Q v^ LIE) RAR.Y OF THE UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS 823 5V>5\2t v.i Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/barteredhonourno01sher BY THE SAME AUTHOR. WHISPERS. A VOLUME OF LYRICAL POEMS, BY ROBERT HARBOROUGH SHERARB. Printed on Special Dutch Handmade Paper, and bound in Parchment. Price Six Sh L L I N G s. REMINGTON ? ^ CHAP. I. A Y'oung Poet... II. Money Matters III. Charles goes " Down " IV. " Only an Old Maid " V. A Matrimonial Offer ... VI. Monstrous Treachery ... VII. Student Life at Leipzic VIII. Euphrosyne de Bienaimee IX. The Two Friends X. Mrs. Pimmins' Lodger XI. Dorothy to the Rescue XII. An Old Acquaintance... XIII. Euphrosyne de Bienaimee's Childhood XIV. On Board the Steamship Fooricaarls XV. A Recognition... XVI. Discontent XVII. Tasting the Lacrimae Christi ... XVIII. Rivals ... XIX. At the Villa Dresda XX. Arnolfo di Caserta 23 36 49 71 87 104 120 136 155 172 190 203 217 235 256 269 282 293 ^ A BARTERED HONOUR- CHAPTEE I. TOTING POET. OxFOKD was full of life again ; the winter term had again commenced_, and freshmen and old stagers were mixed np in a mass, where they were not easily to be distinguished, except for the fact that the freshmen looked the more well-dressed and the less self-conscious. But we have neither to do with freshmen nor old stagers, neither with schools nor dons^ nor tradesmen, nor proctors, nor any of those characters with whom the outsiders are better acquainted than those who pass through the Uniyersity, from accounts of the life there, beginning with the " Life and Adventures of Yerdant Green ^' down to the crude articles on University life, which young Crookedshanks gives to the light of day and to an admiring family circle through the columns of the Bumbleshire Herald, that celebrated county organ. But alone in a room in St. Mary's College there sat one yoang man, before whose bright eyes, VOL. I. B Z A BAETEKED HONOUE. half-closed in ecstatic joy, there floated fairer visions than all the vulgar world below could ever bring forth; fairer and purer visions than the snobbery of wealth, of pedigree, of coat or terrier, of meerschaum or exuberance of foolish words spoken at the Union_, of all the follies of our young men. 'Nor were they the pedantic gods or god- desses that danced before him, but purer divinities, soul begotten, whose white feet struck the marble floor of his palace of art, his soul's lordly pleasure ground, to the tune of a music which was his own, music such as Swinburne alone has brought down from realms higher than St. Cecilia could command. I have no insight into them, nor what they were can I fashion forth, but of a surety it was no ordinary joy that lit up those eyes, and glowed on the furrowed forehead, nor were those ordinary time-born melodies which the lips breathed forth, while the long taper fingers struck the table to their tune. Yes ! Benson was a poet, in every sense and thought; it was but a few weeks ago that he began to write, dating from when this story begins, yet there was in him much music, and many emblems, unsuggested and inborn^ to delight the world with. Well, then, here sat, in this room of St. Mary's College, Charles Hauberk Benson, doing nothing and wanting nothing, save to be left alone and in quiet, for all that poets of a later day find melody A YOUJ^^G POET. 3 in the voices of many wintered crows or of bleat- ing lambs. Benson vowed enmity to rooks and lambs, whose cawings and bleatings came in between his dact^'ls and anapaests, spondees and iambics, in a right ruthless manner. On this Saturday night in particular, it being a fine evening, the crows were lively enough, and were gfivinof solos and choruses with much vigor. From his reverie ujDstarted the poet, and, going to the window, looked out and shook his fist at an old rooster, who was welcoming his sooty brethren in loud and dissonant monologues. Benson looked out ; the trees were fast losing their leaves, and falling leaves suggest sad and sweet fancies, so the young man, leaning on his window-sill, gave himself up once more to his day-dreams. To him, thus musing, there entered another young man, very different though, for Benson was tall and pale, and had long black hair, which fell down upon his shoulders, was sombrely clad, and bore about him an air of refined melancholy, which many of his contemporaries envied him and tried to imitate. His friend, or rather his acquaintance, was a very different youth. He, too, was tall, but fat and plump withal, and large enough to show two of the squares in the broad check pattern that he wore on his portly person. His eyes were close together, which made him look like a mouse, except when he looked rat-like, that is when he looked vicious. He was very incapable, but rich, 4 A BAETEEED HONOUE. and had only one idea — which, was beer. You hardly had known him five minutes, when he would bang his fist down on your table, and, talring you by the buttonhole, would shout out, "I may as well tell you at once, old fellow, Pm chiefly in the beer and sugar way myself." His father owned a brewery, his uncle grew sugar in the States. But, for all the malt that had sweated itself into his brain, he had plenty of conceit. He knew the power of money, for he was rich, and he also knew and could appraise the value of talent, for he lacked it and envied it. He would have given a blank cheque to be supplied with an origin-al idea, or a tun of his father's beer to the man who would laugh at one of his witticisms. But he took no steps to form his mind. All he cared for was to have the name of a wit, or a clever fellow. He would have even preferred to be considered mad. He had absolutely no taste, but. catching at the word " aesthete/' and vaguely connecting the words "high art" with sage-green wall papers, he banished all other ornaments from his room, save and except a bit of Morris's wall-paper, framed and glazed. I forget — two peacock feathers were on his mantelpiece. Well ! enough of Mangles' character for the present, we shall have enough of him as we go on. Benson, who heard the door open, turned round, and, seeing his visitor, stepped forward and said^ " Oh, it's you, Mangles. I am heartily glad you A TOIJNG POET. O have come, that old rook has been making me quite melancholy." " Yes, I got your note," answered Mangles, '^ and I've brought you the money, but don't try it on again, for the tap's off. Those that haven't got, mustn't want, that's all ! " and, so saying, he laid a five-pound note on the table. Benson had been desperately wanting to buy a new and beautiful edition of Shelley, which had just come out, and, pressed hard for money, had written to his friend Mangles for a loan of five pounds. Without heeding his friend's rudeness, but only colouring slightly, Benson took the money. It was strange enough, this friendship between these two young men, and stranger still that a mind so refined as Benson's, and nerves so finely strung as his, could bear this eternal jarring, those coarse sounds, that vulgar demeanour, which were all the manifestations of Mangles' presence. But I have even seen more curious alliances than this. I have seen a perfect Beau Brummel, a waxed and scented and curled fop, clad in the height of fashion, matchlessly gloved and booted, bubbling over with endearing affection for a most hideous bull-terrier, and never happy unless this Caliban of the brute creation was trotting beside the elegant heel of his well-shaped boot. Again, who has not seen the most beautiful women, mated to the veriest clowns, and keenly appreciative of male beauty, never content to be far from their ugly 6 A BARTERED HONOUR. husbands ? Ah ! 'tis a foil we all want for onr perfections ; we need an ngly setting to show off our lustre. It was thus that Benson cultivated the society of Mangles, who, in his turn, found it pleasant to be seen with the clever young man, who had wit and talent enough for both, and Mangles, by constantly being with Benson, borrowed, in some degree, his light. There was another, and a less agreeable con- nection between the two lads, for Benson was much in the brewer's debt, and could not choose but be civil to him, on this account alone. Mangles was very rich, and had a most substantial account at the Oxford Old Bank, while poor Benson, whose income was precarious, and never fully assured, was always in a state of financial want. The two hundred and fifty a year which his guardian allowed him, came in very irre- gularly, and through this slovenly treatment he had been obliged to run into debt when the in- stalments did not come, and when they did come, new wants had arisen to swallow up the ready cash. Not that there is any difficulty in making debts at Oxford. The Oxford tradesman is the most obliging of all persons, and his belief in the integrity of human nature is quite refreshing to contemplate. One has but to breathe a wish for any article in his shop, and by the time one reaches one's room, the coveted article has found its way there, and — into the bill. A YOUNG POET. / So, besides owing about two hundred pounds to various tradesmen of the town, Benson stood in- debted to Mangles for a tolerable part of the same sum. A worse creditor than the brewer^s son it would have been difficult to find. It was not unusual for him to cry across the quad to his debtor to re- mind him of the outstanding account, and in hall, at dinner, to order some treble X. in Benson's name, remarking that this would help to pay some of the interest of the sum owing. To a sensitive man like Benson, all this was naturally very unpleasant, but what could he do? He was in debt, and likely to remain so, and could only soften his bondage by being civil to his credi- tor, much as he inwardly disliked him. On the day, however, on which this chapter opens. Mangles was in a particularly bad and aggressive humour, and, after Benson had taken up the five- pound note, and locked it up in liis secretaire, this fine young gentleman thought good to say, "" Stop a bit, my poetical friend, you must give me a proper receipt for this, your letter won^t do as an acknowledgment, you know." '^ What sort of acknowledgment do you want ? '* returned Benson, quite civilly. " An I U with a stamp on it, or I mayn't get a farthing back. I can't trust you very far, you know." To this Benson answered nothing, but leant out of the window. 8 A BARTERED HONOrR. " I can't trust jou," said Mangles, '^ this is tlie fourth time this term that you have come begging for money, and I see no chance of ever getting it back." ''You shall see some of it back at once," answered Benson quietly, and rapidly unlocking the drawer, he drew out the five-pound note and tossed it contemptuously on the table. "There, take it, I can do without it." " Well, I declare, quite the lord now," said Mangles ; " he can toss the notes about as if he ever bad one to spare in his life-time. Please, Mr. Benson, while you are in this humour, go on tossing. You may toss five-pound notes very often before you have paid me. Oh, you won't answer me. Well, I declare." Finding Benson quite impervious to his biting and polished sarcasm, the worthy brewer took up the note, and, after having assured himself that it was the same one he had brought, he took his departure, so far with eclat as a door violently slammed to can help to produce it. Benson, left alone, turned from the window, and after pacing restlessly up and down the room a few times, threw himself into a cbair and, hiding bis face in his hands, began to weep bitterly. " Quite the lord,'^ gasped he, " quite the lord, did he say ? Aye, aye. Oh, father, father, father." Up with your fans mesdames and demoiselles, up with your hands, ye men of the world. Hide your blushes, all of you. Let it be told at once. A TOUXG POET. 9 Xet not this young man be introduced to yon under false pretences. He is, you know, the son of nobody, the son of the people. It is true that a noble earl had something to do with his pa- ternity. It is certain that every drop of his blood is as blue as a hundred generations can make it. It is true, lamentably true, pitiably true, that this unhappy young man is an aristocrat in heart and hand, in manner and feeling, in mind and body, but all this you know, is an impertinence on his part. Being nobody, he has of course no right to have graces and airs which everywhere proclaim him your superior, superior to you, ye excellent men and citizens, ye moral sirs and dames, born in wedlock the most lawful as yon are. Poor fellow, of aU things created and living, he alone is fatherless. After the unpleasantness which had arisen between the two friends, Benson, for a short time, dropped the acquaintance of his creditor, and the two frequently passed each other, one with cold contempt, and the other with an air of offended dignity, which sat but ludicrously upon him. This sort of thing had gone on for a week or two, wlien one afternoon Mangles walked into Benson's room and said — "Look here, Benson, 1 don't want to quarrel with you. I may have been rude to you the other day, but it isn't pleasant to have money owed one and yet to be treated with the Jiautongba way with which you treated me. If you will shake hands 10 A BARTERED HONOIJE. and apologize, I will do tlie same, and as I've got mj dogcart waiting at the corner, I shall be very glad if you will come with, me for a drive Abing- don way." Benson was by no means loth, to have an oppor- tunity of propitiating the brewer, for he had during the time after the quarrel, had leisure to go into his accounts, and had found with dismay that these were most unsatisfactory. He therefore gave his hand readily, and after a few words, the ill-assorted pair were on their way to Abingdon in a stylish dogcart, which bore emblazoned on it in gigantic device and rainbow colours, the coat-of- arms and escutcheon of the illustrious Mangles- Peeble-Mangles family. To such humiliation of pride, to such sacrifices of honour and self-respect do poverty and debt drive men every day. The reason that Mangles came round and humbled himself to Benson may not appear at first sight very clear. But it was a very simple one, and was this. At breakfast on that morning Mangles had found himself in company with some Balliol men, who were discussing the merits of various poems in the little brochure, called Wai/s and Strays, a volume of miscellaneous poems pub- lished each term at the 'Varsity, contributed to by the gadfly-bitten sons of the Muses, and generally as insipid a collection of human imbecility as it is possible to conceive. But the number for that particular term, in which these events took place. A YOUNG POET. 11 was a better one than usual, and the Balliolites were loud in their praises of Benson's poems. True it is, one or two of the other men, aestheti- cally inclined, gave a marked preference to some triolets on " A Swooning Swan's Soulf elt Elegy,'' but the majority of the men present, whose opinions were really of some value, being mostly men who had taken a first-class in Moderations for Latin and Greek, critically considered, and who were therefore fully qnalitied to express an opinion on an}' mortal subject, gave Benson much praise. Little by little, the conversation had turned itself entirely upon the young poet, and all was in his favour. His works, his prowess in the College sports, his eloquent attack on the policy of the Government, at the Union, were all held up as excellent and worthy of admiration. All this had, of course, a deep influence on Mangles, who began to repent having quarrelled with so distinguished and famous a member of Oxford society, and he had inwardly resolved to lose no time in making up his difference with Benson, and to once more enjoy the distinction of being seen in his company. These, then, were the several motives which impelled these two utterly different and unsympa- thetic natures to renew an intercourse so rudely broken off. Interest and self, self and interest — and what other motives obtain so largely as these- in this world of ours ? CHAPTER II. MONET MATTE R S. What man is there that, after a long life, can saj, '' I was never in any man's debt ? " If such there be_, go mark him well, for he is a sight worth looking at, and a man worth talking to twice over. Yes! and he is a man to be envied, and much envied, for he has never suffered the hardest of slavery, the most galling of penal servitude. There won't be many furrows on that man's forehead, and very few pain lines about his mouth, and his eyes will meet yours fearlessly and defiantly. Debt, debt is but a little word, but many are the stal- wart ba cks it has broken, many are the once happy homes it has pulled to the ground, many, many are the honourable names over which it has cast an ineffaceable slur and reproach. And an insidious villain is debt, which presents itself with winning smiles and deep bows, and makes itself quite at home with you, and at first is a most agreeable companion, but once try to get rid of your guest, no longer welcome, and you will find that the bland and smiling friend has grown into a huge and violent monster, who has fattened on your sub- stance and drained your best blood, and will not leave you till your ruin is complete. MONET MATTERS. IS- Benson was thoroughly and hopelessly in debt ; hopelessly, because he had become reckless. Find- ing himself unable ever to meet his liabilities, he had gone on getting more and more involved. Fresh books were added to his shelves every day, which he would perhaps never open ; fresh articles of furniture would be brought in each week^ pictures Rnd portraits, china, knick-knacks and ornaments were piled up on his tables and shelves with reckless profuseness. Clothes, too, he would buy, and ties and gloves and hats enough for two men, and reproach him- self all the time for dishonesty, and by a curious feature in his character, could never bring himself to look on the things he had not paid for as his own. He used to say to himself that the few years he had to spend at the University would probably be the years of his life which he could enjoy the most, and that he might as well benefit by the present. Knowing that his income was assured for life, he had proposed to pay off his debts after he left Oxford, and to enjoy those years fully. There was in him too a fatal pride, which was in his after-life a strange plague to him, knowing what blood was in his veins, and knowing the proud name of his father, whom he might never claim, he felt urged to display. He saw men who never knew their grandsires' names, sons of men who had risen but the yesterday, by mercantile speculation, by trades of all kinds, lavish in 14 A BARTERED HONOUR. grandeur and exhibition of countless wealth, dirtily amassed, as he thought, and he felt, oh, too wrongly, that he was obliged to keep pace with them. " Shall tradesmen and hawkers outvie a Hau- "berk ? Shall the sons of quacks and charlatans dress better and live better than I ? '^ he used to say to himself, when his conscience reproached him for some new useless extravao:ance. The tailors were his great creditors_, and I think they sufPer most, and cause the most suffering from the bad system of unlimited credit which prevails at the University. They are the most pressing of the Oxford tradesmen. On the morning after his drive to Abingdon, Benson was standing at his glass, shaving, when he heard a knock at his door, and having granted entrance, a small, withered man, of a decidedly Hebraic type, made his appearance, and with many bows, asked if he had the extreme " playsure ^' of seeing Mr. Benson before him. Benson, who, at first sight, had taken the stranger for a money-lender, answered in the affirmative, and bade him mention his business at once, with rather a rough accent. " 0, shur ! 0, shur! " said the little man, pro- ducing yards of a tape, a book of patterns and a note-book, ''I am one German tailor from London, one Meester Meyer of ze Bon Stret, and I have come to ask you, shur, if it be that you wants a beeutiful shute of clothes. I make ze clothes of MONET MATTERS. l5 most of ze clientlemen of zees college^ and I should have one very great plajsure in making ze clothes of a chentleman vis such a figoore as j-ours. " " I have not," answered Benson, ^^ the pleasure of knowing you at all. How came you to hear of me ? '' " Hear of you, shur ! " cried the little man, *' hear of you, shur ! Who have not heard of you ? I speak to ze tradesmen of ze town, and he say, ' Have you not been to Measter Benson of San Mari College^ ze reech Mr. Benson ? ' and so I come here, at vonce to have your very good name on my books." Before Benson very well knew what he was about, the little German had enveloped him in yards of tape, in which he appeared like a second Laocoon, struggling for his liberty, and was busy in taking the various measures ; he then produced a fasliion-book, and knew so well by flatterj^ and insinuation, how to manage the vain young man, that in another five minutes he had procured the order, and departed in triumph to make fresh conquests. '' Phew ! " said Benson, as the door shut after the tailor, "there's enterprise for you; but if he finds me slow in paying he has but himself to thank. He deserves not to be paid at all." And so I say also. After Benson had finished his toilet, and ordered a somewhat sumptuous breakfast, he sat down by 16 A BAKTERED HONOITE. the window to read his letters which his scout had brought in. The first two, being enclosed in blue thousand-for-half-a-crown envelopes, he laid aside, knowing them to be bills, the next was a letter bearing the Devizes post-mark, at which town his guardian lived. He opened this letter rapidly and read : — "Norton Grange, Devizes. "My Dear Charles, — " In answer to your last letter I write at once to forward you the twenty pounds you ask for, but I warn you earnestly to be as careful as possible, as your affairs are by no means satisfac- tory. I sincerely trust that you are working steadily, and will take a good place in the forth- coming Honour Mods. It is most important that you should qualify yourself for employment here- after, as affairs may take a bad turn, and you may be thrown some day on your own resources. There is, of course, no immediate prospect of this, but you should be prepared for any contingency. " Charlotte and the children send their love, and I remain, with hearty good wishes, " Your affectionate guardian, "John Elphinstonr." *' I wonder what he means," said Benson, puzzled, ^' this is the second iime this term that he has written thus. I thought my income was a settled one, and that I was to have it for my lifei I suppose, after all, he only wishes to frighten me MONET MATTERS. 17 into economy. Perhaps I had better be more careful." Strengthened with this good resolution, Benson went out but soon forgot it, and, passing a tobacconist's on the High, strolled in, and, going in to buy a box of lights, was prevailed npon by the tobacconist to purchase a box of Havanas, at three guineas the hundred. There was at that time in Oxford a certain tailor in business, who by his notorious dealings had earned for himself the soubriquet of The Spider. Spider Harrison was well-named; never was there a man who could so wheedle orders out of yonng and innocent freshmen; never was there a tradesman who so stoutly refused ready money ; but never, too, was there a man who charged such high prices, or a tradesman who so bitterly pursued his debtors when they owed him a suJBficiently large sum. Now on that self-same morning, when Benson had received the visit from tailor Meyer, Spider Harrison, who had been round to St. Mary's to spin fresh nets for a few new and silly flies, was hanging about the passage on the floor on which Benson's rooms were, and saw the German come out. Spider Harrison noted this, and when he got back round into the town he went about to different shops, and made certain inquiries, with the result that when he got back to his shop in the town he called for his portly ledger, and turning over the B leaves began to make up Mr. Benson's account, and, having had VOL. I. G 18 A BARTERED HONOUR. it fairly written out, walked round to St. Mary's College again, and going to Benson's rooms knocked and walked in. He found the unhappy youth in, enjoying one of the cigars he had purchased, and, making a deep bow, presented his bill, and said in a mild and gentle voice — "I have taken the liberty, sir, to bring you my bill, and should like a cheque for the same at once. A large cloth factor in Yorkshire having pressed me for his money, I am obliged to ask you for a settlement, much as I regret having to do so.^' Benson took the bill, and, looking at the total, was horrified to find that the small items had, bit by bit, tittle by tittle, amounted to the large total of forty-eight pounds seventeen and sixpence. Having seen this, he glanced confusedly at the tailor, who, however, appeared totally taken up with a picture of the Good Samaritan which hung over the mantel-piece. How different it is to answer a request made one face to face and through letter, how mute we are in the first place and how eloquently we can refuse when we only address the person on paper. Spider Harrison had known this, and had determined to see his debtor and bully the money out of him. Benson, who was in great confusion, rose and went to his desk, and sat down with the bill in his hand and took up a pen helplessly. What was he to do ? At last he said — ^'This is a most strange proceeding, Mr. MONET MATTERS. 19 IBCarrison ; what can jou mean bj bringing your bill here in this manner ? I am, of course, totally unprepared for it." " If you would kindly write me a cheque for the full amount, sir,^' said Harrison, '^T should be obliged." " I have no cheque-book," stammered poor Benson, " and no bank to draw cheques upon ; my ;allowance comes in in money every month." " Money even more acceptable than cheque," said the Spider. " As I said before, I am totally unprepared for this j I did not expect this bill at all. I thought you never sent your bills in for a year at the earliest. If I had thought otherwise I should never have come to your shop, where you certainly charge 30 per cent, higher than the London tradesmen. Will you explain yourself ? " " Explain myself sir, yes sir. Without referring to the 30 per cent, higher prices, which a gentleman always likes to pay a good price for a good article, and Lord Snobson comes to my shop regular, and the first of the nobility he is, and always contented, besides being the brother of the Earl of Graitpride. I mean to say that I am very happy to have the names of gentlemen on my book, if so be as gentlemen comes to me for their things and doesn't wander from shop to shop." " I do not understand you," said Benson. "Well," rejoined the Spider, "the fact is, I Jjnow you deal with four tailors in this town, and 20 A BARTERED HONOUR. with Meyer in London, and if yon have suited yourself better with them I can^t help it, but I want my money, and then you may go to what tailors as you please. I know for certain as you have a bill at Swepps', and Lavingblokes's, at Sprice's, and at Swindles', besides at Meyer's ! " "I do not see," said Benson again, "that this has anything to do with you ; and if you have been making inquiries about me, upon my word, I consider it highly impertinent. You may leave your bill here, and I will call and pay it ; and, mind you, I withdraw my custom from you for ever." The Spider, without appearing crushed by this threat, made as jaunty and defiant a bow as he dared, and walked out of the room. Thus Benson was already tasting the friuts of his thoughtlessness, but the worst had yet to come. By an evening's post in the next week after the Spider's visit, he received another letter from Devizes, but not in his guardian's hand. It was a hand which he had not often seen, but neverthe- less recognised as the wi'iting of Mrs. Ephinstone, the Charlotte to whom reference had been made in the morning's letter. Thinking it only a trouble- some letter, a pile of advice and home-truths, he did not open it at once, but left it lying on his table till he returned from the Union, it being de- bate night. He was to open the debate that night, and con- MONET MATTERS. 21 sequently had to stay till it closed to answer his opponents and substantiate his statements, and he consequently did not get back till eleven. But, although his friends said that he had never spoken better in his life, and though he met with unbounded applause_, and carried his motion by an overwhelming majority, he felt nervous and dis^ trait the whole time till he got home, and the letter lay like lead upon his mind. When he finally reached his room he found another letter on his table, which he opened first and which ran as follows : — '^Oxford, " To Charles H. Benson, Esq. " Sir, "Acting on instructions from our es- teemed client, Mr. George Harrison, tailor, of this town, we regret to have to enclose you a summons to appear before the Yice-Chancellor's court, on Wednesday next, with reference to bill of £49 Os. 6d. " We are, sir, your obedient servants, " Ferguson and Walker, '' Solicitors. " Amount of bill £48 17 6 " Charge for this letter 3 £4.9 6" Without paying much attention to this letter, Benson tore Mrs. Elphinstone's letter open, and found its contents to be as follows : — 22 A BARTERED HONOUR. " Norton Grange, " Devizes. '' My dearest Charles, " I cannot tell you how distressed I am to have to tell you the horrible news which my husband has requested me to acquaint you with. For a long time I have noticed a great reck- lessness in his way of livings and have known, without being able to check it, that we have been living very far ahead of our income. I feared my husband's temper too much to make any remark to him on the subject, but endeavoured to reduce the household expenses as much as possible. But, at last, matters had reached a climax, and being pressed on all sides by creditors, he has had to place his affairs into the Bankruptcy Court. !N"or is this all. Last night he called me into his study and, with tears in his eyes, told me that he had not only wasted all our property, but that he had made use of the sum left in trust for you for cer- tain speculations, by which he hoped to retrieve his own squandered fortune. " The speculations, which appear to have been of the wildest nature, have lamentably failed, and there is not a penny left for you. ^' My dear, poor boy, how can I pray you to for- give us for ruining you ? What can I say, or do to soften this terrible blow ? " But Benson could read no more, for he had fainted. CEAPTEE ni. CHAELES GOES " DOWX." "Who has not experienced how widely different an asj)ect we take of a plan or an action in the eveninof and the next morninor ? How enthnsi- asticallj we go to bed, and how self-derisively we get up. How, when we pulled our night-caps over our ears, what deep and clever plans they seemed to cover, and how, when we pulled them off, we seemed to cast the bright visions into the corner with them. Again, who has not felt that morning brings repentance, remorse, and self- reproach, and that, what the evening before con- doned, the fresh, unsophisticated morning holds up in the worst light, and that the shallow excuses we proposed to oui-selves vanish before the light of day as if ashamed of its brightness ? And also, with sorrow and affliction, how heavily they hang upon us in our waking moments, and the nglj nightmare that has made our sleep restless, and haunted us the weary night throughout, does not leave us, like other evil dreams, as soon as we open our weary, unrefreshed eyelids,but gathers strength and personifies itself into a horrible reality. The malefactor, the felon doomed to pay with his life the forfeit of cruel deeds, can never feel the horrors of his position as strongly as when he wakes and 24 A BARTERED HONOUR. first remembers what lie has done, where he is, and what is before him. Men who, on the pre- vious evening, have stoutly denied their guilt, have the next morning poured forth their bitter con- fessions, under the painful and absolute feeling of utter weakness. To Benson, when he awoke on the following morning, life seemed to hold out but bitter pros- pects. Ruin, poverty, and degradation, partly brought about by the cruel fault of others and partly by his own folly, seemed to lie before him. Eestless dreamer that he knew himself to be, he feared to grapple with life, like so many young men have been forced to do ; he dreaded the hard grinding work, the struggle for existence -which he saw coming upon him. Accustomed to look to an easy independence, he had intended to lead a roving Bohemian life, to be an idle son of the Muses, and to pass away a golden youth by the sunny seaboard of Southern Spain, or amid the looping vines on the Italian hills, seeking the old world amid the new, and devoting himself to the art he loved best, the art he loved beyond life, to poetry and music. And now this bright future had suddenly been dashed away, as the rosy-tinted clouds of a summer sky are ruthlessly driven off by a rough pitiless wind, and the prospect that was left appeared cold and grey, wretched and despair- ing. Indolent and self-indulgent as he had been, and nursing a fatal pride, he felt utterly unpre- pared to cope with his fate, and at first lay as if CHARLES GOES " DOWN/^ 25 completely stricken down, and sick at heart. But morning, which brings us the consciousness of our weakness, also brings us fresh strength ; and Benson, as soon as he was up, began to consider what was the best thing to do, what steps for the immediate present should be taken, for into the future he dared not, in his weakness, look. At breakfast, which, in his feeling of humilia- tion, bj a strange perverseness, he ordered as luxuriously as the Common Room could supply, he received another letter from Norton Grange, from Ms guardian himself, confirming the bad news, and holding out to the unhappy young man no hopes of any recovery, even in part, of the squandered fortune. The lines of moderate com- fort in the letter were, after profuse apologies and expressions of regret, the following : — "T assure you, however, my poor boy, that I shall use my best endeavours to work for us all, and that I sincerely hope and trust, in future years, to be able to repay what my unfortunate folly has robbed you of.^' "A pretty consolation,'^ said Benson, as he dashed the letter contemptuously aside, " a pretty promise to pay. How will he, with his wife and six children, ever get enough to live on ? How can he amass a fortune of six thousand pounds, and, even if he did, would he part with it ? Bah ! " After writing a few letters, one of bitter reproach to Mr. Elphinstone, and a note to Spider Harrison, 26 A BAETERED HONOUR. begging for an interview, he went straight to the Warden of his college. He was admitted at once, and found the Rev. Samuel Dobbs hard at work in his philological garden, grubbing at Greek roots with a most intense ardour. After a few preliminary remarks, Benson said, " I wish to leave Oxford, sir ; I wish to go down at once." "Indeed, Mr. Benson," said the Rev. Samuel Dobbs, nervously turning over the leaves of an enormous dictionary, and peering over it as if he felt safely intrenched there, and there only ; " in- deed, and pray why 9 " " I have no longer any right to be here. I hear to-day that my affairs have had a collapse, and I should only be staying here on false pretences.'^ He then proceeded to tell the learned and rever- end doctor of the letters he had received, and stated that, as the term was soon over, he should wish to leave, and see what he could do for himself, and try and get his afiairs into order. But out of the region of Greek roots the Rev. Samuel Dobbs possessed very little general intelli- gence, and Benson was obliged to repeat his dole- ful story more than once before the doctor appeared to understand the slightest detail of it. At last, taking another refreshing plunge into the lexicon, he looked up and said — ''And are — you — sure — Mr. Benson — that — this is your only reason for wishing to take this CHAELES GOES " DOWN." 27 very precipitous — step ? Have — you — not — per- haps—accumulated — unfortunate — debts, and are driven from the University on that account ? " My reasons, sir,'^ stammered Benson, who knew quite well that his debts, and especially the action of The Spider, were a very important reason for departing; "my reasons, sir, for ask- ing your permission to go down are those I have stated." Apart from his having given almost the whole of his life to the study of Greek, it was hardly fair to expect the Rev. Samuel Dobbs, M.A., to readily understand the meaning of distress, or to look for much sympathy from him. Drawing an income of £5,000 a year from the College, fatten- ing on the perquisites which fell to his share, always in the society of wealthy men, he knew but little of poverty, and did not wish to annoy himself by contemplating so ragged and uncom- fortable a thing. There might be such a thing, just as there might be a way of squaring the circle, but as long as there were Greek roots to investigate, and delicious old port wine to drink, you were not going to catch the Rev. Samuel Dobbs contemplating any such a thing as ragged misery. Oh, dear me, no. But still it did dawn on him that this young man was afSicted and needed consolation and advice, but it was annoying just as he had hunted the preposition ''pros'' into a perfect corner, and had thrown off his coat, and was just going to force it to confess its 28 A BAETEEED HONOUR, parentage and own its Sanscrit descent, to be interrupted and bothered by a young man who talked about his '' unfortunate j&nancial affairs ; " so, after casting about for some consolatory maxim out of the Greek tragedians, but finding none, and remembering no quotation but a most inappropriate witticism from Aristophanes about ragged suitors, he dived once more into his book, shook himself mentally and morally, and told Benson to go to his tutor, explain his affairs, and say that the Warden left the ultimate decision to him. Benson departed, and didn't the Warden just pitch into that preposition after he had gone. Not exactly, rather not. Benson's tutor, the Rev. and Hon. Josiah Dela- vere, was younger, and knew more about the world and its affairs than the "Warden, and readily gave Benson permission to go down, but refused to let the young man take his name off the books of the College ; as who knew what might happen to enable him to continue his studies at St. Mary's ; and added such sound advice as could be reason- ably expected in return for the various ten-pound notes, which term after term he had received from Benson for doing nothing at all except keeping his eye upon him, and granting hiai permission occasionally to go down to TiOndon, which is all that College tutors ever do, or can be expected to do for the money. When Benson returned to his rooms, he found a CHARLES GOES '^ DOWN." 29^ friend there, whom he liked best of all his 'Varsity friends. His name was George Douglas, and he was a scion of the celebrated Douglas family, and related to the noble Catherine of that ilk, who earned for herself the name of Kate Bar-lass, by thrusting her tender arm into the socket of the broken bolt, to keep the door closed a little longer and give her king time to escape. George Douglas was naturally very proud of his family and their descent, but was nevertheless a very agreeable companion. To him alone had Benson confided the painful secret of his birth, and Douglas, who had by no means strictly orthodox views on all social questions, had consoled him to the best of his power, and a most intimate friendship had sprung up between the two young men. As soon as Benson saw the young Scotchman he stepped forward eagerly, and, shaking his hand warmly, said, '^My dear Douglas, you are the very man I wanted to see. I have so much to tell you, and so much advice to ask of you." He then told Douglas the whole story, of his guardian's failure, of the suit brought against him by The Spider, and of his utter inability to meet any longer the expenses of the University. He frankly confessed all his debts, and told him that, apart from the change of a twenty-pound note, the thirty pounds caution-money deposited with the College authorities, and the value of his furniture, he possessed absolutely nothing to go on with, and that his debts were four times as ^0 A BARTERED HONOUR. nmcli. He added that he had determined to go down at once, and had obtained permission to do so, and begged the young Scotchman to help him in getting away. And Douglas helped him nobly, and like a real friend. First he helped him to pack, and advised him to take away with him all the portraits of actresses, &c., which he possessed. " For,'-' said he, " you mustn't leave anything behind which will discredit you with the dons." Then he stowed away a good many unportable things in his room, and lent Benson a large box to carry away some of the things with him ; and, in fact, did all he could for him. It was nearly night before they had finished their preparations, and Benson determined to go down next morning by the first train. He had made up his mind to go to Keswick, where he had a very dear and kind friend, a Miss Dorothy Crosthwaite, an elderly spinster, who had known him at school and took an interest in him for himself. She had often invited him to come and stay with her, but he had never been able to pay her other than very flying visits. Having determined to favour her with his company, he thought it right to apprise her thereof, and, going to the Post Office, he telegraphed to her as follows ; — " Charles Benson, " Miss Crosthwaite, " Oxford. " Keswick. *^ To avoid serious trouble I am leaving Oxford, May I come to you at once for a short time ? " CHARLES GOES " DOWN/' 31 He soon got an answer ; which ran : — ''Bear Boy — Always welcome to Dorothy ^ That being settled, he had only to wait the mornings and get away quietly. He had packed all his clothes_, and as many books and miscel- laneous articles as he could contrive to take away. His crockery, books, and pictures he left, the former in his cupboards and the pictures stowed away in Douglas's rooms. He did this because he feared The Spider might lay hands on them and carry them away in part settlement of his claim, and, as hardly anything in his rooms was paid for he wished the things to go back, after his departure, to their owners. He spent the rest of the evening in going round to the rooms of different friends and telling them he was leaving, but saying as little about the reason as possible. He found Mangles in such a state of intoxication that it was impossible to make him understand for a long time, and when this was accomplished the brewer fell round his neck and wept copiously, saying — " Goo-bye, old fellesh, chiefly beersugarline myshelf ; goo-bye, writesh to old Manglesh, remit balancesh due, and Gorbleshyer ! " Benson returned to his rooms, and, bidding his scout wake him early, went to bed. Morning soon came, and Benson, getting up, completed his packing. Whilst he was standing in the middle of the room, dolefully contemplating 32 A BARTERED HONOUR. its dismantled appearance and rueful at the- thought of leaving it, he heard a smart knock at the door, and his servant announced to him, to his dismay, that the young man from Harrison's was there and wished to speak to him. Benson went out into the passage and, closing the door, asked the man rather roughly what he wanted. The man, who was an assistant at Harrison's, and who had formerly been most subservient and polite to Benson, answered with as little respect and with as much insolence as he dared — " You wrote yesterday to Mr. Harrison about an interview. Mr. Harrison has no time for inter- views with you. He wants his money, and sharp, and he means for to get it." "Well," answered Benson, "you go and tell Mr. Harrison that he has driven me away from the University, and that I can only pay him by doing so and getting my caution-money out. I am off this morning, and you be off too." " Thank you, sir," said the man ; " good-morn- ing, sir," and departed at full speed. The porter from the railway having come, Benson superintended the loading of his effects, and, seeing them put into a cab, told the driver to go to the L.N.W. Station, and see the things labelled for Keswick. Then after tipping the college servants as liberally as he could, he de- parted with his friend Douglas. He preferred to walk, as he wished to fetch a CHARLES GOES " DOWN." 33 terrier of his, which was boarded out with a liverj stable-keeper. Having got his dog, the two friends walked on to the station J and just as they approached it they saw ahead of them the cab with Benson's property, and walking swiftly behind it the assistant from Harrison's. When the cab stopped at the station, the man spoke to the driver, who, however, appeared to take no heed of him but delivered the luggage to a porter. He was also addressed by the assistant, who appeared to wish to detain the luggage, but the porter paid him no attention, and it was safely deposited in the van of the train. Benson then took his ticket, a third-class single to Keswick, and got into the train. He was talking to Douglas, when he heard the assistant from Harrison's go up to the station- master and say : " There's a young man in the train running off with a lot of property, couldn't you stop the train for a minute or two, until Mr. Harrison comes up ? He is going to stop him.-" Before the station-master could answer, the worthy Harrison came rushing on to the platform, and dashing up to the carriage in which Benson sat, seized him roughly by the arm, and shouted — " Give me that coat, it's my property, you d d thief, give me that coat." Benson, although wildly indignant at this insult, had sufficient sense to see that The Spider^s reason VOL. I. D 34 A BARTERED HONOUR. in doing this was to get him to strike him, and thus have a reason for detaining him, pushed his hand off and said — " The coat will be paid for with the other things. Your own insolent behaviour has driven me to do this. There is my caution-money." "Your caution-money," sneered The Spider, with a most villanous face. "What's thirty pound agin three hundred ; there's that poor man in the Broad you owe thirteen pounds to, and you're robbing him. I don^t mind myself. I can afford to be cheated. Yes, and I would have given you a sov. or two, if you had asked me, to get back with." "Here, enough of this insolence," said Douglas, putting himself before the tailor, and closing the carriage door ; " stand off, I'm no customer of yours." " No, sir," said The Spider, " I only wish you were. Oh, if I had been but a minute sooner, I'd have stopped the things at the College, I would." He then stepped aside, and entered into conver- sation with a porpoise-like corn-dealer, and bade him watch Benson at Bletchley and see where he was bound for. The porpoise assented, and re- marked that he ought to have brought a policeman with him. A little man, who was sitting in an adjoining first-class carriage, and had been an indignant witness of the ruffianly tailor's insolence, put his head out of the window, and shouted to Benson: CHAELES GOES *^DOWN." 35 ^' Never mind, sir, leave him to me ; he called you a d d thief, and assaulted you. There are two and more witnesses, assault and slander, scandalum magnatum. We'll have him up, we'll sue him for damages and costs ; there's my card, sir, catch hold. Bennett, of Lincoln's Inn, barrister-at-law. Know the scoundrel well. Cheated me at Oxford. Spider Harrison, eh ? Settle old score with him ? '^ The crowd, which had witnessed the whole scene in great glee, broke up as the train slowly steamed out of the station. Benson, who had till then felt crushed in the overwhelming shame of his position, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed as he said — '^' And thus, father, your son, a Hauberk, leaves the University.^^ CHAPTER IV. Miss Dorothy Crosthwaite was one of those rare out-of'the-common characters which are so very seldom met with^ being more represented in stan- dard fiction than in reality. But nowhere either in fiction or reality could so original and yet lovable a character be found as hers. She was a short, slight, little woman, who, although past sixty, had wonderfully preserved a freshness of mind and body, which spoke of a well- spent life, temperately and sensibly used. The daughter of rather an angry father, a retired Indian officer, she had experienced a rather rough bringing-up. Her mother had died in her infancy, and her father but slightly understood the man- agement of his family, which, besides Dorothy, consisted of another girl, and two sons. The two sons had left the parental roof as soon as they were qualified for their professions, and " the girls " as G-eneral Crosthwaite called his daughters even after they had both passed the grand climacteric, remained single until the death of their father, who bequeathed them his blessing and an addi- tional legacy of twenty thousand pounds apiece. Sabine, the younger sister, who preferred town- 37 life to a country one_, removed to London, while Dorothy determined to settle in Keswick, near her old home and among her old people. Simple- minded and gentle as she was constituted by nature, she could not bear the idea of keeping house for herself, and so put herself and her pos- sessions into a very respectable lodging-house keeper's hands, and devoted her life to good works. By good fortune and laudable discretion on the part of the General, the trustees chosen to administer his will were good sterling men, who did their work and settled Miss Crosthwaite's affairs honourably, and in the best way, so that the little woman, who had up till then been kept very short by her prudent father, and had been forced to provide herself with clothes, books, stamps, paper, and pocket-money out of a yearly allowance of twenty guineas_, found herself suddenly in posses- sion of more than a thousand pounds a year for her own private use. The General had left no money to any of his poorer relations, and, with the exception of a few legacies to old servants, the forty thousand pounds represented his whole fortune. The poor cousins, sisters and aunts, were of course loud in reproach at what they called his unkindness, but not long, for little Dorothy soon wrote to the most needy among them, saying that of course the General had not taken the trouble to enter provisions for them in his will, and had not done so because he trusted in his daughters, and she showed that his 38 A BARTEEED HONOTJR. trust was not misplaced by tlie oflFer of sundry sub- stantial annuities. " A thousand a year is much too much for one little woman," she used to say^ '' and yet I wish, oh ! so greedily, that I had three times as much to spend. So much misery abroad, so many poor clergymen wanting churches built, so many churches wanting curates, so many poor relations who want schooling, and something must come out of the little woman's purse for each and all, and one's purse must end somewhere, and many must be disappointed." But not many who had real claims on her gener- osity and were in want, had much reason to be disappointed with her charity, or her mode of distributing it. At a high computation, it is cer- tain that she did not spend one fourth of her income on herself, while the rest went to the sick and needy. So much at present about her history and char- acter. As before mentioned, she was a small, slight woman, who carried her age off very well. Her hair was thick and black, though streaks of grey asserted themselves here and there, and she usually combed it down the middle, and smoothed it down scrupulously, and wore a little white cap trimmed with blue on her head. She couldn't bear " frizziness " about the hair, as ladies wear it now- a-days, couldn't Dorothy. She was always dressed plainly in woollen stuff dresses, which she called her " gowns,^' for she did not adapt herself to the OXXY A>r OLD XAID. 39 modem fashion of givincr grand names to thing's, and was a CoDservative in this as in all things. Add to this a clear, fresh-looking face, with a pair of intelligent bine eves, looking: ont from behind a pair of spectacles, an occasional pretty smile breaking on the firm mouth, and yon will have before yon as complete a picture of Miss Dorothy Crosthwaite. as it is possible for a pen to give you. On the evening of the same day when Benson left Oxford, under the circumstances detailed in the last chapter, Dorothy was sitting at tea in her cosy little parlour. The kettle was singing beside the bright clear fire, the tea was drawing in the polished silver teapot, the toast was as brown and appetising as toast can possibly be expected to be, the butter looked as yellow and fresh as the dewy cowslips on a summer bank, and all the means of quiet enjoyment were there. But Dorothy was not happy. She was talking loud to herself, and this is what she was saying — " Thinsrs are not as thev should be. There's Charlie, now, my bright-eyed boy; what is the matter with him ? What is the meaning of that telegram, I wonder, which I received last night ? "Why is he leaving the TTniversity ? What can the serious trouble be? Charlie, Charlie, pet, you have been getting into difficulties, I thought you would ; you know I told you so. Poetry isn't business, and you are too thoughtless, my child, too, too thoughtless, and a Kttle uncontrolled^ no 40 A BARTERED HONOUR. father, no mother, only a rough guardian. Well, Dorothy knows something about bringings up, and T believe, when I hear all about it, you will show that this serious trouble, whatever its Precious Highness may be, is not all your own fault, dear boy." The kettle, the tea, the toast, and the fresh butter which had waited for their opportunity till then, put a stop to this soliloquy, for Dorothy was hungry. Tea was hardly over, however, when she heard a timid knock at the door, and in another minute Benson was in the room, holding out his hand. "Stuff, boy,^^ cried Miss Crosthwaite, "put your hand away, ain't I old enough to be your great grandmother? Bend your face a little lower down," and, standing on tip-toe, for she tuas small, she kissed the weary young man on the cheek. Then first seeing him seated by the fire, she bustled about the house to see his things brought into the room which had been prepared for his re- ception, and when all this was done to her satisfaction, she went into the room, and drawing a little stool up to his seat, put her hand on his, and said very gently — " Tell me all about it.'' And Benson, truthfully and manfully, told her all the whole painful truth, nor did he conceal how far his own foolish recklessness had involved him. The only detail he did not fully enter upon "only an old :y:AiD." 41 Tvas that about thedisgracefaltailor at the station, but he finished his storj with the remark that a Hauberk had never before been subjected to treat- ment such as he had received. But here !Miss Dorothy inteiTupted him, and sharply with — '' Nonsense, that about a Hauberk, you're not a Hauberk, you know, they died out with Lord Brookshire— don't talk stuff." " I beg your pardon. Miss Crosthwaite, there are Hauberks, there is Lord Hauberk for in- stance." '' Bother Hauberks," put in the little old lady, " let us talk of something more to the point." This was namely a point on which the two friends never could agree, for Miss Crosthwaite recognized the fatal pride on this subject in her young fi'iend, and tried to check it in her rough and ready fashion. Benson was offended, and did not speak for a minute or two, during which pause and after Dorothy's "you're not a Hauberk," he had serious thoughts of rushing out of the room, for lie was an impulsive young man, and rather irritably disposed by the events of the day, the fatiguing journey, and his own dubious prospects which had been troubling his mind the whole way down, but he controlled himself wisely, and said nothing. Dorothy saw the effect she had produced, but being hard-hearted enough on some social ques- 42 A BARTEEED HONOTJK. tions, stern and merciless against what was wrong, she would never flatter or feed a false pride, but she could soothe — and who better? — a wounded soul, and so patting the hand which Benson had hastily drawn away, she said — ■ ^' Well, this is the stor^^, dear, and very sorry I am for it, indeed. We must talk about what is to be done to-morrow, for my boy is tired and angry now, and no wonder. But he shall stay with Dorothy until something is settled, any how. And now, Charles, down on your knees with me, and let us seek for the truth where alone it is to be found," and the impulsive little woman dragged him off his chair on to his knees beside her. After supper, and a little more conversation, Dorothy sent Benson to bed, and, after looking carefully into her banking pass-book, with many significant smiles and nods she went to bed also. Benson, who was very tired, was glad to get to rest, and while he was preparing for the night, and emptying his pockets of their contents — a custom by the way which he had acquired at Oxford, as the substances are supposed to crease the cloth,, and spoil the outlines of the clothes — he came across a card, which he recognised as that which the excitable little barrister had given him that morning. He then saw, for the first time, that there was some writing on it, and holding it up to the light, read — " I know you, and knew your father, and shall be glad to help his son at any time. Mind you remember this. G. B." "only an old maid/' 43 " How true/' cried Benson, " is the old German proverb, whicli says tliat when need is greatest God is nearest. Misery has fallen on me, but I have found two good friends to help and connsel me in my trouble/' He then fell asleep, and dreamed amongst other things, that Dorothy Crosthwaite, spinster^ of Keswick, was united in holy matrimony to George Bennett, barrister-at-law, of Lincoln^s Inn, London, and that he was the adopted son of the happy couple, and then he turned over in his sleep and found himself fighting a desperate hand-to- hand encounter with Harrison, master-tailor of the city of Oxford, surnamed '' The Spider." Dorothy, before going to sleep, had pulled her Shakespeare out of a drawer. ''I wonder where it is ? " said she, " that about ' Nature,' and 'my young boy,' for he is my boy." At last she found it, and resolved that the aspect of intercession should not appeal in vain to her own tender heart. Guard her and protect her, ye guardian angels ; what though it is said that ye only hold vigil round the beds of tender babes. No tenderer heart, of more child-like simplicity, will ye find in all the broad land. Guard her, watch over her, and bless her, for she is worthy of it. The next day passed quietly enough, for Miss Crosthwaite had determined to let the young Oxonian rest a little and calm himself, before again reverting to the vexed question of what he was to do, and Charles was glad to defer the dis- 44 A BARTERED HONOUR. cussion until he miglit have something to suggest. So between reading and walking with Dorothy, and a row on the lake, the day was spent as plea- santly as was possible for him in his agitated state of mind. But on the morning of the second day after his arrival at Keswick, he received a very unpleasant batch of letters. The first one was from the Eev. Samuel Dobbs himself, and ran as follows : — " St. Mary's College, Oxon. " Sir, " Your conduct in obtaining my per- mission to leave Oxford by perfectly false repre- sentations, and the revelations subsequent to your departure, are so disgraceful, that the College has decided to remove your name from its books, you may therefore consider yourself expelled. (Signed) " Samuel Dobbs, "^JosiAH Delavere. '' C. H. Benson, Esq." With that impulsiveness which marked Benson^s every action, and in his anger at this additional disgrace, he dashed the letter back into its enve- lope, and writing on it the words, " Impertinent ^nd unnecessary," sent it back to Oxford in an envelope, addressed thus — '^ Samuel Dobbs, " Josiah Delavere, " St. Mary's College, Oxford.^' ''ONLY AN OLD MAID/' 45 It was refreshing^ for the poor young man to turn from this unpleasant correspondence to the letter of his friend Douglas^ which was as nice and sympathetic an expression of friendship as he could desire, but which also contained bad news, for from it he learned that as soon as his departure had become known, all the tradesmen to whom he owed money had rushed to the college, nearly driven the Warden wild with their complaints, stamped into his room, and were laying hands on whatever portable property remained there, with the intention of carrying it ofi", when his scout William had interfered, and had sworn to do personal violence to whoever should touch his late master^s property ; how these men had then left his rooms before the gallant William, but had made the quadrangle hideous with their cries and complaints, oaths and railings ; how the news had got about the college, and what exaggerated and, of course, malicious stories were going the round. To poor Benson, who was highly sensitive, all this was horrible, most horrible ; and he could find no comforter, no, not one ! Dorothy, when she saw the letters, was in- dignant enough ; but that did not help to wipe out the feeling of disgrace which Benson felt. She was vexed enough when she heard about the Warden's letter, and blamed Charles for sending it back. '^ For," said she, " he is a Dignitary of the Church, and your pastor and master, and you 46 A BARTERED HONOTJB. ought to show him proper respect. What jou have done will do jou no good, and only make your college authorities more embittered against you.-" Which was wisely said by Dorothy. In time Benson's affairs began to be more settled. His guardian and trustee, Mr. C. Elphin- stone, went through the Bankruptcy Court, and paid a first and apparently final dividend of a farthing in the pound, which put something like £10 into Benson's pocket; he also received a cheque for £57 from the St. Mary's College Bursar as his caution-money and the value of his furniture, minus the amount due to the college for battels, &c., and with the sale of some of his things he realised together about £100. Now, although he had seriously and honestly meant to apply this money towards paying his debts, he could not bring himself to part with it when he had got it. His fortune was so undecided, and his stay at Keswick perforce drawing to a close. For Dorothy had said more than once, in her straightforward way, that it would not do for her to be seen much longer with a " young man " always hanging about her. He thought it almost absolutely necessary to keep all his funds to him- self, and to pay his debts — When ? — by-and-bye. All the things he had left at Oxford were taken back to the places from whence they came, and after a little polishing up were probably all re- sold (?) to new comers at the same or higher 47 prices than Benson had been charged at first, and gradually his name faded out from the recollection of all at the University, till at last he was for- gotten in classic Oxford. Dorothy did not forget her " bright-eyed boy," and although she thought it desirable that he should go elsewhere, one evening towards the end of the third month of his stay at Keswick, she brought him into the parlour and made him sit down, and said — '^ Boy, what do you mean to do ? " Boy didn^t know, and seemed not to care par- ticularly either; for much smoking of late had made him almost indifferent to anything, but at last he said — '''I thought of going abroad and studying in Germany and France for a year or two, and then trying to get some appointment somewhere." '' The latter part of your speech is vague," said Dorothy. " ' Some appointment somewhere ' does not sound substantial, and you must go in for substantialities and not for smoke (a little hit of Dolly's at the bad habit mentioned), hem, not for smoke. The first part of your talk sounds sensible, and must be done, I think, and you shall have £50 from the old woman who talks of her gown to help you with. God bless you, my dear, dear boy. Give Dorothy a kiss." After a little more conversation, it was decided that Benson should go abroad and continue his 48 A BARTERED HONOUR. education, the place chosen being Leipzic ; and in a few days this plan was brought so far into execu- tion that Benson left Keswick with his portman- teau and his dog, and travelled to the town of books, fairs, tobacco, and beer ; and here we leava him for the present. CHAPTER Y. A MATEIMOXIAL OFFEE. A FEW montlis after Benson had. left Keswick for Germany, Miss Crosthwaite received the following letter from her sister Sabine : — " 3, Grosvenor Gardens, "London, W. " My deaeest Dorothy, "I have suck an event to tell you of, and I am snre you will be very interested to hear it. Just fancy, I have had a matri- monial offer made me by such a nice man, a clergyman of the Church of England. With such lively blue eyes, and a long yellow beard ! So clever too, and so religious ! His name is Bartlemy, the Rev. Bartlemy Hiram, Curate of St. Olphage^s Church, in the parish of Wykeham- Within, in Kent. I have known him some time ; he was introduced to me by Mrs. Lipp-Sirva, our mutual friend, and he has always been so attentive and nice to me, whenever I met him at parties (which happened often enough), that I invited him to tea with me one day. I couldn't see any harm in that, as he is a widower, and I am, you know, over fifty. Well, he came, and has come very often since. It was only yesterday, though, that I found out the real meaning of his visits. I VOIi. I. E 50 A BARTERED HONOUR. will tell yon how it all happened. We, that is, I and Bartleraj, or rather, Bartlemy and I, were sitting at our tea, talking of this and that, when suddenly he put his arm around my waist, and with his mouth full of huttered toast, said ' Sabina.' ^' I was naturally very much startled at this strange behaviour, and disengaging myself from his embrace, walked a few paces away from him ; but he soon followed, and actually, yes, Dorothy, fell on his knees before me, with his soft felt hat in one hand and a large muffin, with a bite out of it, in the other ; and gently waving them, he said, 'Yes, Sabina, I love you.' I did not know what to say, for although, you know, I have got rather accustomed to this sort of thing, and have ever since I have been in London received the atten- tions of a Commissioner, a Civil Commissioner, whose mother was a Baronet's Aunt, I was taken by surprise. Bartlemy, who in the meanwhile re- freshed himself with another bite out of his muffin (still remaining on his knees, and I noticed that the poor dear man had some difficulty in maintain- ing his balance), went on to say : ' One who is in Paradise ' (he always talks of Paradise, and so he probably is a little High in his notions), ^one who is in Paradise, Sabina, Esther by name, is, is, in fact, no more. I love you, Sabina, and would gather you to my breast and shield you there, and have you there at rest. In short, will you marry your devoted Hiram, your impassioned Bartlemy ? ' ''Of course I couldn't answer him at once, for A MATRIMONIAL OFFER. 61 he is still a young man, hardly thirty I should say; and people would talk. So I told him to wait, and call again in a week, and he consented, though he seems very impatient and ardent for me, and from his manner seemed to want to marry me there and then, which was, of course, impossible. " Please, Dol dear, write by return, and tell me what you think about it. I have told you all I know about him, except that he is a relation of some sort, as he says, to that great Hiram who wrote a book, you know, in King Henry the Fourth's reign, ' On Scurvie Leeches, or the Morale Bloode-Suckers,' which would, of course, be a nice thing to have in the family. I don't know anything about his property or belongings, except that he is always dressed neatly, though rather High, and that he wears a very handsome gold watch ; but he wouldn't want to marry me if he hadn't enough to keep a wife on, and I don't see how he can know anything about my property. " So mind you write. " What is this about a young man, called Bens- wick, I think, staying three months at your place, as I heard from Mrs. Tatelry Taylor, of Keswick ; tell me about him. I must stop now and think about Barty. " Ever your loving sister (mind you write), " Sabine Ceosthwaite. " P.S. — Barty just passed the window looking so unhappy and distressed, that I had half a mind to call him in." UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY 62 A BARTERED HONOITE. Dorothy did not consider long, but got her writing case out and wrote as follows : — " Keswick. "Dear Sabine, "Don't be a goose. Hiram has heard from Mrs. Lipp-Sirva about your fortune, and she was, of cuurse, told by Mrs. Tatelry Taylor, that precious old Keswick gossip. Send him about his business at once. I am writing to Mr. Hirdon, papa's executor, about it, so you will get some good advice from him. Benson, not Bens- wick, is a young friend of mine, who had to leave Oxford, and came to stay with me for a time. He is now in Germany, but I fear is not doing well from his own accounts. His fellow-students seem coarse, horrid men, not at all suitable companions for my gentle, poetical boy. " Send Higgam, or whatever his name is, about his business ; you are only making yourself un- happy with him. Fancy, you Mrs. tJiggam ! I am glad the Baronet's aunt's son was Civil ; at any rate, even he would have been better than Hig- worth. " Tour affectionate sister, " Dorothy Crosthwaite." A few weeks passed before Miss Crosthwaite heard any more about the absurd pretentions of the High Church Curate ; and rather anxious weeks they were, for Dorothy loved her sister dearly, the only remnant of her own family since A MATRIMONIAL OFFER. 53 the death of her father, for her two brothers had died long before the General, and she was frightened lest she might be ensnared into a foolish and unhappy match. She ]oT€ C.Sabine dearly, and yet Sabine was never quite a sister to her, for there had always been some jealousy on the younger sister's part. Dorothy, being the eldest, had, after the death of their mother, taken the management of the General's house ; and this circumstance, together with the fact that the General had shown a marked preference for his eldest daughter, who was always cheerful and intelligent, had occasioned some bitter feeling against Dorothy to arise in Sabine's heart. And this was partly the reason that, at the breaking up of their home, Sabine had decided to live away from her sister, and carried out her decision in spite of all Dorothy^s entreaties. Of course, Dorothy's loving heart was rather hurt at this, and who is to wonder at her rather inex- plicable love for Benson, when one considers how a loving heart longs to find some object on which to expend its tenderness ? Sabine had merely acknowledged her letter with a curt note, and Dorothy was left in the dark with reference to the Reverend Bartlemy Hiram's wooing, until she heard from Mr. Hirdon, who wrote her fully on the matter, and expressed him- self with some vigor on the subject of the ardent lover. This was what he wrote : — , : 54 A BAETERED HONOUR. '' Limeville, Warwicksliire. "Dear Madam^ ^' In reply to your letter of inquiry, dated July 5th, having reference to a certain Rev. Bartlemy Hiram, and his matriuionial intentions with regard to your sister_, Miss Sabine Crosthwaite, I have much pleasure in telling you that for the present, at any rate, tliis absurd and distressing affair has been broken off. ''As soon as I received your note, and as I was at the time in town, I called on your sister, and found her in company with the gentleman named. He left shortly after I came in, and I had the pleasure of an interview with her. It appears that she had already accepted his proposal, and I was in fear that chis unhappy marriage would be consummated, for nothing that I could say seemed to influence Miss Sabine in the slightest ; and she was fully determined to carry out the affair until we came to the question of settlements. In con- junction with Mr. Hardwick, the solicitor of your family, I called on Mr. Hiram to suggest a full settlement of the lady's property, capital and interest, on herself. He referred us to his solicitor, a Mr. Isaac Solomons of the City, a practitioner, I regret to say, of very ill repute, and who has already once been temporarily struck off the Eolls. This person, acting, no doubt, under his client's instructions, was most unreason- able in his demands, and would hear of no settle- ment of any kind. When we had tried in vain to A MATEIMOXIAIi OFFER. 55 come to some agreement with, him we laid the matter before Miss Sabine. I believe she wrote to the Eey. Hiram and expostulated with him, and received a letter in answer from bim, in which he was gentlemanly enougb to say that, as there were other young ladies about, he was willing to break off the engagement, unless his solicitor's demands were fully agreed to. This letter, together with the earnest representations of both myself and Mr. Hardwick, prevailed on your sister to write to the man and request him to cease his visits ; and there the matter ends. " I regret that I can say no good about the gentleman in question. It appears that he came to pay his addresses to your sister, of course with- out ber knowledge, even during the life time of his first wife, who has only been buried a few months. There are many rumours to the effect that he cruelly ill-used her, but these must not necessarily be believed. He has, as far as I could learn from his shifty solicitor, no property of any sort, and is only dependent for his livelihood on the small emoluments of his cure. " Altogether, I think we have reason to con- gratulate ourselves that the affair has come to an end, and that your sister is left in the quiet enjoy- ment of her fortune. " I am, madam, with deep respect, " Yours very faithfully, "JOHX HlEDOX." So for a short time the Eeverend Bartlemy 66 A BARTERED HONOUR. Hiram, curate of St. Olphage's Church, in the parish of Wykeham-Within, Kent, was played out. But only for a short time. And now to go back to our hero. When Benson went to Germany to study there as a student, he had but little expectations of find- ing the life there at all in harmony with his ideas and ways. But the reality, when he came to appreciate it, was very much worse than he had anticipated. He found Leipzic a noisy, ugly, and vulgar town, and his fellow- students beer-drinking, coarse swashbucklers of the first degree. He entered himself, the first term, as a student of law, for it was always his ambition to become a barrister, having some idea, when he felt enero^y within, to make the bar the way to a political life, the means of regaining the title, which by his illegitimacy, and a failure of lawful heirs to the Earldom of Brookshire, had been rendered extinct. His entering himself as a student in any of the four faculties was, for the first term naturally only a matter of form, for although he possessed a certain knowledge, which term, by the way, usually signifies an uncertain knowledge, of German, he was not sufficiently acquainted with the tongue of the fatherland to be able to attend any of the lectures on law with any profit to himself. Be applied himself at once to the study of German, and when he could read easily soon. A MATRIMONIAL OFFER. 57 entered into an appreciation of the wonderful ricliness of the language. Nor were the German poets unheeded bj him, and many an hour did he pass over the beauties of TJhland, Heine or Chamisso, deeply wondering how a nation so material in its tastes could produce such men with minds so rightly in harmony with the beautifal. Friends he made none, and spent most of his time in his rooms, endeavouring to forget where he was, surrounded by books and flowers. His dog, the terrier Fang, was, in fact, his only com- panion, in many ways preferable to a German of the ordinary student type. Altogether he was not happy, and deeply re- gretted his refined Oxford life, the gentlemanly professors and well-born companions which he had found there, and chafed and fumed at his position. As he wrote to his friend Douglas once — " When 1 consider all the places on God's earth where I might be, instead of here ; when I look out of the window on the unsightly town and its coarse, vulgar inhabitants ; when I consider the unpleasing sights and dissonant sounds which daily, hourly, ofPend my eyes and ears ; when I find myself as it were in a sty, and wallowing in swine's wash; my anger against the man who has brought me to this state rises up with implacable force." Another ingredient too in the unpleasantness of his position was the rigid economy he had to prac- tice. All he possessed in the world was the 58 A BARTEEED HONOUR. hundred and fifty pounds previously accounted for, and as he had determined to study two years before atteaipting to work for his livelihood, his income was but seventy pounds a year, for his passage out and the preliminary expenses of the University had absorbed the other ten. But contenting himself with coarse food and no luxuries, he managed to live ; yet his letters to his friends were always full of complaints, and he was never happy in it all. The Oxford tradesmen too kept dunning him, and every week Dorothy forwarded suspicious- looking envelopes from Oxford, containing demands for sums owing, with vague threats of legal pro- ceedings. These Benson, or rather Hauberk, for when he came abroad he dropped Benson, put one and all into his stove. And in this way he passed the first year of his life at Leipzic, working a little, reading much that was beautiful and, con- sequently, mercantilely unprofitable, writing poetry, and fuming. In about the middle of the summer of the first year, after he had left Oxford, Benson was sitting one afternoon in his dingy room, regarding with looks of evident disgust a slatternly servant girl who was occupying her coarse red hands in remov- ing the greasy dinner, of which Benson had but slightly partaken. The handsome young man was evidently out of place with reference to his sur- A MATRIMONIAL OFFER. 59^ roundings. Tlie room was small and liad only one window, which looked on a dingy street, with a pork-butcher's shop opposite ; it was scantily furnished, and of most incongruous contents. The paper was in hideous taste, at least as much of it as remained, and the only chattels were a bed- stead, a table, two consumptive-looking chairs, and a chest of drawers afflicted apparently with the dropsy. Some attempts had evidently been made by the present occupier at beautifying it, for pots and flowers filled the narrow window sill and stood about the room, and a photograph or two stood on the chest of drawers, and the St. Mary's College arms hung over the bed-head ; but it seemed that the energy that at first had prompted the owner to attempt this beautifying, had broken down hopelessly before the aggressive ugliness of the place and its surroundings, for objects which had fallen from their proper places had been left where they fell, and thick dust seemed to cover them as with a shroud. In one corner was a large pile of books, by the side of which a little white terrier,, with a yellow patch over his left eye, kept unceas- ing watch ; no one but Benson might touch a book without first bestriding the senseless corse of the terrier Fang. Fang, too, seemed not to appreciate the surroundings, and eyed viciously a muzzle which lay near him ; for the warlike and brave- Germans will not allow a single dog, even those harnessed to carts (and they do still inflict igno- minious bondage on the noblest of quadrupeds), eo A BARTERED HONOUR. to go into the streets unless lie is fully muzzled, and in no season of the year, not even in the coldest winter, does this rule vary. Benson was wearily turning over the leaves of £i dry-looking law book, when the greasy servant, whose face looked as if it had for weeks been used as a doormat, said — '^ There is a student downstairs, a foreigner, wants to see you/^ Benson looked up, and remarked rather pettishly, " I am not at home, you know, Lena, I am not at home for anyone." *'But you are at home," said the servant, rather roughly. "Idiot" (this in English), "T do not wish to see him, whoever he is ; I tell you I'm not at home. Tell him I've gone out." " I'll not tell him nothing of the sort, there now," setting her podgy arms ahimbo. ''Not for you, for you're not of the right sort. The whole time you and your cur have been here I have had more work to do than I care for ; you needn't think because you are an Englaender that you can get me to do as you like, especially as you're so precious liberal to me, and have only given two whole marks the year you've been here. Do your dirty work yourself. You're no student. We have had Englaenders here, and a German baron, and they did know what to do, and how to behave to the maedchens." All this was spoken so fast, and in the ugly A MATRIMONIAL OFFER. 61 Dresden dialect, for the girl came from Dresden, that Benson could hardly understand a word. The tone, however, was apparently insolent, and he was going to bid the girl begone, when his visitor, pushing her aside, came into the room. Lena, after casting as withering a glance at Benson as a jealous jellyfish might throw on a hated rival, swept from the room with as much dignity as a prize pig on skates. Benson's visitor was a young American, Herbert Lovell by name, a pleasant young fellow enough, whose casual acquaintance Benson had made in the lecture-room, and where a conversation, mutu- ally condemning the German system, had led to an exchange of cards, and that to Lovell's call. Benson was by no means pleased to see his visitor, for although in his heart he was glad to have someone to talk to and relieve his dulness, he was ashamed at being found in such a room, and being spoken to by so common a woman in the manner above described, but he could not but be civil to the young man, and so bade the American sit down. "Thank you. Hauberk," said Lovell, "I will sit down, I am sorry for disturbing you. What a pretty little dog that is ; come here, sir, come dog." Benson, or Hauberk, as we had better now call him, offered no remark, and so Lovell went on. " I came round to tell you that the corps of ^2 A BARTERED HONOITB. students, called the Porcania, iiave invited me to their festive Kneipe this evening", and have said I might bring a friend. Will you come ? " " What is a festive Kneipe 9 " asked Hauberk, expressing contempt. " I don't at all quite know/' said the American, " but I think it is a sort of festivity, where each man tries to drink more beer than his neigh- bour, and where they sing and make a great noise." "Tour invitation doesn't sound tempting, I must say, from your description of the feast." "No," answered the American, "but it might be interesting, I thought, to us who are foreigners, to see what goes on, and how these Germans will behave, and so on." " Perhaps it would be, but we are certain to be disgusted, and may fall out with some of them if we express our disgust, and I for one, cannot conceal that feeling with much skill.'-' " Well, let us go and take our chance; if we do fall out with any one of them, I dare say we shall be a match for them, and we shall then have gained the double experience of how the Germans drink and how they fight. What d'you think ? " " Well, I will come, and thank you, Lovell, for asking me. What time did you say ? " " I think it begins at eight, or rather at that time they begin to drink." ^ The two young men went at the appointed time, and as Hauberk wrote a full account of all he saw. A MATRIMONIAL OFFER. 63 tea-rd, and did, at the festive Kneipe, of the noble corps of the Porcania, corps-students of the Uni- versity of Leipsic in Saxony, to his friend Douglas, we may as well borrow the letter from Douglas and give a copy of it. " Juden Gasse, No. 9a, Leipsic, Saxony. " Mt dear Geoege, "I have long had the intention of wiiting to you in answer to the pleasant letter you sent me from Oxford last week, but, as I have often said before, I have nothing to write about. I have described to you the routine of my life here : lectures in the morning, veal and pork at one o'clock, a dismal walk in this wretched town in the afternoon, pork and veal at seven, and books till bedtime. Apart from the occasional excitement of a romp with Fang (you remember Fang, the dog with the yaller neck), this is my daily programme. " But yesterday I happened to be present at a German festivity, and was so amused by what I saw that I determined to write to you about it. " I must first tell you that I have made the ac- quaintance of a young American, a certain Lovell, a pleasant young man, but one of no family; his father is a brewer of Surat beer in the States, and he is studying chemistry (in Oxford called ' stinks ') here. I seem, by the way, to be always thrown in with brewers ; do you remember Mangles at Oxford ? I have not heard anything about him since I left. Tell me what he is doing, please^ when you write. 64 A BARTERED HONOITR. " Well, Lovell asked me yesterday to a students' evening' party, and, though rather loth^ I went, expecting to find something similar to an Oxford ' wine,^ with rather worse company, and beer in- stead of the nobler beverage for refreshment. " I thought, of course, that it would be held in a private room, belonging to one of the students, for I must tell you that the inviting party was one of the best cor_ps here, namely, the Porcania, con- sisting almost solely of German noblemen. I was rather surprised to find that we were to be enter- tained in an ordinary public-house, not much better in style than the Eed Fox or the Blue Camel of any ordinary English village. I noticed, by the way, a few empty bottles of a cheap sort of German champagne, standing near the entrance, which Lovell assured me had been standing there for more than a month, and were, as he told me, put there in a negligent way, but were meant to impress the Philistines and other students with the opiilency and the refined tastes of the members of the Porcania club or corps. " After what I had seen, I fully expected that we were to be entertained in the public bar-room of the house, and was proposing to return home -when we were joined by Lovell's friend, the man who had invited us. He introduced himself to us as Count Hattnichviel, in which family there are no less than seventy-seven counts and countesses of the same title. He was dressed in the uniform of the club, that is, he wore a green cap of a A MATRIMONIAL OFFER. 65 peculiar shape, sometliing like a Hgh pork-pie, with the flat top end bent over in front. Between his coat and waistcoat I saw a narrow ribbon striped with three colours, which seemed to pass over one shoulder and under the other, like a sort of sash. This is, you know, a sign that he had fought the three duels which every German corps- student is obliged to fight, though I saw no traces of wounds on his face. He was very polite indeed, and appeared quite a gentleman. He led us through the public-house into the yard, across which lay a sort of building which looked like a barn, into which we went. The appearance of the interior was strikipof enough. At one end was a gallery, in which there was a band performing, as we entered, the ' Watch on the Rhine ' (which, en passanty they performed ten times during the time I stayed there). In the room were two tables, arranged like the letter T, and around these were seated about thirty men, all dressed more or less like Count Hattnichviel ; that is, in addition to the cap and sash, they wore black frock coats, open dowrt the chest, waistcoats also very open, and displaying a lot of shirt, very much ornamented and, as a rule, fastened with imitation coral or brass studs ; turn-down collars, black bows, baggy trousers, and Hessian boots. Altogether, the dress reminded one of a mixture between a waiter, a butcher, a French hairdresser, and a gentleman in evening clothes, though very slightly of the latter. At the head, that is at the table across the top, sat the VOL. I. F 66 A BARTERED HONOUR, president of the corps, a certain Baron Svilmuch, dressed as I have described, and only differing from the rest by wearing certain additional ribbons, and by having his hair curled and parted down tlie back, wbicb, as I was afterwards told by Count Hattnichviel, was done with a view to provide such little insects as had chosen his baronial head for a per?nanent residence with a clear highway on which to undertake their peregrinations over their demesnes. You will excuse my mentioning this, but it is so salient a trait of German facetiousness that I cannot help putting it down. " The room was brightly decorated with drink- ing horns, some very costly and mounted with silver ; flags, swords, and pictures, which stood out brightly against the dark oak panelling. ''As soon as we came in_, Count Hattnichviel provided us with chairs, and we sat down. The table was covered with pots of beer ; the pots made of white ware with pewter lids, decorated, some with the arms of the owners, some with the club arms, namely, one pig gules, regardant and rampant, surmounted by a beer pot argent. In one corner of the room stood one enormous barrel of beer, holding, I might guess, a hundred gallons. "I noticed, too, that many of the men were smoking out of long pipes, the bowls of which were also decorated with the Porcania arms. On the table stood a box of cigars and several plates of radishes, to produce thirst. A MATRIMONIAL OFPEE. &7 " After a few formalities liad been gone into. Count Hattnichviel got up and addressed the company. " ' Gentlemen, corps-brothers and foxes (foxes being equivalent to the Oxford 'freshmen'), I have here two guests whom I wish to present to you. There names are .' "We both gave our names. " The president, Baron Svilmuch, then rose, and enforcing silence by two deafening blows on the table with a long sword, said — " ' I think it will be advisable for each member to get up and tell his name, so as to avoid the long ceremonial of a separate introduction in each case.' "Then each Porcanian got up and told his name. I don't remember them all, but I counted thirteen counts, twelve barons, and about eight vons {von being a sort of title inferior to an esquire). I felt quite proud at being one of the two un- titled men present; indeed, it seemed quite a distinction there. One or two names I remember ; there was a Count Yindinperse, a Baron Litteltinn, a Herr von Depeindet, and too many others to re- member. When we had all said our names we sat down, and the duty of the evening seemed, as I had indeed anticipated, to consist in drinking beer, beer, beer, beer. And amazingly fast it went. I should be ashamed to say how much Baron Svilmuch drank. He seemed to pour it down a funnel instead of drinking it, putting his 68 A BARTERED HONOUR. full pint measure to liis lips, tilting it up, and setting tlie measure down empty. There were some songs sung in chorus, and some speeches made, but beer was over all. If any man spoke after the president had ordered silentium, hie was punished by being forced to drink out half or all his pot full ; and from the readiness with which, the culprit did it, the laws of the Porcania seemed to be by no means Draconian in severity. If any of the company left the room without permission, he was punished in the same way. Pots were filled and pots emptied. Beer, smoke, beer ; smoke, beer, smoke. Healths were drunk, too, one member crying to another, ' I mount you some- thing,' or ' I mount you a half, or a whole,' and the pledged one answering, 'I follow,' and then drink the amount be had been pledged in. Wben a general toast was drunk, the President got up and said, ' Let's rub so-and-so a salamander.' Then the company filled their glasses or pots, and all stood up ; then the President asked, ' Are the mixtures duly mixed ? ' ' ISimt,' cried the company. Then the President, after hammering the table with, his sword, said, 'Then one, two, three; one, two, three ; fire away.' As soon as each man had drained his measure he dashed his pot against the table. All being finished the salamander was rubbed by each and all hammering the table with his pot. The band braying, the hammering, the guttural gurglings, the smell of the smoke and the beer, was to me more like an orgie in the pande- A :!j:atei:vioxial offee. 69 monmin than anytliing else; and after the first interest in the affair had passed off, intensely sickening, for this sort of thing went on and on, and beer was drained ceaselessly^ with no variety in the proceedings, except when someone staggered out into the yard to render himself capable of holding more by means strictly classical and even Csesarean. " Hours went on^ and I can assure you, dear Douglas, that I never felt so weary, or bored, or disgusted in my life. At twelve o'clock the Presi- dent performed a rather remarkable feat, and, but for the fact that I witnessed it with my own eyes, I should hardly have deemed it possible ; namely, just before the clock struck midnight, he ordered twelve glasses to be set before him, and filled to the top with beer, and at each stroke of the clock, he emptieda glass down his throat until the clock had ceased striking, and the twelve glasses were empty. Lovell remarked to me that if anyone had told him that in America, he should have certainly answered that it was too much to swallow. " This piece of bestiality, and the general state of the company, half of whom were hopelessly drunk, was the finishing stroke for me, and bidding Hattnichviel good-night, I managed to get away with Lovell. The last thing I saw of Baron Svilmuch was that he was crawling on the floor after his beer pot. I saw him again, however, that night, being carried home by two porters. " I parted from Lovell soon after we got out, 70 A BAETERED HONOUR. and I liear to-daj that he has got into some silly duel affair with a student here. If I hear any- thing more about it I will write and tell jou, as a description of a Grerman duel among students may interest you. " Such are the men with whom I am forced to live, and when I tell you that such scenes occur every night, and that every night they intoxicate themselves in this disgusting manner, and being assured that, when they are best, they are little worse than men, and when they are worse they are little better than beasts, you will allow that these are hardly companions for me. " Be sure to write soon, and give me all the news from the 'Yarsity, and believe me, dear Douglas, your very affectionate friend, " Charles Hauberk. "P.S. — Eemember to address me as Charles Hauberk, and not to add Benson, as I have given that name up altogether." CHAPTER YI. MONSTROUS TEEACHERT. It is now necessary to transfer, for a short season, the scene of action from the old to the new world, and to go back for about three years to a small town in the south of America_, just on the borders of the most southern limits of the United States, and for the purposes of this story sufficiently defined by the name of X — , there flourished a very well-to-do trio of merchants^ who, trading in company as the firm of *' White^, Bartholomew, and Ipworth,^' were making a very good business by exporting sugar and cotton and importing coffee and tea. They were all three married men with children ; Mr. Bartholomew was the youngest, and had least capital in the house, and such capital as he had was not his own, but belonged to his wife, who was considerably older than he. Mr. Bartholomew had had rather a curious life, the outline story of which may as well be noted down here. He was born in New York — the son of a, washerwoman ; his father had been a corporal in the United States army, and had retired with one leg and a pension, the other leg, as well as part of his scalp, remaining in the possession, tenure, and quiet enjoyment of a great Sioux Chief, Milwaukee 72 A BARTEKED HONOUR. Waw. The corporal finding himself provided for for life, had entered into holy matrimony with the lady of the mangle aforesaid. The pledge of their love was a son, whom the corporal christened Milwaukee in grateful remembrance of the chieftain who had been the indirect means of procuring him his pension. Milwaukee did not long enjoy the paternal protection, for the corporal, whose head had been injured by Mil- waukee Waw's amateur hairdressing, developing a grande passion for distilled waters, developed likewise an inflammation of the brain, which, as Mil. remarked, " soon made a hangel of dad." Dad having been made " sl hangel/' the widow was left with an only son to educate. The worthy washerwoman's system of education did not however meet Milwaukee's views on the same sub- ject, and some differences arose between mother and son at frequent intervals. At such times the widow would make her mangle contrive a double debt to pay, not as a homely and comfortable contrivance for the smoothing of purified linen, but by inserting the fingers of Milwaukee between the rollers and gently turning the handle, caused the machine to instil valuable moral precepts into the mind of her refractory offspring. Under this gentle tutelage the favoured boy grew up until he reached his tenth year. At about this period of his existence that strong spirit of independence, which is the chief and most beautiful feature in the character of our American MONSTROUS TREACHERY. 73 ■cousins, developed itself so strongly in Mil.'s chest that he could no longer brook the mangle and the doctrines it instilled. One evening, having been detected bj his worthy mother in the hen-honse occupying himself with abstracting the eggs from under a sitting hen, sucking them and replacing them under the distressed and duped fowl, she dragged him into the wash-house, and was pro- ceeding to apply the usual corrective when young Mil., after violently kicking the maternal shins and pushing her over the instrument of torture, darted out of the house, after first picking up the tin box in which the widow kept her savings. The widow, as soon as she had recovered from the attack, gave chase, but Milwaukee was out of sight, and out of sight Milwaukee remained, " and never came home any more." It would take too long to tell how Milwaukee fared after leaving the maternal roof, or what he did when the contents of the tin box were spent, but suffice it to say that in various capacities and professions, ranging from area sneak, beggar, newspaper boy, match seller, to bogus advertiser and quack doctor, this enterprising young man contrived to live until he attained his twentieth year. Eepenting then of his various evil ways, he had come in time to the town of X — , and a religious frame of mind. Here he soon obtained employment in a Methodist chapel by leading the choir, acting as pew opener, lay reader, and collector. Evil persons did say that some of the 74 A BARTERED HONOUR. collections went into Milwaukee's pocket, but this is only like what one expects evil persons to say. In course of time the parson of the Methodist chapel died, and Milwaukee, after a brief court- ship, married his widow, who bestowed her hand and eighteen thousand dollars on the young man. Mil. then gave up the clerical profession, and adding his savings to his wife's dollars, bided his opportunity, and, finding one, invested the same in the new firm of White and Ipworth, coffee merchants, &c. As a further instance of what evil-minded people will say, there was a rumour in the town at X — that just before Wilwaukee's marriage he had received a letter from New York telling him that his mother, who had found out his whereabouts, was dying in a workhouse, from misery and starvation, and that the young man, instead of deferring his marriage and going off to see his mother, and lighten her last few hours, had written to her, telling her that all she had to do was to repent, and then, he added, " dad and you and me may make quite a happy family party again of it," refusing however to defray any ex- penses whatsoever on her behaK. Some, in their malice, have gone so far as to say that he posted this filial, though business-like letter, without prepaying it. However this may be, it is certain that from his wedding-day Milwaukee enjoyed a very comfort- MONSTEOTJS TREACHERY. 75- able existence. The business paid large profits^ and Milwaukee took bis share and enjoyed them with Mrs. Bartholomew. Of this lady, let it be' said, that she was a plain, but motherly and affec- tionate woman of about thirty-five, who was very fond of her second husband_, and implicitly believed in him. But in spite of the combined attractions and comforts of an elegant villa, an amiable wife, and a good income, Milwaukee Bartholomew was not happy. He did not like his wife; she was too old, and too unattractive for Lim. His idea of a woman, he used to say, was Esther, partner Whitens wife, as crumby a girl as he'd set eyes on. Mrs. White, indeed, de- served even more intelligible praise than this, for she was a beautiful and intelligent woman. Mr. White, on the other hand, was a coarse, hard- headed business-man, who had no time for billings and cooing. He used to say to her, " If you wanted to make love all day to your husband you should have taken a billankooer, not a coffee- merchant. I've no time for billankooing-j and hardly time to turn the money over sharp enough ; '' and with this Mrs. White had to satisfy her heart, yearning, as it did, for plenty of comfortable and cosy love-making. Mr. Ipworth, who was senior partner, although his name appeared last in the name of the firm, was a quiet retiring man. He was an Englishman,, the younger son of a drunken and impoverished 76 A BAETEEED HONOTJR. baronet, and had come over to America to make Ms fortune. Bj dint of hard work and unremitting industry he managed to accumulate a considerable fortune as a sugar planter, but finding this occupa- tion not suited to his health, he had sold out, and settling in X — , had invested his capital in founding an import and export business, and wishing to extend the concern, he had first taken White into partnership, and finally Bartholomew. To tell the truth, Ipworth disliked his junior partner and distrusted him, but as he lived at some distance from X — , and only favoured the " office " occasionally with his presence, and as Milwaukee's twenty-five thousand dollars were very useful in his venture, he put his dislike in his pocket. White cared nothing for any man except him- self, and the sole occupation and object of his life was to make money. His wife, he hardly ever thought about, and left her to her own devices. He stayed at the office all day, and took all his meals at a neighbouring hotel, and seldom re- turned to Cashville before midnight, spending his evenings in some bar-room. Cashville was a handsome villa, situated at aboat two miles from X — , and here it was, one even- ing, that two figures might have been descried, pacing the garden lawn, in earnest conversation. The dining-room windows were level with the terrace, stood open, and within could be seen spread out on the snow white cloth of the dining-table ihe remnants of a luxurious tete-a-tete dinner. MONSTROUS TREACHERY. 77 It was late and the garden was almost dark, but still the two continued to pace the lawn^ speaking* earnestly. From what has been told before it is hardly necessary to say, that the two figures were Mil- waukee Bartholomew and Esther White. Milwaukee was a tall man, with rather a stoop- ing gait ; he was not well made, and carried one shoulder higher than the other ; his hair was red, and he wore a short beard of the same colour ; his eyes were blue, but closely set together, which gave him a vicious look to which an ill-formed mouth contributed ; his face was long and thin, and had a scar from the left eye to the corner of his lip; his teeth were handsome, regular and strong, and his feet and hands were well-formed ; he was dressed in black, with a shiny frock coat and trousers, ar black silk tie, and black kid gloves ; he wore a black wide-awake hat, and carried a silk um- brella. Mrs. White was dressed in evening dress, and wore a black mantilla over her head. She was a woman of middle size, and had a plump, well- formed figure; her skin was dark, and this with her black hair, and dashing eyes claimed some- thing of Creole blood. As Mil. used to say, " She's a touch of the tarbrush and no mistake." From their gestures an observer might have judged that the man was pleading some suit, which the female feared, though willing to listen to. 78 A BARTERED HONOUR. " Listen to me, Estlier/' said the man, as they repaeed the lawn for about the hundredth time. " Why don^t you cut your husband slap up." '' I can't do it," said Esther ; " you know I can't, I have no money, nothing but my jewels." '^Aye, aye," said Mil., "and I guess he'd miss the same more than he'd miss you." " Thank you, sir, but what do you mean by miss- ing me ? Why should he miss me? " " Well, if you bolted, it strikes me you would be missed somewhere, sometime, somehow." "Bolted, Mr. Bartholomew, what do you mean?" " Well, you're a rum' un, Esther, bolted is vv-hat I mean. If you bolted, eloped, cut your stick, amputated your mahogany, sloped, made tracks with me." "With you, sir; are you mad? " " Not exactly, ma'am." " Then what do you mean by addressing such words, phrases and proposals to me ? Supposing I told Mr. White when he comes home, and — " " Stay," said Bartholomew, " you do not need go further. You have asked me a question, and you shall have an answer. Supposing, as you say, that you told Mr. White when he comes home — though they do say he finds the bar girl at Slewup's mightily more pleasant company than his -vvife — supposing you told him then, that I, his partner, had asked you to run away with me, Mr. White would out with his six shooter and I with MONSTROUS TREACHERY. 79 mine. We should stand thus for a minute or two, wlien he would ask me to explain. I should plead guilty to the main point, but I should go on to explain that, in point of fact, you, my dear madam, were the most to blame. I should tell him how often I had dined at his residence, free of cost ; how often I had walked you out, what letters I have had from yoUj and all the rest of it. You see, my dear Mrs. White, it is necessary to be plain with you. I have plenty to do at home and many friends in the town with whom I could spend my time more profitably, gaming and so on^ than dining and mooning about with you. Pll tell you what it is. Tm tired of my wife. I'm sick of X — , and tired of the States generally. Mr. White is rough and rude to you, and we suit each other admirably. Now don't go and talk more non- sense, and don't stamp on the ground, but listen ! In a week or two I am to travel to New York city with a large sum of money of the firm's to invest there. White and Ipworth go to M — on busi- ness. Fly with me, and let us be happy together ; while staying here we are both miserable." " Wretch ! thief ! " cried Mrs. White, '' to what do you invite me ? No, a thousand times, no ! " " Steady, Esther, steady, no loud words for night-hours and servants. Why, to-night, just now, when I asked you to cut your husband, you said you would if you had the money," "When did I ever say such a thing?" "Why, just now." 80 A BARTERED HONOUR. " When you talked about cutting, I never had the slightest idea that you meant " — "No, Esther; and you do quite right to act this little farce out a little longer. It soothes your conscience, and makes the affair more piquant for me. Perhaps you are right, perhaps it is sinful and wrong, and all the rest of it. Yes, yes, I see it now. I had better go home, and at the office to-morrow ask what partner White will give me for a bundle of old letters addressed to a certain Jehu, from Esther White ; or tell him that I have frequently been invited here by White and wife, and have never met but wife; or ask him to pay the two thousand dollars which you owe me. Yes, this must be done, it is the right course. I must be off now. Good-night, madam." Eor a moment Esther felt as if she could leap at him and fasten her nails in his throat. Then fear came over her at the ruthless threats, and she burst out sobbing. " Answer me, Esther, answer me. You know I love you, you know that you love me. Promise to fly with me ? '' In her trepidation and fear, and in her love, wicked and foolish, she still loved him, there is no saying what her answer might have been, but at that moment a window on one of the upper floors opened, and a curly-headed, blue-eyed little girl peeped out into the garden, and putting out her arms cried, " Come, mammy, come ; I'se got to say my prayers. Where is you, mammy? I can't see MONSTROUS TEEACHEET. 81 you, but I think you are in tlie garden. Come, mammy." " Answer me, Esther, answer me." "No, no," cried Mrs. White, ^^ how can you ask me now ? — yes, darling, mother's coming — I'll see you to-morrow. Begone. Begone. Oh, my heart, my heart." About a week after this event the three partners met by appointment in their private room at the office to discuss matters connected with the busi- ness. It was there arranged that Bartholomew should depart on the morrow for New York, with thirty thousand dollars for investment in a new mining company, it being deemed necessary by the partners that one of them should see the directors in person ; and that White and Ipworth should travel to M — to make certain purchases, the offices beino^ entrusted meanwhile to the head clerk. As soon as the conference was over, and Mil- waukee had bidden the two partners good-night, and received from them the bundle of notes which he was to take to New York, being especially cordial in his farewell to partner White, he went into the town instead of returning home. He first turned his steps towards a remote quarter of the town of X—, and in due time reached the shop of a dealer in furniture. He •went in and requested to see the proprietor. Mr. Levy, who recognized him, bade him enter the private room. VOL. I. G 82 A BARTERED HONOUR. " Well/' said Bartholomew, as soon as lie had sat down, "all is ready for yon." *' So/' said the dealer, " then you are really serious?" "Of course I am, Mrs. Bartholomew and my- self have agreed when we return (and she does not come back from the country till I return from New York) to set up at Slewup's Hotel, instead of keeping house for ourselves. You have seen the furniture and the other effects, and can take pos- session of the same. I sleep at Slewup's to-night m.yself, as the house is shut up, and the servants left to-day. If you will pay me the sum we agreed on when you inspected the furniture, I will hand you over the key of the house, which I will receive back from you when I return. You may fetch the things to-morrow at noon. You will find all right." "Very well/' said the dealer ; " if you will sign me this order to take the things, you can have the money at once. Your position here and the cha- racter of your firm is full guarantee that every- thing is as I saw it." " I hope so," said Milwaukee, as he signed the order. Mr. Levy then paid him in notes the sum de- manded, and Milwaukee bade him good-night, giving him the key of the house which he had occupied with Mrs. Bartholomew until then. His next peregrination was to a low quarter of X — , and he did not cease walking until he found himself before a small and dirty lodging-house, in a narrow, unpleasant street. MONSTROUS TREACHERY. bd Here he knocked, and it was some time before his knock received attention. At last the door was opened, and a joung and beautiful girl looked out and asked who was there. "It is I, my child,'' said Bartholomew, in a benevolent tone ; "it is I, your friend and bene- factor." "Oh, you is it; dear doctor. Come in, come in,'' said the girl. Bartholomew entered, and taking the girl by her hand bade her lead him upstairs. " And hovv^ child, is John ? How is our dear brother to-day ? " " Oh, so much better ; he is really quite strong now, and he has been asking so often when you were coming. We thought you had determined not to come." "Mildred," said Bartholomew, with pious se- verity, " when a good man says he will come, a good man comes. I am a good man, and I have come." By this time the two had reached the door of the top landing, and setting down the candle on the floor, Mildred begged her companion to wait a minute. She then ran into the room where a pale young man was sitting reading some letters, and throwing her arms around his neck, cried — " John, dearest, who do you think has come ? " " Not Dr. Toogood ? " said the young man. " Yes, dear," said Mildred. " Yes, Mr. John," said Bartholomew, entering, "Dr. Toogood has come, and here he is. My dear young friends," continued he, " I have con- b4 A BAETERED HONOUR. sidered your case, and find that I could not do better than employ a little of my superfluous and, I may add, troublesome wealth in extending to you that aid of which you stand in need. I hold in my hand two tickets, taken in the name of John Merton and lady, which will take you all the way to San Francisco, where you will be able to join your aged but, I do not doubt, venerable mother. In order tbat you may achieve this journey in comfort, I have taken from my little store a fifty- dollar note to assist you in paying your landlord here, and to assist you on your way. I only impose two conditions, and here tbey are : That you start from the station to-morrow at noon, and that you take this bag witb you, which, as you see, has on it a worn out label, addressed to a certain Bartholomew, which I beg you to leave in the train when you get out at San Francisco, you will do tbe same with tbis umbrella. Clearly understand you are to leave the bag and this lady's umbrella in tbe carriage from which you alight at San Francisco." "But why?" asked the young man, seeming very much astonished. " Why ? my friend," rejoined the doctor ; " why? People might ask why I help you two young persons, whom I know nothing of, and only saw for tbe first time yesterday, to a free passage to San Francisco, first class, and supply you with money for the journey. There is no reason for my benevolence. In the same way, in fanciful way, I wish to benefit some stranger unknown. Thus," MONSTEOTJS TREACHERY. 85 said the doctor, while an honest glow spread itself over his good face, " do I prepare pleasant sur- prises for my fellow men. The person who finds that bag will find some good books and some pots of lobster; and the lady's umbrella will be none the less welcome to the finder because it is sent to her by an unknown hand." The doctor, or rather Bartholomew, then laid the bag and a silk umbrella, bearing on a silver plate the initials E.W., on the table, and handed over to the young man two tickets and a fifty- dollar note. The brother and sister, who could hardly restrain tears of joy at the prospect thus before them of so soon regaining their dear old mother, seized their benefactor's hands and covered them with kisses, protesting over and over again the depth of their gratitude. At last the young man said, " Of course, dear doctor, I will write and let you know of our safe arrival, and how we found poor mamma." " No, my son," said Bartholomew. " No, apart from the fact that I proceed from here to the death-bed (here his kind voice faltered) of a con- sumptive nephew, I should not wish to be affected by your thanks, children, but sleep well, and re- member what I have bidden you do. Good night, good night." Mildred wished to accompany their benefactor downstairs, but he bade her go and pack, and then go to sleep. The girl, however, in her joy lifted her face to him, and asked him to kiss her, 86 A BARTERED HONOUR. but repented afterwards, for the touch of his lips was cold and repelling like a toad or a serpent. Bartholomew left the house and walked rapidlj to the hotel, where, after writing a few letters, he went to bed. The next day John and Mildred Merton, who had been left destitute in the town of X — by the death of their uncle, and were in great misery till visited by their unknown benefactor, departed for San Francisco, which they reached — doing the service which Dr. Toogood had asked them to do, with all fidelity. White and Ipworth departed in company for M — in the early morning. At three o'clock that afternoon a couple got into one of the carriages of a train which started for a seaport town from which a line of steamers sailed weekly to Liverpool. The man was tall with a stoop, and carried his left shoulder higher than the right. Be wore blue spectacles, and had his face tied up as if for tooth-ache. The woman was middle-sized, of a plump and well-formed figure. Their luggage was thus directed — REV. BARTLEMY HIRAM, Pass. to Liverpool, ENGLAND. 1 MRS. ESTHER HIRAM, Pass, to Liverpool, ENGLAND. CHAPTEE YII. STUDENT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. Letter from George Douglas to Charles Hauberk. '' St. Mary's College, Oxford. '' My Dear Hauberk, — " I write to thank you most heartily for the nice long letter you sent me. I was very much amused indeed by your account of the proceed- ings of the festivity of the Porcania Club ; rather different in style, I should say, from the wines we used to be at, at Lord B — 's of the ' House/ I never thought, however, that gentlemen would behave in such a manner, and, to judge from your letter, they exhibit equal bad taste in their dress and conversation. Poor Charlie ! I pity you amongst such men, and yet I suppose there is no help for it. " You ask me for Oxford news. I go out so little and read so hard that, to tell you the truth, I know very little what goes on. Robinson, our senior bursar, had an apoplectic fit from gorging himself too much at our Gaudy, and Stapleton, one of our college tutors, has been ejected from his fellow- ship for being found out to be married — it appears he has been married ever since he was first elected, and kept his wife down in St. John's Wood, London. A general who ran away from the- enemy in the late war, but is connected witli ©5 A BARTERED HONOUR. the Marquis of S — , has been made honorary LL.D. here. I was present at his installation. ^''A good many fellows ask after you, and seem to be much interested in your doings. Mangles, 3^our private friend, has been sent down for never doing any work. I saw him before he left. He said he should go into the beer and sugar line himself, which I should think will suit his capacity admirably. I am reading hard for Greats, as I must get a first. I hear occasionally from Miss C, she has asked me to spend a few days with her at Keswick, as ' Charlie's friend must be my friend,' she says. She seems rather an original character, and fond of you in a great degree. I shall certainly go. The long vacation has already begun, but I have been staying on to work. I shall j)robably go down to Keswick to- morrow week, but I will report progress before then. I wish you could be there too, it would be so pleasant to row together on the lake, and walk together on the glorious hills. I am prepared to see something very lovely, for I have heard Kes- wick compared to my ain dear Highlands, and it must be lovely if it can bear comparison with the hills of Caledonia. Mind you write soon, and for the present address to St. Mary's, where I shall be for a week, and even if I do leave before, they will forward my letters. I hope you won't get mixed up with any duels. Remember what Montaigne says — 'H est meme arrive, parmi nous, qu'une adresse trop recherchee dans I'usage des armes dont nous nous servons a la guerre, est devenue STUDENT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. 89 •TidicTile ; parceque, depuis I'introduction de la coutume des combats singuliers, Fescriiiie a ete regardee comme la science des querelleurs ou des poltroiis/ To me duelling has alwa3^s appeared a Temnant of the barbarous middle ages ; from which, indeed, Germany has in many respects only just emerged, and I would counsel you to leave all the ' incensed worthies ' to their own devices. I must leave off now, as I have still got some reading to do, and it is already an unearthly hour. With. a pat for Fang, believe me, dear Charles, your ■affectionate friend, " George Douglas. . " P.S. — Are you acting wisely in dropping the name of Benson without first going through the necessary legal formalities ? I fear it may cause you some annoyance." Charles got this letter about a fortnight after the Porcania festivities, and had hardly read it when Lovell came into the room. " Hauberk," said he, "I want you to give me your services in this stupid duel affair. It appears I must fight the fellow, though, very unwilling to do so, or else the students will make it too hot for me to stay here." "Tell me the circumstances," said Hauberk. *' Tell me the offence given, how it happened, and so on. You wrote me a note about it, but I scarcely read it, being in a great hurry at the time, and have since mislaid it." " Well," answered the American, " on the night 90 A BARTERED H0N0T7R. of the Porcania, after you left me, and as I was going home, I chanced to meet a student called Meyer, a Jew, I believe, who sits next to me in the lecture room. He had often made himself unpleasant to me by refusing to let me pass, shaking the table, and so on ; but as I knew that a foreigner cannot expect much civility from a German, I took no notice of his boorishness. On that night, however, as soon as he saw me coming he crossed over the road and pushed against me. I thought he was intoxicated, and passed on. He followed me, and a little while after pushed against me again. I remonstrated with him for his rude behaviour, and he called me ' dummer Junge,' a ^ stupid youngster ! ' This is, I have afterwards learnt, the regular formula amongst German students to invite a challenge ; and according to the etiquette amongst students, I ought to have . politely asked him for his card, instead of doing which, I knocked him slap down on the pavement, and left him howling there. I certainly expected a challenge from him on the following morning, but none came. When I met him afterwards at the University, about a week after the occurrence, for I suppose my blow disfigured him so much for the time that he did not wish to appear till it was healed, he began insulting me again by push- ing me and so on. I could not knock him down again as it was in public, and an action like that would have brought me very low in the estimation of those present, so acting on the advice of Count Hattnichviel, I demanded his card, and there it STUDENT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. 91 is. I want you to carry this note to Mm and to act as my second.'' "Might I hear the contents of the note?^' asked Hauberk. "Certainly/' rejoined the American. "It is •written in German, but I will translate it." Lovell then read as follows : — " Sir,— " Without using any of the absurd formalities which are usual in these cases, I write to say that my friend, Mr. Hauberk, the bearer of this note, is commissioned to receive an apology from you for the various gross insults you have put on me ; in case, however, you are not gentlemanly enough to do so, he will, in my behalf, demand satisfac- tion, and arrange details with any person you choose to name." " Do you think it will do ? " asked Lovell, when he had finished reading it. " Well enough," said Hauberk ; " but you appear to have anticipated my consent." " My dear fellow," said the American, " you will not refuse me I know. You are the only English speaking man I know about here, and I would rather have a sort of countryman to help me in this unpleasant business than any German I happen to know." " But," said Hauberk, " I know nothing about duels and duelling, and shall make an awkward second I assure you. However, as you wish it, I will carry the note and do my best for you." 92 A BARTERED HONOUR. "Thank you, my good friend," said Lovell, grasping his hand. " There is one thing yet. I should prefer fighting this ruffian with my fists ; but that, I fear, is inadmissible. If you can manage with pistols I should prefer that to hacking about with swords ; I have a horror of steel." " I will, as T said, do my best." The account of Charles' visit to Mr. Meyer, and the subsequent events of this heroic quarrel, may be best learnt from the following letter, addressed to his friend Douglas by him — " Juden Gasse, Leipzic. "My Dear Douglas, — " In my last letter I told you something about a young American by name of Lovell, who was with me at the banquet of the gods, and who carried out the demigod principle by quarrelling shortly afterwards with a wretched German student, a Jew, and getting involved in a stupid duel. He asked me, with some familiarity I must say, to act as his second, and though I felt rather offended (the Hauberks received their peerage patent from Charles I.) at such a request from a Yankee brewer's son, I conceded, partly out of friendship and partly to vary the oppressing dul- ness of my situation here. I went accordingly to the lodgings of the redoubtable Meyer, the offend- ing party, with a note of defiance from Lovell. I found the hero's abode after much trouble — he lived on the eighth story of a broken down lodging- house. I was rather surprised at this, as Herr STUDENT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. V6 Meyer in public appears a wealthy man, and is constantly to be seen driving about the town, even taking a carriage with, two horses for the shortest distances when through a road at all used as a thoroughfare by ^^eople of the town. One might think this curious arrangement a sign of a vulgar and mean pretension of a petty desire to make appearances, of a wish to show off wealth, which when done by the wealthy is ill-mannered enough, but when done on false pretences is the height of bad and vulgar taste, save for the fact that, as I hear, very many German students practise the same thing. When I had at last climbed up the lofty Olympus of the Mars-like Meyer, I gave my card to a miserable-looking servant girl, and stated my wish to see him. The servant went in and took the card, but, as she left the door open I was able to see what occurred. As soon as Herr Meyer received the card he turned very red, and bidding the girl wait, made some preparations for my reception. He first threw open his wardrobe door to display his wardrobe, which, if paid for, was decent enough. He next laid his purse, which he opened, on the table, and arranged a few gold pieces in a negligent way on the table. He then threw on it a few cards, all from noblemen, Polish counts and German barons, et hoc genus omne ; the cards, by the way, were all ornamented with huge im- pressions of coronets. And then he bade the maid let me in. " Herr Meyer, who by the time I had entered ■94 A BAETEEED HONOUR. liad thrown himself into an easy chair, rose when he saw me. He was a short, thick man, with an enormous body, more resembling a beer barrel than anything I caa think of. He had a flat, uninteresting face, on which I counted no less than seventeen scars, as inflicted by a cavalry sabre. He was dressed in a greasy sleeping gown, beneath which I saw his yellow shirt, which was fastened round his waist by what looked like a bell-rope (this idea being all the more admissible l3y the fact that the room lacked this appendage), black cloth trousers, and a pair of red velvet slippers. The room was badly and dirtily fur- nished. On the unmade bed stood a sloppy tray, which seemed to have had breakfast on it. The air was close and unpleasant. I saw not a single book, except a collection of songs to be sung at the public meeting. An old sword hung in one corner of the room^ and sundry pipes finished the orna- mental part thereof. " The lord and master of these demesnes was smoking a long German pipe, and the tobacco smelt most unpleasantly. When I entered he took his pipe out of his mouth and rolled his goggle eyes most fiercely. I bowed to him most politely, and handed him the note. He took it and read it, and invoked thunderstorms without end on Lovell and myself. I then addressed him for the first time, and asked him for his answer. He bellowed out, obviously endeavouring to terrify me, in which he signally failed — " ' Potz-tausend-Donner-Wetter-Shock-Millionen STUDENT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. 95 iiocli-a-mal.' (A favourite exclamation amongst our German cousins.) 'Such an impertinence have I never set mj ejes on jet.' " I remarked — " ' You have not jet answered mj questions.' "'Ko,' answered Herr Mejer, rolling his goggle ejes again with such rapiditj that they seemed to contain boiled mercurj, and I feared everj minute to see them spring out of his head. 'No, that have I not done. Nor will I answer questions which are so unashamed. Is it that I must apologise to the man who knocked me down ? * " • If Mr. Lovell requested jou to do so, I stronglj recommend jou to follow his wish, for, let me tell jou, that neither mj principal nor I wish to engage in this affair out a school-bo jish wish for excitement, or to gratifj a miserable vanitj on jour part. If there is to be a duel, it shall be a regular duel ; and if jou engage in it JOU must be prepared to take the full conse- quences.' " ' Take care,' said Herr Mejer, ' that jou, who thus speak to a gentleman, do not become also engaged in a duel.' " I answered him sharplj — "'Do not waste jour threats on me; if jou were to dare to treat me as jou have Mr. Lovell I should simplj horsewhip jou till I left as manj scars on jour back as jou carry on jour face. A duel with jou ! Do jou think, sir, that an English gentleman would stoop to an ignoble brawl with an unknown German Jew, with a 96 A BARTERED HONOUR. miserable — . But excuse me, I am forgetting myself/ " ' I am glad/ said Meyer, ' that you do make this confession.' " He had sidled behind the table when I let go the torrent of my wrath, but hearing me apologise thought I was unprepared to take the consequences of my words, and strutted out, looking the most comic caricature of an incensed Bombastes that I have ever seen oflP the Gaiety stage. " ' Potz tausend,' etc., continued he, glaring at me like an infuriated porpoise. ' You shall hear from me, sir; I will send to you — ' " ' Allow me to suggest to you, sir,' answered I, having quite recovered my coolness, ' that it would be more polite to a stranger if you would moderate the tones of your voice, and perhaps you may know tha.t it is not usual to speak to a stranger with a covered head. You have a night-cap on. Might I suggest the politeness of taking it off. Thank you, that is better. As regards your threats, I may tell you at once that if you pester me with any friends of yours, barons or counts though they may be, I shall have them turned out of my room by the police, or send them out by the more expeditious route of the window. You need not glare at me, sir ; I do not fear that. All I wish is an answer to that note. My stay in this room, has been protracted far beyond what is either agreeable or pleasant, or even healthful for me.' " Meyer then sat down and wrote a short note. STUDENT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. 97 after hunting wildly in his drawers for the necessary stationery. He was rather discomfited by a little incident which occurred during this search, namely, in turning over the contents of one of the drawers he brought to light the gnawed half of a black pudding and a crust of cheap bread, which, no doubt, had formed his supper on the previous evening, for this gentleman, dining at table cVhote of one of the best hotels in the town, was obliged to exercise a little frugality in the meals which he partook at home, id es^, where there were no spectators. When the note was finished he gave it to me, and I departed at once. '' The note was addressed to another student, who arranged the duel with me. Pistols were chosen, after some wrangling on my part, in which I threatened that Lovell would publicly horsewhip Meyer if the duel fell through. " I was present at the duel. Lovell really behaved in a gentlemanly manner. Meyer was as repulsive as ever. It was fought according to German principles, that is, the two combatants were placed back to back in the middle of the measured space (about twenty yards), and holding their pistols over their right shoulder, like a private carrying his gun, walked to the extremity of the measured space, turned round at the word of the other seconds and in that instant fired. Of course, neither bullet took effect. Meyer's indeed, whizzed past me, but whether this happened intentionally or by accident I cannot say. Meyer^s second would not hear of a second VOL. I. H 98 A BARTERED HONOUR. trial, and thus this ludicrous piece of antiquated folly came to an end. There were several spectators, chiefly students, present, and all they seemed to look on it as a grave and thoroughly serious matter. I should never have goodhamour enough to act in such a farce again, and, but for the amusement, and the insight into human folly and monkeyism, which this notable duel gave me, I should regret ever having been present at all. You need not fear, therefore, that I shall commit myself again. " With regard to the postcript to your letter with reference to my change of name, I can only say that it is no change to drop half one's sur- name, and I have always disliked the name of Benson. It is true that I have not taken the necessary steps to legalise this change, but now-a- days these are very easily taken, and I am only debarred therefrom by the expense they entail. I have addressed this care of Miss Crosthwaite, Keswick, as I presume you have reached that haven of rest by now. "Remember me with all affection to Miss Crosthwaite, and believe me, dear Douglas, your affectionate friend, " Charles Haitberz." A day or two after this letter had been written and posted, Charles was sitting in his room with Lovell. After the service which Charles had rendered him the young American had become very friendly with him, and Charles, who had STUDENT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. 99 admired the conduct of his principal in the mighty encounter^ had received his approaches -with grace and favour, and as he got more nearly- acquainted with him found the young American to be endowed with a very good heart and generous feelings, and a standard of good taste, which he thought remarkable in a Surat brewer. Lovell, on the other hand, admired the dash and grace of the aristocratic young Englishman, and, though he detected and partly resented his proud and patronising spirit, he allowed him this as a prerogative, and from their mutual admiration a friendship arose. Lovell was talking to Charles, and was describing to him a hard-headed uncle which he had, a certain White, coffee merchant, in the South of America, and was about to tell his friend, who was listening wdth a weary and bored air, some anecdote connected with this gentleman, when a knock was heard at the door, and the landlord of the house presented himself, followed by his wife and Lena, the maid of all work, and holding in his hand a formidable looking bill. He at once addressed Hauberk, and said — " You there, you Herr Student. Will you be so kind as to pay me this money, for your rent for two months, for coffee and lights, and for damage done to the furniture and bed clothes by your one peeg dog." "What do you mean? " asked Charles, getting up angrily, and snatching the paper from the man's hand. " I thought I had explained to you 100 A BARTERED HONOUR. that as my funds come in quarterly it is not con- venient for me to pay your bill monthly, or at irregular intervals. If you will bring it again in a month's time you shall receive your money as punctually as heretofore ; although I certainly do not see how my little dog can have done damage to the amount of thirty-five shillings, which, at a rough guess, is more than the value of the furni- ture in this room.'^ "Oh! that is it/' said the landlord, ''is it? Well, Mr. Englishman, leesten to me. I wants my money, because in a month it will be too late to get it from you, for in a month you will have left these rooms a month ago." " What do you mean ? " asked Charles. " I have not the slightest intention of leaving." " Have you not ? " said the landlord, " but if it should happen that 1 have ? I do not want you here, Meester Englishman, and I will tell you why. You tell me your name is Ho — ber, but I find otherwise. I see on your linen Ben — sohn, and I think it suspicious. Then you do not buy any beer of me, and you make love to Lena, my servant." " What the d — 1 do you mean by that ? " said Hauberk. "Yes, you do," said the most wretched of slaveys. " You have often looked at me, and you have said ' thou ' to me very often, and you wait in the passage at nights, and pretend to be playing with your pig-dog, and you want to speak to me. But I do not want to make love to any English- STUDEXT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. 101 man, and certainly not witli the likes of you. There now, Herr Student/' Though stung to the quick by the partly un- answerable insolence of his aggressors, neither Charles nor Lovell could refrain from smilinor at the idea that any gentleman could or would enter- tain amorous ideas towards so miserable and wretched a female. The landlord then went on — '' You will there- fore pay me my money and go to-morrow." " I will do nothing of the sort," said Hauberk. " Then we will go for the police, and report that you are living under an assumed name, and will not pay your debts," said the landlord's wife. '^ Why not pay these wretched people and go ? " said Lovell, in German. '' I have two beds at my rooms, and you are more than welcome, my dear fellow, to stay with me as long as ever you like." ''• I cannot pay them," answered Charles, in the same language, "I have hardly any money." " Oh," said the landlord, " if you have no money you are one swindler." " Do keep quiet," prayed Lovell, for Charles had darted forward at the word swindler, with looks which betokened ill to his landlord. *^ Do keep quiet ; what can you gain by striking so abject a wretch as that ? You will only get the worst in the end. You know the Germans." " You are right," said Charles, restraining him- self. "I will keep quiet. But what are these vermin doing ? " At a sign from the landlord, the wife had brought 102 A BAETEKED HONOUR. in a large clothes basket, and taking it from her the landlord said, " Now, sir, although you have no money, you have got the books, and as you won^t pay I will take the books ; '' and suiting his action to his words, he advanced towards the corner where Charleses large library lay uncere- moniously piled up. Now to Charles, in his weary exile, these books had been the greatest comfort of his life, and in his solitude he had found solace and companionship amongst them. Dear, dead friends, they spoke to him whenever he needed a cheering word, and lightened a life which, without them, would have been dull as death itself. And Charles was grateful to them, and loved them even as he loved his live friends, and when he saw the wretched man with an expression of vile cupidity on his face, advance towards where they, mute records of brighter and happier days, lay, the passion he had subdued till then overcame him, and uttering a cry of wrath he darted to prevent the man in his daring. But the landlord's wife and his soi-disant lady- love were too quick for hira, and they barred his passage and clung to him, and kept him at bay. In a pitiful voice of shame and anger the young man cried out, '* Lovell, Lovell, for the sake of God stop him. Let them take anything but them. They are all the comfort I have left. Lovell, stop him ! O, heavens ! my Milton, my Shelley ! Cur, dog, thief ! Tear these vile women from me, and let me get at him. Ah, Fang ! brave dog. Well done ! " STUDENT LIFE AT LEIPZIG. 103 For wakened bj tlie noise and by tlie distTirbing" movements of the man^s hand, a little white dog, ■unnoticed till then, was seen to hurl its bodj through the air, and with a yelp of defiance, fasten its teeth in the landlord's hand, which was covetously clutching a richly-bound gilt-edged Byron, and shake it like a rat, till the man, with a cry of pain, dropped the book. Fang then, uttering several short, shai'p barks, rushed at the man's legs, and he, craven wretch, fled in precipi- tation, nor did the dog cease snarling and biting till the room was cleared of the intruders. Charles, after lavishing the most profuse caresses on his terrier, sat down on his bed, apparently exhausted by the excitement which the scene had produced, nor did he notice that his friend had left the room until Lovell returned bringing the bill receipted. " There," said the American, putting it into his hand, '' that's settled. I have lent you the money, you can pay me when your funds come in. Ha ! ha! ha! It was worth six times the amount to see how that dog behaved. Good Fang ! brave dog ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! " Thus was that pride which was to be the bane of Charles's life, tried and attacked, but grew stronger in it all. Poor Charles ! CHAPTEE YIII. EUPHROSTNE DE BIENAIMEE. As soon as Charles had, with, the aid of his friend, completed the packing of his scanty effects, thej departed in a coach to Lovell's lodgings. On the way Lovell chanced to remark — '^ By the way, what did the man mean about your name, and the different name on the linen ? " " Nothing, nothing," answered Charles, hastily, '^ Some impertinence, no doubt. I assure you it is of no importance. I will tell you why some day.'* Then turning the conversation he said, " I wonder what could have been his reason for turning me out in this manner. I cannot possibly conceive it my- self." " Oh," answered the American, ^* it is not diffi- cult to understand the lofty motives which actuated him. Knowing that you had not the necessary funds to pay his bill, he wished to gain possession of your books ; probably some student, lodging in the same house, may have expressed a wish to purchase them.-" '^ You are right there," said Charles ; '^ a German who lived over me, and who called on me when I first came, seemed very interested indeed in them." " Then," added the American, " there is no EUPHEOSTNE DE BIENAIMEE. 105 'doubt that he told the landlord this, and that wretched man hoped to make a good bargain with him for them. But here we are at my palatial residence^ and very glad I shall be to house you and Fang and your belongings for as long as ever jou will stay." " Thank you," answered Charles. *' It is kind of you to offer me this hospitality, but be sure I shall not out-stay my welcome." " Of that there is no fear," answered the Ameri- ■can. " Come in.^' Lovell, who was amply supplied with money, lived in a pretty and first-class hotel garni, in one of the best parts of the town, and occupied three rooms on the first floor. He had a dining-room, bedroom, and study; and into this latter be ushered his guest, after first discharging the coach, which he paid for himself, and seeing Charles' luggage brought upstairs. '' You shall occupy my bedroom," said he, " and I will have a bed put up here for the time." After a little remonstrance on the part of Charles, Lovell rang the bell and ordered this arrangement to be made, and ordered some tea to be prepared for their mutual refection. While they were partaking of it, Charles, who had been glancing round the well and elegantly furnished room, found his eyes constantly reverting to a picture which hung over the door. It was the picture of a young and beautiful lady, with dark bair and bright eyes, which with her teint spoke of a Creole strain in the original of tbe portrait. 106 A BAETEEED HONOUR. Charles admired it so much that he could not help asking his friend whom it represented. " Do not ask," said Lovell_, with a pained accent. '' Do not ask me. T cannot tell you. It pains me to think of it." '^ I am sorry/' said Charles, taking the Ameri- can's hand^ " I am sorry if my question has awakened any unpleasant recollections in your mind. Be assured it was quite unintentionally done. I thought it was a fancy portrait." " I would it were," said Lovell, bitterly, " and that the wretched woman it represents had never existed. Better far, better far for her if she had never been born." " What is the matter, friend ! '^ said Charles, anxiously, for tears had started into Herbert's eyes, ^' Pray do not give way so.'^ Herbert got up and walked to the window to compose himself, and Charles wondered very much what was the reason of his friend's strange be- haviour. It seemed odd to him that the son of a Surat brewer, especially an American, should show himself possessed of any romance ; that, in his prejudiced ideas, being an attribute of the- knightly aristocracy alone. The lady, too, looked too old to be a flame of Herbert^s, and he was lost in curious speculation, when his friend came back, and taking his hand, spoke as follows — " You have just now seen a sight which must be strange to you. You have seen, and, I believe,, wondered at it, tears in the eyes of a man whose low birth would seem to exclude the possibility, as- ETJPHROSrNE DE BIENAIMEE. 107 you thinkj of Ms possessing higher and deeper feelings. Nay, do not deny it, friend/' for Charles had made a deprecating motion with his hand. " YoTi would be right in your surmise in a hundred cases out of a thousand, for men whose minds have been soiled with trade, and constant contact with the hardening influence of money-grubbing, have often not time to nurse those finer sentiments which are the common heritage of man. You know what I am, the adopted son of a brewer of cheap beer, who exercises his trade in New Tork/^ " But," said Charles, '' for all that I am glad to know you." " For all that," rejoined the American, '' you are glad to know me, and I am glad to know you^ in spite of the inequality of our positions, for I shrewdly suspect you have been born to better things and come of good blood, although you have never confided to me the reason of your being here." Charles muttered something about learning German — insight into political economy — foreign nations, and Lovell went on — " Well, as I have said, you have seen me affected by a trivial question, and as my evincing such emotion must naturally have awakened some curiosity in your mind as to its cause, I think it right to tell you the story of that picture ; yoix will, of course, keep my confidence." "How can you ask me that?" asked Charles. '' Well, I see you will not violate my secrecy. 108 A BARTERED HONOUR. and this is my story. That lady, Esther White, is my mother's sister. They are not, as you may judge from the fact of their relationship to me and the portrait of my aunt, Americans by birth, but both my mother and Esther Whibe, her sister, are English. I am the only son of my mother, and came over to America with her and Esther in my earliest infancy. My mother was a widow at that time, and I have never heard much about my father. I gathered from my mother that he was a lawyer or something of that sort in London, but neither my mother nor my aunt would answer my questions about it. But that is neither here nor there. We were not poor, and lived very happily together. I grew passion- ately devoted to Esther, for my mother often treated me in a strange manner, as if ashamed of me, and often in the midst of a pleasant conversation would push me away suddenly or shake me off her lap and cry, 'Go, go, boy, hide yourself; I cannot bear to look at you.' At these times I would go to Esther, who always comforted me and told me not to mind, as my mother had known much trouble and grew strange at times. Esther was much younger than my mother, and about six years older than myself. She was a beautiful girl, and I loved her all the more since I felt repelled by my mother; in fact, we grew up more like brother and sister than nephew and aunt. When I was eleven years old my mother married Mr. Dixon, and of him I will say nothing, except that Jie always behaved with great generosity and kind- EUPHROSYNE DE BIEJSTAIMEE. 109 ness to me, and equally so to mamma. But his marriage was a sad event for me, for it separated me from Esther, who went into an American family as governess. I remember crying bitterly the night she went, which took place about a year after mother's marriage. Esther at first lived with us, and the pleasant times seemed not to have been changed by the marriage. But somehow, after mother's marriage, she seemed to grow suspicious of Esther, and treated her as if she feared her. This could not have arisen from jealousy, because Mr. Disou was very much attached to mother, who, in her way, was a greater beauty than her sister. There seemed to be some secret about mamma which mamma feared she might reveal. Anyhow, one night Esther came into my room and told me she was going away. I begged her with tears not to leave me, but she went in a day or two, and took a place somewhere in the South. She wrote frequently to me, and after about two years told me she was engaged to be married. She did marry after a month or two, and her husband was a Mr. White, a business man, who lived in the town of X — , in the South of America. She seemed to me thrown away on him, a hard-headed man of business, apparently coarse and vulgar, who cared for nothing but money-making. Esther did not write to me so often after her marriage, and I judged from her letters that her life and the companionship of her husband had changed her from the bright, lovely girl she used to be. In such letters, however, as I did receive from her^ 110 A BAKTEEED HONOUR. she frequently spoke about a Mr. Bartholomew, her husband's partner, as an agreeable companion, and an. interesting and romantic character. She wrote more like her old self when her lovely girl was born, but I never heard from her after. The next thing I heard of my dear friend, my darling Esther, was that she had robbed her husband and run away from him with Bartholomew." "Eun away ?" asked Charles. " Yes, cruelly and heartlessly ran away with her husband's partner, the two taking with them a large sum of the firm's money. The flight was so atrociously arranged that there could be no doubt of a deep and guilty premeditation. I was about seventeen years old at the time, and study- ing at Harvard College, when I heard the news. My mother wrote to tell me of the appalling shame that had fallen upon us, and enclosing a letter from Mr. White relating the details." Lovell then got up and went to his desk, whence he took a letter. He then continued — " This is the letter from Esther's husband, which I will read to you, and, when you have heard it, tell me what you think Bartholomew deserves. This is what my uncle writes — "X—. «' Dear Mrs. Dixon, — " It is with the deepest distress, and in the ^midst of an overwhelming affliction, that 1 write to tell you that, on my return from a busi- ness visit to the feown of M — , I found that my wife EUPHEOSYNE DE BIEXAIMEE. Ill tad left me, without eitlier a message or a line to explain her absence. I learnt from the servants that she had gone out one afternoon with sundry luggage, and had told them that she proposed to go for a short time to stay with a friend, leaving the house in no one's charge. This, I learned, happened on the day of my departure. I imme- diately took train to the place where she had stated her intention of going to, but heard from the lady whom she had said she was about to visit, that she had never been there at all. I returned to X — , and went at once to the offices to consult with my partner, Mr. Ipworth, as to what had best be done, for as yet I did not for a moment suspect that she had done anything foolish. I found Mr. Ipworth in great excitement, and learned that our junior partner, Mr. Bartholomew, who had, we thought, gone to Xew York for the pur- pose of investing a large sum of the firm's money, had never been there at all. Our suspicions were at once naturally awakened, and from inquiries I made at Cashville amongst the servants were only too well founded. It appeared that Bartholomew had been in the habit of paying clandestine visits to my wife, and had been, one evening about a week before my departure, in her company in the garden. As soon as the rumour of this elopement^ for such it turned out to be, got about the town, we received a clue to their whereabouts from the •chief clerk at the railway booking-office. It ap- pears that on the day previous to his supposed departure for New York, Bartholomew had taken 112 A BARTERED HONOTJE. out two first-class tickets for a Mr. Merton and lady to San Francisco. Having communicated with tlie police of that town, in due course we received substantial evidence that it was thither, and under that name, that the guilty couple had fled, for a bag belonging to Bartholomew, but with a label bearing the name of Merton pasted on it, and an umbrella belonging to Esther, had been found at the San Francisco terminus in one of the cars, and was forwarded to us for verification. We have put the matter in the hands of an experienced detec- tive, who has started to San Francisco after them, and has no doubt of being able to find them. Apart from the great domestic afliction which has fallen upon me, both myself and my partner have been placed in a predicament of great danger to the firm by the loss of the money which Bartho- lomew has taken with him. This robber, this villain, before his departure committed another act of heartless cruelty. Having sent his wife off on a visit to a friend, he used the time in her absence to sell off all the furniture in the house down to the last stick, a great part of her wardrobe being included. Mr. Ipworth has kindly offered her, poor afflicted woman the use of his house until something is settled ; but her grief and distress is pitiable to behold. Bartholomew appears to have been a wandering vagabond before he came to X — , and only acquired the sum he had in our house by his marriage. His wife seems to have loved him very affectionately, and to have had implicit faith in him. My grief, and it is deep, for through all my EUPHROSTNE DE BIENAIMEE. 113 roug]i_, money-seeking habits, I fondly loved my pretty Esther, is thrown into the shade by the con- templation of Mrs. Bartholomew's grief. This is at present all I have to communicate on this most unhappy affair, and 1 remain, in deepest affliction, jour affectionate brother-in-law, " John White." " That is the story," continued Lovell, " and for base and heartless cruelty is, I should say, un- rivalled in the shameless annals of adultery. Esther, Esther ! how could you ? " — here he went up to the picture and burst into tears once more — ** how could you thus desert me? " "When did this take place? " asked Charles. " About three years ago.^' ''And has nothing been heard of th<^m since? " "Nothing, though White and Ipworth and Mr. Dixon, on behalf of my mother, have spared neither trouble nor expense, until this day not a word has been heard about either, not a single clue found. They may be dead, and — Oh, God ! forgive me for saying it — I pray that she may be." "Describe Bartholomew to me," said Charles, earnestly. " I will," said Lovell, " and I pledge you in all sincerity before heaven to remember my description." "Why?" asked Charles. " That if ever you meet him you may tell me of it. And now — " VOL. I. I 114 A BARTERED HONOUR. "What?" " Wellj I will ntter no threats^ but our meeting shall be one of bitterness to the wretch who has ruined her. I shall have strength to mark him with a mark he shall carry to his grave. Listen. He is a tall man, badly made, and with a stoop. He has small blue eyes, an ugly mouth, but a fine set of teeth, and wears a red beard." " Have you ever seen him ? " asked Charles. *'No; but I have asked so often for his descrip- tion, and have so studied each detail of his person from the accounts, that I form his picture well — a tall, slinking hang-dog, a cunning treacherous fox; a — " " Has he any other peculiarity ? '' " ^ o ; but stay ! he carries his left shoulder higher than the right. That is all." "That is all?" " Yes." "I will remember," said Charles, rather in- differently ; " and should I happen to see any person answering to his description, will let you know." Lovell looked at him curiously for a moment or two, and then said, without a trace of his recent emotion — " Come, let us go on to the balcony and get some fresh air." The two young men went on to the balcony^ and were standing looking into the street when they heard a knock at the street door, and looking down saw two parasols, and beneath the two ErPHROSTXE DE BIENAIMEE. 115 parasols two faces. One was a stately elderly face, which looked grave and serious, but the other ; ah ! the other. It was a face to gaze on, to feast on, framed in the most bewitching brown curls, boasting dark blue eyes, fringed with long silky lashes, a finely chiselled nose, and the sweetest of red lips, guarding a row of bright pearls, and finishing ofi" with a dainty little chin ; it was a face to fall in love with at first sight, and do desperate deeds for. Charles thought so too, apparently, for he asked rather anxiously — " Who are those ladies ? ^' " I do not know," said Lovell ; " I think there are some French ladies staying in the house^ and those are probably they. But come, it is getting* late. You must get your unpacking done^ and will be all the better for a good sleep." Charles then went to his room, and soon went to bed. As soon as he had left the study, Lovell, who had been sitting on the sofa, got up and said — " I wonder who he is and what he is." He then went to his bookcase, and took down a large aud brightly bound book. It was " Burke's Peerage."" Turning over to the letter H, he came to this paragraph under an article on Baron Hauberk — " Hauberk — the family name of the late Earl of Brookshire (ext.) of Appleiean Hall, in the county of Leicestershire. The last Earl was Charles, 7th Earl of Brookshire, 8th Baron Hauberk ; he died 116 A BARTERED HONOUR. without issue Nov. 17, 18 — . From him the barony reverted to Philip, present and 9th Baron Hauberk, of Carrickfergus, in Ireland." " Ah ! c'est ca^ is it ? " said Lovell ; " poor fellow^ poor fellow.'^ Charles, meanwhile, had gone to bed, but not to sleep, for he lay tossing about in a feverish heat. He could Tiot get to sleep, but kept repeating as he turned over from side to side, '* Who can she be ? Can I get to know her ? Who can she be ? " Then he would try to get to sleep, and — Flocks of sheep, that leisurely pass by, One after one ; the souud of rain, and bees Murmuring, the fall of rivei'S, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky. He too had thought of all by turns, but still the dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health refused to visit him, and so, being a young man of a sturdy mind he got up, lit a cigarette, and went to the window. It was a lovely moonlight night, and what does not look its best under the silvery touch of the soft queen of the skies ? The long row of uninteresting houses on the opposite side of the street sent back, as if ashamed of their brightness falling on their nnbeauteous lines, the moon's rays from a hundred windows, and shone refulgently. All was quite gtill, and Charles cast a loving glance at the bright heavens, and his dark eyes seemed to drink in their splendour. To a true poet such as Charles was, and not to a mere singer of fleshliness, the silent voices of nature EUPHEOSTNE DE BIENAIMEE. 117 never appeal in vain, and before their pleading the angry tliough1"s, the little selfish waywardnesses, which occupy men's minds for the most part, are hushed and still. The perfect stillness and the splendid beauty of that summer midnight sky, though revealed to him, standing in the midst of the haunts of sordid men, in a coarse and nois}^ town, penetrated to his soul, and calmed it into perfect harmony with the glory above. He was thinking of one moonlit night, when he paced a seashore walk on the coast of Brittany, and had watched the light, laid like a silver road across the waves, and had had tender thoughts of a dead friend well loved by him, but whom he might never see again, whose kind hand would never more touch his, till they met again, where they would both learn where that bright path led. Musing thus, he leant on the window sill and mused on till the rustlinof of a dress caiio;ht his ear. He looked up and saw on the balcony of a window, on the second floor, the lady whose face he had so admired that evenino^. She was standing looking up at the glorious sky, in an attitude of almost devotional reverence. Her head was bare, and her beautiful brown hair was decorated with a single white rose. She was dressed in evening dress, and the white satin clung to her and revealed the beautiful fulness and grace of her form. On her breast she wore another rose, a deep red one. A little foot, oh, so dainty I peeped from beneath her dress. One hand, white 118 A BARTERED HONOUR. and exquisitely formed, rested on the parapet of tlie balcony ; she lield the other over her eyes as if dazzled by the splendour of the moon. Her head was turned away, so that Charles could not see her face again, but the attitude, the flowers, the gleamino' dress, the hand, the foot, the rich hair, the whole form went to his heart at once. As a very phantom of delight did she beam on him, when he thus saw her for the first time. She was speaking softly, but Charles heard her words, they were that beautiful line of the poet who preferred exile to dishonour — Et qui salt aimer, sait mourir. Charles could stay no longer, fearing to be seen, but, casting one long full look on the maiden, retired. " Et qui sait aimer," said he, for he felt jealous already. " Whom does she love ? Whom can she ? Whom shall she love but me ? Listen, ye Fates, cruel till now, but kind in bringing me here. I call ye to witness that I will teach that divine being, that queen of the night, to love me and be mine ! " Charles was rather impetuous, certainly, in pro- posing definite arrangements for a matrimonial contract between himself and a lady unknown. 0, butcher^s book ! 0, baker's bill ! what idylls have ye not ruthlessly destroyed P ^Vhat airy breams of fair romance, spun by those light of heart and light, alas, of pocket, have ye not cruelly destroved ? EUPHEOST^'E DE BIE^'AIMEE. 119 As soon as Cliarles met Lovell next mominof he asked him to kindly ascertain who the ladies were "who were staying in the house. Lovell called the servant girl, who told them that the ladies were a French baroness and her daughter. What their name was she did not know, but had a card of theirs. She gave this to Lovell, who handed it to Charles. The card bore these names : — La Baeonesse de Biexaimez. MdLLE. EuPHEOSTXE de BlEXAIiTEi. " But," added the servant, grinning, " it is no good for either of the young masters to think of making love to them, for they have gone.'' '* Gone ! '^ cried Charles. "Aye, gone. They went by the first train to Paris this morning ; and this is what they gave me." "Without casting a glance at the two golden pieces which the maid held out in much glee to show him, Charles rushed from the room. He came back soon, however, and going up to Lovell, said mournfully — "I am marked for misfortune; I am a child of the night. Can you, will you, be my friend ? " "I've been it all along, you know," said the American. CHAPTER IX. THE TWO FRIENDS. Charles found himself so comfortable in his new quarters, and found, too, such congenial com- panionship in the young American, that he made arrangements to stay on, at the Hotel garni, per- manently. He took a bedroom on the same floor as Lovell, and used his study to work in. And he did work too, with more zeal and unflagging application than he thought himself caj)able of. The glance he had taken at the queenly Euphrosyne had shown him too, the utter misery and uncer- tainty of his position. One year, of the two years in which he could devote himself to study, had nearly passed, and had been occupied in idle and vain objects and apathetical indifference to the future, in moaning over the bright fortune he had lost, and in little else. Nothing so stimulates the energies of a young man than the secret love he entertains towards some lady, who by her fortune and beauty seems far removed from him, and Charles, to whom, until that moonlight night, there had been no object, no hope in life, now felt that there was something to work for, something to win. Distant, very distant, lay the guerdon, hopeless almost its at- tainment. But when Charles had made up his mind he could do a thing, for all his dreamy THE TWO FEIENDS. 121 sentimental nature. Sometimes, indeed, he would laugh at himself, that he, a pauper, an object of benevolence^ with no profession, and no hope of honourable employment, should have set his heart on winning a young lady above him in wealth and rank, so beautiful that she might choose among a hundred suitors, whom he had never seen but once, and of whom he knew nothing, not even her abode. It was a hopeless struggle in all sooth. However, he thought otherwise, and set about with great industry to make himself worthier of her he loved ; working day and night, often spend- ing sixteen hours of the twenty-four over his books. Relapses came now and then, when he would waste a whole evening over the composition of a sonnet to his mistress's eyebrows, but he soon shook this dream off, and set himself to his task again. Lovell, who had grown very much attached to his friend, assisted him in his studies, and helped him in every possible way, and, to tell the truth, did a good deal for him secretly; namely, by arranging with the people of the Rotel to take a certain percentage off Charles' bill and put it on to his. He did this with perfect taste, and would say to the people — " It is not fair that we should pay the same prices for our board. My friend eats hardly any- thing, while I, ha ! ha ! eat enough for two men, so just you charge him half, and make me pay the rest." The landlord would laugh and agree, fully be- 122 A BARTERED HONOUR. lieving the statement, and not caring who paid as long as lie got the money. The two friends were different in nature ; Charles, who was two years Herbert's senior, was cold, proud, and reserved, with an air of secret melancholy about him, which marked him as a poet at once. Herbert was open, frank, and winning, at i^eace with all men, and thoroughly enjoying the good things of this life, and laugh- ing at the bad. He had a merry voice, and a ringing laugh, and cared nothing for rank or station ; a comic chimney-sweep, or a facetious crossing-sweeper was as agreeable a companion to him as a belted earl, and he would often shock his more prejudiced companion by stopping in their walks abroad, to bandy a little repartee with some jovial Teuton costermonger or apple-woman. Charles was hlase or indifferent, spoke but rarely, and never laughed, but would listen to the merry jokes of his companions, with a shadowy smile and an absent air. In appearance, however, the young men did not differ so much as in teaiperament. They were both tall, and had both those finely-shaped hands and feet, which are the remaining distinctions of aristocrats. Charles had dark hair and fiery black eyes, Herbert's hair was brown and curly, and his eyes were blue ; Charles was pale and thin, Herbert rosy and plump ; Charles was always dressed in dark cloth, while the republican affected colours, and cared nothing for fashion. THE TWO FEIENDS. 123 Both had fine mouths, determined chins,, and strong beautiful teeth. At a distance, indeed, seeing them come along, side by side, one thought that one could detect a resemblance in figure and general appearance, but on seeing them closer the worn world-weary expression of the one, and the fresh and hearty de- meanour of the other, soon dispelled this idea. They passed two months together thus, rejoicing in each other's company, attending lectures in the morning, walking in the afternoon, and read- ing at night. Nothing notable occuiTed to either of them in this house, except one incident, which, though trifling, made an impression on Lovell. One evening he had left his "Burke's Peerage" lying on the table. Coming into the room he saw Charles, who was bending over it, suddenly snatch up a pen and write a few words on the page of the book, and dash his fist on the table. When Herbert went to put the book away, he saw that it was open at the article about the Hauberk family, and that after the words " Charles, 7th Earl of Brookshire and 8th Baron Hauberk, died without issue,'' the young man had written these words, " A cruel, a cursed lie/' " Poor fellow, poor fellow," said the brewer's son, as he placed the ponderous record in its place on the shelf. "Poor fellow ! " Next day " Burke^s Peerage " was missing, and the cook- maid had plenty of paper to light her 124 A BARTERED HONOUR. morning fire. One leaf, however, a disfigured blotted one, laj safely locked up in Herbert's drawer. Dorothy hadn^t forgotten her bright-eyed boy all this time, and every week did Charles receive some kindly letter from her, motherly, and yet in Dorothy's own peculiar style, with a little advice here, a little quaint scolding there, but with con- solation everywhere. It was towards the end of October, when the leaves were crisping and sere, that Charles got the following letter : — " Laburnum Cottage, '' Keswick. " My Dear Charles, " Glad to hear of work and early rising, also defeat of little white enemy. I didn't mean poor Fang, but the little white thing between your teeth, the cigarette, which grieves me to think of, weakening a nerve never too strong. Can't write much to-day as I have twelve letters to write, all with this weary pen of mine. One young cousin wants to emigrate, but says he won't do it without my consent, which means £ s. d. "Distressing news from London; my sister Sabine has got into her head that a wretched, penniless clergyman wants to marry her, and is. making herself quite unhappy about him. His name is Higgins, or Higginbotham, but I am not sure. It was broken off about three months ago,. but he has been at her again. I don't know what THE TWO FRIENDS. 125 will happen. She talked of marrying him in her last letter. He is more than twenty years younger than she_, so it is rather an unequal match. " Glad Lovell is so nice, though I don^t like Americans, or any foreigners, as a rule. They've got such wrong notions about Church and State, jou know, and don't like order. '^ Sorry, oh ! so sorry about change of name. Benson is quite as good a man as Hauberk, and the latter only put you out of your place. Bless the boy. Your trusty old woman, who talks of her ' gown.' " DOKOTHT. "P.S. — A cheque for twenty pound enclosed, never mind from whom; it will do for books. Keep away from the German students, beasts (said in a whisper). I don't want to hear a word about them. I have a strong feeling about touching pitch. 'Come out from among them and be ye separate, saith the Lord.' No, I know it is lonely for your heart, but it must be borne, and can be borne, with God's blessing. Charles felt so very vexed at Dorothy's very wise remarks about the name that he put up the cheque in an envelope, and sent it back, saying he did not want it. " Poor fellow,'^ said the brewer's son. " Poor fellow " say we. 126 A BAETEKED HONOTIR. Sabine was a very different person from Dorothy, in appearance as well as character. She was tall and thin, and wore a little row of false curls as a front. She had small eyes, and a sulky mouth, and had an air of asperity and a vinegary expression. She dressed in youthful fashion, and people say she rouged, which is not improbable. Ber hands were covered with rings, and she wore little black leather mittens on her wrists. Although much younger than her sister, she did not look half so fresh or hearty, and seeing them both together one might have put Sabine down to be the elder. Her character was vain, jealous and suspicious, and yet very simple. She wanted to many, because she thought it would raise her position above that of Dorothy, of whom she was jealous. She was not generous, but retained her frugal northern habits because they had become a second nature, and saved money with energy. She was very religious, as the world calls it, and most exact in her observance of Sundays and churchly holy days. Naturally conservative, she was also intolerant of any reforms or changes, and very bigoted in all her notions. This lady lived, as before mentioned, in Grosvenor Gardens, London, W. Her establishment consisted of a maid, a cook, and page-boy. The page was more for show than for work, and this suited his natural disposition to a nicety. Pimmins, for such was his patronymic, was not fond of work, but occupied his leisure, which was abundant, in suck- THE TWO miEXDS. 127 ing the end of liis thiimbs, or in tating a survey of the gardens from the front door, making loud criticisms on the dress or equipage of the passers- by^ remarking now and then to some whiskered swell who was lounging by^ ^' YouVe got'em on this time, chickie, how'll you get 'em off again ? Air they sewed on?'' Or asking some private coach- man whether his brougham- (" loose-box " Pimmins called it) didn't want a bit of freshening up with a wet sponge and soda, and whether his horse had had breakfast the Sunday before last, or whether he didn't think that the quadruped's high action would graze the bark off its knees against its fore- grinders, and so on. One morning Pimmins was standing on his door- step, engaged in uttering defiant challenges to mortal combat to a pallid butcher-boy, asking him to lay down a '' tanner," and averring that he would engage to produce nasal haemorrhage for the said coin, and the butcher was retorting that he had better swallow his buttons, and get a bit fatter before he insulted a gentleman, when a clerically- dressed person stopped this choice verbal encounter by knocking at the door^ and asking Pimmins if Miss Crosthwaite was at home. "Oh, no! not at all," said Pimmins. "She ain't be a-watching for you ever since this morn- ing, not at all neither/' and winked his left eye at the parson. " Kind;y cease your impertinence," said the Eev. Bartlemy Hiram, " and take my card up and say that I wish to speak to her at once." 128 A BA-RTEKED HONOUR. Pimmins took the card^ and screwing a half- penny into his eye, pretended to scrutinize it very -carefally, much as a banker will scrutinize a bank- note before changing it, first examining the back, then holding it up to the light, and so on. " It's honly a soup-ticket, Arry," shouted the butcher-boy, and darted away. "So it haint the hold naime," said Pimmins, *' somethink in the cut-round-the-corner-haley-bi ■way, air you ? ^' " What the devil do you mean ? " asked the pious gentleman, in an unlamblike manner. "Well, last time it was the Rev. Bartlemy Hiream, out, and to-day it's Tread-Mill Walker Bartholomew, aint it ? See there ! " The reverend gentleman glanced at the card which the page held out, and, with a pious oath, snatched it from him. " Curses on your fooling, that's the wrong card, a friend gave it to me. This is mine." " Which your anger is unnecessary, and spiles the digestion/^ said Pimmins^ as he escorted him upstairs. "Yes, yes," said the Rev. Hiram, " I have been put out this morning. Don^t mention it to any- one, my lad, and here's half a sovereign for you." He found Sabine sitting at a table writing, and going up softly behind her, put his hands over her eyes and said, " Boh ! " The chaste virgin screamed, as she was bound to, and tried to remove his hands. " Not till you guess who it is," said Bartlemy. THE TWO frie:n^ds. 129 "Oh.," said Sabine, "is it Pipcote, or Sliootle- berry, or Sarah Coggings, or " — "No,-" said Bartlemy, releasing his hold, "it's your own Bartie-partie/' " Oh ! go away, you horrid man. I don't want you," said Sabine. " I don't want to see you." "Not see your own Bartie ? " said Bartlemy. *' Oh, cruel, cruel ! " "No, it's you that are cruel. Have you called on me once this week, sir ? Have you not left me without a word, without a line ? Oh, Bartie, Bartie." '' My dear Sabine," said the clergyman, sitting down, " you must remember my official duties. The lambs that have to be gently driven to the fold, the venerable ewes that have to be kej)t there, the gentle pressure which has to be exerted to eject the vicious goats and rams from that fold of St. Olphage's, in the pleasant parish of Wyive- ham- Within in the County of Kent, England, Europe." " True, true," said Sabine, casting her eyes up to the ceiling, " true. And have you driven many lambs into j'our fold this week, my reverend sir ? " " Few, few," said the clergyman, humbly ; "they wouldn't go, and that's the truth. They prefer to wander in pleasant pastures of their own seeking, and to browse the unorthodox cowslip. But what's that?" An explosion of merriment had been heard out- side the door, and the clergyman, advancing on VOL. I. K ISO A BARTERED HONOUR. tiptoe "by a circuitous route, threw it wide open in time to see tlie last buttons of Pimmins the page, disappearing round a corner of the passage. " What is it, dear ? " said Sabine. " An instance in point, my dear madam," said the clergyman^ shaking his head mournfully, and half closing his eyes. ^' A lamb, a tender lamb, that prefers to gambol and carol outside the fold." "What do you mean?" asked Sabine, im- patiently. ^' It's your page, madam, your little page-boy," returned the clergyman, '' eavesdropping, madam, listening, and turning my pious words to scorn." " You don^t mean Valentine ? " said Sabine. " Yes, I mean Valentine, if such be the name which this unhappy lamb's godfathers and god- mother bestowed on him in his ^baptism, I de- cidedly mean Valentine." " Wbat a bad boy ! " said Sabine. "We will not say 'bad,' madam," piously re- turned the reverend gentleman_, " but temporarily uncurbed. In fact," said he, dropping his voice, and taking up a different, more natural manner, *' if 1 may advise you, dismiss him at once.'^ " Why be is useful enough, and doesn^t get too much wages," said Sabine. "Never mind that," said the clergyman; " never mind such a paltry consideration as the amount of emolument which his place brings him. Only think Sabine, how unpleasant it is to have a spy and eavesdropper in the house. Can it be, do you think, that your sister, your poor misguided sister THE TWO FRIENDS. 131 of wliom you have told me so much, has bribed this unhappy boy to listen to our conversations, and report them to her ? '^ " I don^t know/' said Sabine ; " it's quite possible. Dorothy was always jealous of me. Yes, it's more than possible." " Then disarm her by dismissing this lad, let him gambol and carol in his playful lamb-like way in another sphere," said Bartlemy per- suasively. " 1 think I will," said Sabine. " Yes, I'm sure I will ; he shall go to-morrow." " No, not to-morrow," said Bartlemy ; '^ not to- morrow, but say in a week or a month. I should not like him to think me the cause of his forfeiting so excellent a place, though I have had to warn you of his conduct. Watch him, and catch him in some delinquency, and then dismiss him at once." ^'Yery well," said the lamb, who had been listening to this conversation through the key- hole with a face of disgust. " That's your game, is it ! Frightened of my splitting about the card, eh ? Well, Mr. Soapsuds," apostrophising the Rev. Bartlemy Hiram, " see if I don't pay you out for this." " I wonder," continued he, as he sleepily descended the stairs, " I wonder what that there other name were. I can't remember — surely Mill- chalker, or something like that. I never could re- member things." " But I'll not forget you, Mr. Parson," said Master Yalentine Pimmins, as he stood on the 132 A BARTERED HONOUR. doorstep. "Why there goes the butcher boj again. Blowed if I don^t let him have something too," and so saying he darted out, and " went for " the unhappy purveyor. Meanwhile the Reverend Bartlemy was urging his suit on his beloved with all the glib eloquence he possessed. ^'By marrying me," he said, "you wi\l be 'brought at once into daily contact with the Holy Church, and your religion, which, allow me to remark, is one of your chief attractions for me, will, so to speak, be polished up, and rendered more shiny, more shining, I mean. You will preside at our tea meeting, cut the cake for the parish children, butter muffins for them, give out tea, read prayers, and, in short, do whatever you like." Whether this bright picture of moral and ecclesiastical felicity was too tempting for Sabine or not is a matter of doubt, but certain it is that she interrupted the holy man by laying her hand on his shoulder^ and bursting into one tear. '' Oh Bartie, Bartie ! " said she, " how could you be so greedy about the money-settlement?^' ^^I greedy?" asked the Rev. Bartlemy with a tone of deep affliction. " I greedy? Oh Sabine ! Sabine! how can you say that? My lawyer, madam, and not I. Mr. Isaac Solomons, of the City." " Acting by your directions," said Sabine. " Cruel again," said the parson. " No, if Mr. Isaac Solomons, lawyer, of the city of London, THE TWO miENDS. 133 E.G., cliose to think that it was all to your advan- tage to marry a yonug, hem ! not -unhandsome, hem ! and active servant of the Church, and that those advantages combined in one man were not to be coldly weighed and appraised by worldly men, I must say that Mr. Isaac Solomons showed that good sense which has made him the distinguished ornament of his profession which he is. Again, why could you not trust me ? I am simple in my habits. My stipend is enough to maintain me and to allow me to send a quarterly remittance to a beloved though aged and imbecile parent. What little money you may have, about which, by the way, I know nothing, would help me to exercise the charity which so adorns a clergyman.-" " And then this letter," said Sabine, taking one out of her desk ; '^ this letter, which you wrote to me about two months ago. These lines." " Eead them, my dear," said Bartlemy. " Yery well ; these lines," and Sabine read — " ' You needn't think Tm over keen to marry you. There are plenty of young ladies who would be glad to have me any hour, day, or week, and so if you want to smash up this engagement, smash ! ' "Oh Bartlemy, Bartlemy ! " said Sabine, "how could you write thus to me ? '' "A forgery, madam," said the worthy man briskly. " A mere forgery. Never wrote that letter at all. Look at the postmark, Wykeham- Within. Was never there at all at that date. 134 A BAETERED HONOUR. Was tending a previously-mentioned beloved but aged and imbecile parent, down Clapham way, at the time. Poor Sabine, could I v^rite so to you?" " Who v^rould take the trouble to forge a letter like this ? " asked Sabine. "Who, indeed!" retorted Bartlemy. "Who but those who wish to break those tender ties, those sweet ligaments, which bind my bleeding heart to your balmy bosom? Who, indeed? There, I see you are convinced. Give me the letter and I'll see that steps are taken to overtake the offenders." " Well, you are right, dear Bartie ; forgive me." " ril see about forgiving you by and bye. When may I call again ? " " Whenever you like, dearest." " One little kiss, Sabine, before I go." "There, pet." After these little endearments Sabine rang the bell for Valentine to show the gentleman, out. But the page evidently thought that the gentleman could find his way downstairs without a guide and came not. Valentine had been quite successful in his en- counter with the butcher's emissary, and was found by Bartlemy, who had been forced to come down alone, resting on his laurels and the door- step, cracking nuts and spitting the shells at his vanquished foe, who was receiving some orders from the cook down the area. " Come, my lad," said Bartlemy, " let me pass." THE TWO FRIENDS. 135 " Oh ! it's you is it ? " said Yalentine, eyeing him viciously. " Yes it is, come, let me pass." " I'd let you pass to somewhere as it's warm,'^ said Ya^-entine. " I'd not have you in the house if I was someone. Now, then, who are you a shoving-of ? Can't yer 9 " Bartlemy pushed by him and went his way down the street, and Pimmins revenged himself by throwing a shower of nutshells after him, crying — " UUo, Milchalkee, you sir, I say, Milwalker. What's your name ! Go on with yer," and only stopped when the reverend gentleman was out of sight. Yalentine then went u]3stairs and seeking audi- ence with his mistress, said — '' I've come to give warning, ma'am. I can't stand the hatmosphere of this neighbourhood. It's too bracing, indeed it is. It stiffins me up so.'^ ''Well, Yalentine," said Sabine, 'Tm sorry to hear this." "No you're not, ma'am," said Yalentine, "I knows, and look here — when yon parson comes again, give him this half-sovereign back which he giv me, and say I wuddn't touch it no-hows. Let him keep it for the family wash. I'm o£E to- CHAPTER X. MKS. PIMMINS' LODGER. Yalentine, true to his word, left Grosvenor Gardens next day, taking with him such small belongings as he had. He did not leave^ however, until he had had an opportunity of taking a partial revenge on his ecclesiastical foe. He waited for him, and when he saw him comings snatched up his bundle, and charging, bull fashion, with his head between his legs, npset tlie Rev. Bartlemy Hiram into the road. Having further relieved his feelings by kicking that gentleman's new guinea our-own-make hat into the gutter, he shouldered his bundle, and shaking off the dust of his feet on Miss Crosthwaite's abode, he went his way. This led him in course of time to the East of London, and he plodded on till he reached a small house, in a miserable street leading off from Thames Street, nearly opposite the Billingsgate Market, that repository of stale fish and choice epithets. Knocking at the door of this house in the manner of a free and independent householder, he was admitted by an old woman. " Well, granny," cried he, *' Tve turned up again, as lummy and first-rate as ever, ^^ou see." " Aye, aye," said the old woman, " it's you Jack is it, come in, your mother's upstairs.'^ Be it here mentioned that Valentine was only a 137 name bestowed on tlie page by Miss Sabine, wbo tboiight it sounded more imposing and West- en dified^ to coin a word, than the vulgar patrony- mic of Jack. However, as this young man has been introduced as Valentine, Valentine he may remain. The ci-devant page mounted the tumbling old staircase with alacrity^ and pushing open a door on the first landing, rushed into the room, crying — "Alio, mother^ here's a valentine as you didn't expect, I'll bet." " Why, Val,'^ said a kind, motlierlj^-looking woman, "what is the matter, left your place again ? " " Place ? " said Valentine, contemptuously, " place, you don't call that spot a place. I wouldn't have stayed in that situation for nothink as you could mention," " Why, I thought you liked it ; thought it a swell place." " Swell, don't give me such swells," said Valen- tine, " if that's swell, all make-up show. Not a single silver spoon in the basket, and scaley, oh! you can't tell. Bother the swells and the situa- ting. What's the news ? " " I've got a lodger, Val." " A which ? " asked Valentine. " A lodger, a female lodger." " Is she beautiful ? " asked the sentimental page. " Never mind, young imperence. But she don't pay, no hows." / 138 A BAETERED HONOUR. " Oh, a duffing lot," said Yal. " Well, I don't know, she looks like a lady, and brought some good clothes here. But they've all gone." " Up the spout," put in the page. " Yaire right. She hasn't paid for a week or two, for vittles and nowt." "Turn her out," suggested Valentine. " I hardly like to do that," said the woman. " She looks so wretched, I'll try her a little longer, any ways.'^ " That was always yair way, mother," said Master Pimmins. " Yaire too soft-hearted and kind. You bet, she's one of the swell mob down on her luck." '* I don't think so." said the woman. " She looks too like a lady, she's done nothing but cry ever since she came, and never been out once." '*" Blow her," said Valentine, unceremoniously, " I want some tea, I'll take a look at her after- wards." Mrs. Pimmins set about to prepare some food for her son, who in the meanwhile amused himself by relating to his aged grandmother the encounter he had had with a real live parson, and the old lady, who was rather of an unorthodox disestab- lishing turn of mind, testified her appreciation of the feat by bursting into shrill screams of im- becile laughter. As soon as the young gentleman had taken his tea, his mother said — " Well, Val, if you want to see our lodger, gp 139 upstairs to the second floor, and ask her what sheM like for supper." " Oh/' said Valentine, '* a weal cutlet or so, or a bit of wenison with red jam, perhaps — or a rum homelette, and I bet it will be a rum 'un, the homelette she gets ^ere." With this remark, which seemed to amuse him vastly, he went upstairs and knocked at the door of the lodger's room. It was not exactly what one would call a respectful or a deferential knock, but a sort of knock which seemed to say, " Come, I know yer, it's no good yer trying any games on me, I'm up to yer." What deep meaning a knock can convey. Bless you, knocks differ as much as the knockers. There is the gentle, timid knock of the beggar or suitor, the brisk knock of your man of business, the loud knock of your roystering boon companion, who bursts into your room before you have had time to answer it, then there's the cautious knock of your doctor, or the loud blustering knock of your creditor, who means business this time. Whatever meaning Valentine's knock conveyed to the occupant of the room cannot be definitely stated, but anyhow it remained unanswered for a long time. At last a timid voice bade him come in. Valentine had prepared himself to see some flash flaunting girl, some vulgar hussy of the town, with which, as a thorough town-made lad, he was well acquainted. But all his independent and aggressive manner vanished when he found himself standing before his mother's lodger. 140 A BARTERED HONOUR. Sh.e was a tall, well-made woman, with a most beautiful face and figure. Her dress of black vel- vet was in perfect harmony with her long black hair, loose on her back, and her flashing black 'eyes and the brunette tint of her skin. Her dress fitted close, and round her waist was a silver belt ; this and a gold locket round her neck were the only ornaments she wore. She looked miserably unhappy, and her fine eyes bore traces, too palpable, of recent tears. The room was wretched in every particular. A broken- down tressel bed stood in one corner, a pitcher of water in another, and a miserable table in the middle. A triangular looking-glass, nailed to the wall, and one or two toilet articles completed the furniture. All Yalentine's assertiveness and forward manner deserted him as he beheld the afflicted lady, and he said, with as much respect as if he had been addressing a duchess — " If you please, madam, mother wants to know what you would like for supper, and if there's any- thing I can do for you ? I^m Valentine, her son." "No, boy,^^ said the lady kindly; "nobody can do much for me now ; tell mother that I should like a cup of tea in about half-au-hour, if she will kindly make it.-" "Certainly, madam,^' said Valentine, making his best bow and backing out of the room. " Well," said he, " she is a swell and no mis- take, such a nice lady too. Poor thing — Now then, where are you a coming of ? " MRS. PIMMINS' LODGER. 141 This last remark, or ratlier question, was addressed to a stranger who pushed up against the hoy at the turning of the dark stairs. The stranger pushed by him and went upstairs, and Valentine heard him knock at the lady's door. At any other time the boy would have been prompted by his natural curiosity to follow and listen, but a truly chivalrous desire to serve the distressed lady made him go on his errand and tell his mother about her lodger's wishes. The lodger, the afflicted lady, was Esther White, and her visitor Milwaukee Bartholomew, alias the Reverend Bartlemy Hiram. Wicked, cruel, and selfish hypocrite that he was even he started slightly at beholding Esther in all her misery. This did not last long, however, for he soon regained his usual demeanour; and, entering the room, said, as he closed the door behind him — '' I have come, Esther." '' So I see,'^ said Esther contemptuously. " So you see, my dear, and so you shall see for the last time." " What do you mean ? ■" " What I say, that I leave you to-night for good. You must shift for yourself now." "Are you mad, Bartholomew ? " ''Not exactly; but come, let us to business. You wrote to me, saying that you wished to see me. I presume, from what has passed between us since we last met, that you have not called me for the mere pleasure of looking at me, but wish 142 A BARTERED HONOUR. for some help or advice. For both of which purposes," said he, drawing out a heavy gold watch, " I am at your service for a quarter of an hour. Then I must go, so say all that you have to say at once." '' I have not called you hither for either help or advice, but to ask a simple act of justice of you ; we are — " ^''Oh, you needn't go on if that's what you want to say," said Hiram — '' " But I will go on ; we are both free now, as you know and have known. My former husband has recently married again, after divorcing me, and your wife is dead, heart-broken they say. Do me the simple act of justice — '^ " Of marrying you, I presume ? '^ said Hiram. " Yes." The reverend gentleman seemed to be in doubt as to how he should answer, for he walked up and down the rv)om in silence for a minute or two. At last he stopped, and drawing out a cigarette-case, lit a cigarette, and said — " No, Esther, it will not do. I cannot do it.-*^ '' Do not say so. 0, Bartholomew ! do not say so. I know your reason, you have grown tired of nie. You no longer love, like me." " That is not so, Esther. If I was free I would do so, but you see I am — well, I may as well tell the truth — I am married." '' Married ! " shrieked Esther. " Yes, my dear, married, a month or two ago. We never agreed well together, although our first 143 year passed pleasantly enough until I lost — con- found my luck ! — the dollars at Monaco. I could live with you as long as I had the dollars, but when they went I went/' '' A?id what you tell me is true ? " " Yes, Esther/' "Then perdition take you, vile, selfish monster! O, heavens ! was it for a lying, slimy toad like that, that I left my husband, my daughter, and my home P " " Why — certainly,^' said Bartholomew. " Wretch, begone ! Go to the wretched woman you have deceived ; go and be happy with her till she finds 3'ou out." " All this is, I believe, perfectly correct and according to all precedent, and I do not at all object to it ; but might I suggest, Esther — or, if you don't like that name. Miss Lovell — that it would be advisable to speak a little less loud.-" '' I will speak as I like. If you do not go I will scream and rouse the neighbours, and have you dragged out.-" Bartholomew made no answer, but hummed to a tune of his own composition the words — When lovely woman stoops to folly, And learns too late that men betray, What art can soothe her melancholy ? What charm can wipe her tears away ? " Go," cried Esther, " go ; I cannot endure to breathe the air you stand in — it is tainted, foul, polluted. Will you go ? I want nothing of you. If you had married me '■* — 144 A BARTERED HONOUR. " But you see I didn't, and don't — The only art her guilt to cover," put in Bartlemy. " If jou had married me I should have left you that self-same day, and striven to forget you in all your repulsiveness, and to learn to think of you as an unclean nightmare." '' To hide her sha-ame from every optic/' con- tinued Bartlemy. "But now," cried Esther, waxing mad with furj^, " I will live for another purpose ; I will live"— "To give repentance to her lover — I don't think you will, all the same," put in Bartlemy. "I will live to punish you, to drag you in the mud, to brand you ; to make you appear in public the filthy wretch that you are ! Here," said she, snatching her locket from her neck and opening it, '' by the head of this my child, who once and only once stepped in between me and yonder ghoul, I pledge myself " — " To wring his buz-zum, and to — die." " Insolent, treacherous monster, take that ! " and she struck him with all her force on his scarred cheek. Abject wretch that he was, he had never ap- peared so base and spiritless, as crouching in miserable fear lest the blow should be repeated, holding up his manly, chivalrous arm, to ward off a second blow from a feeble and sick woman's hand, then grovelling on the floor to pick up his> 145 cigarette which, he thought, helped him to carry off his interview with a rakish degage air. ''^ Don^t do it again, Esther, don't; or T might get angry, you know/^ " Will you go ? " "All right, Esther, you know. Pm going. ISTow then— don't ! " This last exclamation arose from seeing her raise her hand to clasp her locket round her throat. " Coward ! vile, miserable coward, begone ! '^ '' I thought, Esther, you might want a little '^ — "Money ! did you? Well, listen, then. I would rather put my naked hand into a brazier of burning ^' — ''Oh ! I wasn't going to offer you any. I was merely going to say that I couldn^t give you any if you did, because I haven't any to spare. You can^t be in want, though, Esther, with that locket and zone. Good-bye, Esther." " Begone ! " And so ended their interview. Although he had slunk out of the room like a whipped cur, he soon regained his free and easy manner when he had turned his back on the woman he had wronged, and, indeed, so far re- covered his natural bravery as to mutter on the landing, as he buttoned up his overcoat — " Yes, it's a good thing for her she didn't try it again ; I guess I'd have let her have it if she had. I thought of kicking her slyly afterwards, and I'm sorry I didn't." "Air 3'ou?" said a small voice behind him, VOL. I. L 146 A BARTERED HONOUR. ^' Air you sorry you didn't kick her ? Oh, you're a mighty hero of a British grenadier, you air! Kick a woman, too ! ^' The Rev. Bartlemy Hiram looked behind and recognized Valentine, the page. '^Oh, it's you, is it?" said he. "Well, keep quiet, and hold your noise, or I'll make you." " What ! " cried Valentine, " it's you, is it ? Well, I'm blessed ! The parson, too ! What are you doing here ? Come, young man, take yourself off, this is my property, this is ! What do you want ? You're trespassing here. Go on ! Make me 'old me noise, will you ? " With these and similar taunts did Valentine pursue the man of peace down the stairs, through the landing, and out of the door. The Eev. Bartlemy Hiram was prudent enough to take no notice, and walked quietly on. This so exasperated Valentine, who really felt prepared to enirao'e in a hand-to-hand encounter with his opponent, that he literally danced on the doorstep with rage, and kept on shouting — " Now then. Broadcloth ! Mill-chalker ! come on ! I'm game. Come on ; do now ! You'll make me hold my noise, will you? " and so on, till the rev. gentleman was out of sight. A small crowd of boys, who had been delighted spectators of the scene, cried out to Valentine — "What's the game?" " Oh, my lads," answered the page with dignity, " he's a funker. Wanted to fight 'im for a tanner, and he wouldn't come on. Said as 'ow he 'ad to MRS. PIM3IINS' LODGER. 147 go 'ome to toast the muffins for his granny. Yah ! Milk-chalker ! '^ '' 'Urrah. ! '^ cried the urchins, " let's go and pelt 'im." And off they rushed to show their appreciation of the clergyman's combative qualities by sending a perfect feu de joie of stale fish, cabbage stalks, and such garbage as a London gutter usually marks for its own, after the object of theii' dese- cration. "Valentine did not join the skirmishing party, but retired into the house, and closing the door, was heard to say, slowly and sadly — " Now that comes of my taking after mother. I've let the best chance for an interestinsr scout at the key-ho]e slip, and I'll never know what game yonder varmin is up to. Dear, dear ! " As soon as Bartlemy had left the room, Esther tottered to her bed, and, falling on it, gave her weakness and grief and bitter shame full play, and for more than half-an-hour lay there, sobbing and crying. She was roused, however, by a step on the stairs ; she started up, thinking it might be the wretched man coming back, and all traces of her weakness left her as she drew herself up with a scornful and haughty air. It was, however, only Mrs. Pimmins, who brought in a tray with some tea, toast, and a little pat of butter. After she had set these things down on the table, she smoothed her apron once or twice, coughed, and finally said — 148 A BARTERED HONOUR. "I've brought your tea, miss/' glancing at Esther's ringless hand, " and I hope you'll enjoy it. But you'll excuse me saying it, and far be it from me, being poor people ourselves, to be hard on anyone likewise situated, but being poor people, I must say as how I should like to have a little money from you to go on with." ''You are right," said Esther, "and I thank you much for your kindness. You shall be paid fully to-morrow. Will that suit you ? " " Certainly, miss. Excuse my mentioning it." "You did right. God bless you for a dear, motherly creature. Would that there were many like you." Mrs. Pimmins was so overcome by this strange address that she retreated hastily back to the land- ing, but put her head into the room again before going downstairs, and said — " Never mind, dear, if it isn't to-morrow. We all finds it hard to live, and I didn't want to be cruel. Mind, the tea's very hot. Good-night." Esther, left alone, after barely touching the tea, set about making some preparations as if for de- parture. There was not much to do, certainly, not being overburdened with a large wardrobe ; indeed, all she had to pack went into a small handkerchief. But, before retiring to rest, she drew out of a drawer in the table a sheet of note-paper, and wrote some lines on it, then unclasped her locket, opened it, took out of it a picture of a little blue- eyed girl and a lock of golden hair, and after kissing 149 them tenderly, laid the locket on the paper. She then destroyed a few letters by burning them at the candle, first tearing off and placing in her pocket a signature of one of them. She then went to rest, but did not sleep, but lay restlessly tossing about on her bed. At earliest dawn, while a thick mist enveloped the street, as if in a cloud, she rose; and, after tidying herself a little at the triangular looking- glass and making a hasty breakfast off the cold tea and toast which remained from the previous night, took up her little bundle and crept from the room, down the stairs, and let herself out of the door into the street. Looking first to the right and then to the left, she chose her way down to the river side, and ran swiftly towards it. At about this time, Mrs. Pimmins senior, the old grandmother to whom reference has been made, left her room on the ground floor and set about to crawl up the steps which led to the first landing. Having accomplished this with evident difficulty, for she was old and infirm, she waited on the last step^ gasping and chuckling in a sub- dued and discordant manner. Then, setting the candle she carried down on the floor, she advanced on tip-toe to the door of the lodger's room, still gasping but chuckling audibly. Placing her eye to the keyhole, she seemed to take survey of the premises, which, however, appeared to give her but small satisfaction, for muttering " the key's on the other side, she's locked herself in," she 150 A BARTERED HONOTJR. Tvitliclrew her face from the keyhole_, and placed in its stead a grisly ear. " It's all serene," she muttered ; " she's as fast as a doornail. I'll have the gold locket. He ! he ! he ! and maybe the silver belt." With that she tried the door and entered. The room was nearly dark, and as the bed stood in a comer over which the roof shelved^ it was enveloped in perfect darkness. Pansing at the door to assure herself that the sleeper had not been disturbed, she returned to the passage and fetched the light. With this in her hand, and without again look- ing towards the bed, the withered old hag crept up to the table and peered anxiously over it. The first thing she saw was the tray, and clutch- ing at a stray bit of sugar she wiped up the fragments of butter with it, put this dainty morsel into her mouth, and sucked it with great relish. Then seeing the locket lying on the piece of paper she made a grab at it, and without waiting any longer, put it in her pocket, and crept out of the room gasping and chuckling. " I'se got him. He ! he ! he ! The gould locket. He ! he ! I'se got him ! '' and then crawled down- stairs into her room again. Mrs. Pimmins was up in about an hour after, but thinking that a good rest would do her lodger good, she refrained from going up to Esther's room, but set about to make her a cup of coffee, and sent Yalentine out to buy a couple of eggs and a slice or two of bacon. 151 When these comestibles arrived, she waited till about nine, and then, after arranging the break- fast on her best tray, she bade Valentine carry it upstairs, and followed, anxious to see whether her lodger would or would not tender payment, but fully determined, in the kindness of her heart, not to press her for it. Valentine went first, but no sooner had he reached the second floor landing when he cried — "Why, mother, the door's open,^' and going into the room continued, " ^Vhy, mother look here, she's gone — bolted clean.''' "What!" cried Mrs. Pimmins, as she hurried up the stairs. " She's bolted clean. Ah, I alius thought she were a bolter," said the ci-devant page. "Go on with you," said his mother, "you're asleep, you've not woke up yet.^^ " Baint I ? Look there," said Valentine. "Well, bless me," said Mrs. Pimmins, as she stared about the room. " Well, of all the artful, deceiving, mean hussies, if she aint the very wirst. Not a scrap of nowt left to pay for her lodging,. let alone her vittles. Valentine, call your granny up, and let's talk. I reckon it's a pollis case." " Aye, ril fetch the old gal up, she alius were a cunning old dodger. Maybe she'll give us some advice.'^ Valentine then descended and returned, escort- ing his grandmother, who professed to be so over^ come by the treachery of their lodger, that she was trying to impress on her grandson the feasi- 152 A BAHTEEED HONOUR. bility of his immediately fetciiing from the King Hal tavern round the corner^ a pint of half-and- half, '^drawed strong/' for her refreshment and restoration. Valentine^ however^ did not see this in the same light, for^ apart from the fact that he would have been obliged to defray the cost of the beverage in copper from his own exchequer, he was too eager in his curiosity to see the end of the morning's adventure, so he contented himself by dragging the shaky old lady into the room. Mrs. Pimmins, who had been searching the room, held out a paper as he entered, and said — '' Here's something, Yal, it looks like a bank- note. See what it is. I never could read, thank heavens ! " ^' It'll be a queer bank this flimsy came from," said Valentine, critically examining the paper. ^' It's nothink but a paper." " Let's hear it, then," said Mrs. Pimmins, im- patiently. "Aye, aye," said the grandmother, "read it. Jack, there's a lad." Valentine then read as follows : — " Good ivoman. I must leave this house at once. I have no money " — " What did she take this 'ere fashionable lodg- ings for then ? " said the grandmother. " Oh ! shut up, granny," said her dutiful grand- son, who did not like to be interrupted in his successful feat of deciphering manuscript. " Who wants you a botherin ? ' " He then proceeded — MRS. PIMMINS' LODGER. 153 " But 1 leave you this, which is worth more than what 1 owe you. Keep if, I beseech you, till I can buy it bach from you. I prize it, oh! so dearly.''^ " Is that all ? " asked Mrs. Pimmins, perplexedly, "That's all," said Yalentine. " Well, I like lier impertinence, then," said Mrs. Pimmins, angrily. " To run away without leave or notice, and leave nothink but a scrap of paper to pay for her board and lodging." "Aye, artful hussy, bad girl," said Madame Pimmius, senior. " WeU, what's to be done, mother? " asked Yalentine. " Is it a case for the poUis ? " " No, Jack, not the poUis," said Mrs. Pimmins, senior, anxiously. " Not the pollis, poor thing, don^t set the pollis arter her." "No, Valentine," said Mrs. Pimmins; "no, I have been deceived where I didn't expect it, and I don't like to own it before them sharp folks. I'll take more care next time. I'm sorry for her, more for her than for the shillings I've lost." " Where did you lose them ? " asked Mrs. Pim- mins, senior, quickly. " I mean the money Pve lost with her. I don't care, though. Take the tray down again, Yal.-" "And what will we do with this paiper, mother ? " asked Yalentine, with a grin. " This paiper as she prizes 0-o-h ! so dearly. Will we keep it till she comes back in a carridge and four, with a coachman in livery, and two gilt nobs behind, to buy it back ? Or shall we put it up the spout ? " 154 A BAETEEED HONOUR. "I shall keep it, Yalentine, something may come of it." How Esther fared in the big heartless city, with nothing in her pocket, and no friends to go to, may be best reserved for another chapter. H-, CHAPTER XI. DOROTHY TO THE EESCTJE. Copy of a letter from Miss Crosthwaite, to Charles Hauberk, student of Roman Law in the University of Leipzic, in Saxony. " Grosvenor Hotel, London, W. "My Dear Chakles, " You will be rather surprised to see where I date from, and it perhaps needs a little explanation. I told you in one of my last letters that my sister Sabine had been entertaining some ideas of marrying a gentleman, and, from all I have heard about him, I was very much opposed to the marriage. Well, finding that all my letters, and I assure you I wrote her dozens on this subject, seemed to produce no effect, I determined to come to London and see the man with my own eyes — rather dim eyes, pet — and try to persuade her, if I found him as objec- tionable as I supposed, to give him up. "I came down a few days ago, availing my- self of the escort of your friend, Mr. Douglas, as far as Bletchley, where he left me for Ox- ford. "I like the young man veiy much, and hope you will continue on good terms with him. He has plenty of good sense, which is rather more than I can say for a certain young gentleman 156 A BARTERED HONOTJR. of my acquaintance, who goes to Porker festivals with German students and fights pistol duels. Who is he, do jou think ? ^' Well, I came here safely, but did not call on Sabine till the day before yesterday, as I felt tired and flurried in this great rushing city, with its rude porters and cabmen, and was glad of a rest. On that day, however, the day before yesterday, I went to Grosvenor Gardens at about eleven, which is just after Sabine's breakfast. She didn't seem glad to see me, though I was rejoiced to see her, dear thing ; she was looking so well that I did not like to see her vexed. She told me that she was ex]3ecting her bridegroom, the Rev. Bartlemy Hiram, to come for a final interview. " ' Bridegroom ! ' said I, ^ it surely hasn-'t come to that yet ? ' " J^he answered rather snappishly that it had, and that she wasn't going to be made the victim of anybody's jealousy. I couldn't make out at all what she meant by jealousy, but she is delicate I know, and must be humoured. The hridegroom did not keep us waiting, but came about ten minutes after me. He was very civil to me, and seemed really fond of Sabine ; but, for all that, I didn't like the man, and never shall. He seems a hypocrite, and I think I can see through his plausible, oily way. He can't look a person in the face. I won't say anything about his personal ap- pearance, for fear of being reproachful, but even that did not impress me favourably. He talked very glibly about his church and his parish, and a lot DOROTHY TO THE EESCUE. 157 of bosh about his fold and his lambs. Before he left he came up to me and said, ' I'm sure so good a sister, as Sabine tells me you are, will make an excelleut sister-in-law.' I answered that I didn't think I should ever have to be tried in that char- acter, and if I could help it I never would be. He only smiled an oily smile, and said time would show. I couldn't help asking what he proposed to keep a wife on, and he answered that there was room enough in the fold, and goodly pasture eke for two. He then took his departure, after kissing Sabine behind the screen and shaking hands with me. " Sabine at once began to reproach me, though I'm sure I don't know why, with having been rude to him. I said I had only spoken my mind, as I always did. 1 then tried to persuade her to give him up, and used all the arguments in my power to bring this about. I told her, what I had told her twenty times before, that he is too young and she too old ; that he is not a gentleman, either in appearance or manner ; that he has no visible means of support, and is probably only marrying her to get her fortune. But it was all in vain, and I had to leave her with a heav}^ heart. She asked me to come and take tea yesterday, and promised me that her lover should be there, and said that she hoped when I got to know her Bartlemy better, I should also like him in the same degree. I wouldn't promise that, because first impressions go a long way with me, but I did promise to drink a dish of tea with her, for that operation does not. entail any sacrifice of one's principles, you see. 158 A BAETEEED HONOUR. " I went about five and stayed late, till about ten. He came just before tea and went away soon after, in fact just as soon as tea was done. He did not at all improve on acquaintance, as I find bim vulgar even in his eating. He blew into the teacup to cool bis tea, when it kept him too long waiting ; wiped up the jam on his plate with the crumbs of his bread ; ate things with his knife, and used the tablecloth for a napkin. Besides that, his conversation was very stupid ; he talked about nothing but his parish, and the charitable works he had done there, and so on. He has a very curious pronunciation of English, and evi- dently affects Americanisms. He talked about selling tilings at auctions, asked for more 'bread- stuff,' asked Sabine what kind of ' dirt ' she put in her flower-pots, meaning, earth ; remarked what ' elegant ' butter we had, and so on. From a man educated at Cambridge all this is bad and vulgar, and I wish Sabine could be brought to see it. I tried my best, hopelessly though, to bring this about, after he had gone, but it was useless. She got so angry that I was fain to drop the subject, which, however, I did not do, till she had pro- mised not to marry him until a proper and full settlement of her money had been made on her- self. I then dismissed the topic, and had a pleasant, sisterly chat on old times and old friends, about our dear departed ones and our be- loved father. If it had not been for the re- membrance of the bridegroom I should have DOROTHY TO THE EESCTJE. 159 thorougUy enjoyed myself. T stayed till ten, and_, after bidding Sabine good-bye, set out to walk back to the hotel on foot, for the streets about there are good, well lighted, and well paved, and it is only about ten minutes' walk from Sabine's house to the Grosvenor. " I had got about half way there, and was pass- ing by the door of the Victoria Metropolitan Station, when I saw the Eev. Bartlemy Hiram in front, talking to a woman. I did not want him to see me, and so I stepped into the doorway. He seemed to be talking very violently, but I could not hear what he said, what with the roar of the trains down the stairs and rattle of the cabs on the road, but he was evidently speaking very harshly to the woman. She, poor thing, looked miserably pale and wi-etched, and appeared to be begging of him. Indeed, during a momentary lull of the traffic, I heard — " ' I only want the means to get a bed and a crust. I've been walking about since yesterday morning, and am dying of hunger.' "The reverend gentleman, who had professed himself so charitable to us, said something, which I couldn't quite catch, about ^ plucky enough yesterday,' an expression I couldn't understand — Cambridge slang, perhaps. Then, and I blush whilst writing it, he lifted his arm, to which she had been clinging, and, yes, pushed her violently into the gutter. She gave a weak cry, staggered back, and fell into the road. My valorous brother- 160 A BAETERED HONOTJE. in-law left her, and without another word or deed, ran down the street, where I saw him climb on ta a Royal Aquarium omnibus. "I did not know what to do. My first impulse was to go back to Sabine and tell her all about it, but I doubted if she would believe it, and then there was the poor young woman lying in the road. I went up to her, but couldn^t get near, because a crowd had formed. A policeman came by and pushed his way through, and I thought I had better leave her to him as I felt nervous at the crowd and noise, so I walked on. But Dorothy, somehow, did not feel at al] comfortable in doing this^ and I kept thinking of the words about the Pharisee, who saw his brother in distress and passed by on the other side of the way, so I turned round to see if I could help at all, swallowing my fear and weak nervousness. I saw that the police- man had helped the woman up, and was coming along the street with her. Seeing me he stopped, and asked me if I would give him my handker- chief to bind up her head, which had a wound in it. I said I certainly would, and put my hand in my pocket for it, but it was gone. I told the policeman so, and he said there were a deal of prigs about. I suppose he meant pickpockets. He said it was a bad case with the young woman. I asked him where he was taking her to, and he said the station. She looked so wretched and pale that I could not think of letting her go to the police-station. I asked him if she had done any- thing wrong. He said not, but the station wa& DOEOTHT TO THE EESCUE. 161 the only place for her, as the workhouses would all bo shut, and she had told him she had no place to go to. " I asked him if I might take care of her, and lie seemed only too glad to get rid of his charge. I told him to bring her round to the Grosvenor Hotel, and I went on. I saw the secretary in the oflBce, and he found no objection to taking her in on my assuming full responsibility. He said she must be brought in by the lower entrance, and sent a porter round to meet the policeman and tell him so. At my request, he also caused a doctor to to be summoned. 1 went upstairs and told the chambermaid to prepare a bed for her in my room, *' This was just done when the porter and the policeman appeared with the girl. She had fainted, and they brought her in in their arms. I dismissed the policeman with half-a-sovereign, for he seemed a kind, good-natured man, and his uniform was dreadfully spoiled. "With the aid of the chambermaid I managed to restore the poor girl, and then we put her to bed. The doctor, who arrived presently, said there was nothing the matter with her except hunger and weariness. He dressed her wound, and prescribed beef tea for her at once. He was such a good-humoured, ruddy-looking old gentle- man that I could not help telling him the circum- stances. ''He looked at me gravely and shook his head, and asked^ ' Are you from the country, madam '? ' VOL. I. M 162 A BARTERED HONOUR. " I answered, ' Yes.' ^' He said, '^Ah! I thought so! Dangerous thing to do, to bring in girls from the street ; but never mind, Good Samaritan sort of thing, makes one feel comfortable. Now, tell me, didn't you do this for the sake of an adventure, something to tell the country cousins about, and so on? ' " I said, ' Certainly not.' *^ He answered, ' Well, don't be offended at my remark — a strange thing ; not often done in this city, I think. See the poor things lying about, sick, hungry, dying, every day, waiting for the Good Samaritan who never comes. No, he never comes, never comes ! unless with a sand-glass and sickle ; you understand ? ' " I was so encouraged by his good nature that I prayed him to come on the morrow, to advise me what was the best thing to do with the unhappy girl, for I now began to feel the responsibility I had undertaken. " But he answered, ' No, no ; I cannot advise in that. I can bind a broken head and cure a cough, but beyond that Bob Bennett is a sad child. I know nothing about the world and its ways — the world and its ways by one that doesn't know them, eh ? But I'll tell you what, madam, I'll bring my brother to-morrow — Bennett, of Lincoln's Inn, barrister; he'll tellyou what to do. See? Oh ! never mind fee now. No, no ! couldn't think of it. Good-night.' '^With that, and putting aside the guinea I held out to him, the worthy old doctor departed. DOEOTHY TO THE EESCTJE. 163 " The cliambermaid went for tlie beef tea and soon brought it, and I set about to administer it to the poor woman. She seemed to take it niechanicall}", and remained half-conscious the whole time. I could not think of asking her to tell me about herself and her misfortunes, even had she been able to answer me. So after taking a little of the beef tea myself, for I felt tired and ^fussed,' I went to bed also. The poor thing slept ver}^ quietly, and did not disturb me at all. She was still asleep, even after I was up and dressed, and I thought it best to leave her so till she might awake of her own accord. I own that I did not feel so enthusiastic about her in the morning, and thought that Dorothy had done rather, a foolish thing to bring in a stranger from the streets, and put her to bed in her own room ; but she looked so refreshed and comfortable when she woke that all my self-reproach vanished, and I thought how- different would have been her waking in a dingy police cell, lying in chains on a stone bench. '' It would not have been the correct thino- in this adventure if she had not said, ' Where am I ? ' when she awoke. She did it, too, but not melodramatically, but oh ! so wearily. I told her what had happened the previous evening, and that she must keep quiet and get better and not talk. She looked at me with great amazement, and then sank back on her pillow. I let her sleep till about eleven, when I ordered some breakfast for her. She ate it readily and seemed better for it, but in nowise disposed to speak, but lay looking 164 A BARTERED HONOUR. at me every now and then with a weary, wistful look, which touched old Dorothy^s heart. The doctor had appointed to come at one. As I had some business to do I went out, leaving the chambermaid in charge. As soon as 1 had done my shopping I went straight to Grosvenor Gardens, for I had determined to tell Sabine all about it, and see if this would not open her eyes to the bridegroom^s character. I saw her standing at her window as I came up ; and she saw me, for she retreated hastily. When I asked at the door whether she was in the servant said not. I could not understand this, as I had just seen her at the window. I told the servant so, but she repeated what she had said, and not with much civility, that Miss Crosthwaite was out. It was with a sad heart that I went back to the hotel to think that this wretch of a man should have stepped in between me and my sister, the sister with whom I had lived in peace and happiness for more than forty years. " When I got back I found the doctor and his brother in attendance. The younger j.r. Bennett introduced himself with great civility. He seems a very nice man, tho' I do not like him as much as his brother, the good-natured, quaint old doctor. This took place in my parlour, for 1 have two rooms here. I begged Mr. Bennett to sit down, while the doctor and I went together into the bed- room. We found the patient awake, chatting with the chambermaid, who was repairing her dress. The doctor took her hand, felt her pulse. DOROTHY TO THE EESCUE. 165 looked at her wound, clianged the dressing, and pronounced everything satisfactory. He told me she might take any food she liked, and would be quite well enough to go oufc to-morrow; for all this, you know, took place this morning. " We went back to the parlour, and I said to the doctor, ' When this woman is better, what can I do for her ; are there any institutions where she can be received ? ' '' He answered, ' Don^t ask me, please — don't ask Bob Bennett, madam. He's not a man of the world, and knows nothing about its institutions, except that doctors get more fees than they deserve. JN'o, no, I did not mean it for a hint. Put your guineas back, madam. I've done nothing, and get nothing ; any quack could have told you that the prescription for hunger is food, and the prescription for weariness and fatigue is sleep. But if you want worldly advice ask him — a cunning old lawyer — he'll give it you. And you had better get your guinea changed into six-and- eightpences, for he'll do you. Ha, ha. Oh ! he's a cunning old boy, is John. Ha, ha, ha.' And with that, and a courtly bow to me, he took his hat and left us. " I felt rather perplexed what to say to the strange lawyer, because you see he wasn't a real solicitor, but a barrister, and you can't get barristers to advise you, without much fuss. He relieved me, however, by saying, ' I understand jour difficulty, madam. Bob, that is my brother the doctor, told me about it as we came along. 166 A BARTERED HONOTJE. Tou will allow me to say that I think it rather a risk}^ thing to do, to bring a perfectly strange woman from the streets in here, especially into an hotel like this. Of course I cannot advise you at once what to do with her, and, I fear, if she is of the ordinary run, she will be difficult to get rid of, and may give you a great deal of trouble and annoyance.' I felt quite ashamed as he gave me this scolding, for I felt I had deserved it. Seeing my confused look, he went on, ' But mind, I do not blame this piece of charity. I can quite under- stand what a tender-hearted lady feels for her sex, especially when in deep disgrace and affliction. I was speaking as a man of the world.' " I asked, ' What is a man of the world ? ' He stopped a minute, and then laughed, and said,. 'Eeally, madam, you have posed me there. I can't exactly tell you. It's a sort of expression we use to signify a man's selfish behaviour in his relations to the rest of mortality, and presupposes a degree of general mistrust, from even the idea of which I hope you may be ever distant. But now, about this woman, or lady, or whatever she may be. Can I have a few words with her, do you think ? I fancy you will have to get her admitted into some workhouse.' '' ' Oh, dear no,' said I ; ' she looks quite a lady.^ " He smiled, and said, * Of course I cannot gauge your benevolence, or know how far you are prepared to assist her, a perfect stranger.' " ' I thought of boarding her somewhere, till she DOROTHY TO THE RESCIJE. 167 could hear from her friends, but 1 should want to speak to her first/ " ' Can I see her then ? ' asked Mr. Bennett. ^' ' I fear not at present/ said I. ' She is not up yet. Perhaps you could wait.' '' ' No, madam,' he answered. ' I regret that I cannot, for I really feel interested in this case, though I don't know why, but I have an appoint- ment at half-past two, and am late already.' " I begged him to come on the morrow, and he consented, and I was going to thank him, when he said, very much in his brother's way, ' No, no, madam, don't say a word about it. I feel interested, as I said before, and I will give you all the advice I can in the matter. I've battled too long with hard-hearted and selfish man, not to appreciate a little humanity when I meet it. Not a word if you please. I'll be here to-morrow at two, and good afternoon to you, madam.' He made his bow, and departed, leaving me quite bewildered, to find two such kindly gentlemen in this rushing, busy town. " 1 then went back into my room, and found the patient sitting up, evidently waiting anxiously for my return . I went up to her, and said, ' ^ ow, my dear young woman, I want a little talk with you. I want you to tell me the truth, and just all about yourself.' " She raised my hand to her lips, and said, 'No,^ madam, I am deeply, deeply thankful to you, but I never can tell that.' "'Why not?' said I. 168 A BARTERED HONOUR. '' ' I cannot, indeed I cannot, nay will not say one word about myself or my history. It is not for ears such as yours to hear. I am in utter poverty and alone, and can tell you no more.'' " ' Well, dear,' said I, ' I will not press you, but I must say I should like to hear something about what you purpose to do. I should like to help you a little, you know. I saw that wretch — whom, I regret to say, I know — strike you. You fell down, and I had you brought here.' " ' I know, I know, dear lady,' said ; she ' the girl has told me all about it, and I feel more than I can say about it. But I could not think of burdening you longer. The doctor says I can go out to-morrow, and to-morrow I will go.-* '' ' You will do nothing of the sort,' said I, 'till you tell me where you are going to and what you are going to do, or at least till you have taken some help from me with you.' She merely pressed my hand in reply, and then, seeing that I wanted her to speak, she said, ' Are you married to him ? ' " I laughed, and answered, ^ No, I thank you ; why do you ask ? ' ^' She answered sadly, and, I thought, rather hurt by my laughter, ' Oh ! nothing. I did not think things could be so cruelly arranged. That is all.' Then she dropped back on her pillow, and spoke no more, and presently went to sleep. " All this took place about an hour ago, and she is lying asleep, while I am writing this to ruy dear boy. I cannot tell yet what will happen. I don't DOROTHY TO THE RESCUE. 169 like this reticence ou her part, because it puts me in a false position, and I don't know what to do. However, I am in hopes that Mr. Bennett, who comes to-morrow, yon know, will help me. I am quite willing to give her money, or board her out somewhere, for however bad she may be, she need not be starved, and Dorothy won't see starvation ; but I don't think she is bad at all, she looks like a lady, and her clothes are very respectable. I have not described her to you yet, but you know I am a Yerj poor hand at describing people, and, for instance, when friends who have heard me talk about you ask me for your description, I can only say, 'he is a bright-eyed boy/ Isn't he, pet? I suppose though you would like to hear what she is like, so I will just creep up to her bed and have a look at her, and then come back. "•I have taken my peep, and it was a satisfactory peep. I nearly woke her, though, for her face is so beautiful that I could not resist giving her a kiss. She is certainly a lady in appearance, which I have now noticed for the first time. She has beautiful black hair, and fine dark lashes, her whole skin is rather dark, her hands are beautifully shaped, and she is a dear altogether. " I feel very perplexed what to do with her, and feel sorry now and then that I came across her, but for the insight this incident has given me into the true character of my future brother-in- law. I don't mean to say that I grudge her the little I've done for her^ but I am a simple little country woman, and contact with horrid things 170 A BAETERED HONOUR. and deep misery upsets my nerves. I don't come to London on that account oftener than I can possibly help, because one sees snch distressing^ things here, and one can^t help everywhere you know. Well, I'm not going to trouble my head to-night with any more thinking, because that will give me a headache, for certain, to-morrow. ''I will certainly write to-morrow, after some- thing has been settled, and I sincerely trust that things may be arranged comfortably. The £20 cheque which I sent you, but which you so nobly returned, not wanting it, will do very well for her and she is welcome to it, as far as it goes. "But there I am again troubling about this question which must finally rest till to-morrow. '' I must stop now because I am very tired, and this letter has grown very large, so that I fear you "will be tired before you have finished reading it. Let me see, one, two, four, six, eight, nine sheets I have written_, and what the postage will be who knows ? " Good-night, dear boy, more to-morrow. Bless you. " Your affectionate old lady, " Dorothy." Charles was busy with some new project of his when he got this letter, which did not, for this reason, interest him as much as it would otherwise have done. Herbert was very much interested in the story, and was loud in Miss Crosthwaite's praises, for the two young men had grown quite DOEOTHT TO THE EESCTJE. 171 firm friends by now, and Charles gave Herbert tbe letter to read. Herbert was anxious for the next day's post to explain matters, and to hear the issue of the ad- venture. And some of his excitement commn- nicated itself to Charles, so that the two young men were eager to hear the postman's knock next day. They were disappointed though, for all that day DO postman stopped at the house. The letter which was to tell them the sequel of Dorothy's adventure never came all the week after. Before Charles had had time to receive an answer from her to his letter, asking why she had not written an account, as promised, of what had happened further, he had carried out his project. CHAPTER XII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. Two montlis or more of hard work and -unflagging industry was so novel an experience to Charles that the reaction was as severe as the excitement. So, towards the end of this time, Master Charles "began to get desultory again, to leave his books pretty often, to waste his time, dawdling, or read- ing Dickens, or smoking, but chiefly in playing with Fang, and teaching the dog silly tricks. Lovell, would now and then remonstrate with him, and say, " Come, Hauberk, this won't do, you are getting idle. ^ Pickwick Papers/ or 'Martin Chuzzlewit/ won't teach you how to earn a gentlemanly living, and Fang's capacity of sitting up, or pretending to be dead, won't bring you in a halfpenny. Work, my dear fellow, work." Charles at such times would say, '^ INTo, I don't read novels to find out how to earn any living, but because I want to form my style, and with regard to teaching Fang, it developes his intelli- gence if not mine, and gives me a little relaxation." To tell the truth, Charles gave himself quite enough relaxation. In fact, he began relaxing himself when he got up, and did not stop relaxing himself till the evening when he went to bed. He was not half so happy when he got into this •way as he was before, for when he gave up work- AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 173 ing he took to nothing in its stead. In fact tie did nothing, and wanted nothing, but would sit hours togrether, haillant aux corneilles. He was not satisfied, nothing could make him so, for idleness, not laziness which is quite a different thing: and is as much a constitutional defect as a weak spine or short-sightedness, always carries with it a feeling of bitter self-reproach. But for all that he was diligent in the little he did, and misapplied energy was quite a trait in his character. He would show a deep interest in a novel, and read it for unheard-of lengths of time, with an interest, of which if he had ex- pended a fraction over his Greek Grammar or Euclid, would have helped him considerably in after-life. One day Lovell found him sobbing over a book. It was the " David Copperfield '^ of Dickens. Lovell asked him, " What is the matter?" He answered with a gasp, "This, this death of Dora is too cruel." The sturdy American laughed, and said, '' Pooh, pooh, Charles, it^s only a novel. There never was such a person." " Yes, there must be, I want to find her. I would love her better than David did. I would, oh ! I could worship her. My grief is that I never may find a woman like her." Lovell did not laugh this time, but answered kindly, " Well, well, perhaps you will be fortunate. Besides, it's ten to one if a Dora Spenlow did come across your path, you would only think her a silly little thing, and, if you married her, you would treat her just like David did." 174 A BARTERED HONOUR. " No, no/' protested Charles ; " if ever I could win the heart of such a woman, so beautiful and tender and yet so childish, I would try to please her every hour of my life. All the women of to-day are mere worldly dolls.'' " The feeling you show," said Lovell, '^ is a natural one but not a common one, for the world and its motives have done much to destroy the chivalry of our natures. Still the male will always like to be able to protect the female, and the weaker and more feeble the female is, the more gratification he will have in protecting her. This is a psychological fact. But, apart from that, the fact of your being in a state of nervous ex- citement by its contemplation is a bad sign, for it tells me that your nerves are weaker than they should be, and I wish, my dear fellow, you wouldn't smoke so much, and be a little steadier generally." " He is only a cad, and cannot appreciate my feelings," thought Charles. "What should he know of love?" After maundering on in the listless way de- scribed for a week or two, Charles came one day into his friend's study and said — " Lovell, I'm going to leave, I cannot stand this sickening town any longer." "Where are yoa going to — England?" asked Lovell. " No — yes. I am going to Southampton, and from there to Italy. I mean to have one year of my life at any rate." It was in vain that the practical young Ameri- AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 175 can endeavoured to prevail on him to change his wild project, in vain that he represented how suicidal such a course would be, to abandon his studies, to neglect his education, to idle awaj one of the best years of his life in doing nothing; in vain that he pointed out how bad an influence such indulgence would have on his moral cha- racter ; in vain that he urged him to reflect how anxious his position would be after the year had elapsed, and he should find himself without funds. Charles was obstinate, and set about making his preparations to go. It was about this time that Miss Crosthwaite's letter had come, and in the midst of his excite- ment Charles paid little attention to it. The name of Mr. Bennett aroused his interest a little, for he still possessed Mr. Bennett's card, which, it will be remembered that eccentric gentleman had forced upon him at the Oxford railway station. He merely acknowledged the letter with a post card, adding that he should be glad to hear more about that " lawyer fellow." As already mentioned, no further letters came from London on the following day, and two days afterwards Charles left Leipzic. Lovell accompanied him to the railway station, and made him promise to write, to which Charles agreed, though not with the best grace. Fang and his books went with him, the terrier still ardent in his vigilance over them. All this forming the project, packing up, rushing away, was done with his usual impetuosity 176 A BARTERED HONOUR. and thougMessness, but when he found himself sitting in his first-class carriage (for Charles was proud, and thought a Hauberk must travel first- class), being whirled along towards Hamburg (if we may use an expression about a continental train which fully acts up to the motto of the noble house of Onslow, and humes on slow) he had ample time to consider his plan, and his means of carrying it out. Eejoicing in unbounded self- confidence, and, it is to be feared, in somewhat of conceit, he thought he had acted rightly. The scheme of his voyage, and his means for doing it, he explained in the following letter to Miss Crosthwaite, which he wrote the day after he reached Hamburg : — "Hotel des Eequins, '' Mehlweerft, ^•' Hamburg. '^My Dear Miss Crosthwaite, — " You will be surprised to see where I am, but, as I mentioned in my previous letters, the life at Leipzic and the daily contact with those un- pleasant students became so sickening to me that I determined to leave. It is my intention to pro- ceed to-night to Southampton, by steam packet, which I shall reach in time to sail to Naples by steamer. I see that the steamship Voorwaarts, of the Nederland Steamship Company, is advertised to sail the day of my arrival, and, as I am told, it is usually late, so that I have hopes of getting there in time to take my passage in ifc. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 177 ''Tou will probably wonder with what purpose I am going to Italy. It is partly to seek my fortune and partly to continue my studies. I take all my books with me, and I have some idea of getting out of Naples into the country, renting some tumble-down old cottage, and living there in the simplest manner possible, devoting myself to my work, and to what is now the chief object of my life — my poetry. "I shall thus pass one year of my life in perfectly congenial surroundings, and after that, and after my funds are exhausted, I can still take some ushership in an English school, where my hopeless drudgery will be lightened by the remembrance of the pleasant year I spent in !N'aples. " My funds are not in a flourishing state, but, according to my calculations, I shall have ample for one year. I hold seventy pounds from the hundred and fifty I left Keswick with last year, or rather more. My passage to Southampton and fare for Fang occupy five pounds, and another sixteen pounds will land us in Naples, so that I shall have fifty pounds to live on there, or about twenty-six francs a week, according to the present rate of exchange on English gold. " I cannot at present tell you where to address your next letter to, but will write from Naples when I reach there, probably in another fortnight. ''Both my friend and myself were interested in your account of your adventure, though why you never told us the sequel is a question. VOL. I. u 178 A BARTERED HONOUR. ^' Probably, at least I supposed so, slie vanislied next morning with your watch and portfolio, or with a selection of linen, and you did not like to mention it to me, as no one likes to own to having been duped. However, tell me, when you know my address, how it ended. " That Bartlemy Hiram must be a veiy horrid man, and I pity your sister if she gets into his clutches. Mind you tell me all about these matters when you write. " This hotel is well named ' The Shark Hotel,' for they have fleeced me soundl3\ I am paying 6d. for this sheet of note-paper and 2d. for the envelope, and they seem to think it very liberal that I have the use of a spluttering pen and a dropsical ink-bottle for nothing. I hardly venture to think what my full bill will be, although I leave to-night. " Fang sends you his love, and as he has just made a blot on the paper you may take that as his way of expressing it. " I am off now, so good-night and good-bye. "Tour affectionate, "Charles Hauberk." "P.S. — My bill was 15s. for one day's board. Fang has been regaled to the amount of 7s. 6d. I hope he won't have a fit on board." Charles had just time to finish this letter, pay his bill, and get down to the Southampton steamer. Having seen Fang safely secured on deck, near the boiler, he went down to the saloon to see if his AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 179 "bertli, wMcli lie had previously secured^ was com- fortable for the night. While he was standing at it, arranging his rug, and putting out what he needed for the night, he heard a voice, which seemed familiar to him behind him saying — " Well, being chiefly in the beer and sugar way myself, I may as well, as you might say, claim to have an opinion on German beer. German beer, as you might say, is fit for pigs. It's worse than liquorice water. '^ Charles turned round, and saw two gentlemen sitting at the table, drinking a bottle of Bass's pale ale. He at once recognised the speaker — it was his old acquaintance Mangles. He did not know the other man, who was a vulgar-looking being, dressed in a blue serge suit, with a high hat, and flaming red velvet cravat, and looked like a pawn- broker out of work. Examining him closer, he saw that he wore red whiskers, and had a very red nose and spotted face, his hair was dark, and his whole appearance unfavourable. Mangles, who sat with his back towards Charles, seemed the same as ever, except that he had grown more like a beer barrel in figure, had some signs of approaching whiskerdom, and spoke with a huskier voice. Charles felt very much embarrassed by this rencontre, for of all persons he desired to meet no one less than his former friend. Apart from the awkwardness of his change of name, and the danger of being put to confusion on this subject 180 A BARTERED HONOUR. by some remark from him, lie did not know wTiat impertinent remarks Mangles might make on the subject of his departure from Oxford, or whether he would not publicly claim the amount of the debt which Charles still owed him. He did not know what to do, as it was quite impossible to escape Mangles' notice. He thought of slinking out of the saloon, and spending his night in the fore cabin, or on the deck, but here his pride stepped in. He then thought of getting quietly into bed and covering himself up with his rug, and stopping thus till they reached port. He was, indeed, preparing to carry this plan into execution, and was just climbing as softly as possible into his berth, when a loud barking was heard on deck, which caused Mangles to turn round and remark — " Bother that dog ; if he begins to bark now, what will he do all night ? I hope he don't dis- turb me, or I'll throw him overboard^ — the brute.'^ " Will you ? '^ was the almost involuntary ques- tion of Charles, who felt indignant at this reproach of his dog. "Yes, sir," said Mangles, half -turning, '^ I will — I don't like dogs, never did, never liked any animals, as you might say " (then turning to his friend), "What's the use of animals if you can't eat them, and mayn't beat 'em ? But bless me if it isn't Benson. Come, Benson, don't be ashamed ; Benson, you know me sure enough. Mangles, as you owed a hundred and fifty quid to at Oxford, and still do, for the matter of that. !N"o, don't get AN OLD ACQUAINTAJ^CE. 181 into "bed, come and have a drop of Englisli beer with Tis, it's rare stuff, Benson, after German wash..'^ Charles could not, with any decency, refuse, and almost mechanically sat down by the brewer's side. " Well, Benson," continued Mangles, " and how are you, Benson? What a bolt that was of yours. B}' Jove, you chiselled them well, didn't you ? " " What do you mean, sir ? " asked Charles angrily. "Aye, you know well enough what I mean. Look, Snorker, something in your line this. Made who knows what debts, and then bolted, he did. But, as you might say, where's the odds as long as your happy and have got English beer to drink, after lagger and sauerkraut ? '^ Charles, in the greatest indignation at Mangles' manner, and at the looks of admiration which the vulgar Snorker cast at him, was first thinking of answering Mangles as insulted, but then seeing how much wiser it was to keep quiet, turned it off with a lauofh, and asked Mansfles what he was doing in that part of the world. " Oh," answered Mangles, '' after I got sent down, my governor cut up rather rough, and as we couldn^t knock it off well together at home, as you might say, I suggested that I should go abroad, and investigate the German way of brewing, and a precious bad way it is too. It strikes me, though I never investigated nothing, that this is the way they do it. The brewing-master gets a tub full of hot water, and goes up to it, puts his 182 A BAKTEEED HONOTJE. finger and thnmb into Ms waistcoat pockets, pulls out a pinch of hops, sprinkles it in, then puts his finger and thumb into his other waistcoat pocket, and sprinkles in a pinch of malt, stirs it^ bottles it up, and lays it by in a dry and cool place, till ready for use. And a precious rum use it is and all ; and not a use you'll get me to use as long as my governor brews the right sort. The Reg'lar Northampton Blow-me-tight ; none genuine unless signed, Jemmy Mangles-Peebles-Mangles, Esquire,, without which none is genuine. What I say about that Hambur beer is — ask for it and see you don^t get it. But what can you expect from Hambug^ folks ? I couldn't stand it a month, and so I'm back to Northampton. Now I've answered you, and perhaps you'll answer me ; what are you doing here of all places ? '^ "When I left Oxford," answered Charles, "I came abroad, to continue my education, and am now going back to England." "Right you are," said Mangles; "but here, you two must know each other. Chizzlem Snorker, Esquire, B.A., over the left. Charles Benson, ditto, over the right — Charles Benson — Chizzlem Snorker." Chizzlem Snorker raised his hat, and Charles acknowledged it with a slight bow. "We'll exchange cards, if you please," said Chizzlem, presenting his card, which was about half a foot square. Charles followed suit, forgetting for a minute the folly of doing so. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 183 Chizzlem Snorker took it, and after looking at itj turned to Mangles and said — " You've made a mistake, mj buck ; tliis gentle- man's name is Hauberk, not Benson/' '• Get out," said Mangles, '' don't you know ? You're in the same line yourself." " Ah ! so," said Chizzlem Snorker, with a glance of profound admiration at the unhappy Charles. " That's it, is it ? ^'othing to be ashamed of. I've done it myself many a time, though I'm correct at last ; came back to my old name because it was quite new again. I've got cards enough to fill a tray, all denoting myself — • from Ponsonby Mortimer, down to Bartholomew Choggs ; from FfoUiott do Tomkins down to No. A-lo 96." Charles rose and said — '' I regret, Mr. Mangles, that I must forego your society to-night. You have wilfully misrepresented my case. You know what my name is, and you most impertinently make me out to be hiding under an alias. There, sir, is your card back," to Chizzlem Snorker, '' may I request you to return me mine ? I do not desire your further acquaint- ance." " All right, sir, all right," said Chizzlem, light- ing a huge cigar ; " there it is, don't get your shirt out about it. I daresay I'll get along well enough without you. Though why you should be ashamed at what some of theflyestmen do regularly, I can't tell." Mangles was far too gone in the English ale to 184 A BAKTEEED HONOUR. make any coherent observation, and diaries, with- out another word, left the table, and getting into his berth composed himself to sleep. But to compose one's self to sleep, and to get to sleep are unfortunately two different matters, the one depending on the will and the other on the nerves ; and what ^ith the pitching of the boat, the howls on deck of the unhappy Fang, the smoke and talk in the cabin, and the angry feeling which possessed him, Charles found it very hard to get to sleep. He was just dozing ofiP, however, when another passenger came into the saloon and roused him again. The new-comer was one of a class which every passenger by steam packet must have noticed ; for who has not observed those elderly gentlemen, who as soon as they get on board go down into the cabin and steadily set to work on the supper laid out, and who afterwards assure you, unhappy in the pangs of anticipation, that there's as nice a bit of underdone beef and pickled onions in the cabin as a man could wish for ; who then begin to pace the deck as if their reputation de- pended, like that of a professional walker, on the number of yards they can walk in an hour, and apparently regardless of wind or weather, con- tinue to walk up and down with an air of pro- found nautical wisdom, and whose feet, after you have sought refuge from your sorrows in youi berth, keep beating time to the throbbing of your aching head ? Such a one was the new-comer, who had been AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 185 reluctantly obliged to forego the exercise of his peripatetic philosophy by the huge seas which came washing over the deck, and who^ after con- sulting an elderly mariner who was on watch_, as to the feasibility of " bracing up that larboard jib- boom," and having been derided by the aforesaid ancient mariner, had determined to go down into the cabin and have another grog to keep the wet out, or, as he expressed it himself to the steward, '' to put the wet in to keep the wet out." He was a short, florid-looking old gentleman, with white hair and a verj^ lively pair of brown eyes. He was dressed in black, with a large Scotch plaid thrown over his shoulders. He wore a magnificent gold watch and chain, from which a bunch of seals and charms depended. Having given his orders to the steward, he walked up the saloon, with his boots creaking loudly; he then jerked his plaid off, and in doing so shook a quantity of moisture off it on to the head and shoulders of Chizzlem Snorker, Esquire, who was still devoting his attention to the investi- gation of English ale. " Now then," growled Chizzlem, '' where are you a-coming of. I ain't bargained with you for a shower bath, any way." "Good, good," laughed the old gentleman; ^' not bargained with me for a shower bath, eh ? Smart that. One for you, sir." " One what ? " asked Chizzlem. "^One mark, one point, one — in short, one anything," answered the old gentleman. 186 A BAETEKED HONOUR. **" Better saj one glass of grog, similar to what jou've been ordering for yourself, then. That's more like it," returned Chizzlem. " Right jou are," said the old gentleman. ^^Here, steward, make another glass for this gentleman." The steward brought the grog, and the two new acquaintances sat down together to enjoy it, and amuse themselves with each other's conversation. They seemed to derive ample amusement, too, especially the old gentleman, who was perpetually bursting into roars of laughter at some anecdote or repartee from Chizzlem ; and was so noisy that Charles found it impossible to get to sleep for some time. He was just dozing off again, and already half- unconscious, when he dimly fancied he saw Chizzlem Snorker, who had been busily plying the old gentleman with liquor, bend over him and stealthily withdraw his watch from his pocket and put it into his own. He was so far gone in weariness and sleepiness that this seemed to him a dream, and awaking no interest in him left no impression on his mind. When he woke next morning he had forgotten all about it. He was much relieved to find that he need fear no renewed unpleasantness from either Mangles or his friend, as the former was too much upset by the roughness of the weather to leave his bed, while Chizzlem Snorker had been ignominiously expelled from the saloon by the ship's purser for travelling there with only a fore-cabin ticket. AN OLD ACQTJAII^TANCE. 187 The day passed as pleasantly, or as miserably, according to the temperaments of the passengers, as a day at sea can pass, and in the evening they sighted the Needles. He was leaning over the side of the ship, look- ing at the beautiful view before him, when the old gentleman of the previous night came up and said : " Pretty, ain't it ? " "It is, indeed, consummately beautiful,'* answered Charles. '^ Co?i means with, summat vulgar for something, Zy like ; therefore, my young friend , you mean it is something like a view," chuckled the old gentleman. " No, or yes,^' answered Charles. " I mean it is an exceedingly beautiful sight, the rosy sky, the white cliffs, the ridge of foam fringing the blue waves, the light in the beacon, the white gulls flying here and there." " Yes, yes," said the old gentleman ; " I can fancy a young man like you finding it beautiful." « Why, don't you ? " asked Charles. " No-o, not particularly. If you asked me if I found that silverside of beef and those onions beautiful I could answer you. But that there. Oh ! I've seen things as could lick that hollow every year at the Academy." " But this is Nature," protested Charles. " Nature is it ? " said the old gentleman. " Well I reckon beef is nature, and onions is nature, and likewise vinegar, so you can^t accuse me of not admiring nature." 188 A BARTERED HONOUR. Charles could not pursue the question any- further, so he made no answer, and the old gentle- man went on. '' Though why thej should call those blocks of stones needles is a geo-graphical knock-me-down. Muffins is what thej look like^ or a bit of Cheshire stuck up on its rind." " I believe that one of the rocks which has fallen into the sea was like a needle," said Charles. ^' So, then leVs go and drink a glass of grog to its 'elth. The Submarinary needle for ever. Oh ! you don't drink grog, eh ? Well, don't get the needle yourself. There's nothing to be angry about." Charles deprecated the notion of his being angry with a laugh, and assured the old gentleman that he was too bad a sailor to indulge in spirits on board ship. The old gentleman then left to re- fresh himself ; he ajDparently took some time to refresh himself, for he had begun refreshing as soon as he came an board, and to all appearances was not refreshed yet. Charles was not sorry to see him go, and muttering a line of his own. For brutes with art can never mate, he turned once more to watch the view, as it de- veloped like a beautiful panorama before him. They were just getting into port, when he left the ship side to see if his baggage was right, and to look after Fang. The dog, who had howled all night and made the day hideous with his cries. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 189 was lying very much exhausted on the deck. Charles got it some water, and while he was bend- ing over it, he heard the old gentleman cry out, " My watch, my watch. It's gone ! My gold watch, presented to me by His Grace. Pm robbed ! Thieves, thieves, thieves ! '^ " I'll bet a pound it is that young man you were talking to just now," said a voice, which Charles recognised as that of Chizzlem Snorker. "Bosh," said the old gentleman. "I know better. He's a boet, and boets don't steal. I offered him some grog and he wouldn't take it." Suddenly there flashed across Charles's mind the indistinct remembrance of what he had fancied he saw last night. He was in doubt whether to tell this to the old gentleman, but as the ship was then fast, and the plank laid for the passengers to land, and as he feared that by mak- ing such an explanation he might, besides being put into an awkward position be detained in Eng- land, and be unable to leave for J^aples by the Voorwaarts, he kept quiet, and taking Fang under his arm left the ship, cleared his baggage through the custom-house, and had it conveyed to the gallant Indian mail, the steamship Voorwaarts. CHAPTER Xni. EUPHEOSTNE DE BIENAIMEe's CHILDHOOD. Etjpheosyne DE BiENAiMEE was the only daughter of Baron Gilleroy de Bienaimee, and his wife the Baroness Placide. The Bienaimee family was of high descent, and formerly of great possessions. No paltry first or second empire title was theirs, but given them by Charles YIIL, at whose wed- ding with Anna of Brittany, Swanhilde dy Bien- aimee, a direct ancestress of the family^ carried the train of the royal bride. The castle, or, as it is called, La Maison Bien- aimee, of the family, was in the South of France, and the Bienaimee demesnes extended over a great part of v^hat is now the Department of Tarn et Garonne, reaching as far as the outskirts of the town of Moissac. The barons were always sturdy vassals of the Court, and so did not escape the fury of the Revolution. Indeed, the grandfather, the Baron Gilleroy, was brought to the guillotine, after seeing the red cap of the canaille flaunting on the flagstaff on the highest turret of La Maison Bienaimee, where formerly the golden fleur-de-lys of France had proudly waved. In 1 790 their lands were confiscated, the grand old castle which had been racked and ruined, was turned into a hos- pital for tlie soldiers, and the Baroness fled to England with, her son. Thej settled in false Albion, for nothing would induce them to acknow- ledge other rulers but the Bourbons. The father of Gilleroy married a rich English lady, and Gille- roy was left by them in good circumstances. He -entered the service of the Bourbon King of Xaples, and, while on leave, met at Algiers the French lady who afterwards became his wife. He died, like a true Bienaimee, sword in hand, not on the battlefield, it is true, but upholding the principles of his fathers against a parvenu count of the Second Em}'ire, who slew him in a duel. His wife, the Baronesr, Placide, was left with an only daughter, the little Euphrosyne. After the death of her husband, being a sensible woman, and thinking politics no woman's business, she returned to her beloved and beautiful France. She bought a pretty little house on the banks of the Garonne, not far from the town of Moissac, and settled there, devoting herself to the education of her beautiful little daughter. They li\red a happy life together, lost in each other's love, for little Euphrosyne was all that a child can be to a widowed mother, patient, docile, yet wonderfully bright and intelligent, and of sur- passing beauty. In the spring, when the leaves were out and the river, fringed with sombre rushes, ran bright and clear through the green flower-spangled meadows, the Baroness would walk with her little daughter down a garden walk which wended its way under 192 A BARTEEED HONOUR. lofty trees by the river side, and the tall, dark lady would tell her little daughter of the doughty deeds her sires had fought by the same river-side, and the little girl would drink in the tales of chivalry and romance as a humming-bird sips in the honey from some tropic flower. And often in the late summer evenings the lady of Bienaimee would drive her little daughter over to see what once was the prond mansion of her forefathers, and point out at every turn some spot which had a story to tell of their brave deeds and manly prowess. And in the winter when the trusty servant had heaped the fire high with logs, the stately lady would draw her bigh-backed chair to the fireside, and, taking little Euphrosyne on her lap, would tell ber once more of the days gone by, and say or sing the legends of knightly France, before black coats, the scales and measures of commerce, and portfolios, bad put loyalty to flight. What wonder, then, that the little girl's mind, instead of turning to the world, turned to the skies ? What wonder that wbile other children were being drilled to ape the follies of their seniors, little Euphrosyne, apart from all, would wander through the scented fields or twining vineyards,, aglow with heavenly thoughts. What wonder that while other children were learning the heart- less formulae of society, this little child of nature, ignorant of the foolish world without, had fashioned for herself a world of her own, where the men were heroes and demigods, the women as pure as ber fancies, and all moving to the sub- lime music and the celestial harmony of most exalted poetry. Some worthy friends of the Baroness would remonstrate now and then with her on the way in which she was bringing- up her daughter. " She is well-born," they would say, " and will be rich ; of such birth and with such a dowry as she will possess, she ought to make a good parti. Why not bring her to Paris? Why not show her a little life, and let her mix with her equals, instead of gambolling in the fields with ^Deasant lads and lasses?" But the answer of the Baroness Bienaimee was always the same. " She is yet too young, she must see the true world, the world as Le Bon Dieu has made it, before she enters the world as woman has made it. When she grows older, if she tires of the green fields, and the placid river, and longs for clothe salons and garish theatres, she will be at liberty to change. But I could never wish her to be happier or brighter, or a greater darling to me, than she is now, and even if she does play with peasant lads and lasses, she knows her birth, and preserves a quaint little dignity towards all her inferiors. I am not at all sure that even in Paris she could find her equals now-a-days, in Paris, which acknowledges as its chief a Capel, a Buona- parte, the descendant of a citizen attorney. So, with your leave, I shall keep her here." For all this, however, the Baroness did not neg- lect her daughter's education, but had professors VOL. I. o 194 A BARTEKED HONOFE. over daily from the town of Moissac, to teacli her daughter, and by the time she was seventeen, she could speak English, Italian, and Spanish fluently. She never could take to German. Although she exerted herself very much, for the sake of its poetry and literature, she found the language so unmusical that she gave it up. She read with great eagerness, and was es- pecially fond of the English poets. Shelley was her favourite. She threw Byron^s works out of the window before she had read five pages of them, and washed her hands for touching the book. "Wordsworth — -fort enmiyeux. Dante was her favourite Italian poet, she found Tasso too monotonous. In French literature she read in- cessantly, and, one day at the cure's house, hear- ing about Yoltaire, she asked her mother to get her his works. As her birthday was near at hand, her mother ordered the books to be sent, bound in the most beautiful manner. The books came, and the Baroness left her daughter reading diligently. When she came back from her walk, she found Euphrosyne sitting over the fire with tears in her eyes. " What is the matter, little daughter ? " she asked, '' and where are your books ? '^ " There ! '^ said Euphrosyne, pointing to the fire. "My child?'' " II n'aime pas le bon Dieu, et le voila." •X- ^ -K- ^ -x- The first trouble Euphrosyne had arose from ETJPHEOSTNE DE BIENAIMEe's CHILDHOOD. 195 her too affectionate nature. A certain old French professor, a M. Tacquelin, who taught music, had grown very fond of his beautiful and clever pupil. One day, after his lesson was over, he caught her hand in his and begged her to return his love. Euphrosyne looked at him, and said — " Why you know that I love you, M. Tacquelin." " My angel," cried the professor, " do you say so?" "Why, yes — M. Tacquelin." Next day, poor M. Tacquelin, dressed in his best frock coat, with the red ribbon of the Legion d'honneur in his buttonhole, and with his scanty hair curled in the best Moissac style, drove over from Moissac, in a hired carriage, to speak to the Baroness, carrying a large bouquet for Euphrosyne, though, poor man, he could but ill afford any of these expenses. He found the lady in, and, mustering up enough courage, told the noble lady that he passionately adored her daughter, Euphrosyne, that she re- turned his passion, and that he only needed her consent to be, as he expressed it, transported to the Elysian fields. The Baroness, after listening in mute astonish- ment to his proposals, said — " I fear, M. Tacquelin, you have abused my con- fidence. It is impossible that my daughter can return your love." " ! madam," cried the professor, " she does ; I had it from her own dear lips yesterday, after we 196 A BARTERED HONOUR. had played that beaatiful sonata together. Yes, madam, she does." The Baroness, who could not help pitying the unhappy man, whose eagerness and joy must suffer so great a disappointment, said — " Well, sit down, M. Tacquelin, and put that bouquet aside for a moment. I will summon Euphrosyne, and I will hear from her what she says." The Baroness then rang the bell, and told the maid to call Mademoiselle. Euphrosyne came, and when she saw M. Tac- quelin ran up to him and said — " Oh ! what a pleasure, monsieur, I never thought that you had come. Oh, do come and play to me. What beautiful flowers, M. Tacquelin, are they for me ? " M. Tacquelin, throwing a triumphant glance at the mother, and one of deep admiration on the beautiful young girl, answered — " Yes, my angel, these are for you, from your own Robert." "Wait, M. Tacquelin," said the Baroness. " Euphrosyne, is this true ? Do you love M. Tac- quelin ? " " Yes, mamma." " Did I not say so, madame ? " said the pro- fessor, aglow with pleasure. " But listen, Euphrosyne," continued Madame de Bienaimee, "you have never told me this, was that right, my child ? " " Mamma, I love you and I have told you so. I ETJPHEOSTl^E DE BIENAIMEe's CHILDHOOD. 197 love M. Tacquelin, and Iliave not told you. Wliy?. I love all my friends — mamma." " But, child, do you love M. Tacquelin enough to leave me, and marry him ? Have you a passion for him ? " Euphrosyne opened her large blue eyes and " Mamma, I do not understand that word — passion. Of course I would not leave you. I may love people, may I not, without having to leave you? Need I, must I, marry those whom I love?" The poor professor, who now saw his mistake, looked dolefully at the two, picked up his bouquet and took his hat, with a look at the Baroness as if deprecating a rough answer. The lady understood his look, and bade Euphro- syne retire, which she did, after innocently throwing a kiss at her unhappy lover. "Madame La Baronesse," said the poor pro- fessor, " do not reproach me ; my heart, my honour, reproach me enough. I have been mistaken ; she is but a child, and I am a foolish old man." The tears came into his eyes as he continued — " But she is so beautiful and so gay, and I am old and so solitary, that I could not well help, could I? loving her. Oh, if what she said had had the meaning I thought it had, how happy would have been my dreary life. Good-bye, dear lady, you must wish me to be gone, and I must go, and must never return again after this. You will see that, though you shake your head. She 198 A BAKTEEED HONOUR. is SO beautiful and I am old and poor, and oh. ! so solitary." With that the poor old professor, with a mourn- ful glance at his gay attire, and at the bouquet which had fallen from his hand and lay on the floor, walked mournfully out of the room. The carriage was waiting for him at the door, and Euphrosyne was there too. When she saw him she cried — '^ Oh dear, M. Tacquelin, do come and play for me. And where are my flowers — the flowers you brought for me ? " The poor professor, who was overwhelmed with shame and grief, took her beautiful little hand, bent over it and kissed it, saying — "Tour mamma will tell you all. Good-bye, Euphrosyne,'^ got into the carriage and drove away. But before long he told the driver to stop, paid him, and told him to return alone to the town. " I shall get home too soon ; home to my dreary- room," said he sorrowfully, as he walked along the road. He would stop now and then and look back at the house, and then go sorrowfully on again, and say to himself, " Old ! and oh, so solitary ! " As soon as his carriage was out of sight, Euphrosyne, who had been looking after him, waving her hand, returned to the drawing-room, and said to her mother — " Mamma, explain to me. WTiat did you mean just now ? And what did M. Tacquelin mean ? ETJPHROSTNE DE BIENAIMEe's CHILDHOOD. 199 He looked so strange, and liad dressed so nicely ; and why lie broaglit me flowers ? and why he looked so unhappy when he went away ? His tears fell on my hand just now as he said good-bye ; and why you seemed angry ? Does it make you angry and M. Tacquelin unhappy because I love him?" ''My dear child," answered the lady smoothing her brown hair from off her face, "you are still a child, and there is more than one kind of love. You love me and you love your playmates, but poor M. Tacquelin thought you loved him differently ; loved him so that you could love him only, in a particular way, and leave me and live with him.'"' "Oh, mamma," said Euphrosyne. " I did not know that. I am so sorry. Poor, dear M. Tacquelin, How could I know ? I thought I might love you all and make no one unhappy." " My darling," answered the mother, " dry those blue eyes of yours. It is not your fault. Poor, dear M. Tacquelin will soon be happy again. I see my mistake. You are getting too old to be kept in ignorance of the world. We must travel.'' " Travel mamma ! and leave this beautiful spot, and Bebe, and Marie, and Jacques, and poor M. Tacquelin ? " " Yes, dear. We must see the world, and you must grow wiser in its ways." And true to this resolution the Baroness at once made the necessary arrangements. They went at first to Paris, and the simple girl was introduced 200 A BAKTEKED HONOUR. into the society there. But it had no charm for lier^ she did not understand the people or their talk, and thought them rude and cruel. She was universally admired for her great beauty and her unaffected ways, but, as she shunned those who wished to do her most homage and felt and looked so unhappy, the polite world, instead of taking the hint and leaving her alone, doubled its obnoxious attentions to her. Aye, she soon learnt what love, as they understand it, was. Love to which the tender affection and admiration of the shabby old Moissac professor was as pearls to the decayed shells of putrid snails. From Paris they went to London, and the same was repeated. The perpetual round of what the world calls pleasure, music, gluttony, dress, and all appeals to the senses, nothing for the mind. Operas, balls, feasts, concerts, fancy fairs, and all follies were placed before the simple Euphrosjne, the Provence girl, whose head was full of chival- rous poetry, who had been as innocent as a dove, and content to pass her life amid her books and her peasant vassals by the side of old Garonne. She could not bear it ; to her it seemed unreal, and the great cities hurt her ; where she saw all the selfishness of men; where she saw God's creatures, the animals she loved so well, beaten, galled, butchered, and devoured, not for the satis- faction of natural want, but to gratify cruelty pride, and greed, the extent of which she never could have dreamt. " They are all the sons of Ishmael,'' she once ETJPHEOSTXE DE BIENAIMEe's CHILDHOOD. 201 ■wearily exclaimed, as she looked down on the "busy street. "They have their hands turned ' against all their fellows. Self, self, is the goddess which reigns here. Look mother, there ! What a degraded sight ! Do you see yonder cab, with the poor broken down horse, an animal so cruelly used that it bears no more the semblance of its kind. There — that horse which that drunken man is lashing so cruelly. I saw a young man, in full strength, enter that cab. Why ? Kot that he cannot walk, for his strength is greater than that of the poor beast who has to drag him. But it is pride, pride, pride ! Mother, why are these things so ? Does God not love His other creatures as well as us, we who so abuse His kindness, while they take of His bounty with moderation and gratitude ? Oh 1 why are these things so ?" From London they went through Holland to Germany, and here the same weariness followed the bright young girl. Everywhere cruelty, and greed, and oppression of animals; yes, even weak, starved dogs harnessed to carts thrice their weight, dragging at full gallop some hulking, grinning lout, proud of his turn-out, who now and then stimulated the wretched animal by applying the burnino^ end of his cigar to its back. This made Euphrosyne most unhappy ; and one day she prevailed upon her mother to buy one of these unhappy dogs. It was a large black and white [N'ewfoundland dog, which had belonged to a <3orps of students, but had been seized by a trades- man in part payment of a bill for sausages which. 202 A BAETEEED HONOUR. the corps owed him. It was a beautiful dog, but worn down to a skeleton, with large open wounds on its back and legs. It was dragging a small meat-cart, and the butcher boy sat astride on the top. It looked most jaded and worn, and by the merciful law of Germany, which muzzles the ox on the thrashing floor, was so tightly muzzled, although it was then winter, that it could hardly breathe, or let its poor, heated tongue cool in the air. Euphrosyne managed to purchase it, and took it home, and tenderly nurtured it. She gave it the name of Trouvail. After staying in Leipzic a month or more, and after Euphrosyne had again attempted to master the gutturals of Germany, they went through Switzerland and made their way to Italy. After visiting Yenice, Florence, and Eome, they travelled to Naples, which so pleased the ladies that they decided to stay there some time, and took a villa between Castellamare and Sorrento, and entered it on the same day that Charles was making his way to the same place on board the fast and powerful steamship, Voorwaarts. We will now return to Charles and his little- friend in adversity, fox-terrier Fang. CHAPTER XIY. ON BOAED THE STEAMSHIP " VC Whe?? Charles had got himself and his belongings on board the Voorivaarts, he heard from the purser, a bluff sailorlike old man, who could speak English, that, owing to some delay in the arrival of a quantity of bullion which was to be shipped to Java, the captain had had to put off the start- ino^ till the followino^ eveninor and that there was every probability of a further postponement ; he also learnt that he would have to take his ticket at the company's ofiices in Southampton, and that his dog, who required a special ticket, would cost him a guinea. The purser then handed him a list of rules, printed in English, and bade him read them, as they contained important directions, which every passenger by the Nederland Maatschappij had to observe. Charles left his luggage on deck, and returned to the town, passing through the immense docks and wondering at the proportions of some of the sea-going monsters, which were in active prepara- tion for departure, loading huge packages, and swallowing up streams of people. The ofl&ces of the Nederland Company were, at that time, nearly opposite the dock-gates, and after 204 A BAETEEED HONOUE. "being carefully examined by an officer of the Custom-liouse, he was allowed to pass out. His ticket to Naples, including saloon and board, cost him 15 guineas, and Fang's ticket was another guinea. After he had settled this, he determined to lay in a few articles of wardrobery, which would be useful in the hot climate to which he was going. Passing a small "slop-shop" he saw several Indian helmets and Holland jackets hanging out for sale, and as he thought these would be useful to him, he went in. The master of the shop was a sallow-looking man, wearing a night cap, and looking generally as if he had only just risen from his virtuous couch. A dirty little boy was sitting on the counter eating some cold potatoes off a tin platter, on which was engraven a short sermon on the advantages of moderation and temperance. Whilst Charles was examining some imitation bandanas, he happened to notice, in a case of mis- cellaneous jewellery which stood on the counter, a remarkably fine gold watch, which resembled as nearly as he could remember the watch which he had seen the Hon. Chizzlem Snorker abstract from its owner, on board the Hamburg packet. The dealer, noticing him looking at it, said — " Aye, that's the article for a fine young gent. You shall have him cheap." " I have a watch of my own,'' answered Charles, " and I believe this watch is a stolen one." The dealer looked at him^ whistled, laughed, and ox BOAED THE STEAXSHIP " VOOEWAAETS.'" 205 said, *^ IVe no doubt it is. I'm sure it is. I only bought it half-an-hour or so ago. And him what sold me un looked a rum cove and all/' '' How could you buy it then? " asked Charles, " if YOU knew it to be stolen ? ^' ^' Knew it ? "" cried the dealer, " knew it ? How am I to know where the highly respectable gent as sold it to me got un from. Bless your heart, if we wos to axe to know all the ante-cedents of our customers, we should never do a bit of biz. There comes coves here as has nothing at all except what they have on their backs, and what they carry in their black bags, similar to you. Don't I know as well as pot, as they're quills, clerks as have bolted with the till, and are going abroad to change their air. Don't I see this when they opens their bags to pay me, and have nothing but gold and notes to pay with ? I'm not a going to stand in my own light for nobody, are I, Joe ? " This to the dirty little boy. " Eeether not, old un,^' answered he. " Well,'" said Charles. '' You may conduct your business on whatever principles of morality you like, but I must ask you to particularly remember this incident, as it is important, and should you and your son, there, ever be called to account for this watch, I hope you may be able to identify the owner." He then paid the dealer, and went back to the ship, where he was mortified to find that he had paid exactly the double, for the articles he had pur- chased, of the prices which were marked on them. ^06 A BAETEEED HONOUR. After showing his ticket to the purser, he was iold to give his dog to one of the sailors to be taken fore and was then conducted to the berth which had been assigned to him. This, as he was an Englishman, was one of the worst in the ship, being situated in the farthest corner aft, and shook terribly with the vibrations of the screw. There were two bunks in his cabin, and as the lower one was occupied, he placed his smaller baggage on the upper one. The cabin contained a washing-stand, a box against the side, which might serve as an additional sleeping-place if the ship should be crowded, but was now paying its double debt as a sofa, the two beds, like shelves in a chest of drawers, and a few hooks. Over the washing-stand was printed in large letters that Het Rooken was forbidden. " Well," said Charles, " I hope rooking is for- bidden. I've been cheated enough already." The purser, who was with him, explained that Het Rooken meant smoking, and added that there was a fine of 500 guldens, gilders he called them, for doing so, or being detected with any light or combustible of any sort, on board. Whilst Charles was taking his first lesson in Dutch, the co-inhabitant of his cabin appeared, and was presented to him by the purser as Mynheer Slome. Mynheer Slome, who spoke French, was a short man, with a very yellow face, and black eyes and hair. He told Charles he was going out ON BOAED THE STEAMSHIP to join his parents in Batavia, and take command over a large tobacco plantation. He proposed thej should go on deck, and offered to introduce him to the other first-class passengers, the fore-cabin trayellers being quite under Mynheer Slome's notice. The list of passengers seemed to be made up of merchants, Government officials, and officers, all of whom were Dutch. In the fore-part of the ship there were a quantity of troops, going out to the Dutch Indies, in command of the officers on board, to help to further subdue the unhappy Malayans, and carry terror into the hearts of the warlike Atschins. The soldiers, for the most pai-t, looked miser- ably unhappy, and were casting longing glances at the shore, as if they wished to escape, which as Mynheer Slome pointed out to Charles, was ren- dered impossible, and showed him two sentinels walking up and down on the deck by the side of the ship, armed with short broad knives. "You see," said Mynheer, '^ they know that they will never see their homes again, or their mothers, or sweethearts. Those that escape the Atschins, don't usually escape the snakes, and those that do escape the snakes, come in for the fever, and the Government besides don't encoui-age them to re- turn." " ^Vhy do they enlist then ? '^ asked Charles. " Ah ! why ? " returned Mynheer. ^' They usually are the worst of mauvais sujets, can't get work to 208 A BAETEKED HONOUR. do, or won^t do it_, and so have to do soldiering. They are tempted by the 200 gilders and about 1,000 cigars, which they get as Queen's shilling when they enlist. As soon as the money has gone in schnaps and the cigars are smoked, they would like to draw back. They hate it like poison. Why, as we came over to Southampton from Antwerp, one of them jumped overboard. If it wasn't for that watch, we should lose them all, and, as it is, a good many do get ashore, and then they're free you know, in your strange-principled England.-" ''Poor fellows," said Charles, looking at the misery and regret so plainly stamped on their fair fresh faces, so soon to be blackened by the glaring sun, the poisoned bite, the enemies' dart, or the cruel hand of death. " They have sold their liberty for 200 guldens and a few cigars. ^^ And as he noticed their longing glances at " strange-principled England,'^ by setting foot on which they would recover their bartered freedom, he felt for the first time the glory of our mother- land, and a deep regret at leaving it. That night, while lying in his bed listening to the snores of Mynheer below, and the hurrying tramp of the sailors on duty above, he heard aloud splash in the water, and heard someone crying — "A bond is overboard." " A dog overboard," cried he, jumping up. " It is Fang," and throwing on his ulster, rushed on deck. Here he saw one or two Mynheers looking calmly over the side, and some sailors lowering a boat^ ON BOARD THE STEAMSHIP " VOOEWAAETS." 209 their pMegmatic behaviour contrasting strongly with the excitement of a crowd of Englishmen on the landing. " What is it ? what is it ? " cried Charles, to the purser who was smoking quite at his ease. " Is it my dog ? '' " No, Mynheer," answered the purser, removing his cigar leisurely. *' It is only one of the soldiers. We canH get him out, and he is a fool to have jumped in. He had over 500 cigars left.'' By the time the boat vras lowered, and the men thoroughly awake, there was not the slightest chance of saving the man, or of recovering his body, which, by the way, no one even seemed to think about ; his dead body being of no use to help the Dutch in their tyranny over Malayans. One Englishman, it is true, who had witnessed the un- happy act, had nobly plunged into the water from the dock stairs, but the tide that was fast running out, and the darkness of the night had rendered it impossible to him to help the suicide. The next day a board was put up, telling the passengers that the ship would sail that evening at seven, and at that hour the ship unfastened her moorings and steamed slowly down the Solent. Charles, who had spent all the day in wander- ing about Southampton, and gazing on English faces, and written letters to all his friends, could not move from the stern bulwarks until the last glimpse of English land was lost, and with a kiss thrown to the country which had born him, he gave himself up to the gloomy future. VOL. I. P 210 A BARTERED HONOTJE. Life on board the good ship, Voorivaarts, seemed to consist chiefly in eating and drinking, with variations of smoking, and playing a sort of game of skittles on the deck, or gambling at cards be- low. At half -past six in the morning there was a sub- stantial breakfast of cofBee, ham, e^'gs, and cold accessories of all kinds, at half-past ten there was a most solid lunch of three courses, exclusive of dessert and cheese; at one o'clock there was verwrischung , or refreshment, which consisted of bouillon, or chocolate, with rusks or cakes; at five o'clock there was an enormous dinner of seven courses, and at half-past eight there was thee drinken, where cup after cup of tea was drunk, and further cakes consumed. Charles, at first, found this extensive eating rather curious, but what with the sharpening which the sea air gave to his appetite, and the dulness of life on board, he soon learnt to appre- ciate the comforts of repeated meals, and fell to with almost as much zest as the Dutchmen them- selves. He did not, the first day, mix much with the society on board, but sat apart, reading " FoUe- Farine" by Ouida, but, finding this bored him, he resolved to associate with his new friends. The next day he accosted one of the young lieutenants, who was a civil and good-looking young man, and was told by him that he had thoroughly proved himself a steifer Engelsmmi (a stifE English- man), and that the men were offended with him ON BOARD THE STEAMSHIP " VOOEWAARTS/' 211 for keeping apart, while the ladies thought him Tery rude/or not having introduced himself to them. Charles, who had wisdom enough to do in Rome as the Eomans do, promptly apologised for his behaviour, on account of his ignorance of the Dutch customs, and asked the lieutenant to present him to the ladies. There were five ladies on board, to which of whom, had Charles been appointed a second Paris, he would have hesitated to accord the golden apple, for all were as plain as convalescent badgers, but with that peculiar cow-like playfulness which distinguishes the countrywomen of the late Von Tromp. The only one who had any pretensions to good looks, was a young lady who was going ont with her newly- married husband, a custom- house official, and who reminded Charles, as often as he saw her, of a frolicsome elephant, or a calf in love with its life, bounding in a field. This happy couple made no pretence of keeping their love to themselves, but were always kissing and loving each other; and often after a parti- cularly greasy dinner, would fall asleep in the saloon, locked in each other's arms. The servants on board were all Malayans, short, stunted men, of a yellow complexion and ugly type. They were just treated like slaves, although 1859 had emancipated them from actual slavery. They were not beaten, for they would soon have resented that, being the most revengeful and treacherous people on the face of the earth, but were always addressed like dogs. 212 A BARTERED HONOUR. Their chief duty seemed to be to bring a glow- ing fuse whenever anyone shouted Kasi api, which two words Charles soon learnt to mean^ " bring fire." His further knowledge of the tongue of Malay consisted in two other words, zuzu, milk, and gula, sugar ; so that he found himself, so far as this vocabulary would go, on speaking terms with the domestics of the Voorwaarts, and could shout Kasi api, Kasi zuzu, and Kasi gula, as well as the best of the paunchy Mynheers. / As an Englishman, he was naturally exposed to a good deal of chaff and mild imposition, in the way of standing drinks, and losing at cards or skittles ; but after warning one particularly ob- jectionable young man, who was going out to Surabaya, en aventurier, that he should hold him responsible for wliat he said, and would demand satisfaction of him at IS'aples if he persisted in offending him, which effectually closed the Dutch- man's mouth, he found it possible to live com- fortably and even amicably. Beyond eating and drinking, smoking and play- ing, strolling about the ship, watching the soldiers at work peeling huge pots of potatoes, or standing in line to receive their pannikins of wine, or the more dramatic incident of tlie slaughter of some beast for food, there was not much variety in life on board. Fang had a very good time of it, for the soldiers, who had never seen a fox-terrier, admired him very much, and petted and fed him with great kindness. On the fourth or fifth day they sighted land. 213 and the bleak and rocky coast of Sonthern Spain, with here and there a rude nunnery cnt into the rocks, came in view. Passing through the waters which shall never cease to tell of Nelson and his glory, on the morning of the sixth day they reached Gibraltar, about which the objectionable young m.an remarked that it ought to belong to the Netherlands, and that the Dutch weren't quite decided whether or not to take it from the English. Charles looked in wonder at this powerful fortress, so nobly won by English prowess, and his heart beat high, as on the flagstaff at the summit of this lofty rock, he descried, in answer to the signals from the ship, the bright Union Jack of Old England floating in the clear morning air. He could not help thinking though, as he crossed the deck, and looked at the coast of Africa and the beetling crags thereof, why no power had ever thought it worth their while to counterbalance the power of Gibraltar by building a fortress on that side. The long voyage through the Mediterranean had now begun, and the deck was covered in with awning, and the Malayans put on their costumes for hot weather, and looked quite picturesque in their pure white tunics edged with a broad clavis of red. They sighted no more land after getting well into the Mediterranean, as the ship made no stoppages between Southampton and Naples, and Charles was obliged to divert himself with the company. He made acquaintance with the ship's doctor, who was in a perpetual state of intoxica- 214 A BAETEEED HONOUR. tion, and very proud of knowing some English obscenities^ and of being able to sing tbe hideous rhyme of — Good-bye, Charlie, when you are at sea, Don't forget the letter, love, wherein this swain is further adjured by the lady of his love, who is certainly rather mercenary — Never mind the letter, love, Only send the money, love, Good-bye, Charlie, when you are at sea. At about six on the morning of the tenth day, Charles was awakened by Mynheer Slome to witness the entry into the famous Bay of Naples. The first thing he saw on coming on deck was the Island of Capri, which they had just passed. He was able to see the entrance to the fairy-like Grotto Azura, and the Rock of Tiberius, from which that benevolent prince used to hurl the victims of his cruelty or lust into the foaming sea. The morning was not very clear, and of Vesuvius or the town he could observe nothing as yet. On his left he noticed the Island of Ischia, which looked like a huge lava-strewn rock, though he could here and there see some refreshing patch of green. The Island of Procida couching like some swarthy leviathan of the deep in the grey waves next came in view. Then, as the ship made its way, the beautiful panorama unrolled itself, and Posi- lipo, in all its charm, was seen. On the right, through thick banks of clouds, the fiery peak of Vesuvius clave the air, and finally the city of Par- thenope was seen. As most voyagers, I believe. ON BOAKD THE STEAMSHIP '^ VOORWAAETS." 215 are, so was Charles disappointed with, the appear- ance of Naples at first. The city seemed too small and the hills very low^ and over all the houses hung a yellow mist. But gradually the whole broke up into detail, and the colours and life of the gay wharf of Santa Lucia could be dis- criminated. Then there appeared the massive red building, the town palace of the King. The clouds having cleared away, Charles could distin- guish Vesuvius in its weird attractiveness, gloating over the bright little town of Portici, which lies at its feet. At last the ship dropped anchor, and the doctor, who had put himself on short allowance the day before, the purser, and one of the officers went ashore in a boat to obtain permission to land, which is not accorded without a doctor's certificate of health for those on board. The hour during which they were absent was by no means a dull one, for what with the varied shipping and all the novelty of the sight, Charles was too deeply interested to care how the time went. Presently boats came alongside, some freighted with urchins, who, throwing ofi" their clothing in a most naive and natural manner, plunged into the yellow water and exhibited their powers in swimming, or cried for " money in the water, money in the water," and when a coin had been dropped from the ship by one of the passengers dived down after it, never failing to get it. Others brought musicians gaily clad, who enlivened the bright scene with their merry airs. 216 A BARTERED HONOUR. wbicli are familiar as evening breezes to the Neapolitans. At last the certificate arrived, and Charles was enabled to go on shore. He had an immediate introduction to Neapolitan moralitj^ by being asked to pay 20 francs to the boatman who conveyed him and his luggage to the landing where the custom- house was. But as in the same boat there was a Dutch captain, who had also come off the ship, and who had been particularly noticed by Charles for the fact that he had never taken ofP his spurs on board, who spoke Italian, Charles managed to get off with paying three francs. As soon as he "rot ashore he was surrounded with a swarm of harpies, hotel-touts, porters, cab-drivers, et hoc genus omne. Having decided to patronise the Hotel Eoyal des E'trangers, he chose the tout of that hotel, who helped to clear his baggage of the custom-house, and conveyed him to the hotel, w^here he swindled him of about a pound, assuring him, in broken English, " You are not cheated one half-penny, upon my honour and the Holy Virgin." Charles's room was a very pleasant one, paved with blue tiles, and cool. Having seen his baggage put in, and escaping the importunity of a waiter who wished to sell him some tobacco and cigars, warranted to be smuggled, but which in truth had been abstracted from the travelling bags of previous visitors, he got out into the town, and made his way in a carriage to the Post-office. CHAPTER Xy. RECOGNITION, As soon as Charles had entered the gateway of the enormous Post-office he saw, facing him on the opposite side of the court, three windows where letters were being distributed. The first on the right was for letters addressed to people whose names began with the first eight letters of the alphabet, and going to this he asked if there were any letters for Benson. "ISTon, signore," answered the official. " Any for Hauberk, then ? " The official looked at him suspiciously and asked for his card, which he tendered, and after some rummaging on the part of the official, and many references to his carte-de-visite, he had quite a packet of letters handed to him. One was from Lovell, bearing the Leipzic post- mark_, and there were several, addressed from Kes- wick, in Miss Crosthwaite's writinof. Lovell's letter was only a short one, expressing the writer's hope that Charles had got to his des- tination safely, and ending with many assevera- tions of friendship. The first three from Keswick which he opened contained only bills from Oxford, and in others -were notes from Messrs. Ferguson and Walker, of that city, requesting Mr. Charles Benson to favour 218 A BARTERED HONOUR. them with an interview at their office, on or before that same day, in re of Eoe, Doe, &c., in order to stop "further legal proceedings." These polite invitations were addressed to Keswick, and had been forwarded bj Miss Dorothy. Charles made short work of these letters, and tearing them, bills and all, into fragments, considerably startled a group of bright-plumaged doves, who were taking the morning sun in the middle of the Post-office courtyard, by showering the fragments upon them, and teaching them what snow was, at least, what snow looks Uke, an experience which, lucky birds, they don't often get in Southern Italy. The last letter was one from Dorothy herself, and also contained an enclosure. It was the letter which had contrived to get lost in going to Leipzic, and had been returned to Keswick through the Dead (and often buried) Letter Office. The real letter was as follows : — " Keswick. "Mt Dear Charles, — " I don't blame, but I don't praise this step. But you can be a good man at Naples as well as at Leipzic. I don't suppose there is much beer to be had there. Your purse is slender, but you must make it do, and eat plenty of lazzaronis or maccaroni — or what it is ? " Write soon to your affectionate " Dorothy." "P.S. — I suppose I must call you Egregio SiGNORE now ? " A EECOGXITIO:?^. 219 The second, letter, which it will be remembered was to tell of the sequel of Miss Crosthwaite's adventure with Mrs. White and Lawyer Bennett,, was this : — "Grosvenor Hotel, "London, W. " My Deaeest Chaeles, — " My rather curious adventure of yesterday has had an equally remarkable sequel to-day. " You remember in my yesterday's letter I told you about Lawyer Bennett and his promise to come and see my unfortunate young protegee. "You can imagine that I was rather anxious about this meeting, as, of course, it would have been unfortunate for me if I had had to be burthened with this young woman, of whom I really know, or knew, nothing. " She was equally anxious to see this gentle- man, for as it has turned out he is an old acquaint- ance of hers, and when I mentioned his name to her she remembered it at once. " Lawyer Bennett was to come to-day at twelve o'clock, and punctually at that time his cab drove up to the hotel door. He was as cheerful as ever, and asked me to go into the bedchamber and see if the young party was ready to see him. '^ I went in and helped the young woman to dress. She is still very weak, and could hardly walk, but with the help of little Dorothy's arm and the support of Alice, the chamber-maid, we managed to get her into the sitting-room. 220 A BARTERED HONOITE. Lawyer Bennett was sitting at the table writing, with his back towards us. As soon as we entered he turned round. His glance at the girl was at first one of mere curiosity, but this turned at once into a stare of amazement and of the most startled surprise. "^Esther ! ' he cried, darting forward towards her. ' Is it ? Can it be Esther ? Yes, I see it is. By the powers. Miss Crosthwaite, you do not know what a service you have done me and another young man of my acquaintance. By the powers, once more, if only poor Lord " — " Monsieur," said a voice behind Charles, inter- rupting him in his perusal of his letter, " Monsieur, will you permit me to pass? " Charles had been standing in the large entrance to the Post-ofBce, where there is always a large crush of people. He turned round and saw that he had been addressed by a footman in livery, whose buttons were decorated with a baronial crown and the initial " B." He made room for the man to pass, and was beginning to read the con- tinuation of his letter when the crush of men hurrying in and out became so great that he deter- mined to shift his position to the neighbouring Cafe Delia Posta, where he could read his letter to advantage ; but, as he crossed the road, his attention was once more called to the footman who had addressed him. He saw this person cross the road in front of him, and go up to a carriage and pair that were standing on the A EECOaNITION. 221 opposite side of the road, just behind the terminus of the tramway rails. In the carriage Charles saw two ladies. One was elderly and the other young. The elder of the two sat on the side nearest him, so he did not see the face of the younger one till she bent forward to take the packet of letters from the servant^s hand. At once Charles recog- nised her. It was his queen of the night. It was the beautiful girl he had seen viewing the beauties of the moonlit heavens in the dreary town of Leipzic on that memorable evening. It was the woman whom he had made his ideal ; she whose love he had vowed to win. It was Euphrosyne de Bienaimee. How came she here ? What in the world brought her from Paris to Naples? By what lucky chance had this been brought about ? Was it really she ? Yes, it was ; but was she going to stay ? Where did she live ? Where could he see her again ? These, and many other thoughts rushed through Charles's head with greater speed than that with which the deep blush which mantled his cheek came, died out, and came again. The Baroness having received the letters, told the servant to get up with the coachman and drive on. Just then, Euphrosyne's eyes caught the ardent glance which Charles was casting on her. He was a handsome boy, was Charles, with his long black hair and his large fiery eyes, whose darkness was the more set off by the refined paleness of his countenance. And then he was tall and well- made, and had about him an expression of 222 A BARTERED HONOUR. Poetical melanclioly and aristocratic nonclialaiice which were in marked contrast to the fussy, flurried, excited appearance of the small grubby- business men who were hurrying in and out of the post-office all about. So I don't know — I daren't quite say, but I fancy Mdlle. Euphrosyne was struck and did not mind his glance, or, to speak honestly, rather liked it. This was the first time their eyes had ever met, and where could eyes meet Better than there, where all the glory of the southern sun lit up the love-light in the eyes of the one and admiration in the eyes of the other. Love-light and admiration are very pretty things, but the baroness's carriage was taken by the hour, and the steamer for Sorrento leaves the old harbour at one o'clock precisely (wind and weather per- mitting), and these very practical circumstances soon broke up the pretty 2^ose — this charming tableau scene — and off rolled Madame and Made- m.oiselle down the busy Strada Medina towards the Molo, leaving Charles with his bundle of letters in his hands. No more Cafe Delia Posta for Charles. He was not going to lose sight of Mademoiselle ; so hail- ing a cab he bade the cabman follow the carriage > ahead. The cabman did not or would not under- stand for a moment or two (sections of eternity to poor love-lorn Charles), but a franc in advance helped to explain matters, and Charles was able to follow the Baroness's carriage. Down the Strada Medina, along the Strada del Molo, past the custom-house with its towering Virgin pro- A RECOGNITION. 223 tecting the frauds within, and up to the landing place of the Sorrento-Capri steamer. Here the Baroness and Euphrosjne had got out, and Charles was in time to see them with their servant embark in a small boat and be rowed off to a small steamer, bound for Sorrento, which is about an hour^s voyage from Naples. Charles saw from the smallness of the steamer that it could not be bound for a long voyage, so he felt assured that his Euphrosyne was not going very far away. He knew a little Italian, and was able to ask where the steamer was going to, and learnt that it went no further than Sorrento. . "Over there," said the Italian, pointing to a little village which could just be seen about half- way along the long peninsula, which, with Vesuvius for its base, runs out into the sea, forming the southern limit of the Bay of Naples. Though pestered by all kinds of people with all kinds of wants, some wishing to take him a row, some wishing to dance the tarantella for him, some offering to dive for such halfpence as he might be prepared to throw into the water, others offering him all kinds of commodities from tortoise-shell combs and coral beads to nispelli and oranges, from vieVs of Naples to an African monkey, Charles was able to follow the course of the boat to the steamer with his eyes, and after the Baroness and her party had embarked he still stood there till the steamer set off^ carrying with it, what to his foolish imagination seemed his dearest thing in life. 224 A BARTERED HONOUR. As soon as the steamer was fairly out of the harbour Charles turned back, and took another cab back to his hotel. On the way thither he re- membered Dorothy's letter^ and looked for it ta continue reading it. But where was it ? It wasn't among the papers he still held in his hand, and it certainly wasn't in any of his pockets. He had lost it — in fact, in his excitement in recognising Euphrosyne at the post-office, it had dropped from his hand, and had been left lying in the street, and with it a revelation which might have changed the whole course of Charles's life, and which most certainly must have had a great inflaence on his character and happiness. The loss did not trouble Charles much. In fact he had not given the contents of the letter much attention, and was too much occupied with his own thoughts, and with the excitement at the novel- ties all around him to remember them. Besides, he had long since forgotten Dorothy's first letter^ and the sequel did not interest him much. "Another good thing gone wrong," said he only, as his cab turned the corner of the busy street of Santa Lucia into the beautiful Eiviere de Chiaja on which the Hotel des Etrangers is situated. He reached this in a few minutes, and after ordering dinner, went to his room, and wrote some letters, during which process he was frequently in- terrupted by servants of the hotel, offering him new cakes of soap for sale, new Havannah cigars and cigarettes, warranted smuggled wares. A EECOGNinON. 225' One of Charles^ great faults ^Yas his inability to say, " No " at the proper time, especially when his vanity or pride were concerned. So that when a beautifully whiskered and languid waiter offered Charles a packet of Tunis cigarettes, at five francs a packet, their real value being about 4d., Charles was boob}^ enough to think, that being a Hauberk, and having to keep up appear- ances, he could not refuse to buy them, and felt himself quite justified when the exquisite of gargons took his five francs with a " Thank you, milor." Thought Charles : ^^ This is a polite man, he knows the world, and respects the degrees in the social scale. I must reward him, and encourage him in his very laudable humility." And out went another five francs from his little stock into the waiter's pocket. Thought the waiter : '^ Here is another foolish young Englishman. I must see what I can get out of him. If a milor fetches five francs, 1 ought to get something better for an ^Excellenza." And so he said — " Would your ■'Cellenza like some beautiful views of Naples, or would your Serenity like to drive to- night, or does your Altessa desire a cake of pure Windsor soap for the toilette table of your Excellenza? Or does the Splendid Signor re- quest " — But Charles had done, and there were no more five-franc notes forthcoming. His first one was VOL. I. Q 226 A BARTERED HONOUR. wasted, for you cannot buy respect^ and the waiter only tliouglit him a snob, a gull, a foolish boy, and finally a very avaricious, and probably needy young man. That is what Charles' five francs had bought him. Of course Charles was not so utterly reckless as to propose to stay many days at so luxurious an hotel ; and so he spent the time before dinner in walking about the streets looking for a lodging. He had a good deal of trouble in finding one, especially as his knowledge of Italian was a very defective one. Some people asked him enormous prices for a shabby little room, and not knowing then that a Neapolitan usually asks twelve times the amount he is prepared to take for his com- modity, he came to no terms with these. Other proprietors of lodgings refused to take in his dog at any price. It was late in the evening before he saw any- thing to suit, and it was only after much searching and many annoyances, as he was on his way back to the hotel, that he saw outside a house in the street Santa Lucia a board with the announce- ment, now well-known to him, Stanza Mobiltata a Locare. On enquiry at the porter's lodge, he found the room was on the fourth floor. He did not like the appearance of the proprietor, a tall, fat man with a red beard, who came out in a pair of trousers and a night-shirt, which from its appear- ance had probably been worn for a month or more nighfc and day. A EECOGNITION. 227 The room was not very satisfactory either. It was small, paved with irregular bricks, and furnished in the meanest and poorest style. There was a rickety little bed and a chair ; these, with a few nails driven into the white (?) washed walls, were all its comforts. *' This will never do," said Charles to the pro- prietor. '^Oh, by the love of the Holy Madonna,^' said Luigi, " do not, do not look at the room as it is now. When your Excellency enters it to-morrow it will be changed, oh, changed. It will no longer resemble me for its ugliness and poverty, but will almost outshine the splendid Signore in beauty and elegance.-''' '' What is the price of this room ? '^ " Wait, Signore. I will call my wife.'"* The wife was a fat little woman who appeared good-natured. The price they asked was eighty francs a month. "Eighty francs a month ! " said Charles, ''for a wi'etched room on the fourth floor, furnished as this is '? " After many appeals to the Virgin Mary, backed by occasional invocations to San Luigi and Santa Teresa, their patron saints, the couple agreed to take Charles for fifty-five francs a month, and got him to pay two months in advance. They had agreed outside to take him for half the money, only he did not bargain well enough. He arranged that the proprietor should come and fetch his luggage the next morning, and hay- 228 A BAETERED HONOUR. ing got a receipt for his money, lie departed to the hotel for his dinner. Next day he was duly installed in his room. This had undergone none of the startling arrange- ments of which the landlord had spoken, and with the exception of an additional nail which had been knocked into the wall, and an old cracked waterbasin, which had been placed in one corner, the room was in the same state of needy shabbi- ness as on the yesterday. He had paid in advance, and therefore the proprietors had lost all farther interest in him. His hotel bill was not very large ; the Hotel des Etrangers is luxurious without being exorbitantly dear. For bringing his boxes from the Hotel to the house, a distance of less than three hundred yards, the facchini demanded fifteen francs. They went away rejoicing after receiving five. They would have gone away contented with two. Two francs represented unlimited maccaroni. Unlimited maccaroni is the ultimate dim Thule of many poor Neapolitans. Although Charles was very dissatisfied with the room and its furniture, there was in it one redeem- ing feature which, in his romantic mind, fully compensated for its other cUsagrements. It looked out on to the street, the street of Santa Lucia. -Charles spent nearly two hours his first evening there, after he had unpacked and arranged his things, in standing on the little balcony, watching now the busy scene below, now the glorious pano-^ jama beyond. A EECOGNITION. 229 For right opposite to liim^ beyond tlie blue neck of sea, studded with many boats, ships, and steamers of all kinds, from the little felugca- rigged fishing-smack to the leviathan man of war, lay in all its majestic glory the ominous crater of Vesuvius, casting up at times volumes of smoke and flame, whose menacing hues contrasted strangely with the perfect serenity of the rosy- tinted evening sky, and the perfect tints which lay over all the rest of the peninsula, varying from purple to the blue-grey and dark olive which coloured its extremities, or blended with the mist which hung about the islands in the far east. The absolute quiet of nature presented a strong contrast to the undignified bustle of mankind below. The street of Santa Lucia is the most characteristic street in Naples. It is here that the strange incongruities and marked peculiarities of the Neapolitan character can be studied the best. It forms, as it were, the meeting place of the St. James' and St. Giles', of the Faubourg St. Germain and the Faubourg du Temple of Naples. It is the link between the aristocracy of the Chiaja and the poverty of the Molo. Here, too, can be seen plied with full activity all those trades which could flourish nowhere else but in Naples. Men of all sorts and conditions meet, pass, elbow and jostle each other in this wildest, liveliest, most noisy of streets. Dainty fops dressed in the latest Paris fashions, brawny coral fishers returned from a voyage off the coast of 230 A BARTERED HONOUR. Africa, with bare legs,, neck, and arms, dressed in striped jerseys and coloured caps, which show off their gaudy hues well against the black hair, swarthy complexions and flashing eyes of the wearers ; staid merchants hurrying home, naked little vagabonds prowling in the gutters, or play- ing the most natural games on the pavement, or darting to pick up whatever fruit might fall from the well-laden stalls that fringe the sides of the street; water-carriers clad in bright rags, with their polished water-cans, gleaming in the sun, slung over their shoulders ; peasant women re- turning from the mineral water well with their quaintly-modelled jars gracefully poised on their heads, all picturesque, all natural, all beautiful in a peculiar way. The crowd has its grotesque people too ; the Englishman abroad is there, clad in the conventional strnw hat, with a blue ribbon round it, the same broad-patterned tweed, carry- his red guide-book in one hand and a large umbrella in the other; the half-drunk peasant, executing a clumsy dance to the music which a gaitered Calabrian is making by humming in his hands; the numberless beggars and cripples, ex- posing their ghastly deformities to those who are slack in giving them alms. All these, and many other curious illustrations of humanity, are here, hurrying to and fro between the carriages which throng the streets. The Royal State carriages, rolling in grandiose dignity to the fashionable promenade oh the Riviera, are outstripped by a one-horse cart laden with as many peasants over A EECOGNITION. 231 the twenty or thirty who can comfortably accom- modate themselves therein as can cling to it, dashing home at full speed from some wedding or outing in the big town. The conveyances are as little in harmony with each other as the foot passengers ; there are the smart tramways gliding along side by side with the wretched little donkey cart of an itinerant fruiterer, with the gaily be- dight, bell-collared, be-ribboned, mule-drawn trap of some well-to-do farmer or grape-grower, with cabs in all stages of decay, with the beautiful carriages of the nobility. The noises which arise from this street are most remarkable. Above the cracking of whips, the splashing of oars, the whistling of the steamers in the offing, the jangle of the bells on the herds of kine and goat which are driven from door to door by a milk-selling peasant, the shriek of the tramway-car whistle, there arises one per- petual roar of human voices, the cries of the owners of the fruit-stalls praising their wares — "Ecco dei bei nispel, Ecco dei aranch ; " the fish merchants crying their wares — "Ecco dei austreach ? Frutti di mar. Frutti di mar ; " the water-carriers with their perpetual — "Acqua fresca, Acqua fresca, Chi voi ber, Acqua fresca, Chi voi ber ; " the newspaper hawkers shouting — " Ecco il Pun, Piccolo, Pungo Picco-pungolo ; '' the cabmen touting — " Una vettur ! Una vettur ! Eacciam' una passegia','^ all yelhng, gesticulating, and moving. All this busy life on one hand, all the serene 232 A BAETEEED HONOUR. dignity on the other. To the lover of man the street, to the lover of nature the scene, man showing his weakness by his very excitability. Nature speaking eloquently, in the serenity of her silence, of her immense garnered-up power. The mutability of man. The eternity of nature. Tlie pigmy. The Titan. The weakness of man shown in the struggling mass of men below, the power of nature in the mighty arm of the ocean, the eternal hills, and above all in the fearful mountain, breathing fire, quiet as a tiger prepared to spring is quiet, holding a perpetual watch, suggesting an eternal menace. These were some of the observations and reflec- tions which Charles made as he watched the day- light fade away on his second night at I^aples, and marked the transition in the street from day to night, saw a hundred lights gradually being lit, from the lamps in the harbour and on the vessels to the little gaudy oil lamps hung on the water stalls, between the fresh festoons of green leaves, lemons, and flowers. It was all so new, so strange, so appealing to his mind, that long after he had gone to bed, and as lie lay watching through the open window the in- termittent glare of Vesuvius, his thoughts kept him occupied; and now no longer did he regret that he had changed the cold, unsympathetic North for the intense glories of the South. The life he proposed to lead was a life of romantic poverty. Many have had this dream. A EECOGXITION. 233 €ven tliose who had the alternative of abiding in the solid comforts of af&uence. It was this feeling that brought Charles the Fifth from his imperial throne to the lowly cell of a Spanish monastery, and made him change his robe of purple for the sombre cowl of a monk. It is this feeling that, when translated to us by men like Balzac^ Henri Murger, or Alfred de Xusset, leads us to envy the pinched and uncomfortable lives of the needy students in their garrets in the Quartier Latin of Paris. It is this feeling that is the principle of the school of Wordsworth, the high-thinking and plain-living school. Finally, this is the feeling which drives men from the warm life of the outer world into the cold and dreary monotony of the cloister brotherhood, and comforts the Trappist in his lonely, silent, perpetual misery. To live on a few sous a day, and work hard to raise his mind, and develope his inborn poetry, to live unselfishly — this was Charleses dream. At the end he saw in radiance as his prize, his reward, the face of the loved girl, who was sleeping tranquilly beyond the water, on the other side of the bay, in her myrtle begrown villa. They were both sleeping, and who can say whether in the tranquil night their spirits, their hopes, their virtues and strength, personified into beautiful angels, did not meet in the glorious night, and hold a gentle commune with each other. The night thickened, but through all the fiery 234 A BAETEEED HONOUR. sentinel kept unceasing watch, till the bright sun dawning behind the Apennines made its lesser liofht invisible, and woke the town. The deserted street resumed its bustling light, the cry once more went skywards, and Charles awoke. CHAPTER XVI. DISCONTENT. Chaeles began his life at Naples with laudable tenacity to his resolutions, and for the first fiew days carried out his proposals of living humbly and studying hard with great regularity. He rose early — those who live in the street of Santa Lucia do not need alarum clocks to awake them — and procured his breakfast for himself. Luigi, the landlord, and Teresa his wife had, it ia true, suggested that he should receive his coffee and roll in the morning from them, at the mode- rate rate of two francs per day ; but Charles was not prepared to take breakfast at that rate. He used to go down the street and buy a pennyworth of bread and a few cherries or other fi-uits, and bring these back under his arm, in a bit of paper, to breakfast on in his room. In doing this he thought of Marius, that weakest of Victor Hugo's heroes. After two or three days he found that this diet was not strong enough, and so he com- missioned an old chamber-woman, who lived on his floor, to procure him a daily supply of milk for two sous, as an addition to his humble repast. He sometimes, when he felt hungry, used to stand at the top of the stairs and watch for her return ; and it was not pleasant to him to see her one day taking refreshment out of the glass which con- 236 A BARTEEED HONOUR. tained his milk at each, of the four landings. After this discovery he went for the milk himself. He lunched and dined humbly enough, at first, at different restaurants in the town, and applied himself with diligence to his tasks. He had all his books with him, and was enabled to continue the line of study which had been interrupted. In addition to the ordinary work, he devoted two or three hours a day to the study of Italian. In this way he lived at least a week, when an event, trifling in itself, but of importance in the disturbing effect it produced on Charles, took place. Charles, it will be remembered, had a sum of money about him. At this period it amounted to about ten Napoleons, or eight pounds ; the rest of his money, about forty-five pounds, was lying in Miss Crosthwaite's bank at Penrith. He kept this money in a purse locked in a small box in his portmanteau. One day as he was taking from his little store the pence necessary for that day's expenses, he was interrupted by the landlord, who had come in on some trifling business. The next day when he went to his box again, he was horrified to see that of the ten Napoleons only five remained. Of course, there was no doubt who had taken it, so he rang his bell and Luigi appeared. Charles, who was in a state of great distress and excitement, addressed him at once. " Look here ! " he said, " I have been robbed — I have had five Napoleons taken from my box, I have been robbed of one hundred francs." DISCONTENT. 237" " What ? " cried Luigi, with the best counterfeit of amazement and horror that Charles had ever seen ; " What, Signor ? Eobbed in this house ! iu the room of Luigi Calvari ! On the day of our most Holy Virgin's Annunciation ! " (Here the fat rascal crossed himself.) " N'o, Signor, that is not possible. Such words coming even from the lips of your Excellency, from the mouth of your Serenity^ cannot be believed by Luigi, who, as you see, is in the extremities of grief, despair, and anguish.'^ It had not taken Charles very long to learn to appreciate at their right value the statements and assui-ances of the Neapohtans, so, without paying any attention to the wild exclamations of the man, he drew his watch from his pocket and laying it on the table he said, with a degree of firmness which astonished himself, "The money has been taken. Unless it is returned within ten minutes I shall go to the police. If the police do not give me satisfaction I shall go to the English Consul.'-' " 0, sir, sir ! '' said Luigi, pressing forth a few oily tears. " You must be mistaken. Make up your accounts again. Add up the figures.^' " You have heard what I intend to do. One minute has passed.^' " By our holy Saint Louis " — " One minute and a half." " Stop, Signor ; Luigi has a partner in his affliction and disgrace. I will fetch her. She will be as a mother to you in your grief. While I am gone make up your accounts — add up the figures.-" Luigi went and returned with Teresa. They 238 A BARTERED HONOUR. "both tried their utmost, crying and screaming at intervals, to persuade the young man that his loss was an imaginary one. Charles remained firm, and with his watch in his hand let them talk themselves out. As the ten minutes elapsed he got up to go. The two re- doubled their tears, their cries, their screams. " Sir," said Luigi, " this is a most respectable house. Never has an agent of the Public Security looked on the fourth story of No. — , Santa Lucia^ with an unfavourable eye. Great would be the affliction of Luigi and of Teresa if bad rumours were to get afloat about them. They might even think it cause sufficient to start a Yendetta against one whom hitherto they have considered not only as the apple of their eye but as the joy of their bosoms." " You threaten, do you ? " said Charles, taking up his hat and cane. "The ten minutes are up. Au revoir.^' " Stop, stop, sir ! " cried Luigi, who saw that matters were getting serious. "Listen to me. Long have we employed the venerable cameriere that makes his Excellency's bed ; long have we nourished the man that polishes his Excellency's boots, but we live to be deceived. Never, as yet, have they taken anything, but who shall say ? — Stay, stay ! " (for Charles had reached the door). '^I will explain. By the love of the Son of the Mother of God," continued Luigi, putting his hands together as if in prayer, a favourite and common gesture on the part of the Neapolitans, DISCONTENT. 239 ^^ rather than lose the good name I have I will undertake to repay to the Splendid Gentleman the sum he says he has lost." Charles made the man sign a promise to this effect, and demanded the money at once. " Money have I none/' said Luigi. " Never was I so poor. But if your Excellency will take it out in the shape of dearer, cleaner linen on your bed — oh, do stay ! — or of an extra pillow — don't go — or in the shape of a plate of maccaroni a day ; or, well if all this won't content you, here is the money, or at least, here are five francs as a pledge of the rest." In the evening Luigi brought him fourpence. The next morning eight francs and a few coppers^ and Charles was obliged to repeat his threats. After two days he got the whole amount back in various small instalments, and even then Luigi had pocketed about ten shillings, for whereas the money stolen was in the shape of gold pieces he returned the sum in notes and copper. This trifling incident had a bad effect on Charles. The anxiety it awakened disturbed him in his regular course of work. It would have produced no effect on many men, but Charles was lamentably weak, and could only work by fits and starts. Once interrupted in a period of industry, it was many days before he could resume work. Another incident which occurred the same day had a similar bad effect on him, and on the pro- posals of observing a rigid economy which he had made. 240 A BARTERED HONOUR. He was walking along tlie Chiaja hj the side of the Villa Gardens, at the time when all Naples is in its carriages taking the cool evening air on this most beautiful of promenades, when he saw drive by him in a magnificent barouche by the side of a lady of the highest rank, and connected with many of the oldest and noblest Neapolitan families, the Principessa di E — , a young man whom he had occasionally noticed at Oxford, and who had been notorious there for his immense wealth and equally immense vulgarity. "Borthwick of the House," cried poor Charles, as he watched them pass on ; and unfolding a Daily Telegraph he had in his hands he pointed to a large advertisement on the last page, which ran as follows : — KoBERT Borthwick axd Boodle, Hosiers and Outfitters, St. Martin's Lane, London, BEG to call the attention of their clientele to their new stock of Summer and Winter Shirtings. All kinds of Underlinen of the best qualities. Socks and ties of the most recherche kinds at the lowest prices. Borthwick and Boodle supply goods to distinguished members of the Peerage, Gentry, and Clergy. Robert Borthwick and Boodle, outfitters by Special Letters Patent to H.R.H. the King of Bonny. N.B.— When you ask for the Borthwick, Boodle, Bonny flannel shirt at 4s. 8d. see that you get it. All shirts stamped B.B.B. (Borthwick, Boodle, Bonny), without which none are genuine. Robert Borthwick and Boodle. DISCONTENT. 241 Borthwick, the son of the advertising draper by the side of the Princess di E, — ; Charles, the son of Lord Brookshire, able to find no company but that of a little white dog with a yellow patch over his eye. And who disputes the power of money ? These were the thoughts of Charles as he slowly folded the newspaper sheet again and put it into his pocket. " Ruined, poor, unknown, bastard as I am, am I not better than he? Do not I spring from the noblesse and he from vulgarity? Oh, why was I ever born if m^ life is to be one of continual pain, continual insult, continual slight ! Hauberk walks on foot with a little dog ; Borthwick, Boodle, Bonny rides with a Princess ! I suppose money is the only gauge to-day. Well, Fang, we must see if we cannot raise ourselves above the B.B.B. flannel shirts one of these days." But for all that the son of the Borthwick, Boodle, Bonny shirt was riding in state, while he of the coronet and coat-of-arms, with its forty quarters, was trudging lowly on foot. Charles had no reason to complain. Allowing that he was of the nobility, he should have been enangered with the Princess di R — , and not with the poor, vulgar Borthwick. She, too, was of the nobility, and for ancient renown and splendour very much more distinguished than the Hauberks. Therefore if anyone was to blame it was she. Borthwick, of course, liked to be VOL. I. E 242 A BARTERED HONOUR. courted ; there is no vulgarity in that. It was vulgarity on the part of the Princess to run after an Englishman of Borthwick's class and kind because he was rich. There was some vulgarity, though certainly excusable, in Charles's thoughts on the subject. In a few minutes this rencontre had a good effect on Charles, for it stung him in his pride, and made him feel that for all his blood and talents the world did not ]ay much value on him, and he began to see that he really must exert himself if he ever hoped to attain even a decent position in the world, let alone if he ever di'eamed of crowning his wild ambition with success. Charles had peculiar views on life. He wished to be either Caesar or nobody. He could not bring himself to view with resignation the occupation of a middle station, to be but a unit in the large total of men and women ; to be a mediocrity, to be spoken of hereafter as one of the mob of the nineteenth century. He resolved to be either great or small, to lead this world in his fashion, or to refuse to follow it ; to stand pre-eminent either in social dignities or artistic fame ; or to woo, if he failed, this pre-eminence by a spoken and active contempt of these dignities; or by an unsavory notoriety in the regions of art. It is always so with men of active minds. They will either be famous or notorious. And the difference is a great one. Few become famous, many notorious. It is so much easier to become notorious than famous. Ravaillac and Guiteau DISCONTENT. 243 tave made their names immortal equally with Caesar and Napoleon. The names of Yirgil and Suetonius, Moliere and CoUett, Shakespeare and the English dramatists of the seventeenth century are equally, though in different degrees, inscribed on the tablets of the memories of man. Genius and industry produce fame ; genius walking on wrong paths, unbacked by industry, brings the hollow applause of notoriety. It was a great question which path Charles -would pursue. Undoubtedly gifted with inborn music and an impulse to become great, he lacked in strength of purpose and in diligence. As he walked home he was burning with energy, and aglow with wild plans of doing great deeds, but his pride stepped in, and the reminiscence of the B.B.B. flannel shirt awakened a curious feeling of perverseness in him. What good, thought he, to strive for a lofty place when such men can buy them. What honour to be first among a crowd of money-grasping men who can never appreciate me, and who award to flannel shirts dignities and applause which they withhold from genius and talent. It is better to-day to be a hawker in the streets than a poet in the skies. It is better to-day to be a hosier, a grocer, a Borthwick, than to be gifted with the gifts Time now and then bestows. It is better to know how to buy flannel at sixpence and to sell it at a shilling, than to sing the songs of Dante, of Swinburne, of Eossetti. Tormented with thoughts like these, Charles reached his lodgings, and instead of setting to 244 A BARTERED HONOUR. work again as was his custom, he began to pace Ms room restlessly. In weak men anger manifests itself, and often vents itself on helpless and inanimate objects. In his walk, stung as he felt bj the event that had happened, and by the irritating reflections he had given way to^ he happened to see his ^schylus lying open where he had left it that morning. What soothing thoughts might not this book have awakened in him — what a flat contradiction it 'gave to his peevish logic. Where were the hosiers, the grocers, the mob of Eleusis, the con- temporaries of him who wrote these poems ? Dead, lost, forgotten ! while his voice, his name, went echoing through all time. Can greatness in art be compared to greatness in commerce ? Will not the music of Swinburne ring in the ears of the after-world after the wiles and ruses of all the family of Eothschilds are forgotten ? What place will Borthwick the flannel shirt-maker hold in the memories of men when his shirts have been worn and laid aside ? The poet has eternity, and has the present value of eternity in the thought that after his death his expressions of beauty will charm, soothe, move and comfort myraids of men. But Charles did not see this. He, only saw the book, and the book made him think what a useless, unprofitable study it was. It made him think that in the time he spent in reading it other men DISCONTENT. 245 were making enormous fortunes by selling magnesia, soap, and paper collars. We must not accuse Charles of vulgarity in this morbid desire of becoming rich. It must be re- membered what a laudable ambition was his. Sprung from a hundred ancestors of fame and splendour, he wished to win back the right to claim these men as his ancestors in the face of the world, to claim as his own the glorious coat-of- arms they had claimed, untarnished by the fearful bar sinister, that ominous rock over which so many of our noblest families have been broken and perished. '^ Bother all this nonsense/' said Charles, flinging the Eleusinian into a corner. '''It's no good my working. I can do nothing like this. I'll enjoy myself and trust to chance. I will take a lottery ticket to-morrow. No more cooping myself up in this den. I'll leave it at once, and find an apartment suitable to a gentleman. If Borthwick drives in a barouche^ Hauberk shall drive too. I am sick of mortifying the flesh. I am young and will taste life." And it was only a week since he had begun to walk his ways of wisdom. And it was at the same time, in her quiet parlour in her lodgings at Keswick, that Dorothy was saying to herself, " Oh God, bless my boy and keep him in the right way ; give him courage and industry." Dorothy full of hope and love on her knees ! Charles full of petty peevishness. 246 A BARTERED HONOTTR. weak spite and folly. Poor Charles ! Acting on his new and foolish resolution Charles sat down and wrote to his bankers at Penrith, and told them to send him the whole balance of his money lying at their bank. The sordidness of money and the wish for extravagance having been aroused in his mind, he also wrote to Dorothy, saying — "Mt Dear Dorothy, — ^'I can find a use for the £20 you offered to lend me the other day, and shall be glad now to receive it. Kindly send it in form of a cheque on Turnbull's bank. " Yours, " Charles." There was another little bit of vanity in this. The third day he had been at Naples Charles had written to Messrs Turnbull offering his services as a clerk in their office, not that he had the slightest intention or wish to become one, but merely as the result of a praiseworthy wish to do something and add to his income. This was right enough; the vanity lay in asking for a cheque on their bank because Messrs. Turnbull had refused his offer, and Charles wanted to show them that Charles Hauberk was an independent gentleman, who had cheques for £20 sent him by people, and could afford to do without the emoluments of a clerkship in their office. He pictured to himself the dignified air with which he would present his cheque, the nonchalant manner with which he would thrust the cash into DISCONTENT. 247 Ms pocket, and the polite bows with, wliicli Messrs. TurnbuU and staff would usher him to the door. His next proceeding was to ring the bell, and summon Luigi. When this worthy had appeared lie told him he was obliged to give up his room, partly because he felt that his property was no longer safe there, and partly because the room was kept in such a dirty state. ''^The Signor has to command, Luigi must obey,^' answered the Italian. ''And I thought," said Charles,, ''^that under these circumstances you should return me some of the money which I paid you in advance.'^ "Never," said Luigi, *' never can I with a wife and several children — an addition to these being also expected — agree to return money to so opulent a gentleman." Charles remonstrated^ but Luigi was firm ; Charles threatened, Luigi blandished. At last the Italian proposed a compromise. He would give Charles ten francs if Charles would give up the right to occupy the rooms for the remaining seven weeks which he had paid for. Charles rejected this offer with scorn ; Luigi shrugged his fat shoulders. The next day, firm to his foolish resolution, he set about to find an apartment suitable for a Hauberk. There were plenty of apartments in Naples suitable for Hauberks without eni, and even for greater men than they ; but then the apart- ments suitable for a Hauberk cost money, and the Hauberk in question had not much funds, especi- 248 A BAETEEED HONOTJE. ally till his remittances came. At last he found a heantiful room, at a place called the Villa Casti- glione, at Posilipo, about two miles from Naples. The Villa Castiglione is a most beautiful house, situated in a large vineyard, and surrounded by beautiful gardens, sloping down to the edge of a high ledge of rocks which fringe the sea. The beach is approached by a staircase cut out in the rock. Charles' room opened on to a large balcony, from which a view of the whole bay could be obtained. " Which," said the proprietor, " is in itself worth the five francs a day." The price of the room, five francs a day, was a mild nucleus of the daily bill, for there were many extras. Candles went at ruinous prices. The money that Charles spent there on this item alone would have set up two or three Vestal Virgins comfortably in their business. The privilege of bathing in the sea was paid for extra, though no comforts were provided. One bathed off the rocks, and was supposed to find this cheap at half-a-franc a time. In every way it was utterly unsuited to Charles'* purse, and it was an act of perfect folly in him to go there while he had his room at Santa Lucia un- occupied and paid for. But we can be firm in our resolutions when we have resolved to please ourselves, and Charles carried out the whole of his plan, and in two days was installed at the Villa Castiglione with the key of his room at Santa Lucia in his pocket. DISCONTENT. 249 He began once more to work, but was again dis- turbed. This time, bowever, he had some reason to be unsettled, and this was wby. At table cVhote at the Yilla Castiglione, on the second day of his stay there, he was placed next to a crentleinan whose name he learnt to be the Chevalier de la Yigne. The Chevalier de la Yigne was a little fussy man, of about thirty years of age, fashionably and elegantly dressed in the last Paris fashion. His appearance was not an ordinary one. He was very fair, with light hair, and magnificent blonde Dundreary whiskers. His eyes were large, and of a dark blue colour. He had a languid ex- pression on his face, and rather a cynical smile played about his beautifully-shaped mouth. He had a pretty complexion, more that of a woman than of a man. As mentioned above, he was not tall, standing about 5ft. Gin. in his silk stockings. Charles noticed him at first by the exceedingly precise way in which he ate, the graceful flourish with which he conveyed his bread to his mouth, and how he used this action to display to their best advantage his fine regular teeth, his delicate, vein- traced, white, little hand, with its magnificent diamond ring on the little finger, and also because this gentleman drank nothing but lemonade, of which he seemed very fond. The Chevalier de la Vigne was a Frenchman, fairly well educated, and enjoying the moderate income of fourteen thousand francs a year. This income had, as money often has, a bad effect on iis character, for placing himbeyond the necessity 250 A BARTERED HONOTJR. of working, it had turned him into a dandy of effeminate and luxuriously self-indulgent tastes and manners. Tired of the life of a Parisian gommeux, sick of the boulevards_, the races, and the cafes, he had hailed with delight the idea of leaving Paris, and had come to Italy, in a quiet, gradual way, resting a good deal en route, especially at those towns where a skilful coiffeur was to be found. He had a special object in coming to Naples which will appear hereafter. Charles was too proud to solicit any man's acquaintance, and perhaps it was his reserve that attracted the Chevalier's attention, for during dinner this gentle- man entered into conversation with him. The Chevalier spoke good English, and the first remark he addressed to Charles was, '' Excuse, me, if you please, but are you acquainted with any excellent hairdressers in this town ? '' " No," said Charles ; " I have not been in Naples long enough to form the acquaintance of any hairdressers, excellent or otherwise." The Chevalier looked depressed, fondled his left whisker, helped himself to some lemonade, and continued — '^ If you do not know any hairdressers, can you perhaps tell me where I can procure that Eau de Parme, which is so essential to a good complexion ! " *' What a muff the fellow is," thought Charles, as he answered that, although he had never heard of the qualities of this water, he supposed any chemist could supply it. DISCONTENT. 251 The Chevalier thanked him for this valuable bit of information, and said he would note it. He did so at once in a red plush pocket-book, the outside of which was ornamented with a large silver coronet, and the initials of Alphonse de la Yigne. It was one of those little pocket-books which are much used by French dandies, being furnished inside with a slab of looking-glass. The Chevalier opened the book to write down that any chemist could supply him with the Eau de Parme, but could not resist the attraction of the looking- glass, especially as it gave him the opportunity of exhibiting to the rest of the guests at the table d^hote the coronet aforesaid. Whilst he was acting the whiskered Narcissus over the little mirror, Charles was most astonished to see reflected in the glass the exact picture of Euphrosyne — of her who had never left his thoughts ; and on looking again, as closely as he deemed conventional, he saw that the face in the glass was the reflection of a photo- graph of the beautiful girl, which was lying in the Chevalier's pocket-book. Another host of questions, fears, and fancies rushed through his mind. Did this whiskered doll know Euphrosyne ? Was he — perish the thought — her lover, her accepted lover, her affianced ? Or was this a piece of wonderful good fortune ? Might not the man be only a friend of hers, who would be able to procure him the intro- duction he so earnestly wished for ? Anyhow it was impossible, and even Charles saTT •that, for him to mention her name at the time, so •252 A BAETEEED HONOUR. lie determined to cultivate the Frencliinan's acquaintance and trust to further good luck. As dinner went on, and under the exciting in- fluence of his lemonade, the languid little Chevalier became sufficiently talkative. He had many- interesting details connected with hairdressers and tailors to tell. He preferred Poole to his Paris rival. He went so far as to say that " 11 n^y a que les Anglais qui sachent habiller I'homme." Another glass of lemonade, and he broached the subject of woman, beautiful woman, splendid woman, divine woman ! He loved women, he was the beloved of women. He would venture to go so far as to say that he loved the whole sex. No, here he must make an exception. He did not extend this love to the old mustachioed Russian lady opposite, who dined in black kid gloves. He would prefer to see that lady eat her gloves before his eyes rather than see her at table with them on. He knew why she did it. She had received an Imperial summons to attend the Court at St. Petersburg, and wished to get her hands into a proper state of whiteness for that event. His hands were white, Charles might have observed, and yet he never dined in black kid gloves. With the exception of this lady he might say he loved -all women. They were so gentle, so catlike, so very, very nice. Charles, wishing to sound him, asked him if he had no particular flame, no love for one. ''No," said the Chevalier, ''no; from the DISCONTENT. 25B glorious Catalani^, the first artiste at the Hippo- drome, with whom I used to drive in a barouche in the Bois, down to the little peasant girl who offers me violets at the door of this hotel, I love them all equally.'^ Charles was satisfied, and dinner being over, he lighted his cigarette, called to Fang, and went on the terrace. The Chevalier joined him after a few minutes. He had changed his dress ; he did this five times a day. Charles was teaching Fang to sit up, and looking now and then across the sweep of the blue waters over to Sorrento. '* Oh, dear me,*" said the Chevalier in French. '^ You do not mean to say that the people of this house take dogs in ? How very distressing, how very unwise.''^ ''The dog belongs to me,^' said Charles. "He sleeps on my bed. He is with me always. I could not do without him." " Oh, how very extraordinary," rejoined the Chevalier ; " but I must really beg you to put him out of sight. I dislike brutes. I cannot bear the lower animals. I do not like to look at them. Dogs especially I dislike. They are so irregular in their hair. So unartistically arranged in their hairdressing. If it were a poodle, now, I sliould not mind. I like poodles — rather. Catalani had one ; its hairdressing was remarkable. An artist from the Rue St. Hon ore arranged it. People noticed it as we drove down the Champs. I believe it was mentioned at Court. Anyway, that 254 A BARTERED HONOTJR. hairdresser received the ribbon of the Legion of Honour. He certainly deserved it. The dog was most remarkably well arranged. But that little wretch, with its rough, white hair, and its irregular whiskers and pointed nose ! bah ! Do you know, sir, I lose my esteem for you when I see you with that dog ? " "The esteem of a man who cannot bear lower animals, and who especially dislikes dogs, is, in my opinion, not worth having," said Charles. " Sir,^' said the Chevalier, "will you explain your thesis : but meanwhile I must take some lemonade, and you will order your little dog to lie down at a distance of at least ten feet. He ap- pears not particular as to what perfume he uses. I prefer White Eose, while he holds apparently to a peculiar scent, which is not known in the Parisian world.^^ "There is not much to explain,'' answered Charles, who could not help smiling at the serious way with which the little dandy spoke all this nonsense. " My ideas are, perhaps, peculiar; but I feel very strongly on the subject. I do not look on dogs as inferiors in any way. They have all the virtues of men, and very few of their vices. They"— " Thank you," said the Chevalier ; " I no longer object. You will instruct your dog to leave me to enjoy my share of the privileges of this villa with- out molesting me ; and might I suggest a drop or two of White Rose ? " The Chevalier produced a little scent flask, DISCONTENT. 255 whidi he handed to Charles. Charles, to humour him, sprinkled a few drops on Fang's back. Fang did not appreciate it, for a moment or two after- wards, to the horror of, and partial production of syncope in the Frenchman, he discovered the dead body of a mole in the garden, and rolled himself over and over it, impregnating himself thereby with an odour which he distinctly preferred to the whole fragrant catalogue of the chef d'ceuvres of Piesse, Atkinson, or Rimmel. The Chevalier asked Charles to accompany him to Naples to take an ice at the Cafe d^ Europe, and see a little of the cafe life there. We always return to our old habits, no matter where we travel. CHAPTEE XYII. TASTING THE LACRIM^ CHKISTI. The two young men drove to Naples in an opert carriage, which was at the disposition of the pen- sionnairesof the Villa Castiglione, a privilege for which they, of course, paid dearly, on the same scale as all the rest of their expenses there. Charles was at first very much bored by the Chevalier's insipid talk, but the fact remained that he was a gentleman, and as such an agreeable companion for Charles, who very much wanted such society. On nearer acquaintance, too, he found that beneath his languid and affected exterior the Chevalier had plenty of good sense, and a sympathetical appreciation of the beauties of nature. Surely there can exist no man, who, driving from Posilipo to Naples, through the green olive trees, and gold-spangled orange trees, by the side of the blue waters ; girt in on the one side by the wonder- ful hills of the Sorrento peninsula, marking all the colour of the scene, all the beauty of the inani- mate, and all the intense loveliness and activity, grace and ease of the animate, does not feel his soul, however little it may be, lifted, as it were, to higher and nobler feelings. The town was soon reached, and in due time the TASTING THE LACEIM^ CHEISTI. 257 Cafe cVEarope. Here they spent an hour or two, sipping the cool lemon sorbets at one of the tables on the street, smoking their cigarettes and watch- ing the active throng of people hurrying by or idling in the place or at the corners. The outside of the Cafe d' Europe at I^aples is a rendezvous place of some of the worst characters of the town. Hither flock all the numberless hawkers, and others who find foreigners an easy prey. Charles was more pestered by these men — some offering papers^ others sweets, others walking-sticks, combs, beads, tobacco (smuggled), fruit, musical boxes, views of Naples — than the Prince of Wales at a fancy fair. About eleven o^clock the Chevalier proposed a walk, and they started arm-in-arm down the finest street in Naples, the Toledo. They did not notice as they looked around at all the brilliant shop- windows, that they were being followed by a most suspicious-looking young man who, keeping at a certain distance from them, appeared never to lose sight of them. About half-way down the Toledo the Chevalier stopped and asked Charles if he would care to see an interesting sight. " What is it ? " said Charles. *' One of the hottest gambling hells in the world,'* answered de la Vigne. '^ Yes, provided I do not have to play." "You will have to stake one louis. It is the rule of the house. You need go no further than that. Even if yoa lose you will see a sight worth more than that.'^ YOL. I. S 258 A BARTERED HONOUR. ^' I am agreeable/^ said Charles. The Chevalier then entered a wine -shop with him, passed through the shop, and addressing the proprietor asked him if he kept the Lacrimse Christi wine in store — this with a peculiar gesture. The proprietor answered that they kept that wine in stock, but it could only be seen upstairs. He then drew aside a curtain and motioned them to enter. At the same time the young man who had fol- lowed them from the Cafe d^Europe entered the shop, called for a bottle of Asprinio, and took his place at a table near the door. Charles and his friend had meanwhile mounted a narrow and dimly-lighted staircase. The Cheva- lier led Charles down a long passage, and knocked at a little door. A Judas in the door was opened, and a voice asked who was there. " We have come to taste your Lacrimse Christi,^' answered the Chevalier. " Entrate,'' said the voice, and the door was opened. "Rather," remarked the Chevalier, quoting Dante, " Lasciate ogni speranza voi che entrate.'^ '' ^^o," answered the porter, " No, the contrary, the bank is losing terribly to-night." "jLa helle Hague" retorted the Chevalier. "You say so every night.'''' The porter grinned, and throwing open a door, ushered them into a most brilliantly-furnished saloon, lighted with hundreds of dazzling lamps. Charles had never seen so luxurious a room. The TASTING THE LACEIM^ CHRISTI. 259 walls were of white wood, with relievo in gold, and were ornamented with several pictures of beautiful design and colour, but of dubious sub- jects, and many very costly mirrors. The room furniture was quite in harmony with its decora- tions, and equally costly and luxurious. A carpet of the most wonderful softness was stretched on the floor. The sofas and chairs were covered with damask silk worked in the Louis XIV. style. In the middle of the room stood a large table, fiuiTounded by a quantity of men. It was here that the bank played against the comers. Many smaller tables stood round the room, at which groups of two or three were playing different games of hazard. Englishmen playing banker here, Frenchmen ecarte there, others occupied with baccarat, loo, nap, and all the host of games where money can be quickly gained — or quickly lost. At the table in the middle, the gambling games, par excellence, of roulette and rouge et noir were being played. Round this table stood men three rows deep. As soon as those in the first row were cleared out, or what happened very rarely, had won suficient, and left the table those behind took their places. Charles felt rather nervous and sorry that he had come there. He did not know whether to trust the Chevalier. He thought at the time how distressed his good old friend at Keswick, Miss Dorothy Crosthwaite would be could she, who fancied him working steadily and living quietly, only see where he was and in what society. He 260 A BARTERED HONOUR. resolved, however, to go no further than one louis whether he won the first time or not. As there was no chance of their getting near the table for some minutes at least, the Chevalier invited Charles to come and take a sherry-cobbler with him at the bar, which stood in one corner of the room, and was attended by three Hebes, of — well, Hebean characteristics. While they were d»inking, Charles asked the Chevalier what was the meaning of his question about the Lacrimse Christi wine to the proprietor of the shop below. "Oh/' answered the Chevalier, "that is our watchword." " Why," asked Charles, " is this gambling for- bidden in Naples ? " "Certainly," said the Chevalier; "the Govern- ment does not allow competition in this matter." " What do you mean ? " asked Charles. " Only this/' returned de la Vigne, stirring the ice in his glass with the straw, " that while the Government encourages that most wretched form of gambling, the public lottery, which is the bane and pest of Italy, that while it allows the wretched poor to waste their last sou, pawn their last blanket, or even sell the rags they wear in taking tickets in this public lottery, it most strictly forbids private gambling of any sort. It sets us the example and forbids us to follow it. It robs the poor, deludes the wretched, preys on their misery, and then poses as virtuous and TASTING THE LACEIM^ CHEISTI. 261 moral. But come, the crowd is thinning^ let us try our luck." They went back to the table, and soon got a place at it. Charles staked his louis and won about two hundred francs. The Chevalier borrowed a hundred of him, staked it and lost; borrowed fifty more, staked it and lost ; borrowed twenty, staked it with the same result. He then borrowed the last thirty, though Charles did not seem very ready to lend it, staked it and won two thousand francs. He gave the whole sum, one hundred louis in gold, to Charles, saying — '' Of course, this is yours. I played with your money."" Charles protested feebly, but was glad enough, when the Chevalier persisted in telling him to keep it, and suggested their return to i'osilipo. While they were preparing to leave the saloon, Charles, who was in the highest spirits at his moderate bit of luck, suggested another drink at the bar. They had just finished, when a loud cry was heard at the centre table, and a tall, hand- some young man was seen to rise from the midst of the players, and, deadly pale and trembling stagger to the door. ^^ What is that?" asked Charles. "Eien," returned the Chevalier. '''That young man is the Duca di Caserta. He came of age two weeks ago, and entered into the enjoyment of an enormous fortune. On dit, that he is the richest man in Italy, or was so, at least, two weeks ago. He has been playing like a fool ever since. He lost a million francs the first night, won double 262 A BARTERED HONOUR. his fortune the second, and has lost ever since. I shouldn't wonder if he has lost his last carlino. I say, De la Roche," said he, addressing a young man who was drinking bj his side, " what has happened ? Is Caserta cleaned out? " "Clean," answered De la Roche. " He has just staked his watch and rings against a hundred naps. Lost, and now he has no cab-fare home, and na home to go to for all I know." '^ Tant pis pour lui," said the Chevalier, sipping his Madeira. Truly he presented a pitiful sight, the ruined young aristocrat, leaning in the most abject misery against the gilded postern of the door. His hat ofP, his hair in wild confusion, his dress all disordered, his linen rumpled, his hand now and then wander- ing stealthily into his breast, as if seeking some- thing there. In his weary eyes there gleamed the ominous light of despair, and on twitching lips there played a smile of scorn. The players did not heed him much ; they had lost their interest in him. He was ruined. Tant pis pour lui — that is the consolation of the world. A woman falls — Tant pis pour eJle, says the world shrugging its shoulders. A man is ruined — T^nt pis pour lui. It was most distressful to Charles to see all the misery depicted on the young man's face. What had his ruin been to this ? " What will he do ? " he asked the Chevalier. "If he has a revolver, shoot himself. If he has a lady-love, borrow money, and send it after the- rest. Or more probable enlist, and change tho^ TASTING THE LACEIMLi: CHRISTI. 263 ducal coronet for the feathered beretto of the "bersaglieri/' answered the Chevalier. Charles was as yet no man of the world, or he would not have acted as he did. He went straight np to the young Duke, who was preparing to go^ and addressing him in French, said — " I have heard your case. I too have suffered ruin. Will you take this, T can spare it. I won it to-night. It may be even your money. Here are a hundred louis." The Duke did not appear to understand, but shook his head feebly, and moved away a step or two. Charles continued — "You are noble. I am — well — I am not. Do not on this account hesitate. You may retrieve your fortune. Here." And so saying he placed the handful of gold into the man's hand. He took it absently, and walked back to the table with an unsteady gait. He was welcome enough back_, with money. Charles did not stay to witness the result of his action. He called de la Vigne, who with a number of others was standing near the table watching^ the Duke's play, and went away. They passed down stairs, through the shop. It was long past midnight. The shop was nearly deserted. Still at one table there sat a man before an unfinished bottle of Asprinio. They left the shop and hailed a cab. The man got up and addressed the driver in Neapolitan. He then mounted the box by his side. 264 A BAETEEED HONOTJR. " What does that fellow want ? " said Charles. " Oh," said de la Vigne_, " he is probably a, frateUo cugino of the driver, who wants to earn a few sous for himself. Let him stay. The drivers in Naples often have a boy with them, generally some needy relation, who wants to earn a few sons ^ by doing nothing.' '^ Charles did not answer. He did not like the appearance of the man ; he had noticed him hang- ing about the Cafe d'Europ6. He felt for his re- volver; it was safe in his pocket. The cab drove veiy slowly. The Chevalier remonstrated with the driver. The man pretended to urge the horse on, but did not increase its speed. The man on the box was in earnest conversation with the driver. As they were going along, the Chevalier re- marked — " You did the Duke a service. His luck changed. He was winning when we left. You ought to have got your money back." " I did not care to trouble him. Anyhow, it is too late now. He does not know me.^' " Oh yes, he does. I gave him my card before I left. He took it. He was too excited with the change of fortune to attend much, but he said he would not forget. But in the name of the Virgin," continued he, addressing the driver, " is that horse going to fall down ? " " He always is," answered the driver, pretend- ing to lash it. It took them about an hour and a half to reach TASTING THE LACEIM^ CHEISTI. 265 the Villa Castiglione at the rate thej were going. When they stopped the driver demanded four francs. The Chevalier tendered a fifty franc note. The driver had no change. Charles said he wonld go down to the Villa and get change. The gates of the garden were locked ; he had to climb over the wall. The Chevalier remained in the road, lighting a cigarette at the carriage lanip. Charles turned down the drive, but had to wait some time before gaining admittance to the Villa. He had also some difficulty in finding the money. At last he got it^ and returned to the road. As he was running up the drive he thought he heard several voices. Drawing nearer he saw two carriages, his own and another. Four men were surrounding the Chevalier, speaking violently. The Chevalier appeared cool and collected. Charles heard him say — "j^o, my friends; you ^re mistaken." Then, to his horror, he saw the m.an who had accompanied them on the box of the carriage draw a tremendous knife and flourish it in the Chevalier's face. The other men, who appeared villains of the lowest type, did the same. The drivers sat on their boxes looking on and lauo^hino^. The Chevalier did not seem very intimidated. He spoke in Italian to them, in his quiet way. They hustled roujid him, flourishing their knives. One man caught him by the collar and twisted him back ; the others began to rifle his pockets. One searched his hat for notes. The Frenchman struggled and fought for himself, but he was so 266 A BARTERED HONOUR. small and weak that his efforts were futile against these strong ruffians. Charles drew his revolver, leaped over the wall, and rushed in to his rescue. The cowards retreated when they saw the pistol. The poor little Chevalier was lying in a woeful plight in the dusty road. The men were not to be done out of their spoils, and rushed at Charles. Charles levelled his revolver at the first, and pulled the trigger. The revolver failed him. The trigger refused to work ; the spring was out of order. The men laughed and closed in on him. He had just time to drag the little Chevalier up and get his back to the wall when they were on him. The drivers jumped from their boxes and joined the others. " Your money, your money ! '^ they cried. '-' Diavoli," answered Charles — the only word of abuse he knew. He had a stick in his hand, one of those massive bone-handled sticks which were fashionable at the University some years ago. With this he managed to ward off the blows which the men, infuriated now and determined to rob, were aiming at him with their knives. The result would have been a certain one. Charles and the Chevalier would have disappeared in the same way that many strangers have done at Naples, for these men, the worst of the assassin type which still exists in Southern Italy, were overpowering the young men, had not, at the moment when Charles' stick snapped in half and fell from his hand, the sound of a carriage TASTING THE LACEIM^ CHEISTI. 267 approaching at full speed been heard. The men drew back. The lights of the carriage were seen at the bend of the road_, and a voice heard shouting, " Avanti, avanti ! " The men rushed pell-mell to the carriages. The drivers jumped on to their boxes and lashed their horses, and the two carriages dashed away in the Capo di Posilipo direction. The third carriage came tearing up, halted, and out jumped four men. Charles, in spite of his excitement and physical exhaustion, recognised the first. It was the Duca di Caserta. The Duke strode up to him and asked him wh.at had happened. Charles pointed after the receding carriages. The Duke addressed his companions in Italian. They entered the carriage again — it was a splendid barouche drawn by two magnificent horses — and drove at a gallop after the assassins. The Duke then approached Charles, and support- ing him with one arm lifted up the Chevalier, who was lying fainting against tlie wall. He was not injured at all. The men had left him when Charles came, and Charles had protected him with his body during the scuffle. " You are not hurt, fratello mio," said the Dake gently. " No," answered Charles ; "you came in time. Is de la Vigne well ? " " I think so ; he does not seem wounded. Here, open," returned di Caserta, raining mighty blows against the iron gate. The people of the villa appeared soon. The waiter and the proprietor came to the gate. They^ 268 A BAETEEED HONOTJE. were horrified when they heard of the event from the Duke. They had run so near a chance of losing two pensionn aires. De la Vigne, who had not yet recovered, was carried down to the villa by the two men ; Charles walked down on di Caserta's arm. Di Caserta said he must rejoin his friends. He wonld come in the morning. It was to be a night of excitement to him, he re- marked. He would speak about nothing till the morrow. Before leaving he kissed Charles on the forehead. He left the villa after tossing three gold pieces to the waiter, and strode up the drive, whistling " La Donna e mobile," presenting a very different figure to that when he was leaning in despair against the postern of the door of the Toledo gambling hell three short hours before. The proprietor pestered Charles with questions. He could answer little. The story was soon told, and he was too weary to re-tell it. Worn out with excitement, he soon fell asleep. Near his head lay, cosily coiled up, the little fox-terrier Fang. CHAPTER XVIII. RIVALS. " Which is it to be ? " thouglit Charles, as he leant on the balcony of the terrace, turning his ejes every now and then from the varied beau- ties of the panorama before him to the nestling village of Sorrento, which lay in a veil of mist in the earl}^ morning air. It was five o^clock in the morning of the day after his adventures. Charles had not slept well after the first weari- ness had passed off, and rose early. He did not think much about the fight, or the other incidents of the previous night ; his thoughts were occupied with his future, and with the beautiful Euphrosyne* It is a curious fact, that when men have achieved either brave or noble deeds their first thoughts turn to the ladies of their love. The mailed knight on the tourney field, when he had vanquished his opponent lowered his spear and raised his vizor to the one he loved. '^ Which is it to be ? Ambition, art, or love. The coronet, the lyre, or the kiss of Euphrosyne. I yearn after all. I have ambition, I love art, I adore Euphrosyne. They do not go together. I cannot follow all. Ambition and love are an ill- assorted pair. I remember what Groethe says about that. Ambition and poetry, well, there can be no hesitation about that. That would mean 270 A BARTERED HONOUR. failure in both. Poetry and love, ah. me ! the thought. To while away a life like Shelley, to live in love and music. To turn from the skies to Euphrosyne, from Euphrosyne to the skies. To live on kisses that can never sate, and all the while to be in another world. To shun the rough hard world and to wander hand in hand with her thro' 'fields of asphodel/ in lands of our fashioning forth. That would be very, very, well. But that dream is not to be. My worthy guardian has stopped all that. I must either relinquish my cherished ambition, that ambition which uow I hold dearer than my life, that firm resolution of giving the world the lie, and proving myself, not filius nullius, but the true son of Charles Hauberk. I must either dream no more of being able some day to wipe out that cursed lie in the chapel of Apple- dean "— (in the chapel of Appledean, where a long line of Hauberks lay buried, was a tablet to the memory of the last Earl, which ran as follows : Sacred To the memory of Chaeles Hauberk, Seventh and last Earl of Brookshire, Eighth Baron Hauberk, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Garter, &c., &c., Died Nov. 17, 18—, Pray for his soul. Charles was thinking of the words Seventh and last) — " or I must relinquish my love, and kill in me this yearning for poetry." RIVALS. 271 " If I were ricli, or had even enough to live on, I would, I think, abandon this wild scheme, which. is so difficult to carry out, so hoj)eless in its at- tainment.'^ Charles was right. It was a hopeless ambition. Look at his position. He had no wealth, no habit of practising economy, and his talents were not those which the world usually rewards. A Pinchbeck succeeds where a Chat- terton starves. Peerages are not given except for exceeding merit, or what means the same to-day, for exceeding wealth. The world of to-day lavishes honour on soap and magnesia, and leaves art to starve. Yes, leaves art to starve. Art is truth, and men who act against their convictions of truth have no longer a claim to art. A man who, being able to paint a Medusa, paints a pot of beer and two clay pipes, because people want re- presentations of pots of beer and of clay pipes, and because people will only pay for what they want, is not true, and being false to his art, is no artist but an ordinary workman ; the man who, being able to interpret to the world some divine feeling S3mbolized in Nature, prefers to write hymns, songs, or because the world wants hymns and songs, and only pays for what it wants, is not true, is no artist, is the world's hack. There was indeed but slight cause to hope that Charles could ever achieve fame as a poet ; the world does not encourage poets, those few that get great by their poetry are men who are able to struggle with the world and master it. This was the gist of Charles^ thoughts as he 272 A BARTERED HONOUR. leant on the balcony in the early mornings glancing every now and then across the foam- flecked sea below, to Sorrento, " sighing his soul unto the Trojan tents where Cressid' lay that night/' Later the letters came, and brought cash from Dorothy, and a remittance of £45 from the Penrith Bank, both of which were welcome enough. The stor^? of his adventure having got about the pension, with more or less exaggeration, of course, Charles was annoyed with many questions. He had so little to tell, and the repetition of this little wearied him. The Chevalier sent the waiter to him at about ten, desiring to see him. He found the ( 'hevalier in his luxurious apartment on the first floor, sittino- in a blue satin dressing-govm, with a silk cap, after the fashion of the cotton caps of the Neapolitan fishermen. His chair stood by the window, which was open, and led through on to a private little terrace, stocked with all kinds of beautiful flowers. The Chevalier looked pale, and was toying, with a questioning look on his face, with a little cosmetic of rouge. tie rose languidly when Charles entered, and put out his hand. Both the men seemed perplexed. Charles was frightened lest the Chevalier proposed to offer him thanks, and de la Yigne felt too bored and tired to show any profuse sentiment, although he felt grateful to the young Englishman. Thus do men of to-day act their weary farce. EIVALS. 273 ashanied of sentiment, ashamed of nature, ashamed, therefore, of themselves. '^ I wanted to hear how you were," said de la Yigne. ""What strange men those were — so curiously dressed." " Yes,^' said Charles " they were. They were curious in other respects. If it had not been for Caserta, we " — ^^ The eternal if," rejoined the Chevalier. " Don't let us refer to it. I am so much obliged to you, my friend, but shall we drop the subject ? I am so tired, so bored, and have such a bad head. I am really grateful to you_, my dear fellow," continued he, with a little more energy, grasping Charles's hand. '' But excuse me if I don't appear so. I have never rehearsed tragic effects, and did not pose well last night, I am afraid." " I am afraid you didn't," said Charles laughing, as he thought of the little man lying in the dust on the night before. " I am afraid neither of us did. I so wish it had not happened ; I have had to answer a hundred questions already. Your friend with moustaches, who dines in black kid gloves, has been wearying me all the morning. Di Caserta is coming this morning. We have not heard the end of it yet." . " I am afraid not,"" said de la Yigne, laying his head in some Eau-de-Cologne. " There will he more gratitude to be expressed, perhaps kisses to be given." " Kisses ? " said Charles. VOL. I. T 274 A BAETEEED HONOUR. >* Yes/' said the Chevalier, with a little shudder, ''It is not improbable that the Duke will expect us to kiss him. He will certainly kiss us. These Italians do gush so. Then we shall have to report these men to the police, and that will probably keep me in Naples, and I ought to be off.'^ " Don't you mean to stay at Naples ? " said Charles. "Mon cher," rejoined the Chevalier, '^ don't suppose I took that most tiring journey from Paris for the purpose of seeing Naples. Naples is all very well, but it is disappointing after what I have seen at the Opera. Naples in Masaniello is so much more picturesque, and so much handier too. You take it en gros. The effects are all together there. Here you have to run about to find them. There, too, the interesting dresses and characters are kept at a distance. It is so much pleasanter to see them from the amphitheatre than to have them as close as we had last nig^ht. No, please dispel that idea, won^t you? I didn't come to Naples to see Naples, I have come to Naples to be married.'^ " To be married? '^ said Charles. '' Yes, to be married ; not to marry. I should never marry, I am to be married." '^ Would you mind telling me the story? '■' asked Charles. "Certainly," said the Chevalier; "anything to make us forget yesterday's indignities. And, oh ! those pantaloons. A true chef-d'oeuvre of Dusantoy's. They can never be matched. I RIVALS. 275 Thought tliem to do my wooing in. I suppose there will be some wooing to be done. My story is a very simple one. My nucle says I'm too old to remain a gargon. He says I must domesticate. He said that Catalanis were all very well for boys, but that I must get married. I am to call on the Baroness Bienaimee." " The what ! " cried Charles. " Not the what. I do not know any lady of that name, but the Baroness Bienaimee, at the Villa Dresda at Sorrento. She has a daughter. I am to be that daughter's victim.'^ " Is not the daughter to be consulted ? '' said Charles rather bitterly. " I think not. It never struck me. My uncle says no woman can resist my whiskers. I really do not care. I suppose she will do. Anyhow, I am to try. I am not anxious about the result ; in fact my wardrobe is so deficient that I am doubt- ful. Oh, those pantaloons " — " Do you really mean to say," said Charles rather irritably, " that you think any girl would select a husband for his trousers ? '' '^I don't know," sighed the Chevalier. "In Paris, wardrobe means everything. If you are not cliic, you stand no chance. I do not know mademoiselle, I have never seen her. I have her photograph. Here it is. You will observe that she has peculiar ideas on the subject of dress, and then her coiffure " — What miserable talk this seemed as he gazed with longing eyes on the beautiful face, his whole 276 A BARTERED HONOUR. heart going out to the cold picture, which his burning love seemed to call into life. To him she seemed to be the perfection of all that is perfect in woman. It was a full length portrait. Euphrosyne was represented in fancy dress, in the picturesque garb of an Ischian peasant. On her head she carried a pitcher, which she supported with one hand, with the other hand she was plucking a scarlet spray from a bough of pomegrante, which drooped, heavy with red blossoms and ruddy fruit, over a wall, which formed the background of the picture. The ground about her feet was strewn with red petals and the ruddy golden fruit, burst- ing with mellow ripeness, and showing the gleam- ing white seeds in the ruby pulp. Beautiful as it was, and much as Charles felt that he could stand for hours looking at it, he had discretion enough to return it to de la Vigne with- out letting any exclamation which might have betrayed him escape his lips. " That's the future M'me de la Vigne," said the Chevalier complacently. '^ Why do 3''0u grind your teeth, my friend, it does not improve them.. She has faults, I foresee. I suppose Worth et Cie * have no succursale at Sorrento. We shall have much to rectify. The wife of the Chevalier de la Yigne must not pose in tableaux vivants. I never saw anything more outre in Walery's windows, and you must know the quartier he lies in." *' I do not know Paris," said Charles abruptly. <' I do know that nowhere in the world could so RIVALS. 277 "beautiful a woman be seen, or so beautiful a picture. Beautiful ! " "How enthusiastic you are," rejoined the Chevalier; '^ quite poetical." " How did you get to know the Baroness Bien — what is it ? " was the dissimulating question of Charles. " She is a far-off connection of ours. Some venerable great-aunt of hers was a de la Vigne. My uncle corresponds with her occasionally. We wanted to have her in Paris, but she clung to her husband's part of the world." "Where was that?" " Somewhere down in the South. One of those places where all the people are black eyed, have black hair and enormous appetites. V/here they speak broad French, you know." " I take your meaning," answered Charles. '^ The only objection to this union," continued the Chevalier, wrapping himself closer in his em- broidered blue satin gown, " apart from the trivial ones I have mentioned, is that these Bienaimees are strong Eoyalists, while T am supposed to hold to the Buonaparte tradition. My uncle says that I hold to it. I don^t quite understand what he means, but I suppose he does. For my part, I hold to nothing. It bores me to hold to things. To tell the truth, I dislike this tradition." " Why ? " asked Charles. " Because" — " Because you think as all men do," said Charles with a burst of enthusiasm, " that after Augustus, 278 A BARTERED HONOUR. there is no room for an Angustulns, and that after Napoleon the Great we " — " Victor Hugo/' said the Chevalier languidly. " Don't quote, and don't bring in the word ' anti- climax/ I have heard that word used so often by men speaking about the Emperor that I am quite tired of it. No, my objection to the Buonaparte tradition is that^ on certain days of the year, my uncle makes me put violets in my buttonhole. I dislike buttonholes, buttonhole flowers I mean, and I dislike violets especially. Poets are always talking of violets, and that tires me. Violets are to me more tiresome than hiftek aux pommes. I used to like biftek aux pommss, and used to go to Bignon's for it ; but when I heard every English- man ask for it I got tired, and then disgusted. I believe," said the little man, waving his delicate hands deprecatingly, "that if I was starving I should refuse hifteh aux pommes.'^ '^ This is my rival," thought Charles, as he heard the man talk. ^'^This is the man who has been brought over from France ' to be married ' to Euphrosyne. And he has all on his side, and I, nothing. And yet he hopes to win her heart with his whiskers and pantaloons. And I ? What have I to offer ? Love, adoration, sympathy, my heart, my life. Which will she choose ? " '^ 8ua Excellenza il Duca di Caserta,''' said the waiter, throwing open the door. " My dear fellows, how are you ? " said the Duke, grasping Charles's hand. The Chevalier rose and cast a whimsical glance RIVALS. 279 at Charles wliicli seemed to say, '' We're in for it now. Look out for the kiss.'^ " My dear fellow/' continued the Duke, striding up to de la Yigne, " how have you slept on last night's adventure ? Come to my arms." The poor little Chevalier submitted, with a look of comic despair, to the embrace of the Italian ; then woefully smoothing out his gown, and arrang- ing his whiskers at the glass, he bade the Duke sit down, and motioned to Charles to take his seat again. "The fellows escaped us after all," said the Duke. " We got within pistol shot of them, and then they turned down a lane. We couldn't follow them ; or, I should say, my friends couldn't follow them, because I wasn't there, you know. The lane was too narrow for the barouche. De Castris and Anselmo pursued on foot, but they got away." '^ For which, with other mercies, the Virgin be thanked," said de la Vigne. " I don't think so," said the Duke. '' I was sorry. I wish we had got the fellows. They were some of the most dangerous ruffians out. My valet reported the affair this morning, and we may yet have them arrested. A piantone is to be placed in the Piazza del Plebiscite to-night, and the Commissary hopes to get one at least." '' I have not yet thanked you/' said Charles. " Thanked me. For what ? For taking a drive in a barouche. What is there in that ? Have I thanked you ? What did I save you from ? 280 A BARTERED HONOUR. " Deatli,'^ said Charles quietlj. " Perhaps/' answered di Caserta. " But what yon did for me was better than that ; but, before I forget, here is the money you lent me last night. I broke the bank with it." ^^ What made you come after us ? " said de la Yigne . " My valet, Angelo, you know, told me that you were to be followed. That was three-quarters of an hour after you left. I had your card, and as the bank refused to continue play — it was cleaned out — and as de Castris's barouche was in waiting, I thought I might do you service." " Which you did," said Charles ; " a service I shall not forget." '' A service which I shall not forget," echoed the Chevalier, with a tone of voice which seemed to imply that he thought the matter might rest now. To his great weariness, the Duke and Charles entered into a long conversation on the matter, and branched off into general topics. The Chevalier listened, playing nervously with the stopper of a scent-bottle. The affair was talked over twenty times, for Charles was really excited about it, besides being pleased at having the hundred louis in his pocket. At last he interrupted them by asking the Duke — " When do the steamers sail for Sorrento ? " " At one," answered the Duke. '' I am going there to-morrow." " Indeed ! " said the Chevalier. '' I am also bound thither. What can take you there ? " RIVALS. 281 "I have a sister staying tliere, at a place called ijhe Yilla Dresda. She is staying with some French people — Bienaimee by name." " How strange," said Charles. " AThy strange ? " asked the Chevalier. "Ton were speaking about those very people. It is they whom we are going to see." " Indeed ! " said the Duke. Matters were explained to their mutual surprise. To Charles's inexpressible joy, the Duke asked him if he would accompany him to Sorrento. The Chevalier was agi^eeable. At last the opportunity had come. Re was to be presented, side by side with his rival, both for the first time, to Euphro- ^yne. Truly fortune was smiling on him. CHAPTER XIX. AT THE VILLA DRESDA. As agreed on, tlie three young men met at tlie Cafe d'Europe at eleven the next day. The Cheva- lier had exerted himself to rise early, and had spent fully four hours in arranging himself before the glass. To tell the truth, beneath all his ex- pressed indifference, he was fairly anxious to secure Euphrosyne. His income of fourteen thousand francs was hardly sufficient for his wants, or rather for his tailor's wants, and Euphrosyne's dot would be very useful, he thought. Charles, too, had spent a little more time on his toilette than was his wont, and looked as well as possible. He firmly resisted, however, all the Chevalier's entreaties that he should go and have his long hair cut. He preferred it in wild confusion to neatly parted down the middle. Poets hang out signboards as well as other traders. They found the Duke talking to an agent of police. The j9ian/one had failed to arrest the men, at which both Charles and the Chevalier were secretly pleased. The Duke greeted them both warmly, but seemed much more taken with Charles. Certainly Charles presented a more interesting figure than the Chevalier who, dressed in a light cashmere suit, yellow kid gloves, yellow and patent leather boots, and a tall white hat, looked AT THE VILLA DEESDA. 283 very much too foppisii. In fact, tlie Duke taking Charles aside, remarked — " E troppo giallo, quel giovane I " They passed the time well enough till one o'clock at the Cafe, and reached the steamer in the Duke^s barouche. Thej got on board fully a quarter of an hour too early, for the Chevalier, who was very fussy, had never ceased pulling out his heavy gold watch and urging that they were certain to be late. The quarter of an hour was pleasantly whiled away looking at the multitudi- nous craft in the harbour, or listening to the quaint but melodious strains of a band of itinerant musicians, playing tunes from the inexhaustible repertoire of the Neapolitan popular songs from " 8ul mare lucido" to " La luna va spuntar," and " Oi, Oi, Oi, jpaclron'' di casa" The passage was short and pleasant. Too long for Charles' im- patience, and far too short for his nervousness. So much depended on this first meeting. Would she remember him ? Might not the fact of their having met before pre-interest Euphrosyne on his behalf ? He could not help feeling some satisfac- tion when he thought of his rival, in his absurdly foppish garb, who had retired to the cabin after the first five minutes on board. These were his reflections as he paced up and down the deck, arm in arm with di Caserta. They reached Sorrento in about an hour. The other passengers were fetched off by ferryboats. A private boat, bearing the Bienaimee crest on its bows, and the name of '' La Bella Euphrosina " 284 A BARTERED HONOUR. on its stern, was in waiting for the Duke and his partj. They took their places and were rowed off in the Castellamare direction. This row was truly luxurious. The warm sky, the beautiful sea, the life behind and the scenery in front, the steady, swift motion of the boat furrowing up the spark- ling foam on the blue waters, were all felt by Charles. The boat stopped before a gateway cut in the precipitous rock, which fronts the sea the whole length of the peninsula from the Cocumella to Sorrento. The steersman got out on to a small natural landing place, made the boat fast and unlocked the gate. The Duke bade Charles follow and motioned the Chevalier to proceed. The Yilla Dresda was one of those beautiful villas which crown the plateau, at the foot of which is the sea. It is approached from the sea through the gate and up a set of steps cut in the soft tufa. The steps lead up to the villa gardens through a slant- ing tunnel bored in the rock, and are lit up by embrasures cut out in the precipitous sides of the sea wall. The gardens were soon reached, and at last the eventful moment had come. Charles's heart beat high at the thought of how soon his hand would touch hers, and he stood in a certain degree of nervousness by the side of the Duke, waiting for the Chevalier, who was taking his time in the ascent. While they were standing thus a merry voice behind them was heard crying with a ringing laugh — "You have come, then, my brother," and a AT THE VILLA DKESDA. 285 beautifal girl ran over the green lawn and em- braced the Italian. It was Bianca di Caserta, the Duke's sister. She was a tall, dark girl, with the most lustrous of large black eyes, and the most rosy of cheeks. Her long black hair fell in a profusion of curls from beneath a straw garden hat, over her white neck, ri]3pling down to her waist. She started slightly when she saw Charles, and blushed. The Duke smiled, and said, " Allow me to pre- sent to you il Signor Carlo, the man who saved my life." " No, no," said Charles, " the man whose life the Duke saved." The girl put out her hand with a pretty im- patient gesture, saying, " You are his friend_, that is enough. Tou will tell me the rest by-and-bj^e." The Chevalier came up and went through the ceremony of introduction with Parisian grace and politeness. Charles noticed, however, that Bianca did not give him her hand. " Is Madame the Baroness at home ? " asked the Chevalier. " I have a letter for her." " Giovanni/' cried Bianca, calling a servant whom Charles recognized as the man he had seen in attendance on the Baroness at the post-office at Naples. " Is the Baroness in ? There is a letter for her." While the man was gone on his message the brother and sister strolled arm-in-arm down one of the walks, and from the tone of the Duke's voice, and the frequent backward glances of the 286 A BARTERED HONOUR. girl, Charles guessed that di Caserta was telling his sister of the affair at the gambling-house. " If onlj/' he thought, '' I could be introduced to Euphrosyne on the same footing/^ The Chevalier took this opportunity of whisper- ing to Charles that he was very much vexed at this kind of introduction. He liked those kind of things to be done properly. You can't bow on gravel as you can in a salon. He disliked a frescos of every kind. " Madame la Baronesse de Bienaimee will have much pleasure in receiving the Chevalier de la Yigne in the boudoir," said Giovanni, returning. ''So I'm to be left in the cold,'^ thought Charles, as^he watched the Chevalier following the servant across the lawn and through the door. " Come," said the Duke, strolling up. " I will introduce you to Madame and Mademoiselle too. We must wait, however ; the Chevalier has some important conversation to hold with the Baroness." " Oh ! yes," said Bianca, laughing. " He has come all the way from Paris to see Euphrosyne." " How do you know ? " asked the Duke. "Why, I have seen his uncle's letter to the mamma. He is to fall in love with her. It is all arranged." " Is Mademoiselle de Bienaimee to fall in love with him ? " asked Charles, drily. " I don't know," said Bianca, with a merry laugh. " I could not ; but come. Sir the Enghsh- man, tell me about your adventure when you were AT THE TILL A DEESDA. 287 attacked. And tell me, do tell me, wlietlier the Chevalier wore his white hat that night. How funny he must have looked.'^ Charles told the little he had to tell, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The pretty girl was very much interested, and seemed to be pleased with him. '^ How handsome he is, your friend/' she whis- pered to her brother. The fall of a little foot upon the gravel, a few melodious words to her friend, and Charles looked up. There in the golden sunlight, in all the glorious beauty of her youth, stood Euphrosyne. Ah ! Euphrosyne. A few wild flowers resting in the folds of her white dress, but the fairest flower was she. The sunlight all over her, gleaming in her blue eyes, glittering on the golden wealth of her rich brown hair, and lighting up all the fresh- ness and beauty of her sweet child-like face. Charles stepped back and* bowed. It was not the bow of politeness, the formal bow of the world, the cold salutation which a gentleman gives, as her due, to a lady. It was the involuntary in- clination, the natui'al bending before a higher being. The Persian prostrates himself instinc- tively before the sun, the Oriental falls down before his illustrious potentate. The child of nature prostrates itself before some overpowering beauty. Charles bowed, and felt that his limbs bent in- tuitively. It was the recognition he gave that he was in the presence of a better, worthier, more beautiful being than himself. 288 A BARTERED HONOUR. Euphrosjne glanced at him and bluslied, and then turning to Bianca, said in a perplexed way — " Oh ! Bianca, I have been looking for you so long. Where have you been ? ^' " With my brother," said Bianca, '^ and with the gentleman v^ho saved my brother's life, his honour." "Thank you," said Charles, with an intense feeling of gratitude. " Indeed/' said Euphrosyne, glancing at him as he stood palpitating with excitement. ^'Indeed. Will you introduce me to di Caserta's saviour." '^ Carlo, Euphrosina ; Euphrosina, Carlo," said the Duke. Charles took her profPered hand, his own trem- bling so that he could hardly hold it, and bending down raised it to his lips. Ah, blessed South. Oh happy children of Italy, to live where nature has not yet been fully vanquished by the cold, conven- tional formalities of the !N"orth. " Oh, Euphrosyne," said Bianca, clasping her arms round her friend's neck. *' Do you know who has come. The funniest thing in the world." " Who ? " said Euphrosyne. "The Chevalier, Alphonse de la Yigne — hem." "No," said Euphrosyne, glancing anxiously at di Caserta, who appeared indifferent enough. "Where is he?" " With mamma." " I must go and see him, he is my cousin, you know," said Euphrosyne, with a mischievous smile,, as she turned to the Duke. AT THE VILLA DEESDA. 289 ^' I don't think madam e will want to see jou,'' said the Dnke. "Monsieur la Chevalier has some important business to talk over wdth her. He has come all the way from Paris to do so." *'Do you know Paris?'' said Euphrosyne^ to Charles, as they walked down the sloping lawn to the balustrade which crowned the precipitous sea wall. " Do you know Leipzic ? " answered Charles, with a smile. Euphrosyne started slightly and looked at him curiously. '^ I have not answered your question/' continued Charles. '' I was thinking of a moonlit night at Leipzic some months ago. I was very unhappy then. I could have died then willingly. But I was pleased that night. I saw something that made me happy. I have not been happy since, until, until " — " Is not this a beautiful view ? ■" said Euphro- syne, waving her little hand towards Posilipo. "No, I do not know Paris. I do not wish to, I do not like large towns. Man is so cruel, so selfish there. I love the country, the sea, the blue sky. Yes ! that is beautiful," continued Charles, leaning on the iron rail, drinking in all the radiant beauties of the bay and its wonderful shores. '^ Yes, mademoiselle, that is very beautiful. Ah, Italy, Italy," said he, throwing out his arms. ■X- * ^ * ^ " I have spoken to you twice," said Euphrosyne VOL. I. w 290 A BARTERED HONOUR. after a little while, during which, she had been looking with some admiration at his noble form, and inspired face. "You did not hear me. My mamma has asked us to go in. Will you come ? " " Oh ! forgive me,'^ said Charles with a start, " I was lost. A scene like that awakens many fancies, does it not ? So much of the world^s his- tory, of its art, of its poetry, of its sin is con- nected with those lands. I was indeed lost." "Do you know Latin?" asked Euphrosyne, as they walked up to the villa. " A little. I can read him enough to love him," said Charles, pointing to the Grotto di Posilipo, " and him enough to feel I could die for him " (in- dicating Baiae), "for, mademoiselle, you know that qui sait aimer, salt mourir." Euphrosyne stopped and looked at him question- ingly. Then she said — " I am reading Horace and Yirgil with il Padre Benedetto, from the Sta. Agata monastery. I like them both, oh, so much." " Your life must be a happy one," said Charles with a little bitterness. " To live here in one of the most beautiful places on earth, far from noise and crime, bathed in eternal sunlight, surrounded by flowers, with the glorious sky overhead, and the sea at your feet, to have no cares, to have time to read all that is beautiful in poetry. To have no " " I have many cares," said Euphrosyne as they entered the villa. Charles started — vanity, vanity — but when he AT THE VILLA DRESDA. 291 saw the bright smile with which Euphrosyne greeted the Duke, who was waiting for them in the hall with his sister, and noted the indifferent return that di Caserta made, he saw how little he had to do with the cares of the girl he loved. They found the Baroness in the salon with the Chevaher. The Baroness looked tired, the Chevalier never looked anything else. He freshened up, how- ever, to go through the ceremony of introduction to Euphrosyne. He must have been rather startled when she burst into a merry laugh at his graceful bow, and ran to hide her blushing face in her mother's lap. He certainly did look funny making a Marquis de Villemer bow, bending so low that his blonde whiskers dropped perpendicularly. The Baroness received Charles gracefully, and, hearing the Duke's well-worn story, said she should always be pleased to see Charles when he should happen to be at Sorrento. After a cup of tea it was time to depart, for the steamer returned at five, and the Chevalier said that he must get back in time for table d'hote. The girls walked down to the landing with the men ; Euphrosyne in front with the Duke, Bianca talking with Charles, and the little Chevalier puf&ng behind. The boat was in waiting for them, but as the steamer was not yet in sight the party stood talking at the foot of the steps. Euphrosyne was talking earnestly to the Duke, who kept shrugging his shoulders and giving curt answers. As they talked in Italian, Charles could not under- stand them well. He was, at Bianca^ s request. 292 A BAETERED HONOXJE. repeating the account of the " adventure." The Chevalier was grumbling, expostulating to the steersman of tlie boat on the unpunctuality of the Capri-Sorrento steamboat. At last it hove in sight, and with many adieux they parted. The Chevalier, who was offended with Euphrosyne, bade her a very stiff farewell. Charles was as warm in his leave-taking as he thought advisable. Th.e Chevalier's first remark when they got on board the steamer which stopped to receive them, was — " I do most sincerely hope, my dear friend, that we shall have oyster-patties to-night at dinner, and that that aged Russian will not wear her black kid gloves.^' CHAPTER XX. AENOLFO DI CASERTA. Arnolfo Gustavo, thirtj-eightli Duke of Caserta, was, in his way, a remarkable man. He followed with the greatest zeal the rule of Horace — to enjoy the day. Life was to him so many years of pleasure, and pleasure was to be enjoyed. Without ever troubling himself about the f utui^e he lived for the day. He had no religion, no creed, unless the later epicurean one, and was biased only by his ideas of pleasure. Being young, wealthy, and handsome, pleasure needed not much wooing from him, it was only too lavish in its favours. His history was no extraordinary one. He had been brought up under the tutelage of a brother of the Carmelite monastery, who had instilled sufficient wdsdom into his ward to excite the boy's imagina- tion and make him long to get his boyhood behind him as soon as possible. As soon as he came of age, and entered upon one of the vastest inheri- tances that ever fell to the lot of an Italian, he began to enjoy himself. His life was that of the ordinary man of pleasure, but in no man did the grand principle of noblesse oblige show itself stronger. Roue though he was, he had still the soul of honour, and at the bottom a very affec- tionate and generous heart. The wretchedest outcast of a woman appealed by her sex as 294 A BAETEKED HONOrR. strongly to Ms protection as any lady at court. A. good action was never forgotten by him. As long as he had money only these good actions were bruited about, and he was known at iN'aples as ^"^11 Buon' Duca." Had he become penniless, he would at the same time have become disreputable. Money excuses everything. Who ever heard of a Croesus in a police-court, or when did the world allow that a poor man was anything but " a very deserving person ? " He had been introduced to the Baroness shortly after her arrival at Sorrento, and his extreme good looks, his graceful manner, and, above all, the accounts given everywhere of his generous and noble deeds had won Euphrosyne's romantic heart. He had not seen her very often, and to tell the truth did not or would not understand her affec- tion. In fact he did not find in Euphrosyne the woman he most appreciated. For him the Sicilian with her flashing eyes, or the fiery Calabrian with her rounded and full form. Lymphatic, languish- ing women, especially women who preferred books to wine, and the conversation of learned padri to the rattle of dice, were not for him. Again, with a million francs a year, and at twenty-five, he could entertain no idea of marriage, and so Euphrosyne loved in vain. She did love him passionately, if such a word can be applied to the clinging love of a tender, gentle woman, who in simplicity and ignorance of evil was less than a child. It was perhaps this simplicity of her character that bred this love, for had she known AENOLFO DI CASEETA. 295 the Duke better her soul would have revolted at what his companions smiled awaj as pleasure. He was always in her thoughts, and she fitted him into each book she read. In " Paul et Yirginie" he was Paul, in " Eomeo a.nd Juliet'^ he was Eomeo, in the doleful tale of " Abelard et Heloise "he was Abelard. He was to her the im- personation of all the chivalry, the beauty, the honour of man. Poor girl, she did not know what love meant. She loved, and wanted to be loved in return. The thought of losing sight of Arnolfo would bring tears to her eyes, and yet she never pictured herself as his wife, as tbe mother of his children. It was the loveof a^hild unrequited. By being unrequited its tender flame was fed. Had the Duke returned her love, his kisses and his caresses would soon have taught her that the love she offered was not a love that is under- stood. She might, had he asked her, have become his wife, but marriage would have killed her. She would have learnt that men and women do not wander through life like loving children in a flowery meadow. She was not as yet prepared to know of the fierce wild passions of mankind, of the hot, fevered grasp that bruises and destroys the bloom and freshness of childhood. How was Charles to know this ? What could he fancy else but that he had come too late ? How was he to recognise that her love for di Caserta was not the love of a woman, but the affection of a child ? Had he known this he would not have suffered 296 A BAKTEKED HONOUK. as he did on the night of their return from Sorrento. Passing up and down the terrace he felt again how miserable his position was. At no time in our lives do we so regret a lowly position as when we love. Love prompts the male in every class of the creation to show himself in his best aspects to the female he loves. He kept ri^turning to the foolish idea that had he his title and a competent fortune he should be able to secure her for himself. He little knew the character of the girl entertaining this thought. Euphrosyne was not one of those foolish women who see virtue and merit in a coronet, or superiority in a proud coat-of-arms. She was quite a child in these matters. In his fevered imagination he did not see that a man can be all that a man should be in and through himself alone. He had in him poetry. Poetry is the expression of a soul which recognises beauty, and is striving after it. The highest beauty is in a perfect man or a perfect woman. Nothing that is bad is beautiful. Artists have felt this who paint the impersonations of bad in ugly colours, and the ideals of good in their brightest hues. Containing in himself this recognition of what is good, it was his plain duty to make himself of the good. In Ms blind pride he was fool enough to think that Euphrosyne loved the Duke as a duke, as a man who had millions. At this thought a regret stole over him that he had helped his rival, that had he not proffered him the hundred louis the man would then have been in a worse plight than AENOLFO DI CASEETA. 297 himself. This regret he soon dismissed as un- worthy. The Duke had been so kind to him, so friendly in the short intercourse they had had, so interested in him, and so frank about his own affairs, that this thought he recognized to be utterly unworthy of himself. It may perhaps be well to explain fully the connection between Charles and the late Earl of Brookshire. Charles only knew that Lord Brook- shire was his father, of his mother he knew nothing. In fact this knowledge had been kept from him till his nineteenth year, when, before going up to matriculate at Oxford, his guardian, John Elphinstone, had called him into his study and addressed him as follows : — " My dear Charles, I think that the time has now come to tell you what will, I fear, pain you. Till now you have lived with me and my family under the impression that you are a relation of ours. This is not so. You were placed in my charge as Charles Benson, fifteen years ago, by a lawyer, who explained to me that you are the son of the Earl of Brookshire. You will understand the kind of relationship you bear to him. I will not dwell on that. At the same time six thousand pounds was paid to me to be invested on your behalf. I had never seen the lawyer, and his first call was in answer to an advertisement of mine, expressing my wish to receive a child to bring up with my family. I was then staying at Lincoln. Since then I have removed to Devises. I have heard nothing of the lawyer, whose name, indeed, 298 A BARTERED HONOUR. I have forgotten. Lord Brookshire died without leaving any will, and his estates, and indeed the whole of his property, went to a distant cousin, who is now in possession thereof. This I gathered from the newspapers. It is evident that you are the late Earl's son, as the cheque for the money was signed by him. I have never heard any further information about you. I never knew anything about your mother." This was ail that Charles ever learnt about his family affairs. The news had at the time no great effect on him. Returned from school with his head full of literature, art, and music, he did not appreciate his position. It was only later, at Oxford, that it began to trouble him, when, by observation of the slavish adulation paid to titles there, he had learnt the worldly value of nobility. The recollection of this passed through his mind, and feeling his jealousy put him into a very unenvi- able state of mind. In this state he returned to his room, where he found this letter from Dorothy : — '' Ml Dear, Dear Boy, '' I was pleased to hear that you are work- ing, and I hope you are living humbly and quietly as suits your position. I do wish most sincerely that you would drop your idea about Hauberk, and all that nonsense. You are as good a man if your name be Benson, or Smith, or Jones, as you would be as the bearer of the proudest name the world recognizes. I do so dislike the idea of your wast- AENOLFO DI CASEETA. 299* ing your time and opportunities in running after a will-o^-the-wisp. You see I cannot understand liow you can be living quietly, and yet have spent all your money in so short a time. Are you ' keeping up appearances ? ' What appearances have you to keep up ? By the way, I enclose an advertisement which I thought might suit, for as soon as the £20 are gone which I sent yesterday, you will have nothing. Don't think me cold or cruel, I love you too well, dear, to be either, but I must speak out to you. " Believe me, still, though lecturing, your trusty " DOEOTHY." The advertisement was cut from a daily paper. WANTED, by a firm of linen drapers, a young gentleman of good appearance and educa- tion. Must be pushing. Will be required to travel in the iSI'orthern Counties to advance the sale of flannels. — Address, stating age, salary required, etc., to Messrs. Borthwick and Boodle, St. Martin's Lane, London. Dorothy had written this letter with the best of intentions. Charles having applied to her for £20, she naturally supposed his funds had run out, and she further, seeing the address he gave at one of the most expensive pensions at Naples (the Villa Castiglione being regularly advertised, ^ith terms, in Bradshaw), thought he was living extrava- gantly. But her letter was an ill-timed one. It found Charles in a state of irritated pride, and 300 A BARTERED HONOUR. imbued with, a feeling of spiteful impotence. Her remarks about his name and her really well-meant advice about the advertisement piqued him exces- sively. He dashed off a letter to her, which, in a cooler moment he would, could, never have written. " Dear Miss Crosthwaite, " What you call nonsense is the only thing I live for. I thought you more than a friend, but I find you entertain the same preju- diced views as the rest of the world. Am I not Lord Hauberk's son, the heir in the flesh to his dignities and honour *? I do not think you mean it, but I look on your letter as an insult. "As regards the advertisement, I leave it to your cooler reflection. I -prefer fa7icying myself in the House of Lords to pushing flannels in the Northern Counties. I am grateful for what you' have done for me (I look on your money gifts as a loan), but why write to me if you can find nothing better to say than to insult one who suffers enough already. I return the advt., it may be useful to some other needy protege of yours. " Tours, '' Hauberk." This letter (note the signature) he posted at once. To do him justice he regretted having written it an hour afterwards, after perusing one or two of Dorothy's other letters, all fall of an inexplicable tenderness of expression towards him^ and indeed tried to remedy his fault by waiting more than two hours by the roadside post-box to AENOLFO DI CASERTA. 301 get the letter back from the cairier, in which, however, he did not succeed. The letter made Dorothy very unhappy. She felt so lonely some- times at Keswick, now that her sister was quite estranged from her. She loved Charles well. It has always been pointed out that Dorothy was one of those welling hearts that must have some- body to pour out their affection upon, and she had poured her affection in its fullest measure on "her boy." She pitied him for the brand that was on him, for no fault of his own; she saw that the stern law of " I will visit the sins of the fathers upon the children, even unto the third and fourth generation " was hard to understand ; yet she resolved to be the last to encourage the boy she loved in fostering a pride which would never bring him anything but remorse, humiliation, and the bitterest mortifications. What she gave him she gave without reserve, not letting her right hand know what her left -was doing. In all her charities she felt as acting only as the steward of an Al- mighty Master, before whom, some day soon, she would have to lay down her accounts. She did not at times feel very strong, giddiness took her now and then, and though she looked forward to death with peaceful resignation, she prayed to be spared to see " her boy '"' doing well in the sight of God and man. It is no exaggeration to say that she felt more for Charles than a mother does for her son. In her somewhat solitary life it was pleasant to enjoy that delight, which is so essentially femi- nine, of having something to care for. Something- S02 A BAETEEED HONOUR. to care for. Is not tliat woman's joy, from the time she can dress a doll till she closes her eyes in death? Times come to most people^ even to those sur- rounded by hosts of loving friends and genial acquaintances J when one feels as if one was utterly deserted^ as if no one cared for us, when all the world appears to us, as to Ishmael, a matter for regret and self-accusation, and the future presents but the view of dreary and op- pressing blank. It was in this doleful state of mind, one, by the way, which was very rare in cheerful little Dorothy, that she received the letter [^from Charles. It pained her very much, and — well — tears in the eyes of a woman over sixty are not pleasant even to think of. There is a perverseness in man's nature which grows, as do all vices, by being pampered ; and Charles, having once so far indulged his pride and his folly as to sign a letter with a name and a title which certainly did not belong to him, began to think whether he could not assume the dignity he coveted, by the mere fact of assuming it. His pride, however, received a check the first week of his stay at the Villa Castiglione, when the proprietor suddenly presented him with his bill, although it was understood, by agreement, that his 'pensionnaires were only expected to settle their accounts every month. There was no mis- taking that the man wanted to be convinced that his new boarder was solvent, and there is AENOLFO DI CASEETA. 303 always an insult suspected in people who donbt one's solvibilitj. Charles was, luckily for his dignity, amply provided with funds. He paid the bill, and told the man that he should leave at once. He carried his resolution into effect, and started the next day, having resolved to put up at a pension near the Yilla Dresda, so as to be near Euphro- syne. The Chevalier expressed great sorrow on receiv- ing the news of his departure. " I am sorry/' said he, " in fact, if it was not against my habit to indulge in superlatives, I should say that I am extremely sorry to hear you are going. You will not be so comfortable at the pension at Sorrento as you are here. I hear the society there is very mixed, and I believe the cook- ing is execrable. We shall meet, I hope, at the Yilla Dresda more or less often. By the way, I fancy Bianca di Caserta admires you. I noticed her once or twice the day we were there, when Made- moiselle de Bienaimee made such a painful exhi- bition of herself. My dear fellow, if you would only give up wearing sage-green ties, and cut jour hair ,,,.'' Charles bade him a hurried good-bye, and fled. END OF VOL. I. lA