aye, aye," he said, with a kind of gentle 
 bitterness, as if in answer to the footman's 
 gesture; ''you are quite right, my good 
 friend, the poor Lazarus should not be allowed 
 to cross the path of Dives." 
 
 The carriage has been driven off. The 
 carpet has been rolled up, to the intense 
 satisfaction of the baby, who is so carried 
 away by his feelings that he thumps the 
 sides of his perambulator and crows. The 
 small crowd of spectators has dispersed, and 
 he who spoke of himself as Lazarus has 
 tottered feebly on. 
 
 The ceremonial has been completed. The 
 doors are closed. Lady Arabella is '' Home."
 
 30 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN AFTERNOON ** TEA '' IN BELGRAVIA. 
 
 Mr. Yorke's house was a large one, and the 
 architect who had designed it would have 
 made the entrance-hall imposing if he could 
 have managed it. He evidently had tried 
 hard, but he had failed ; instead of being 
 imposing, it was an imposture. 
 
 The first impression on entering it was 
 that it was too small ; the next, that it was 
 too large, for it looked so bare, and comfort- 
 less, and cold. 
 
 Perhaps this was greatly due to two life- 
 sized groups of nude figures in white marble ; 
 beautiful, no doubt, as works of art, and 
 agreeable objects to contemplate in a comfort- 
 able studio, or even in those countries where 
 the sun shines so brightly, it gives rise to a 
 sort of feeling that clothing might be dis- 
 pensed with ; but scarcely to be tolerated in
 
 An Afternoon ''Tea'' in Belgravia. 31 
 
 a climate where you can rarely take off your 
 great-coat without a shiver. 
 
 Beauty may be charming to look at, but 
 even beauty may be misplaced. What sight 
 can be more melancholy than a marble Venus, 
 whose white limbs have become green through 
 the humidity of the public garden in which 
 she stands, as if appealing to the benevolent 
 public to subscribe and buy a blanket, where- 
 with to cover her nakedness. 
 
 But these statues had been brought from 
 Italy. Mr. Y'orke did not like to say what 
 he had paid for them, and they were a source 
 of great pride both to him and Lady Arabella. 
 
 To Mr. Yorke because they had cost so 
 much money ; to Lady Arabella because . . . 
 well, it is hard to say ; perhaps because she 
 had been told they were beautiful. For it is 
 very doubtful whether, after the first few 
 days of their having been unpacked, she had 
 ever looked at them. 
 
 But if the entrance-hall of Mr. Yorke's 
 house gave rise to a sensation of cheerlessness, 
 that feeling was dispelled the moment the 
 foot was planted upon the stairs. The 
 carpets were so thick, so soft, so yielding; 
 they appealed to the senses like low, sweet 
 notes, or gentle words. It was impossible to
 
 32 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 tread upon them without being soothed and 
 comforted. Mr. Mortimer, the principal por- 
 tion of whose time — or at least that portion 
 of it which was devoted to the performance 
 of what he w^as pleased to call his " duties " — 
 was spent in going up and down stairs, 
 seemed to have found this out, for he had 
 been once heard to say, when discussing, as 
 he was very fond of doing, the conditions 
 necessary to matrimonial happiness : 
 
 ^' Noj Mary, no ! Believe me, there can be 
 no happiness without harmony, for where the 
 tempers are hincompatible, how can the 
 wheels of Cupid's car run smoothly on ? But 
 our tempers grow up out of our circumstances, 
 and if men's hemployments and havocations 
 are rough their tempers will be hirritable. 
 Take my word for it, Mary ; the seat of the 
 temper is in the feet, not the heart ; it is all 
 easy shoes and thick carpets — hespecially the 
 carpets. As for those hoil-cloths, and parkeys, 
 and such like — well, don't talk to me about 
 them, that's all, or we shall quarrel." 
 
 But it was in the morning-room where 
 Lady Arabella reigned supreme, that the 
 evidences were to be found of that refined 
 and cultivated taste in small matters on 
 which she so greatly piqued herself, and in
 
 An Afternoon " Tea " in Belgravia. 33 
 
 the indulgence of which she seemed to con 
 centrate all her energies. 
 
 In this case it was impossible to say she 
 had not succeeded. Here, no single article 
 of furniture — however beautiful in structure 
 or design — was allowed to appear, unless to 
 fulfil some special object or intention. Here 
 was to be seen no garish colours, no vulgar 
 contrasts, no heaping together of expensive 
 trifles, but a harmonious whole, to the effect 
 of which even the most fastidious would have 
 found it difficult to make objections. At the 
 same time it would not be easy to explain 
 why it was, on entering it for the first time, 
 most people felt impelled to use the only 
 word which seemed applicable to it — " Ex- 
 quisite !" 
 
 In this room, at the moment that Lady 
 Arabella reached her home, several ladies and 
 gentlemen were assembled near a small table 
 plentifully furnished with the most delica,te 
 of china cups, which were being filled and 
 distributed by a tall, fair girl, who was evi- 
 dently doing the duty of hostess. 
 
 *' I do not think I will give you any, Sir 
 Francis," she said, looking up archly at a 
 dark, good-looking young man near her, *' for 
 you are so obstinate, and so disagreeable, 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 34 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 that really something ought to be done to 
 correct you. You must be punished." 
 
 '' No correction, coming from Miss Yorke, 
 could be a punishment," said the gentleman 
 she called Sir Francis, with a pleasant smile. 
 
 Miss Yorke raised her head and looked at 
 the speaker, as if she were going to reply, 
 but appearing suddenly to change her mind, 
 she cast her eyes down again, and remained 
 silent. 
 
 She was a tall, handsome girl, with fair 
 hair fringed over her forehead ; bright-blue 
 eyes, and an expression so frank and open, 
 that, combined with an unaffected manner ap- 
 proaching to carelessness, and sundry little 
 eccentricities in dress, many people — -judging 
 from externals only — were led to the conclu- 
 sion that Geraldine Yorke belonged to that 
 category of young ladies who are usually 
 spoken of as " fast." But if she at times 
 spoke somewhat louder, with more decision, 
 and with less deference to others, than was 
 quite befitting in a young lady of her age — 
 if she prided herself on riding boldly to 
 hounds, or on being able to swim better than 
 her brother, and could boast, as she not an- 
 frequently did, of the skill with which she 
 could ** paddle her own canoe " — all this was
 
 An Afternoon " Tea " in Belgravia, 35 
 
 rather the effect of an exuberance of animal 
 spirits which had been directed into no more 
 profitable channels ; and her fastness was of 
 that guileless effervescent kind which belongs 
 to the thoughtlessness of youth, and dis- 
 appears before the realities of life and the 
 matured judgment of age. 
 
 Very different the appearance of a pale, 
 slight girl who sat somewhat apart from the 
 others, and seemed to be more absorbed in 
 her own thoughts than interested in what 
 was going on around her. 
 
 Eva Yorke was nearly two years younger 
 than her sister, but the quiet though tfulness 
 of a face which still bore the traces of suf- 
 fering inseparable from ill-health, gave her 
 the appearance of being at least a year older. 
 
 Hers was a beauty which impressed less 
 through the wondrous delicacy of features 
 which might have been taken for a model by 
 a sculptor, than from the singular purity of 
 an expression which seemed as if it could only 
 belonor to one whose mind had been dedicated 
 to the contemplation of high and holy things; 
 but yet her thoughts could not have been 
 devoid of sadness, for there was a tinge of 
 melancholy even in her smile. Usually silent, 
 when she did speak, there was a music in her 
 
 3—2
 
 36 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 voice, and a gentleness approaching to tender- 
 ness in her manner, which was made the more 
 striking by the contrast which it offered to 
 the self-confident and not unfrequently de- 
 fiant tone which seemed natural to her 
 sister. 
 
 Yet Geraldine Yorke was not deficient in 
 sensibility; it was, perhaps, the very excess of 
 it which made her at times assume an indif- 
 ference she did not feel. Often, too, it was 
 when she was most attracted towards others, 
 particularly if they belonged to the opposite 
 sex, that she said and did things which were 
 most likely to have an. unfavourable construc- 
 tion put upon them. 
 
 It was impossible for two sisters to be more 
 unlike ; the one fair, tall, a model of physical 
 development, full of independence and self- 
 assertion ; the other dark, slight, delicate, 
 and drooping, with such a deep sense of her 
 own deficiencies that she was, as it were, op- 
 pressed by it. 
 
 Yet Allegra and Penserosa — for so their 
 mother, in her playful moods, was pleased 
 to call them — were united so closely by the 
 bonds of the deepest affection that their happi- 
 ness seemed to depend on their being together. 
 Their very divergences of character served
 
 An Afternoon '^ Tea" in Belgravia. 37 
 
 but to unite them, for the affections are full 
 of enigmas, and we often love those best whom 
 we resemble least. 
 
 Sir Francis Hawthorne, to whom, notwith- 
 standing the threat of punishment, a cup of 
 tea had been graciously handed, was a dark, 
 sunburnt young man, whose age might have 
 been anything between three-and-twenty and 
 thirty, of middle height, with a strong active 
 frame, and an air of quiet determination, w^hich 
 showed itself in everything he said or did, 
 and would have caused him to have been 
 recognised, in any part of the world, as an 
 Enoflishman. 
 
 He was not strictly handsome, for his 
 features were irregular, and his eyes were 
 too close together, though they were not the 
 less bright and pleasant to look at. He had 
 a good mouth, white teeth — all the whiter, 
 perhaps, from their being brought into con- 
 trast with a short, but soft, black beard — a 
 frank unaffected manner, and an engaging 
 smile. 
 
 The possessor of a large estate in Middle- 
 shh'e — not far from Mr. Yorke's country seat 
 — to which he had succeeded a few years 
 before, on the death of a grandfather by whom 
 he had been brought up, his own pareats
 
 38 Doctor Victori 
 
 na. 
 
 having died when he was quite a child, he 
 had devoted himself, since he had come of 
 age, to the management of his estate, and 
 especially to the improvement of the condition 
 of the labourers employed upon it. 
 
 Had it not been for his wealth, his agree- 
 able manners^ and his many popular qualities, 
 it is possible that the extent to which he 
 carried out his socialistic theories would have 
 seriously interfered with his position in the 
 county ; as it was, the men only laughed and 
 said : *^ He is so young. As he grows older, 
 he will become wiser." 
 
 The ladies, however, especially those who 
 had marriageable daughters, took a different 
 view of what they called his eccentricities. 
 They said : 
 
 ^*It is because he is a bachelor. He will 
 become just like other people after he is 
 married." 
 
 But he appeared to be in no hurry to 
 marry, and to be more and more engrossed 
 in the endeavour to reduce his theories to 
 practice, when to the great surprise of every- 
 one he suddenly announced his intention of 
 starting on a round-the-world toar ; and it 
 was from this tour that he had only just 
 returned, after an absence of more than a year.
 
 An Afternoon " Tea " in Belgravia, 39 
 
 He was still standing with the cup of tea 
 in his hand, when Lady Arabella entered the 
 room, with an air of complete exhaustion and 
 a gush of words : 
 
 "Ah! My dear friends, don't move — pray 
 don't. Sir Francis ! What ! Sir Francis ! 
 Can that be you ? If I were not rendered 
 incapable of it by what I have gone through, 
 I should be astonished. How do you do ? 
 How d'ye do ? Pray sit down. Ah ! my 
 dear children — Je suis ereintee !" Lady Ara- 
 bella was rather fond of introducing French 
 phrases. '^ Je suis 6reintee ! A drive in the 
 Park is no longer possible ; it is now only fit 
 for the people. Only imagine " 
 
 And then throwing herself back in an arm- 
 chair, without giving a sufficient interval be- 
 tween her sentences to allow of a single word 
 from anyone else, she proceeded to give a 
 minute and exhaustive account of all her 
 feelings and sensations on discovering that a 
 wretched little child had nearly been run over, 
 and that she had narrowly escaped the pain- 
 ful notoriety of a paragraph in the penny 
 papers. 
 
 " Only imagine, Sir Francis, how horrible ! 
 I shudder when I think of it. It really is 
 quite time the Government should interfere."
 
 40 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 She went on for a long time in tlie same 
 strain ; but though she mentioned, paren- 
 thetically, that she had been saved the dis- 
 agreeable publicity she so much dreaded, 
 through the child's having been dragged 
 away by some one in the crowd, it was only 
 at the end, when she had nearly talked herself 
 faint, that she suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 *^ Ah ! I forgot. And who do you think it 
 was picked the child up T 
 
 A dozen eyes looked up inquiringly. Sir 
 Francis played with his watch-chain. One or 
 two voices wer^ heard utterinor a timid — 
 '^ Who T whilst Geraldine broke in with a 
 somewhat petulant — 
 
 " My dear mother, how is it possible we can 
 know 1 I don't suppose it was anyone we 
 have ever heard of." 
 
 ^^ Tout au contraire. It was some one you 
 know very well indeed. Imaginez 1 it was 
 none other than that incomprehensible of in- 
 comprehensibles — Victoria Marsh !" 
 
 The name seemed to produce a degree of 
 interest far be};ond that which had been ex- 
 cited by Lady Arabella's account of her suffer- 
 ings and dangers. 
 
 Sir Francis left off twisting and untwisting 
 his watch-chain, and became all attention.
 
 An Afternoon ** Tea " in Belgravia. 41 
 
 Eva drew her chair somewhat closer to the 
 circle, and looked as if she had been suddenly 
 awakened from a dream. 
 
 A young high-church curate, part of whose 
 daily duty, in default of higher ministrations, 
 was to assist at afternoon teas, became more 
 serious and solemn than usual ; whilst those 
 who had previously never heard Victoria 
 Marsh's name afiPected a curiosity they could 
 scarcely be said to feel, as Lady Arabella re- 
 peated : 
 
 " Ma chere Alleofra ! Ma chere Penserosa ! 
 Imaginez I Victoria Marsh !" 
 
 " I cannot help loving her — she has such 
 pluck ; if it were not for that I believe I 
 should hate her," was Geraldine's reply. 
 
 She spoke with such emphasis, it almost 
 seemed as if she had stamped an accom- 
 paniment to the last word with her foot. 
 Then, as if repentant — was it that she had 
 detected the expression of deep pain which 
 had flitted across Sir Francis's face ? — she 
 added : 
 
 " But love her, or hate her, I only wish I 
 was more like Vic." 
 
 '^ May I be allowed to ask why ?" said Sir 
 Francis. 
 
 " Because — because, whenever I wish to be
 
 42 Doctor Vict 
 
 oria. 
 
 independent and give myself masculine airs, 
 I always feel I can never get beyond a poor 
 imitation of a lubberly boy : wbilst Victoria, 
 without ceasing to be a woman, can think, 
 and talk, and act with as much streno^th of 
 mind and self-possession as a man. Oh, how 
 I wish I had been one !" 
 
 *' Woman's mission is a very sacred one," 
 observed the curate. 
 
 " Oh yes I To make life endurable to your 
 miserable sex — as I read somewhere only a few 
 days since," was the retort. 
 
 *' Mother," asked Eva, "did Victoria say 
 when she was coming to see us *? Has she 
 returned to the hospital ?" 
 
 " Of course she has/' said Lady Arabella, 
 in reply to the second question ; and worse 
 still— ma chere Penserosa, c'est terrible ! — she 
 told me it is now settled she is to be a 
 doctor." 
 
 " How horrible !" in a chorus of many 
 voices. 
 
 Geraldine looked indignant ; Eva turned 
 pale ; and the curate was once more heard to 
 say something about woman's mission. It 
 seemed to catch the ear of Sir Francis. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he said, " you are right. Woman 
 has her mission ; but whether for men or for
 
 All Afternoon " Tea " in Belgravia, 43 
 
 women, that mission is the most sacred which 
 seeks to minister to the happiness of others 
 by useful work. I honour Miss Marsh for 
 her resolve. You see, I am as eccentric as 
 ever," he said laughingly, as he rose from his 
 seat and held out his hand to Lady Arabella. 
 "Allow me to congratulate you on your escape, 
 and on your having met to-day with — what 
 I have not seen in all my wanderings — a 
 heroine." 
 
 As he left the room, he narrowly escaped 
 upsetting Mr. Mortimer, who was about to 
 enter it with a letter on a silver salver. 
 
 " Good gracious a-mercy !" muttered that 
 gentleman, as soon as he had recovered his 
 equilibrium, " our baronet is in a hurry. Bad 
 form ! — decidedly bad form 1 All very well 
 for the working-classes ; but when a man is a 
 baronet, and has twenty thousand a year, 
 there is no call for him to run against people, 
 and rush about like a hoperative."
 
 44 Doctor YiGtoria. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE HEAD OE THE HOUSE. 
 
 Had the question been asked of those who 
 were best fitted to answer it : " Of all the 
 men of your acquaintance, which is the one 
 who has been the most favoured by fortune T 
 there is little doubt but that a chorus of 
 voices would have answered : "Mr. Yorke." 
 
 For was not Mr. Yorke one of the richest 
 amongst rich men ? Was he not the owner 
 of the fastest yacht, the master of the fleetest 
 hounds, and the possessor of the best shoot- 
 ing in the three kingdoms ? Was he not, too, 
 supposed — of course under a feigned name — 
 to have been almost as successful on the turf 
 as his firm had been in the brewery ? And 
 outside all this, how fortunate he had been 
 in his domestic life ! A marriage of aflection 
 into a noble family ; two charming daughters, 
 and a son who gave promise of exhibiting in
 
 The Head of the House. 45 
 
 an eminent degree all those respectable quali- 
 ties by which the various members of the 
 great firm of Souseman and Soppit had been 
 distinguished for so many generations. 
 
 Who could be said to be fortunate if Mr. 
 Yorke were not ? 
 
 Mr. Yorke was still young, for he was little 
 more than five-and- forty, but he looked older 
 than his age ; and it was difficult to imagine 
 that he had ever looked differently, for he 
 belonged to that class of men who always 
 make you feel they never could have been 
 boys. Bankers and lawyers generally have 
 this look, and it belongs to most men on 
 whom has devolved all the responsibilities 
 and cares which belong to the employment 
 of a large capital. Indeed of all men the 
 rich capitalist, who has not retired from busi- 
 ness, is the one who becomes the soonest 
 "grown over with the moss of age." 
 
 He was an only son, and had been edu- 
 cated at Eton. There his character had been 
 such as belongs to respectable mediocrity ; in 
 his classes he usually took a middle place ; in 
 all outdoor amusements he was a useful fag ; 
 and he was only redeemed from being looked 
 upon as a "muff" by his reserved disposition 
 and well-filled purse — for a boy generally
 
 46 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 stands well with his comrades who knows 
 how to hold his tongue and has money in his 
 pocket. 
 
 From Eton he had gone to Oxford, but did 
 not take his degree, for his father dying sud- 
 denly, it was decided that he should at once 
 become initiated in the mysteries of business, 
 so as to be able to take his place as a member 
 of the firm in which his father had for many 
 years been the senior partner. 
 
 Of course the health of valuable members 
 of society must not be allowed to suffer from 
 over-work, and so it became necessary that 
 daily attendance for a few hours at the office 
 should be varied by a large amount of shoot- 
 ing and hunting in the winter, and by fre- 
 quent and sometimes protracted visits to the 
 Continent in the summer. 
 
 Mr. Yorke had never been " fast ;" but it 
 was at this period of his life that — if scandal 
 is to be believed — he showed some tendency 
 towards being what the world calls " gay." 
 If, however, he had had wild oats they were 
 soon sown, for he had barely completed his 
 twenty-fifth year when he led to the altar 
 the Lady Arabella, the beautiful and accom- 
 plished daughter of the proudest, but poorest, 
 peer in the United Kingdom.
 
 The Head of the House. 47 
 
 His mother died soon after his marriage, 
 some said from joy. Her last words were : 
 
 *' Thank God I have lived to see it! An 
 earl's daughter ! My dear, dear boy ! An 
 earl's dauo^hter !" 
 
 He had been a good son, and soon the 
 world pointed to him as a good husband and 
 a good father. Of his being a good citizen 
 there could be no doubt, for he was ever 
 ready to associate his name with any under- 
 taking which had for its object the moral or 
 material elevation of some neglected or de- 
 graded class. 
 
 There was not a charity which had not 
 enrolled his name, and against that name was 
 always to be seen a row of figures, in any of 
 which a whole army of widows' mites might 
 easily have been swallowed up. Sums so 
 large that the hearts of many charitable 
 people were filled with envy, whilst a vague 
 feeling came over them that the secret of the 
 philosopher's stone must have something to 
 do with beer. 
 
 As a recognition of this great generosity, 
 there was hardly a society of any note of 
 which Mr. Yorke was not either president, 
 vice-president, patron, or trustee. It is true 
 he did not frequently — it would be more
 
 48 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 accurate, perhaps, to leave out the " fre- 
 quently " — attend committee-meetings, or 
 take any active part in the organisation or 
 manaofement of the institutions in the welfare 
 of which he felt such a deep interest. For 
 this he pleaded he had no time, and that he 
 had unbounded confidence in the committees, 
 but, nevertheless, at the annual public meet- 
 ings, to which his presence gave great weight, 
 he always deeply lamented how little he had 
 been able to do personally, and dilated in 
 glowing terms on the services of those *' who, 
 more fortunate than himself, had been en- 
 abled, through an untiring devotion, which 
 needed no comment, to confer benefits on 
 their fellows which formed the noblest monu- 
 ments to themselves." 
 
 But Mr. Yorke did more than this. He 
 had all the printed reports placed upon his 
 breakfast- table, and never failed to recom- 
 mend their perusal to his wife and daughters 
 and their friends. 
 
 Mr. Yorke was a Churchman : he would 
 allow of no other term. He hated contro- 
 versy, and liked dogma. To indulge, so it 
 was said. Lady Arabella's aesthetic tastes, 
 St. Stylites — which he had built at the cost 
 of some forty thousand pounds, in a good
 
 The Head of the House. 49 
 
 year wliea the excise returns were high — 
 had been made unusually ornate, and the 
 services were accused of being extremely 
 ritualistic ; but Mr. Yorke himself professed 
 to be moderate in all things, for he wished 
 to stand well with all men — that is to say, 
 all men with whom it was worth while to 
 stand well. 
 
 St. Stylites had cost Mr. Yorke forty 
 thousand pounds — a large sum ; but then he 
 not only had the satisfaction of feeling he 
 had done a good work — and that always 
 brings its own reward — but of hearing from 
 all quarters that he had achieved a great 
 architectural success. 
 
 As he drove each morning towards the 
 city it was a source of honest pride to him to 
 see how the tall spire of St. Stylites shot up 
 high above all other spires, and to know that 
 so long as St. Stylites might stand, his name 
 would be connected with it. And even now 
 in certain clerical circles no man's name stood 
 hiorher : it had even once been mentioned in 
 Convocation, but with bated breath ; and it 
 was whispered that a very "high personage" 
 had been graciously pleased to use some very 
 condescending expressions with respect to 
 him in connection with this act of public- 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 spirited liberality, so that an idea had got 
 abroad amongst Mr. Yorke's friends that in 
 the course of a very short time he would be 
 made a baronet. 
 
 It is given to so few people to have an 
 opportunity of worshipping in churches built 
 by themselves, that it is difficult for those to 
 whom such a privilege has been denied to 
 realise the feelings of those to whom it has 
 been granted. But that it must have its 
 attractions and advantages, is scarcely to be 
 doubted. 
 
 Lady Arabella and her daughters often' 
 declared they could never pray so well any- 
 where else as in St. Stylites ; and Mr. Yorke 
 seemed to share this feeling, though, prac- 
 tical man that he was, he gave expression to 
 it in a somewhat different manner. On his 
 way to the city he was not satisfied with 
 looking at St. Stylites from a distance ; he 
 always drove to it, though it was somewhat 
 out of his way, and joined in the daily morn- 
 ing service, which through the practised 
 fluency of the curate, the E,ev. Intonious 
 Weeke — of which that gentleman was not a 
 little proud — was never allowed to exceed 
 the limits of a quarter of an hour. 
 
 This habit on the part of a wealthy city
 
 lite Head of the House. 51 
 
 man was naturally a source of extreme edifi- 
 cation to the whole neighbourhood ; and well 
 it might be so. Yet — it almost seems incre- 
 dible — so rancorous are the feelings of cer- 
 tain sections of the community, that Jarvis 
 the grocer, whose shop was on the opposite 
 side of the street, exactly facing the church, 
 had been known to say : 
 
 " I hate such humbug ! Why doesn t he 
 go the rounds of his beastly gin-palaces 
 
 and " — he used a v/ord not fit for polite 
 
 ears — "of an evening, and see where his 
 money comes from !" 
 
 But then Jarvis w^as a Eadical Dissenter, 
 who never w^ent inside a church ; and, although 
 he sold cheap wines, always boasted of being 
 an abstainer. 
 
 As the possessor of a large fortune, the 
 husband of an earFs daughter, the owner of 
 a large landed property, and last — and not 
 least in the eyes of many — a good Church- 
 man, it was but natural that Mr. Yorke 
 should have claims upon society which society 
 could not ignore, and you had but to take up 
 the fashionable papers during the season to 
 see that they had been recognised. No 
 bishop could give a dinner without Mr. and 
 Lady Arabella Yorke ; city feasts required 
 
 4—2 
 
 ai^ivERsiTY Of w-vm^ 
 
 IDD/^RY
 
 .52 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 their presence ; the leaders of fashion at- 
 tached them to their train ; and Yorke was 
 the name which not unfrequently struck the 
 eye amongst the privileged few who had 
 been favoured with invitations on the occa- 
 sion of an exalted personage having deigned 
 to accept the hospitality of some noble peer 
 or rich commoner. It would seem as if such 
 a position as this — so far as society was 
 concerned — had left little to be desired. 
 But it was not so ; climb as we will we never 
 reach, we only extend, the horizon of our 
 wishes. 
 
 Thus it was that Mr. Yorke, not a little 
 exercised, perhaps, in the matter by the 
 regrets of Lady Arabella, had a secret 
 source of sorrow. The charmed circle which 
 encloses those who take an active part in 
 political life was closed to him. He had no 
 place at the Speaker s festive board ; the 
 various dq embers of the Cabinet or the 
 leader of the Opposition gave their official 
 dinners, and he was not present ; when his 
 friends who had seats in Parliament spoke 
 authoritatively on questions about which they 
 were in reality absolutely and entirely igno- 
 rant, they were listened to with rapt atten- 
 tion, whilst he was not even appealed to.
 
 The Head of the House. 53 
 
 All this was very galling. Mr. Yorke felt 
 it keenly ; and hence it was it had become 
 the great object of his ambition to see his 
 name followed by the two letters — which he 
 regarded as the '^open sesame" before which 
 all these closed doors were to fly open — M.P. ; 
 and it was generally understood that when- 
 ever a vacancy occurred in his Ovvn county he 
 was to stand for it. 
 
 He had been once or twice tempted to 
 enter Parliament in some other way, but of 
 course a borouo^h for a member of the firm of 
 Souseman and Soppit was out of the question, 
 and success in such counties as had offered 
 themselves was far from certain. So Mr. 
 Yorke preferred to wait, rather than run the 
 risk of tarnishing the reputation of that which 
 laid claim to being: one of the most successful 
 commercial undertakings in the country, by 
 associating it with anything approaching to 
 failure. 
 
 Mr. Yorke was a Conservative. Of the 
 three estates, the House of Lords was the 
 one he regarded with the greatest interest. 
 It had been said it was because he secretly 
 looked forward to a seat in that august 
 assembly ; but he had an equal reverence for 
 the bench of bishops, and yet no one could
 
 54 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 pretend he had ever asph^ed to the dignity of 
 wearing lawn sleeves. If Mr. Yorke had 
 been asked why it was, he probably would 
 have said it was because he loved our glorious 
 constitution^ and looked upon - the House of 
 Peers as its chief bulwark and defence. 
 
 In his county Mr. Yorke was much looked 
 up to. He attended the Bench as regularly 
 as could be expected from a man who hunted 
 his own hounds, shot over his own covers, 
 and assisted in shooting over those of his 
 neighbours. In his magisterial decisions he 
 was generally lenient, unless the rights of 
 property were infringed by unlawful trespass, 
 or the pursuit of game, in which cases he 
 never failed to insist upon the necessity of a 
 severe example. 
 
 Silent, grave, and sedate, there was some- 
 thing in his manner more than in any thing- 
 he ever said or did which impressed those 
 who came in contact with him for the first 
 time with the idea that he was a man of 
 sound judgment. He owed much of his 
 influence to this, and to the fact that he 
 seldom gave an opinion till after the event, 
 which enabled him to say that things had 
 turned out exactly as he had anticipated. 
 Besides, by his silence, he did not impede
 
 The Head of the House. 55 
 
 action, nor offend people by trying to prove 
 them in the wrong. 
 
 In person, Mr. Yorke was tall and well- 
 made, though a tendency to stoutness was 
 beginning to interfere with the symmetry of 
 a naturally active figure. His hair was pre- 
 maturely grey and thinner about the temples 
 than is generally seen in a man of his age. 
 He had regular, well-cut features, but his 
 expression was cold and impenetrable, the 
 more so, perhaps, because his eyes avoided, 
 rather than met, the eyes of those with 
 whom he was in conversation. But, take 
 him all in all, he was a fine, good-looking 
 man ; the model of respectability ; and he 
 placed himself before the world in a light of 
 which the great firm of Souseman and Soppit 
 had every reason to be proud. 
 
 Mr. Yorke's affection for his wife and 
 children showed itself chiefly in allowing 
 them to do just as they pleased. Oddly 
 enough he seemed to be less looked up to in 
 his own family than by the outside world ; 
 Lady Arabella's manner to her husband 
 would have been called condescending to any- 
 one else ; and his children, with the in- 
 stinctive knowledge which the young possess
 
 56 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 of the characters of those with whom they 
 live, never felt quite at ease in his presence,. 
 and loved him, as it were despite themselves, 
 because he was their father.
 
 A Few Pages from a Joicrnal. 57 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 A FEW PAGES FJEIOM A JOUKXAL. 
 
 It was a little more than a year before the 
 incident in the Park that Victoria Marsh, 
 then on the eve of enterinof into traininof as 
 a nurse at St. Tobias's Hospital, had, on re- 
 tiring to her room for the night, sat down 
 and written as follows : 
 
 " This is probably my last day of freedom 
 for a long, long time. 
 
 " But is it freedom ? Is there such a thing 
 as freedom 1 
 
 '' For thought, perhaps — yes. For action — 
 no. Are not most of our actions the slaves 
 of our thoun^hts ? Yet our thouorhts have to 
 submit to a higher power — the will. Even 
 our poor thoughts are not free. 
 
 "But what is this mysterious will, this 
 prime motor of our lives ? I wish that I
 
 58 Doctor Victors 
 
 'I a 
 
 could think it out, but I cannot ; and yet I 
 try, and try 
 
 "Try, till my very brain aclies, and find 
 myself not one whit wiser than when I began 
 to think. 
 
 " It sometimes strikes me that I think too 
 much ; and it is this over -thinking which 
 makes me feel different from other people. 
 It may not be perceived — for I try to hide it 
 — but I am different. 
 
 " This is perhaps why I take so much 
 delight in jotting down my innermost 
 thoughts ; in making as it were a confidante 
 of myself, and in placing my whole life in 
 the form of a written picture between the 
 clasped cover of the book in which I am now 
 writing. 
 
 " When I have written a few pages, it often 
 seems to me as if I had created a sympathy 
 outside myself, or rather as if the scenes and 
 incidents as they are jotted down, became 
 scenes and incidents in some other life than 
 mine, which interest me to a degree that is 
 only limited by the amount of sensibility 
 belonging to my nature. I believe it is this 
 habit of keeping a journal which has preserved 
 my thoughts from becoming morbid, and 
 given my mind a healthier tone than naturally
 
 A Few Pages from a Journal. 59 
 
 belongs to it. How much have I not learned 
 through this daily examination of myself — by 
 myself? 
 
 " It seems so very long since I began to 
 keep a journal, for I commenced when a mere 
 child. It was only yesterday I came across a 
 few stray pages — the only surviving fragments 
 — of this early record. How precious each 
 reminiscence they recall is to me now ! Yet 
 after it was written, I remember I set so 
 little store upon it, that it was chiefly with 
 the leaves of my old journal that my manu- 
 factory of kites — and I was a great maker of 
 kites in those days — was kept going. 
 
 " I do not know why, but this evening my 
 thoughts are carried back, more than ever, to 
 those early days, and the scenes of the past 
 present themselves so vividly to my imagina- 
 tion, that I am, as it were, compelled to 
 revert to them. Perhaps it is the sight of 
 these few torn and faded pages. When I 
 look upon them,*t is as if they reproached 
 me for my forgetfulness and neglect. They 
 seem to say : ' Oh, foolish one, the things 
 we speak of once made up your life — they 
 make it now — for all the present is built up 
 on the past, and all the futui-e is but its poor 
 heir.'
 
 60 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 ^^ Dear old fragments, I will rescue you froiB 
 oblivion, and with your aid I will complete 
 the story of my life. 
 
 " Ah me ! when I look back I can scarcely 
 believe I am still young. I ought to be a 
 hundred years old at the very least. 
 
 " The first roll I take up — it was some years 
 later before I had arrived at keeping my 
 journal in a book — consists of a few sheets of 
 coarse, very yellow paper, written over closely 
 in a bold, ill-formed hand, with lines which, 
 no matter how straight they may have been 
 at first, always in the end sloped down in a 
 most provoking manner to the right.- There 
 is no date, but I know some of the incidents 
 which are mentioned took place between my 
 ninth and tenth year. My aunt was then 
 alive, and I was living with her in my dear 
 old home. 
 
 " Extracts feom my old JourNxIl 
 (With the spelling corrected), 
 
 " ^ To-day was very fine, and the sun shone 
 out quite bright. I was idle with my lessons, 
 for the sky was so blue, and the garden looked 
 so nice, and the old robins were out upon the 
 lawn, that I could not help looking out of
 
 A Few Pages fro III a Journal. 61 
 
 window, and then auntie was cross — no, not 
 quite cross, but very quiet and grave, which 
 she always is when I do anything she does 
 not like. How I wish she would scold, I 
 should not mind it half so much. Another 
 ^gg from my white hen, and she cackled so 
 when she had laid it. I shall be quite rich 
 soon. 
 
 " ^Sunday. — I went to church this morning. 
 Auntie was not well, and could not go. So 
 many people in church, and Jane Hawkins's 
 little girl in a nice new hat with yellow^ 
 strings. I liked the sermon very much ; it 
 was ail about the sheep who went astray, and 
 the Good Shepherd, and I thought of my little 
 lamb the savage dog killed last year. But I 
 was so ashamed, when I got home from 
 church auntie asked me the text, and I 
 could not tell her; the truth is, just as Mr. 
 Dorman spoke it, I was thinking of the 
 organ, and wondering, if I were one of the 
 gilt pipes, whether I should like to be a big- 
 one or a small one. I did not tell auntie 
 that, it was so silly ; and it was bad enough 
 as it was when she said, "Victoria" — she 
 always calls me Victoria when she is not 
 pleased — " you grieve me very much when you 
 let your thoughts wander in church. You
 
 62 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 must never let your thoughts wander." 
 Auntie is always telling me this, and looks 
 so sad when she does so. Poor dear old 
 auntie ! I wonder why it is she looks so pale 
 and her hand trembles so ? and how tiresome 
 it must be to be so lame and to walk with a 
 stick. Last night, just before I went to bed^ 
 I saw such a lovely glow-worm on the bank 
 by the gate. It looked just as big and just 
 as bright as a star. How can glow-worms 
 carry a fire about in their insides without 
 being burnt ? I must ask Dr. Pringle. 
 
 *' ' Monday. — May-day. I took auntie such 
 a nice nosegay of flowers before she was up, 
 all out of my own garden, and oh ! she was 
 so pleased, and said that, of all the beautiful 
 things with which God has blessed us on this 
 earth, there was nothing she loved so much 
 as flowers, and that she never looked at them 
 without thinking of heaven. Was it not 
 nice ? It rained in the afternoon, and I tore 
 my striped frock against the nail in the 
 rabbit-hutch — it was very tiresome.' 
 
 '' Here there is a hiatus of some months, for 
 when I next wrote, although the day of the 
 week even had been torn oft', it was evidently 
 winter :
 
 A Feiv Pages from a Journal. 63 
 
 " ' I do not like these dark, cold days ; and 
 the evenings are so long now, that auntie is 
 too ill to come downstairs. When the time 
 comes for me to go to bed, I feel quite glad. 
 To-day I saw such a funny thing, and it made 
 me laugh so, but it is a long story, and I am 
 tired, so I will write it down another day.' 
 
 ^ ^^ ^ ^ :^ 
 
 '' Another break. 
 
 " 'Jan. 1st. — I don't like the first day of the 
 new year at all. It seems so unkind to turn 
 one's back on the poor old year that is gone. 
 But the new year may be a kinder year than 
 the last to me ; and if auntie should only get 
 well and bright again, I will say Dear, dear 
 new year, it is you I love the best. It was so 
 fine and frosty when we drove over here this 
 morning, and I should have liked it very 
 much, but I could not help crying all the way 
 at leaving dear auntie, though Dr. Pringle 
 said that he hoped it would only be for a 
 short time, and that if auntie were kept very 
 quiet, she might soon get well again; and 
 that a short visit to Deepdale, which is the 
 name of the place where he lives, would do 
 me good. Dear auntie, what can it be makes 
 her look so strange ? and why do I almost 
 always find a tear upon her cheek when I
 
 64 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 stoop down to kiss her ? And how beauti- 
 fully she talks ! But what did she mean 
 this morning, when she said that she might 
 soon have to go on a long journey ; but that, 
 if she did, the time would soon pass, and it 
 would not be very long before we should meet 
 again ? And when 1 asked if she were 
 not too weak to go, and whether I could help 
 her, she said, '' That God w^ould give her 
 strength, and that when she had been well, 
 she had tried to get everything ready, though 
 she feared she might have forgotten many 
 things." Then she kissed me, and said : ^^ Ee- 
 member, my darling I" — she had never called 
 me so before — ^'remember, my darling, we 
 must always try and be ready, for we know 
 not what a day may bring forth ; if you wish 
 to be happy, remember this. Now, go ; Dr. 
 and Mrs. Pringle are very kind, and you 
 must obey them in everything," And then 
 she said good-bye, and kissed me twice ; and, 
 whilst she held me in her arms, she said a 
 short prayer and blessed me. It was so 
 solemn — much more solemn than being in 
 church. They are so kind here. I have 
 such a nice pet of a little room ; and I like 
 Chub and Sis so much. Chub is just my age, 
 and such a jolly boy. When he came into
 
 A Few Pages from a Journal. 65 
 
 the room where I was sitting with Dr. and 
 Mrs. Pringle and Sis — who is nearly two years 
 younger than I am — the doctor called out, in 
 his funny way : '^ Come here, Chub, I have 
 brought you another sister, whom you are to 
 love exactly as you love Sis, but not one 
 atom more ; and if you don't make her a 
 good brother, I will break every bone in your 
 skin." And then Chub came bouncing up to 
 me, and gave me a kiss as loud as the crack 
 of a whip, and said : "Come along and help 
 Sis and me build up a snow-house ; it is 
 ^-wfuUy jolly out in the yard ;" and so it was, 
 though I have two fresh chilblains since the 
 morning, and they itch terribly.' 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 " The next entry, written nearly a month 
 later, is all but illegible, and the many blots, 
 as if from fallen tears, have added to the dif- 
 ficulty of deciphering it : 
 
 " ' Jan. 26th. — It is so long since I have 
 written anything ; and now I don't know what 
 to write, for when I try to think, my thoughts 
 seem to fly away and hide themselves in a 
 place that is so dark — black just like night — 
 that I cannot find them again. T. think it 
 must be my black dress. And then my ej^es 
 fill with tears, and I can't see, and I make 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 great blots. It is just three weeks to-day 
 since dear auntie died. How dreadful it is 
 to think of, and I playing on that very after- 
 noon with Chub and Sis, and laughing and 
 so happy. I shall never be happy again, for 
 all my unkind thoughts of dear old auntie 
 when she was alive, and my naughty words 
 to her when I was in a pet, will come up. 
 And I shall never be able to throw my arms 
 round her again, and say, Dear auntie, I am 
 so — so — sorry ; and I will be good and never 
 make you unhappy again ! I wonder why 
 God lets people die ; I am sure / would not ! 
 '''Jan. SOth. — Three days and I have written 
 nothing ; but then my cold has been so bad 
 that I could do nothing but sneeze. What 
 funny things dreams are ; and how dreadful 
 it would be sometimes if they turned out 
 true ! Susannah, the cook, says that hers 
 often do, and that she would not dream of a 
 white cat for ten pounds — or, as she always 
 say, ten puns — for whenever she does, some 
 one is sure to die. And I had such a horrid 
 dream last night — no, it was not horrid, for 
 some of it was quite lovely — and I remem- 
 bered it all when I awoke, and so I will write 
 it down ; and this was my dream : 1 thought 
 I had grown up, but what made it so odd,
 
 A Few Pages from a Journal. 67 
 
 although it was I who did everything, yet it 
 seemed all the while as if it were being 
 done by some one else, and that I was stand- 
 ing by and looking on. And so I saw myself 
 grown quite tall, and dressed in grey, with the 
 skirts tucked up and made much tighter than 
 they are worn now, and with such a pretty little 
 black hat with a white feather in it, walking 
 along a path which led amongst trees high up 
 above a stream which rushed through great 
 rooks ; and when I looked up, very high 
 indeed above me, there was the top of a snow 
 mountain, and the clear blue sky, and I 
 thought it must be Switzerland, just as I 
 used to see it in the two pictures in the 
 parlour of my dear old home. And so I 
 went on walking, and wondering where I 
 was, when all of a sudden I thought I heard 
 a great noise, like a horse galloping ; but 
 when I turned round to see, I found there 
 was no horse, but that it was the beating of 
 my own heart I had heard : and though I 
 placed my hands upon it, and tried to keep it 
 quiet, it would not be still. So I became 
 frightened, for I thought there must be some 
 danger near, and was about to cry out for 
 help, when I felt a hand touch mine, and 
 there, close to me, stood a man, with dark 
 
 5—2
 
 68 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 hair and beautiful blue eyes, and such a soft 
 sweet voice, though he only said one word, 
 and that was "Victoria." But I knew he loved 
 me, for he looked so kind ; and just as I was 
 about to tell him that I loved him, and would 
 be his wife, the earth seemed to tremble, and 
 the trees all to change into stones, and from 
 behind one of them came a figure all in 
 white, and I knew it was an angel ; and 
 though she was young and beautiful, I knew 
 at once it was dear auntie when she turned 
 her soft loving eyes upon me and said : 
 *' Child, stop ! You must not love him. If 
 you did, and became his wife, it would be 
 very cruel and unkind. If you would show 
 your love, you must never marry — never !" 
 Then, just as she said the last word, it was 
 no longer an angel, nor my dear auntie, look- 
 ing on me with soft loving eyes, but a hideous 
 shape, I could not make out whether it was 
 an animal or what ; and just as I felt I was 
 going to die, I was so frightened, I heard a 
 great rattle like the sound of a gun, and a 
 hunter, who was just like Chub, only that 
 he had grown into a big man, ran down the 
 rocks, and called out, and — then I awoke, 
 and there was the sun shining in at my 
 window, and Chub throwing up gravel, and
 
 A Few Pages from a Journal, G9 
 
 calling out : " Vic, Vic ! don't be so lazy. I 
 want you to come down as quickly as you 
 can ; the cat has got six kittens, and I want 
 you to help me to choose which to keep; one 
 has such a jolly white tip to its tail, and 
 another is a beautiful black, just like an old 
 boot. 
 
 " * Feb. idtli. — To-day Dr. Pringle called me 
 into his library. I am always afraid when I 
 go there, it is so full of cross-looking books, 
 and there are all sorts of queer-shaped glass 
 things upon shelves behind the door. When 
 I went in he looked very grave, and said : 
 " Victoria, I want to have a little quiet talk 
 with you." And when I had sat down he 
 told me that before dear auntie died she had 
 written two letters to me, one of which was 
 to be given me shortly after her death, and 
 the other was to be kept until I was nineteen; 
 and that he thought it right I should now 
 read the first one, so that I might know what 
 my aunt's wishes were. My hand shook so 
 I thought I never should open the letter, but 
 when I did there was dear auntie's writing, 
 only made larger that I might read it more 
 easily ; and it said — but I will write it down, 
 though I am not sure that I need do so, for 
 I know every word by heart — better even
 
 70 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 than my catechism. This is what dear auntie 
 said : 
 
 '" " My own dear Child, 
 
 '^ ' *^ I am about to die, and to leave 
 you alone in this world of trials and tempta- 
 tions. There is much I would wish to say 
 to you, but you are too young to have it said 
 to you now, so I have written it all down, 
 that when you are grown up — should it so 
 please God — into a young woman, and are 
 old enough to understand it, you may read 
 it and learn from it — with God's help, for 
 without that we can do nothing — so to guide 
 your conduct that whatever you do in this 
 world may be beneficial to others and accep- 
 table to Him whose will it is our bounden 
 duty to find out and do. Yes, my dear child, 
 let that word '' duty " be ever present in 
 your thoughts. Whenever you are in doubt 
 as to how you should act, only ask yourself 
 what you ought to do in order to do right, 
 and all will go ^vell. I leave you in the 
 charge of valued friends. Mrs. Pringle will, 
 I know, watch over you with a mother's care, 
 and I am quite sure there is no one who is 
 able to give you better advice than the kind 
 doctor. It is my wish that you should seek
 
 A Few Pages from a Journal. 71 
 
 it on all occasions, and that you should obey 
 him in all things. I would say much more 
 to you, but I am very weak. That God may 
 watch over you and bless you is my earnest 
 prayer — the last words that I shall ever 
 write. I feel that my end is very near. 
 Remember — duty — there is no other rule— =- 
 none. 
 
 " * '' Margaret M ." 
 
 '' ^ She had begun her name — it was not at 
 all like her beautiful writing ; the strokes 
 were so crooked — and Doctor Pringle told 
 me, as I fell sobbing in his arms, that 
 she had become too weak to finish it, and 
 that she laid her head quietly upon her pillow, 
 and never spoke again. Oh, auntie, dear 
 auntie, I never knew how much I loved you 
 till now ! I shall never be happy^till I see 
 you again. But I shall have to die, and I 
 don't want to die, for I should have to be 
 buried, and have earth thrown upon me, and 
 left alone in a dreadful churchyard ; no ! I 
 am too wicked ; I am not fit to die. I will 
 not ask God to let me die until I am good.' 
 
 -rr re -55: -5;- ^ 
 
 " Now comes a great gap in my journal, 
 and the demand upon it for kites must have
 
 72 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 been very great. Several years are wanting, 
 and the writing has become much what it is 
 at the present day. It is now no longer 
 written on loose sheets, carelessly stitched 
 together, but is kept in a small account-book, 
 to be changed ere long for one of those yearly 
 diaries, which is its form at the present time. 
 Each year becoming more and more volumi- 
 nous : a vivid picture of my life at the time — 
 a history of the causes which have made me — 
 for it is a reality, and no mere freak of fancy 
 — so different from others. Yes ; I must write 
 it down again : * so different from others.' 
 But need I be perpetually lamenting over 
 this ? No, no 1 Victoria ! No lamentations ; 
 no weak wailing and wringing of hands. 
 When courage is lost, life has no hope. Leave 
 it to cowards to despair and — die." 
 
 Victoria wrote the last few lines so rapidly 
 that her pen seemed to fly over the paper, 
 and when she had finished the last word she 
 threw it from her, and drawing back from^the 
 table at which she had been sitting, she leant 
 back in her chair, and bowing down her head, 
 covered her face with her hands. 
 
 She remained in this attitude for a long, 
 long time ; motionless, with her hair, which
 
 A Few Pages from a Journal. 73 
 
 she had released from its plaits before sitting 
 down to write, streaming in wild luxuriance 
 over her neck and shoulders. In silent com- 
 munion with herself she forgot all else. The 
 lamp, which for some time had been burning 
 low, went out unnoticed, and when she next 
 raised her head and looked around her she 
 would have been in darkness but for the 
 gleaming stars. Ursa Major stood high above 
 the horizon, and her eyes — they were red 
 with weeping — attracted towards it as by 
 some irresistible impulse, followed the direc- 
 tion of the pointers. '' Ah ! had not each life 
 its pole-star; some great outside interest 
 upon which it could concentrate itself; some 
 aim and object immeasurably higher than the 
 contemplation and study of its own individu- 
 ality ? Was it not through external and not 
 internal forces that each star was kept in its 
 appointed place and moved in its appointed 
 orbit ? Were not the educators of our lives 
 the objects by which we were surrounded, 
 and our thoughts but the outcome of impres- 
 sions produced upon the senses by external 
 influences 1 Why, then, this perpetual study 
 and self-examination of ourselves, until self- 
 consciousness dominates over every other sen- 
 timent, and egoism assumes the direction of
 
 74 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 our lives? How can those who are perpe- 
 tually dwelling on themselves hope to escape 
 from themselves ? And yet this is just what 
 I am ever doing ; I, who would give vigour 
 to this poor weak brain and firmness to this 
 faltering will. The lessons of the past I have 
 already learnt — sad, painful lessons ; it is 
 enough that I should apply them to the 
 present. This battle of life can only be fought 
 and won by looking forward. It is a battle- 
 field from which there is no retreat, and he 
 only dies with honour who receives all his 
 wounds in front." 
 
 Such were some of Victoria Marsh's reflec- 
 tions as she sat with folded arms, gazing 
 upon the stars. Suddenly heavy clouds 
 swept across the sky, and her room became 
 quite dark. It seemed to awaken her from 
 the deep reverie into which she had fallen. , 
 
 "What silly sentimental creatures we poor 
 women are I" she said, as she arose and 
 lighted a match. " Here I sit dreaming my 
 life away, when I ought to be up and doing. 
 But I will dream no more ; I will bid adieu 
 to the past, and to clench my resolution will 
 cut off my retreat." 
 
 Saying this, she took up the loose sheets 
 of paper which were lying on her table, and
 
 A Few Pages from a Journal. 75 
 
 throwing them into the grate, piled the care- 
 fully-bound volumes of her journal upon them. 
 In a few minutes a bright blaze, then a 
 smouldering mass, showed but too plainly 
 that strength of will had overcome all senti- 
 mental scruples. There was no going back 
 now ; it was with Victoria as it was with the 
 Athenians of old, when they had burnt their 
 ships. 
 
 Eut one paper remained. It was her 
 aunt's letter ; not that which she had copied 
 in her journal, but the one Dr. Pringle had 
 been directed to give her when she was old 
 enough to understand its contents. This 
 letter Victoria now took up ; as she did so 
 her hand trembled, and the convulsive twitch- 
 ing of her mouth showed the painful nature 
 of the emotions the siofht of it renewed. 
 
 " This I will keep," she said ; " keep sacred 
 from every living soul. For why should I 
 care to be understood ? I am too proud for 
 pity — but why pity ?" she quickly added ; 
 " I have but done my duty, and the sense 
 that I have done it — am doing it — shall be 
 my solace, my reward. Aunt, dear," she 
 said, kissing the letter, " I will be firm ; 
 your last wishes shall be obeyed. I will have
 
 76 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 no guide but duty. To that I will sacrifice 
 all— all." 
 
 She spoke in a clear, decided tone, but as 
 she said the last words the tenderness of the 
 woman's nature asserted itself, and a flood of 
 tears revealed but too clearly that the tender- 
 ness of a woman's heart cannot be obliterated, 
 however inflexible may be a woman's will.
 
 Deepdale and its Inmates. 77 
 
 CHAPTER YTI. 
 
 DEEPDALE AND ITS INMATES. 
 
 Perhaps no one was better known in the 
 part of Middleshire in which Mr. Yorke lived, 
 than Dr. Pringle. 
 
 Now, no one could come into contact with 
 the good doctor without feeling, that though 
 old in years and somewhat less physically 
 strong than he might have been, he had pre- 
 served more freshness and elasticity of mind 
 than is generally to be found in men of his 
 age. Indeed, his manner was so genial and 
 cheery, that it was impossible to look upon 
 him as old ; but the greenness of his age was 
 due in no small measure to his originality of 
 thought, and to the readiness with which he 
 was able to accept new ideas ; and this 
 intellectual vigour had been preserved 
 by his mind having been kept in constant 
 exercise — for it v/as one of his favourite
 
 78 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 maxims, and one that lie was constantly 
 enforcing on his patients : " If you would 
 keep the machinery in order, no matter 
 whether of the mind or body, there must be 
 no corrosion — no rust." And hence it was 
 that nothing annoyed him more than having 
 to deal with those ailments which are but the 
 natural consequence of indolence or excess. 
 
 Dr. Pringle, himself the son of a country 
 surgeon, had gained a high position in his 
 profession at a comparatively early age. Like 
 most doctors, he had been very much behind 
 the scenes of life, and was perhaps on that 
 account somewhat inclined, at times, to be 
 cynical ; but he was too open, too benevolent, 
 and too warm-hearted, to be really so. 
 
 But there was one thing of which the 
 doctor had a thorough hatred — and Dr. Pringle 
 certainly was a good hater. It was of every- 
 thing which came under the denomination 
 of that which he called " humbug." 
 
 He had commenced practice in London, 
 where he had attained very considerable emi- 
 nence ; and through his many popular quali- 
 ties, was fast arriving at the position of a 
 fashionable doctor. But a London life had 
 no attractions for him, and the nature of the 
 greater part of the ailments he was called
 
 Deepdale and its Inmates. 79 
 
 upon to cure was not such as to afford any great 
 scope for professional skill. 
 
 *' I was being paid for being a mere medical 
 humbug," he used to say; ''and I am afraid 
 to think of what I should have grown into had 
 I remained a few years longjer. However, I 
 believe I should have died, for work in which 
 one can take no interest is killing — and good 
 heavens ! whatv.ork it was !" 
 
 He was fond of illustrating his assertions, 
 and so continued : 
 
 "How well I remember going to bed one very 
 cold winter's night, thoroughly fagged out, hav- 
 ing left directions that I was not to be disturbed 
 unless it was absolutely necessary ; when, lo 
 and behold ! before I had been in bed an 
 hour, there was a furious ringing of the bell, and 
 I was roused up to go as quickly as possible 
 to see the old Dowager Lady Dowdycomb, 
 who was seriously ill. I had my suspicions, 
 so I at first refused to go, and sent a polite 
 message to say I would call early in the morn- 
 ing ; but when the servant sent up to say it 
 would not do, ' for her ladyship was so bad, 
 that it was likely .she might die in no time,' 
 there was no help for it. So I had to dress 
 and sally forth. The night was horribly cold, 
 and I was not in the best of tempers. On
 
 80 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 entering tlie old lady's room, I gently drew 
 back the curtains, and assuming my blandest 
 ' tones, inquired how she felt. 
 
 '' ' Oh ! doctor, doctor !' answered her lady- 
 ship, ' I don't know what is the matter with 
 me, it is so cold, and I can't keep warm.' 
 
 '' ' Cold, madam !' I cried in a fury. 
 ' Cold ! I should think you were cold, and 
 everybody else in this frost-bitten world, on 
 such a night as this. What do you want me 
 to do ? Do you want me to get into bed 
 and warm you ?" 
 
 It can easily be supposed that a feud 
 sprang up between the Dowager Lady Dowdy- 
 comb and Dr. Pringle — two separate camps 
 were formed by the friends of each — and some 
 very pretty fighting was the consequence, 
 which lasted at least three months. 
 
 '' I have had quite enough of London and 
 Dowager Lady Dowdycombs," said the doctor, 
 as he retired into the country ; where, having 
 a fair private fortune, partly his own and 
 partly brought him by his wife, he purchased 
 Deepdale, and practised more for pleasure 
 than profit — for he hated fees, and only took 
 them from rich people. 
 
 In a pretty cottage in the neighbourhood 
 of Deepdale, a lady named Marshy with her
 
 Deepdale and its Inmates, 81 
 
 little niece Victoria, had shortly before taken 
 up her residence ; and a close intimacy soon 
 sprang up between her and the doctor's family. 
 Mrs. Marsh was an intelligent, clever 
 woman, who, although her manner was gene- 
 rally very reserved, took a warm interest 
 in many of the subjects which formed the 
 doctor's favourite hobbies. This perhaps it 
 was which had at first attracted him towards 
 her — until the relations ordinarily existing 
 between a doctor and his patients had gra- 
 dually changed into a feeling of the most 
 sincere friendship. Then, too, the peculiar 
 state of Mrs. Marsh's health was a source of 
 great interest to Dr. Pringle, for he was fond of 
 ])sychological studies and of investigating the 
 relations in which mind stands to matter, and 
 there was something in Mrs. Marsh's state he 
 could not quite make out. Sometimes he 
 thought it was her mind that was sick ; some- 
 times that it w^as her body. He never quite 
 knew, though with all his frankness it is 
 doubtful whether he would have confessed 
 this had he been asked, for there are some 
 things which people do not confess, even to 
 themselves. 
 
 It was, perhaps, only a natural consequence 
 of the great friendship between Dr. Pringle 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 and Mrs. Marsh, that when she died, he found 
 he had been constituted guardian to the little 
 Victoria, to whom a small but sufficient fortune 
 had been left; and from that time she was 
 looked upon, in every respect, as one of the 
 doctor's family. 
 
 Mrs. Pringle was an amiable, good woman, 
 utterly devoid of any individuality of character ; 
 but she had the rare virtue of being a good 
 listener, and was a comfortable kind of indoor 
 wife ; for if she had any talent at all, it was 
 for housekeeping ; and probably there was no 
 house in the county kept in better order — no 
 house where there was greater punctuality — 
 certainly none where, without pretension, the 
 dinners were served in better style. This, 
 perhaps, may have been the reason why few 
 people were more popular than Mrs. Pringle. 
 The doctor used to say laughingly, ''My dear, 
 everybody loves you because you feed them 
 so well." And, although no gourmand himself, 
 he liked things to be well cooked ; for he be- 
 lieved there could be no real happiness with 
 a bad digestion, and was suspected by many 
 of his friends of holding to the opinion of the 
 Chinese— and an opinion some thousand years 
 old is always valuable — that the seat of the 
 aifections is in the stomach.
 
 Deepdale and its Inmates. , 83 
 
 With reorard to Chub and Sis — whose 
 names, as given them by their godfathers and 
 godmothers, were Charles and Elizabeth. 
 Chub was a jolly roundabout fellow, fair at 
 lessons, good at play, with a temper like an 
 indiarubber ball, that you may throw about 
 for ever without finding a hard point in, 
 and an appetite — never was there such an 
 appetite, it seemed to increase with eating. 
 
 Sis was younger than her brother. Even 
 as a baby she had such pretty, bright, wicked 
 eyes, and such pretty, winning little ways, 
 that no one — not even excepting those who 
 profess to hate babies — could resist her ; and 
 as she grew older her captivating powers 
 seemed to increase rather than to diminish. 
 
 In the companionship of Chub and Sis, 
 Victoria had been brought up and educated, 
 for it was one of the doctor's favourite 
 theories that the system of education fur 
 both sexes, up to the time when it became 
 necessary for them to commence a course of 
 technical study, ought to be identical. 
 • " Take care what you are about," urged 
 some of his friends, " or we shall find ail our 
 girls turned into boys." 
 
 The doctor laudied. 
 
 o 
 
 " My dear ladies, do not be alarmed ; the 
 
 6—2
 
 84 ^ Doctor Victoria, 
 
 assimilation of tlie same knowledge will pro- 
 duce a totally different set of ideas. We do 
 not find that feeding on the same food pro- 
 duces the disastrous results you so much 
 fear, and I should so much deplore. It were 
 perhaps better that each one of us should 
 have a selected diet, and that each child's 
 character should be strenofthened and formed 
 by a separate educational process ; but the 
 best thing has often to give way to the next 
 best, and so we can only seek to provide the 
 food which best nourishes the manj^, and the 
 knowledge which has the most general appli- 
 cation." 
 
 So it was that Victoria had received all the 
 elements of a thoroughly practical education 
 with Chub and Sis. She and Chub dis- 
 tinguishing themselves — she most — in natural 
 history and the natural sciences ; whilst Sis 
 devoted herself to German and French, and 
 gave more time to music than the doctor 
 cared to reckon np, for a wheedling little 
 puss was Sis, and none knew better how to 
 find out the soft places in her father's heart. 
 
 So time flew on. The doctor observing and 
 directing, or thinking he was directing, as he 
 probably would have been had it not been 
 for the charming coaxing little ways of Miss j
 
 Dcepdale and its Inmates. 85 
 
 Sis. Victoria miles ahead, and poor hoaest 
 Chub, painfully impressed with his inferiority, 
 ploddinor op behind. He loved her dearly, 
 but he did not like it. 
 
 "Confound it," he used to say, "it is too 
 bad to be beaten by a girl ! I wish she had 
 been a boy." 
 
 But a girl she was, and so he had to put 
 up with it ! Sis, who was younger, did not 
 mind it ; she hated every word in the dic- 
 tionary which ended in ology, and gave her- 
 self pretty, captivating little airs, which 
 seemed as natural to her as a golden sunbeam 
 upon a butterfly's wing. 
 
 Mrs. Pringle loved them all equally, for 
 hers was a large roomy heart, but it had not 
 many mansions. The doctor, on the contrary, 
 seemed to have a special niche for each — for 
 he loved each one differently. Victoria held 
 the highest place in his esteem ; Chub he 
 loved because Chub was such a dear good 
 fellow, and he had been a brute not to have 
 done so; and Sis — provoking, teasing, little Sis 
 — it was difficult to say what was the exact 
 place she occupied in her father s heart ; but 
 one thing is very certain, the niche, wherever 
 it might be, was hung around with wreaths, 
 and strewn with flowers.
 
 S6 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 It was about a year after Mrs. Marshes 
 death, that Mr. Yorke became the purchaser 
 of the Nettleton estate. The house, Nettle- 
 ton Court, was only two miles from Deepdale, 
 and in the course of time the younger 
 members of the two families had become in- 
 separable, to the great surprise and annoyance 
 of several other families whose endeavours to 
 gain the friendly recognition of the rich new- 
 comers had been coldly repelled. 
 
 The fact is, the young people were of the 
 same age, and youth in the country would 
 find it very dull without companionship. 
 Then the doctor, with all his peculiar views, 
 had seen the world and was full of anecdote ; 
 and Mrs. Pringle was so unpretending and 
 amiable that she never placed herself in any- 
 body's way. There was, however, another 
 reason ; from the very first moment of Mr. 
 Yorke's seeing Victoria Marsh, he had seemed 
 greatly attracted towards her, and in a short 
 time it was one of the playful jokes of the 
 home circle that he cared more for her than 
 he did for his own daughters. This feeling, 
 however, did not seem to be reciprocated. 
 Victoria, who had soon established relations 
 with Geraldine and Eva, of that close and 
 affectionate kind which is characteristic of
 
 Deepdcde and its Inmates. 87 
 
 feminine attachments whilst life is young 
 and its emotions have not been chilled by the 
 cold heartlessness of the world, for some un- 
 accountable reason never felt at ease in Mr. 
 Yorke's presence. She was angry with her- 
 self for not being able to respond to his 
 advances, for he was — so far as his nature 
 permitted him to be — kindness itself. Yet 
 do what she would, a feeling she could not 
 describe crept over her whenever he drew 
 near ; and sometimes it seemed to her as if 
 she felt his presence the moment he entered 
 the room, although she had not observed that 
 he had done so. 
 
 '' I am afraid you do not love ray father, 
 Vic," said Eva to her one day, as they walked 
 up and down one of the shady avenues 
 near the Court, with their arms encircling 
 each other's waists. 
 
 •* He is very kind to me, and he is your 
 father, my dear Eva, and perhaps it may 
 seem very ungrateful. But, you know, the 
 only person I ever truly loved is in the grave ; 
 and I have not been taught to love as you 
 have, darling, for ray parents both died when 
 I was so young that I have not even the 
 slightest reraembrance of them. It is true I 
 love the Pringles very much, and you know
 
 88 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 I love you ; but then there is a difference — • 
 it can never be the same as with one's own 
 flesh and blood." 
 
 ''Poor child!" said Eva, caressingly; "I 
 wonder if your mother were like you." 
 
 *' Why ?" asked Victoria. 
 
 " Because I am sure I should have loved 
 her. Did your aunt never talk to you about 
 her ?" 
 
 '' Never," said Victoria ; '* and I often 
 thought it was very strange of dear auntie 
 not to have done so. I only know that my 
 mother's name was Violet, for it is the name 
 engraved on the locket which I always wear, 
 and which contains a little curl of her soft 
 brown bair." 
 
 " Violet !" gaid Eva ; '^ what a charming 
 name ! I am sure she must have been very 
 sweet.'' 
 
 The only discordant element in the inter- 
 course between the two families was the 
 dislike which Chub entertained for Geraldine's 
 and Eva's brother Marmaduke, or, as he was 
 always spoken of in his own family, "Duke." 
 
 Though frequently away from home during 
 his vacations, he was there often enough to 
 take a part in the amusements which were 
 shared in common by his sisters and the
 
 Deepdale and its Inmates. 89 
 
 young people from Deepdale; and to Chub 
 he made himself thoroughly disagreeable, for 
 he was older, and was supposed to have seen 
 something of the world, and so gave himself 
 airs of great superiority, which were gall and 
 bitterness to Chub. Then he was, or pre- 
 tended to be, very fond of Sis, and that Chub 
 did not like, though Sis did, which was 
 another source of deep annoyance to him. 
 Besides, Duke had once had the impertinence 
 to speak of his sister as Fizz — little Fizz — 
 declaring that she was so bright and so sweet 
 and so sparkling that she reminded him of a 
 bottle of champagne, and so he had dared to 
 call her Fizz ; but he never ventured to do 
 so a second time, for though he pretended to 
 look upon Chub as a boy whose anger was 
 quite beneath his notice, there was something 
 in the boy's anger which made him quail ; and 
 with all his braggadocio and loud talking, 
 Duke was a coward. But he was a good- 
 looking fellow, who could put on pleasing 
 manners, and make himself very agreeable 
 when he chose, so that it is not to be wondered 
 at that Sis took his part whenever Chub said 
 anything against him, or that Duke and his 
 doings often formed the subject of her medi- 
 tations. When Duke was at home, he
 
 90 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 became the ceDtre round which everyone else 
 was made to revolve ; it was Duke here, Duke 
 there, Duke everywhere. Lady Arabella 
 seemed to think of no one else ; all her 
 affection was centred on Duke. 
 
 When he was away, the yonng^ people 
 paired off in couples ; Eva and Victoria, 
 Geraldine and Sis ; with poor roundabout 
 good-natured Chub at the beck and call of 
 each, performing very much the functions of 
 a well-trained Newfoundland dog, and passing 
 very much of his spare time in goinor to and 
 fro upon that portion of the earth which lay 
 between the two houses, with little scented 
 notes folded up in a triangular form. Poor 
 Chub ! he sometimes was inclined to growl 
 and show his teeth, but a few gentle pats 
 and kind words alvvays brought him to his 
 senses, unless Sis interposed with a request 
 that he would not make himself ridiculous, 
 when it would require much coaxing to bring 
 him back to obedience. 
 
 So things had gone on, each year seeming 
 to repeat itself. But silent old Time had 
 been working stealthily none the less. The 
 lads had passed the hobbledehoy stage, and 
 the girls had reached that advanced period of 
 life when they affect to scorn all those they
 
 Deepdale and its Inmates. 91 
 
 call " boys," and profess to prefer the society 
 of*' men." 
 
 It was at this Critical moment that Sir 
 Francis Hawthorne appeared upon the scene, 
 and became a frequent visitor at the two 
 houses.
 
 92 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 CUPID SHOOTS HIS SHAFTS. 
 
 Sm Francis JHawthorne was soon in high 
 favour at the Court, and at Deepdale he was 
 sure to meet with a warm welcome. He 
 divided his attentions fairly between them ; 
 in the summer passing much of his time with 
 the family at the Court, should they happen 
 to be in the county ; in the winter frequenting 
 the doctor's cosy fireside with a persistence 
 which made saucy Miss Sis say that he had 
 become her father's tame cat. 
 
 But this was said in pure spite by Miss 
 Sis. Spite, because Sir- Francis would not 
 fall at once a victim to her winning little 
 ways, but would go on talking upon tiresome 
 dry subjects which she could not, and would 
 not, understand. 
 
 Yet those winning little ways had gone 
 much nearer than she was aware of towards
 
 Cupid Shoots his Shafts. 93 
 
 effecting their object. As Sir Francis dis- 
 coursed with the doctor, as he was wont to 
 do, upon the true and the false, upon right 
 and wrong, upon the government of the few, 
 and the happiness of the many, upon the 
 best mode of binding together in the bonds 
 of love the various classes with their several 
 interests into which society is divided, etc., 
 etc., etc., he gradually found himself address- 
 ing his remarks less to the doctor than to the 
 owner of the bright eyes which from time 
 to time were directed towards him. 
 
 No wonder that at times he became a little 
 incoherent, and that when he and the doctor 
 differed he was sure to get the worst of the 
 argument. 
 
 The only wonder is, how he could have 
 overlooked Victoria, and bestowed all his 
 attention on that sly little puss Sis ; merely 
 because Victoria, who was worth a dozen of 
 her, was silent and pale, and did not know 
 how to use her eyes. 
 
 But all men are given to making mistakes 
 in such matters, and Sir Francis was no 
 exception to the rule. 
 
 For some little time Sis seemed each day 
 to grow prettier, to become more captivating. 
 Then she began to show herself — a very little,
 
 94 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 but yet too much — as she was, for Sis was as 
 changeable as a chameleon, only that she 
 changed her little winning ways and not her 
 colours, changed them for other little winning 
 ways, each one so charming that it was 
 diflScult to know when it was you liked her 
 best ; but it was in these frequent changes, 
 and in the act of changing, that she betrayed 
 herself 
 
 At first she would be all attention, and 
 look as grave as a judge. Then, by degrees, 
 she gave up even the pretence of listening, 
 and would sit down to chess with Chub. 
 He, poor fellow, dreadfully in earnest, and 
 hesitating over his moves in a way which 
 gave a pretty sure indication of approaching 
 defeat ; she, dashing away at tangents to every 
 accepted rule, and from time to time interrupt- 
 ing the conversation with some little playful 
 exclamation, which was only redeemed from 
 being silly by the little wise air with which 
 it was said, and the rosy pouting lips which 
 gave it utterance. Then, now and again, she 
 would open her eyes as if in wonder, and 
 look straight at Sir Francis, just as he was 
 in the midst of one of his pet theories. There 
 was no mistaking the meaning of that look ; 
 it said as clearly as words could have done :
 
 Cupid Shoots his Shafts. 95 
 
 " Why do you talk so much about all these 
 dry, disagreeable things, and waste your 
 thoughts upon all sorts of people, when — " 
 She never seemed to get further than the 
 " when," for just at that moment Chub would 
 be sure to do somethinof to attract her atten- 
 tion, and so the sentence was never finished. 
 But who could meet such a glance from those 
 bright, blue, speaking eyes, and not be 
 moved ? Sir Francis was greatly moved ; he 
 had never seen such eyes before, and they 
 were seldom out of his thoughts. But alas ! 
 alas for Sis I It was impossible to be in her 
 company day after day without finding her 
 out. Before the winter was over Sir Francis 
 had discovered she was acting a part — a part 
 80 pretty that it was almost difiicult to 
 wish she would not act it; but still in the 
 end, if there be only time, the real will gain 
 the victory over the false : and so Sir Francis, 
 tearing his heart, as it were, from Deepdale, 
 sought some other shrine upon which to lay 
 it — for it is difiicult for young hearts to 
 remain in their own keeping. ' He did not 
 seek long before he became attracted — and 
 what more natural, knowing how beautiful 
 she was — to Allegra. 
 
 But here it would only be right to say,
 
 96 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 that of all this nothing whatever was known 
 to anybody but himself^ for the young ladies 
 themselves had not as yet found out whether 
 he had a heart or not. And if it be objected 
 that this easy transfer of the affections is 
 somewhat damaging to the reputation of a 
 young man of Sir Francis Hawthorne's ac- 
 knowledged strength of character, it should 
 be remembered that to be true to nature we 
 must take things as we find them ; and after 
 all is it not the case that it is he who 
 endeavours to seek out, and love the best, 
 who is the most worthy of being loved, even 
 though he may have to flutter round a few 
 flowers before he is able to find out, which is 
 the best ? 
 
 Be this as it may, there can be no doubt 
 that for a short time Geraldine's image was 
 the one which presented itself most frequently, 
 whether in thought by day or in dreams by 
 night, to Sir Francis. But it was not long 
 before strange suspicions, like drops of gall 
 in honey, embittered his cup of happiness. 
 He began to ask himself ugly questions : 
 " Was she not too masculine in her tastes ? 
 Was she not too flippant? Could she be 
 sympathetic ? and to each of these ugly ques- 
 tions an answer came but too readily; and
 
 Cupid Shoots his Shafts, 97 
 
 for the moment Sir Francis was made un- 
 happy, for an internecine warfare was raging 
 between his heart and his head, and it was 
 difficult to say which would conquer. There 
 was somethinor about Geraldine which made 
 him love her despite himself, and when she 
 was in one of her graver moods, and looked 
 thoughtfully out of those beautiful eyes, while 
 she spoke in a low musical voice on subjects 
 which might have been deemed far too deep 
 and dry for her to have felt any interest in, 
 and spoke on them, too, as if she had 
 thoroughly thought them out, how was it 
 possible for him not to love her ? 
 
 But in her other moods ! 
 
 Ah me ! what a change I Exchanging 
 silly badinage with silly young men ; laugh- 
 ing when she ought to have looked grave; 
 assuming masculine airs, and talking about 
 horses aS if she had been brought up in the 
 stables, and of betting and the odds like an 
 officer of draoroons. Ah me ! what a change! 
 But when Sir Francis found her as he once 
 did, in the smoking-room with her brother 
 and some college friends, a smoking-cap on 
 her head and a cigarette in her mouth, the 
 great crisis came, the internecine war was 
 brought to an end by the head winning a 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 great victory over the heart, and Sir Francis 
 found himself once more free. 
 
 Winter was ^one, the spring had passed 
 away, and it was now summer. 
 
 Ostensibly, no change had taken place in 
 the relations between Sir Francis and the 
 family at the Court, and there were many days 
 when he was to be found, racket in hand, with 
 Geraldine at his side, doing battle against the 
 redoubtable Chub, assisted by the still more 
 redoubtable Sis, whilst Victoria and Eva sat 
 under the shade of a leafy chestnut-tree and 
 watched the game ; for Eva was too delicate 
 for any kind of violent exercise, and although 
 Victoria could play, and played well, she did 
 not care much about the game, and only took 
 a part in it when she was wanted. 
 
 ^' How well Sir Francis plays !" remarked 
 Eva. 
 
 <« Very," answered Victoria, absently, as if 
 she were thinking of something else. 
 
 Then a silence of some minutes ; again 
 broken by Eva : 
 
 " Have you not observed that he has very 
 much changed of late V 
 
 '' Who — I r asked Victoria. '' Why ? 
 What makes you think so V 
 
 She spoke in a startled, hurried manner,
 
 Cupid Shoots his Shafts. 99 
 
 and plucked almost fiercely at the petals of an 
 ox-eye daisy as she did so. 
 
 "Because," said Eva, calmly, *' he used to 
 talk so much more ; and Geraldine and he 
 were always teasing each other." 
 
 ^' Don^t they do so now 1" 
 
 " Oh no! never! He, is all politeness ; and 
 she, is never rude. It is nothing but ' If you 
 please,' and ' Thank you '." 
 
 " How tiresome!" said Victoria ; she might 
 perhaps have said more, but at this moment 
 Lady Arabella joined them, followed by a 
 manservant carrying her own special easy- 
 chair and a plentiful supply of pillows, with 
 which, in a few minutes, with the assistance 
 of Eva and Victoria — for Lady Arabella 
 never did anything without assistance — she 
 was carefully propped up. 
 
 A pause in the game brought the players 
 around her. 
 
 "Ah, Sir Francis," she said, as the young 
 baronet approached her, " you really must be 
 prevented from putting your theories into 
 practice. If you go on as you are doing, we 
 shall all be ruined." 
 
 " Ah, poor me ! What have I done 
 now?" said Sir Francis, with an air of mock 
 humility. 
 
 7—2
 
 100 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 '^Only by your insisting upon paying higher 
 wages than anyone else, you have created 
 universal discontent. You will hardly believe 
 it, but not less than three of Mr. Yorke's farm 
 people have left him during the last month, 
 in order, as the foolish creatures say, to better 
 their condition. And you know," she con- 
 tinued, turning to Geraldine, '* how kind your 
 papa has been to them." 
 
 '' How ungrateful !" said Geraldine ; *' but 
 we must not expect gratitude from the lower 
 classes; they are getting worse and worse 
 every day." 
 
 " AxQ ive getting better V asked Eva. 
 
 " My dear Penserosa/' said her mother, 
 '* that is not the question ; it does not matter 
 whether we are getting better or worse, but 
 you must allow that in no country in the 
 world is so much money given away in charity 
 as in ours." 
 
 '' Because," observed Sir Francis, '^ there is 
 no country in the world in which charity is 
 so much needed. For that reason I look 
 upon charity as a disgrace to us. It ought 
 to be the duty of the rich to seek to prevent 
 its need, rather than to alleviate the- misery 
 which proceeds from need." 
 
 "■ Utopian !" said Lady Arabella, playfully
 
 Cupid Shoots his Shafts. 101 
 
 threatening him with her fan ; *' as indeed you 
 Radicals always are." 
 
 "But, mamma dear," said Eva, "I think 
 Sir Francis has forgotten that there always 
 must be poor, for are we not told that the 
 poor will always be with us? and I cannot see 
 why we should not help them in such a 
 manner as to make them love us." 
 
 Lady Arabella shook her head mournfully, 
 as if she would have said : 'M have tried, but 
 it is hopeless." 
 
 " What nonsense, Eva I" said Geraldine, 
 sharply ; " people cannot be 7nade to love 
 each other." 
 
 *' True," said a voice, in clear, measured 
 tones ; " for there can be no true love with- 
 out sympathy." 
 
 Sir Francis looked up at the speaker — it 
 was Victoria — and as he did so, his eyes met 
 hers. 
 
 He had never looked into them before. 
 What a depth of tenderness they revealed ! 
 How was it he had overlooked the possessor 
 of them till now ? True, he had very fre- 
 quently seen her and often spoken to her, 
 but she had appeared to him only as a re- 
 served, silent girl, who seemed to live amongst 
 her books and in communion with her own
 
 102 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 thouglits. But then he had been so much 
 engrossed, first by little Sis, and secondly — 
 it is sad to think of such fickleness — by 
 Geraldirie. 
 
 *' There can be no true love without sym- 
 pathy." 
 
 Could Victoria have foreseen the effects of 
 those few w^ords she might perhaps have re- 
 mained silent. Would it have been better 
 for her to have done so ? Who can tell \ 
 
 From that moment Sir Francis was more 
 than ever at Deepdale. 
 
 " We understand each other/' said the 
 doctor ; '' you know the adage : birds of a 
 feather flock together." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! he is so dull at home," said 
 Mrs. Pringle. 
 
 ^^Ifc is all that beautiful pet curl Sis has 
 been training over her left eyebrow," said 
 Chub. 
 
 " If it were not wicked, I should call you 
 names, sir," cried Sis. 
 
 ^' Am I not right, Vic T asked Chub. 
 
 But Chub asked in vain, for Victoria made 
 him no answer. Yet her heart was full, and she 
 felt her cheeks flush at Sir Francis's name. 
 She knew why he was so often at Deepdale. 
 His admiration — his love had been suddenly
 
 Cupid Shoots his Slwfts. 103 
 
 revealed to her : how, she could scarcely tell, 
 for as yet he had said no word of either. 
 
 The last few weeks had indeed produced 
 a great change in the feelings of both. It 
 was a marvel now to Sir Francis that he had 
 ever looked with admiration on any other 
 form than hers ; that he had ever sought to 
 catch the glances of any other eyes ; or that 
 he had ever hung on the words from any 
 other lips. It was true that Victoria had 
 not the captivating graces of Sis, nor the un- 
 deniable beauty of G-eraldine — though there 
 was a strong resemblance between them — 
 but then she had the charm, which they had 
 not, of being always the same, and of making 
 the time spent in her society a source of 
 profit as well as of pleasure, for when she 
 spoke she seemed to do so out of the fulness 
 of her convictions, and to lay bare a heart 
 which was incapable of guile. 
 
 True, she might not be strictly beautiful, 
 but she was certainly very handsome ; and it 
 seemed as if she grew more and more so every 
 day. The sad look was fast fading away, and 
 the dark eyes were more frequently relieved 
 from the shade of their long lashes as she 
 looked towards him — not shyly now — but 
 with a glance which expressed trust and in-
 
 104 D'jdtar Vidorka. 
 
 testxs^ and — mhj should ifc not be said? — lore. 
 Why die kuew r»o* 'h^'i now it was for ilie 
 first time rl?/: s'^ r ito gain an insight 
 
 into her c - f :t Life, whidi for some 
 
 r r 1 appeared to 
 
 so imr^ fss. so disap- 
 
 pointn^ 5 Zrw aspect. 
 
 SieivaB n:: :: she had 
 
 lived so hmg. s z i. — — : ^ — - : It 
 nr^ no idle ^ 
 
 fio cdfeied i;^_i.-^.;T -. ; (a j.^-.-io---* -.'-.^i. — _, 
 Kov no ; it was trae — so tme : she was _ ~ t :. 
 and loTed by one who was worthy of her lova 
 No wonder that her eyes were brighter, 
 that a Ua^ of red had mantled her pale 
 d»€ek. '' --^ \~T r-^Tri_-'.^e had become more 
 ez^r _ aDt : that her heart 
 
 -~ ' : not be so, when 
 
 pon 
 
 by ?ide at the time, 
 oat her hand
 
 Ciipul Shoots his Shafts. 105 
 
 " If I- could speak to you now as I would 
 wish to speak I should be inexpressibly 
 happy. As it is, I can only ask you to bear 
 with me for a few days ; it will be my birthday 
 then, and I have promised the kind doctor 
 to remain free till after I am nineteen ; and 
 I must try and keep my promise, though I 
 fear I have been sadly foigetftil of it of 
 late." 
 
 " A few daysT said Sir FianGSs. "It is 
 such an age to wait T 
 
 "But I may have to say ' Ho,'" said Vic- 
 tona, disengaging her hand, but not before 
 Sir Francis had preyed it — it is not neces- 
 saiy to say how many times — to his lips. 
 
 " You would not be so cruel as to make me 
 miserable ^ 
 
 "Please don't speak of being miserable," 
 said Victoria ; " it is a bad omen.* 
 
 ** Are you superstitious I" 
 
 " I am sometimes." 
 
 " But during these horrible few days — may 
 I come as usual !" 
 
 ** Yes, if you will promise to be very wise 
 and very good, and not talk of love." 
 
 "Eemember, I am more than nineteen, 
 and am under no promise to remain finee. I 
 am a slave."
 
 106 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 ''Is love, then, such a bondage?" asked 
 Victoria, archly. 
 
 '' Yes !" said Sir Francis, '' from which 
 there is no escape ; and the sweetest of all 
 sounds is the chink of its chains." 
 
 *^ Come," said Victoria ; " remember the 
 first duty of a slave is obedience. I order 
 you to be silent — and for the next few days 
 I free you from your fetters." 
 
 *^ And when these few days are over ?" 
 
 " The bann of silence shall be taken off, and 
 you shall have fresh chains." 
 
 *' Let me wear them for ever," said Sir 
 Francis. ''Liberty has become hateful to me." 
 
 '' It seems to me that we are talking great 
 nonsense," said Victoria, as she turned in the 
 direction of the house. 
 
 And for the next few davs Victoria had to 
 play a part ; she dared not show her hap- 
 piness. 
 
 The only person who observed it was Mrs. 
 Pringle. 
 
 " How well Victoria is looking,^' she said. 
 " I am so glad I advised her to take camo- 
 mile tea." 
 
 She did not know that Victoria had not 
 followed her advice.
 
 Midsumm er-Eve, 107 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MIDSUMMER EVE. 
 
 Oh, how sweet it is this soft inidsummer 
 evening ! The air redolent of nature's purest 
 perfumes ; the sky without a cloud ; the 
 moon rising lazily and round ; the stars 
 awaiting her in pale expectancy ; silence, 
 broken but by a fountain's plash. 
 
 On such a night as this loving hearts com- 
 mune without words, and wreaths are woven 
 by Fancy for the Future's wear. 
 
 On such a night as this the world would 
 seem to sleep, and we, who are but as the 
 watchers by its couch, to dream. Oh, golden 
 dreams, which woo us in our youth, and with 
 fleet footsteps fly from us in age ! 
 
 The doctor has been called away to a 
 patient ; Chub and Sis are lawn-tennising at 
 the Court, and will not be back till late, as 
 they intend to walk. Mrs. Pringle is at
 
 108 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 home, for she can be seen through the 
 French window which opens on the lawn, 
 seated at her work-table, and thoroughly 
 engrossed in one of her favourite complica- 
 tions in wool. 
 
 Victoria, too, is at home, for as the moon 
 rises an observer on the lawn might have 
 seen her shadow distinctly outlined on the 
 gravel-walk. She is sitting on a rustic seat, 
 and is evidently not alone, for there is an- 
 other and a larger shadow by the side of, and 
 bending over towards hers— the shadow of 
 Sir Francis Hawthorne. 
 
 Since Sir Francis had declared his love 
 they had met each day, but this was the first 
 time they had been alone. 
 
 For some time neither of them had 
 spoken, then the silence was broken by Sir 
 Francis. 
 
 *' Why is it, Victoria," he said, *' that we 
 are so little disposed to talk when we are 
 most happy ? Now, because I am sitting by 
 you, it seems as if the sense of happiness 
 had so taken possession of my whole being 
 that every other faculty had been destroyed. 
 You must forgive me for being so stupid, for 
 it is love which has made me so." 
 
 ** Hush !" said Victoria. '' Eemember vou
 
 Midsummer- Eve. 109 
 
 are in the position of a cardinal whose mouth 
 has not yet been opened. Bat why should 
 we wish to talk when we are happy ! It has 
 always seemed to me that the highest happi- 
 ness is that for which there can be found no 
 words ; just as with grief, those who mourn 
 most, neither weep nor wail." 
 
 There was again a long pause. It was 
 Victoria who now spoke. 
 
 ** I do not know why it is," she said, " but 
 there is something either in the darkness, or 
 in the stillness, of the night which makes me 
 melancholy, even when my heart is most full 
 of joy." 
 
 *' It cannot be the darkness," said Sir 
 Francis, " for see how brightly the moon is 
 now shining ; it has almost turned night into 
 day." 
 
 *' Ah ! The moon, the moon," repeated 
 Victoria, dreamily. *' I sometimes think it is 
 the moon which exerts such a strange influ- 
 ence over me. It looks so pale — so sad. Do 
 you not think," she added hurriedly, as she 
 turned her eyes towards it, " that it looks 
 very sad ? Oh, so sad ! As if it had been 
 a silent witness of all the sin and wickedness 
 committed on the earth." 
 
 " You must not give way to such thoughts,
 
 110 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 my dear Victoria. If looking at tlie moon 
 makes you melancholy, turn from it. Think 
 of how Nature revels in the brightness of the 
 sun. There is a sun for each and all of us, 
 as well as moon." 
 
 *' Ah !" said Victoria, mournfully. '^ But I 
 am one of the children of the moon." Then, 
 suddenly changing her tone, she asked 
 quickly, *' Tell me, are you a believer in 
 dreams V 
 
 '" Only in one," said Sir Francis ; '' and 
 that, I feel, will come true." 
 
 " But, tell me truly." 
 
 " No, certainly not," said Sir Francis. 
 
 "But I have heard some wonderful in- 
 stances of their being realised," said Vic- 
 toria. " However, I agree with you, though 
 it is very singular — very singular." 
 
 " What is singular ?" asked Sir Francis. 
 
 *^ When I was a child I had a dream which 
 has haunted me to this day, and I saw you 
 in it. A strange dream, which has sometimes 
 made me very unhappy." 
 
 '^ Dear little dreamer !" said Sir Francis, 
 pressing her hand, which he had been holding 
 in his own for the last ten minutes. " Dear 
 little dreamer, remember dreams come by 
 contraries; and when to-morrow comes, and
 
 Midsu m me r-Eve. Ill 
 
 you have made me happy, you shall prove 
 that it is so." 
 
 '' I cannot tell you how I dread to-morrow," 
 said Victoria. " I never knew before that I 
 was so weak. Ah ! can it be my fancy ?' 
 she cried, as she shrank back and trembled 
 violently. 
 
 " What is it, darling V asked Sir Francis, 
 as ne put his arm around her waist and drew 
 her towards him. 
 
 " See ! see !" she cried, as she pointed in 
 the direction of the orchard; ''it is the second 
 time I have seen it — and all in white." 
 
 " Sweet one, be calm ; it is but the moon- 
 light streaming through the trees ;" he 
 stooped down and kissed her on her forehead 
 as he spoke. 
 
 There was a shout. 
 
 " Hurrah ! hurrah ! Home at last. I 
 hope you have not eaten all the supper, for I 
 am as hungry as a hunter." 
 
 It was Chub and Sis. Chub vowiuor 
 that he would play lawn-tennis no more. 
 '' Only fancy," he said, *' having to jump about 
 the whole afternoon with that baboon Duke 
 showing his white teeth and grinning at you 
 from the other side of the net !" 
 
 " I only wish you were half as good-look-
 
 112 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 ing," said Sis ; '' don't you ?" This last was 
 addressed to Victoria, who, with Sir Francis, 
 had advanced to meet them. '* But, good 
 gracious, child ! how pale you look !" 
 
 " It is only the moonlight," said Victoria. 
 
 " The mooD," said Chub, " I hate moons, 
 and moon-calves too, Sis, even though they 
 may be more good-looking than I am V 
 
 *' Silence, sirrah !" said Sis, as full of all 
 sorts of conflicting sentiments they walked 
 into supper together. 
 
 The doctor came in before it was over ; he 
 was even more cheery than usual. 
 
 '^I was just in time," he said; '^ a few 
 minutes more and he would have bled to 
 death." 
 
 " What was it V asked Sir Francis. 
 
 " Tom Bates," said the doctor. " He was 
 stupid enough to get entangled in the thresh- 
 ing machine, and so will have to go through 
 life with one hand less than his neighbours." 
 
 '' How long did it take you to cut it off?" 
 asked Chub. 
 
 " Twice as long as I ought to have been," 
 said the doctor ; " for I am sadly out of 
 practice." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! how can you do such horrid 
 things !" exclaimed Sis.
 
 Midsummer Eve. 113 
 
 '* You foolish little puss," said the doctor, 
 " if no one could do what you are pleased to 
 call horrid things, this would be a remark- 
 ably unpleasant world for some of us to 
 live in." 
 
 *' I suppose you know, Sis, what is sup- 
 posed to be the most difficult operation in 
 surgery ?" said Chub. 
 
 It was not the first time Chub had asked 
 Sis the same question. She looked at him 
 scornfully. 
 
 " I wish, Chub," she said, " that you would 
 not be so fond of slang." 
 
 *'What did I say?" asked Chub. ''As 
 for slang, I should like to know where a 
 fellow is to be found more slangy than 
 Duke." 
 
 *' Is Duke at home now ?" asked Mrs. 
 Pringle. 
 
 It was the first time she had spoken. 
 
 '* Yes, mamma," said Sis, blushing ; " he is 
 going to stay three weeks." 
 
 "In that case we must ask him over," said 
 Mrs. Pringle. 
 
 ** Let me have fair notice, my dear, that I 
 may be out," said the doctor. " I hate 
 prigs." 
 
 '' You hear. Sis V said Chub. 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 " Come, come, Chub," said the doctor, " I 
 cannot allow yoa to tease your sister. I will 
 have none of my privileges infringed upon. 
 — But what is the matter. Sir Francis ? I 
 have not heard your voice since we have sat 
 down. And as for Vic, she has evidently 
 put on her thinking-cap ; perhaps it is that 
 she begins to be oppressed by the burden of 
 age, for sweet eighteen is nearly past. And 
 to-morrow, well, to-morrow we must have a 
 feast, mind that, mother, and we will drink 
 her health in a bumper of the old Johannis- 
 berg, for I always think, teetotaler as I nearly 
 am, that the best of drinking is when there 
 is a toast in the cup. What say you. Sir 
 Francis ? Will you come ?" 
 
 '' With the greatest pleasure," said Sir 
 Francis. 
 
 ''And mind you bring a good appetite," 
 said Mrs. Pringle, '' for I can promise you a 
 good dinner. But, remember, the doctor is 
 responsible for the wine." 
 
 '* The women always throw the heaviest 
 responsibility on our shoulders," said the 
 doctor, " cunning creatures that they are ; 
 you will find that out to your cost one of 
 these days. Sir Francis." 
 
 '* The sooner the better," said Sir Francis.
 
 Midsummer Eve. 115 
 
 " I can't think how a man can be such a 
 fool as to marry," said Chub ; at which wise 
 remark Sis exclaimed, saucily : 
 
 '' Sour grapes." And the doctor laughed. 
 
 " But really, Vic," he said, ** you must 
 cheer up, or instead of a birthday-feast you 
 will make us all think it is an entertainment 
 in honour of somebody's funeral." 
 
 ** Is it really to-morrow ?" said Victoria. 
 " Then I have a favour to ask — let me have 
 to-morrow to myself. Kemember that to- 
 morrow I shall be nineteen." 
 
 *' Ah ! how stupid of me, I had forgotten," 
 said the doctor, looking unusually grave. 
 **You are quite right. So we will ask our 
 friend here to come to the celebration of your 
 ' natal anniversary' a day later. And now " 
 — as he saw Sir Francis rising to take leave 
 — "we must all off to bed, for I see that 
 some of us want it, and you, my dear Vic, as 
 much as any." 
 
 *' Then, the day after to-morrow," said Sir 
 Francis, as he shook hands all round, and, of 
 course by accident, with Victoria twice. 
 
 As he rode over the hill which stood mid- 
 way between Hawthornedene and Deepdale, 
 and from which both houses could be seen, he 
 reined in his horse and gazed long and wiat- 
 
 8—2
 
 116 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 fully in the direction of Deepdale. A single 
 light showed that one of its inmates was still 
 astir ; his heart told him it was Victoria- 
 
 Her sadness seemed to have communicated 
 itself to him, and it was difficult to believe 
 that the solitary horseman who peered anxi- 
 ously through the darkness at that distant 
 light, could be a suitor waiting for a verdict 
 from one of whose love he could not have the 
 smallest doubt. 
 
 ** But this intense dejection T he asked 
 himself. *^ This fear of to-morrow ? Can it 
 be the shadow which coming events are ever 
 said to cast before them ?" 
 
 He had reached Hawthornedene before he 
 had found an answer to the question ; and as 
 he dismounted his expression was so unlike 
 what it usually was, that even the servants 
 were struck with it, and said amongst them- 
 selves they thought their master must be ill. 
 
 The shadow had fallen upon him as well as 
 upon Victoria.
 
 Waiting for the Verdict 117 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WAITING FOR THE VERDICT. 
 
 " I KNOW we are going to have a thunder- 
 storm," said Mrs. Pringle, as she sat down to 
 breakfast the next morning, *^ for I feel such 
 a swimming in my head." 
 
 ''Pish!" said the doctor. "Pish" was a 
 favourite word of his whenever anyone pre- 
 sumed to speak of their ailments in his 
 presence without consulting him. " Pish I 
 my dear. Pish !" 
 
 " I only wish you had it, John ; but no, 
 indeed I don't, for you men make such a fuss 
 about trifles. But my head swims all the 
 same." 
 
 " Too much tea," said the doctor. ** How 
 can you women expect not to have pains and 
 aches when you treat your nerves as if they 
 were harp-strings, and always have some kind 
 of tuning-fork at work, either screwing them
 
 118 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 up or letting them down ? But where is Vic- 
 toria T 
 
 The door opened as he spoke. It was not 
 Victoria, but Sis. 
 
 " Papa/' she said, **Vic has a bad headache, 
 and I am going to take her a cup of tea ; but 
 she told me to tell you she will be down soon, 
 and that she particularly wishes to see you 
 before you go out." 
 
 " A headache !" said the doctor. *' Why, 
 wonders will never cease. Vic with a 
 headache !" 
 
 " It is all the thunder in the air/' said his 
 wife." 
 
 The doctor knew it was impossible to over- 
 come Mrs. Pringle in argument, for although 
 she did not say much, she always insisted 
 upon having the last word ; so he contented 
 himself with an almost inaudible " Pish I" 
 and went on with his breakfast. 
 
 After breakfast, Victoria came down, look- 
 ing pale and agitated. She still complained 
 of headache, and answered with a faint smile 
 the kind congratulations of her friends. 
 
 " Now to business," said the doctor, 
 ** Come with me, my dear, into the library." 
 He put on much the same grave, serious air 
 he would have assumed had he been about
 
 Waiting for the Verdict, 119 
 
 to perform some difficult operation, and was 
 somewhat doubtful as to the result. *' Come 
 with me, my dear." 
 
 When he had closed the library-door he 
 went to his writing - table, and opening a 
 drawer, took from it a packet of letters care- 
 fully tied together. Amongst them was one 
 with a large black seal. This he handed to 
 Victoria. 
 
 " I must now carry out your poor old aunt's 
 wishes. Sit down, my dear child, and read 
 this. But before you do so, summon up all 
 the courage, ail the fortitude which belongs to 
 you, for although I have no exact knowledge 
 of what the letter contains, I have every 
 reason to believe there is much in it of a very 
 painful nature. Remember, my dear, that 
 many circumstances by which our lives are in- 
 fluenced are utterly beyond our control; and 
 that whilst the weak are often overwhelmedand 
 destroyed by them, they can be made a source 
 of good, a blessing, to the strong. Since you 
 have been under my roof I have never ceased 
 to endeavour to give strength to your cha- 
 racter ; show me now that my labour has not 
 been thrown away. Promise the poor bung- 
 ling old doctor, as the greatest favour you can
 
 120 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 confer upon him, that you will be strong and 
 of good heart." 
 
 Victoria threw her arms round his neck. 
 
 " My kindest best of friends," she said, '' I 
 will do my best, and trust you will not be 
 disappointed in me. But for the rest of the 
 day I would be alone — quite alone, for I fore- 
 see I shall have much to suffer." 
 
 All that day Victoria remained in her 
 room. To the frequent and anxious inquiries 
 of Mrs. Pringle there was but one reply : 
 
 " She was not feeling quite well, and wished 
 to be quiet." 
 
 *' Ought you not to see her ?" suggested 
 Mrs. Pringle to the doctor. ''" I really fear 
 she is seriously ill." 
 
 *' My dear," said her husband, " in that 
 case we will have a little patience, and see 
 v/hat my great rival Dame Nature may do." 
 
 Sis could not understand it. Why should 
 Vic shut herself up in her room on her birth- 
 day, of all days in the year ? She thought it 
 very extraordinary. 
 
 ** Why should she not have a headache ?" 
 said Chub. " Eva often has." 
 
 " You are always talking about Eva," said 
 Sis. 
 
 *' I'm sure I don't talk or think more about
 
 Waiting for the Verdict 121 
 
 Eva than anybody else," said Chub, growing 
 red. 
 
 *' Sour grapes," said Sis. 
 
 " I don't understand you, with your sour 
 grapes," said Chub, growing redder still. 
 
 " Poor boy !" said Sis. 
 
 " I am not a boy," said Chub, angrily. *' I 
 was nineteen last week ; in another month I 
 shall be walking the hospitals, and I am at 
 all events twice the man of that jackanapes 
 Duke." 
 
 " Eemember, he is Eva's brother," said Sis. 
 
 *' And my sister's pet," said Chub. 
 
 " Sir, how dare you !" It was the turn of 
 Sis to get angry now. 
 
 The doctor interposed. 
 
 " Come, come, children ! what is all this 
 about ?" he asked. 
 
 " Nothing, sir," said Chub ; " a mere storm 
 in a teacup.'* 
 
 " Then, my boy, after a storm let there be 
 a calm, for I hate jangling. Why, Sis, my 
 little puss, come here ; what has made you 
 blush so ? I declare vou are as red as a 
 peony." 
 
 " Never mind," said Chub. *' You know 
 what a good-natured fellow you have for a 
 brother — I won't tell."
 
 122 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 '^ Papa, I wish you would beat him," cried 
 Sis. " I am not strong enough, or I would do 
 it myself." 
 
 " You had better beat some one else," said 
 Chub ; *^ then it would be so nice making it 
 up with a kiss for each blow." 
 
 "You provoking boy!" cried Sis, as she 
 ran out of the room. 
 
 The next morning Victoria still remained 
 in her room. Through Sis, who had found 
 her door fastened, she sent down a request 
 that her breakfast might be brought her; 
 and the servant who took it to her returned 
 with a slip of paper for the doctor, on which 
 was written : '' Come to me. I am ready to 
 see you now. I wish you to know all." 
 
 The doctor went to her room, and more 
 than an hour elapsed before he returned. 
 
 " Mother," he said to his wife, in a voice 
 which still bore traces of emotion, *' Sir 
 Francis will not dine here to-day, our birth- 
 day dinner must be put off. Vic, though 
 better, is still suffering from a nervous attack, 
 which will necessitate great care and quiet 
 for some days." 
 
 '*Is it infections'?" asked Mrs. Pringle. 
 *' There is plenty of carbolic acid." 
 
 "Pish!" said the doctor, ringing the bell, and
 
 Waiting for the Verdict. 123 
 
 giving a note to the servant with directions 
 that it should be sent at once to Sir Francis 
 Hawthorne's. 
 
 " Dear me, what a pity!" said Mrs. Pringle; 
 " and I have got such a beautiful salmon." 
 
 When the messenger reached Hawthorne- 
 dene, he found Sir Francis pacing the chestnut 
 avenue, which formed one of the approaches 
 to the house, in a state of feverish impatience, 
 not unmixed with anxiety. He could not 
 tell why, but he had never felt so ill at ease. 
 The pale, sad face of Victoria had haunted 
 him even in his dreams. 
 
 " Why so sad ^ Why so sad?" he had kept 
 repeating to himself 
 
 He had gone to bed late, and had risen 
 early. The sun had scarcely topped the dis- 
 tant hills, when, in all the solitude of early 
 morn, he had whistled to his dogs and sallied 
 forth. Ah, how beautiful is this world of 
 ours to those whose hearts are full of 
 love I 
 
 As he walked rapidly along the path which 
 led in the direction of the midway hill, at 
 every step his pulse beat quicker, his hopes 
 rose higher ; at every step the air seemed 
 purer, the perfume of the dew-steeped flowers 
 sweeter. It was as if he drew in new life
 
 124 Doctor Victoria* 
 
 with every breath : as if another heart were 
 beating responsive to his own. 
 
 As he neared the summit of the hill, he 
 was obliged to stop for a few minutes to 
 recover breath, so rapid had been his up- 
 ward course. Then, passing through the 
 clump of fir-trees which crowned it, he threw 
 himself down upon the dew-dank grass, for- 
 getful of all else but that Deepdale, em- 
 bowered in trees and bathed in a flood of 
 sunlight, stood in the vale before him. 
 
 But he thought not of Deepdale. It wsa 
 with him as with the miser who heeds not 
 the casket which enshrines his gems, and 
 thinks but of the priceless pearl within. 
 
 *' God, let her be mine ! — be mine ! — be 
 mine ! And make me worthy of the gift !" 
 was all his morning prayer. 
 
 The wind sighed out an answer through 
 the trees. It seemed to him as if he had 
 heard a moan. 
 
 '^ Victoria !" he cried. 
 
 The echo of the moan had fled, but from 
 the silence came an answerinof wail. 
 
 He could remain no longer, but fleeing, as 
 it were, from his own thoughts, hastily re- 
 traced his steps. By degrees he became 
 calmer, so that he was able to go through his
 
 Waiting for the Verdict. 125 
 
 usual routine of morning work ; but what he 
 did, he did mechanically ; he continued to 
 move restlessly about from place to place ; 
 and so it was without aim or object that he 
 was walkinor in the chestnut walk when the 
 doctor's groom had met him. 
 
 Even before the groom had touched his hat 
 and turned away, Sir Francis had torn open 
 the letter. 
 
 It was from the doctor, enclosing one from 
 Victoria. Alas ! his worst fears were con- 
 firmed. 
 
 The doctor s letter, though short, was kind 
 and sympathetic. With much warmth of 
 feeling, he regretted he had not sooner known 
 all the circumstances which had led Victoria 
 to decide that it was her duty to act in a 
 manner which must necessarily be the cause 
 of great pain to both ; for then he most cer- 
 tainly would have exercised greater caution, 
 and have prevented their being thrown so 
 much toofether — but it was too late for useless 
 regrets. As it was, he could only beseech him, 
 by every sentiment of aflfection he might 
 entertain for his ward, to abstain from any 
 attempt to alter her decision, for he felt that 
 it was, and ought to be, irrevocable. 
 
 Sir Francis staggered to the nearest seat ;
 
 126 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 he held Victoria's unopened letter in his 
 hand, but it was as if he had not courage to 
 read it. 
 
 *' How strange!" he murmured; " now that 
 I feel there is no hope, I love her ten thousand 
 times more dearly than I did before ! But is 
 there no hope V 
 
 He opened the letter slowly, almost re- 
 luctantly, as he said this, and read as follows : 
 
 ''My dear Sir Francis, 
 
 '' If I were to try, I should be unable 
 to find words in which to tell you all that I 
 have felt — all that I now feel. I know not 
 why, but I had a presentiment that the one 
 bright day-dream of my life would not be 
 realised — and so it is. I shall never marry. 
 I must not be your wife. In the future, you 
 will be the happier for this ; and the time 
 will come when I trust we may both be 
 enabled to meet as firm and — why should 
 I not write the word 1 — loving friends. Try 
 to find one more worthy of your love — I will 
 promise to be to her as a sister. The last few 
 hours have seemed to me a life. I have 
 learned so much — so much, alas ! that I 
 would not have known. Yet I thank God 
 that it is even as it is. To have had your
 
 Waiting for the Verdict. 127 
 
 love will be something more than a mere 
 meteor across my path, leaving no trace ; it 
 shall be to me as the recollection of the cloud 
 of fire to the Israelites of old, and I trust 
 that I may have strength given me to the 
 end — to show — that I was worthy of it : 
 strength given me to perform in all things, 
 as in this, my duty. Let me be enabled to 
 think of you as of one to whom I may look 
 for h elp as from a brother ; but it is better 
 that for some long time we should not meet. 
 Till then, help me by your example. Till 
 then, farewell. Think of me as 
 
 *' Your faithful friend, 
 
 '' Victoria." 
 
 Within three weeks. Sir Francis, to the 
 astonishment of all the world of Middleshire, 
 announced his intention of starting im- 
 mediately on a lengthened tour — it was given 
 out, for the purpose of making himself ac- 
 quainted with all those various conditions of 
 human life which, to the observant traveller, 
 form such a never-ending source of instruc- 
 tion and amusement. But there were some 
 who shook their heads ; and Mr. Mortimer 
 was heard to observe, with a significant air : 
 
 *' Well, well, we've a right to look forward
 
 128 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 to something more aristocratic than a baronet, 
 and when we quarter ourselves with our 
 husband's arms, to find something better than 
 a dirty red hand." 
 
 One thing was very certain : Geraldine had 
 been for some time looking, for her, unusually 
 grave, and from some unaccountable cause — 
 though the doctor was supposed to know the 
 reason why — the Pringle family were less with 
 the Yorkes' than usual. 
 
 It was shortly nfter Sir Francis had sailed, 
 that Victoria entered into training, as a nurse, 
 in St. Tobias's Hospital, where she threw 
 herself into her work with an energy which 
 had gained her much commendation from all 
 those with whom she had been brought into 
 contact. The matron said she was invaluable. 
 The secretary, that she was an honour to the 
 institution ; and Professor Sharpe, that " she 
 had more nous in her little finger than 
 half the students in their whole united brain- 
 boxes."
 
 Right or Wrong f 129 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 RIGHT OR WRONG? 
 
 ** Come, come, my little man ; you are look- 
 ing glum. That won't do ; you must laugh." 
 
 My '* little man " was a plump urchin of 
 some four years old, Ijing on his back on a 
 small bed, which was one of some thirty other 
 small beds, each one of which had its small 
 tenant, in a spacious ward in St. Tobias's 
 Hospital ; and my " little man " had his large 
 black eyes fixed somewhat ruefully on the 
 point of his great toe, for his right leg — it 
 was the old story : run over by a cab — had 
 been broken, and in order to dry the gum 
 bandage in which it had been placed the \Qg 
 had been hoisted up to a kind of tripod, in 
 such a way that his foot was considerably 
 higher than his head. 
 
 Thus it was that " my little man," utterly 
 amazed by the variety of incidents which had 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 so suddenly crowded themselves into his little 
 life, and not the least astonishing of which 
 was the elevation of his great toe to such an 
 unwonted height, was lost in perplexity, and 
 continued to gaze upon it with a sad and 
 mournful interest. It was as if he were not 
 quite sure whether it was his own great toe 
 or the great toe of some one else, placed there 
 for his amusement ; and this state of uncer- 
 tainty and doubt had so worked upon his 
 feelings that while his curiosity, not unmixed 
 with a certain degree of apprehension, was 
 intensely excited, the sense of pain was al- 
 most entirely lost. 
 
 " Come, come, my little man, you must 
 laugh." 
 
 The voice in which this was said was so 
 sweet and pleasant, there was such a sympa- 
 thetic ring in every word, that the little 
 fellow gave up for the moment the contem- 
 plation of his toe, and turned his dark lus- 
 trous eyes, as if perforce, full upon the 
 speaker. 
 
 There must have been something in her 
 to complete the favourable impression pro- 
 duced by her voice, for the mournful expres- 
 sion of the child's face passed away as if it 
 had been a cloud, and a little roguish smile
 
 Right or Wrong? 131 
 
 took its place, which said as clearly as a little 
 rooruish smile could : " Is not all this very 
 funny ?" 
 
 " Good boy !" said the nurse, nodding ap- 
 provingly. 
 
 *' Bravo ! well done, Victoria !" said Dr. 
 Pringle, who had entered unobserved, as he 
 held out his hand. " I wish some ot* the fond 
 mothers I wot of were here, to learn the diflPe- 
 rence between the real sympathy, which 
 strengthens and cheers, and the spurious, 
 maudling sympathy, which weakens and 
 spoils. I congratulate you : when we can 
 make our patients laugh we have not much 
 to learn. But I must not gossip ; I am in a 
 great hurry, and I only looked in to tell you 
 that I hope that everything is satisfactorily 
 arranged, and that you will be able to do all 
 you want at Zurich." 
 
 He had no time for more, for at that mo- 
 ment the matron and Professor Sharpe entered 
 the ward. 
 
 Now the professor was an old friend of Dr. 
 Pringle's, though, considering they had been 
 partly educated together and belonged to the 
 same profession, it was remarkable how few 
 ideas they had in common. 
 
 A thin, angular, somewhat bilious-looking 
 
 9—2
 
 132 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 little man was the professor, with an incisive, 
 cutting manner, perfectly in keeping with his 
 name. He had the misfortune of being just 
 three inches shorter than he considered he 
 ought to have been, and so irritated was he 
 against Dame Nature for her ill-treatment 
 of him in this matter that it would have been 
 extremely disagreeable for that worthy dame 
 had she fallen into his practised professional 
 hands, for he would most assuredly have 
 made her pass a remarkably mauvaise quart 
 d/heure. 
 
 Not that the professor was naturally un- 
 amiable ; quite the reverse. But how is it 
 to be expected that a man can be in the best 
 of tempers who never ceases to be conscious 
 of being just three inches under the five feet 
 ten he had fixed upon as his proper height, 
 and who is under the necessity of rising upon 
 his toes — as the professor perpetually did at 
 the interval of a few seconds — in order to 
 assert himself and preserve his proper position 
 in society. 
 
 It was this want of height which made the 
 professor hate tall people, and woe to the 
 students with long legs, for it was upon them 
 that he was ever ready to pour out the vials 
 of his wrath. A singular contradiction this,
 
 Right or Wrong f 133 
 
 considering how very much he disliked being 
 short himself 1 However, so it was, and you 
 could not be in the professor's society many 
 minutes without finding out his weak point. 
 
 Next to his hatred of tall people was his 
 intense dislike to women who did not '* keep 
 their proper places." He spoke of them with 
 the same contempt as he did of tall men, and 
 spoke to them as he indeed did to all women 
 — but one — as if they were intelligent babies 
 who had been permitted to increase in size. 
 And here again he was guilty of another 
 strange inconsistency ; for though he con- 
 stantly dilated on one of his pet theories, that 
 no woman should be allowed to think, he 
 secretly paid the greatest deference to the 
 opinions of the matron, Mrs. Wainscott, 
 though when he acted upon them he always 
 made it appear he was merely following out 
 his own. 
 
 Mrs. Wainscott herself, though trained in 
 a school which made her readily accept the 
 position of inferiority assigned to her sex, and 
 so strongly insisted upon by the professor, 
 was a remarkable instance of the amount of 
 beneficial work which may be effected in a 
 large institution by a clever, energetic woman. 
 Everything over which she had charge was in
 
 134 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 perfect working order. The discipline of the 
 nurses left nothing to be desired. The wards 
 were models of comfort, cleanliness, and order, 
 and apart from the skill of the medical officers, 
 much of the reputation which belonged to St. 
 Tobias was due to her watchful, sympathetic 
 care, and to her great administrative ability. 
 
 And yet it was supposed by Professor 
 Sharpe — and all those Professor Sharpes who 
 are to be found in the world under other 
 names — that she had no right to think ! 
 
 But in order that there may be no misap- 
 prehension as to his views — for it is no light 
 matter to deal unjustly with the character of 
 such a man as Professor Sharpe — it will be as 
 w^ell to state them in his own words, thus : 
 
 "Do as you will" — the professor has raised 
 himself to the very point of his toes as he 
 utters emphatically the last word — *^Do as 
 you will, you never can teach the woman to 
 reason — that is, to think. Do not misunder- 
 stand me. I do not mean that a woman is 
 unable to arrive at conclusions or decisions 
 based upon motives equally with the man ; 
 but the motives themselves are arrived at by 
 a totally different process ; in the one case 
 they are the outcome of a variety of factors 
 working together in that great factory of
 
 Right or Wrong? 135 
 
 thought, the brain ; in the other they are, as 
 it were, spontaneous emotions emanating 
 from structural causes, necessarily limited in 
 their sphere of action. Thus it is we find 
 that whilst the range of a man's thoughts are 
 boundless, the woman's mind, as a rule — 
 remember, I am not speaking of your excep- 
 tional monstrosities — the w^oman's mind, I 
 repeat, is, as a rule, entirely occupied — apart 
 from such thoughts as men choose to give 
 her, for some special purpose — with the sub- 
 ject of dress, the choice of beef or mutton 
 for her husband's dinner, or some one of the 
 thousand and one trifles of which human 
 existence is made up, and which I, for one, 
 most certainly do not undervalue." 
 
 The only person to whom the professor did 
 not care to enunciate his views on woman 
 was his wife ; for he had married very early 
 in life a young lady so tall that when still in 
 her teens she had been danced round by her 
 schoolfellows on the first of May. She had 
 considerably developed since that time, and 
 the professor knew but too well that in her 
 case, *' spontaneous emotions emanating from 
 structural causes " were not to be trifled 
 with. 
 
 It was observed, too, that he never stood
 
 136 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 upon his toes when his wife was present. 
 She did not like it, and whatever question 
 there might be as to the nature of her mind, 
 there could be none as to the fact of her 
 having a very strong will. 
 
 Surgery was the professor's passion, and 
 he had the reputation of being a very skilful 
 surgeon ; but he cared more for the operation 
 than the patient, and was not at all prepared 
 to admit that recovery formed one of the 
 chief elements of success. 
 
 His dexterity was a favourite theme of 
 conversation amongst the pupils, and one of 
 them had been once heard to remark that 
 the sweetest thing in nature was to see Pro- 
 fessor Sharpe handling the knife. Peace be 
 to his ashes — for the professor is now dead. 
 
 " Ah ! my good friend Pringle," said the 
 professor, as he and the matron entered the 
 room. "Just the very man. We were talking 
 of you. You must put a stop to it. Mustn't 
 he, Mrs. Wainscott ?" 
 
 " At least, give me time to say — How d ye 
 do ?" said the doctor, holding out his hand to 
 the matron. 
 
 " Time is precious," said the professor ; "not 
 a minute to lose. Operation — amputation at 
 the hip — splendid case ! Will make my
 
 Right or Wrong f 137 
 
 tenth. Of course you'll come — all through 
 obstinacy." 
 
 " Through what ?" asked the doctor. 
 
 *' Obstinacy," said the professor. '^ Injury 
 in foot. Amputation necessary — would not 
 submit. Spread to knee — still held out. 
 Now, just in time — ^given in. A splendid 
 case, under best possible conditions." 
 
 *' It is a poor girl," said the matron, ^* whose 
 friends interfered no less than three times 
 th6 night before the operation was decided 
 on, and now this is the last hope. It is very 
 sad." 
 
 '^ Mrs. Wainscott," said the professor. " I 
 have no time now. I must leave the doctor to 
 you. You know my views. This great insti- 
 tution will suffer. It must be put a stop to. 
 Pringle, your ward must not be allowed to 
 make a fool of herself You must prevent it. 
 Women must keep to their own sphere. ^Now, 
 for the present, good-bye ; remember, I shall 
 begin in half-an-hour. It's a first-rate chance. 
 So mind you come." 
 
 The professor brought his heels down to 
 the ground with a stamp, as he said this, 
 made a pirouette, and walked off in the direc- 
 tion of an adjacent ward, leaving the doctor 
 in charge of Mrs. Wainscott.
 
 138 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 " Well, my dear madam ?" said the doctor, 
 interrogatively. 
 
 " I would much rather the professor had 
 spoken to you himself," said the matron. *^ It 
 is about Miss Marsh. Of course you know- 
 that she is going to leave the hospital T 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And the object she has in view ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " May I ask if she is acting with your 
 sanction ?" 
 
 ** She is old enough to judge for herself 
 in this matter, and she is acting after due 
 experience. There is therefore no reason 
 why I should oppose her wishes." 
 
 " But, my dear sir, do you really think it is 
 desirable that women should be doctors ? 
 Was it ever intended ?" 
 
 '^ The first question I find no difficulty in 
 answering. To the second I must confess 
 being obliged to plead entire ignorance. But 
 though I would answer the first question 
 generally in the afiirmative, I should prefer 
 to qualify my opinion, and say that I can 
 conceive cases in which it might not only 
 be desirable, but very desirable that some 
 women should be duly qualified for medical 
 practice."
 
 Right or Wrong? 139 
 
 "But remember what girls will have to 
 submit to in the course required from them. 
 Will not their modesty suffer V 
 
 ** No more than it does at present, from 
 what they have to see and do as nurses," 
 said the doctor ; " and I would ask if the 
 natural repugnance which every girl of refined 
 and delicate feelings must have to the per- 
 formance of duties — which are often of the 
 most repulsive and distressing nature — can 
 be overcome through the influence of motives 
 without which her work would be impossible, 
 and if she can be prepared for, and do this 
 work, with advantage rather than injury to her 
 moral qualities, how much less likely is she to 
 suffer when the object to be effected becomes 
 greater, the interests deeper, and the prepa- 
 ration not one whit more objectionable than 
 that which they have to undergo under your 
 watchful care. Am I not right in this ?'* 
 
 Mrs. Wainscott was silent for a moment. 
 
 " There is certainly much truth in what you 
 say. It may be prejudice, however, but I 
 cannot reconcile myself to the idea ; it seems 
 unnatural." 
 
 " All new ideas do seem unnatural at first ; 
 but come, come, Mrs. Wainscott, said the doctor, 
 kindly, " you are a practical woman, and the
 
 140 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 work of this world can only be properly done 
 bypeople who are so. Just look round at your 
 poor little friends in this ward, and ask your- 
 self what does a man doctor know about them? 
 he does not even know their language. What 
 is understood by every mother, by every woman 
 with ordinary sympathies, is to him a sealed 
 book ; he has either to grope about in the 
 dark, or seek out some woman to act as his 
 assistant. Take the word of an old practitioner, 
 that in almost all such cases the woman's 
 diagnosis would be quicker, surer. Then as 
 regards much of our practice with your own 
 sex — dear me, dear me I Surely here all ob- 
 jection ceases ?" 
 
 , " But we women have no confidence in 
 women," said the matron, laughing. 
 
 "We must educate your judgment, my good 
 madam, and teach you to perceive that the 
 best is the best whether it exhibits itself 
 before the world in pantaloons or petticoats." 
 
 " But with regard to operations ?" asked 
 the matron. 
 
 "All medical men are not operative sur- 
 geons," said the doctor ; '' and I know of 
 some — aye, and very good, useful fellows in 
 their way — whom I would not trust to cut off 
 the leg of a roast fowl. But allowing the
 
 Right or Wrong '^ 141 
 
 major surgical operations to remain more 
 especially as a part of the man's work, there 
 are hundreds of the minor ones which might 
 be done as well, indeed more easily, and there- 
 fore better, by the women. Take the eye for 
 instance, and those operations which require 
 the use of very small and fine instruments : 
 surely a woman would find less diflSculty in 
 handling them with her delicate and practised 
 hands, than I possibly could with these great 
 awkward thumbs." 
 
 The doctor held out his hands as he spoke ; 
 and there could be no doubt but that it could 
 only be by great practice and extremely good 
 management that they could be made to 
 adapt themselves to any work which might 
 require delicate manipulation. 
 
 " And yet," said the matron, " I have 
 heard that you have used them verv skil- 
 fully." 
 
 '' I have done my best ; one can do no 
 more," said the doctor. " But I should like 
 to know why a young girl, anxious to do good 
 in her generation — who has mastered all the 
 mystery of nursing, and overcome all the 
 horror with which, until we are familiarised 
 with it, the sight of much that the surgeon 
 has to do produces — is to be doomed to stand
 
 142 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 by everlastingly with a basin and sponge, 
 when she may feel that she has something 
 more in her, and when she is half inclined to 
 say to some bungling operator — for there are 
 bunglers in all professions — ' Come, hold this, 
 and let me take your place. I could do it in 
 half the time, and twice as well myself '." 
 
 '^ Really, doctor," said the matron, " I must 
 confess to being more than half converted." 
 
 '* It will take time," said the doctor, *^ to 
 reconcile the public to the change ; but all 
 honour to those who have the courage to 
 become the pioneers in those unknown paths 
 which become in time the frequented high- 
 ways of human progress." 
 
 " But what shall I say to the professor 1" 
 asked the matron. '' He will be furious." 
 
 '^ So much the better," said the doctor. 
 " The more furious the gale, the sooner it 
 is over. I would see him myself, but to-day 
 I must be off at once. Will you kindly tell 
 him, as he did not give me time to do so, 
 that I have an engagement which will pre- 
 vent me, much to my regret, being present in 
 the theatre this morning '?" 
 
 " Ah, poor thing ! Poor thing !" said the 
 matron. 
 
 It was evident that familiarity with dis-
 
 Right or Wrong? 143 
 
 tressing scenes had not hardened her heart, 
 for, as the doctor took leave of her. her eyes 
 were filled with tears. 
 
 A few minutes later, as the doctor was 
 hurrying along Great George Street, on his 
 way to the Park, he brushed against a tall, 
 red-faced man, dressed in a suit of unmis- 
 takably sporting cut. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the doctor, 
 lifting his hat. 
 
 The stranger growled a response — it almost 
 sounded like an oath — as he passed on. 
 
 " How very odd," thought the doctor. " I 
 certainly have seen that face before." He 
 slackened his pace, as he reflected for a few 
 moments. " I have it ! I have it !" he said 
 out loud. *' What singular resemblances 
 there are in this world ! It is a disagreeable 
 and bloated likeness of the good-looking 
 youth whose portrait hung opposite the bed 
 of my old friend Mrs. Marsh. Poor dear old 
 soul ! What a life of trial hers must have 
 been 1'^
 
 144 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 OUT IN THE RAIN. 
 
 It is evening. Cabs roll unceasingly towards 
 the theatres. It rains, and hapless foot- 
 passengers hail omnibuses in vain — they are 
 all full to overflowing ; and the conductors, so 
 watchful and vociferous at other times, have 
 assumed an air of dignified repose, and 
 appear to be rather amused than otherwise 
 at the idea of people being obliged to walk 
 in a drenching shower. Walking is decidedly 
 unpleasant — in the emphatic language of the 
 period, '^ most awfully " so — for above it is 
 all downpour and drip, whilst below, the 
 water streams over the pavement in a way 
 which makes the owner of a pair of water- 
 proof shoes an envied man. 
 
 The shops are either closed or closing, 
 though at distant intervals one is to be found 
 open, whose owner, more greedy of gain, or
 
 Out in the Rain. 145 
 
 more impecunious than his neighbour, seeks 
 to obtain the custom of those waifs and strays 
 whose daily wants have not yet been supplied. 
 By a stretch of imagination, and a slight 
 departure from the truth, Eegent Street, the 
 Strand, and the other great thoroughfares may 
 be said to be lighted ; but when we turn off 
 them into the narrow streets which form such 
 an interminable network in the great metro- 
 polis, we should find but " darkness visible," 
 were it not that here and there — and but too 
 often here and there seem very close together 
 — the street is made all ablaze by streams of 
 light from gas-burners grouped together so 
 regardless of expense, that the unsophisticated 
 stranger who visits London for the first time 
 would be struck with wonder at the unselfish 
 liberality which prompts those whose aim is 
 to minister to the simple wants of the multi- 
 tude by the sale of beer and gin, to act as if 
 gas were supplied gratis, and gas shares were 
 not paying ten per cent. But without light 
 what should we be in this world ? Is not 
 light the source of heat and life ? We all 
 have heard of the deeds of darkness, and it 
 cannot be but with sentiments of honest pride 
 that the Englishman who takes an interest 
 in the welfare of his fellow-creatures, finds, 
 VOL. r. 10
 
 146 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 as he walks through the streets of London, 
 evidences of the liberality with which this 
 great blessing has been diffused — not by the 
 Government, certainly not by the gas com- 
 panies, not even by charitable societies, but 
 by the private efforts of rich individuals and 
 wealthy firms competing with each other in 
 honourable rivalry, and amongst which will be 
 found holding a forward place the time- 
 honoured names of Souseman and Soppit. 
 
 Well do such names deserve to be emblazoned 
 in green and gold on so many noble — or 
 ignoble — houses, in letters so large that all 
 who run can read ! Virtue brings its own 
 reward. The names of some of our greatest 
 philosophers and men of science may remain 
 unknown, but those of Souseman and Soppit 
 have become household words. 
 
 Then, too, here and there we come upon 
 streets which, as soon as Regent Street and 
 the other great fashionable commercial 
 thoroughfares have become dark, are lighted 
 through their entire length by the lanterns — 
 or more frequently tallow-candles, protected 
 from the wind by paper shades — on the 
 costermonger's trucks which line their entire 
 length. In these streets the pavement is 
 thronged with purchasers, now carefully
 
 Out in the Rain. 147 
 
 examining the wares which are temptingly- 
 spread out before them ; now in what seems 
 to be in noisy altercation with the dealers, 
 but it is not so — it is merely the ordinary 
 process by which purchases are made ; with 
 the uneducated of the Anoflo-Saxon race, the 
 choice of language is extremely small, so that 
 in order to be emphatic, it is necessary to 
 use strong and coarse expletives, to do the 
 work of adjectives and other parts of speech, 
 required, but unknown. All kinds of wares 
 are exposed for sale on these trucks. Fish, 
 vegetables, fruits, wearing apparel, hats and 
 caps, boots and shoes, crockery and tin ware ; 
 indeed everything which might be likely to 
 enter into the requirements of those who 
 have but little money, and who weigh well 
 every penny they spend. Many of the shops 
 in the streets themselves are for butchers' 
 meat, temptingly displayed, not in joints, or 
 in any recognised form, but scraps heaped 
 together, with the price — from one penny 
 upwards — marked in large printed figures, 
 stuck into them with skewers. 
 
 Some of these streets run parallel to, and 
 within a very short distance of, the Strand ; 
 but how far apart with respect to all that is 
 to be found in them ! A few paces, and you 
 
 10—2
 
 148 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 enter, as it were, into a different world. No 
 tandsome shops full of rich and tempting wares. 
 No stream of well-dressed men and women 
 passing onward, to and from distant quarters 
 of the city — but squalor, filth, and degradation 
 on every side. 
 
 At the time of which we speak, these streets 
 have their crowds : they are filled with the 
 denizens of the narrow courts and alleys ; and 
 these narrow courts and alleys teem with life 
 • — life made so hideous by poverty, neglect, 
 drunkenness, debauchery, and disease, that it 
 shuns, if it can, the light of day. The men 
 are in their working-suits — most of them have 
 none other — and bear upon their persons the 
 toil-stains of the day, indeed of many days ; 
 for to be dirty has become a habit in some 
 cases of life-long growth, and cleanliness is a 
 word the signification of which is unknown. 
 The women are equally shabby and unwashed. 
 If husbands and wives are seen together, they 
 are usually bent upon the same errand ; for 
 there is one point upon which they are in 
 entire sympathy — in their love of drink. If 
 the husband is in work and earns fair wages, 
 so much the better for the beer-shop and the 
 gin-palace. It is but so many more jugs of 
 beer, pots of porter, and quarterns of gin ; so
 
 Out in the Rain, 149 
 
 many more oaths and execrations ; so many 
 more kicks and cuflPs. 
 
 But there is no amount of evil in this world 
 out of which some good is not evolved. It is 
 the drunkenness of these deo-raded wretches 
 which gives elegance to the homes of the 
 members of such respectable firms as Souse- 
 man and Soppit ; and it might be fairly asked, 
 were no one to be found patriotic enough to 
 indulge freely in our national beverages and 
 alcoholic drinks, how would it be possible to 
 raise the large revenue which is mainly de- 
 rived from them ? How would it be possible 
 for Great Britain to preserve her place amongst 
 the powers of the earth ? No, no ! The end 
 does sometimes justify the means ; and to the 
 judiciously educated mind it must always be 
 quite clear, that if England be at this moment 
 the great champion of liberty, the teacher of 
 morality, and the leader of progress, it is to 
 be attributed in no small measure to the in- 
 defatigable and devoted efforts of her capital- 
 ist brewers and distillers; in short, to her 
 Sousemans and Soppits. 
 
 Rain, rain, rain ! The clerk of the weather 
 has evidently given orders for a wet evening — • 
 perhaps for a wet night. The would-be sellers 
 are becoming drenched for little purpose, and
 
 150 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 wheel off their barrows in despair ; whilst the 
 would-be buyers take shelter at the hospit- 
 able bars of ''publics," where comforting fluids 
 are substituted for the solids 'they had in- 
 tended to have purchased. The streets are 
 no longer crowded, but there are dense clus- 
 ters round the doors of these houses ; for it 
 is an ill wind that blows no one good, and the 
 publicans are driving a roaring trade. 
 
 " I wish you were in " the word, an 
 
 improper noun in common use, does not look 
 well in print, so we will omit it — '' and your 
 brat too." 
 
 The speaker — his voice was harsh and husky 
 — was a tall, dissipated-looking man, with a 
 bloated, pimply face, dressed in a shabby suit 
 of that unmistakable cut affected by men who 
 frequent stables, and who like to speak of 
 themselves as being fond of sport. As if to 
 dispel all doubts on the subject, a gilt horse's 
 head projected from a faded blue scarf wound 
 tightly round his neck, and he walked with 
 that peculiar circular gait which would seem 
 natural to jockeys and postillions — that is to 
 say, when postillions were, for the race is 
 now nearly extinct — and gives the idea of 
 their having ridden a long way, and of their 
 still feeling extremely stiff.
 
 Out in the Rain. 151 
 
 A slender and delicate-looking woman was 
 walking meekly by his side. It was to her he 
 spoke. Her head had been bent down ; but 
 the last words were scarcely spoken than she 
 stopped, drew herself up to her full height, 
 and turned her pale face towards him — it 
 still bore the traces of beauty — with a sin- 
 gular expression of mingled contempt, sub- 
 mission and fear. But if the former feeling 
 made her eyes flash and her movements almost 
 fierce, the latter soon predominated, and re- 
 lapsing almost as quickly into her former 
 attitude of dejection, she ejaculated — the 
 depth of the struggle within was revealed by 
 the way it was gasped out — the one word — 
 
 '^ Jack !" 
 
 "Jack!" The word was repeated in a 
 strangely different key by a deep bass voice, 
 which seemed to proceed from the inner 
 depths of a burly, big-waistcoated man who 
 had stepped up close behind them. A burly, 
 jovial-looking man ; at a first glance the per- 
 sonification of light-heartedness and good- 
 humour ; but a nearer examination disclosed 
 an anxious, eager restlessness in the blood- 
 shot eyes, which spake of a nature allied 
 rather to that of the vulture than of the 
 turtledove.
 
 152 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 " Jack !" The word was the same. The 
 same, but how unlike ! In the one case it 
 was full of expostulation, tinged with a shade 
 of long-lost tenderness, made pathetic by the 
 depth of its despair. In the other, it was as 
 the voice of the spirit of evil, which, whether 
 in whispers or in trumpet-tones, stirs up all 
 that is latent within us, and appealing to the 
 grosser senses, sets at naught all the nobler 
 instincts of the heart. 
 
 The man turned. 
 
 " Ah, Trenton, you old scoundrel ! It is 
 you, is it ? What are you doing out in this 
 cursed wet ? But I am devilish glad to see 
 you ; for I need not look twice to see that 
 luck has changed." 
 
 ''I believe you, my dear boy ; and to give you 
 a proof of it, come with me. I was on my way 
 to look you up. I have a little supper on at 
 the old place, and you look as if you wanted 
 cheering. Confound this weather ! It is 
 enough to give the devil himself the blues. 
 Ah ! your wife ! Madam, your humble ser- 
 vant. Unfortunately our rules do not admit 
 ladies ; but we will drink your health in a 
 bumper." 
 
 ** I am much obliged to you, sir ; but I had 
 rather my husband came home. It is so late."
 
 Out in the Rain. 153 
 
 "Ah, I see you like early hours — so do I — 
 ha, ha ! Jack — you shall be home early — in 
 the morning. You may make your mind 
 easy, my dear madam ; your husband will be 
 quite safe. God bless you ! I should like to 
 know who is not safe with Tom Trenton — 
 honest Tom Trenton." 
 
 So saying, he placed his arm within her 
 husband's, and with a deep bow of exag- 
 gerated politeness, walked his only too willing 
 companion rapidly oflP in the opposite direc- 
 tion. 
 
 The woman stood for a few moments motion- 
 less. Her eyes were full of tears; she dashed 
 them angrily away. 
 
 '^ God forgive me," she said, '^ for having 
 ever loved him ! I wish that I could hate 
 him, but he has made me do worse, I loath 
 and despise him ! Pah !" saying this, with 
 a gesture of disgust, she hurried onward. 
 
 She was sick at heart. The rain still fell 
 in a heavy downpour. She was wet and 
 cold. 
 
 One, two, three — she had all but passed the 
 fourth of the brightly lit-up corner houses, 
 from which there flowed a steady stream of 
 ill-clad misery, seeking, and finding for a 
 time, those bright visions of life which belong,
 
 154 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 as realities, to those who have been enabled 
 to tread its tangled paths with firm footsteps, 
 or for whom fortune has had nouo^ht but 
 smiles. But a few more steps and she is 
 saved. No ! See ! she falters in her course ! 
 It is but for a moment, but moments are the 
 turning-points of lives. 
 
 After months of brave battling against the 
 ocean storms, the pilot but closes his eyes for 
 an instant, and the ship is lost. 
 
 But it is not the storms of life which man 
 has most to fear. 
 
 She is cold and wet, and sick at heart. It 
 is a struggle either way. The weak body 
 struggling with a still weaker will. Who 
 could doubt the issue ? 
 
 She had entered timidly, furtively, bowed 
 down with a load of shame. She comes forth 
 with a firm step, erect and almost radiant. 
 Misery has no more dominion over her, for 
 she feels as if she had ceased to think. 
 
 There is no sense of cold and chilliness now. 
 She is all aglow ; and as the blood courses 
 in unwonted flow through her exhausted 
 frame, it is as if she had renewed all the 
 vigour and elasticity of her youth ; and of 
 all physical pleasures, what pleasure can be
 
 Out in the Rain. 155 
 
 compared to that which is produced by the 
 sense of life when life is at its best 1 
 
 Ah ! who can wonder that the craving for 
 drink becomes an irresistible impulse with the 
 miserable '? The apple offered to Eve was as 
 nothing to this great temptation, for she was 
 in Paradise, and these in a world where man 
 has marred most of his Maker's works. 
 
 Still onward. It is but two streets more 
 — but what streets! Even darker and dirtier 
 than those tha t she has left. One of them, the 
 narrowest of the two, is full of houses where 
 a night's lodging can be had for a few pence, 
 and many wet and hungry wretches are 
 wending their way towards them. Wretches 
 so destitute that they possess nothing beyond 
 the foul and loathsome rags they carry on 
 their backs. Wretches whose whole career 
 might be summed up as — through the gin- 
 palace to the grave. 
 
 Still onward ! She has reached her goal 
 at last. Panting and exhausted, she pauses 
 on the threshold of a dirty ill-cared-for house. 
 Reaction has now set in ; she is more miser- 
 able than before; very cold, and very wet, 
 and oh, how heart-sick ! 
 
 She shakes off the wet which streams from 
 her threadbare garments, and then, with a
 
 156 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 convulsive shudder, enters a dark passage — 
 the door of the house stood open — and gropes 
 her way up a narrow flight of stairs to the 
 second story. Then another pause ; and as 
 she leans against the wall for support, she 
 gasps for breath, as if half suffocated by 
 the fetid air which is the only atmosphere 
 of the houses in these localities. At this 
 moment the moon broke through a cloud, and 
 in the light of the few stray beams which 
 forced their way through a dirty paper- 
 patched window, a pale worn face might have 
 been seen turned heavenward, with that ex- 
 pression of intense anguish which belongs to 
 despair. 
 
 Involuntarily a sob burst from her, as she 
 turned and laid her hand upon the handle of 
 the door near which she had been standing. 
 It must have been heard by some one within ; 
 some one who, perhaps, had been awaiting her 
 return, for almost at the same moment it 
 opened, and she stood face to face with an 
 old man whose gaunt form, wrapped up in 
 the dingy folds of a faded flowered dressing- 
 gown, stood out in bold, almost grotesque, 
 relief, as he leant forward, and peering at her, 
 made, with many significant gestures, some
 
 Out in the Rain, 157 
 
 whispered inquiry, of which the word "found" 
 was alone audible. 
 
 •' Of course not, Uncle, it never will be 
 found. Come here, like a dear good boy, and 
 don't be silly." 
 
 The answer came from a corner of the room 
 near the fireplace. The speaker was a little 
 girl who, though she was in truth older, did 
 not look more than six years old. She was 
 seated on a low stool near a chair, which, 
 from the variety of articles placed upon it, 
 evidently did duty as a table. She had soft, 
 regular features, and a profusion of light- 
 brown hair which flowed over her shoulders 
 in a wild wavy mass, which in the fire-light 
 — there was none else there — was tinged with 
 red and flecked with gold. 
 
 The old man made no reply, but with a 
 deep sigh walked meekly to an arm-chair 
 by the side of the fire, opposite to where the 
 child was seated ; and as the light fell on his 
 face, it was evident, from its shy, abashed 
 expression, that he felt ashamed of having 
 laid himself open to rebuke. 
 
 '' Ah, mother 1" said the child, '^ I am so 
 glad you are come back. But the time has 
 not seemed long, for dear old Uncle has 
 been so good ; he has been telling me of all
 
 158 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 the beautiful sights I should have seen if 
 God had only given me a pair of eyes like 
 those He has given to other people." 
 
 She raised her head as she spoke, and as 
 she did so the dull, lifeless orbs showed but 
 too plainly that she was blind. 
 
 She paused for a moment, and then added 
 — the voice was the same, but it quivered 
 strangely as she spoke : 
 
 " But where is father T 
 
 The mother, who had been standing silently 
 by the door, made no answer, but she stepped 
 rapidly across the room, and kneeling down 
 by the side of the child, threw her arms 
 round her. 
 
 ''Madge," she sobbed out, rather than 
 spoke, ''my angel — my guardian angel ! Oh, 
 if I could but die !" and her voice became 
 choked with tears. 
 
 The child looked up with a pained, puzzled 
 look. 
 
 "Come here, dear old Uncle," she said, 
 in her clear, silvery, soft voice. " Come here, 
 I want you. Tell me what all this means. 
 You are so strange ; father's so strange ; and 
 now mother is strangest of all. But perhaps 
 it is only poor me, because I have got no eyes 
 like other people. Is not that it, dear Uncle?"
 
 Out in the Rain. 159 
 
 The old man had risen from his seat when 
 appealed to. He shook his head sorrowfully. 
 
 " No, Madge — no !" he said ; " it is not 
 you, nor I, nor any of us. It is fate ! It 
 was written in the Book, and so 'twas lost. 
 Ah, if I could but find it ! If I could but 
 
 find itr 
 
 '^ Rubbish, Uncle dear !" said the silvery 
 voice — '* rubbish, or you would have told me 
 long ago what it was you have lost. And 
 what good is rubbish when it is found, I 
 should like to know "?" 
 
 " It was not rubbish, Madge !" said the old 
 man, ruefully. 
 
 " But you know, Uncle dear, it must be 
 all right if it were written in the Book." 
 
 *' Tut — tut ! I have my doubts," said a 
 deep and solemn but somewhat cracked voice 
 out of the darkness of the corner in which 
 Madge sat, and near which her mother still 
 remained, crouched and sobbing. "I have 
 my doubts — have my doubts — my doubts — 
 doubts !" 
 
 The voice gradually died away, as if too 
 much doubting had made the speaker drowsy. 
 But if so, the drowsiness must have been 
 successfully resisted, for in a few seconds a 
 peal of laughter rang through the room, and
 
 160 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 with a preliminary whistle, as if to comniand 
 attention, a sharp shrill voice called out in 
 peremptory tones : 
 
 '' Mum's the word. Don't tell the cats !" 
 " I tell you what, sir, if you don't go to 
 sleep this very minute, I'll come and whip 
 you," was Madge's response. 
 
 The threat seemed to have its proper effect, 
 for the mysterious voice became silent after 
 a few inarticulate sounds, which made it 
 appear that sleep had overtaken the speaker 
 whilst endeavouring to renew his solemn 
 warning to the world at large against being 
 on too confidential terms with — cats !
 
 The Majors ''Little Game:'' 161 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE major's '' LITTLE GAME." 
 
 Honest Tom Trenton — or as he was known 
 in those happy moments when he was, as he 
 expressed it, " basking in the blaze of For- 
 tune's favour," "' Major " Trenton — was in 
 his glory. He v/as exercising the virtue of 
 hospitaUty, he was performing the duties of 
 a host, and his face beamed with the satis- 
 faction which all hosts ought to feel, and with 
 the prospect of good things to come. 
 
 'And it was evident, from the appearance 
 of the table, which had been laid for three 
 persons, that the prospect was not a remote 
 one. 
 
 " Make yourself at home, Jack," he said 
 to his companion. " Our fiiend will soon be 
 here, and we will have a cosy time of it. 
 Yes, he is late — just a ' leetle' late — but then, 
 what can you expect from a West-ender who, 
 
 VOL. L 11
 
 162 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 like our friend, goes in for fashion, and all 
 that sort of thing ? But you will find him 
 of the right sort. Just the man we want. 
 But talk of the devil, and " 
 
 The door opened, and in walked Mr. Mor- 
 timer. 
 
 Jack, who was standing before the fire, 
 making himself at home by drying his nether 
 garments, and so filling the small room, which 
 the major had selected on account of its being 
 *' snug " and *' quiet," with a steam which 
 smelt of burnt wool, looked as morose as 
 ever ; but the major advanced to meet Mr. 
 Mortimer with the most exuberant cordiality. 
 
 " Ah, my dear fellow, here you are at last ! 
 Let me introduce you to my friend Jack 
 Marsh, than whom you will find no better 
 card in the pack — a very ace of trumps is 
 my friend Jack ! Jack, this is Mr. Mortimer, 
 of whom you have heard me speak so highly. 
 It is a pleasure and a profit to know Mr. 
 Mortimer ; and 1 am confoundedly glad to 
 give you an opportunity of sharing such a 
 privilege with me. You were made to be 
 friends, and it is honest Tom Trenton who 
 says so." 
 
 Mr. Mortimer — our friend Mr. Mortimer, 
 as well as the major's — had entered the room
 
 The Majors ''Little Game.'' 163 
 
 somewhat timidly, but the terms in vvhich he 
 has been spoken of has restored his self- 
 possession. He expresses — somewhat inco- 
 herently — his delight at having the honour 
 to be introduced to any friend of the major s. 
 He rolls out the word "' major " as if it were 
 something sweet and pleasant to the palate, 
 to be kept upon the tongue as loug as pos- 
 sible; and he swallows the last sound of it 
 with a gulp, as if regretting he could not 
 retain it any longer. The fact is, Mr. Mor- 
 timer, who somehow or other frequently found 
 himself under the necessity of reminding his 
 acquaintances that he was not " hinfallible," 
 was not quite devoid of some of tlie weaknesses 
 belonging to ordinary mortals, and amongst 
 them, we fear, must be included the extra- 
 ordinary satisfaction which he felt at being 
 on terms of very great intimacy with a real 
 major. 
 
 We say real major, for a major he un- 
 doubtedly was, in his own estimation and 
 that of his friends; though the how, the when, 
 and the where of his having obtained that 
 distinguished military rank was a mystery 
 so deep, that it is doubtful whether a care- 
 ful search amongst the records at the War 
 Office, could have solved it. It is true he 
 
 11—2
 
 164 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 had served some three years and three- 
 quarters in that highly-famed regiment, the 
 Hoyal Roysterers; but his miUtary career had 
 been brought to an untimely end through the 
 obnoxious action of a court-martial, composed 
 of members who were jealous of his superior 
 skill at cards — indeed, some had been great 
 sufferers from it — and so had the audacity to 
 ruin the prospects of a gallant officer by 
 sentencing him to be cashiered. He must, 
 however, notwithstanding this, have found 
 means to get reinstated — though it was 
 never clearly shown to what particular branch 
 of the service he had been subsequently 
 attached — for amongst his friends, and par- 
 ticularly after his fifth glass of gin and water, 
 he was fond of alluding to his services, and 
 more especially to the hardships he had under- 
 gone during a longtourof dutyin the colonies — 
 from his description it would seem to have been 
 in Australia — and it was generally supposed 
 he had received brevet rank in consequence. 
 
 In any case. Major Thomas Trenton would 
 seem, on his return to England, to have de- 
 voted his talents, aided by the experience he 
 had gained in the Koyal Koysterers, and 
 generally in her Majesty's Service, to a care- 
 ful stud}^ and a practical application, of those
 
 The Majors ''Little Gained 165 
 
 combinations which belong to financial opera- 
 tions connected with the Turf. He had not, 
 as far as anybody knew, ever served in the 
 cavahy, but his interest in horses was very 
 great indeed ; so much so, that though hfe did 
 not pretend to eloquence,he never lost an oppor- 
 tunity of descanting upon the necessity of our 
 keeping up the breed of horses in this country, 
 by encouraging and seconding, in every pos- 
 sible way — and of this he took a very liberal 
 and broad view — the efforts of those who, on 
 public or private grounds, have devoted them- 
 selves to extending, and making as general 
 as possible, an interest in horse-racing — or 
 as he preferred to call it, as he emphatically 
 did— ''the Turf." 
 
 In manner, there was a marked contrast 
 between the major and the friend whom he 
 had introduced as Jack Marsh. The major 
 had a ^' make- it-pleasant-all-round " way of 
 putting things which had obtained for him 
 the sobriquet of old " Try-it-on ;" indeed, 
 he had cultivated blandness to such an extent 
 that it sometimes assumed the character of 
 benignity ; the other, on the contrary, was 
 always brusque, and frequently brutal ; and 
 if he did not interlard his cutting sentences 
 with oaths, it was only because he possessed
 
 166 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 a large stock of slang expressions which 
 answered his purpose equally well ; so much 
 for manner. With respect to character, it 
 may be said that such characters as they 
 possessed were very nearly equal in degree, 
 though somewhat different in kind — not suf- 
 ficiently so, however, to prevent their being 
 thoroughly congenial ; and had the world 
 been an oyster, they would probably have 
 been found trying to open it at the same 
 time, though possibly from different sides. 
 
 The major and Mr. Marsh were dressed 
 somewhat in the same style, though it was 
 evident that at this moment the major stood 
 on the best terms with his tailor ; they both 
 gave unmistakable evidence of being devoted 
 to potations of a more stimulating nature 
 than toast and water ; from both there came 
 that peculiar emanation which belongs to 
 those who indulge largely in beer, brandy, 
 and tobacco ; and upon both there remained 
 a slight impress — faded, but still there — of a 
 *' something better " stamped upon them in 
 their youth. 
 
 Honest Tom Trenton, as the major de- 
 lighted to call himself, was, as we have said 
 before, in his glory. He rubbed his hands
 
 TJie Majors ''Little Garnet 1G7 
 
 with intense satisfaction as the waiter 
 brought in the supper. 
 
 " This is what a supper ought to be," he 
 said. '* Snug and cosy ; snug and cosy. 
 None of your saloons for Tom Trenton. 
 Honest Tom Trenton is an old glutton ; he 
 likes to keep his friends to himself, and 
 when he finds a good thing to share it with 
 them — he'll be hanged if he don't ! — and not 
 blare it out to all the world." 
 
 On any other occasion, *'Come, Tom, none 
 of your cursed humbug !" would have been 
 Mr. Marsh's rejoinder. " I know you want 
 something. What is it ? Out with your 
 little game !" but now he was restrained by 
 Mr. Mortimer's presence, and by his having 
 been allowed an insight into the said '^ little 
 game " — so far as it had suited the major's 
 purpose to enlighten him — as they had 
 walked arm-in-arm, under the same umbrella, 
 through the streets. He did not as yet 
 know any of the details, but what of that 1 
 He had* great confidence in the major, though 
 it is true that sometimes, when he had de- 
 clared that he had six trumps in his hand, he 
 would manage to lose the trick. But the major 
 could keep cool, and he could not. He could 
 not do better than put his trust in the major.
 
 168 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 Now the major s " little game " was simply 
 this: to pluck Mr. Marmaduke Yorke, junior, 
 of his last feather, through the aid, in the 
 first instance, of the unsuspecting Mr. John 
 Mortimer. 
 
 Now Mr. John Mortimer s besetting sin was 
 ambition. His great object was to follow in 
 the footsteps of those whom he looked upon 
 as his ''betters." He had gained from their 
 conversation, to which he had been an atten- 
 tive listener, that the topic in which a large 
 number of them took the greatest interest 
 was the information in the sporting columns 
 of the daily papers ; and in a short time he 
 cared to read nothing else. By degrees he 
 had advanced from a few desultory bets to 
 making a regular book ; and it was in the 
 society of a few choice spirits of similar tastes 
 that he had come across the major. 
 
 From the very first moment the. major had 
 treated him with marked, it might, indeed, 
 be said deferential, attention. 
 
 Never before had Mr. Mortimer been, as 
 he conceived, rated at his proper value ; and 
 when through the major's having put him 
 upon a thing or two, his book for the 
 last Derby — though the bets were not large 
 — became something to be proud of, his
 
 Tlie Majors ''Little Game:' 169 
 
 gratitude knew no bounds. Indeed, he 
 would have been a very brute had he not 
 been grateful, for the disinterested kindness 
 of the major had been bestowed upon him at a 
 moment when that gallant ofl&cer was suffer- 
 ing under the frowns of fortune, and that to an 
 extent which had obliged him, soon after, to 
 withdraw for a time from the haunts of — sport- 
 ing — men. Indeed, the period of his seclusion 
 would have been considerably prolonged had 
 it not been for the proffered and accepted aid 
 of Mr. John Mortimer. 
 
 '* My purse does not contain much," said 
 that gentleman, " but it is all I have." 
 
 The major shook him by the hand until it 
 ached. 
 
 '* Bless you, my dear fellow — bless you !" 
 he said. " Tom Trenton may want money — 
 and he very often does want money — but 
 what is a dirty hundred pounds to him in 
 comparison with the friendship of a man who 
 has a heart — yes, sir, a heart ?" 
 
 He could say no more ; his feelings were 
 too much for him, so he carefully unfold'ed 
 his pocket-handkerchief, and blew his nose 
 with a kind of '* boot-and-saddle " blast. 
 
 Mr. Marmaduke Yorke, junior — nicknamed 
 Marmalade at school, and called, as we know,
 
 170 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 Duke at home — had whilst at Eton betted in 
 a small way, and made the state of the odds 
 one of his favourite studies. During the 
 holidays he had, with the natural frankness 
 of a boy, often communicated his views on 
 " coming events '^ to Mr. Mortimer, and that 
 gentleman had more than once alluded to the 
 " young gent " when in conversation with his 
 sporting friends. The major, who was al- 
 ways on the look-out for opportunities, as, 
 indeed, all great men are, pricked up his ears 
 when he heard the name of the rich brewers 
 son. Hundreds of thousands of pounds 
 floated in visions before him ; and he was 
 determined to lose no time in opening the 
 campaign. 
 
 It was so far in his favour that Mr. Mar- 
 maduke Yorke, junior, out of respect to his 
 father's scruples, dared not enter publicly 
 into transactions connected with the turf; 
 though he had already laid out a few " ponies," 
 through the medium of Mr. Mortimer, with 
 encouraging success. But young fish, though 
 not so wary as old ones, are often more diffi- 
 cult to catch, for they have not settled down 
 into steady habits, and you never quite know 
 where to find them. They, are fond, too, of 
 rising at every kind of bait but the one you
 
 The Majors ''Little Gained 171 
 
 want them to take, and it is especially mor- 
 tifying to find them going off after your 
 neighbour's blue fly when you had every 
 reason to believe they preferred a red one. 
 
 But, above all, the major's scheme required 
 time and patience. Nothing could be done 
 until Duke had become of age, and had 
 entered into business as a member of his 
 father's firm. In the interval he could 
 mature his plans, and this he had now done 
 most thoroughly. 
 
 Mr. Mortimer was an important factor in 
 the major's scheme, but the services of his 
 friend Jack had become equally indispensable ; 
 for though Mr. Marmaduke Yorke, in making 
 his books, was principally guided by Mr. 
 Mortimer's advice, and the "' tips " that 
 gentleman was enabled to obtain for him, 
 through the judicious employment of secret 
 service money, the major felt that, in order 
 to obtain the financial advantages he was 
 hoping to derive from the operation he had 
 in hand, it would be necessary to have the 
 aid of some trusty and experienced coadjutor, 
 who would act implicitly under his directions. 
 
 He rather piqued himself upon his know- 
 ledge of character, and had discovered at a 
 very early period that the very man he
 
 172 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 wanted was his old friend Jack, for there 
 was something in Jack's coarse bluntness of 
 manner which disarmed suspicion. By many 
 he would have been looked upon as only too 
 frank and open-hearted : the last man in the 
 world of whom it could be possible to make 
 a tool ; but the major knew better. Just as, in 
 Napoleonic phrase, you have but to scratch a 
 Russian and you find a Cossack — so with 
 Jack ; the fierce swagger which seemed to 
 betoken courage, and the frank utterances 
 which were as the outpouring of an honest 
 heart, served but as a cloak to hide a nature 
 made up of qualities even more despicable 
 than his own. 
 
 When the supper was finished, which it 
 was in a thoroughly good style. Jack taking 
 the lead, the major making a good second, 
 and Mr. Mortimer well placed at the dis- 
 tance of a few lengths, his pace having been 
 effected by his having made very respectable 
 running in a previous event, the table was 
 cleared. Brandy-and- water was introduced, 
 and the host having lighted his cigar, and 
 requested his friends to follow his example — 
 which they were not slow to do — proceeded, it 
 must be confessed in a somewhat roundabout 
 way, to open the real business of the evening.
 
 The Majors ''Little Gained 173 
 
 " Yes," he said, as if in reference to some 
 remark made by Mr. Mortimer, though that 
 respectable individual had not opened his 
 mouth, except for the purpose of putting 
 something in it, for the previous ten minutes. 
 " Yes, Mortimer, you are quite right." Mr. 
 Mortimer put on a conscious look which 
 seemed to say, *' I very often am, but pray 
 don't say too much about it." " Quite right. 
 I thoroughly agree with you. There is no 
 use trying to do anything with the governor ; 
 but it is quite time that something should be 
 done to induce the ' Junior ' to do something 
 more in support of the Turf" 
 
 '* Certainly," echoed Mr. Mortinier. '* It 
 is quite time that something should be 
 done." 
 
 " If he don't care for sport, he's a sneak," 
 chimed in Jack. 
 
 '* What would this country be without it ?" 
 said Mr. Mortimer. 
 
 " Sport, sir, sport," said the major, "is the 
 pivot upon which all that is worthy of being 
 called society — I use the word in its highest 
 sense — revolves. Where, I would ask, with- 
 out sport, would be found the courage, the 
 pluck, the endurance, the " — a puff at his 
 cigar — " the dash by which the British
 
 174 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 soldier has distinguished himself on so many 
 bloody fields, and of which I have had some 
 small opportunity of being a humble wit- 
 ness. To this, no doubt, our cultivation of 
 the noble art of self-defence and our love of 
 field-sports have largely contributed ; but, as 
 a man of no small experience, who has had 
 especial opportunities for gaining a practical 
 insight into the subject, whilst serving under 
 her Majesty's colours, and more particularly 
 through the facilities afforded for observation 
 during a long period of Colonial service, I 
 would observe, that of the various pursuits 
 which are included under the general name 
 of * sport,' there is none, to my mind, so bene- 
 ficial in its effects as that which is carried on 
 by those — be they noblemen or be they not " 
 ■ — he thumps his chest violently at the last 
 word — ^* who are patrons of the Turf." 
 
 Here the major, quite out of breath through 
 the length of his peroration, was obliged to 
 stop and refresh himself 
 
 Jack, who had heard much of this before, 
 only thumped the table and emptied his glass 
 as if in honour of a toast ; whilst Mr. 
 Mortimer, under the excitement of the 
 majors eloquence, threw back his shoulders, 
 protruded his chest, placed his thumbs in
 
 The Majors ''Little Game:' 175 
 
 the armholes of his waistcoat, in the fashion 
 sometimes adopted by popular public speakers, 
 and was just on the point of taking up the 
 parable, when the major, ever jealous of in- 
 terruption, laid his hand upon his arm : 
 
 *' Stop, my dear friend. I would add but 
 one word more. I think I spoke of the Turf 
 A more glorious institution never existed. 
 What man is there whose patriotism is so 
 dead that he would wish to see it destroyed ? 
 No matter from what point of view it may be 
 regarded, its beneficial influences are undeni- 
 able. Where, I should like to ask, can be 
 found a better school for our inexperienced 
 youth ? for does it not teach more thoroughly 
 than any other, the principles upon which all 
 honourable intercourse ought to be regulated 1 
 Good faith, confidence, forbearance, and a 
 thousand other virtues upon which I need 
 not dwell. For, is it not enough to know 
 that what I have thus humbly asserted is 
 daily borne testimony to by the great leaders 
 and directors of public opinion in this country. 
 I refer, sir, to the Press ; for how many 
 columns do we not find — read, perhaps, by 
 all who have any pretension to true manly 
 feeling, with greater attention than any other 
 — dedicated to the most minute and interest-
 
 176 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 ing details connected with the heart-stirring 
 incidents belonging to the Turf?" 
 
 Here another pause, another demonstra- 
 tion of approval from Jack, another series of 
 elocutionary preparations from Mr. Mortimer, 
 again ruthlessly suppressed by the major, 
 who, under the inspiration of his third glass, 
 continued as follows : 
 
 " But, gentlemen, it is not from purely 
 moral or sentimental points of view that the 
 question of the Turf has to be regarded. 
 Tom Trenton, as all the world knows, is a 
 practical man ; and as a practical man it is 
 that he now tells you, that the material 
 benefits of the Turf far outweigh all others. 
 Look, gentlemen — I don't ask you to take 
 Tom Trenton's word for it ; just use your 
 own eyes, and look at our horses. I say our 
 horses, and I say so advisedly, for I feel with 
 honest pride — and Tom Trenton has his pride 
 — that every man who throws his leg over a 
 saddle, whether in the hunting-field or in the 
 Park, is indebted for all the perfections be- 
 longing to the animal he bestrides — is a 
 debtor, I say, to those humble individuals 
 who, like some I could name, did not modesty 
 forbid, have done all they can to encourage 
 the breed of horses in this country by most
 
 The Majors ''Little Game." 177 
 
 strenuous, unceasing, and untiring efforts to 
 further the interests of all that concerns the 
 Turf The Jockey Club, gentlemen, may- 
 be worthy of our respect ; TattersalFs may 
 have its advantages and its merits ; but it is 
 to the unpretending and ceaseless labours of 
 independent individuals — I repeat itfearlessly, 
 independent individuals, whose voices are to 
 be heard on every racecourse in the three 
 kingdoms, that the greatest credit is due. It 
 would be false modesty, gentlemen, were we 
 to shut our eyes to our own merits. Gentle- 
 men, I drink to our noble selves, and with 
 the toast I associate the name of that true 
 lover and patron of sport, my valued friend 
 Mr. John Mortimer." 
 
 Mr. Mortimer, who is a thorough believer 
 in the major, a thorough believer in Jack, 
 and a thorough believer in himself, rises to 
 respond, with as much gravity and dignity as 
 if he had been assisting at a city feast, and 
 had been called upon to return thanks for 
 the House of Lords by Mr. Harker. 
 
 " You treat me with an honour I do not 
 deserve," he said, bowing to the major, '' but 
 I will not deny that I love sport, and that 
 for some years I have done my best to give 
 it such support as has been in my power. 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 Circumstances, to which I need not now 
 refer, have prevented me from hentering into 
 the hamusements belonging to country life, 
 so far as hunting or shooting is concerned ; 
 though during that part of the year in which 
 the duties of my hoffice compel me to reside 
 away from this great city, I think I may say, 
 few gentlemen have had better opportunities 
 of becoming acquainted with everything 
 which concerns those sports than I have, 
 for we talk of nothing else from morn- 
 ing to night : 'Tis nothing but foxes here 
 and foxes there ; and pheasants in this place 
 and pheasants in that, till sometimes I feel 
 all of a daze, and get no sound sleep at night 
 from a-dreaming of foxes a-running after 
 pheasants, and dogs a-barking and chasing 
 the foxes, and men on horses a-halloing and 
 galloping after the dogs. It makes my brain 
 all of a whirl, that it does. But when I 
 come to the Turf, gentlemen, then I feel at 
 home. All that the major says in that direc- 
 tion is as true as the sun ; there is, however, 
 one little remark I should like to make. In 
 an old country like ours, there are natural 
 divisions between man and man, as everyone 
 who thinks at all must see and feel. 'Twas 
 ever so, and so 'twill ever be ; but as the poet
 
 The Majors ''Little Game''' 179 
 
 says/' continued Mr. Mortimer, as he liberated 
 his thumbs and pulled down his waistcoat 
 with an emphatic jerk, '* on the racecourse 
 I feel — you know the lines — * my name is 
 Macgregor, my foot's on the heather ' — the 
 equal of the Duke — of — no matter what, for 
 are we not a-standing on the same turf, 
 a-doing of the same thing ? And was it not 
 at the last Hepsom races that, as I brushed 
 up against him, and touched my hat, his 
 grace called out, 'Halloa, Mortimer, is that 
 you ? what the devil do you mean by treading 
 on my corns V By Jove ! gentlemen, it made 
 me feel that I was a man. And if I were to 
 show some of the names a-written in my 
 book, for the next event, a few people that I 
 know of would open their eyes a little wider 
 when they met a certain John Mortimer than 
 they do now." 
 
 *' Bosh !" ejaculated the gentleman called 
 Jack. " It's all a case of odds. I'll be hanged 
 if I care where the money comes from, and 
 those confounded puppies with their long 
 purses and perfumed pocket-handkerchiefs, 
 are not the weight of a curse more particular. 
 But what I hate, is, that they are nowadays so 
 infernal knowing, that honest fellows — like 
 our friend the major here — stand but a poor 
 
 12—2
 
 180 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 chance. The times are changed — as I have 
 found out to my cost." 
 
 '* My dear Jack," said the major, '' you 
 know my motto, ' Nil desperandum ' — never 
 despair. We should not allow ourselves to 
 lose sight of such noble examples as the past 
 history of the Turf affords. Look, for instance, 
 at the case of Cuflfwell, who from small begin- 
 nings became a man of large fortune and an 
 M.P. Mark that, Mortimer— an M.P., all 
 through his having employed his abilities in 
 what is undoubtedly the best of fields for any 
 man who has more brains than his neighbours, 
 and would coin money out of them." 
 
 " For any man who is not cursed with ill- 
 luck," grumbled Jack. 
 
 ^* My dear Jack, why will you be so de- 
 sponding?" said the major, in his blandest 
 tones. ^^ There is no lane without a turning; 
 and who knows what fortune may not have in 
 store for you, and not only for you, but for me 
 — for the jade has used me somewhat scurvily 
 of late — and for our friend Mortimer more 
 especially, for whom, if he will only go on as 
 he has begun, and not allow himself to be 
 discouraged by occasional checks, I venture 
 to predict a brilliant future. But, my dear 
 friends, we must not be always thinking of
 
 The Majors ''Little Gamer 18 J 
 
 ourselves ; we must take the interests of 
 others sometimes into our keeping. Let me 
 see — yes, we were talking of the Junior ; we 
 really must see if we cannot do something for 
 him. Mortimer, you should really take him 
 in hand — by the way, I think you told us he 
 was of age, and in the firm." 
 
 '' Yes," said Mr. Mortimer, assuming an 
 air of importance, *' the double event was 
 celebrated just nine weeks ago come next 
 Wednesday. I ought to know something 
 about it, for I was a participator in the 
 festivities." 
 
 " In that case," said the major, " I think 
 Tom Trenton can see his way — or, to speak 
 more correctly, our way towards lending him 
 a helping hand. And I know no reason why 
 — for we have it from the best authority that 
 the labourer is worthy of his hire — whilst fur- 
 thering the great objects, which are the aim 
 of that admirable institution to which we are 
 all so devoted, the Turf, and benefiting a 
 worthy young member of society, we should 
 not at the same time derive certain legitimate 
 and substantial ad vantages, the nature of which 
 it is not necessary for me to go into." 
 
 Mr. Mortimer pricked up his ears ; but Jack 
 only looked fiercely mournful. His confidence
 
 182 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 in the major was great, but continued ill-luck 
 had made him desponding. 
 
 The major ceased speaking, and puffed com- 
 placently at his cigar. He had a sanguine 
 temperament, and was not slow at building 
 castles in the air. 
 
 ** But will it not be difficult T mildly sug- 
 gested Mr. Mortimer. 
 
 '* I should like to know how it is to be 
 done," said Jack. 
 
 "My dear boys/' said the major, "leave it 
 to me ; there's nothing easier in the world. 
 Mortimer, my man, you shall help me make 
 his next book ; and you, my dear Jack, shall 
 sell him a horse." 
 
 " I !" shouted Jack. " I sell him a horse ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear Jack, there is nothing easier. 
 It is all arranged : you shall sell him a horse ; 
 and on that blessed animal's back we will all 
 ride to Fortune." 
 
 " To the devil !" growled Jack.
 
 In the Country. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 The Yorkes have been spending the summer 
 in the country. This year — no one seems to 
 know exactly why — there has been no yacht- 
 ing, and the Nautilus, as if weary of winning 
 cups, reposes in ignominious ease upon the 
 muddy couch of Haslar Creek. 
 
 There has been no trip to the Continent ; 
 for Duke has suddenly voted travellinor ''a 
 bore," and expressed a wish to pass the 
 summer months at home. He must have 
 found that ^^ a bore " too, judging from the 
 anxious weary expression which of late has 
 been creeping over his drawn and pallid 
 cheeks, and the frequent necessity he has 
 been under of making short trips for change 
 of air : generally to one of those parts of the 
 three kingdoms upon which, for the time, the
 
 184 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 whole attention of ^' the sporting world " is 
 concentrated. 
 
 Lady Arabella has become anxious. She is 
 afraid he is ill, and talks about the Riviera, 
 or Davos, for the winter. 
 
 Mr. Yorke does not share her anxiety ; his 
 attention has been taken up with other 
 matters. Lady Arabella thinks it odd, and 
 openly expresses her conviction that her hus- 
 band takes more interest in that " disgusting 
 wish " of Victoria Marsh to become a doctor, 
 than he does in the interests of his own 
 children. 
 
 "Look at poor Duke!" she said. ''It 
 does not require a mother's eye to see that 
 he has fallen into a very serious state of health ; 
 and yet his father seems to think nothing of 
 it — whilst he frets and fumes because this 
 comparative stranger, a girl whom we have 
 only known a few years, does not act exactly 
 as he likes. He could not make more fuss 
 about her if she were his own daughter. Ah, 
 mon Dieu — mon Dieu !" 
 
 Poor Lady Arabella ! She would not have 
 said '' Mon Dieu — mon Dieu !" in English, for 
 the world. 
 
 It is true that when Mr. Yorke had heard, 
 at first by accident, of Victoria s intention, he
 
 In the Country, 185 
 
 had sent for Dr. Pringle, and pointed out how 
 objectionable, from every point of view, such 
 a course of action appeared to him. He was 
 greatly astonished, and not a little annoyed, 
 to find that the doctor held very different 
 opinions on the subject. 
 
 " I am sorry to find that you approve of 
 her conduct, my dear sir — very sorry I It is a 
 subject upon which I ought, perhaps, not to 
 have spoken. But I look upon Victoria as 
 one of your family ; and as one of a family 
 thrown together so intimately as yours has 
 been with mine, it is only natural I should 
 take an interest in her welfare, and feel 
 pained at what I still look upon as a singu- 
 larly injudicious proceeding on her part." 
 
 "Although we differ so strongly, I appre- 
 ciate very highly the motives which have in- 
 duced you to use your friendly influence in 
 this matter," said the doctor. 
 
 " It will be most injurious to her pros- 
 pects," said Mr. Yorke. " Victoria is a very 
 clever and attractive girl, and ought to make 
 a good marriage." 
 
 " She will never marry," said the doctor, 
 with decision. 
 
 " My dear doctor !" said Mr. Yorke, " you 
 speak as if you were the oracle of Fate. Per-
 
 186 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 haps she says so now. But pray tell me, 
 did you ever in the course of your experience 
 meet with a woman who never changed her 
 mind T 
 
 The doctor smiled. 
 
 '^ I know something of character," he said ; 
 "and firmness in Victoria almost amounts to 
 obstinacy. She will never change it." 
 
 " But what could have induced her to have 
 come to this decision V asked Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " You are a man of honour, Mr. Yorke," 
 said the doctor, '* and will, I know, keep in- 
 violate any communication I may make to 
 you. To such a question from any other man 
 I should remain silent ; but the friendly feel- 
 ing you have shown towards Victoria makes 
 me reluctant that you should misinterpret 
 her motives. It may be, however, you would 
 prefer that I remained silent." 
 
 '^ Pray go on," said Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " You are of course not aware that Victoria 
 Marsh is illegitimate ?" said the doctor. At 
 this moment Mr. Yorke leant back in his 
 chair and shaded his eves with his hand — 
 the light was evidently too strong for him. 
 " This fact was lately revealed to her, to- 
 gether with some very painful incidents con- 
 nected with her family history — the details of
 
 In the Country, 187 
 
 some of which I do not myself know, in a 
 letter which, in accordance with a promise 
 made to her aunt when she was dying, I 
 handed to her on her last birthday. To a 
 sensitive and proud nature — for Victoria, 
 though utterly without vanity, is not devoid 
 of pride — such a revelation would be very 
 likely to lead to a determination never to 
 marry ; but I am inclined to think, though I 
 have not read the letter, that it contained a 
 direct request to that effect. Victoria had a 
 deep afiPection for her aunt ; and words which 
 are spoken to us from the verge of the grave 
 by those we love cease to be counsels — they 
 become commands." 
 
 Mr. Yorke was silent for a few seconds. 
 
 "Poor girl !" he said at length ; " it is a sad 
 story. The old, old tale." His voice trem- 
 bled as he spoke. '* But you are quite right, 
 this should be kept secret. A strange world 
 this !" 
 
 " In which the innocent often have to bear 
 the burdens imposed upon them by the guilty," 
 said the doctor. 
 
 '' Had Mrs. Marsh, then, think you, no 
 knowledge of her niece's parentage — of Vic- 
 toria's — father 1" 
 
 *' I know not — she too had much pride.
 
 188 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 and I should hardly think would be likely to 
 allow her mind to dwell upon — or care for 
 Victoria to have any knowledge of — a man 
 she had so much reason to despise." 
 
 The light is evidently too strong for Mr. 
 Yorke's eyes, for again he has to shade them 
 with his hands. 
 
 " Ah, it is all those cursed cigars !" said 
 the doctor to himself, as he saw how those 
 hands trembled. 
 
 '' I think she has an independent fortune," 
 at length said Mr. Yorke. 
 
 " Her aunt left everything to her, and it is 
 more than sufficient for her needs. It is not 
 from necessity that Victoria prefers work to 
 idleness." 
 
 " Then you think she has quite made up 
 her mind, doctor ?" 
 
 " I am quite sure." 
 
 *' It would be no use then, for me or Lady 
 Arabella to speak to her on the subject ?" 
 
 " Not the slightest ; and it would only be 
 painful to all parties." 
 
 " And she is to go to Zurich ?" 
 
 *' Yes ; at the end of the month it has been 
 decided on as the best place for her to com- 
 mence her studies in." 
 
 " Why not London ?"
 
 In the Country, 189 
 
 "At every step she would have to overcome 
 a prejudice." 
 
 " Well, well ! I suppose there is no more 
 to be said ; what cannot be cured must be 
 endured." 
 
 Giving utterance to this wise adage, Mr. 
 Yorke rose from his chair. 
 
 " Dear me," thought the doctor, as he did 
 so, " what can be the matter with the man ? 
 How il] he looks !" 
 
 Within a few days of this conversation, a 
 note was received at Deepdale from Lady 
 Arabella : 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Pringle," she said in it, 
 " we are moped to death ; the dulness of the 
 summer months we have passed at Nettle- 
 stone is beyond expression, and has told upon 
 us all. Will you, good, kind creature that 
 you are, do an act of great kindness by letting 
 your charming daughter and our clever friend 
 Miss Marsh come to us for a few days? I 
 cannot tell you how pleased my dear children 
 will be if you accede to this request ; and, as 
 Marmaduke is now at home, if your good 
 son will accompany them, Mr. Yorke and 
 myself will be very glad to see him." 
 
 '' What does Mrs. Pringle say ?" asked Mr.
 
 190 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 Yorke, as the footman handed Lady Arabella 
 the answer. 
 
 It was at his instigation that the note had 
 been written, in spite of some resistance on 
 her part ; but she had given in gracefully at 
 last, for she knew that with Mr. Yorke opposi- 
 tion beyond a certain point was hopeless. 
 
 " I am sorry to say they are coming." 
 
 '' Umph !" said Mr. Yorke. 
 
 Lady Arabella never liked to hear that 
 '' Umph !"
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves. 191 
 
 CHAPTEE XY. 
 
 MID AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 Nettlestone Court was a spacious sub- 
 stantial-looking building of cut stone, with 
 a solid portico utterly devoid of originality, 
 yet belonging to no known style, under 
 which you drove with a certain sense of ap- 
 prehension, for it is quite possible to pile up 
 blocks of stone in such a way that all the 
 pillars in the world cannot dispel the idea 
 that the whole mass may at any moment 
 topple down upon your head and crush you. 
 
 Nettlestone Court stood in a park of some 
 eight hundred acres, so carefully laid out that 
 the drive from the lodge-gates gave a very 
 exaggerated idea of its extent. Before Mr. 
 Yorke's time, the park had been much smaller, 
 and the distance from the high-road had been 
 comparatively short ; but an addition of five 
 hundred acres had been made to it; the
 
 192 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 old lodge pulled down, and two new ones 
 erected at the opposite extremities of the 
 demesne. Lady Arabella had then taken the 
 matter in hand, and by means of much plant- 
 ing, embanking, and curving, had succeeded 
 in producing an effect full of the most agree- 
 able surprises to all but those to whom time 
 and distance were an object. 
 
 i' Very good indeed," was the verdict of 
 Dr. Pringle when called upon to admire it ; 
 '' but your ladyship has managed matters so 
 skilfully that I have to drive over two miles 
 now, where before it was but one." 
 
 '^ How dreadfully matter of fact 1" said 
 Lady Arabella. 
 
 "Eemember, that to some people time is 
 money," said the doctor. 
 
 ^' Then, my dear doctor, you must raise 
 your fees !" 
 
 *' No, no!" said the doctor, laughing, ^^ that 
 would never do. I should lose some of my 
 best patients. I have lived too long in the 
 world not to know how few people there are 
 in it who do not resent being called upon to 
 put their hands in their pockets." 
 
 " Yes," said Lady Arabella, '' it is melan- 
 choly to see hov/ fond most people are of 
 money. I am sure I hate it ! If I could
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves. 193 
 
 have my own way, I would have nothing but 
 diamonds." 
 
 But this conversation had taken place some 
 years before. At the time of which we are 
 writing, the approaches to Nettlestone had 
 greatly increased in beauty, for the shrubs 
 were full of luxuriant growth, and the young 
 saplings had shot up into trees of respectable 
 size, whilst a few older trees, the remaining 
 representatives of the forest whicli had once 
 spread over this part of the county, towered, 
 in all the majesty of hoary age, above them. 
 It seemed almost as if their gnarled and 
 knotted arms were spread abroad to mock 
 the puny strength of their companions ; and, 
 as the autumnal breezes soucjhed throuo-h 
 their lofty branches, it was as if one heard 
 voices, now lifted up in hymns of praise, now 
 sinking into murmurs, which fell u^^on the 
 ear like an earnest, whispered prayer. 
 
 On a fine autumnal afternoon, some few 
 months after Dr. Prinorle's visit to St. Tobias's, 
 three persons might have been seen walking 
 slowly towards one of these trees, round the 
 stem of which a seat had been encircled. In 
 the tall, lithe, firm-treading girl, whose every 
 movement gave evidence of strength of body, 
 as of will ; in the slighter, drooping figure 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 by her side, stepping timidly, as if to feel 
 her way — it was impossible not to recognise 
 the two daughters of the house, Geraldine 
 and Eva. The third was Duke, but he 
 seemed to have grown prematurely old, for 
 he walked with his head bent, and eyes fixed 
 on the ground, and had that tired, languid 
 air which belongs to the weariness of age. 
 
 They were walking down the avenue from 
 the house ; and it was evident they were ex- 
 pecting some one, for they looked frequently 
 in the direction of the lodge, of which the 
 battlemented roof could be seen in the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 As they sat down, the conversation was 
 renewed at the point where it had just before 
 been broken off, by Geraldine : 
 
 " I cannot imagine what it was made papa 
 alter his mind. You know, in the spring, he 
 was full of it." 
 
 '' Well, if you must know, Lai," — Lai and 
 Pen were the names by which Duke called 
 his sisters when he was in a good humour — 
 it is I to whom the honour is due of having 
 converted our most respectable parent. I do 
 not want to leave England just now, or even 
 to cruise along its shores. I have other fish 
 to fry."
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves. 195 
 
 '' I am so glad of it," said Eva. ^' I hate 
 yachting." 
 
 " You provoking child !" said Geraldine. 
 *' I am so sorry, for I love it. The dear old 
 Nautilus ! I cannot bear to think of her beinor 
 laid up, during all this lovely weather, upon 
 that horrid mud. Dear old thinof ! what 
 happy days we have had in her ! Do you 
 remember our trip to Guernsey V 
 
 " Pray don't mention it ! I was never so 
 ill in my life," said Eva. 
 
 " And so lost the best fun I ever saw in 
 my life," said Duke, " when the baronet 
 jumped overboard to save an imaginary some- 
 body, and was within an ace of being drowned. 
 I shall never forget Lai's face ; it nearly 
 killed me with laughing." 
 
 " Duke," said Geraldine, indignantly, " it 
 always seems to me that you laugh at the 
 wrong time. I really believe you have no 
 heart." 
 
 *' Then we are both much alike," he re- 
 torted ; " for yours, I know, has been the 
 baronet's from that hour." 
 
 Geraldine was about to answer, but for the 
 moment her anger prevented her ; and before 
 she could speak, Eva had interposed. Eva 
 was always the peace-maker. 
 
 13—2
 
 196 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 " It is only his foolish fun. You know 
 he does not mean what he says — do you, 
 Duke r 
 
 « It is — is cowardly !" said Geraldine, gasp- 
 ing out the words. '' It is too cruel ; but 
 what can you expect from Duke ? He has 
 no feeling for anyone ! He loves nothing 
 but money ! He is only fit to be a brewer !" 
 
 " Hush, hush !" said Eva ; " please don't 
 talk like that." 
 
 " Fiddlestick !" said Duke. " My dear 
 Pen, let her talk. I like to hear her. Of 
 course, we poor brewers are hateful to her 
 since the baronet's grand temperance speech. 
 But where would we all be, I should like to 
 know, if it were not for beer ? And as to 
 love of money, pray tell me, my most 
 virtuously indignant sister, whether it is 
 more criminal to love money than to spend 
 it ? Why, if it were not for this vulgar beer, 
 and the contemptible money beer brings, how 
 would some young ladies of my acquaintance 
 be able to pay for the fifty thousand little 
 fads with which they indulge their fancies ? 
 But this is always the way with you women ; 
 you spend the money that we men make 
 without scruple, and then abuse us for making 
 it. You would like money to rain down
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves. 197 
 
 from heaven in golden showers ! But what 
 is the meaning of this ?" he said, breaking 
 off suddenly and looking towards the trunk 
 of the tree under which they sat. *' Another 
 E, and freshly cut, for I could swear it was 
 not there a week ago. Eva, I don't like 
 these E's ! I saw one the other day on the 
 Deepdale beech." 
 
 '' There are plenty of people in the world 
 whose names begin with E," said Eva, be- 
 coming in her turn very red. 
 
 " Very true, Pen ; but when that uniicked 
 cub Chub, whose handiwork I more than 
 suspect in this, goes about the country cutting 
 E's on everything bigger than a stick, it does 
 not require a man to be a Senior Wrangler to 
 supply two other letters. He had better 
 look out." 
 
 '* Duke, Duke !" said Eva, imploringly. 
 
 " Oh, do not be alarmed, dear ; Chub is 
 quite capable of taking care of himself, 
 although he is not a rich brewer," said 
 Geraldine. 
 
 "Is her said Duke. "Then I should 
 advise him to do so. And I would request 
 my sapient sister to remember that he is 
 no longer a little boy."
 
 198 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 '' And that Sis is no longer a little girl," 
 said Geraldine. 
 
 Duke made no answer, for he was busily 
 employed at that moment re-lighting his 
 cigar. Before he had finished doing so, the 
 sound of wheels was heard, and Dr. Pringle's 
 waggonette was seen driving up the avenue. 
 
 "Come, girls, a truce to this nonsense," 
 cried Duke. " I cannot afford to quarrel ; it 
 annoys me, and I have quite enough to annoy 
 me as it is. It is enough to make a fellow 
 out of sorts. I did not tell you, Lai, but 
 Fortuna has had a sprain. I had a letter 
 this morning from Jack Marsh." 
 
 ^^ I wonder if he can be any relation to 
 Yic," said Eva. 
 
 " What nonsense ! I should hope not, 
 from all I have heard of him," said Geraldine. 
 Then, turning to her brother : " I am glad 
 you had some reason for your horrible ill- 
 temper ; but this is serious. You had better 
 have followed my advice. I knew you would 
 be taken in." 
 
 ''You be hanged !" said Duke ; ^'it is not 
 too late. I have written to the major. I 
 shall hedge." 
 
 From this it will be seen that Mr. Marma- 
 duke Yorke had become the owner of '^ a
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves, 199 
 
 horse," and that his sisters were in his 
 confidence ; Geraldine somewhat sympathis- 
 ing with him, and Eva having but a very 
 cloudy perception of what it meant. Of 
 course, it was a secret. It would not do for a 
 member of the firm of Souseman and Soppit 
 to keep race -horses and enter into trans- 
 actions on the Turf So it was as the property 
 of Mr. Marsh — the Jack being in this case 
 omitted — that Fortuna stood before the 
 world ; and Mr. Marsh's brown filly Fortuna 
 had already excited some interest in tlie 
 sporting world by having taken a good place 
 in one or two minor events ; and amongst the 
 knowing ones — this on the authority of the 
 major — there was a very decided opinion that 
 she was the '* cominof " horse. 
 
 The major had not taken any part in the 
 purchase of the horse. Of course not. He 
 had but stood behind the scenes and pulled 
 the strings, much to the satisfaction of all 
 the world and to his own profit. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Deepdale waggonette has 
 drawn up before the tree. Chub hands the 
 reins to the groom, and jumps down with a 
 thud, for a heavy fellow is Chub. Duke 
 opens the door and hands down Victoria and 
 Sis, who are inside. The girls kiss. The
 
 200 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 youn^ men shake hands. The groom is 
 ordered to drive on to the Court, and leave 
 the shawls, etc. And the party move slowly 
 together in the direction of the house. 
 
 " It is so very kind of you all to come," 
 said Geraldine. "Particularly when we are 
 so dull, and have no one with us. ' 
 
 '^ I am so glad I am at home," said Duke 
 aside to Sis. 
 
 ''But a week is too short," said Eva. 
 "When the time comes, we will not let you go." 
 
 Whom was she most thinkins: of? Could 
 it have been that great, good-natured, heavy, 
 hearty-looking fellow Chub ? 
 
 Sis looked more radiant, more loveable 
 than ever. There was no withstanding her. 
 Thei:e w^as only one word which would de- 
 scribe her exactly, and her friends had hit 
 upon that word, when they said she always 
 looked so " sweet.'^ So sweet indeed that no 
 one could see Sis without wishing to kiss her. 
 Her lady friends — no matter, young or old — 
 kissed her at meeting, and kissed her at 
 parting ; whilst little children clambered 
 up and kissed her again and again with 
 their rosy lips. 
 
 Sweet Sis I charming, and conscious of her 
 charms : full of gay prattle and gleesome
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves. 201 
 
 quips. Sis trips lightly on the sward which 
 bounds the road, Duke — forgetting for the 
 time Fortuna and all his woes — ever at her 
 side. 
 
 They had started in a group. But when 
 young people walk together they are sure ere 
 long to be found in pairs ; and so Sis and 
 Duke, Eva and Chub — both looking in their 
 way supremely happy — Victoria and Geral- 
 dine, move slowly forwards, not by the avenue, 
 but by shady circuitous paths through the 
 shrubberies and grounds, on their way to the 
 house. 
 
 Cupid •must have been in a malicious mood 
 when he had transfixed the hearts of two 
 such very opposite young people as Eva and 
 Chub with the same shaft. How they could 
 have fallen so deeply in love with each other 
 as they were, is utterly incomprehensible ; 
 indeed, it would be incredible, were not 
 things equally strange happening every day 
 around us. 
 
 There was Eva ; gentle, sensitive Eva ! 
 frail of form, and given to melancholy 
 thoughts, with many ideas, and few opinions, 
 setting her affections upon, of all people in 
 the world, that great, hulking, unimaginative, 
 open-hearted fellow Chub : Chub, with his
 
 202 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 few ideas and many opinions. Why, physi- 
 cally and mentally, they were as different 
 as light from darkness. Yet they were 
 over head and ears in love with each other 
 none the less ; and at this very moment 
 Chub had reached that happy, or unhappy, 
 franie of mind, which belongs to lovers, when 
 it would have been a joy to him if he could 
 have thrown himself down before Eva and 
 kissed the ground on which she stood. 
 
 Most strange, that this cheery, matter-of- 
 fact, un poetical, big youth must needs set all 
 the affections belonging to his honest heart 
 on the fragile, delicate, sad-thinking Pense- 
 rosa ; and in his solitary moments could find 
 no other solace or means of soothing his 
 emotions than, to use his own words, " pull- 
 ing " at a huge pipe, which he had been 
 endeavouring — fruitlessly — for many months 
 to blacken, whilst he thought of her. 
 
 But what, perhaps, had first attracted 
 Chub to Eva, was that she was the only 
 person who listened to him, who did not con- 
 tradict him, and who even went to the extent 
 of asking his advice. Now, to young or old, 
 there is no greater charm than being appreci- 
 ated ; and Eva's appreciation was to Chub an 
 irresistible spell. Everybody else, to use a
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves, 203 
 
 very expressive phrase, ''sat upon him." Sis 
 made him fetch and carry Uke a dog ; Vic- 
 toria always spoke as if she were instructing 
 him ; his father had got into a disagreeable 
 way of speaking of and to him as if he were 
 an object for compassion, and nothing annoyed 
 him more than to hear himself spoken of as 
 '* poor" Chub. His mother seemed to think 
 he could only be made happy by being treated 
 as frequently as possible to some favourite 
 dish ; Sir Francis was horribly civil to him ; 
 Geraldine appeared hardly to be aware of his 
 presence ; and Duke assumed patronising 
 airs towards him, until his blood boiled with 
 indiornation. Is it to be wondered then that 
 he was ready, as we have said before, to fall 
 down and worship the very ground upon which 
 Eva stood. 
 
 There had been a time when Chub was a 
 great talker, but he had become silent and re- 
 served of late. Eva and Chub seemed also to 
 have found out the secret, that .vhen love is 
 deepest it has fewest words ; for, as they 
 walked along side by side, the only sound 
 was the crush of the fallen leaves under the 
 heavy tramp of Chub's great feet. Yes, they 
 were silent ; but so happy ! 
 
 A-t some little distance — the windinors of
 
 204 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 the path often hid the couples from each other 
 — came Victoria and Geraldine. 
 
 For some time, by an almost imperceptible 
 process, an estrangement had sprung up be- 
 tween them — an estranofement which had 
 puzzled Victoria, and the cause for which 
 Geraldine would not willingly have confessed 
 even to herself. 
 
 This was the first time they had been thrown 
 together since Victoria's return from London, 
 and there was a constraint in the manner of 
 the two girls which made it awkward for botL 
 
 As they walked along the path, side by side, 
 the resemblance between them was very strik- 
 ing. They were nearly of the same height ; 
 their figures seemed as if moulded in the same 
 form ; they both walked very erect, and there 
 was something in the bearing of each which 
 spoke of self-confidence and strength of will. 
 They had, too, the same regular features, the 
 same frank fearlessness in the expression of 
 the eyes; but there the resemblance ended, and 
 no one could have observed them more closely 
 without a feeling of surprise at having thought 
 them so alike — they became so different. 
 
 The beauty of Geraldine was in her exqui- 
 site complexion, her transparent skin, her 
 golden hair, her fascinating smile, her ruddy
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves. 205 
 
 lips closing over a row of teeth of unrivalled 
 whiteness. She charmed no less by her 
 vivacity, her unaffected grace ; by the un- 
 studied piquancy of all she said and did, than 
 by her beauty. She only ceased to charm 
 when she ceased to be herself, and affected a 
 style and manner that did not belong to her. 
 
 Victoria's complexion was not good ; her 
 dark hair, through its luxuriance, fell in too 
 heavy tresses ; there was a want of elasticity 
 about her movements ; something of hardness 
 about her mouth : and her teeth, thouofh regular 
 and white, were too solid and firmly set. It 
 was only when you spoke with her and came to 
 know her that all her beauty was revealed ; 
 for when she looked straight up into the eves 
 of those to whom she spoke, out of her own 
 large, lustrous, truthful, trusting eyCvS — those 
 marvellous ''windows of the soul" — she seemed 
 as if she were speaking with thoughts and not 
 with words, and as if candour, purity, and love 
 had joined to form each phrase ; and she be- 
 came truly beautiful. 
 
 Yet the expression of those eyes could change. 
 Duke knew it to his cost. For once or twice, 
 when he had been speaking lightly on sub- 
 jects which Victoria considered should be in- 
 violate, he had seen them turned upon him
 
 206 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 full of contempt and scorn. And lie had 
 quailed under that glance. 
 
 '^ It is all very well," he said one day to Sis, 
 *^ for you to tell me that Vic is this, or Vic is 
 that ; she may be a very angel, but there is a 
 devil lurking in those eyes of hers, which I 
 for one don't like." 
 
 Perhaps it was the fear of arousing this 
 devil that made Duke more careful in Vic- 
 toria's presence, than he was either when with 
 his sisters or alone with Sis. It was singular, 
 but there were times when from the bright 
 blue eyes of Geraldine there streamed forth 
 the same expression of scornful indignation — 
 only different, from its being perhaps less in- 
 tense. The resemblance between the two girls 
 at such times was even greater than usual, 
 and it was probably from this cause that 
 Duke, who always affected to be amused 
 when his sisters were displeased, used to jeer 
 at her and request, if she set any value on her 
 beauty, she would not look so fierce and give 
 herself these '' Victorian " airs. 
 
 This likeness betw^een Geraldine and Vic- 
 toria had not been lost on Mr. Mortimer — 
 whose language, by the way, had assumed a 
 very sporting character since his connection 
 with the Turf " A good spanking pair " was
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves. 207 
 
 his remark ; " a little out in colour, but bright 
 bay and dark brown don't make a bad match. 
 Take 'em all round, I don't think you would 
 see anything finer — and sound as a bell. But 
 I doubt if it would be easy to break 'em to 
 double harness — our young un would be al- 
 ways jumping over the traces — and Miss Vic 
 would get the bit between her teeth. A man 
 would have to sit tight." 
 
 " So you have really decided on being a 
 doctor !" said Geraldine, at length, to Victoria. 
 
 " I would say rather, on trying to be a 
 doctor." 
 
 " What courage you must have ! But have 
 you not to go through a great deal of nasty 
 work ?" 
 
 " In a certain sense, undoubtedly ; but not 
 more than I have gone through as a nurse. 
 And then the aim is higher — and no work 
 can be called nasty when it becomes interest- 
 ing, as the means to a great end." 
 
 ** And will you really have to cut up horrid 
 dead bodies, and all that sort of thing T 
 
 "I shall have to study anatomy in the usual 
 manner ; and I am determined not to give 
 way to any feelings which would interfere with 
 my becoming a more useful member of society 
 than I can hope to be at present."
 
 208 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 "But are we women strong enough for such 
 work ?" 
 
 " Women — who are born into this world 
 with an average amount of health — are 
 either weak or strong, as they have been 
 r)iade weak or strong. Look at the poor, and 
 see how the women work." 
 
 " Yes," said Geraldine, laughing, '' and at 
 the rich, and see how some girls can play. 
 Why, I must confess to having sometimes 
 danced all night without being tired, and 
 taken my share of lawn -tennis the next day 
 without turning a hair. But our nerves — 
 our brains, are they strong enough V 
 
 " It has always seemed to me that women 
 are never at a loss for nerve when they want 
 it ; or how do you account for their having 
 been found on the tops of the highest moun- 
 tains — on the backs of unbroken horses — full 
 of delight in gales of wind at sea ? No ! 
 nerves, like muscles, must be exercised, or 
 they become weak ; and so with the brahi." 
 
 '*But I have heard that our brains are 
 smaller than a man's," said Geraldine. 
 
 " If it be so, what matter ! All men have 
 not large brains ; and if we cannot hope to 
 rival extraordinary men, we may at least com- 
 pete with ordinary ones. Besides, there is
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves, 209 
 
 such a thing as quality as well as quantity ; 
 and whenever the brain of some great philoso- 
 pher or acknowledged genius is found to be 
 smaller than it ought to be, it is always de- 
 clared to make up for its deficiency in size or 
 weight by its superior quality — it is more 
 convolute — more something. Let us hope 
 that that is also the case with ours." 
 
 " Do you then really think that we women 
 are equal in physical and mental strength to 
 
 *' Undoubtedly. Not in kind, however, but 
 in degree. Physically, a woman possesses a 
 greater amount of "stored-up strength" than a 
 man. Mentally, her quicker perception makes 
 up for his greater inductive power. But, of 
 course, I am speaking of woman, not as she 
 is, but as she would be if properly brought up 
 — properly educated." 
 
 •" You must 'think me very frivolous," said 
 Geraldine. 
 
 Victoria paused for a moment. 
 
 *' I think," she said slowly, as she turned 
 her truthful eyes full upon her, *' that if you 
 only did yourself justice, you would be as 
 lovable as Eva ; and you know how I love 
 her." 
 
 " Yes — the stronof alwavs love the weak — 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 it is because she is so weak. Why do you 
 love her more than Sis ?" 
 
 " Because she has a heart," said Victoria. 
 There was another pause ; then abruptly : 
 " Victoria — what if you should marry ?" 
 What was it that made Victoria stop — 
 almost stagger ; that made her lips turn pale ? 
 It was but for a moment ; then she moved on 
 as calmly as before, and it would have been 
 difficult to have detected any emotion in her 
 voice, as she replied : 
 
 ^' No, I shall never marry." 
 " Ah, you think so now — but who knows ! 
 you may alter your mind." 
 
 " Never, never," said Victoria, sternly, and 
 her eyes were full of wrath ; " when I say a 
 thing I mean it. Am I so untrue ? No, no ; 
 there is a fate for each of us. Yours, I know 
 not ; but mine is to be Victoria Marsh to the 
 end." 
 
 The passion in her voice had gradually 
 subsided as she spoke, and there was some- 
 thing almost plaintive in the accent of the 
 last words. They seemed to go straight to 
 Geraldine's heart, and, moved by an impulse 
 she would have found it difficult to explain, 
 she threw her arms round Victoria's neck, 
 and kissed her on each cheek.
 
 Mid Autumn Leaves. 211 
 
 " Victoria/' she said, " till this moment I 
 have misunderstood you. Do not despise me 
 because I am such a heartless, worldly fool ; 
 help me to conquer this poor miserable self: 
 from this be my friend — be my sister." 
 
 And so it was that Geraldine Yorke and 
 Victoria Marsh became fast friends. Duke 
 and Sis thought they loved each other ; Eva 
 and Chub were unquestionably deeply in love 
 with each other; but the most unchanging, 
 most enduring love — most enduring because 
 it was based upon a greater love cherished by 
 both within the secret recesses of their hearts 
 — was the love which had been established 
 between Geraldine and Victoria, as they had 
 walked, side by side, in all the gushing confi- 
 dence of youth, through thatbough-enshadowed 
 path, 'mid the autumn leaves. 
 
 14—2
 
 212 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 WORKING FOR THE WORLD. 
 
 Sir Francis Hawthorne had also, with a 
 few occasional short absences, spent his 
 summer in the country. He had renewed 
 his intimacy with his old friend the doctor 
 and his family, but his visits were less fre- 
 quent ; and he was now so seldom at the 
 Court, that Lady Arabella had spoken of 
 him for some time as *' ce cher misanthrope." 
 Another mistake on Lady Arabella's part, for 
 no man could justly be called a misanthrope 
 who had determined, with a certain example 
 ever before his eyes, to devote his every effort 
 to the benefit of others. 
 
 '^Ah, my good friend," said Dr. Pringle 
 one day, shaking his finger warningly at him, 
 " mind what you are about ! If you don't 
 take care you will find yourself enrolled
 
 Working for the World. 213 
 
 amongst the Philanthropists before you know- 
 where you are, and mixed up with them in 
 all sorts of impracticable schemes for doing 
 good. Take an old man's advice, work with 
 whatever individual powers you may possess, 
 but avoid combinations. When men combine 
 and act together, one well-meaning fool may 
 mar all. Social questions are as difficult to 
 manage as four young thoroughbreds, and 
 who would wish to place the ribbons in more 
 than one pair of hands ? No ! whenever you 
 can, always do the work yourself." 
 
 ** And so let all the blame of failure fall on 
 my own shoulders, eh, doctor ?" 
 
 "Failure, my dear sir," said the doctor, 
 " is only feared by fools ; all success is built 
 up out of failures, and I would not give a Qg 
 for the man who boasts that he always 
 succeeds." 
 
 " But failure is very disheartening." 
 
 " Not a whit," said the doctor ; '' it should 
 be a whet to exertion. How do you sharpen 
 that scythe ? certainly not by cutting some- 
 thing soft with it, but by knocking sparks of 
 fire out of it with a rough stone." 
 
 The fact is, Sir Francis, w^th all his schemes 
 for the good of others, was often driven to
 
 214 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 the very verge of despair. He had not taken 
 into account that men and women are in 
 most cases the mere children of circumstances, 
 and that the habits and prejudices which 
 those circumstances have created are often 
 so deep-rooted that they can never be eradi- 
 cated ; he had overlooked the fact that pro- 
 gress can never be dragged on with post- 
 horses, and that the man who does most in 
 his generation — for himself as well as for 
 others — is he who best knows how to work 
 and wait. He must do both. 
 
 Now Sir Francis liked to work, but he 
 hated the waiting. So he was often disap- 
 pointed and out of heart. 
 
 '' He means well — he means well, neigh- 
 bour," said Goody Giles, " that he do ; but 
 drat it ! why don't he leave things be T 
 
 " Aye, aye ! we moves too fast — too fast ! 
 Twan't for the wage, I'd rather work for 
 ould Hicks." 
 
 " Ah, Hicks do give beer in harvest." 
 
 Then the new houses on his estate did not 
 give satisfaction. They were not so '^ snug 
 loike." ^' In the old un's, all us wanted seemed 
 so to come to hand. Now, one must scrub, 
 and scrub from morn to night, and if they
 
 Working for the World, 215 
 
 don't a-shine out loike new pins, well, there's 
 
 row." 
 
 The farmers, too, were not satisfied. 
 
 " It is all very well to talk about low 
 rents, but how about these new-fanoled 
 schools ? Time was when we got boys to do 
 men's work for next to nothing ; now they 
 are not to be had for love or money. They 
 must be at school, forsooth ! and precious 
 little use will be all they learn there. Don't 
 tell me, sir ! give me the good old times. 
 People did a good day's work then, and it 
 was a sight to see them going home when it 
 was done, a regularly tired out ; the women 
 and boys, as well as men. And as to drink ! 
 Lord, sir, if them men did take a drop more 
 than they ought when the Saturday night 
 came, it kept them contented. In those days 
 there was no Arches ; they never passed an 
 employer without touching their hats. And 
 the farmers — well, perhaps I oughtn't to say 
 it — but if their men fell sick, and their 
 families were in want, well, we put our hands 
 in our pockets and helped 'em as much as we 
 could ; and there is always the Union in the 
 end." 
 
 But he who w^as most discontented of all
 
 216 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 with Sir Francis's doings was the Reverend 
 St. John Softridge, the clergyman of the 
 united parishes of Slocum-cum-Magnus, in 
 which both the Court and Hawthornedene 
 stood ; Deepdale was just over the border. 
 Thixt gentleman lamented in touching tones, 
 through his wife, for she generally acted as 
 spokesman for her husband, and indeed was 
 by many regarded as the real incumbent of 
 the parish, to whom the Eev. St. John acted 
 as a kind of curate — not in charge — the sad 
 spirit of independence which had been en- 
 gendered amongst the poor by Sir Francis's 
 indiscreet action. 
 
 ''It is indeed sad/' she said, 'Ho see it; 
 and it has affected my husband very much. 
 A parish priest cannot have any influence 
 amongst his people when they have been 
 taught they are capable of thinking for them- 
 selves ; and pray what have a]l these high 
 wages led to ? To nothing but a feeling that 
 they can do without help ; and that all inter- 
 ference with their affairs is an impertinence. 
 You know how Mr. Soft ridge used to visit 
 amongst the people ; and the misery we used 
 to find amongst them ; and the quantity of 
 soup and old clothes we were able to distri-
 
 Working for the World. 217 
 
 bute is something incredible. 1 am sure it 
 used to make my arms ache. Now, what a 
 change ! A young chit of a child will bring 
 out its savings' bank-book, and the mother 
 will ask you to sit down and take a cup of 
 tea with all the airs of an equal. No one 
 can have better intentions than Sir Francis, 
 but these democrats unfortunately do so 
 much harm with their wild ideas ; I only 
 w^ish he was more like Mr. Yorke. My 
 husband always says, with a few more men 
 like him, we might hope to see the Church 
 put in its right place. And then we should 
 not have this dissenting chapel built on the 
 very borders of the parish, and no less than 
 four of Sir Francis's servants Baptists or 
 * Brethren,' or whatever they choose to call 
 themselves." 
 
 One might have thought that if this were 
 the state of feeling produced in the Bev. St. 
 John Softridge by Sir Francis's well-inten- 
 tioned eflforts, that the Bev. Jonas Smallpage, 
 the Independent minister, who had lately 
 taken charge of the circuit in which the un- 
 sightly chapel, built upon ground given by 
 Sir Francis, was situated, would have been 
 better satisfied. Not one whit. The Bev.
 
 218 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 Jonas was always lamenting that for a man 
 of his views Sir Francis '' wanted breadth." 
 
 '^ Look you/' he would say, " look you, in 
 these days, when men's ideas have to be 
 thrown into the crucible and purified as it 
 were by fire ; when — I speak as a man — the 
 spirit of inquiry is abroad, and turns upon 
 the world, even as it were from a lantern, its 
 bright and searching rays, so that the darkest 
 regions are illumined, and the secrets hidden 
 within the deepest recesses of the human 
 heart are revealed, we must let our light so 
 shine before men that there may be no going 
 astray, no following after false lights ; our 
 notes of warning must be rung out clear and 
 sharp. The bell fixed on the shoal must 
 give no uncertain sound. Sir Francis wants 
 breadth ; he wants thoroughness. Look you ! 
 if 'twere not so, would he speak of temper- 
 ance whilst his cellar is yet full of wine ? 
 Would he preach tolerance, and speak, as I 
 have heard him speak, to my sorrow, my 
 deep sorrow, of the benefits conferred in 
 olden times upon the world by that harlot 
 who still sits, until her time comes, and it is 
 coming, upon her seven hills ? And who, no 
 later than last week, said, before our worthy
 
 Working for the Woi'ld. 219 
 
 friend the deacon, that as matters now stood, 
 and in face of all the benefits which had been 
 conferred upon the community by the Church 
 of England, he could not make up his mind 
 that the time had arrived for its disestablish- 
 ment. Fancy that, gentlemen, fancy that! 
 A man who professes advanced opinions, and 
 calls himself a Liberal, not able to make up 
 his mind on the one great question, certainly 
 the greatest crucial question, of the day. No, 
 my friends, it is to be deeply lamented, but 
 it is so — Sir Francis is too narrow ; he wants 
 breadth." 
 
 No wonder that there were times when 
 Sir Francis felt disheartened. He would 
 have been entirely so but for the example of 
 Victoria. 
 
 Whilst on his travels, he had kept up a 
 correspondence with Dr. Pringle, and had 
 learnt from him how courageously and 
 steadily she had been working. 
 
 ''What pleases me most," had said the 
 doctor, on one occasion, ''is that she works 
 hard without overworkinor herself She never ^ 
 loses her balance, and keeps her mind occu- 
 pied with wholesome thoughts, instead of 
 giving way to useless regrets, and to the
 
 220 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 morbid fascination which belong to melan- 
 choly." 
 
 Had his love for her been less deep, or had 
 it not been based upon those very qualities 
 which he felt were in themselves the stern 
 and unrelenting arbiters of his fate, he might 
 perhaps, on his return, have done what so 
 many others would have done under similar 
 circumstances, made an effort to induce her to 
 change her mind. But how could he do that 
 which he knew could but give her pain ; per- 
 haps build up a barrier between them for 
 ever; and — well, there was something within 
 — for love is full of mysterious revelations, 
 which told him it would be useless. 
 
 '' Surely there is some happiness in know- 
 ing that she loves me, and that the hand 
 which I am denied will never be given to 
 another." 
 
 He repeated this very often to himself, but 
 he did not find much consolation in it. 
 
 He was struggling on, doing the best he 
 could — somewhat badly, it must be confessed 
 — when Victoria left St. Tobias's and returned 
 to Deepdale. 
 
 Victoria met him with a frank cordiality, 
 such as she might have shown to any other 
 old and dear friend. Her frank and un-
 
 Working for the World, 221 
 
 affected manner did more than anything else 
 to confirm Sir Francis in the opinion that it 
 would be the height of folly to say one word 
 which might have the effect of endangering 
 a friendship he felt might become in time 
 the one great consolation of his life. So he 
 remained silent. 
 
 Besides, he felt a little flattered. Was not 
 Victoria's manner the greatest proof she 
 could offer of the sincerity of her affection ? 
 Did she not show by it that she felt she 
 could confide in his honour, and rely upon his 
 mastery over himself to spare her every allu- 
 sion to that one topic upon which his lips, as 
 well as hers, were to be closed for ever ? She 
 never could be his wife ! True. But he would 
 love her still : love her as a friend — and why 
 should not friendship, which is based upon 
 love, become even more than love ? 
 
 Poor Sir Francis ! Though he had made 
 the round-the-world tour, he does not seem 
 to have mastered all the mysteries of the 
 human heart, or he would have known that of 
 all passions love is the most intractable. 
 
 Nourishing, however, this idea, he became, 
 for the time being, quite happy. His whole 
 time was taken up with the execution of 
 some one of his many schemes for the better-
 
 222 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 ing of something or somebody, and Yictoria 
 — kind, good, clever, and perhaps all the 
 dearer because firm and unrelenting — Vic- 
 toria was within reach to sympathise and 
 advise. 
 
 His time was taken up from morning to 
 night, and yet not a day passed without his 
 riding over to Deepdale — there were so many 
 points upon which he must have advice ; and 
 it was a pleasant sight to watch the confe- 
 rence. Sir Francis reporting progress and 
 unfolding his future plans ; Victoria calmly 
 listening, and now and again interposing 
 some judicious word. Sir Francis wondering 
 how it was he had not seen things as Vic- 
 toria saw them ; Victoria tempering yet ad- 
 miring the enthusiastic ardour he brought to 
 bear upon all he did, and in contrast with 
 which her own action was made to seem so 
 cold and tame. He mounting his horse and 
 riding away, his head full of schemes, but his 
 heart more deeply in love than ever ; she 
 turning to her books and reading, reading, 
 reading for a while, and then — why does she 
 suddenly close the book and say, '' Never ! 
 never !" ? 
 
 Poor Victoria ! She had been a year in a 
 hospital ; yet she, too, had not found out
 
 Worhing for the World, 223 
 
 that of all diseases love is the most in- 
 tractable ! 
 
 ** Absent for a week at Nettlestone '{ Dear 
 me ! and I wanted so much to see her." And 
 consult her he does. Once more Sir Francis 
 is to be seen riding up the Nettlestone avenue; 
 he is to be seen riding up it daily ; the con 
 ferences are longer even than they were 
 before. There was a reason, perhaps, for 
 their being so, for Victoria had found some 
 of the questions propounded by Sir Francis 
 so diflScult that she had thought it better to 
 call in the aid of another expert. *^Two 
 heads are better than one," she said, laugh- 
 ingly ; and so three heads were to be found 
 daily in deep consultation. 
 
 *' I really hardly know which is the most 
 beautiful," said Sir Francis to himself on the 
 third day, as he rode home. 
 
 He was thinking of the two heads, and 
 more particularly at that moment of the one 
 
 which belonged to well, no matter ; it 
 
 might have been Victoria or — there would 
 have been no harm in it — the golden locks of 
 Geraldine. 
 
 The week flew by. At the earnest request 
 of Lady Arabella — again under the pressure 
 we wot of — the visit of the young people was
 
 224 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 prolonged to ten days. Ten days of supreme 
 happiness ; ten days pregnant — as what 
 time, indeed, is not ? — with much to influence 
 the lives of each and all. 
 
 A ride to-day ; an excursion on the 
 morrow ; a picnic — to which Sir Francis 
 came — to Broadlands Abbey. Lawn-tennis 
 at all hours of the day. In the evenings 
 music : Geraldine and Eva singing together 
 as only sisters can sing ; Sir Francis, when 
 there, in ecstasies, and forgetting for the 
 moment all else ; Chub, looking melancholy 
 and out of sorts, but cheering up somewhat 
 in the lighter parts, and now and then, when 
 he could catch the air, swinging one great 
 foot backwards and forwards as if to mark the 
 time ; Duke and Sis looking at each other 
 across a table, on which chessmen were 
 arranged ; Mr. Yorke deep in the argu- 
 ments by which the Right Hon. Hugh For- 
 rester sought to show, in a pamphlet of three 
 hundred pages, that the Pope had exceeded 
 his authority in the way in which he had 
 established his infallibility, and so had 
 wounded the tender consciences of many of 
 the faithful. Such a subject could but be 
 deeply interesting to a good Churchman like 
 Mr. Yorke ; and he pitied those who pro-
 
 Working for the World, 225 
 
 fessed to think that outside the pale of the 
 Eoman Church it mattered very little what 
 the Pope said or did. 
 
 The pamphlet was evidently a very hard 
 nut to crack, and the kernel either very 
 small or difficult to find ; perhaps because, 
 through a wish to preserve it from injury, the 
 liight Hon. Hugh Forrester had surrounded 
 it with a plentiful padding of pungent words, 
 for Mr. Yorke's whole attention appeared to 
 be concentrated upon it. 
 
 Lady Arabella reposes upon a couch, 
 arranged at such an angle that had there 
 been no ceiling she might have seen the stars 
 without moving her head. 
 
 " When I hear music," she said, '' I like to 
 look upward ; but it must be good music. 
 When it is — and my children sing so sweetly — 
 then my thoughts are carried away to heaven, 
 and I see angels.' 
 
 Once or twice the Eev. St. John Softridge 
 and Mrs. Softridge came to dinner. 
 
 "They are suitable people to meet our 
 young friends," remarked Lady Arabella to 
 her husband, " and won't mind it ; and in- 
 deed, just now there is no one else to ask." 
 
 Then there were evenings when Mr. Yorke 
 had called Victoria to him and sat talkimr 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 with her with an earnestness and degree of 
 interest very rare with him. 
 
 " You have indeed he witched my husband," 
 said Lady Arabella to her one evening ; "he 
 will not condescend to speak to anyone else. 
 Really, if you were not going away so soon I 
 should have to undergo the fatigue of being 
 jealous." 
 
 On these occasions, when Sir Francis was 
 there, he was frequently left with Geraldiue ; 
 and he was surprised to find what a change 
 had taken place in her. She seemed to know 
 so much of subjects on which before she had 
 either professed entire ignorance or a supreme 
 indifference. 
 
 '' Can I have misunderstood her ?" was his 
 first question. The answer came quickly. 
 '' No ; she is changed. It is Victoria s in- 
 fluence ; it is all Victoria !" 
 
 So it was that, as an evidence of Victoria's 
 power, of Victoria's work, that Geraldine 
 once more began to take up her old place in 
 Sir Francis's heart. 
 
 Once more : ^' Poor Sir Francis !"
 
 ''Dead at Last,' 227 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " DEAD AT LAST." 
 
 The party at Nettlestone is broken up. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Yorke and their two daug^hters 
 only remain at the Court, for Duke — who 
 always speaks as if he were overwhelmed 
 with work — has found somethinof to do else- 
 where. Deepdale is deserted, for Victoria is 
 on her way, escorted by Dr. and Mrs. Pringle 
 and Sis, to Switzerland ; and Chub has gone 
 to London, where he is to study medicine 
 and " walk the hospitals." Sir Francis, too, 
 has gone abroad. He is just now full of the 
 advantages of small holdings and peasant 
 proprietors, and intends to make himself 
 practically acquainted with the subject in 
 France and Belgium. 
 
 Geraldine is only reconciled to the dulness 
 of Nettlestone, of which she makes frequent 
 complaints, by her father having promised 
 
 15—2
 
 228 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 her that in another month the house shall be 
 full of visitors, and that this year they will 
 go to London earlier than usual, and that she 
 shall be " presented " and formally intro- 
 duced ; which, it seems, she has not yet been, 
 for Lady Arabella thinks young people should 
 be kept in the background as long as possible. 
 Each day seemed to go on much as an- 
 other, and Geraldine was beginning to count 
 the hours when the pheasants — the season is 
 a late one — would be given up to slaughter : 
 when *' presto !" as if by the touch of a magi- 
 cian's wand, the whole scene changes, and 
 the daily routine at the Court is completely 
 destroyed. 
 
 They were at breakfast — Mr. Yorke, as 
 usual, dividing his attention bet\^een his 
 letters, the newspapers, and the buttered 
 toast — when his whole family were thrown 
 into consternation by his suddenly ejacu- 
 lating : 
 
 '' Good God ! He is dead at last !" 
 Mr. Mortimer, who had just placed a dish 
 upon the table, immediately assumed an ex- 
 pression befitting so solemn an incident, and 
 crept out of the room more noiselessly than 
 ever. It almost seemed as if he would not — 
 no, not for worlds — have disturbed the peace-
 
 ''Dead at Last" 229 
 
 ful slumbers of him who was spoken of as 
 dead. 
 
 '* He is dead at last !" 
 
 '^ Who— who is dead ?" 
 
 " SlumbertoQ is dead." 
 
 " You don't say so ! What, poor old 
 Slumberton dead !" 
 
 "Yes ; dead at last." 
 
 And so there was joy in the house of 
 Yorke. For he whose death waa thus an- 
 nounced was no other than the senior 
 member for Middleshire, who had sat — it 
 would be more correct, perhaps, to say had 
 plept — in the House of Commons for the last 
 forty years, and whose tenacious hold upon 
 his seat had so long prevented Mr. Yorke's 
 great desire to enter into Parliamentary life 
 Irom being realised. 
 
 Poor old Slumberton ! thouufh he had 
 often talked about resigning, dozing on the 
 benches of the House of Commons during a 
 portion of each year had become so com- 
 pletely a part and parcel of his daily life, 
 that he could never screw his courage up to 
 the point of applying for the Chiltern Hun- 
 dreds; and 80, although his working days had 
 long been past, he died in harness. 
 
 He had passed away into the next world,
 
 230 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 as he had passed through this, very quietly. 
 '' I think I shall have a little sleep ; do not 
 Jet me be disturbed," were his last words. 
 Life had been made so easy to him, that he 
 could not understand what people meant when 
 they spoke of its trials. " People ought to be 
 contented," he used to say. '' If I am happy, it 
 is because I am contented. There is no truer 
 saying than that contentment is a perpetual 
 feast." Contentment was his panacea for all 
 ills ; his political creed was based upon it. 
 " If people would but let things alone and be 
 content, what a country this would be !" True, 
 as far as the race of Slumbertons is concerned ; 
 and the race is very flir from being extinct. 
 
 Mr. Yorke had thought the time would 
 never come. Now it had arrived. 
 
 "He is dead at last!" and Mr. Yorke 
 becomes a candidate for Middleshire. 
 
 Lady Arabella is full of it; the girls talk 
 of nothing else ; the servants'-hall is turned 
 into a debating society, in which Mr. Mortimer 
 exercises his oratorical powers to his heart's 
 content. 
 
 " I have belonged to many parties in my 
 time," said Mr. Mortimer, grandiloquently, 
 " and have heard h after-dinner speeches from 
 some of the most heminent men on both
 
 ''Dead at Last" 231 
 
 sides of the House, but don't talk to me of 
 your Whigs and your Tories, of your Liberals 
 and your Conservatives, of your Radicals and 
 your what-nots. When you know them as 
 I do, they are all alike — the same men under 
 different names, all a-looking out for them- 
 selves ; a regfular case of six of one and half- 
 a-dozen of the other. Good of the country? 
 Lord bless you ! if I go in for politics, the 
 country means me, though I don't talk of me, 
 but of progress and my party; and if my party 
 is out, and another in, then look out for squalls, 
 for no matter what the Ins may say or do, there's 
 I and all the other Outs ready to be down upon 
 them with arguments like sledge hammers to 
 prove that they are wrong, and that the country 
 is wrong, and that everybody is wrong, who 
 does not belong to our party — that is, agree 
 with me. It is just like dogs — the Ins have 
 got the bone, and the Outs go on a-tugging 
 and a-worrying until they get it from them. 
 And so on and on. There are some little 
 curs, too, who belong to no party, and so 
 can only have a sniff at the bone from a dis- 
 tance ; but this makes them so cantankerous, 
 that though they have not the strength or 
 pluck to go in and win, they yelp and yowl 
 more than all the others put together, and
 
 232 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 very often end with a free fight amongst 
 themselves. I tell you what, it is in public 
 life just what it is in private life ; men will 
 be men, and there is just as much difference 
 between what they do, and what they say, 
 as there is between a piece of chalk and that 
 there cheese. Why, when I first hentered 
 upon the duties of my profession, I haccepted 
 an hengagement with an M.P. who was a 
 regular old political wolf in sheep's clothing. 
 He was all for the people. And to hear 
 him talk I As I stood behind his chair and 
 heard him a-discoursing about liberty and 
 hequality, no taxation, and cheap bread, I 
 never could have believed he was the greatest 
 old bully that ever lived, who treated his 
 family like dogs, and we, who gave him our 
 faithful services, like Roosians or nigger 
 slaves. At the end of three months I ter- 
 minated our hengagement in disgust. *No 
 more of your Radical shams,' said I. ' You 
 may be a man and a brother, but may I be 
 spiflicated if I am going to be an Habel to 
 such another Cain.' To stop his jaw, they 
 made him a minister — top-sawyer of the 
 works, or something of the sort ; and from 
 that day to this, though I have often heard 
 him a-mouthing away at City feasts, he is
 
 ''Dead at Last." 233 
 
 never tired of talking of ' responsibility/ ami 
 the way he brings out the word is enough 
 to choke you. But that little bit of liex- 
 perience did me good — that it did. Had it 
 not been for that, I might have remained a 
 party man ; and I repeat it, and I care not 
 who hears me say it, a thorough-going party 
 man is a poor mean thing who does not dare 
 to call hia soul his own, but allows himself 
 to be a-whipped here, and a-whipped there, 
 just as — Well, well ! there is no use in 
 a-talking more about it; my name is Mor- 
 timer, and I am a man. What do I care for 
 party ? But I do say this : I do like to see 
 the members of the House a-driving up to it 
 in their own carriages ; and it will be a credit 
 to the county to have for its representative 
 the gentleman in whose 'ousehold we have 
 taken hoffice. For it won't be easy, search 
 the country where you will, to find one — I 
 care not if he be a member of the haristo- 
 cracy or not — with half his money. And I 
 would ask," continued Mr. Mortimer, " what 
 is a man without money? Why, just 
 this " — here Mr. Mortimer turned down his 
 empty glass, with an expression of intense 
 disgust — " but give him money " — Mr. Mor- 
 timer pours out a bumper — *'and he becomes
 
 234 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 like this glass when 'tis full. Where is the 
 man who is not ready to raise it to his lips ? 
 No, no; take my word for it, there is nothing 
 like money: 'tis better than brains." 
 
 The excitement in Middleshire is intense. 
 
 " Have you heard the news 1" 
 
 '' No— what r 
 
 " He is dead at last." 
 
 " Who is dead r 
 
 " What ! you don't know ? Slumberton 
 is dead !" 
 
 ^^ Old Slumberton ? Indeed, then there 
 is no time to be lost. Yorke must be brought 
 forward." 
 
 *' Yorke must be opposed. Fitz-King is 
 the man." 
 
 " We must do this — we must do that !" 
 
 It is like the awakening out of a deep sleep. 
 Middleshire is now wideawake, for Slumberton 
 is dead !
 
 Beer Wins. 235 
 
 CHAPTER XYITI. 
 
 BEER WINS, 
 
 MiDDLESHiRE is indeed aroused. There are 
 meetings of the county magnates ; election- 
 eering agents start into life like butterflies in 
 the summer sun : Sharpus and Sly, who do 
 all the law-work of the county, put on a 
 cheerful, cheery look, such as they have not 
 had for years ; and in all directions' toiling 
 along the county roads are to be seen wag- 
 gons laden with preparations for the coming 
 fray, in the shape of huge barrels filled with 
 the sustaining and exhilarating beverage pre- 
 pared by that patriotic and philanthropic firm, 
 Souseman and Soppit. 
 
 A contested election at last. 
 
 ** Hurrah ! A real trial of strength! 
 Middleshire is no longer to be under the 
 shadow of apolitical compromise. No I we will 
 fight it out ! We will nail our colours to the 
 mast ! No surrender !"
 
 236 Doctor Victovh 
 
 na. 
 
 But as the time approaches, an unaccount- 
 able fear falls upon the Middleshire electors : 
 there is a vague rumour that Lord Tom Fitz- 
 King, the Whig nominee, show symptoms of 
 wavering. There can be no bribery, of course ; 
 but it is said that there is a suspicious number 
 of desertions from the Liberal ranks. Lord 
 Tom FitzKing is not rich. Why should 
 he impoverish himself in a hopeless cause ? 
 Alas ! the rumour is but too true. Lord Tom 
 FitzKing suddenly finds that his health has 
 become so delicate that he is utterly incapaci- 
 tated from undertaking Parliamentary duties ; 
 he puts forward a manifesto to that effect ; 
 and is off" for the Engadine by the next train. 
 
 The whole county is in a state of confusion ; 
 the Liberals in a state of collapse ; the Con- 
 servatives almost as gloomy as if they had 
 suffered a defeat — when, ting, ting ! the cur- 
 tain rises to a new act — and a new actor takes 
 Lord Tom FitzKing's part. 
 
 " Good news ! Great news ! We are to 
 have a fight after all. But he has no chance. 
 He is a dreamer." '' He is a good fellow. He 
 is just the man." "No — he is a democrat ; he 
 is a socialist." " What are his principles ? 
 What does he say ?" 
 
 He says only this :
 
 Beer Wins, 237 
 
 " Gentlemen, 
 
 " In obedience to the request of a 
 numerously signed requisition, I beg to offer 
 myself as a candidate for the vacant seat in 
 the representation of the county." 
 
 And he signs himself : 
 
 '' Francis Hawthorne." 
 
 Lady Arabella thinks it is unneighbourly ; 
 Eva that it is unkind. Geraldine suddenly 
 discovers that she hates politics, and that 
 elections are her peculiar aversion. She re- 
 tires into private hfe, and obstinately refuses 
 to leave the house " until all this horrid vulgar 
 iuss is over." She even takes off the blue 
 and orange ribbons she had taken so much 
 trouble to procure. Lady Arabella is angry ; 
 but she has no time to spare ; she owes every 
 moment of her time to her husband — to her 
 country. She is here, there, and everywhere. 
 She is buying up all the dark-blue and orange 
 in the county. She has kissed so many babies 
 that she says she cannot get the horrid smell 
 of babies out of her nose. She shakes great 
 rough hands till her own aches. She tells 
 everybody who has a vote that Mr. Yorke is 
 his best friend. She no longer complains of
 
 238 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 being ereintee, and sits bolt upright in her 
 carriage, without cushions. Everybody is 
 charmed with her kindness and condescen- 
 sion. 
 
 As for Mr. Yorke, he was not idle. He, 
 too, is driving all over the county, from 
 one committee-room to another ; and the 
 whole county has become one mass of com- 
 mittee-rooms. There is hardly a public-house 
 that has not a great printed placard with 
 ^' Central," or ^* District,", or " Sub-committee 
 Koom" stuck up in its windows, with an ad- 
 dress from Mr. Yorke underneath, in which^ 
 in eloquent terms, he refers to our glorious 
 Queen ; to our imperishable constitution ; to 
 the rights of property ; to the duties of 
 Churchmen ; to liberty of conscience ; to the 
 claims of the agricultural interests ; to the 
 malt-tax and cheap beer. There is no Cerbe- 
 rus in the shape of a county voter to whom 
 he does not throw a sop. But he is not con- 
 tent with this. Wherever he finds a room 
 large enough, he speaks in it ; wherever there 
 is a balcony he speaks from it — he has bought 
 up so many bronchial troches that they have 
 become scarce, and he has sucked more 
 oranges in a few days than he had sucked 
 before in his whole life. No doubt he was
 
 Beer Wins, 239 
 
 right in this. Electors do not care for 
 dumb candidates — there is no satisfaction 
 in a man who cannot talk. It is not every- 
 one who has time to read speeches ; but most 
 people like to hear them when they are likely 
 to contain flattering allusions to themselves. 
 
 Mr. Yorke was not a speaker likely to attract 
 much attention within the House ; but as a 
 stump orator seeking to obtain the suffrages 
 of a mixed community he certainly knew what 
 he was about, for he never spoke as if he pos- 
 sessed any special knowledge himself, but 
 simply as if he had been allowed to hold a 
 brief for those who had been so kind as to 
 favour him with their opinions ; and he had the 
 art of making it appear that he was speaking 
 for, and not to, those he was addressing. 
 
 He was what might be called a very safe 
 speaker, for he dealt in platitudes and well- 
 worn ti-uths to such an extent that it was 
 almost as difficult, to criticise as to contradict 
 him. 
 
 " Aye, how well he do talk ! He be a 
 real farmer's friend." 
 
 " None of your nonsense about disesta- 
 blishment. He takes just my views of the 
 Church. Every sound Churchman should 
 rally round him."
 
 240 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 ^' He don't say much for Dissent ; but then 
 there's no humbug about him ; and he spends 
 more money in my shop than the whole boiUng 
 of Salem Chapel put together." 
 
 '' Yes, yes ; it is what I have always said — 
 take off the malt- tax, and there will be no more 
 talk about drunkenness. The people would 
 then be able to get really cheap beer ; for 
 there would be no excuse for its not being 
 good, and then we should get rid of this 
 radical teetotalism, which is only rank social- 
 ism in disguise." 
 
 '' I like to hear him talk ; he puts things 
 so clear like. He knows what he is about ; 
 he would not be the rich man that he is, if he 
 didn't." 
 
 Of course he was asked questions, and 
 someof them to ordinary men might have been 
 considered posers. But Mr. Yorke, not being 
 an ordinary man, always had his answer ready 
 — an answer so admirably framed, that it 
 suited all parties equally well ; the oracles of 
 Delphi could not haye been more craftily 
 contriyed. 
 
 Of course there was no bribery. Mr. Yorke, 
 as a ofood Churchman, would have been the 
 last man in the world to have sanctioned such 
 a proceeding ; besides, he felt that, rich man
 
 Beer Wins, 241 
 
 as he was, the expenses of a contested election 
 in a county were quite heavy enough as they 
 were. Committee-rooms had to be paid for. 
 The time of those voters — and they were legion 
 — who were employed as messengers and 
 agents, suddenly became of great value ; and 
 all the world seemed to have lost the power 
 of walking, judging from the number of ve- 
 hicles which had to be placed at its disposal. 
 Then came looming in the distance that 
 voluminous document which would be sure 
 to end with a line of four figures, just above 
 the signatures of Sharpus and Sly. 
 
 No, Mr. Yorke was a strictly conscientious 
 man ; he would not bribe. 
 
 And then he was almost certain of success. 
 
 " They keep it dark," said Mr. Mortimer, 
 " but they know as well as I do they are 
 running the wrong horse. The baronet is a 
 good un enough to go, but he is ticklish to 
 handle, and given to bolt." 
 
 The fact was, the amiable country gentle- 
 men of Liberal proclivities, who had signed the 
 requisition to Sir Francis and formed his com- 
 mittee, were in despair. He had put forward 
 an address, without having consulted them 
 upon it, which they were unanimous in 
 characterising as " most objectionable ;" and 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 afterwards, id stead of having endeavoured to 
 remove any injurious impressions this in- 
 judicious address might have created by 
 explanations which would have placed his 
 views before those- who had been shocked by 
 them in a somewhat different light, he had 
 insisted uponretainingitintact,and of referring 
 to it on every occasion as the exact expression 
 of his political convictions. Not content with 
 this, he was given to answering questions 
 with a candid recklessness which set all the 
 rules of political reticence at defiance. 
 
 '^ What is to be done with such a man ?" 
 asked the Chairman of the Liberal Com- 
 mittee, Mr. Thomas Freeman. '' He shocks 
 everybody ; he is always putting the truth 
 before the public as naked as my hand ; he 
 wants prudence. Look at all our great public 
 men. See how they dress up facts. It is 
 too bad ; no man can hope to be at the head 
 of the poll who acts as he does." 
 
 No, indeed ! no man could. His address 
 was as bad as bad could be. It offended 
 everybody. Mr. Mortimer was quite right 
 — the Liberals were running the wrong 
 horse. 
 
 For what could be hoped from a candi- 
 date who declared that he would not spend a
 
 Beer Wins. 243 
 
 penny beyond what was absolutely necessary 
 and legitimate ; that he wanted neither com- 
 mittee-rooms nor messengers ; and who had 
 answered, when asked how his supporters 
 were to get to the poll, " On their legs." 
 
 Give and Take, the Liberal lawyers, pro- 
 nounced him to be utterly impracticable. 
 
 " We knew that he was a gentleman of 
 advanced opinions, but we thought he would 
 have had a greater regard to his interests 
 than to act in this wild manner." 
 
 Then he was so candid ! 
 
 He was so anxious that people should 
 know what he meant, that he left them no 
 loophole to creep out of. 
 
 ^* Do you really mean that you approve of 
 manhood suffrage ?" 
 
 " Yes, under certain conditions. It is the 
 only means of elevating the masses." 
 
 " And let women have votes ?" 
 
 " Decidedly, with certain restrictions ; 
 under the same conditions as the men." 
 
 " And seats in Parliament ?" 
 
 " Assuredly, if the constituency preferred 
 to have a woman for their member." 
 
 '' May I be allowed to ask a question ? 
 Would you interfere with capital ?" 
 
 16—2
 
 244 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 ^' Certainly, in all cases where interference 
 might be needed." 
 
 " You forget, sir, capital is like water ; it 
 will always find its own level." 
 
 " Very true," said Sir Francis. " So true, 
 that I would wish no better simile ; and 
 what does water do when it is left to find its 
 own level 1 Simply this — it turns plains into 
 swamps, or passing by large tracts leaves 
 them deserts. And so it remains, till man 
 comes in to irrigate the desert and to drain 
 the swamp. The tendency of capital is in 
 like manner to accumulate unduly in a few 
 hands, so that large numbers of the com- 
 munity are left destitute ; and it then be- 
 comes the duty of those upon whom the 
 regulation of society has devolved to devise 
 means to check this tendency as far as 
 possible, and to promote schemes for its 
 greater distribution." 
 
 ^'^ It seems to me, then, that you would 
 interfere with the rights of property." 
 
 •' I deny that property has only rights — it 
 has equally its duties." 
 
 ^' Would you not allow me to do as I please 
 with my own ?" 
 
 "Only so far as you might do so without 
 injury to others."
 
 Beer Wins, 245 
 
 " I don't quite understand. Let me put it 
 more clearly. I am the owner of a great 
 estate, and my individual idiosyncrasy makes 
 me place all my happiness on my farms being 
 left unlet, the ground untilled ; tell me, sir, 
 would you oblige me to cultivate it ?" 
 
 " Before / answer your question, let me 
 ask you one ? I am the owner of the county 
 of Northumberland, and my especial idiosyn- 
 crasy makes me base all my happiness upon 
 its being kept waste ; would that be any 
 justification for my being allowed to do that 
 which would be so manifestly injurious to 
 others ?" 
 
 *' Of course not — the question is absurd ; 
 that is statinor an extreme case. You doc- 
 
 o 
 
 trinaires always deal with extreme cases." 
 
 " Allow me, however, to ask what would 
 be the difference, as regards the public weal, 
 between one man allowing the county of 
 Northumberland to remain waste, and a 
 thousand men allowing an area equal in 
 extent to the county of Northumberland to 
 remain so ?" 
 
 *' Then, sir, you would divide properties. 
 What would become of our great families V 
 
 *' It would simply be the replacing of one 
 very rich family by many tolerably rich
 
 246 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 ones. Younger sons^ being men of average 
 energy and ability, having capital to work 
 with, would be able to found fresh fortunes. 
 And many nice girls, who are now doomed 
 to lead a life of poverty and 'single blessed- 
 ness, would be able to marry men of their 
 choice. So that you would have thousands 
 of useful centres where you have only hundreds 
 now. Besides, there would be another advan- 
 tage." 
 
 ' ' Pray, sir, what is it ?'* 
 
 " There would not be so many younger 
 sons to be provided for ; and then, and not 
 till then, dare we hope to see a reduction in 
 our public expenditure." 
 
 " But, as regards the House of Peers, 
 surely you will allow that some of our 
 greatest statesmen have been peers ?" 
 
 *' Undoubtedly ; and such men would 
 probably be found either in the House of 
 Commons or in the Senate. But is it not 
 humiliating to know that, as things are, a 
 born idiot — provided he has a sufficient 
 modicum of brains to prevent his being 
 qualified for an asylum, and not one atom 
 more — has a place in the legislature which 
 gives him the same weight, as regards his 
 vote, as the ablest man of his time, who may
 
 Beer Wins, 247 
 
 have earned his peerage by a lifelong devo- 
 tion to the consideration of economic ques- 
 tions and to the performance of impor- 
 tant official duties in the service of the 
 State r 
 
 *' Oh, Sir Francis, Sir Francis !" 
 " And this beer question ? Is it true, as I 
 have heard, that you would confiscate the 
 property of brewers V 
 
 " I would do nothing of the kind. I would 
 simply turn fiction into fact, and give a bond 
 fide license — not to the house, but to the 
 individual whose name is written upon it, to 
 terminate with his withdrawal from business. 
 Nominally it is so now ; but our Jaws are so 
 ingeniously framed by the interested indi- 
 viduals who have the making of them, that 
 in reality the great mass of the licenses are 
 in the hands of a few capitalists." 
 
 '*' What would you efiect by this change T 
 " Greater freedom of action as regards 
 those upon whom the granting of licenses 
 devolves, and an enoi'mous reduction in the 
 number of gin-palaces and public-houses ; for 
 the greater number of them would not exist 
 a moment were they not owned by capi- 
 talist brewers and distillers." 
 
 ** But surely the brewers could make ad-
 
 248 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 vances to the publicans, so that the results 
 would be the same ?" 
 
 "Not at all. The brewers might make 
 advances, it is true, but if they did, they 
 would have no security for their money." 
 
 " Of course, sir, you would be in favour of 
 compensation ?" 
 
 " Compensation ! May I ask for what ? 
 Because a number of capitalists have made 
 enormous fortunes out of the public by the 
 advantages obtained from a monopoly for 
 which they have paid comparatively next to 
 nothing, they are to receive — when it is 
 found necessary for the benefit of public 
 morality that this monopoly should be 
 abolished — a large sum of money, either in 
 lieu of fortunes yet unmade, or as a set-off 
 against the depreciation of a property the 
 value of which had nothing but monopoly 
 11 nd the continuance of monopoly for its basis. 
 Really, sir, this is too absurd ! The value of 
 commodities, of shares, of stocks, of land, of 
 everything you may be pleased to name, is 
 being altered every day by a variety of causes 
 — very frequently by the action of Government 
 and by legislative enactments ; yet w^ho ever 
 talks of compensation ? No, my dear sir ; it 
 will not do ; the brewers have been putting
 
 Beer Wins. 249 
 
 their hands into the poor man's pocket quite 
 long enough ; and I suspect they will nut 
 find themselves penniless when they are 
 obliged for the future to keep them in their 
 own." 
 
 Sir Francis had gradually become excited, 
 and his audience could hardly be expected to 
 remain calm. If he had had for his object 
 the alienation of the great majority of the 
 voters he could not have taken a better line. 
 The landowners looked upon him as so dange- 
 rous that the word Communist was not 
 strong enough for him ; every man who could 
 lay claim to being a capitalist shrunk from 
 him in dismay. The clergy regarded him 
 with intense dislike ; the Dissenters with 
 suspicion ; even the philanthropists, who 
 might have been expected to have been on 
 his side, were against him. 
 
 To their questions on many subjects his 
 answers had been favourable. They had 
 loudly applauded when he declared that it 
 was the duty of all governments to look after 
 the poor, and see that those necessary things 
 were done for them which they were unable 
 to do for themselves. Yes ; they had even 
 cheered him, but more faintly, when he said : 
 
 **Much of the misery and degradation
 
 250 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 which is to be found amongst the pooi:er 
 classes in modern society is due to the 
 manner in which the rich have neglected 
 their duties. For the poor must be helped — 
 not by charity, which, taken in the aggregate, 
 is nothing but an easy method for soothing 
 the consciences of those who might otherwise 
 be made to feel uneasy when forced to recog- 
 nise the misery proceeding from their neg- 
 lect — but by taking care that out of their 
 abundance those who are in themselves help- 
 less should be provided with all those neces- 
 saries, without which life becomes brutalised 
 and society endangered. And if this cannot 
 be done, or is not done, by individual effort, 
 then it becomes the duty of the State to step 
 in and see that full justice be done to all. 
 For instance, air and light and water and 
 shelter are primary necessaries ; but how can 
 the poor man obtain them unless they are 
 provided for him by others ? He cannot 
 build a house, so he must put up with what 
 he can get, perhaps with one that is small, 
 overcrowded, ill-lighted, badly drained, that 
 has no ventilation, and a water-supply which 
 would mean slow poisoning were he not ad- 
 dicted to other means for slaking his thirst ; 
 and yet look at our overcrowded villages and
 
 Beer Wins, 251 
 
 the squalid meanness of the poorer quarters 
 in many of our towns, and ask yourselves 
 whether there are no rich men whose duty it 
 is, by a co-operative effort, to come to the 
 rescue. (Sensation.) I will not deny that 
 much has been done ; but it has generally 
 been done in a perfunctory, spasmodic 
 manner. If it were not so, should we still 
 find so many myriads of the industrious poor 
 crowded together in reeking courts and 
 alleys, or having no other shelter than that 
 afforded them each night, for a few pence, in 
 a common lodging-house ? Or think you, if 
 this principle were better understood, that a 
 rich town like Liverpool would have spent a 
 third of a million of money on a ' people's 
 park ' before some better provision had been 
 made for housing the industrious dock 
 labourers than the filthy quarters they are 
 compelled to live in, with a whisky-shop at 
 every corner ? Why, positively, they might 
 have done all that was needed, instead of 
 making the park, and have got five per cent. 
 for their money into the bargain ; but then 
 they would have had no monument in proof 
 of their munificence — and corporations, just 
 like individuals, like to have something to 
 show for their money, something that people
 
 252 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 may point to and say: 'Just look and see 
 what has been done.' This is why, whilst 
 people are still to be found dying in our 
 streets from destitution, there is no lack of 
 money wherewith to build big churches with 
 tall spires." 
 
 Now the bump of benevolence may be 
 very largely developed, but most people have 
 other bumps as well ; hence it was that Sir 
 Francis's philanthropic friends did not quite 
 like the kind of cap he was fitting on their 
 benevolent heads. Then, too, it is bad enough 
 to be preached at from the pulpit, but it is 
 still worse to be preached to by anyone out 
 of it. They did not like his treatment of 
 the subject, so they changed it. 
 
 Some of them had long since given up as 
 hopeless the question of suffering humanity, 
 and transferred all their sympathies to suffer- 
 ing " animality." Just as many good men 
 and women, despairing, as it would seem, of 
 being able to make any impression on the 
 ignorance and vice of the masses at home, 
 devote all their time, or their money, or their 
 energies, to the reformation of some amiable 
 man-eating race abroad. 
 
 Hence it was that Mr. Placidus Simkin- 
 son, a member, indeed vice-president, of many
 
 Beer Wins. 253 
 
 benevolent associations, and chairman of the 
 lately-formed Cheap Cats'-meat Company, 
 and who — perhaps it was out of respect for 
 the offices he held — always appeared in public 
 in a white tie and black kid gloves, felt that 
 the time had arrived when Sir Francis should 
 be called upon to declare himself upon wliat 
 Mr. Simkinson characterised as " one of those 
 vital points which has been so insidiously 
 touched upon by science, and which, perhaps 
 more than any other, requires the interven- 
 tion of the legislature, in order to prevent 
 those humane instincts being perverted and 
 destroyed, without which the whole social 
 structure can be said to have no firm founda- 
 tion." 
 
 " I would, sir, on my own part, and in 
 behalf of many of my friends, ask what are 
 your views on vivisection ?" 
 
 '* Vivisection !" said Sir Francis ; " why, 
 really, gentlemen, you are questioning me on 
 a subject with regard to w^ich I must cun- 
 iess to knowing very little. Indeed, I do 
 not care to know much, for I regard it simply 
 as a detail ; and I always prefer, when I can, 
 dealing with principles. I believe in con- 
 nection with vivisection some horrible cases 
 of cruelty have been cited which every
 
 254 Doctor Victoria, 
 
 humane and reasonable man must condemn ; 
 but we must never allow ourselves to con- 
 found the abuse with the use : and it is quite 
 possible that within certain limits the prac- 
 tice of vivisection may not only be justifiable^ 
 but necessary. I beg you to remark I only 
 say possible, for I have not as yet had time 
 to enter fully into the matter. But this I 
 do know," said Sir Francis, emphatically, 
 " that of all the rank impostures in this world 
 of sham, there can be none greater than the 
 horror professed by many men with regard to 
 this practice, who are themselves habit uallly 
 guilty of the greatest cruelties to the lower 
 creatures ; and this without even a pretence 
 of furthering scientific truth, or of acting for 
 the benefit of others, but simply and wholly 
 for their own selfish pleasure and amusement. 
 I speak, sir, of those who hunt and shoot 
 and fish ; and I ask you, gentlemen, whether 
 it is in an assembly in which a large propor- 
 tion of the members are sportsmen, that such 
 a question can be dealt with without the 
 grossest hypocrisy ? For what man can lay 
 claim to a just perception of what is right or 
 wrong in such a matter whose, chief delight 
 is to play a salmon, hunt a fox or hare, and 
 show his skill as a shot by shooting at
 
 Beer Wins. 255 
 
 pigeons ? Not that I think all sport is 
 criminal ; that opens out another question. 
 But I cannot help sometimes asking myself 
 whether directing the moral forces of the 
 country upon these comparatively minor 
 matters does not do injury, from its divert- 
 ing the public mind from the major ones." 
 
 Mr. Placidus Simkinson was not satisfied. 
 
 *' Sir/' he said angrily, ^' I find — and my 
 friends are of the same opinion — that your 
 answer is highly unsatisfactory ; and I do 
 not see how it is possible for us to support -a 
 gentleman who can speak so lightly of such 
 an outrage on humanity as vivisection, and who 
 holds in so little esteem the labours of some of 
 the best of men — aye, and of women — who 
 have devoted themselves to this great cause." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said Sir Francis, " if I 
 should have been misunderstood, for no man 
 honours more than I do those who are really 
 workers in a noble cause." 
 
 Too late ; too late ! The philanthropists, 
 led by Mr. Placidus Simkinson, become 
 Conservatives for the nonce, and vote for the 
 Conservative candidate to a man. 
 
 Ah, Sir Francis, Sir Francis ! It is indeed 
 too late. What can possibly be done with 
 such a man ?
 
 256 Doctor Victoria. 
 
 Even his old friend Dr. Pringle looked 
 grave. He had thrown himself into the 
 fray with even more than his usual energy ; 
 but go where he might, he was sure to find 
 that something had been said or done by Sir 
 Francis which had done far more injury to 
 his own cause than to that of his opponent. 
 It is true that most of the opinions which Sir 
 Francis had put forth were equally professed 
 by him ; but there is a time for all things. 
 Virtues may be carried so far that they may 
 do as much harm as vices. 
 
 ^* My dear friend," he wrote to Sir Francis, 
 ** you have made a sad mistake. The great 
 bulk of those who are pleased to call them- 
 selves Liberals are totally unprepared to 
 accept many of the principles which are so 
 dear to us both, and your frank profession of 
 them has done much to injure the cause all 
 real lovers of progress have so much at heart. 
 If you would succeed in educating the public 
 mind you must seek to be practical, and confine 
 your efforts within the limits of the possible. 
 The Anglo-Saxon race, as a whole, detests 
 change, unless it commends itself by some 
 prospect of immediate and certain advantage; 
 and new ideas are never acceptable — indeed, 
 there is no place for them until the preju-
 
 Beer Wins. 257 
 
 dices upon which all our habits and convic- 
 tions are formed have been undermined by 
 those secret, silent, and slow, but sure, pro- 
 cesses through which time works out such 
 marvellous results. That is why those men 
 have succeeded best as reformers who have 
 confined themselves to dealing with one thing 
 at a time, and have taken care that in deal- 
 ing with that one thing they have not been 
 too far ahead of the wants and wishes of 
 those they sought to benefit. For, believe 
 me, the most undeniable truths will always 
 reveal themselves as truths to the few long 
 before they will be accepted as even worthy 
 of attention by the many ; you must not, 
 therefore, force truth down people's throats 
 like physic. They will spue it up if you do." 
 
 '*If the electors don't like me and my 
 principles, there is Mr. Yorke," said Sir 
 Francis. 
 
 The electors did not like Sir Francis and 
 his principles, so Mr. Yorke became the man 
 of their choice. He was returned with an 
 overwhelming majority, and the Liberal 
 interest in Middleshire had received a crush- 
 ing defeat. 
 
 " All through Sir Francis and his uncom- 
 promising candour. Confound it, sir! better 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 2o6 
 
 Doiitor Victtyna, 
 
 put up i\ mau who cannoL speak at aJl, than 
 a fellow wKo will shout out evervthinof, and 
 does not know when to shut his mouth. 
 Xo wonder that beer has won !'* 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 A5» saai^ PBxsTEBa as3> EUEcrnBenmcKS, omarocDi.
 
 M^mm. 
 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 037330997 
 
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