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 UNIVLR5ITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
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 1868 
 
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 £)Dtl4vL
 
 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 BY 
 
 MORTIMER COLLINS 
 
 IN THREE VOLOIES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1868. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved
 
 I/./ 
 
 STV^EET ANNE FAOE 
 
 Morning Clironicle^ Thursday^ 5th August, 18 — . 
 
 " Suicide of a Baronet. — ^Yesterday morning great 
 excitement was caused in fasliionable circles by the 
 rumour that Sir Arthur Willesden, Bart,, had commit- 
 ted suicide. The report was found to be only too true. 
 The sad event must have occurred many hours before 
 the deceased gentleman was discovered. He was found 
 yesterday morning in his drawing-room, at No. — Jer- 
 myn-street, having run himself through with a foil, from 
 which he had taken the button. A short note was 
 found in his handwriting, stating that the dreadful act 
 had resulted from pecuniary difficulty. His valet gave 
 evidence that the deceased gentleman had ordered a. 
 postchaise-and-four to be ready for him at a late hour 
 on Tuesday evening, so that it is supposed he had at 
 one time thoughts of evading his numerous creditors by 
 going abroad. We," &c 
 
 [It is observable that the penny-a-liner of the period 
 was very inferior in sublimity of style to his successor 
 of the present date,] 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Globe and Traveller, Wednesday, Uh August, 18 — . 
 
 "Singular Disappearance of a Married Lady. — 
 A gentleman whose name it would be unfair to men- 
 tion, being chosen by the Right Honourable Secretary 
 of State for the Foreign Department to conduct a 
 difficult negotiation in the East, was about to start at 
 an early hour this morning, when he was suddenly de- 
 layed by the mysterious disappearance of his wife, a 
 peculiarly charming young lady, to whom he had not 
 long been united. Although the agonised husband has 
 caused every conceivable means to be taken to discover 
 what has become of her, we sincerely regret to say that 
 up to the present moment this remarkable occurrence 
 is veiled in the deepest mystery. We," &c. .... 
 
 Sun, Friday, Qth August, 18 — . 
 
 " We are informed that the mysterious disappearance 
 of a married lady, already alluded to in our columns, 
 gave rise this morning to a duel between the learned 
 gentleman whom she has so unexpectedly deserted, and 
 her cousin, the well-known Mr, Raphael Branscombe, 
 who was rashly accused of being privy to her abduction. 
 Mr. Morfill, the lady's husband, received a wound in his 
 shoulder, and immediately expressed his regret that he 
 should have made so unfounded a charge. It is very 
 discreditable to the New Police that a lady of position 
 can," &c. &c
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE LANGTONS, TANNERS. 
 
 " QTEPHEN !" exclaimed a shrill-voiced young 
 '^ lady of thirty-five, " what are you doing 
 nowf 
 
 This was Stephen Langton's aunt, Harriet, 
 his bitterest foe, his perpetual persecutor. She 
 was a lanky personage, with reddish hair, bluish 
 eyes, no eyelashes to speak of, and a figure 
 whose waist might be anywhere. Her utterance 
 was always a whining scold. Every incident of 
 life was to her a subject of complaint. She was 
 the terror of the whole family, except her father ; 
 and, as old Stephen Langton, the tanner, had 
 never been known to fear anything, he was not 
 likely to begin with his own daughter. She 
 was quiet enough in his presence, awed by his 
 
 B 2
 
 4 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 stormy voice and ready hand. Ten years before, 
 for some slight opposition to his will, he had 
 boxed her ears in the presence of a gathering 
 of his neighbours, among whom was the only 
 young man who had seemed to take a fancy to 
 her ; and she was well aware that he was just as 
 impetuous as ever. 
 
 Little Stephen, a bright-haired blue-eyed boy 
 of eleven, was coiled in a window-seat of the 
 old wainscoted room. A book was in his hand, 
 Bunyan's "Holy War ;" he was reading for the 
 twentieth time of the siege of Mansoul, that city 
 whose besiegers never relax their efforts; but 
 ever and anon he looked across the street to 
 the windows of a large quiet house just opposite. 
 The house in which the Langtons lived had 
 instead of a front door a wide archway, through 
 which waggons laden with oak-bark and raiv 
 hides entered, and waggons laden with leather 
 came out. To the right, as you passed under this 
 archway, was the dwelling-house ; to the left, a 
 shop fronting the street, and spacious ware- 
 houses ; behind, a court-yard, stables, gardens, 
 orchards, and farthest of all the tanyard, which
 
 THE LANGTOXS, TAXXERS. 5 
 
 was bounded at the foot of the hill by a stream^ 
 which it greatly defiled. The house was old and 
 large, with lofty rooms and closets innumerable ; 
 the front parlom- was the principal livmg room of 
 the family. It had two windows : little Stephen 
 was in the wmdow-seat to the left, while at the 
 other sat his grandmother, bolt upright, knitting 
 stockings. She sat there from morning till 
 night, never rising to join in any of the meals, 
 which were served on a small table at her side 
 She occasionally uttered some brief oracular 
 sentence, of which no one took the slightest 
 notice. She had been stupefied years before by 
 her husband's brutality. 
 
 Her grandson Stephen was an orphan. His 
 mother died at his bhth ; liis father Avhen he was 
 five years old. Stephen did not realise his father's 
 death. He often loitered through the Cathedral 
 Close and under the school cloisters, and along 
 the meadowy margin of the river Idle, in the 
 hope of meeting him. He was a strange dreamy 
 boy, whom his uncles and aunts despised, because 
 they could not understand him. Nor did he 
 get on at all with his cousins, of whom there
 
 6 S^V^ET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 were several of both sexes ; for, Miss Harriet ex- 
 cepted, all the Langtons were married and 
 prolific. 
 
 Miss Harriet officiated as school-mistress to all 
 but Stephen. He was rather older than any of 
 his cousins, but his aunt's reason for giving him 
 up was his pertinacity in asking questions which 
 she was unable to answer. So he was sent just 
 now to an old-fashioned day-school in which 
 boys and girls were mixed, and where he had 
 positively managed to fall in love already. 
 There is nothing strange in that; but it so 
 happened that Stephen's little love-fancy was 
 destined to colour his whole life. 
 
 " What a lazy boy you are !" went on Aunt 
 Harriet. " Have you no lessons to learn ? You 
 learn nothing at Miss Martin's." 
 
 " Not very much, aunt," said Stephen. " She 
 never will answer my questions. I asked her 
 to-day whether she didn't think Christian in the 
 ' Pilgrim's Progress' a very bad man for running 
 away from his wife, and she called me a wicked 
 boy, and made me stand on the form." 
 
 " She ought to have given you a good whip-
 
 THE LAXGTONS, TANNERS. 7 
 
 ping, sir," said his aunt. " What had that to do 
 with your lessons ? Go and learn your spelling, 
 directly." 
 
 *'He's a very tiresome boy," said his grand- 
 mother, in her oracular way. 
 
 Stephen got up, took Carpenter's Spelling 
 Book in his hand, and retreated. It was a soft 
 summer evening, and the boy wandered down 
 through garden and orchard into the tan- 
 yard beyond. Thence he foimd his way to the 
 brook, and strolled along its margin through 
 the meadows, which were rimmed with the faint- 
 ing flush of sunset. He loitered and dreamed. 
 With this child the difference between reality 
 and dream was indistinctly marked. His wak- 
 ing fancies, his dreams of the early morning, 
 were often more real to him than his grand- 
 father's stern presence or his maiden aunt's 
 endless scold. He read over and over again all 
 the books that he found readable among the 
 scanty supply which the house afforded. In a 
 healthy household he would have had "Robinson 
 Crusoe " and the "Arabian Nights " — would have 
 voyaged with Sindbad, and gone underground
 
 8 feWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 with Aladdin. But the only books he could find 
 were Milton's " Paradise Lost " and the works 
 of John Bunyan, and these he almost knew by 
 heart. He loved to identify himself with the 
 characters. He had, it must be confessed, great 
 sympathy with Satan in the epic, and liked to 
 fancy himself the exploring arch-fiend, winging 
 his way through chaos. But often he was Abdiel 
 the faithfal, or Ithuriel, with the keen spear of 
 truth ; and this very evening, as the sun sank 
 to the verge, he had imagined himself Uriel 
 whom John beheld from Patmos. He revelled 
 also in Ezekiel's visions, and in the Apocalypse. 
 Often his imagination upbuilt that glorious city 
 of gold, with its twelve gates, each one pearl, 
 and its clear river flowing from the great white 
 throne, and its mystic atmosphere of peace and 
 
 joy- 
 As to-night he mooned along, dreaming of 
 
 anything but words of three syllables, a shout 
 
 aroused him to reality. It was the voice of his 
 
 cousin Charles, a youngster about a year his 
 
 junior. 
 
 " Hulloh, Steve ! Where are you going ?
 
 THE LAXGTOXS, TAXXERS. 9 
 
 Supper's ready. Aunt Harriet's been looking 
 for you everywhere." 
 
 " All right," said Stephen, wearily. " I'm 
 coming." 
 
 " She isn't in a temper, I don't think. You'll 
 catch it. Grandfather isn't at home." 
 
 Mr. Langton would not tolerate his daughter's 
 scolding, so his presence was always a relief to 
 the childi-en. 
 
 " ^Vhere is he ?" asked Stephen. 
 
 "Gone down to the Half-Moon to smoke. 
 Aunt asked hun if he'd be late, and he told her 
 to mmd her own business." 
 
 Stephen heartily wished she would. 
 
 The boys entered the parlour together. Bread 
 and cheese and cider made up the supper, and 
 Uncle Tom and Uncle Charles, both of whom 
 were their father's partners, and lived on the 
 premises, were pegging away at it. So were 
 their wives and childi'en. So was Annt Harriet, 
 looking very unamiable. 
 
 " Stephen," she said, " you are the most the- 
 some child. AATiy can't you come in at the right 
 time? I've a great mind to send you to bed 
 without supper."
 
 10 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Oh, let him have something to eat and drink," 
 said Uncle Tom, who was the genial uncle. 
 
 "Better give him a good horse-whipping," 
 said Uncle Charles, who was the fierce tmcle, 
 and flogged his own children unmercifully. 
 
 " He's a dreadfully troublesome boy," said the 
 oracular voice from the side-table. 
 
 " Come and sit by me, Steve," said his black- 
 eyed and black-haired cousin Mary, a pretty 
 little girl of eight. 
 
 Stephen accepted the invitation, and was 
 suffered to eat his supper in peace. 
 
 By nine o'clock the children had gone to bed, 
 and their mothers to look after them ; the old 
 grandmother had also retired. The two uncles 
 and the maiden aunt were holding half-whis- 
 pered converse, the men being supplied with 
 long pipes and hot brandy and water. 
 
 " That boy, Stephen, must be sent to boarding- 
 school," said Aunt Harriet. "He's very much 
 in the way at home, and he ought to be learning 
 something." 
 
 " So he ought," said Uncle Tom ; " but then 
 it'll cost so much."
 
 THE LANGTONS, TANNERS. 11 
 
 *' Not above twenty pounds a year," said Aunt 
 Harriet. " And he must be brought up to be a 
 clerk or something. He'll never make a tanner." 
 
 "I don't mean that he shall," said Uncle 
 Charles. 
 
 " Why not?" asked his brother. 
 
 " Why not? As if there weren't enough besides 
 him to make tanners of! D'ye think that tanyard 
 'ill keep a regiment of Langtons !" 
 
 " That's true," said Tom, whose intellect 
 moved more slowly than his brother's. " Well, 
 where had he better go ?" 
 
 "I've thought about that," said the aunt. " You 
 know Parson Sadbrooke, that was drowned 
 bathing. Well, his school at Kingsleat is going 
 on. I saw Amelia Sadbrooke at market to-day, 
 and she said her mamma, as she calls her, the 
 affected thing, had hired another young parson 
 to teach the school." 
 
 "But why should we, who are dissenters, 
 send the boy to a Chm-ch school ?" asked Uncle 
 Tom. 
 
 " Oh, he's very young yet," said Miss Langton. 
 
 "It can't matter much for the present, and
 
 12 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Amelia says they're going to be very cheap." 
 " What's the parson's name f asked Uncle 
 Charles. 
 
 "She did tell me, but I forget — something 
 like Yerily ; for I thought of ' Verily, verily, I 
 say unto thee.' But he's a very clever young 
 man." 
 
 "Is hef said Charles Langton. "Well, I 
 hope he'll make the young scamp some use. 
 I suppose father won't object." 
 
 " Not he," said Harriet. " I'll ask him about 
 it to-night, if he's not very late." 
 
 Presently the men also went off to bed, and 
 Miss Harriet sat alone, reading a battered copy 
 of Baxter's " Saint's Rest." The Langtons of 
 this generation were very religious. The family 
 had a curious habit of being very wild in one 
 generation, and very tame in the next. Its 
 present head bore the reputation of being the 
 most thorough reprobate the Langtons had ever 
 had amongst them ; women and wine, horse- 
 racing and cock-fighting, had impoverished, 
 without taming him ; at sixty-five he was just 
 as reckless as ever, and his mad orgies and des-
 
 THE LAXGTONS, TAXXERS. 13 
 
 perate deeds were proverbial. So his sons and 
 daughters had all shown exemplary piety, exter- 
 nally at least : he being a regular church-goer, 
 they had unanimously deserted to a peculiarly 
 rabid conventicle, and their Calvinism was of 
 the most rigorous type, and their idea of the 
 future world for all who differed from them the 
 hottest possible. It might be predicted that 
 their childi'en would relapse into the old gentle- 
 man's ways. 
 
 Aunt Harriet waited about an hour for her 
 father. He came at last, earlier than usual, 
 bringing in with him a strong smell of tan and 
 tobacco. He was about five feet nine inches 
 liigh, very broad in the shoulders, very deep in 
 the chest, with arms and thighs and calves of 
 muscular proportions. He wore an old-fashioned 
 deep-pocketed blue coat vdih brass buttons, 
 but almost all the rest of his costume was 
 leather. The long waistcoat Avas leather, tanned 
 "v\dth the hau' on it ; he wore leather breeches 
 and top boots. He came in, riding-whip in hand, 
 flimg himself heavily into a great leather chair 
 which he always occupied, and exclaimed —
 
 14 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 "You up, Harry? Then get me some hot 
 brandy and water, and be quick about it.'' 
 
 " The kitchen fire is out, I expect, father." 
 
 " The kitchen fire be d d. Light it again, 
 
 if that's all. What good are you f 
 
 Mr. Langton's frequent oaths may as well be 
 imagined in his future conversations. There is 
 this to be said for him, that he always apologized 
 if he happened to swear in the presence of a 
 clergyman. 
 
 His daughter soon returned with the brandy 
 and water. 
 
 " A nice Christian young woman you are for 
 an excuse," said old Langton, to whom his 
 children's devotion to Dissent was supremely 
 ridiculous. " Does your snivelling parson teach 
 you to tell lies to your father ? It used to be 
 * honour your father and mother' when I was a 
 boy." 
 
 "I was afraid the fire would be out, really 
 father." 
 
 "Were you? More likely afraid I should 
 drink too much brandy. Children would like to 
 keep their fathers in order now-a-days. Can't
 
 THE LANGTONS, TANNERS. 15 
 
 do it with me though, can you, Miss Harriet? 
 And, now I thuik of it, what are you stopping 
 up so late for to-night ? Little girls like you 
 ought to be in bed. Come, what is it?" 
 
 "Nothing, father, nothing at all. I was 
 reading." 
 
 The truth is that, finding her father unusually 
 cantankerous, she was afraid to enter on the 
 question of Stephen's gomg to school, lest he 
 should decide against it from sheer caprice. 
 But she could not quiet the old gentleman. 
 
 " Reading, miss ; eh ? No, no, that won't do. 
 You haven't been seeing a sweetheart, have 
 you? No, you're too old for that, I'm afraid. 
 Perhaps there is one too — men are such asses : 
 come, where is he ? In the clock ?" 
 
 " Well, father, if you must know," she said, 
 "I wanted to have a word wath you about 
 Stephen's going to school." 
 
 " Upon my life !" exclaimed Mr. Langton, 
 bursting into a roar of laughter, *' this is good. 
 Oh, I like you canting people. Why, that's the 
 second lie you've told me within ten minutes, 
 and all for no purpose in the world, I've a
 
 16 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 great mind to send for that parson of yours to- 
 morrow, and tell him the Avhole story, and give 
 you a precious good tanning before his face. I 
 WILL, BY Jingo !" 
 
 He slapped his mighty fist upon the oak table, 
 and lay back in his great black chair laughing a 
 Titanic laugh. But it was no joke to Aunt 
 Harriet. If little Stephen had seen her, he would 
 have felt that he was avenged. 
 
 " Don't, father, don't !" she cried, burstmg in- 
 to tears, and throwing herself at his feet in an 
 agony of terror ; for the vehement old man's 
 caprices were uncontrollable by public opmion, 
 and he was quite capable of castigating his 
 daughter as if she had been a quarter of a cen- 
 tury younger than she was. So she was in mortal 
 fear, and could say nothing but " Don't, father, 
 don't : I'll never do it agam" — -just as if she had 
 changed places with her little niece Mary. 
 
 But the old man had laughed himself mto a 
 better temper. 
 
 " Never mind, Harry, I'll let you off this time. 
 And now hold your blubbering and tell me what's 
 all this about Steve."
 
 THE LAXGTOXS, TANNERS. 17 
 
 " We all think he ought to go to a good 
 school, father. He's getting a big boy, and he's 
 learning nothing." 
 
 " Well, isn't Charley getting a big boy, too V 
 
 "Charles isn't as quick as Stephen," she 
 said. 
 
 " That's true," he said, emphatically. " Char- 
 ley '11 be just such another fool as his father. 
 Well, where d'ye mean to send the lad ?" 
 
 "To Mrs. Sadbrooke's, at Kingsleat. She's 
 going to keep on the school." 
 
 *'0h, you've had sense enough to choose a 
 Church school, have you ? Well, he may go, as 
 soon as you like. When does the school open ?" 
 
 " This day week, father." 
 
 " Very well : Tom can di'ive him over. He 
 needn't go to Miss Martin's again. Now get 
 me some more brandy and water and be off to 
 bed." 
 
 Aunt Harriet obeyed orders this time with 
 exemplary promptitude. When she got up to 
 her room she almost fainted ; she had obtained 
 what she wanted, but she had been thoroughly 
 frightened. And, with strange mental obli- 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 quity, she blamed her poor Httle nephew for her 
 sufferings. 
 
 " He'll have a week's holiday, the little brat," 
 she thought to herself; *' and I can't have him 
 to lessons, he's so terribly troublesome and 
 fidgety. Well, I'll write and ask Mrs. Sad- 
 brooke to call, and I'll tell her he must be kept 
 strict and well punished when he does any- 
 thing wrong. The way that boy comes into 
 the parlour without wiping his shoes shows he's 
 got an unregenerate heart. I hope that young 
 parson — Verily, or what his name is — will give 
 it him well." 
 
 Thus amiably meditated Miss Harriet while 
 she unlaced her stays ; and when she got to bed 
 she found sleep impossible ; and, if she fell into 
 a half doze, had horrid dreams of the minister 
 and deacons of Bethesda Chapel in full assembly, 
 and her father, horsewhip in hand, ready to give 
 her the threatened " tanning." 
 
 Meanwhile Stephen, sound asleep by his cou- 
 sin Charles, was in Fairy Land ; and the Queen 
 of the Fairies had a pretty infantile face, with 
 tender brown eyes, and a little pouting rosebud
 
 THE LANGTOXS, TANNERS. 19 
 
 of a mouth, and glossy curls of chestnut hair — a 
 face of which he dreamed by day and night. 
 And in the morning Stephen had his pleasantest 
 time : for a clangorous bell always awoke him 
 at six, when it called the men to work in the 
 tan-yard ; and he had a delightfal hour of morn- 
 ing di'eams, in which will and fancy miited to 
 produce visions most exquisite ; and when 
 dressed, if he went to the great window on the 
 stau'case, he could see at a window the very 
 face of his di-eams, fresh and rosy from its morn- 
 ing bath, and a plump dimpled hand was kissed 
 to him. All this took place in its usual order on 
 the following morning ; and Stephen came down 
 to breakfast as joyous as a young lark, eager for 
 Gesang und Luft. Even liis aunt's acidulated 
 countenance did not make him uncomfortable. 
 
 Old Mr. Langton seldom breakfasted with his 
 family. He had a large back parlour, looking 
 out upon the com-tyard, whence he could watch 
 the traffic to and fr'om the tanyard. On a side- 
 board in this room he always kept a round of 
 salt beef, and immediately below a barrel of 
 homebrewed ale ; and at about six o'clock, after 
 
 c2
 
 20 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 two or three slices of the beef and about a quart 
 of the beer, the old tanner went forth to his 
 day's work. He thoroughly knew his business. 
 He was the best tanner m the county, and the 
 Langton butts were famous in those days when 
 leather lasted longer than most things. He 
 kept everybody hard at work, his two sons not 
 excepted. The worst of it was that he spent 
 his money faster than he made it. 
 
 In the midst of breakfast on the present occa- 
 sion, however, the old gentleman strode in, sat 
 down in his great chair, and said- to Mary Lang- 
 ton, Uncle Tom's daughter — 
 
 " Polly, draw me a mug of ale." 
 
 Mary was his favourite child ; a sweet little 
 creature, whose perfect temper and wondrous 
 docility made sage gossips remark that she was 
 too good to live. She went for the ale, while 
 Aunt Harriet looked on in some anxiety, remem- 
 bering the scene of the previous evening. The 
 thirsty old tanner poured the contents of the 
 tankard down his throat, and then said, 
 
 " What day is Steve to go to school, Harry ?" 
 
 " Next Thursday, father."
 
 THE LANGTONS, TANNERS. 21 
 
 Stephen's blue wondering eyes were very 
 wide open. 
 
 " All right : I'll drive him over ; I want to go 
 to Kingsleat. What do you think I heard last 
 night at the Half-Moon, Tom?" 
 
 "Good news, I hope," said his son. 
 
 " Not particularly good, nor yet bad, either. 
 Devil Branscombe's back at Kingsleat." 
 
 " Not living at the house f said Tom. 
 
 *' Nothing could live there but a rat," said his 
 father. " No, he's taken the old place at the 
 top of the street." 
 
 " What can he want down here ?" asked 
 Charles. 
 
 •" I don't think he's likely to tell you, or me 
 either," said his father. *' But I shall like to see 
 the Squh'e ; so I mean to drive Steve over to 
 Widow Sadbrooke's, where he's going to school. 
 I suppose yoiiye no objection, Harriet?" 
 
 Stephen seldom listened to anything anybody 
 said, being occupied with his own dreams : but 
 now he had been wide awake, drinking in the 
 amazing news. He wasn't at all sorry to go to 
 school, but for two things. He couldn't expect
 
 22 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 to meet his father at Kingsleat, and he should 
 never see — her. Like most precocious boys, he 
 felt indistinctly conscious that his intellect re- 
 quired guidance which it did not receive. And 
 the atmosphere of his grandfather's house op- 
 pressed him, and Amit Harriet tortured him. 
 Still, to his temperament, in every day there 
 were long hours of happiness. And he was 
 haunted by one vision from which he must be 
 entirely severed. 
 
 Breakfast over, Aunt Harriet summoned all 
 the children to a room upstairs, where she acted 
 as schoolmistress. She called Stephen to come 
 also, but her father said, 
 
 " Let the boy run about these few days. He 
 don't want your lessons now." 
 
 So she gathered her little tribe, who sat up- 
 right and unhappy round a long table, at the 
 head of which Miss Harriet herself took up an 
 imposing position. A portentous pile of books 
 was before her, and close to her hand lay a rod 
 ravished from the branches of that most beau- 
 tiful silver-rinded tree, whose pendulous boughs 
 the poet loves to see kissing the stream. It
 
 THE LANGTONS, TANNERS. 23 
 
 had been well used, that rod ; and found farther 
 use this morning. Poor Httle Mary, whom no 
 human being had ever equitably accused of domg 
 wrong, was the chief victim ; what schoolmaster 
 or mistress ever found any difficulty in discover- 
 ing faults worthy of punishment in children 
 whom they wished to punish? Now Mary 
 Langton was the only one her grandfather ever 
 petted ; whence Miss Harriet's plagose propen- 
 sity. The boys whispered to each other that 
 Aunt was as cross as two sticks, and had got 
 out on the wrong side of the bed : we, who 
 know what that charming person had endured, 
 have no need to form theories about the matter. 
 'Twas a happy moment for those young folks 
 when, red-eyed, red-eared, hot, and stupid, and 
 sore on various parts of their bodies, they es- 
 caped at twelve o'clock. I should like to know 
 what will happen in the next world to those 
 who tyrannize over children in this. 
 
 Meanwhile Stephen was having a delightful 
 dreamy morning. Finding himself free, he went 
 down to the cathedral, and sat in the nave, lis- 
 tening to the music of the chofr. Then he went
 
 24 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 away across green meadows to a weir on the 
 Idle, where he stripped, and got under the swift 
 fresh tumbling water, and had a most delicious 
 douche-bath. Then he lay in the shadow of a 
 great lime-tree on the bank, drinking in the 
 beauty of the sunny morning, and the music of 
 the gushing water, and dreaming of his fairy 
 sweetheart. 
 
 Only a few months earlier, a pretty little girl, 
 about six years old, had come to Miss Martin's 
 academy. She was the daintiest little thing, 
 daintily dressed. Stephen thought he had never 
 beheld such a gem of beauty. A footman was 
 wont to bring her in the morning and take her 
 home when school was over ; but one day the 
 footman did not come. It was a frosty morn- 
 ing, and the poor fellow had slipped on a slide 
 and sprained his ankle. The little gnl set off 
 alone ; Stephen followed her a few paces off. 
 The ground was dumb with snow : and, in 
 a wide open space which she had to cross, the 
 grammar school boys were making huge snow- 
 balls, and occasionally pelting the passengers. 
 Those grammar school boys were the dread of
 
 THE LANGTOXS, TAXXERS. 25 
 
 all other young folk in Idlechester ; they were 
 athletic, audacious, heroic ; they had distin- 
 guished themselves that morning by attacking 
 the young ladies of Miss Christy's seminary, 
 who were walking decorously three and three, 
 and putting the governesses to flight with well- 
 aimed snowballs, and actually kissmg one or 
 two of the prettiest girls. Stephen Langton 
 was too sensitive and imaginative a boy to have 
 much physical courage. His delicate nerves 
 shrank from a black eye or a demohshed nose. 
 He was not imcommonly called a coward. 
 Now, when the schoolboy rioters saw a pretty 
 little gu'l coming, they surrounded her in an 
 instant, and sat her upon the top of a monster 
 snowball, about six feet high. It was a damp 
 and chilly elevation, and she began to cry. 
 Stephen rushed forward to interfere, and was 
 greeted with a sharp smack in the face, and cries 
 of " Young snob." 
 
 " If I'm a snob," he exclaimed to the boy who 
 had struck him, " you're no gentleman, or you 
 wouldn't behave so to a young lady." 
 
 The argument, strange to say, found a hear-
 
 2Q SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 ing ; the child was liberated, and Stephen had 
 the pleasure of bringing her safely to her fa- 
 ther's house. It was the large house exactly- 
 opposite his grandfather's ; but a house of quite 
 a different character. No business ever intrud- 
 ed there. A small lawn divided it from the 
 street. Stephen would have left his charge at 
 the front door, but the young lady would not 
 let him. " Come in and see papa," she said ; 
 and in a few moments he was sitting in a su- 
 perb Hbrary by a noble fire, with a slice of mar- 
 vellous cake in his hand, and a glass of some 
 strange nectar by his side. And the young lady 
 of six, who melted off the snow from her silk 
 frock, and watched him eat, was no other than 
 our heroine — 
 
 " Sweet Anne Page."
 
 27 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MR. PAGE THE BOTAXIST. 
 
 A NNE'S father sat by the fii-e also. A slender 
 -^ raan, of middle height, a thoroughbred 
 gentleman, ^dth abmidance of crisp cm-ly haii', 
 as white as the snow which lay in the streets. 
 His countenance was mild and calm, his profile 
 pm-e Greek, his hands were transparentlywhite, 
 with long slender filbert-nailed fingers, which 
 seemed intended to do some work of extreme 
 delicacy and difficulty; and indeed such was 
 their occupation. Mr. Page, a man of large 
 fortune, devoted himself entkely to the study 
 of botany, and was one of the gTeatest authori- 
 ties in the science. He did not, however, ad- 
 here entu'ely to the hortus siccus department ; 
 he had in his beautiftd gardens — the wonder of
 
 28 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Idlechester — a unique collection of foreign and 
 unusual plants, and his conservatories were un- 
 equalled by any private gentleman in England. 
 A pleasant odour of exotic flowers strove for 
 tlie mastery with the fragrance of Russia bind- 
 ings in this library. 
 
 The signs of opulence and taste in the room 
 struck Stephen's sensitive fancy with delight. 
 The boy had never seen so many books, such 
 beautiful pictures, such graceful plants, and 
 gorgeous blossoms. The silver salvers and 
 richly-cut decanters amazed him ; so did the 
 luscious cakes and rare wines. To Stephen 
 this was Fairy-Land, and sweet Anne Page its 
 proper queen. From that time he dreamt of 
 her night and day. She was the lady of his 
 visions. 
 
 Mr. Page was very kind to him, and thanked 
 him for taking care of Anne, and told him that 
 he had known his mother very well (which he 
 had to his cost), and asked him to come and 
 see him when he pleased. And Stephen and 
 the little girl struck up an immediate friend- 
 ship. She showed him all her dearest toys.
 
 MR. PAGE THE BOTAXIST. 29 
 
 So, in the course of time, it became an under- 
 stood thing that the footman need not fetch 
 Anne from Miss Martin's — Stephen would take 
 care of her. And he used to bruig her home 
 regularly, and often go in ^^'ith her, and on 
 half-holidays loiter with her thi-ough the paths 
 of Mr. Page's gardens, wondeiing always at the 
 strange beauty of the tropical plants in his con- 
 sei'vatories, of the foreign bhds in his aviaries. 
 
 Stephen left the banks of the Idle that morn- 
 ing in good time to fetch his young mistress at 
 twelve from IMiss Martm's ; and as they came 
 homewards he told her the news. 
 
 " Oh, Stephen," she said, " you mustn't go. 
 What can I do ^dthout you ?" 
 
 " I am afraid I must," he said, sadly. 
 
 "Well, I shall ask papa," she answered, being 
 at the age when childhood believes in papa's 
 omnipotence. 
 
 Mr. Page, of course, told his young friend 
 that going to school was the very best thing 
 for him, and then sent him over to ask his Aunt 
 Harriet to let him stay and dine. That amia- 
 ble lady snarled something about Anne Page
 
 30 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 being " a pert little hussy," but gave, permis- 
 sion. And for the brief, the too brief week 
 which intervened, Stephen and Anne had plenty 
 of pleasant play in Mr. Page's glorious gardens. 
 It was an Elysian period to the visionary 
 boy. 
 
 Years before Mr. Page had very deeply loved 
 a little blue-eyed fair-haired flirt called Amy 
 Wexford. Keen-sighted in most matters, he 
 did not perceive how foolish a creature he had 
 taken to his heart. He told his love, and she 
 accepted him ; she was not the girl to refuse 
 some thousands a year, though she privately 
 remarked to her gossiping acquaintance that 
 he was old enough to be her father — he was 
 about ten years her senior. Though engaged 
 to him, she reserved the right of flirtation, and 
 was abetted therein by young Langton, who 
 didn't mean marriage, but who liked flirting 
 with a pretty girl when it was not very danger- 
 ous. Now the contrast between Mr. Page and 
 young Langton was a very strong one. First 
 of all, Langton was about Amy's own age. 
 And then Mr. Page was a courteous and cere-
 
 MR. PAGE THE BOTANIST. 31 
 
 monioTis wooer ; his love was mixed with rever- 
 ence ; he treated this commonplace little biped 
 in petticoats as if she were Spenser's Una or 
 Shakespeare's Miranda ; he kissed her hand 
 much oftener than her lips. Langton was of 
 quite another sort. He pulled her about and 
 romped Avith her to her heart's content. He 
 met her by moonlight alone, and walked with 
 his arm round her waist, and lifted her over 
 stiles like a baby, and kissed her at every 
 pause in the conversation. So, fully intending 
 to marry Mr. Page, Amy Wexford took every 
 opportunity of flh'ting with Langton. 
 
 Now it chanced that there was a Christmas 
 party at Mrs. Wexford's, and of course there 
 was abundant mistletoe. The scene was rather 
 trying to Mr. Page's sensitive delicacy. Ghl 
 after gM was seized and kissed so thoroughly 
 that he felt disgusted ; especially disgusted 
 when Amy, whose pretty hps he touched as if 
 he feared to take away their bloom, submitted 
 to as much osculation as anybody would give 
 her. 
 
 " Now, another kiss, Miss Amy," said Lang-
 
 32 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 ton, with a hoarse laugh. " Here's a sly bit of 
 mistletoe." 
 
 And he caught the imreluctant maiden in his 
 arms, and operated as if he were washing her 
 face. 
 
 " You take great liberties, Mr. Langton," said 
 Mr. Page, sternly. 
 
 "Do I? That's Miss Amy's affair. Isn't it. 
 Amy?" 
 
 " Of course," she said. " Why, it would be 
 ridiculous not to have some fun at Christmas 
 time." 
 
 " I think you have had too much of that sort 
 of fun," said Mr. Page. 
 
 " Law, do you ?" said Langton. *' Why, Amy 
 would give me a kiss any time without your 
 leave, I know. Wouldn't you. Amy 1" 
 
 " Of course I would," she said, and turned up 
 her mouth for a kiss with perfect readiness. 
 
 Mr. Page's eyes were opened. Love had 
 blmded him, but now he saw clearly. 
 
 " That is quite enough," he said. " I wish 
 you good-bye. Miss Wexford." 
 
 He had loved her a myriad times better than
 
 MR. PAGE THE BOTANIST. 33 
 
 she deserved, and it was well for him that he 
 discovered her character in time. She, disap- 
 pomted at the loss of fortmie and position, took 
 possession of the tanner's son, whom she did 
 not suffer to escape from her entanglements. 
 She was dead now ; and Mr. Page thought wdth 
 some slight tenderness of her blue eyes and 
 bright hair, which were reproduced in her son. 
 And thus it was that he took a fancy to Stephen 
 Langton. 
 
 The children had a happy week. They played 
 at wooing very prettily. 
 
 "I like you, Stephen," dainty little Anne 
 would say. 
 
 " And I love you, Anne — oh ! so much." 
 " Well, if you love me, tell me a story." 
 Stephen was great at telling stories. They 
 were a queer mixture of Milton and Bunyan, 
 the tanyard and the cathedral. The children 
 were sitting on a grassy mound, under a great 
 acacia, whose pendent masses of bloom were 
 musical with bees. Opposite was an oval grass- 
 plot, as smooth as a billiard-table, with a foun- 
 tain in the centre playing upon a graceful fern- 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 ery. In the clear basin shoals of gold fish 
 darted to and fro, while some white doves drank 
 at its marble verge, looking as if they too were 
 marble, and cooed melodiously. 
 
 " If you love me, tell me a story, Stephen." 
 
 Was ever such request, so made, refused ? Ah ! 
 me, to have the gift of poetry, and sit in summer 
 with the girl you love, and murmur some sweet 
 passionate tale, and see its sadness moisten her 
 dehcious eyes ! What can be pleasanter — ex- 
 cept perhaps an anchovy toast, and a bottle of 
 good port, and a gossip with an old crony over 
 your cavendish ? 
 
 "Once upon a time," said Stephen, "there 
 was a fallen angel who got tired of the place 
 where he was." 
 
 " But what's a fallen angel, Stephen ? And 
 where was he ?" 
 
 " You mustn't interrupt," said he, gravely ; 
 whereon the little maiden pressed her lips very 
 close together, and looked demure. 
 
 " So," he continued, "he got a suit of clothes 
 made that would hide his wings, and came and 
 opened a large shop in High Street."
 
 MR. PAGE THE BOTANIST. 35 
 
 " Oh ! dear," exclaimed Anne, " how strange !" 
 " And the shop," proceeded the young dissour, 
 " was fiill of the most deHghtful things, different 
 from anything that anybody else sold. And 
 the bishop came, and he sold him a strong scent 
 that kept him from falling asleep in service. 
 And the bishop's wife came, and he sold her a 
 fan all diamonds, and the feathers of beautiful 
 birds, that fanned her without her moving it. 
 And the dean came, and he sold him a machine 
 that made the most beautiful sermons you ever 
 heard, and he had nothing to do but read them. 
 And the precentor came, and he sold him a most 
 beautiful voice that sang in the psalms like an 
 angel. And an ugly cross woman came, and he 
 sold her something to wash her face with every 
 morning, and it made her quite pretty, and 
 young, and good-tempered, and she got a hus- 
 band. And a gentleman fond of hunting came, 
 and he sold him a horse that would jump over 
 every wall, or hedge, or river, and never got 
 tired. And the prettiest little girl in Idlechester 
 came, and he sold her a doll that hugged her 
 round the neck, and kissed her, and called her 
 
 D 2
 
 36 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 mamma, and spoke nicely when it was spoken 
 to." 
 
 '* Oh ! Stephen," said the little listener, " how 
 very, very charming !" 
 
 " And a little boy who was going to school 
 came, and he sold him a looking-glass in wliich 
 he could see what his sweetheart was domg 
 whenever he looked at it." 
 
 "Oh! what a nice story!" exclaimed Anne. 
 ''le it all truer 
 
 " Wait," said Stephen, " there's a great deal 
 more. By-and-by the people who bought all 
 these nice things got so pleased with them that 
 they forgot everything else, and didn't attend 
 to their business, and didn't even go to church 
 regularly." 
 
 Stephen, it may be observed, was a Church- 
 man by instinct, and never went near Bethesda, 
 except when compelled by Aimt Harriet. He 
 used to walk off to church close after his grand- 
 father, so that his persecutor did not dare to 
 speak. And he spent many a dreamy hour in 
 the cathedral. 
 
 " So," he continued, " the city got to be very
 
 MR. PAGE THE BOTANIST. 37 
 
 wicked. And late on Christmas Eve, when the 
 angels that watch over cities come down to see 
 that there is nothing wicked about on Chiist- 
 mas Day, two of them were going down High 
 Street." 
 
 " Oh ! Stephen, are there angels to look after 
 all cities?" 
 
 " Yes," said the boy, " and people too. You've 
 got one to take care of you, I'm sure, Anne." 
 
 " Have you ever seen any of them?" she asked, 
 with curious awe. 
 
 " I think I have," said the boy, slowly. " I 
 am almost sure I have." 
 
 "Oh! Stephen, I should be so frightened." 
 And the child hid her face on his breast. 
 
 " They wouldn't hurt you, dear. But let me 
 go on. Two angels were walking down High 
 Street, and through the shutters of the bad 
 angel's shop they saw a light. And they peeped 
 in, and there he was, making more things to 
 sell. So they knocked at the door, and he 
 came out with a candle in his hand, and one of 
 them, called Ithuriel, just touched him with a 
 long sharp spear he carried, and he turned
 
 38 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 black and ugly all over, and he and bis sbop 
 went off witb a tremendous bang that woke all 
 the people. And in the mornmg they found 
 that all the things he had sold them had disap- 
 peared." 
 
 " What a dreadful story, Stephen ! I don't 
 like the end. I liked the first part. Why don't 
 the good angels come and set up shops f " 
 
 Hobday prattle of childhood, so silly and so 
 sweet ! Oh ! that the Chronicler of Clovernook 
 had dreamt the truth, and that we could walk 
 back through the weary paths of the years into 
 the charmed region of infancy ! 
 
 Stephen's happy week came to an end too soon. 
 On Sunday he was allowed to go to church 
 with Mr. Page and his little daughter, and to 
 dine with them afterwards. By the time the 
 last day had arrived, he had almost forgotten 
 Aunt Harriet, whom he saw only at breakfast, 
 and in the evening. But the last day did come, 
 and at night he took leave of his friends. Little 
 Anne had a prayer-book to give him. 
 
 "I asked papa," she said, "to buy me a 
 magic lookiag-glass, but he couldn't get one."
 
 MR. PAGE THE BOTANIST. 39 
 
 Although Stephen had forgotten Aunt Har- 
 riet, the lapse of memory had not been recipro- 
 cal. She did not like to offend Mr. Page, for 
 she knew her father wished to be on good terms 
 with an influential neighbour; but she sorely- 
 grudged her nephew his holiday. And she did 
 not forget to invite Mrs. Sadbrooke and her 
 daughter Amelia to tea, at which meal the in- 
 iquities of the younger generation were solemnly 
 discussed. Aunt Harriet was charmed to find 
 that Mr. Vellelly (verily that was his name) was 
 highly recommended as a " good disciplinarian " 
 — di'eadfal words ! — and that she and her three 
 daughters intended to maintain strict super- 
 vision over the morals, and clothing, and clean- 
 liness of the " young gentlemen," and that there 
 would be very few holidays, and not too much 
 to eat. Aunt Harriet thought [she had found a 
 model school. Then Mrs. Sadbrooke communi- 
 cated her delight that Mr. Vellelly was much 
 pitted with the small-pox, and squinted abomi- 
 nably, so that there was little fear of either of 
 her daughters falling in love with him ; and 
 whispered her dread that her youngest girl,
 
 40 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Matilda Jane, a gay young thing of twenty- 
 five, was flirting with John Daw, the jnnior 
 usher, who was about eighteen, and came with- 
 out any salary ; and muttered under her breath 
 a threat of awful punishments she would inflict 
 upon Matilda Jane if there was any truth in it. 
 She was a ^dxenish little woman ; and she and 
 Aunt Harriet got on as pleasantly together as a 
 ghoul and a vampire. 
 
 " Law, mamma," said Amelia, " there's no- 
 thing in it. Matilda Jane's steady enough. She 
 thinks Mr. Daw a mere boy." 
 
 " Boy or not, she'd better mind what she's 
 about. I'll have no nonsense." 
 
 " I certainly wouldn't," said Aunt Harriet, 
 with her usual amiability. 
 
 " Well, you know, mamma," said Amelia, who 
 possibly had some slight sympathy with her 
 sister, " Matilda Jane's of age. She can do as 
 she likes. She's her own mistress." 
 
 " Is she, indeed f almost screamed Mrs. Sad- 
 brooke. " Not while she's in my house, I'll let 
 her know. She may go away if she likes, the 
 hussy ; but if she stays in my house, and talks
 
 MR. PAGE THE BOTANIST. 41 
 
 to that John Daw, I'll — well, you'll see what I'll 
 do. You'd better tell her so ; it'll be a warnuig 
 to her. And don't you be impertinent to me. 
 Miss Amelia, or you'll find out you're not your 
 own missus, though you are thirty years old." 
 
 "I am very sorry, mamma, really," said Miss 
 Sadbrooke. 
 
 " Oh ! yes. That's the way with gMs now- 
 a-days. They say something impudent to their 
 betters, and then say they're sorry, and expect 
 everything to be forgiven and forgotten. "Why, 
 when I was your age, I durstn't have opened my 
 lips in such a way." 
 
 *' Well, mamma, I've apologized ; what more 
 can I do ? You needn't go on all the after- 
 noon." 
 
 " You hear that, Miss Langton. She's apolo- 
 gized, and I needn't go on. No, Miss Amelia, 
 you needn't trouble yourself to apologize, as you 
 call it, any more. I'll not forgive you, depend 
 upon it. You and I will have a word or two 
 together when we get home. I don't allow 
 myself to be insulted, I assure you. Miss Har- 
 riet."
 
 42 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " I think you are qiiite right," said Miss Lang- 
 ton, while Amelia Sadbrooke, who had risen 
 from her chair, had turned to the window. Few 
 people would have cared to hear the squabble 
 between mother and daughter, but Aunt Harriet 
 thoroughly enjoyed it, and mischievously specu- 
 lated on the pains and penalties awaiting the 
 delinquent. It was not with any special anxi- 
 ety for mitigation that, as the ladies went to 
 dress, she whispered to Mrs. Sadbrooke — - 
 
 " Don't be too hard on poor Amelia." 
 
 " Oh, no," replied that lady, in a tone and 
 with a compression of the lips that spoke 
 volumes. 
 
 " SheUl keep Master Stephen in order," said 
 Aunt Harriet to herself when they were gone. 
 
 Meanwhile he, anticipating no ill, was in the 
 Elysium of a tranquil summer garden, telling 
 dreamy stories to Sweet Anne Page.
 
 43 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BRANSCOaiBES AT BREAKFAST. 
 
 /^LD Mr. Langton drove a fast-trotting mare, 
 ^ which did the eight miles from Idlechester 
 to Kiiigsleat in fewer minutes than any other 
 horse in the county could have done it. But 
 Mrs. Sadbrooke's establishment was on a by- 
 road, about a mile and a half out of the way. 
 The tanner decided to go to Kingsleat first, 
 wishing to catch the Squire before he left 
 home. 
 
 It was a divine summer morning, and the 
 freshening mist had not yet been blown from the 
 wide meadows. Stephen, as he mounted into 
 his grandfather's high-wheeled gig, was consci- 
 ous of two faces watching him. At the parlour 
 window of his home was Aunt Harriet, looking 
 at him with malignant delight; while in the
 
 44 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 balcony of the first floor opposite stood his 
 fairy princess, her curly head scarce so high as 
 the railmg, and kissed her hand to him between 
 the bars. As the mare trotted swiftly along the 
 beautiful road from the city to Kingsleat, it 
 seemed to Stephen as if on his left hand a row 
 of fiends peered at him above the hedges, while 
 on his right a line of lovely cherubim smiled 
 upon him with tender brown eyes. 
 
 Kingsleat, at that time a borough town re- 
 turning two members to Parliament, had one long 
 steep street, crossed about halfway down by a 
 quaint old archway. At the bottom of the street 
 was the sea ; at its very top a large house of red 
 brick, which Mr. Ralph Branscombe had just 
 taken fm-nished. High above lay, amid the 
 hills, the vast ruined manor-house of Bran- 
 scombe, where the family had dwelt from time 
 immemorial. Once lords of the manor, holders 
 of all Kingsleat, and no small segment of the 
 cathedral city, they were now comparatively 
 poor. A good old house, the De Branscombes 
 — a house that had given England warriors and 
 Idlechester prelates — but too wild of blood, too
 
 THE BRANSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 45 
 
 fierce and restless, to succeed in quiet times. 
 The present head of the family, who was com- 
 monly known as " Devil " Branscombe, had out- 
 done all his predecessors. He had run away with 
 women, and fought fatal duels, and acquired as 
 thoroughly bad a reputation as any gentleman 
 of good blood could desu-e. Commonly he lived 
 in London, or rather in its suburbs, at a plea- 
 sant villa on the Thames, which he had craftily 
 fortified against bailiffs ; but he had just reap- 
 peared at Kingsleat, after an absence of about 
 twenty years, bringing with him his son and his 
 daughter, Raphael and Claudia. 
 
 Langton the tanner was one of the few ten- 
 ants he had left ; he had mortgaged the tanyard, 
 but not sold it ; and in his riotous youth, when 
 Kingsleat and Idlechester had rung with his 
 wild exploits, Langton, though a good many 
 years older, had been his constant associate. 
 So, when he heard that the Squh-e was at Kings- 
 leat, the tanner decided to pay him an early 
 visit ; and his mare brought him and his grand- 
 son to the house just as the Branscombes were 
 sitting down to breakfast.
 
 46 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 They were a remarkable group. Ralph Bran- 
 scombe was more than six feet high, with abund- 
 ance of crisp iron-grey hair, and a flowing beard 
 and mighty moustache of the same colour. His 
 eyes were dark and deep-set, his nose like a 
 hawk's beak, his complexion bronzed by years of 
 outdoor exercise. He looked just what he was, 
 an awkward customer, a man who knew a thing 
 or two. 
 
 Raphael Branscombe, a young man of about 
 three and twenty, was a marvellous contrast to 
 his father. Guido could scarcely have done jus- 
 tice to his angelic beauty. His long fair hair 
 was parted in the middle ; his languid dreamy 
 gaze seemed to betoken a poetic nature ; 
 
 " As smooth as Hebe's his unrazored lips." 
 
 He was below the middle height, and his figure 
 was exquisitely graceful. Yet this youth was an 
 unequalled proficient at athletic sports. That he 
 could dance delightfully anyone could see ; many 
 a gu-1 had thought it the most delicious moment 
 of her life when he whirled her wildly in a 
 waltz. Angelo had among his pupils no eye so
 
 fHE BRANSCO]\IBES AT BREAKFAST. 47 
 
 quick, no waist so lithe with the rapier. He was 
 a dead shot with the pistol, a daring rider across 
 country, a magnificent billiard and card player. 
 Somebody had called Raphael Branscombe " the 
 Seraph," and the name stuck to him. 
 
 He w^as a thorough Sybarite. His attendant, 
 Louis, who accompanied him everywhere, had 
 surrounded him with materials for breakfast. 
 Claret jug and coffee pot were close at hand ; a 
 chicken capitally grilled had been set before 
 him ; sardines, eggs, pdie de foie gras, were pic- 
 turesquely grouped around him. As he lounged 
 lazily in his gorgeous di'essing-gown, you would 
 not have suspected the latent energy of his 
 character. 
 
 What a delicious accompaniment to the break- 
 fast table is a pretty girl, fresh and fragrant 
 from her matutine bath, dressed in some cool 
 pure print or muslin ! Claudia Branscombe was 
 far more than a pretty gfrl, she was a vision of 
 wondi'ous beauty. Not quite eighteen, she had 
 yet developed the full ripeness of womanliood. 
 Her abundant black hafr — as she looked at her- 
 self in her morning muTor — fell upon shoulders
 
 418 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 of marble whiteness, yet with a rosy flush, of 
 form most perfect. IdaHan Aphrodite had not 
 a fairer bosom, nor did her cestus encircle a 
 sweeter waist. Claudia's was that rare com- 
 plexion which lets one see the life through the 
 flesh. Her black eyes fringed by long dense 
 lashes, varied endlessly ; they could be sad, or 
 fierce, or joyous, or filled with an inefiable long- 
 ing for love. Her bewitching little mouth could 
 be imperious, or persuasive, or a thousand other 
 tilings ; in repose it looked simply kissable. She 
 had not yet acquired the sobriquet of " the Pan- 
 ther," by which she was afterwards known. 
 
 Though Ralph Branscombe of that ilk was a 
 poor man, he always lived like a prince. A 
 groom sprang to the head of Langton's mare ; a 
 footman in livery gave him admission. 
 
 " Show him in here," said Ralph, hearing who 
 it was ; so the tanner and his grandson entered 
 the breakfast room. 
 
 " Ha, Langton," said Ralph, " I'm glad you've 
 not forgotten me. These are my son and daugh- 
 ter, babies when you and I met last. And that's 
 a son of yours, I suppose."
 
 TkE BRANSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 49 
 
 " A grandson, Squire," said the tanner. " I'm 
 taking him to school." 
 
 " Let me give you some breakfast, Mr. Lang- 
 ton," said Claudia. 
 
 " I don't fancy you'll persuade my old friend 
 to eat our sort of breakfast," said Ralph. " John, 
 bring a tankard of ale." 
 
 The tanner might have echoed the song of the 
 
 thirsty member of Parliamemt. 
 
 " You may talk about measures of every sort ; 
 The best measure of all is a silver quart." 
 
 The foaming fluid descended into his chasm- 
 like throat with marvellous speed. 
 
 " I only just dropped in to pay my respects. 
 Squire," he said. " If I can do anything for you 
 I shall be very glad," 
 
 " I know you will," said Ralph, " for the sake 
 of old times. And if I want anything I'll ride 
 over and see you. We shall be here till August, 
 when my son and I are going to the moors, but 
 I think my daughter will stay on." 
 
 " Won't the young lady find it dull, all 
 alone?" asked Langton — "Kingsleat's a slow 
 place." 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " It is not lively," said the Squire. " But 
 she'll get some society at her uncle's." 
 
 " Well, his reverence isn't very gay ; and as 
 for Miss Winifred, folks say she's a regular 
 saint." 
 
 " And you don't think saints amusing, eh ?" 
 laughed the Squii-e. "Well, no more do I. 
 What do you think of the prospect, Claudia ?" 
 
 "I shall manage, papa. Where does tliis 
 nice little boy go to school, Mr. Langton ? At 
 the Grammar School ?" 
 
 " No, Miss, to a parson's widow's, Mrs. Sad- 
 brooke's, a mile and a half out of town." 
 
 " How charming ! I shall drive over and see 
 him. May I have him here for a holiday, Mr. 
 Langton f 
 
 " Oh, yes, Miss, whenever you like. I'll tell 
 Mrs. Sadbrooke." 
 
 Langton, who had years before followed his 
 young landlord as faithfully as a feudal re- 
 tainer, did not dream of refusing anything to a 
 daughter of the house. It may be imagined 
 that Aunt Harriet's temper was not improved 
 when she heard of the arrangement.
 
 THE BRAXSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 51 
 
 Claudia had taken quite a fancy to the boy. 
 She made him sit on a stool by her side, and 
 gave him a hot-house peach, and smoothed his 
 fair hair gently with her soft white hand. And 
 when he went away with his grandfather, she 
 gave him a kiss, and slipped a half-sovereign 
 into his waistcoat pocket, and told him she 
 would be sure to come and see him. Here was 
 something fresh for Stephen to dream of. 
 
 Again the mare started at her long easy trot 
 for ;Mi's. Sadbrooke's. As he drove along, old 
 Langton was muttering to himself. "Well," 
 he thought, " the Squire hasn't changed much. 
 He looks as well as ever, and he's as wild as 
 ever, I bet. And that daughter of his, isn't she 
 a beauty ? What a flash in her eye, too ! It'll 
 take a man^ and no mistake, to tame her. And as 
 sweet a temper, to look at, as you'd wish : not 
 like Harriet, now, as cross as two sticks, and as 
 cowardly as a cur. I wonder what that Miss Brans- 
 combe would say to anybody who told her he'd 
 give her a tanning !" Here the old man broke 
 into a loud laugh, rather astonishing both the 
 mare and his grandson.. "As for that boy, or 
 
 e2
 
 52 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 yoTing man, I can't make him out. He don't 
 look like a Branscombe. He's as handsome as 
 a girl. By Jingo !" he exclaimed alond, " I 
 believe I've guessed it. He is a girl in man's 
 clothes, and the Squire's up to some devilry." 
 And struck by the magnitude of his supposed 
 discovery, the old man relapsed into silent 
 thought. 
 
 Soon the gig entered the gates of Mrs. Sad- 
 brooke's establishment. It was a long low 
 house, pleasantly situate among meadows. 
 Three or four boys, early comers, were loung- 
 ing about the playground, not having as yet 
 summoned energy enough to find themselves 
 any occupation. Mr. Langton and his grand- 
 son were shown into a stiff parlour, thoroughly 
 scholastic in its arrangements, where the widow 
 and her three daughters sat in silk dresses and 
 with smiling faces to receive them. Little Ste- 
 phen, if he had ever read of an ogre's den, 
 would have recognised the ogresses at once. 
 But who, under that lavish amiability of exte- 
 rior, would have guessed at the widow's threats 
 to her eldest offspring? Who would have
 
 THE BRANSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 53 
 
 thought that AmeHa, and Arabella, and Matilda 
 Jane were all in mortal terror of their mother ? 
 The three sisters were very much alike ; but 
 Arabella, the middle one, was the roundest. 
 She had a round head, set upon a round bust, 
 which again surmounted a round mass of petti- 
 coat. How much of this sphericity was natm-al, 
 and how much artificial, none but her own fa- 
 mily knew. 
 
 The greetings over, and the fortunate pupil 
 introduced, cake and wine were brought in and 
 Mr. Vellelly sent for. Seed-cake and a whitey- 
 brown fluid representing sheiTy were hardly to 
 Mr. Langton's taste, so he remarked that he 
 generally di*ank ale. 
 
 " Oh, we have some excellent ale,'*' said Ma- 
 tilda Jane, the liveliest of the family, and forth- 
 with jumped up to fetch it herself. 
 
 The unlucky tanner took a good draught of 
 it without much consideration, and then made 
 a face which plainly expressed his feelings. 
 
 " Good day, Mrs. Sadbrooke," he said, rising 
 from his chair at once. " I'm very busy, and 
 can't stay to see Mr. What d'ye call him. Oh,
 
 54 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 by the way, if Miss Branscombe of Kingsleat 
 wants Steve for a holiday she's to have him 
 whenever she likes — mind that." 
 
 He was gone before the ladies could remon- 
 strate against a request so subversive of disci- 
 pHne. He drove his mare at her fastest trot 
 straight to the Half Moon at Idlechester, where 
 he drank three or four tumblers of hot brandy 
 and water at a rapid rate, " to save myself 
 from being poisoned," as he told the landlord, 
 Winslow. 
 
 "J thought that wash had given me the cho- 
 lera ; I did, indeed." 
 
 When Mr. Vellelly arrived, too late to see 
 the impetuous old tanner, Mrs. Sadbrooke was 
 down upon him pretty sharply. 
 
 " Really, Mr. Vellelly, I think you might be 
 ready to see the parents of pupils when they 
 call. It is a part of the duty that I pay you 
 for." 
 
 " Perhaps he stopped to titivate himself," gig- 
 gled Matilda Jane. 
 
 " That will do, miss," said her mother sternly. 
 " Now, Mr. Vellelly, take this young gentleman
 
 THE BRANSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 55 
 
 to the school-room, and please to keep ready in 
 futui'e to come when you're sent for." 
 
 Whereupon exeunt master and pupil. 
 
 " That young man isn't active enough for the 
 place," said the widow. " I can see I shall 
 have a deal of trouble with him. He wants 
 waking up." 
 
 *' He's a great stupid," said Matilda Jane. 
 
 " Perhaps you'll not be quite so quick in 
 making remarks," said the widow to her young- 
 est daughter. " I don't allow interference, you 
 know." 
 
 Soon after the ladies dispersed. 
 
 " There won't be any more boys to-day," said 
 Mrs. Sadbrooke, " so I may as well look after 
 their linen. You come and help me, Arabella. 
 And you two gu-ls know what you've got to 
 do." 
 
 Matilda Jane did at any rate. Watching an 
 opportunity, she shpped away from her elder 
 sister to an orchard at one side of the house, on 
 which no windows looked out. Here she found, 
 quite by accident, Mr. John Daw, who, strange 
 to say, embraced her, and called her his darling.
 
 56 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 "Husli, John," she said; "don't talk loud. 
 If mamma should find it out I don't know 
 what would happen." 
 
 Miss Matilda Jane, in her eagerness to meet 
 Mr. John Daw, had forgotten a certain aperture 
 in the house. It was not a window, but a 
 square wired opening into a pantry, half under- 
 ground. Amelia, suspicious of her sister, had 
 concealed herself in this pantry, and could see 
 and hear the lovers with facility. Having sat- 
 isfied herself, she quietly slipped round into the 
 orchard, and caught them in a tender moment. 
 Mr. Daw, I regret to say, ran away instantly. 
 
 " Well, upon my word, miss, this is nice be- 
 haviour. And after I told ma there was no- 
 thing in it ; and ma slapped me for taking your 
 part. Well, I shall go and tell her at once." 
 
 Amelia didn't mean it, but the instinct of ty- 
 ranny was strong in her, and she wanted to get 
 her sister under her thumb. 
 
 " Oh, don't, Meely," was the reply. " I'd do 
 as much for you any day. Now, don't be 
 cruel." 
 
 " WeU, I think you're a stupid thing to care
 
 THE BRANSCO^IBES AT BREAKFAST. 57 
 
 about that Daw. But you go and mend all the 
 stockings dii-ectly, and if you do plenty of work 
 I mayn't tell ma at present. You know what 
 you'll get if I do." 
 
 *' I'll run away from home, I declare I will," 
 sobbed the unhappy Matilda Jane. " I won't 
 stay at home and do all your work because of 
 being afraid you'll tell." 
 
 " Run away, you great goose, without a six- 
 pence, I suppose ! You go and do what I tell 
 you, or else I declare I'll call ma at once." 
 
 Whereupon the luckless young lady wiped 
 her eyes and betook herself to a long day's 
 stocking mending. 
 
 When the tanner and his grandson had left 
 the Branscombes' breakfast room, the Seraph 
 gave a sigh of relief, and said — 
 
 "Upon my life, that old gentleman's loud 
 voice is fatiguing. Louis, bring me some hock 
 and seltzer, and mind it's iced." 
 
 " He's a fine old boy," said the squh-e. " I've 
 found his strong arms useful before now." 
 
 " Yes," said Raphael, " he'd make his way in 
 a row. But, Claudia, what do you mean by
 
 58 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 getting up a flirtation with that blue-eyed child? 
 He's much too young for you." 
 
 " I like that boy's face," she said. " He's a 
 dreamy poetic child. I shall pet him, when I 
 find it dull here. And now, Kaphael, go on 
 with your breakfast ; you seem too lazy to eat." 
 
 "I am. I shall smoke. Leave me alone, 
 Claudia, that's a good girl. I can't stand your 
 oppressive endearments." 
 
 For she was standing behind his chair, and 
 passing through his hair her fair white hands. 
 But she lighted a cigar for him, giving it a 
 whiff herself by way of introduction, and said — 
 
 " There. That's a beauty, Raphael." 
 
 At this pomt there entered two other mem- 
 bers of the family, the Rev. Walter Branscombe, 
 Rector of Kingsleat and Canon of Idlechester 
 Cathedral, and his daughter Winifred. 
 
 The advowson of the living of Kingsleat, 
 about eleven hundred a year, was still Ralph 
 Branscombe's property. He wanted Raphael to 
 take orders, and in time succeed his uncle, but 
 the Seraph declined. 
 
 " No, sir," he said," " Uncle Walter's example
 
 THE BRAXSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 59 
 
 suffices for me. I'm not a saint, and I couldn't 
 be a hypocrite — and I'm sm-e I don't know 
 which he is. I can't give up billiards and ecarte^ 
 and one or two other things yon know of. And 
 I hate work, and talking, and poor people, and 
 sick people, and old women. Couldn't do it, 
 sir, for an archbishopric." 
 
 But the Rev. Walter Branscombe did it well. 
 His prebend brought him a couple of thousand 
 a year besides the living, and he had a fair for- 
 tune with his wife, so he was in capital condi- 
 tion. He Kved as well as a canon and rector 
 ought ; he gave Hberally to the poor ; and he 
 always had money to spare when his brother 
 wanted a hundred or two. The head of the 
 Branscombes gave him the Hving, and it was 
 his duty to help the head of the Branscombes. 
 He was a most eloquent, but entirely unaffected 
 preacher; had a noble voice, and read the 
 liturgy like a Kemble ; was High Church, but 
 not ridiculously high. He was a tall, dark, 
 slender, thoughtful-looking man, with very 
 black hair and inscrutable eyes. And being a 
 widower of quite a remarriageable age, he was
 
 60 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 naturally in favour with the ladies of Kingsleat 
 and Idlechester. 
 
 The Seraph had nicknamed his cousin Wini- 
 fred " the Saint." She was a very pretty girl 
 indeed, looking a great deal more like Raphael's 
 sister than Claudia did. She had been in a 
 High Church nunnery, and liked it ; had lived 
 on bread and water, and scrubbed stone floors, 
 and got up to sing anthems at unearthly hours, 
 and worn sackcloth next her delicate white skin, 
 and licked the dust at the lady superior's feet, 
 and made liberal use of a discipline. She had 
 dreams, by-and-by, of establishing a sisterhood 
 much more rigorous than any existing — with 
 staler bread and flatter water for food, and more 
 floors to scrub with older brushes, and anthem- 
 singing at unearthlier hours, and rougher sack- 
 cloth for chemises, and dirtier dust to lick, and 
 scourges with more knots in the whipcord. 
 Meanwhile, as the rector wanted her in his 
 parish, she stayed at home ; and very useful she 
 was in the parish. Nobody ever district-visited, 
 or Dorcas-meetinged, or Sunday-schooled with 
 such enduiing, never-flinching energy. She
 
 THE BRANSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 61 
 
 d,lways dressed a little like a nun, but the style 
 suited lier, so Raphael declared she did it on 
 purpose to be admired. 
 
 Father and daughter now entered together. 
 They were warmly received. The Brans- 
 combes were one of those fine old families that 
 always stuck together. Between Devil Brans- 
 combe and the saintly rector there might seem 
 few points of contact; but theirs was real 
 brotherhood nevertheless. And Raphael, 'luider 
 his languid insouciance, Claudia, amid her ca- 
 pricious coquetries, Winifred, with all her paro- 
 chial and ecclesiastical cares, had all one first 
 thought — the well-being of the Branscombes. 
 
 " Ah, Winifred, you little nun, have you got 
 any tracts for me ?" said the Seraph. " Come, 
 give me a cousinly kiss ; I know you think it 
 wicked, but you'll like it all the better. What 
 a pity you've got High Chm-ch notions about 
 cousins not marrying! Providence evidently 
 intended you and me for one another." 
 
 " Don't tease so, Raphael," said his sister. 
 
 " Oh, the child likes to be teased, don't you, 
 Winny ?" And he drew her on his knee, and
 
 62 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 began untying her bonnet strings. " Only she 
 always thinks it necessary to go home and do a 
 lot of penance after. Do you wear a hair shirt 
 now, you silly little saint f 
 
 By this time he had removed her bonnet and 
 demure cloak, and placed on the table a basket 
 she carried. 
 
 " I've a great mind to box your ears, you tire- 
 some boy," she said. 
 
 " Try, my child," said the Seraph. He held 
 her two wrists easily in his left hand, and with 
 his right bent down her pretty head until her 
 lips met his. It was a charming picture, and 
 Ralph Branscombe said — 
 
 " What a pity you can't afford to marry your 
 cousin, Raphael I" 
 
 " She wouldn't have me, sir," he said. 
 
 Retaming his pretty prisoner, he began to 
 ransack her basket, turning out upon the table 
 a host of trifles, which Claudia examined and 
 laughed at. At last they came to a stratum of 
 letters. 
 
 " Now, Winny, I shall read your love-letters," 
 laughed Claudia.
 
 THE BRANSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 63 
 
 ''No, no, no, I won't have that," she cried, 
 vainly struggling to escape. 
 
 " Oh, but saints don't have secrets, do they, 
 uncle?" asked Claudia. 
 
 "Certainly not," said the Seraph. "Now, 
 Winny, I shall let Claudia read all your letters 
 unless you give me another kiss." 
 
 Of course he received his bribe, and thus the 
 cousins laughed and chatted, while then- fathers 
 talked seriously enough on the subject of ways 
 and means. With then- converse we have no- 
 thing to do at present. Devil Branscombe kept 
 his head above water for a good many years to 
 come, as readers of this novel will find. 
 
 " You're a heavy child," said the Seraph, at last, 
 springing up suddenly, and placing her on a 
 couch. 
 
 Then he snatched up her letters from the 
 table, and put them in his dressing-gown pocket. 
 
 " How you do worry Winifred !" said Claudia. 
 " I wonder she ever lets you touch her." 
 
 " She can't help it," said the Seraph. " She's 
 madly in love with me. She wouldn't be happy 
 if I didn't touch her."
 
 64 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 And he caught his cousin by the waist, and 
 forced her into a wild waltz round the room. 
 
 " Do give me my letters, Raphael," she said, 
 when it was over. 
 
 "Did you receive them all this morning, 
 young lady f 
 
 " Yes, I did." 
 
 " Why, there are seven of them. What a 
 correspondence for a little girl like you ! Do 
 you tell your father confessor who writes to you, 
 and what about f 
 
 " Now, Raphael, don't be wicked." 
 
 " Come, confess to me. I'll give you absolu- 
 tion, and the penance shan't be too severe." 
 
 And he forced her to kneel to him, but did 
 not get much confession from her. And at last 
 she got her letters back. 
 
 When they were gone, and Ralph had left 
 for a ride, Raphael came over to liis sister's 
 chair and looked mto her beautiful black eyes. 
 
 " You've got very nice eyes, Claudia," he said, 
 " but you don't see well." 
 
 " What don't I see f ' 
 
 *' That sly little saint has got a sweetheart.
 
 THE BRANSCOMBES AT BREAKFAST. 65 
 
 Didn't you notice what a state she was in about 
 her letters ? And my uncle, wise old gentle- 
 man, doesn't know it. What fools men are 
 when girls choose to deceive them I" 
 
 " You seem to think you see pretty clearly," 
 said Claudia. 
 
 " I mean to look after you, my pet," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 ee 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 
 
 "pROM what we have the pleasure of know- 
 -*- ing of Mrs. Sadbrooke, it may be supposed 
 that she kept her departed husband in excellent 
 order. Now that he was departed, however, he 
 formed a fine imaginary court of appeal; his 
 opinion was quoted on subjects on which in his 
 lifetime it certainly wouldn't have been asked ; 
 and when Amelia or Arabella or Matilda Jane 
 was particularly *' aggravating," and the widow 
 had not sufiicient energy to take more violent 
 measures, she always told the delmquent to re- 
 member " her poor dear father." 
 
 That reverend gentleman had been a very 
 obedient husband and a very bad schoolmaster. 
 He had quaint old-fangled notions. He read
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 67 
 
 long Latin prayers morning and evening, and 
 made the boys repeat in turn long Latin graces 
 before and after meals. He knew nothing, and 
 taught nothing. Mr. Yellelly, having less au- 
 thority, was of com'se rather worse. The boys' 
 food was of good quality, but scanty. One thick 
 round of bread and butter, and one cup of milk 
 and water for breakfast and tea ; dinner of meat 
 and pudding, with the mider standing that there 
 was no pudding for the boy who had two plates 
 of meat ; a little bit of bread and cheese for sup- 
 per. On Saturdays bread and cheese iustead of 
 meat for dianer. The boys were not starved, 
 but certainly under-fed ; and I fancy this is the 
 case with a very large number of middle class 
 schools. Our middle class education is in a semi- 
 barbarous state, even now. 
 
 Stephen, notwithstanding his Aunt Harriet's 
 kind intentions towards him, did not get into 
 trouble. He had a good memory, and learned 
 his lessons easily. He was popular among the 
 boys, for they soon discovered his tale-telling 
 faculty, and he spun them interminable yarns 
 in the bed-room. He was averse from athletic 
 
 f2
 
 68 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 sports, and used to wander about the country in 
 dreary loneliness. The boys were not kept with- 
 in bounds, but might wander where they pleas- 
 ed, if they were punctual at school and meals. 
 Some of the elder ones, strong bucolic lads of 
 sixteen or seventeen, used to follow the Duke's 
 hounds in the hunting season, carrying poles to 
 leap the hedges and brooks. But Stephen lived 
 apart from all their robust fun, and dreamed his 
 dreams, and saw weird phantoms, and told 
 strange tales when the moonlight poured 
 through the casements upon their little beds. 
 
 One reason why he escaped Mrs. Sadbrooke's 
 notice was, perhaps, that she was dreadfully 
 worried about Matilda Jane and John Daw. For 
 that young lady had been caught, more than 
 once, and had been subjected to such indignities 
 as her mamma could invent and apply, but all 
 to no purpose. The widow thought of sending 
 her usher away ; but then he was very cheap ; 
 besides, he was the son of her butcher, who was 
 very amiable in matters of credit, and whom she 
 did not wish to offend. So an impartial histor- 
 ian must record that Matilda Jane's delinquen-
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 69 
 
 cies interfered with ^Irs. Sadbrooke's duty to 
 the rest of her establishment, and that several 
 young gentlemen escaped floggings which they 
 would ine\'itably have had if her mind had 
 been at peace. It was a remarkably mild half 
 year. 
 
 Om- poor Kttle fi-iend's tm-n came at last, and 
 I must say he deserved it. Mr. John Daw was 
 not popular with the boys ; an usher just out of 
 boyhood never is. Now Mr. Daw, being ena- 
 mom-ed of Matilda Jane, gave up much time to 
 his toilet, and used immense quantities of poma- 
 tum. Stephen's class were reading Pheedrus, 
 and they came upon the fable of ''Graculus 
 Superbus " — " The Vain Jackdaw." The pun 
 was irresistible ; Stephen wrote " Graculus Su- 
 perbus " on a piece of paper, and affixed it to 
 Mr. Daw's coat. Of com'se the awkward boy 
 was caught, and the angry usher boxed his ears 
 with fmy. This, however, did not satisfy him ; 
 but he did not ventm-e to excite general laugh- 
 ter by a complaint to Mr. Yellelly ; so, when 
 Stephen was widting a copy that morning, he 
 passed behind him and jogged his elbow. A
 
 70 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 huge blot was the result. Stephen was sent up 
 to Mr. Vellelly, and came back to his place with 
 the dreadful words in his ears, 
 
 " You will stay down this evening." 
 Now flogging, as public schoolboys know, is 
 a mere nothing, whatever it once might have 
 been ; and the pleasant author of Eioniana tells 
 his stories about it as if it were quite agreeable 
 — as a reminiscence. But middle class schoolmas- 
 ters have been in the habit of using the rod with 
 extreme ferocity. Yellelly, however, was not one 
 of the severer operators. Notwithstanding, little 
 Stephen Langton, sensitive and timorous, fan- 
 cied something far more dreadful than the casti- 
 gations of Aunt Harriet, though that lady was in 
 my belief worse than the schoolmaster. More- 
 over, there was an air of awe about it. The vic- 
 tims — and there were about half a dozen most 
 days — remained below after prayers when the 
 rest went to bed. The punishment was admin- 
 istered with pomp and ceremony in the pre- 
 sence of the whole household, a man-servant 
 taking the part which at Eton is performed by 
 two collegers. Stephen had heard his school-
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 71 
 
 fellows, after the infliction, creep up in the dark 
 and go sobbing to their beds. The anticipation 
 was too much for the imaginative child. He de- 
 termined to run away. 
 
 It was a half holiday. All the boys would 
 be rambling far and wide, and his absence 
 would be unnoticed till tea was served at six 
 o'clock. What he should gain — or lose — by 
 running away Stephen did not consider. Distance 
 lent enchantment even to his Aunt Harriet at 
 the end of the walk. So, when dinner was over, 
 he started. 
 
 As he passed out of the playground, Hugh 
 Thurston noticed the trouble on his countenance. 
 Hugh was the leader of the school in everything 
 athletic ; a fine handsome boy, always ready to 
 jump, or fight, or swim, or run, but quite devoid 
 of scholastic tendencies. He had often protected 
 Stephen fi'om the bulKes of the school ; and, as 
 is natural, liked him because he protected. OiF 
 on some wild holiday expedition with three or 
 four harum-scarum followers, the fine young fel- 
 low paused at Stephen's tragic look. 
 
 " Why, Langton, what's the matter ?"
 
 72 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Oh," said Stephen, " I've got to be flogged 
 this evening, and I'm afraid." 
 
 " Bah, you little blockhead, what is there to 
 be afraid of? It's rather nice, when you're used 
 to it. By Jove, I'd forgotten all about it, but I 
 believe I've got to be flogged this evening, and 
 you see how much I care. Old Vellelly can't 
 hit hard." 
 
 And away went young Thurston with a flying 
 leap over the nearest hedge, doubling his legs 
 well under him, as is the wont of a born leaper. 
 But Stephen, unconsoled, pursued his way along 
 the lane, and emerged into the high road, and 
 made for Idlechester at his fastest walk. He had 
 traversed about four miles, and was walking 
 along with eyes blind to all outward sights, and 
 ears deaf to all outward noises, when he was 
 suddenly arrested by a hand on his shoulder. 
 It was Mr. Page's. That gentleman was tak- 
 ing a quiet stroll, with a keen eye for anything 
 that grew wild in the hedgerows, when he saw 
 his young acquaintance coming headlong to- 
 wards Idlechester. 
 
 " Why, Stephen, where now ?" he said.
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 7S 
 
 « Oh, Mr. Page." 
 
 " Come, my little friend, tell me where you 
 are going." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Page, I've run aicayT 
 
 "Have you indeed?" he said, taking the 
 excited child's hand. " And why have you run 
 away ?" 
 
 "Because I'm to be flogged to-night," said 
 Stephen, " and I don't like it." 
 
 Mr. Page took the boy into a wayside inn 
 which they had just reached, called for a glass 
 of water, and pom-ed into it a few drops from a 
 stoppered phial which he took fi-om his pocket. 
 
 " Drink that, Stephen," he said. 
 
 Stephen drank it, and was refreshed. Mr. 
 Page then sent him away, in the care of a bux- 
 om maiden who had brought the water, to wash 
 his face. When he retm-ned, cool and fresh, his 
 benefactor said — 
 
 " Well, Stephen, you don't want to be flog- 
 ged, it seems." 
 
 " No, sir, not at all." 
 
 " Most Kttle boys have to endure it," said Mr. 
 Page. " It isn't very unpleasant, so far as I can
 
 74 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 remember. But did you ever hear of the fish 
 that didn't Kke being fried, and jumped out of 
 the frying-pan into the fire f 
 
 " I think I have," said Stephen. 
 
 " Well, my boy, it appears to me that's your 
 case. Don't you think that if you go home to 
 your aunt you will very likely get two whip- 
 pings instead of one ?" 
 
 Poor little Stephen was appalled at this view 
 of the subject. He had not for a moment con- 
 sidered the kind of reception with which he was 
 likely to meet. He remembered the hard and 
 stinging qualities of the palm of Aunt Harriet's 
 hand, and wondered whether the birchen rod 
 could be more painful. And then, to endure both! 
 
 " You must go quietly back again," continued 
 Mr. Page, with an amused smile. "And you 
 must bear your punishment like a little hero. 
 And I'll walk part of the way wdth you." 
 
 So, wdth infinite kindness, he led the young 
 runaway back again, and took leave of him at 
 the tm^ning towards the school. 
 
 " You won't tell Anne about it, sir, will you ?" 
 said poor Stephen.
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 75 
 
 " I sliall tell her I met yoti, and we had a 
 pleasant walk together ; but I shall not tell her 
 you ran away for fear of being flogged, or else 
 she might think you a coward. And you won't 
 be a coward, will you, my boy f 
 
 "No, su'," said the youngster bravely, and 
 walked towards the school, where he arrived in 
 good time for his bread and butter and milk 
 and water, and ate with excellent appetite. 
 And by-and-by came eventide, with its calm 
 promise of refreshing rest ; and the bread and 
 cheese for supper ; and the long unintelligible 
 Latin prayers in the dimly-lighted schoolroom. 
 And then the boys who had no punishment to 
 endm-e went off to bed ; • and Stephen was left 
 behind, one of four, to meet his fate. The scene 
 would have been worthy of Rembrandt's pencil, 
 for its effect of light and shade. The school- 
 room, a later addition to the house, had many 
 windows on three sides ; and the bright moon- 
 light so resolutely forced its entrance, that the 
 few tallow-candles were almost useless; and 
 the forms of the schoolmaster and usher, the 
 schoolmistress and her daughters and servants,
 
 76 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 were dim, shapeless, indistinct. Boy after boy 
 came up for punishment ; Hugh Thurston first, 
 taking it as a matter of course, and gathering 
 himself up with an easy buoyancy of manner 
 when it was over. Last of all came Stephen, 
 who walked in a dream to the place of sacrifice. 
 He felt himself placed in position, kneeling on a 
 form, and leaning over a desk towards the win- 
 dow at the head of the schoolroom. He felt 
 Tom, the man who blacked the boots and cleaned 
 the knives, divest liim of that portion of his ap- 
 parel which interfered with the operation. He 
 felt — though he could not see — Mr. Yellelly's 
 arm rising through the air to descend upon him. 
 But at that instant he saw — saw through that 
 moonlit window on which his eyes were fixed — 
 a dreadful apparition of a drowned man, naked, 
 covered with river slime. And he shrieked, in a 
 strange wild voice — 
 
 " / see Mr. Sadhrookes gliost /" 
 
 The effect was terrible. The widow and her 
 daughters screamed and fainted. Mr. Vellelly's 
 birch did not descend according to his intention. 
 Stephen got to bed uncastigated, and Hugh
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 77 
 
 Thui'ston, incredulous of spectres, patted him on 
 the back, and exclaimed, 
 
 " That teas a clever dodge." 
 
 But Stephen, with his mind's eye, had seen 
 that ghastly spectre, as his flushed face and 
 straining gaze bore witness ; and when, in the 
 long narrow moonlit chamber, he told what he 
 had seen, even brave Hugh Thm-ston shuddered 
 on his bed. 
 
 The widow did not get over her shock until a 
 hearty supper of cold roast pork had been fol- 
 lowed by some gin and water, hot, sweet, and 
 strong. The three young ladies looked with 
 longing eyes on this potent and enticing but 
 forbidden mixtm-e : a glass of it was offered to 
 Mr. Vellelly, but that excellent young person 
 declined it. And there was much discussion 
 about Stephen between them. Mrs. Sadbrooke 
 was of opinion that the boy had seen some- 
 thing. Amelia reminded her mother that Miss 
 Langton had warned them of Stephen's awful 
 wickedness. Ai-abella, fat and frightened, agreed 
 with the widow. Matilda Jane thought Stephen 
 had done it to escape punishment, and declared
 
 78 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 he was a dear clever boy to think of such a 
 thing. Mr. Vellelly agreed with Matilda Jane 
 on the first point, and advised that Stephen 
 should be well flogged the first thing the next 
 morning, when he could not very well pretend 
 to see any ghosts. Finally, the matter was left 
 unsettled. 
 
 And the next morning brought another ele- 
 ment into the discussion, in the shape of a letter 
 from Aunt Harriet, to say that she should come 
 over that day to see Mrs. Sadbrooke, and in- 
 quire concerning her nephew's progress. She 
 would be at the school at about four in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 " How very lucky !" said the widow. " She 
 will be just in time for tea, and we can decide 
 what shall be done with this naughty boy." 
 
 " This naughty boy " had been remembered 
 by one other lady. Claudia Branscombe, de- 
 serted by her father and brother, had managed 
 to exist at Kingsleat. Not a day passed with- 
 out her being seen, on horseback or in her pony 
 carriage, moving in some direction or other. 
 She was pretty often at Idlechester, shopping
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 79 
 
 and paying visits. She had picked up a most 
 sympathising crony there in Mrs. Bythesea, the 
 Bishop's lady, who was only a few years her 
 senior. She was an earl's niece, and the Bishop 
 had married her for her beauty and her con- 
 nexion, when he was rector of a London parish. 
 He was forty-two and she was seventeen at that 
 period ; they had been married seven years, but 
 were childless ; and she was a latitudinarian in 
 her habits as he in his theology. She was a 
 pretty vivacious little thuig, with abundant 
 auburn tresses, which escaped in picturesque 
 profusion from beneath her jaunty straw hat; 
 and she contrasted well with the darker, deep- 
 er-bosomed, more passionate beauty of Claudia 
 Branscombe, as the latter young lady drove a 
 pair of frisky chestnut ponies through the streets 
 of Idlechester. 
 
 Claudia, eager for a new sensation, had set 
 up a tandem cart fit for Lilliput, and had gradu- 
 ally got the frisky chestnuts into the way of it. 
 And on the very morning after Stephen's spec- 
 tral adventure, she had for the first time ven- 
 tured to take it over to Idlechester. She drove
 
 80 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 down first to the Rectory, and tried to in- 
 duce Winifred to go with her, but that saintly 
 little personage was far too timorous. So away 
 she tooled by herself, with only a Lilliputian 
 groom behind ; and took the chestnuts through 
 the High Street in gallant style : and drove on 
 to where the Bishop's Palace stands greenly 
 niched in a silvan bend of the river Idle. Old 
 Langton, the tanner, standing on the steps of 
 the Half-Moon, said to the landlord, 
 
 " There, you'd know that was a Branscombe." 
 
 She pulled up at the palace portico. Her 
 boy-groom went to the leader's head, and she 
 sprang to the gravel. The Bishop's wife came 
 flying oat to see the new equipage, of which 
 there had been much talk already. 
 
 " Now, Cecilia," said Miss Branscombe, *' I am 
 going to take you back to dine with me. It's no 
 good to refuse : run and get ready." 
 
 " What will the Bishop say?" 
 
 " Never mind the Bishop. We'll take him by 
 storm." And she hurried Mrs. Bythesea upstairs 
 to dress — which done, they both descended to 
 the sancti sanctum episcopU
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 81 
 
 The Bishop, a thorough ladies' prelate, de- 
 lightedly welcomed his wife and her beautifal 
 companion. He paternally patted Cecilia's cheek, 
 and pressed a paternal kiss (he was obliged 
 to stand on tiptoe to do it) on Claudia's calm 
 white forehead. He had just been horribly 
 pestered by a Low Church vicar who wanted 
 him to prosecute Archdeacon Coningsby for 
 heresy. The contrast was a prodigious relief. 
 The Bishop positively purred. 
 
 " I am going to take CeciKa home to dinner," 
 said Claudia ; " very likely she'll stay the night. 
 May she go ? Be quick and say yes, my dear 
 Bishop, my ponies are getting restless." 
 
 "You are spoilt children," said the Bishop. 
 "I've been telling Cissy I shall send her to 
 school again ; she can't keep her accounts, and 
 is really good for nothing but to be looked at ; 
 and you are always leading her into mischief, 
 Miss Branscombe." 
 
 " I'll take the greatest care of her this time, 
 and bring her home to-morrow in capital con- 
 dition." 
 
 ** Well, take her away. I'm the most power- 
 
 YOL. I. G
 
 82 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 less of prelates : I can never say no to a lady. 
 Good-bye, Cissy ; be a good child — I wish I 
 could go with you." 
 
 " Come, my lord, incog.," said the daring 
 Claudia, " disguise yourself in crinoline, youVe 
 got an apron already." 
 
 The good-humoured Bishop dismissed them, 
 and away they drove through Idlechester. 
 Langton still stood on the Half-Moon steps, and 
 Claudia thought rather remorsefully of little 
 Stephen. 
 
 " He shall come and dine with us," she said 
 to herself. 
 
 " What a good boy the bishop is," she said 
 aloud to her companion. " He's just the sort of 
 husband I should like." 
 
 " He's much too good for me," said Cissy, with 
 a half sigh, " I am so silly ; and he never scolds, 
 though sometimes I feel that it's his positive 
 duty to box my ears, or something of the kind. 
 You know, Claudia, I have always been such a 
 child. Perhaps if I had children of my own, I 
 shouldn't be quite such a baby." 
 
 '* Don't be melancholy, Cis. Everybody likes
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 83 
 
 you as you are. I'm going to take you to the 
 very queerest place — a school, where there's a 
 nice little boy that I'm going to take home to 
 dinner." 
 
 A little before four o'clock Aunt Harriet drove 
 into Mrs. Sadbrooke's gates in a high gig, drawn 
 by an animal of the cart-horse character. The 
 old tanner trusted nobody else with his fast- 
 trotting mare. She was cordially welcomed; 
 the fom- ladies, all in rustlmg black silk, were 
 ready to receive her ; and over many cups of tea 
 they talked about Stephen. 
 
 Aunt Harriet was shocked at his wickedness. 
 Of course seeing a ghost was all nonsense, and 
 the little rascal was sly — wickedly sly. She had 
 brought him a nice cake, but he certainly 
 shouldn't have it. And she proposed that, as 
 soon as tea was over, he should be sent for, 
 and should then and there receive at her hands 
 a much severer castigation than he had escaped. 
 The proposition gave general satisfaction — es- 
 pecially to Matilda Jane, to whom John Daw 
 had confided the insult he had received. 
 
 Thus it happened that at six o'clock, just as 
 
 g2
 
 84 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Stephen was, with the rest, going to listen to a 
 long Latin grace, precursory to his bread and 
 butter, the amiable Matilda Jane came as a 
 messenger to the schoolroom, and hissed in his 
 ear, 
 
 *'Come along, you brat; you're wanted di- 
 rectly. 
 
 He followed her obediently, and was ushered 
 into the parlom*, where his redoubtable Aunt 
 Harriet was added to the scolding and torturing 
 power of the establishment. She glared at him 
 with a kind of fiendish glee, and welcomed him 
 with the exclamation — 
 
 " Oh ! you naughty wicked boy !" 
 
 Stephen stood silent. 
 
 " So you tried, you story-telling little thing, 
 to escape punishment by saying you saw poor 
 dear Mr. Sadbrooke. Oh ! I'm ashamed of 
 you ! I don't believe you can be a nephew of 
 mine ; but you won't get oflf so easily, I can tell 
 you. Come here this minute." 
 
 Stephen approached, reluctantly enough, and 
 was relentlessly clutched by Aunt Harriet's bony 
 fingers, all knobs at the knuckles ; and dire
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 85 
 
 events would assuredly have happened but for 
 the fact that Miss Branscombe's chestnut ponies 
 at that very moment turned in through the 
 gates, and that the widow and her three daugh- 
 ters all ran to the window to watch the arrival. 
 Two singularly handsome women in a singu- 
 larly stylish equipage had never been seen in 
 that locality before ; our black-haired Claudia, 
 brilliant and imperious, dressed in a navy-blue 
 paletot that showed the voluptuous curve of her 
 delicious bust, and holding a parasol-whip in 
 her amber-gauntleted right-hand, was an appa- 
 rition almost as startling to the Sadbrooke 
 family as the Sadbrooke spectre to poor little 
 Stephen. The groom was at the leader's head; 
 our little friend Hugh Thm-ston had gone to the 
 wheelers ; and Claudia, stepping out just oppo- 
 site the window, revealed to the watching eyes 
 of the Sadbrooke family, as well-built, well- 
 stockinged, and well-booted a feminine leg as 
 you'll see anywhere. AATien on the ground, she 
 held up both her hands to the Bishop's lady, 
 who took them in her own, and sprang easily 
 from the dog-cart.
 
 86 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " It's that Miss Branscombe," said Aunt Har- 
 riet, who had just reached the window. And 
 then she half regretted the ejaculation, knowing 
 that her father held by the Branscombes. 
 
 " Well, I do declare," said the widow, " if it 
 isn't the Bishop's wife. What can they want 
 here?" 
 
 As to Stephen, released from Aunt Harriet's 
 bony grip, he opened his eyes widely in wonder. 
 
 The ladies w^ere shown in, and everybody 
 stood up to receive them. The widow's three 
 daughters were perfectly appalled at finding 
 themselves in close contact with these two won- 
 derful strangers. Their own di'eadful dowdi- 
 ness became apparent to them ; and there was 
 humiliation even for Matilda Jane, who firmly 
 believed herself pretty. But oh! the light of 
 Claudia Branscombe's eyes, the glory of her 
 hair, the delicate wliiteness of her diamonded 
 right hand, from wliich she had taken the glove ! 
 
 "Mrs. Sadbrooke, I believe?" said Claudia. 
 " I need not detain you a moment. I called to 
 take little Stephen Langton home with me ; his 
 grandfather said he might come."
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 87. 
 
 Mrs. Sadbrooke looked meaningly at Aunt 
 Harriet, who, however, required no hint from 
 her. 
 
 '* 1 am very sorry," said the maiden aunt, 
 "but Stephen has been naughty, and I don't 
 think he ought to have a holiday." 
 
 Claudia looked at her with that haughty im- 
 pertment stare of inquiry which is so delightfully 
 natural to some ladies ; then turned to Mrs. 
 Sadbrooke, and said — 
 
 " This person is one of your governesses, I 
 suppose V 
 
 " Oh ! no — I beg pardon — Miss Harriet Lang- 
 ton — Miss Langton," said the widow, m a great 
 hm-ry. 
 
 " Ah ! some relation of my little friend Ste- 
 phen's. And so you have been naughty, have 
 you ?" she said, addressing the boy. " Well, 
 run and put your cap on; my ponies won't 
 stand. Be quick. We have all of us been 
 naughty in our time, I suppose, eh, Ciss ?" This 
 was addressed to the Bishop's wife, and as if 
 the Sadbrookes and Aunt Harriet had ceased 
 to exist.
 
 88 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 The latter lady was about to remonstrate 
 once more — but then she was afraid of her 
 father. She didn't like it at all. Here was 
 Stephen snatched from her castigating hands, 
 and taken away for a holiday without even the 
 form of asking leave, by this proud gfrl, who 
 did not seem to recognize her existence. As 
 for Mrs. Sadbrooke, she vdsely thought if Aunt 
 Harriet did not interfere, she need not. In a 
 minute Stephen was back again, ready to start. 
 Claudia drew on her glove, said, with a slight 
 bow, " Good morning, Mrs. Sadbrooke," and 
 was helping Mrs. Bythesea into the tandem cart 
 cart before Aunt Harriet had time to recover 
 herself. 
 
 *' Jump up behind, Stephen," she said, " and 
 mind you hold on. Who's that handsome boy 
 that held Flora's head? Master Thurston ? Here, 
 Master Thurston, you won't object to a tip from 
 a friend of Stephen's, will you f 
 
 Away went the chestnuts, Stephen clinging 
 on by the side of the groom, while all Mrs. Sad- 
 brooke's pupils looked after them delightedly. 
 
 *' She's a brick," exclaimed Hugh Thurston,
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 89 
 
 " and no mistake." Claudia, extravagant minx, 
 had given him a sovereign. " And ain't she a 
 pretty girl ? Why, Polly Simcox is nothing to 
 her!" 
 
 Now Polly Simcox was a red-faced lass who 
 came round twice a week with a basket of tarts, 
 and whose ruddy rotundity the boys greatly 
 admired. So Claudia ought to have been flat- 
 tered. 
 
 '* We/Z," said Aunt Harriet, when they were 
 gone, " I think that young woman's imperti- 
 nence is perfectly abominable. I never was so 
 treated in my life." 
 
 " I should complain about it to Mr. Langton, 
 if I were you, dear," suggested Amelia. 
 
 But this was just what Aunt Harriet didn't 
 quite see, for she felt sure that her father would 
 say Miss Branscombe was right. At the same 
 time, she was not disposed to confess her posi- 
 tion to the Sadbrooke family. She was happily 
 relieved from her difficulty by the volatile 
 Matilda Jane. 
 
 " Do you think that Miss Branscombe pretty?" 
 
 ^'' Pretty r exclaimed Arabella, as if there
 
 90 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 could not be the slightest doubt that Claudia 
 was intensely hideous. 
 
 " She's extremely forward," said Mrs. Sad- 
 brooke. "If we'd been a set of gipsies, she 
 couldn't have treated us worse." 
 
 " She'll come to no good," said Aunt Harriet. 
 
 " As for the Bishop's wife, I wonder Tshe can 
 go about with such a flighty piece," said Amelia. 
 
 " What carroty hair that Bishop's wife has 
 got !" said Matilda Jane, in contemptuous criti- 
 cism of tresses whose profuse beauty would 
 have maddened a pre-Raffaellite painter. 
 
 But, unhindered by criticism, the chestnuts 
 brought Claudia and her companions to Kings- 
 leat in good time for dinner. And then, for the 
 first time in his life, Stephen dined. At the 
 Branscombes there was never any deficiency in 
 supply or in style. The soup, the turbot, and 
 lobster sauce, the roast saddle, the birds, the 
 Amontillado and iced Clicquot, were all as good 
 and as well served as if Devil Branscombe had 
 been there himself. I will not say, as if the 
 Seraph had been there, for the Seraph's critical 
 power was known and dreaded, at home as well
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 91 
 
 as abroad. His audacity and accuracy were 
 beyond his years ; he would have shut up Tod 
 Heatly on a question of claret, or Colenso on a 
 question of heresy. 
 
 Stephen, who possessed the apprehensive for- 
 getive faculty — and the faculty must be appre- 
 hensive before it is forgetive — profited by what 
 he saw and heard. Though brought up among 
 people innately vulgar, the child had a natural 
 refinement. All the influences which at this 
 moment surrounded him were of service to him. 
 He was very silent, very observant. He listen- 
 ed to the sparkling converse of the two ladies, 
 and tried hard to understand it. He asked no 
 questions, but formed his o^vn conclusions quiet- 
 ly. He sipped his icy effervescent Avuie fi'om its 
 shallow glass as if both wine and glass were 
 quite customary things to him. 
 
 By-and-by they went to the di-awmg-room, 
 and coffee was served, and Claudia, an exquisite 
 musician, sat down to the piano, and played 
 and sang rather for herself than her hearers. 
 Oh ! how the royal music sobbed through that 
 sweet white throat of hers, while her fragrant
 
 92 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 bosom swelled to its flood of passion, and her 
 great black fathomless eyes flashed marvellously! 
 At such a moment, had Phoebus Apollo beheld 
 her, would he not have caught her suddenly 
 around her lissom waist, and showered upon her 
 eyes and cheeks and lips the kisses of the god ? 
 
 She ceased. After a while a clock on the 
 marble mantelpiece struck ten with silver 
 strokes. She came and sat by Stephen on his 
 sofa, and passed her fingers through his hair. 
 
 " Now, Cis," she said, " you give us some 
 music." 
 
 " I'm too tired, child," said the Bishop's wife ; 
 " and it's no good playing or singing after you. 
 Don't you think it's nearly time our little friend 
 went to bed?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; he need not get up early, and I 
 want to talk to him. Who was that wonderful 
 old lady, Stephen, who looked so cross to-day 
 at Mrs. Sadbrooke's f 
 
 " That was Aunt Harriet." 
 
 " Indeed ! Why, she looked as if she had 
 come over on purpose to torment you." 
 
 " I think she had," said Stephen, gravely.
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 93 
 
 " What a funny little fellow he is, Cis !" she 
 said. " What are you going to be when you 
 are a man, Stephen? A tanner, like your 
 grandfather f 
 
 " No," he said, decisively. " A poet." 
 
 Both ladies laughed. 
 
 "A poet !" said Mrs. Bythesea. " Do you know 
 what a poet is ?" 
 
 *' Yes," said Stephen. *' Milton was a poet. 
 He saw what other people could not see." 
 
 " And can you do that ?" asked Claudia. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "I saw Mr. Sadbrooke's 
 ghost the other night." 
 
 " \^^^lat an odd child !" exclaimed the Bishop's 
 wife. " I hope he won't be waking us up m the 
 night with his ghosts." 
 
 " I am not at all afi-aid of ghosts," said Ste- 
 phen, in a matter of fact way. " I am used to 
 them. They don't do any harm." 
 
 The ladies were rather puzzled how to deal 
 with this young prseter-naturalist, so they pro- 
 posed to go to bed. 
 
 "We must find a bed for this child some- 
 where," remarked Claudia.
 
 94 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 It was a quaint spacious house, with rooms 
 opening into each other, and Stephen was 
 snugly ensconced in a small room between two 
 larger ones, in which slept Miss Branscombe 
 and her friend. And, being undressed, he had 
 to put on a wondrously frilled night-gown of 
 Claudia's, which went down far below his feet. 
 Thus robed, he sank into the softest of beds, 
 and lay dreamily awake. And Cis and Claudia 
 chatted a little ; and then they began to dis- 
 robe; and 
 
 *' By degrees 
 Their rich attire crept rustling to their knees," 
 
 as Mr. Keats has it ; and then Claudia felt dis- 
 posed for a romp, and began to tickle her fair 
 friend, who screamed, and giggled, and at last 
 ran away to her own room ; and then Cis came 
 back again for another chat, and whispered to 
 Claudia, •' I do believe that child isn't asleep ;" 
 and then they talked for half an hour or so 
 about the Idlechester people, and Kingsleat 
 people, and who was going to marry whom ; 
 and then the Bishop's wife grew mischievously 
 inclined, and gave Claudia a sharp pinch, and
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 95 
 
 ran away to her own room, and tried to fasten 
 the door ; but Claudia was too quick for her, 
 and pushed the door open, and, being a good 
 deal stronger than the Bishop's wife, threw her 
 on the bed, and tickled her warm plump ribs 
 until the suppressed laughter could be control- 
 led no longer, but burst into a shriek ; and then, 
 giving her a farewell slap, she wished her good 
 night; and then passing through Stephen's 
 room, she said, "I do declare that child isn't 
 asleep yet, and it's just twelve," and stooping 
 over him, gave him a kiss ; and finally, she 
 sank mto her own soft nest, and was soon tran- 
 quilly asleep. 
 
 But the little boy lay long awake, happily 
 awake, thinking of all he had seen that day — 
 contrastmg the sordid school, and its scolding 
 women, and its eternal punishments, with this 
 large beautiful house and the two lovely crea- 
 tures with whom his afternoon had been passed 
 — ^vainly struggling wdth the insoluble problem, 
 why he was obliged to live amid ugliness and 
 hatred while there seemed to be so much beauty 
 and so much love in the world — taking quiet
 
 96 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 notice of everything in his pleasant lofty cham- 
 ber, for night-lamps were burning in the rooms 
 diffusing a mellow light — and wisliing it were 
 possible that he could forget the existence of 
 Aunt Harriet, and Mrs. Sadbrooke, and Mr. 
 Vellelly, and live always with people like Miss 
 Branscombe, and Mrs. Bythesea, and kind Mr. 
 Page, and, above all, with sweet Anne Page. 
 And as he thought of his fairy princess, he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 And very late was it when he awoke ; and to 
 his sensitive nature and tliirst for enjoyment 
 there was delight in the fan water of the ample 
 sponge-bath, in the well-supplied breakfast- 
 table, in all the little details of unaccustomed 
 luxury which at every moment he encountered. 
 But all pleasure must have an end ; and so poor 
 Stephen in the afternoon found himself once 
 more dropped in the hateful playground, while 
 the chestnuts carried rapidly away their mis- 
 tress and her friend. Very disconsolate he 
 looked at this moment ; and merry Hugh Thur- 
 ston, coming up to him, exclaimed — 
 
 " Why, Langton, you look as if you couldn't
 
 STEPHEN AT SCHOOL. 97 
 
 help it. How have you enjoyed your holiday ?" 
 " Oh, deHghtfully," sighed Stephen. 
 " We've had a great lark since you went," 
 said Hugh. " Gracalus and Matilda Jane ran 
 away to get married, and old Daw heard of it, 
 and went after them in his butcher's cart, and 
 caught them out at the cross-roads, just beyond 
 Idlechester, and brought them back in the cart 
 just like a couple of sheep, tied with the same 
 ropes and all. Oh, didn't they look nice just 
 when he handed them out — and didn't we hoo- 
 ray, rather? And he told Mother Sadbrooke 
 that if she wanted to keep a school, she'd better 
 send her gii'ls out to seiwice. Criky, wasn't she 
 
 wHd r 
 
 The story thus emphatically narrated was 
 quite true, and the incident was an unlucky 
 one for Mrs. Sadbrooke. Not only did the most 
 obliging of butchers quarrel with her, but so did 
 the parents and guardians of too many of her 
 pupils. She did all she could, poor woman. 
 She sent away all three of her daughters ; she 
 engaged a remarkably correct young man in 
 the place of Graculus Superbus. But she never 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 flourislied afterwards ; the school gradually- 
 dwindled away, and she and her daughters 
 sent somewhere unnoticed in the great ocean 
 of life. The only one Stephen ever saw again 
 was Matilda Jane, who had become under- 
 chambermaid at the Half-Moon at Idlechester.
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A LUSTRUM. 
 
 T^IVE years make a considerable difference in 
 -*- a man after a certain age. Well can I re- 
 member when a Instrum seemed a trifle, when 
 being seventeen or so, I longed to be twenty- 
 two or three ; but not such is the feeling of the 
 man 
 
 " Cujus octavum trepidavit aetas, 
 Claudere lustrum." 
 
 No, every hour of this divine September, amid 
 whose pm-ple sunsets and calm glories of har- 
 vest moonlight I am writing, is worth its weight 
 in diamonds of the brightest water, ruddy rubies, 
 sapphh-es of the Orient. A lustrum now is worth 
 more than all the wealth of all the Hebrew 
 race, from Solomon down to the Rothschilds. 
 
 h2
 
 100 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 The moments flash by like bubbles on a mill- 
 race ; the very delight of life makes ns mourn 
 life's fleetness. Ah, that we could have learnt 
 the value of time when we had more of it to 
 spend ! 
 
 Five years passed, and Stephen was sixteen. 
 He had spent most of his school-days at the 
 establishment of a certam Dr. Wood, who got 
 his degree at Erlangen. Wood was a tall man, 
 with a black mane, that caused him to look 
 alarmingly lion-like. He was unrivalled as an 
 advertiser and a castigator, and had by those 
 two arts contrived to get together about a hun- 
 dred and twenty pupils. As he was a perfectly 
 uneducated man, and not given to expend 
 money lavishly in tutorial salaries, it is not to 
 be supposed that his alumni were over well 
 taught. But Summer Vale flourished, and the 
 boys were compelled to use their memories, if 
 none of their liigher faculties, and Stephen 
 learnt the Church Catechism, the Eton Latin 
 Grammar, and the first six books of Euclid, so 
 thoroughly by rote, without understanding a 
 word of either, that he never forgot them again.
 
 A LUSTRUM. 101 
 
 In course of years the meaning of certain parts 
 of them gradually discovered itself to him, and 
 he always associated his duty towards liis neigh- 
 bour with a severe floggiag he got on Monday 
 morning for not being able to remember the 
 catechetic details of the said duty on Sunday 
 evening. 
 
 Wood, being a big man, was of course married 
 to a sharp httle vixen of a wife. Mrs. Wood 
 altogether transcended both Aunt Harriet and 
 Mrs. Sadbrooke : hers was no whiniag scold, but 
 a short, sharp objurgation of far more terrifying 
 moment, frequently followed by the rapid appli- 
 cation of a very vigorous hand. The way in 
 which she would collar a refr-actory youngster, 
 reverse him over anything handy, and snatch- 
 ing off his slipper, apply it violently to the ten- 
 derest part of him, was really marvellous. 
 Quick in sight, in speech, in motion, Mrs. Wood 
 was the ruling genius of the school ; she per- 
 vaded it ; she kept everybody in order, not for- 
 getting her husband. He, in fact, was merely 
 a negative man, big, stupid, strong, and wdsely 
 obedient to his wife.
 
 102 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Stephen, beyond the elements of learning we 
 have mentioned, picked np nothing at Wood's. 
 But to know Euclid, and the Catechism, and the 
 Eton Grammar by heart is something, at any 
 rate. The favourite game at Wood's was foot- 
 ball, played on a wide common about a mile 
 from the school : Stephen, who was growing 
 ridiculously fast, had not wind enough for this 
 glorious exercise. But the boy, though quiet, 
 was not unpopular. His ancient story-telling 
 talent was not lost ; it was his wont to begin a 
 tale on the first night of the half year, and to 
 continue it right away to the end. Schoolboys 
 love these interminable stories, with episode 
 within episode, like Chinese balls within one 
 another. Moreover, our young hero had taken 
 to rhyming, and wrote love-letters, acrostic and 
 elegant, for his school-fellows, and once or 
 twice obtained half-holidays for a cleverish copy 
 of verses. So he got on among the boys com- 
 fortably enough, and rather enjoyed his school 
 days. It was customary to end each term at 
 Summer Vale with pubHc recitations ; and when 
 Stephen was deemed old enough to play Mark
 
 A LUSTRUTvI. 103 
 
 Antony in " Julius Caesar," and actually had the 
 dehght of addressing his " Friends, Romans, 
 countrymen," to Mr. Page and his dear little 
 daughter, among other auditors, he was a happy 
 boy. 
 
 For Mr. Page did not forget liim. In the va- 
 cations, Stephen was more at Mr. Page's house 
 than at his grandfather's. Anne was still his 
 little sweetheart ; her lustrum had not brought 
 her beyond childhood's dehcious days of love 
 and truth; and her governess. Miss Marsden, had 
 not been able to spoil her. For though that 
 excellent young person, like most governesses, 
 had faith in learning facts by heart, and believed 
 that music and dancing, dra^vTiig and French, 
 were far more important than the classical hte- 
 rature of England, she was fortunately pre- 
 vented from having her own way. Mi*. Page 
 superintended his little gnl's education, and 
 would make her read an essay of EHa's, or learn 
 a lyric ofHerrick's or Shelley's, when Miss Mars- 
 den would have been dosing her with French 
 verbs, or setting her to learn by rote the names 
 of all the rivers in Europe. And when Stephen
 
 104 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 had his hoHdays, lessons were suspended, and 
 the two young people renewed their garden 
 rambles, or strolled through the cathedral close, 
 and by the river marge, while Stephen told his 
 stories as fluently as ever. 
 
 But there were others to whom this lustrum 
 had brought a change. Old Langton was a 
 trifle heavier than before, and sat longer and 
 drank more after dinner. His sons were slightly 
 altered ; his grandsons were learning to be tan- 
 ners, Stephen of course excepted ; his wife still 
 sat by the parlour-window and uttered oracular 
 sentences ; and his daughter Harriet was per- 
 haps rather more mistress than ever, in conse- 
 quence of his growing indolence. Little Mary 
 Langton was still the sweetest-tempered and 
 most obedient of girls, and still Aunt Harriet's 
 patient victim. Her father and mother seemed 
 to have given her up to the strong-willed vir- 
 gin, who was too crafty to tyrannize over Mary 
 in the old man's presence. 
 
 Of the Branscombes, Idlechester and Kings- 
 leat knew little. Claudia had long rejoined 
 her father and brother in London. She was
 
 A LUSTRIBI. 105 
 
 the queen of that fast world in which Devil 
 Branscombe lived. Her rare beauty and wild 
 wit brought crowds of adorers to her feet. 
 Willing to flht to the utmost, she never went 
 beyond flirtation. Many a foohsh boy lost liis 
 heart to the Panther — as some coiner of nick- 
 names had called her — and liis money to her 
 father at the various games which occupied the 
 nights at his villa. Claudia was the gayest 
 creature in town, apparently : nobody di'essed 
 so superbly, or rode so daringly, or drove such 
 ponies as the Panther. Nobody had such a 
 wild, witching, reckless way. Her career was 
 all triumph. But there were moments, I know, 
 when Claudia's dark eyes filled with tears as 
 she thought of what might have been — as she 
 looked back upon wasted years, all gaiety and 
 frivoHty, without one touch of love. 
 
 The Rev. Walter Branscombe was as placid 
 and popular as ever — a model Rector of 
 Kingsleat, and a model Canon of the Cathedral. 
 And Winifred grew more and more saintly. 
 People fancied a halo or rainbow around that 
 pretty head of hers. She was still a little too
 
 106 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 extreme in her high-churchism for the Rector. 
 There was a young clergyman, good-looking 
 and fluent, and possessed of a little money, 
 who had started drowsy Idlechester by attempt- 
 ing to establish monasteries and nunneries, and 
 by walking the streets in a costume between 
 that of a ballet-girl and a blue-coat boy. He 
 called himself Father Remigius, and to him 
 Saint Winifred was wont to confess. Almost 
 simultaneously, a new dissenting sect had arisen 
 in the city : a little vivacious garrulous man 
 dropped suddenly from some unknown part of 
 America, and called himself " The Angel of the 
 Church in Idlechester," and established his cul- 
 tus in an unoccupied loft. His energy soon 
 brought him feminine followers, and among 
 them was Aunt Harriet. 
 
 Such was the position of some of our ac- 
 quaintances when Stephen, a lanky lad of six- 
 teen, came home for his midsummer holidays. 
 Aunt Harriet didn't lil?:e his arrival at all. He 
 had got beyond her, unpleasantly. He had 
 grown so tall that she could not reach to box 
 his ears, and she had grave doubts whether he
 
 A LUSTRu:\r. 107 
 
 wotild quietly submit to corporal punishment. 
 So, perforce, she left him alone ; and he did not 
 trouble her much, for he spent most of his time, 
 happily and not uselessly, at Mr. Page's. But 
 on one occasion he contrived to get in her way. 
 It was a sultry, di'owsy forenoon, and Stephen 
 was for some reason spending it at home. He 
 sat in the parlour window-seat, with his long 
 legs in a chah, reading Chapman's Homer, a 
 loan from his benefactor on the other side of the 
 street. His grandfather came in hurriedly and 
 said, 
 
 " Steve, nm up stau'S and tell your aunt I 
 want her." 
 
 Stephen obliged ; and foimd Aimt Harriet in 
 the well-known schoolroom, but ^ith only one 
 pupil, his quiet little Cousin Mary, who was 
 about two years yomiger than himself. Mary's 
 eyes were red with weeping, and she looked al- 
 together so miserable that when her persecutor 
 had gone down, stall's, Stephen tned to console 
 her. 
 
 " What has she been doing to you, Polly f he 
 asked.
 
 108 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Oh, it's always the same," sobbed the poor 
 child. " She gives me such long lessons I can't 
 learn them, and such a lot of sewing to do I 
 can't possibly get through it, and then she beats 
 me for not doing it." 
 
 "Why, she doesn't always beat you," said 
 Stephen; "does she?" 
 
 " Very nearly," said Mary. " I've got all 
 these tasks to learn by twelve o'clock, and 
 she says she'll whip me if I make a mistake, 
 and " 
 
 But Mary did not proceed, for Aunt Herriot 
 had entered the room, and was regarding her 
 with a terrible look. 
 
 " So, Miss," she exclaimed, " you dare tell such 
 dreadful stories — you dare " 
 
 And she rushed towards her poor unresisting 
 victim, to inflict condign punishment. But Ste- 
 phen intercepted her raised right arm, catch- 
 ing it by the wrist ; and not being ready with 
 a speech appropriate to the great occasion, ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " Why don't you hit one of your own size ?" 
 
 Never before had Aunt Harriet suffered such
 
 A LUSTRIBI. 109 
 
 an inclignity. She was speechless with rage. 
 The sudden shock of open rebellion made her 
 hysterical, and she at length gave utterance to 
 a shrill shiiek that was heard thi'oughout the 
 house. Old Mr. Langton, who was just coming 
 out of the parlom% walked heavily upstairs to 
 see what was the matter. Entermg the room, 
 he looked with considerable astonishment at his 
 hysterical daughter, his sobbing gi*anddaughter, 
 and especially at his grandson, who, commonly 
 the quietest of boys, seemed now daiing and de- 
 fiant. 
 
 " Now then," he said, "what's up?" 
 
 "It's Aimt Harriet," said Stephen, promptly. 
 " She's always pitcliing into poor little Polly, 
 and I went and stopped her." 
 
 The tanner swore a sonorous oath, after his 
 manner when annoyed. 
 
 "You ever lay your finger on little Polly 
 again," he said to his daughter, " and I'll break 
 every bone in yoiu' skin. Stephen, you're a good 
 lad ; here's half-a-crown for you. Cheer up, Polly, 
 come along with me : I'm going down to the 
 farm, and you shall ride with me."
 
 110 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Luckless Aimt Harriet was left solitary in the 
 schoolroom, thoroughly defeated. 
 
 Of coTirse this incident in nowise sweetened 
 her temper towards Stephen. So one evening, 
 not very dissimilar in its events from that in 
 which the boy's fate had, five years before, been 
 decided, she called again her two brothers 
 into council. What was to be done with him ? 
 Neither of them had any suggestion to make. 
 
 "He's been at school quite long enough," she 
 said. " It's time he was earning something." 
 
 "He's a liliely lad," said Uncle Tom; "but 
 we've got boys enough about the place. Better 
 apprentice him to some trade. There's Stokes 
 the druggist wants a 'prentice." 
 
 " That costs money," said Uncle Charles. " / 
 haven't got any to spare ; I don't know if t/ou 
 have." 
 
 " I wonder if he'd do for teacher in a school," 
 said Aunt Harriet. 
 
 And she produced a copy of a certain month- 
 ly periodical called the Evangelical Magazine, 
 wherein she had noticed an advertisement to the 
 effect that the Rev. Edward Hooper wanted a
 
 A LUSTRUM. Ill 
 
 junior assistant — " salary moderate." There 
 should be moderation in all things ; why not in 
 salaries ? 
 
 "He's too young for that work, I should 
 think," said Uncle Tom. " WHiy, he's only a 
 boy himself; how's he to keep other boys in 
 order?" 
 
 " Well, there's no harm in trying," said Aunt 
 Harriet. " He'll be off our hands, you know, 
 and I should think the wages would pay for his 
 clothes." 
 
 " I'll write to this Mr. Hooper," said Uncle 
 Charles, who rejoiced in a fine flowing manu- 
 script, and was the chief correspondent of the 
 establishment. 
 
 He wrote accordingly, and received an early 
 reply. 
 
 Mr. Hooper was a congregational minister in 
 the large village of Eastford, about twenty 
 miles from Idlechester. He received six pupUs, 
 and wanted a tutor to look after them out of 
 school hours, and to teach the younger ones. 
 The salary he offered was ten pounds a year to 
 begiQ with. He should be in Idlechester on
 
 112 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Saturday, and would call on Mr. Charles Lang- 
 ton. 
 
 He kept his appointment. He was one of the 
 kindest and simplest of men, this dissenting 
 minister. He was not clever, and he knew it ; 
 but he was thoroughly good, and he did not 
 know it. He received half a dozen pupils — all 
 he had room for ; and though they did not learn 
 very much, they led a very happy life, having 
 plenty to eat, and not bemg perpetually sub- 
 jected to physical torture. He saw Stephen 
 and thought him young, certainly — but that was 
 a fault that would mend every day. 
 
 "I wish I was as young," he said, in a plea- 
 sant tone that was not intelligible to sour Uncle 
 Charles and acrid Aunt Harriet. 
 
 "He is tall for his age," said Mr. Hooper. 
 " There is only one of the boys as old, and he 
 will go away at Christmas. My young friend 
 need not tell anybody how old he is." 
 
 So Stephen was engaged for the end of the 
 holidays; and Aunt Harriet, after seeing the 
 minister's good-tempered face, felt doubtful 
 whether she had obtained her end. She wanted
 
 A LUSTRUM. 113 
 
 her objectionable nephew to be uncomfortable, 
 and had pictured to herself a sordid establish- 
 ment like Mrs. Sadbrooke's. 
 
 Stephen himself, not knowing precisely what 
 he ought to think of his destiny, consulted Mr. 
 Page. That gentleman gave him kind encour- 
 agement. 
 
 " I have heard of this Mr. Hooper," he said. 
 " Indeed Lumley the bookseller, whom I deal 
 with, has a boy at his school. You'll be very 
 comfortable there. Your great difficulty, young 
 as you are, will be to maintain authority ; and 
 that difficulty you can only conquer by experi- 
 ence. And as you will have plenty of time and of 
 books be sure that you study ; work at Latin, and 
 Greek, and Mathematics ; try to educate your- 
 self : self-education is difficult, but it is the best 
 sort of education." 
 
 So when August came Stephen got upon the 
 box of the Eastford coach at the Half-Moon 
 Hotel in excellent spirits. Little Lumley, the 
 bookseller's son, went down with him. Old 
 Burroughs, the coachman, was a character ; he 
 told the most incredible stories about the places 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 tlirongh. wHch they passed, with an air of grave 
 truthfulness ; he was a skilful birdcatcher ; and as 
 they drove through miles of woodland, he kept 
 up a perpetual conversation with the feathered 
 dwellers in the trees. No man could wile a 
 nightingale so well as Burroughs ; so he always 
 had two or three of those delicious bii'ds at his 
 house at Eastford, and a whole college of canaries 
 hard at work learning to mock their music. The 
 trade in these canaries, bought at about a 
 shilling each and sold at half a guinea, was quite 
 a profitable affair for old Burroughs. Need I say 
 that one of his best performers was very soon 
 singing away for the benefit of sweet Anne 
 Page? 
 
 Mr. Hooper's family consisted of his wife, two 
 boys, and two girls. The boys were lazy good 
 tempered little rascals ; the elder girl, about Ste- 
 phen's own age, was at school at Idlechester. 
 Stephen, who now found himself promoted to 
 Mr. Langton, was soon very much at home ; his 
 natural quickness of intellect caused his pupils 
 to forget his youth; and, having considerable 
 talent for mathematics, wherein the worthy min-
 
 ALUSTRmi. 115 
 
 ister was rather slow, his utility was quickly re- 
 cognized. He had plenty of time for reading, 
 and followed Mr. Page's advice, giving himself 
 an education which was of necessity irregular 
 and desultory, but wliich perhaps suited his 
 temperament better than a more rigorous traiQ- 
 ing. And then, by way of recreation, there were 
 long walks through a fine country, on one side 
 densely wooded, on the other rising into bold 
 chalk downs that stretched leagues away 
 through half a dozen shii-es. On those free hiUs 
 Stephen, who had 'been growing too fast, found 
 health and strength ; and the delicate child 
 whom Claudia Branscombe had petted rapidly 
 developed into an active athletic specimen of 
 the human race. 
 
 By-and-by Miss Hooper, having finished her 
 education, came home permanently. What else 
 she may have learnt I know not, but of flirtation 
 she had become an absolute mistress. No sooner 
 did she see Stephen than she determined to vic- 
 timize that young gentleman. Now Stephen, 
 though at eleven he had felt a kind of poetic 
 love for sweet Anne Page, and though that 
 
 i2
 
 116 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 pretty child was always his visionary princess, 
 causing him to write many puerile verses, some 
 of which found their way to the Idlechester 
 Chronicle^ was tardy in his development. Like 
 Philip Hewson, in Clough's poem, he took a long 
 time to understand the relation of man to wo- 
 man. Miss Mary Ann Hooper found him quite 
 a clod. He could not make out what she 
 wanted. It was excessively provoking. There 
 he was, a fine-looking young fellow, living in 
 the same house with her, and she could not make 
 the least impression on him. She did not be- 
 lieve he knew the colour of her eyes. She con- 
 trived innumerable opportunities for flirtation — 
 got him to help her in her studies, to mend her 
 pens, to listen to her singing — all to no purpose. 
 If Stephen had been a statue he could not have 
 been less impressible. 
 
 At last a wonderful opportunity arrived. The 
 village of Eastford had not many amusements, 
 so any that offered were seized with avidity. 
 It was announced by placards and the sonorous 
 utterance of the bellman — that a Mr. Villiers, 
 with no end of letters after his name, would
 
 ALUSTRIDI. 117 
 
 give, at tlie Meclianics' Institute, a series of lec- 
 tiii'es on mesmeiism. Mr. Hooper went and all 
 his establishment. The audience were delight- 
 ed. Mr. Villiers was mai-vellously fluent, and if 
 he di'opped a good many h's, what matter ? He 
 brought with him a couple of subjects — a big 
 man to do the enduring part of the business, a 
 small boy to do the intelligent parts. The big 
 man had pins stuck into him, and sniffed strong 
 liquor ammonice, and kept his legs outstretched 
 while two or thi-ee heavy people sat upon them : 
 the small boy read wdth the back of his head and 
 the soles of his feet, and told young ladies their 
 Chi'istian names, and described the interiors of 
 people's houses. Then Jklr. Villiers went in for 
 phrenology, and gravely advocated the import- 
 ance of ascertaining what children's heads con- 
 tained before educating them. The Rev. Ed- 
 ward Hooper was deHghted, and brought the 
 lecturer home to supper. 
 
 After supper the man of science became most 
 agreeable, and fairly earned his hot gin and 
 water. He mesmerised one or two of the boys, 
 who had been allowed to sit up on this great
 
 118 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 occasion, and performed remarkable tricks with 
 them. He mesmerised Mary Ann Hooper, and 
 that young lady made two or three creditable 
 attempts at clairvoyance while in the trance. 
 He tried to mesmerise Stephen, but gave him 
 up with the remark that his was the mesme- 
 rismg temperament, and that he would make a 
 good operator. And so fluently did he talk 
 about the value of phrenology as a guide to 
 educators, and of mesmerism as a remedy for 
 disease, that the worthy minister bought a 
 manual, and a majoped out head, and resolved 
 to analyse his boys' intellects, and to mesmerise 
 all the sick people of his congregation. 
 
 So mesmerism and phrenology became the 
 fashion ; and Stephen, himself unsusceptible of 
 the mesmeric influence, found that he could 
 mesmerise almost anybody. The thing puzzled 
 him a good deal. He could not get it out of 
 his head that all these people who went mto 
 trances, and did astonishing things wliile en- 
 tranced, were in reality shamming. But why 
 should such a number of people jom in the im- 
 posture ? And some of them were highly re-
 
 A LUSTRUM. 119 
 
 spectable, and indeed notorious for their ex- 
 treme gravity. It was not likely to occiu* to 
 him that a young lady of a somewhat rigorous 
 dissenting sect, and educated in the strictest 
 propriety, might perhaps like to pretend to be 
 mesmerised in order to have a little fan ^vdthout 
 being scolded for it. Besides, there was the 
 fact that good Mr. Hooper contrived to effect 
 several cures. One paralytic old woman actu- 
 ally walked to chapel after his manipulations, 
 not having walked previously for years. It was 
 very odd. Stephen bought treatises on mes- 
 merism and nem-hypnotism, and studied the 
 Zoist, and the Critic — a journal which at that 
 time went in for mesmerism. I beheve it went 
 in for ever}i:hing imaginable by tm-ns, till at last 
 it went out altogether. 
 
 Sitting in the schoolroom one summer after- 
 noon, Stephen was solving equations. He had 
 a knack at such numerical conundrums, and so 
 liked them. The schoolroom was at the back 
 of the house, on the first floor ; there was a door 
 down a flight of steps to a courtyard, and from 
 the windows were seen Mr. Hooper's chapel, a
 
 120 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 rectangular building of red brick, and its rather 
 picturesque grave-yards — a capital prospect for 
 a professed ghost-seer like Stephen ; but his de- 
 veloping animalism had tended to lessen his 
 connexion with the preternatural world, and he 
 had not seen a ghost for a long time. There 
 came a tap at the inner door of the schoolroom, 
 and Miss Hooper entered. 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Langton," she said, speaking in 
 italics, " I hope I don't disturb your studies, but 
 I've got such a bad headache, and I want you to 
 mesmerise me, and see if you can cure it." 
 
 Stephen professed strong doubts as to his 
 ability to operate, but Miss Hooper was quite 
 sm-e that he would succeed. So she placed her- 
 self in a chair, and he stood over her and ma- 
 nipulated. 
 
 Always provided that a man is not weak in 
 the back or in the eyes, mesmerising a nice girl 
 is rather a pleasant amusement. Bending over 
 her, holding her hands in yours, you gaze into 
 her eyes, and her fragrant breath ascends to- 
 wards you. Stephen was rather weak in the 
 back, thanks to his quick growth ; but his eyes
 
 A LUSTRUM. 121 
 
 were all right, whence doubtless his mesmeric 
 success. And so, after he had looked into Mary 
 Ann Hooper's eyes for a minute or two, those 
 orbs filled with tears, and the lids gradually 
 closed over them, and the young lady was mes- 
 merised. 
 
 When Stephen saw her lying back in her chair, 
 satisfactorily entranced, it occurred to him that 
 he should Hke very much to know whether she 
 was really mesmerised or only shamming. How 
 should he ascertain ? He began by putting her 
 thi'ough her facings, according to Mr. Villier's 
 formula. He touched her organ of combative- 
 ness, and she tried to box his ears ; of tune, 
 and she sang ; of philoprogenitiveness, and she 
 hugged an imaginary baby ; of veneration, and 
 she dropped upon her knees and said her pray- 
 ers ; of amativeness, and I am sorry to say she 
 embraced him. He comatized her arm, and then 
 pinched it rather sharply, and she didn't scream. 
 She was the most docile of subjects. But was 
 she really in the mystical trance of Mesmer ? 
 
 This was what perplexed Stephen, and he could 
 not hit upon any way of testing her sincerity. He
 
 122 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 walked up and down the room, trying to invent 
 a decisive experiment. At last, though a bash- 
 ful youngster naturally, he thought of some- 
 thing which it seemed to him must surely solve 
 the problem. It took him some time to make 
 up his mind to do so daring a deed. However, 
 remembering that it was all in the cause of 
 science, and summoning to his side that royal 
 aphorism, Honi soit qui mal y pense — ^he positively 
 took off one of Miss Mary Ann's garters ! She 
 did not flinch, and the truth of mesmerism was 
 established. 
 
 It, shall I say ? — ought to have been. Ste- 
 phen, having begun to be sceptical, found it 
 difficult to conquer his doubts. And he argued 
 thus: Miss Hooper pretends to be mesmerised. 
 If she is shamming, she would not like to be 
 convicted of shamming. Now, when I took off 
 her garter, if she had allowed her modesty to 
 termiuate the imposture, her character for truth- 
 fulness would have been lost. But now, when 
 she wakes, or pretends to wake, she may of 
 course wonder what has become of the article in 
 question.
 
 A LUSTRUM. 123 
 
 And then Stephen had to decide whether he 
 had better put the garter on again, or not. At 
 last he resolved to retain it ; so he locked it up 
 in a ricketty quadrupedal desk which was his 
 post of authority. And the next thing that he 
 did was to stai-t for a walk, without awakening 
 his patient. He was determined to see whether, 
 if left alone, she would wake of herself, a thing 
 which, according to the mesmeric theory, he had 
 learnt could never happen. So away he strode 
 down the long zigzag street of Eastford, leav- 
 ing Miss Hooper alone. 
 
 Now, to reveal a humiliating truth, Mary Ann 
 was shamming. And, when she heard Stephen's 
 departing step upon the paved courtyard below, 
 she arose from the chair in which she had acted 
 her part so well, and stretched herself, feeling 
 rather cramped, and reflected bitterly on Ste- 
 phen's stolidity. 
 
 " Well," she said to herself, " he shan't mes- 
 merise me again in a hurry. I never saw such 
 a stupid fellow. The idea of his leaving me 
 here asleep ! Well, I'm not going to stay till 
 the boys come in, or perhaps papa."
 
 124 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 So off the young lady went ; and when Ste- 
 phen saw her in the evenmg, he merely hoped 
 that her headache was better. There was no 
 flirtation to be got out of him, evidently, even 
 with the potent aid of mesmerism. 
 
 No : Stephen, even when the lustrum had 
 twice passed over his head, was a mere boy 
 still. His growth was slow, both physical and 
 mental. In due time he came of age legally ; 
 but of age individually he was not, until events 
 suddenly brought out his latent powers, and 
 aroused his dormant energies.
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF AGE. 
 
 T) Y a garden fount which we have seen before, 
 ■^ on a tui'fen mound beneath an acacia, are 
 two whom we know. Sweet Anne Page leaned 
 idly against the tree, her broad straw hat in her 
 hand, her beautiftd hak touched by the tints of 
 sunlight that dropped thi'ough the long light 
 leaves. Stephen looked down into her calm 
 brown eyes — tranquil eyes, beneath eyebrows 
 of a perfect arch, and a fair smooth forehead — 
 and said : — 
 
 " Do you love me, Anne ?" 
 
 It was a grave question to ask this charming 
 child at the thi^eshold of her seventeenth year ; 
 but no blush tinged her fair cheek, nor did the 
 lids drop over those tender eyes, as she re- 
 plied.
 
 126 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 *' You know I love you, Stephen." 
 
 Then he stooped, and pressed his lips to hers. 
 He had never asked her this question before, 
 but, as she said, he knew she loved him. And 
 her father also knew it, and was satisfied. He 
 had faith in Stephen Langton, as well as liking 
 for liim. So, in these halcyon days, the boy 
 and girl enjoyed their love-dream. It was the 
 honeymoon of the heart ; Stephen was trustful, 
 and ineffably content. Anne was sweet, sweet, 
 sweet. No coquetry about her, no teasing ten- 
 dency, no desire to quarrel with her lover for 
 the delightful pleasure of making it up again. 
 No, Anne Page realized the delicious old word, 
 sweetheart. She was all love, to the very core. 
 
 Yet, do you know ? I doubt whether either 
 she or Stephen had yet learnt what love meant. 
 
 As they strolled in the shade from one gar- 
 den pleasaunce to another, they were joined by 
 Mr. Page. 
 
 " Stephen," he said, " I want you to drive 
 over to the Kingsleat Library, and ask Mr. 
 Lonsdale if he has a work whose name I have 
 wi'itten down. It is very rare, but I think it
 
 OF AGE. 127 
 
 may be there. I would not interrupt youi* plea- 
 sant conversation, but I don't feel quite well 
 enough to go myself. Anne should go with 
 you, but we are expecting Miss Branscombe, 
 and she must be at home to receive her." 
 
 " I will go with pleasure, su'," said Stephen ; 
 and just raised Anne's slender white fingers to 
 his Hps, and then went off to order out the 
 phaeton. 
 
 Miss Branscombe — Claudia Branscombe, mi- 
 married still, though now advanced in her third 
 decade — was coming to stay with her young 
 cousin. It has not yet been mentioned that the 
 late Mrs. Page was a half-sister of Devil Brans- 
 combe's and the Rector's, a good many years 
 younger than they. And Stephen had not 
 long been gone when Claudia arrived. Time 
 had rather ripened her beauty ; and, though a 
 keen eye might have perceived that the fresh- 
 ness was gone which lay upon her cheeks like 
 the devry bloom on a peach in those days when 
 she romped with the Bishop's wife, yet there 
 was beauty enough left for a multitude of ordi- 
 nary women. And verily the Panther's was
 
 128 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 such a lithe lissom leaping beauty, such a peril- 
 ous charm, such a magic of delicious daring, of 
 defiant tamelessness. 
 
 Devil Branscombe was in difficulties, nobody 
 knew exactly where, and he didn't mean that 
 anybody should. The Seraph was at Bagneres 
 de Luchon, making love to a princess, or some- 
 thing of the sort. He had a penchant for prin- 
 cesses. So Claudia had invited herself to Idle- 
 chester — and here she was. 
 
 " Oh, you quiet little darling !" she exclaimed 
 to Anne Page, as that young lady showed her 
 the arrangements made for her comfort. " Why, 
 you have grown quite a pretty girl ! And you 
 are so delightfully young — you've all the fun to 
 come. Now, you sly puss, tell me, has anybody 
 ventm-ed to fall in love with you yet ?" 
 
 It did not take Claudia long to find out her 
 cousin's love-secret. 
 
 " Stephen Langton," she said, reflectively, 
 when she had elicited the name. " Why, that's 
 the nice little boy I took a fancy to when he 
 was at school somewhere near Kingsleat. A 
 blue-eyed, light-haired little fellow, who used
 
 OF AGE. 129 
 
 to see ghosts. Is he old enough to fall in love ? 
 Dear me, why, he was a mere baby." 
 
 " He is ever so much older than I am," said 
 Anne, rather indignant at her lover's being 
 talked of as a child. 
 
 " Is he really ? Then how old must / be. 
 Cousin Anne ? Tell me that. Old enough to 
 be your mamma nearly, little one. And where 
 is Mr. Stephen Langton now?" 
 
 "He's gone to Kingsleat for papa. You'll 
 see him at dinner." 
 
 " And does he see ghosts still ? But there, I 
 won't tease you, Anne," she said, kissing her. 
 " He only sees babies in your eyes, I suppose, as 
 some old poet says." 
 
 " What do you mean f asked Anne. 
 
 " Why, don't you know? Look into my eyes, 
 dear. There, don't you see a pretty Httle girl 
 meach?" 
 
 " I see my own reflexion." 
 
 " WeU, that's what I mean. But you'll see 
 it a great deal better in Mr. Stephen Langton's 
 bright blue eyes than in those black ones of 
 mine. Be sure you try when he comes back." 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 The Kingsleat library, to which Stephen was 
 gone, was an ancient institution. Its Librarian, 
 Mr. Lonsdale, received two hundred a year and 
 a residence — a very quaint residence indeed, 
 the principal sitting-room being over an arch- 
 way which crossed the steep street of the little 
 town. By the founder's will, the Librarian was 
 of necessity a graduate of Oxford ; and the ap- 
 pointment was vested in three persons, the Rec- 
 tor of Kingsleat, the Mayor of Kingsleat, and 
 the Head Master of Kingsleat Grammar School. 
 After the Libraiian's salary was paid, all the 
 surplus funds went to the purchase of books, of 
 which the choice lay with the Librarian alone, 
 the statutes directing him to make a complete 
 collection of the best English literature. The 
 library was a remarkably good one, but very 
 little used ; only a few of the More thoughtful 
 inhabitants of Kingsleat ever sat in its quiet 
 rooms, whose wide windows opened on a plea- 
 sant garden. Not long before there had been 
 an attempt to turn Mr. Lonsdale out of his 
 situation as Librarian, and made by no less a 
 personage than the Duke of Axmmster. Kings-
 
 OF AGE. 131 
 
 leat was a pocket borough of that haughty- 
 Duke's ; but of late years the electors had once 
 or twice ventui-ed to dispute his will, and had 
 succeeded in returning one member of their own 
 choice. It looked very much as if his gi'ace 
 would have to content himself with selecting 
 only one of the two members. This sorely an- 
 noyed the proudest of the ducal rank. He 
 tm-ned out with shght ceremony a good many 
 luckless shopkeepers who had dared to vote 
 against his nominee, and he was anxious to 
 revenge his defeat on several others, among 
 whom was Mr. Lonsdale. Now the three trus- 
 tees, the Mayor and Rector and Head Master, 
 if unanimous, could dismiss the Librarian. So 
 the Duke sent Mr. Drax, the great Mr. Drax, to 
 those three gentlemen. 
 
 The Mayor, a respectable tea-dealer, would 
 do anything to obHge his grace and Mr. Drax. 
 Mr. Drax might consider it settled, so far as he 
 was concerned. 
 
 The Rev. Walter Branscombe dined pretty 
 often with the Duke, when that nobleman was 
 at Beau Sejour — a little gem of a place near 
 
 k2
 
 132 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Kingsleat, which the Duke much affected. And 
 
 a haunch, than which 
 
 " Finer or fatter 
 Never ranged in a forest, or smoked on a platter/^ 
 
 came not seldom from the Duke's deer-park to 
 the Rectory. So the Reverend Walter was not 
 slow to choose between the great potentate and 
 the Librarian, and assured his grace's agent of 
 his willingness to punish Mr. Lonsdale for 
 venturmg to have political opinions contrary to 
 those of the Duke. 
 
 Mr. Drax had knowingly left the hardest part 
 of the negotiation till the last. Dr. Winter — 
 the " severe Winter," as his pupils called him — 
 was a man who chose to tliink for himself. He 
 was a St. John's College man, third wrangler of 
 his year, and a most elegant writer of Greek 
 iambics. Under his resolute and brilliant rule 
 Kingsleat Grammar School had beaten in uni- 
 versity honours the larger establishment in the 
 cathedral city. He was a determined opponent 
 of the modern sloppy system which teaches a 
 little of everything ; he held by his classics and 
 mathematics with an obstinacy which lacerated
 
 OF AGE. 133 
 
 the hearts of the trustees, who were terribly 
 afraid of him. ^Vhen he preached before the 
 university he chose as a topic, " the Irregular 
 Element in the Church," and horrified the ortho- 
 dox by maintaining that the Apostle Paul was 
 the first of the dissenters. He had wi'itten a 
 'book whose theologic teaching was popularly 
 believed to be abominably heretical ; but luckily 
 it was in classical Latin, and so the erudite 
 editors of the Record and Morning Advertiser 
 could not criticise it. He had pubHshed a 
 pamphlet, subjecting to merciless analysis one 
 of Bishop Bythesea's charges ; and had pro- 
 duced a dreadful Greek epigram on the Dean's 
 marriage. His keen logic, dry humour, and 
 sound scholarship made him more than a match 
 for any opponent he was likely to encounter in 
 the narrow arena of the diocese of Idlechester. 
 
 The great lawyer was tall, big-headed, white- 
 waistcoated, corpulent. The doctor was a 
 middle-sized man, nervous and active, always 
 in capital condition, from being a lover of long 
 walks. Mr. Drax called at the grammar-school 
 just as the morning walk was over. In came
 
 134 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Winter in cap and gown, the former battered, 
 the latter a mere fragment of its integral form. 
 The solicitor opened the case very cautiously. 
 
 " Pardon me, Mr. Drax," said the doctor, when 
 he had uttered a few sentences, " but this is a 
 serious matter. If I understand aright, the 
 Duke of Axminster has some complaint to make 
 against Mr. Lonsdale's conduct as Librarian. 
 Any such complaint must come to me directly 
 from the Duke himself. I cannot listen to law- 
 yers or agents in such a matter." 
 
 Mr. Drax was baffled, and the Duke was ex- 
 tremely angry. But he did not give it up. 
 There happened a few weeks later to be some 
 ecclesiastic festival at Idlechester. The Duke 
 attended, contrary to his custom, and much to 
 the delight of the Bishop, his sole object being 
 to meet the doctor. He thought that the im- 
 mense honour of being courteously addressed 
 by so great a prince as himself, would completely 
 subjugate this schoolmaster. There was a cold 
 collation at the Palace. As the great man sat, 
 with rubicund expressionless face and glassy 
 iminterested eyes, at the right hand of the
 
 OF AGE. 135 
 
 Bishop's lady, he asked our Kttle Mend Ciss to 
 point out Dr. Winter. She indicated the doc- 
 tor's keen and thoughtM face half-way down 
 the table. The Duke sent a footman to ask the 
 doctor to take wine with him. The doctor as- 
 sented, of course. His grace fancied that, when 
 luncheon was over, Dr. Winter would be drawn 
 towards him by some social magnetism, but 
 nothmg of the kind took place. At last, by a 
 series of skilful evolutions, the Duke and the 
 doctor were somehow brought together ; and 
 after a few common-place observations, his 
 grace began to talk of the luckless Librarian. 
 Dr. Winter cut him short at once. 
 
 " It is not a matter to be discussed here, your 
 Grace must admit. I \vill make an appointment 
 to hear what you have to say, if that seems de- 
 sirable." 
 
 The Duke of Axminster was filled with silent 
 rage. This contumacious pedagogue was the 
 first man who had ever thwarted hun. Still 
 he persisted in his project, and invited Dr. AVin- 
 ter to lunch at Beau Sejour. The Duchess and 
 the Lady Gwendoline Araminta were all smiles
 
 136 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 and sweetness. You might almost have 
 thought the younger lady in love with the 
 middle-aged schoolmaster. Dr. Winter liked 
 claret, and the Duke gave him a bottle whose 
 bouquet was like a lyric of Anacreon's. The 
 doctor enjoyed his whie, and was much amused, 
 for he knew well what was coming. 
 
 It came. Of course, the Duke of Axminster, 
 a cabinet minister, accustomed to perorate in 
 stately periods m the House of Lords, put the 
 question with lofty plausibility. But Dr. Win- 
 ter was too keen for him. He soon brought him 
 to admit that Mr. Lonsdale's sole crime was 
 voting against the Duke's nommee. 
 
 *' If Mr. Lonsdale had not done his duty," 
 said the doctor, " I hope that I, in common with 
 the other trustees, should have discovered it 
 vdthout your Grace's kind interference. But I 
 really think it would be hard to find so able and 
 conscientious a Librarian." 
 
 So the Duke was foiled utterly. As Dr. Win- 
 ter was taking his leave he said, 
 
 "Your Grace was at Eton under Keate, I 
 think?"
 
 OF AGE. 137 
 
 The Duke replied affii-matively, little thinking 
 that he was fui*nishing material for a biting epi- 
 gram, which should describe him as too great a 
 bully for even Keate's untiring bnch to cure. 
 Such was his fate, however; and AYinter did 
 not conceal the cajoleries to wliich he had been 
 subjected m order to induce him to persecute 
 Mr. Lonsdale ; and the affair did a good deal of 
 harm to the ducal influence. Mighty magnates 
 lilie the Duke of Axminster ought not to run 
 the risk of being laughed at. 
 
 At the Kingsleat Library, whither he often 
 went for Mr. Page, Stephen had made acquaint- 
 ance with a youth nearly his own age, Hum- 
 phrey Morfill, a nephew of Dr. Winter's. The 
 doctor, who had no childi'en of his own, had 
 made a scholar and mathematician of this young 
 man, who was now at Cambridge, at his micle's 
 college. Morfill was born full of talent and am- 
 bition, and had already made up his mind to go 
 to the bar, and to enter Parliament, and to 
 occupy a high position. He was fall of faith in 
 himself, of disbelief in failure. He and Stephen 
 took to one another, natm^ally, but Stephen
 
 138 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 could not help envying those trained and prac- 
 tised faculties which enabled his friend to do 
 exactly what he wanted to do. Lord Stanley 
 once talked of men who are described as having 
 great command of language, when probably it 
 would be more true to say that language had a 
 great command of them — because they have 
 about as much command over it as a man has 
 over a runaway horse. Now there are men 
 (Lord Stanley is one) who have perfect com- 
 mand of their own faculties : while there are 
 others whose faculties are sometimes too strong 
 for them, and who, purposing to do a cer- 
 tain thing, are constrained to do something else, 
 which may perhaps be a better thing. Mr. Ro- 
 bert Lytton, better known as Owen Meredith, 
 put this fairly in the line — " Genius does what 
 it must, but talent does what it caw." As, how- 
 ever, he seems to have borrowed everything he 
 ever said, I suppose the remark really belongs 
 to somebody else. Well, Humphrey Morfill 
 knew his own powers accurately, and always 
 did what he attempted to do, while Stephen 
 Langton, making vain endeavours in every di-
 
 OF AGE. 139 
 
 rection, seemed always stretching towards the 
 unattainable. He was too apt to ascribe to his 
 defective and desultory education what really 
 belonged to his idiosyncrasy. 
 
 Stephen and Humphrey met to-day at the 
 Library, and the latter asked his friend to drive 
 him to Idlechester, where he had some business. 
 So they started together, and talked as they 
 went, and Stephen told Humphrey of Miss 
 Branscombe's advent. 
 
 " Ah !" said Morfill, " I recollect those Brans- 
 combes. A queer lot, rather. But this Miss 
 Branscombe must be getting quite an old 
 woman." 
 
 " Well, yes. I remember her ten years ago 
 or more, when she came and took me away 
 from school — she and the Bishop's wife. She 
 used to drive two ponies tandem. I suppose she 
 must be very much altered." 
 
 And Stephen fell to considering whether the 
 beautiful Claudia of his vag*ue reminiscence was 
 likely to have developed into a creature like 
 Aunt Harriet. 
 
 "Are you going back to that dissenting
 
 140 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 parson's at Eastford ? " asked Humphrey. 
 
 " Yes : there's nothing else for me to do. I 
 suppose you'll write to me from Cambridge now 
 and then ?" 
 
 " I believe you — and send you all manner of 
 university news, from St. John's College pro- 
 blems downwards. By the way, here's a- quad- 
 ratic my beloved uncle gave me this morning. 
 I know you like those things." 
 
 And he handed to Stephen a scrap of paper 
 whereon was written, in Dr. Winter's quaint 
 MS.— 
 
 25 + V ( 
 
 X J X 
 
 " I suppose it's only a catch," said Stephen. 
 " They are just like conundrums or rebuses, these 
 things." 
 
 " True, but they're amusing, and rather puz- 
 zling." 
 
 "For girls," said Stephen, contemptuously. 
 *' I don't care to see mathematics playing tricks. 
 However, I'll solve the equation, to please 
 
 you." 
 
 " I bet you a tankard of bitter, you don't,"
 
 OF AGE. 141 
 
 laughed Humphrey. " And we'll stop now at 
 the Half Moon, and you shall pay for the ale in 
 anticipation." 
 
 In the cool bar parlour of the old Half Moon, 
 they were served with then* amari aliquid by 
 " Jack " Winslow. Jack's real name was Emily; 
 and she was the only daughter and spoilt child 
 of the rotund old landlord ; and she was a fine 
 flirting brmiette, given to wildish tricks, but 
 without a morsel of harm in her. Her father 
 was the principal owner of the mail coaches on 
 the Eastford road, and she used occasionally to 
 drive the fiist stage down, and come back with 
 the up coach, very much to the disgust of sober 
 and timid passengers. But old Winslow couldn't 
 be persuaded to interfere. 
 
 " I've given her her head," he used to say, 
 '* and I ain't strong enough in the arm to pull 
 her in." 
 
 " Well, Jack," said Humphrey, "how jolly you 
 look ! it cools one to come m here and see you 
 this broiling weather." 
 
 " You're always cool enough, Mr. MorfiU," she 
 said.
 
 142 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Well, and what's the news, Jack ? Have you 
 upset the coach yet ?" 
 
 " I'm not quite such a duffer as you are to 
 drive," she said. '^ Why, I thought you were 
 going to let the Doctor's old pony run away 
 with you the other day. I hope you do your 
 Latin and Greek better than you handle the 
 ribbons, or you'll be plucked, safe as eggs." 
 
 " Come, Humphrey, it's no good," said Ste- 
 phen, ^'Jack carries too many guns for you. 
 What is the news, Miss Wmslow, if you happen 
 to know any ?" 
 
 For Jack was Idlechester's chief gossip, and 
 picked up all the fragments of intelligence. 
 
 ^' The only thuig I know isn't news to you, I 
 expect. Master Stephen. Miss Claudia's come 
 to town, and gone to Mr. Page's. I saw her 
 come in by the coach." 
 
 " How was she looking f asked Humphrey. 
 '^ Very old!" 
 
 " Old ! No, prettier than ever she did. I 
 never saw such eyes or such hair — or such a 
 figure, for that matter. She is a beauty, if you 
 like."
 
 OF AGE. 143 
 
 " Whj Stephen and I were just saying how 
 old she must be getting. How old is she, 
 Jackf 
 
 " I don't know. Five-and-twenty, perhaps — 
 though she don't look it. Father, how old is 
 Miss Claudia?" 
 
 For the burly landlord had just come in from 
 the bar, with a tumbler in his hand, and some- 
 thing in the tumbler. 
 
 " How old ? Well, there's Master Raphael, 
 he was born just afore I married, that's over 
 thirty years ago. And then there was an- 
 other boy, as died — Claude, they called him. 
 And when the gal was born, they called her 
 Claudia, after him like. Oh, she's about eight- 
 and-twenty, I should think. Time she married, 
 if she's ever going to." 
 
 " Perhaps her father's Hke you," said Jack, 
 " and don't want to part with her." 
 
 The old gentleman laughed uproariously. 
 
 " Why, you hussy," he said, " anybody might 
 have you for a screw of baccy and a hght.' 
 
 " Come," said Stephen, " we must be off. I'm 
 rather cm-ious to see Miss Branscombe."
 
 144 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 So the young men departed, and Stephen, de- 
 positing his friend at the door of the booksel- 
 ler's in High Street, went on to Mr. Page's. It 
 was approaching the dinner hour. The ladies 
 were lounging in the garden, where an occa- 
 sional breeze freshened the drowsy sultry at- 
 mosphere. Stephen delivered his message to 
 Mr. Page, and went in search of them. 
 
 He found them in the very nook where he 
 and his sweetheart had talked of love that 
 morning. Claudia, leaning back against the 
 acacia, caught in the placid darkness of her eyes 
 a light from the unclouded heaven. Sweet Anne 
 Page was gazing at her, as if in marvel at such 
 surpassing beauty. So silent were they, that 
 Stephen, who came towards them across the 
 turf, heard not a sound save the plash of the 
 fountain, and the low coo of a brown ringdove 
 on an acacia bough. 
 
 Claudia greeted him pleasantly, though it was 
 hard for her to recognize in this tall youth the 
 Httle boy whom she had petted years before, 
 and for whom her night-dress had been a world 
 too long. Both remembered the incident dis-
 
 OF AGE. 145 
 
 tinctly enough : to Stephen indeed that snatch 
 of holiday came like an oasis in the desert of 
 long unhappy schooldays. After a while, the 
 conversation grew freer and more fluent ; and 
 Claudia began to talk in that sparkling style 
 which only women who have seen society can 
 command. It was amazing to Stephen, just of 
 an age to court that difficult learning wliich is 
 called knowledge of the world : while to the in- 
 nocent babyhood of sweet Anne Page it was all 
 very wonderfid but very unintelligible. 
 
 To a youth of the poetic temperament, who 
 has once or twice plunged in the ocean of 
 thought, but who stands shivering on the verge 
 of the ocean of life, there is no developing power 
 hke that of a beautiful and brilKant woman, 
 older than himself, learned in the world's ways. 
 The bright- winged butterfly, which one well 
 might deem a mere caprice of beauty amid sum- 
 mer's pageant, has its uses in the world, and 
 bears fertihty to many an unnoticed flower which 
 otherwise would never grow to fruit. Even 
 so, the butterfly fancies of Claudia fertilized the 
 restless imagination of Stephen Langton. He 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 learnt from her something of the brilliant life of 
 the supreme society in a great capital. He 
 heard from her piquant lips sketches of men 
 and women of renown, men and women whose 
 .fame was unknown in stagnant Idlechester. 
 She knew the great poet, had chatted with the 
 great statesman, had flirted with the famous 
 philosopher, had been the daring heresiarch's 
 partner in the Lancers. To Stephen all this 
 was an apocalypse. To our sweet Anne Page it 
 was an enigma as unsolvable as the epitaph 
 on ^lia Lselia Crispis. 
 
 And just at this time it happened that Anne 
 had scanty time to try and understand, for Mr. 
 Page had another visitor — ^his mother. The old 
 lady resided in the North, and was averse from 
 travel, but she had taken a sudden fancy to see 
 her grandcliild, and arrived at Idlechester with- 
 in a very few days of Claudia Branscombe. 
 Anne's grandmamma monopolized her ; whence 
 it happened that Miss Branscombe and Stephen 
 were thrown very much together. Both enjoy- 
 ed it. Claudia liked the innocent, unspoilt 
 freshness of the boy's poetic mind ; while Ste-
 
 OF AGE. 147 
 
 phen derived a startling stimulus from Claudia's 
 suggestive conversation. He hardly knew him- 
 self; he felt like the aloe, whose century's sleep 
 is succeeded by a sudden floral development, 
 consummate and colossal. He found himself 
 forming opinions where heretofore he had 
 doubted, and measuring his own capacities 
 mth the capacities of men whose greatness 
 he had deemed vaguely gigantic, and panting 
 to join the hot conflict from which hitherto he 
 had shrunk in dismay. As yet his fair ideal had 
 been a calm life in this sleepy old cathedral 
 city, with sweet Anne Page to lay her loving 
 cheek by his, and dwell with him peacefully. 
 He had felt, with Tennyson's eaters of the 
 lotos — 
 
 " There is no joy but calm !" 
 
 But now there came upon him, sudden, strong, 
 irresistible, the wandering spirit of Odysseus ; 
 he longed to see many cities of men, and to 
 know their manners ; the charmed song of the 
 Sirens breathed itself upon the wind which 
 reached him from those shores remote ; he pined 
 
 l2
 
 148 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 for the perilous finiit of the tree of knowledge of 
 good and evil. 
 
 I am afraid he almost forgot sweet Anne 
 Page — pretty little plmnp innocent ignorant 
 Anne, in dntifal and affectionate attendance on 
 her doting old grandmamma. He and Claudia 
 were inseparable. It had long been his wont to 
 spend almost his whole day at Mr. Page's during 
 the vacation. So he used to come across to 
 breakfast, and after breakfast to stroll with 
 Claudia in the beautiful gardens or beneath the 
 great cathedral's icy shadow ; and after lunch 
 to drive her on some pleasant road in Mr. Page's 
 quiet phaeton, very different vehicle from that 
 fast tandem-cart to which he had clung in 
 his boyhood ; and after dinner again to loiter 
 with her through the dim garden alleys, odor- 
 ous and cool. Of com-se there were days when 
 this dehcious monotony was interrupted. Clau- 
 dia had to go to dinners and evening parties, 
 and to keep up her acquaintance with Mrs. By- 
 thesea and other fair friends ; but Stephen had, 
 on the whole, a very joyous tranquil time dur- 
 ing those sultry summer days, and its result
 
 OF AGE. 149 
 
 upon him was wonderfal. Morally and intel- 
 lectually he came of age. 
 
 Years after the remembrance of that halcyon 
 time was dear to him, and he celebrated it in 
 sonorous Spenserian stanzas, whereof I quote 
 the last only : — 
 
 " Could I arrest swift Time upon his flight, 
 
 And from his seat drag down the Charioteer 
 Never yet weary, this same golden light 
 
 Should always brood on woodland, wold and mere — 
 Always this perfect climax of the year 
 
 Should fin poetic breasts with endless mirth — 
 Always the white sky should be tempest- clear — 
 
 And, like a sea on which no storms have birth. 
 Summer should always sleep upon the shores of earth." 
 
 Now, although all Idlechest^r was of opinion 
 that Stephen Langton was a mere boy, and a 
 very silly insignificant boy, it could not pass 
 by without remarking his intimacy with Miss 
 Branscombe. Claudia herself, having dined one 
 day at the palace, when the bishop was ia Lon- 
 don attendtng the House, received a slight lec- 
 ture from Mrs. Bythesea on the subject. Bishops' 
 wives of necessity grow grave and decorous 
 more rapidly than other women ; and I verily
 
 150 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 believe, with all Claudia's daring, she would 
 not now have ventiu-ed to throw her friend 
 upon a bed and tickle her. But she wasn't go- 
 ing to stand lecturing, at any rate. 
 
 " Look here, Cis," she said in reply, " flirta- 
 tion is my profession. When I come doAvn to 
 this dull place I just flirt with a good-looking 
 boy to keep my hand in ; it doesn't hurt liim, 
 and it pleases me. What do I, who have lived 
 in London, care for the empty scandal of a 
 wretched little country place like Idlechester ?" 
 
 " But really, my dear " 
 
 " But really, my dear," interrupted Claudia 
 with impetuous mockery, "you have grown 
 into quite a lecturing old woman. You ain't 
 half such fan as you were ten years ago. 1 
 shall do just as I like, Cis, and if you don't 
 bother I won't quarrel with you ; and if you do, 
 I declare I'll make love to the Bishop when he 
 comes back, and you know he couldn't resist 
 me, and you'd cry yonr eyes out with jea- 
 lousy." 
 
 Mrs. Bythesea was the only person who dared 
 say a word to Claudia, but Stephen got chaffed
 
 OF AGE. 151 
 
 by several members of his family. His cousin 
 Charles had grown up a provincial dandy, awk- 
 ward and smai-t ; his cousin Henry, Uncle Tom's 
 eldest son, had developed into vulgarity and 
 dissipation. Each of these young gentlemen had 
 his jest about Stephen's being sweet upon Miss 
 Branscombe ; but Stephen (who, you see, was 
 improving) declared he would horsewhip the 
 next who said a word to him on the subject, 
 and they were silent. He could not, however, 
 horsewhip Aunt Harriet, who one day de- 
 nounced Claudia's conduct as shockingly im- 
 proper. Stephen, cunning rascal, promptly re- 
 plied — 
 
 " I wonder you don't tell my grandfather 
 what you think of her. Aunt Harriet." 
 
 That amiable lady knew better. 
 
 Walking down the High-street in search of 
 amusement that afternoon — for it was one of 
 those on which Claudia had an engagement — 
 he loitered into a bookseller's shop. There he 
 met Humphrey Morfill, looking at the London 
 papers. They left arm-in-arm, and Humphrey 
 said —
 
 152 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 "You look savage, Stephen. What's the 
 matter?" 
 
 "Oh! I don't know — people are such fools. 
 That absurd aunt of mme has just been abusing 
 Claudia — Miss Branscombe, I mean — -just be- 
 cause she doesn't find my company very stu- 
 pid." 
 
 " Well," said Morfill, " from all I hear you 
 and she are pretty thick. I don't suppose 
 you'll fall in love with a woman old enough to 
 be — I won't say your mother, but your aunt — 
 though she is deucedly pretty ; still when two 
 people are inseparable there's sure to be gossip. 
 And, if I may ask, do you call her Claudia when 
 you're talking to her?" 
 
 "I believe I do," said Stephen with some 
 hesitation. " But there are such a lot of conso- 
 nants in Miss Branscombe." 
 
 " Egad ! that's good. Come, let's have a drop 
 of seltzer and brandy at Winslow's. It's atro- 
 ciously thu'sty weather." 
 
 I don't think Stephen had been at the Half 
 Moon since the day on which Claudia arrived. 
 Jack Winslow received him with a very low
 
 OF AGE. 153 
 
 curtsey indeed, and asked him when the mar- 
 riage was to come off. 
 
 "There, you see, Humphrey," he said, sa- 
 vagely. 
 
 " Take care, Jack, or you'll get into difficul- 
 ties with this young gentleman ; he's fierce this 
 morning." 
 
 " Well, but," said she, " I'm not to blame if 
 people talk when they see a fine couple prepar- 
 ing for the parson. I must listen, you know." 
 
 " Go and get the seltzer, Jack," said Morfill, 
 " or there'll be mischief done. Oh ! here's Win- 
 slow. I say, landlord, that daughter of youi'S 
 is getting saucy ; you don't keep the whip hand 
 of her." 
 
 The Hebe of the Half Moon re-entered with 
 the icy nectar. 
 
 " I don't mean any harm, Mr. Stephen, you 
 know," said she, good-naturedly. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I know that ; but I'm tired of such 
 foolish gossip." 
 
 " There's plenty of it going," said Humphrey; 
 " why. Jack, I heard that you were sweet on 
 little Tranter, the druggist's apprentice."
 
 154 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 As Stephen, having parted from his friend, 
 strolled homeward alone, he bitterly reflected 
 on the immense mass of vulgarity and stupidity 
 in the world. Sensitive and dreamy natures, 
 easily excited, are easily depressed. In Mr. 
 Page's Elysian gardens, with Claudia's low 
 voice in his ears, or Anne's brown eyes fixed 
 upon his own, Stephen experienced delight in- 
 effable ; but the empty folly of this afternoon's 
 gossip proportionately tortured him. He loved 
 Anne Page, he said to himself— yes, certainly 
 he loved Anne Page ; and he was charmed by 
 the wisdom and wit of Claudia Branscombe; 
 but what was either the one or the other to his 
 stupid cousins, to Aunt Harriet, to that impu- 
 dent Jack Winslow ? 
 
 And then he thought, how soon it must end ? 
 To go back in a week or ten days to Mr. 
 Hooper's, at Eastford, and his old monotonous 
 grind. Was he to do this, after Claudia's stimu- 
 lant converse ? Was he to turn away from the 
 great movement of the world, of which she had 
 given him brilhant glimpses, and subside into 
 teaching a little obscure dissenting school?
 
 OF AGE. 155 
 
 What else could lie do ? There was literature 
 
 — ^but all his hterary efforts failed. Humphrey 
 
 Morfill could sit down and wi'ite exactly the 
 
 sort of magazine article that an editor wanted ; 
 
 he couldn't. He felt helpless, powerless, in the 
 
 hands of the Parcae. Those gi-im old ladies 
 
 who rule the destinies of men held him as fiiTnly 
 
 in then- grip as Aunt Harriet used to in those 
 
 days when his greatest dread was her avenging 
 
 rod. Surely the Moirae were the maiden aimts 
 
 of mythology. 
 
 " We look before and after, 
 And pine for what is not," 
 
 sings the divine lyrist. The ever-forgotten and 
 ever-recurring lesson of time is that what we 
 dread seldom happens, but that evils unforeseen 
 take its place. And yet men will persist m tor- 
 turing themselves about an imcertain future ; in 
 adding imaginary vexations to the real annoy- 
 ances of the world. Here was Stephen worry- 
 ing himself about silly rumom^s — about East- 
 ford, whither (though he httle imagined it) he 
 was never to go again — and the real calamity 
 at that moment impending, with all its train of
 
 156 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 misfortunes, was wholly undreamt of. But the 
 next morning brought the news — 
 Mr. Page was dead.
 
 157 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. page's will. 
 
 4 LGERNON PAGE died of disease of the 
 -^ heart, a malady for whose fatal ending he 
 had long been prepared. His loss was felt at 
 Idlechester. Of immense advantage to country- 
 towns is the residence of men of culture, who 
 stand aside from the main grooves of ambitious 
 life, and steadfastly and silently follow their 
 favomite pui'suits. Time was, within the re- 
 membrance of many of us, that certain cities — 
 notably York and Bath — had certain famous 
 names connected with them. As a consequence, 
 such cities had a society devoid of that provin- 
 cialism which Mr. Mathew Arnold denounces ; 
 and those whom necessity compelled to reside 
 there, were greatly benefited by the refined and 
 classical atmosphere of the upper social stratum.
 
 158 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 But now, scarcely a great writer or artist can 
 be named who is not a Londoner, or a dweller 
 in a home county, so that London may be ac- 
 cessible to him ; whence the society in country 
 towns sinks to the level of those residents whom 
 occupation keeps there. Even Edmburgh feels 
 the centralizing power, the centripetal force — 
 and Messrs. Blackwood have settled quietly down 
 next door to Messrs. Longman, and the chief 
 Scottish periodicals, from the Edinburgh Review to 
 Chambers's Journaly are published in London. 
 
 In this way, Mr. Page's loss was felt in Idle- 
 Chester. Of good birth and easy fortune, with 
 high scientific rank, his social reserve had not 
 prevented him from exercising much quiet in- 
 fluence. Great men in his own special line 
 were his frequent visitors. His incomparable 
 gardens attracted others, who knew nothing of 
 scientific botany, but could appreciate floral 
 beauty. Perfectly independent, above ducal in- 
 sult or episcopal patronage or decano-capital 
 intrigue, he set a rare and profitable example 
 of an unostentatious yet liberal and thoughtful 
 life.
 
 MR. page's will. 159 
 
 How can any pen describe the terrible grief 
 which his death caused sweet Anne Page to 
 suffer ? It was perhaps the worst time for this 
 child, already motherless, to lose her father. 
 Just on the verge of womanhood, she had espe- 
 cial need of the guidance which he alone could 
 have given. Hers was sorrow beyond words. 
 Claudia found herself powerless to console her 
 poor little cousin. 
 
 'Mi\ Page, knowing his precarious tenure of 
 life, had made his will years before, and left it 
 in Mr. Drax's custody. That gentleman, and 
 Ralph and Walter Branscombe, were named 
 Anne's trustees. She was dhected to reside in 
 the house at Idlechester until she came of age, 
 unless her marriage occurred before that time, 
 and a thousand a year was set aside for her 
 maintenance dm-ing her minority. A sealed 
 document accompanied the will, and was not to 
 be opened until her coming of age, unless she 
 should marry before that time, when it was to 
 be read immediately after the ceremony. Fund- 
 ed property producing five hundred a year was 
 left to Stephen Langton. Legacies of a thou-
 
 160 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 sand pounds each went to the three trustees ; 
 and if Anne died unmarried before the age of 
 twenty-one, two-thirds of the property went to 
 Ralph Branscombe, of Branscombe, esquire, and 
 the remainder to the Reverend Walter Brans- 
 combe. The whole amount disposed of by the 
 will was about four thousand a year. 
 
 I suppose Stephen Langton was more sur- 
 prised than anybody else at his good fortune. 
 He knew that his benefactor was willing to 
 give him his daughter, but he did not know that 
 in his thoughtfal kindness he would also give 
 him independence. It was the very gift he 
 needed. It saved him from the necessity of sor- 
 did toil, and strengthened him to act with 
 courage when courage was requisite. It is very 
 contemptible, doubtless, but poverty too often 
 makes social cowards of the best of us. Stephen 
 could now isolate himself from the weary vul- 
 garities of his relations. There are always 
 quaint corners of a Cathedral town where the 
 peaceful and picturesque mingle. Stephen 
 found old-fangled apartments in a dark polygo- 
 nal old house in a queer trapezium called Little
 
 MR. page's will. 161 
 
 College Green. There he took up his abode m 
 a suite of three rooms, all on the ground floor. 
 The front room looked on the green, and was 
 long and narrow ; the two back rooms occupied 
 the same space, in length, as the fr'ont, and 
 gave on a garden such as one sees in ecclesi- 
 astical towns, and nowhere else. A garden 
 where the scandent plants have stems as thick 
 as a man's leg, and the ivy is a monster of ve- 
 getation ; and there are two or three apple- 
 trees, mossy, gnarled, decrepit, bearing few 
 fruit, but of such quahty as Covent Garden 
 never knows, notmthstanding its monastic 
 name. Stephen had besides a dark deep fish- 
 pond, with two or three enormous carp in it 
 that came to him for bread crumbs. He used 
 one of these back rooms as a bed-room ; the 
 other, accessible only through the bed-room, 
 was devoted to his books and his cigars. For 
 these bachelor quarters he paid half a guinea a 
 week : which was thought rather a high price 
 in Idlechester, in those days before railways. 
 He could not at this time see much of Anne 
 Page, who had natm-ally fallen into the hands 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 of her relations, Claudia, and Winifred, and 
 Winifred's father. So he wrote a little, and 
 studied a little, and dreamt much of that dis- 
 tant wondrous world whose existence Claudia 
 Branscombe had revealed to him. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Drax had made a commmiica- 
 tion to the Rev. Walter Branscombe, and that 
 excellent clergyman desired to pass it on to his 
 brother. But howl Claudia had no idea 
 where her father was. Devil Branscombe did 
 not believe that girls could keep secrets, so he 
 kept his own. Raphael might know ; but where 
 was Raphael ? But her father had told her 
 that, if she wanted to communicate with him 
 on anything important, she was to send to the 
 Times this advertisement — 
 
 " Good morning^ Papa /"' 
 It was some time before she recollected this di- 
 rection ; when she thought of it she did it at 
 once, and a day or two brought her a letter 
 from her father, telling her to address him, " L. 
 M. N., Post Office, Guernsey." So she wrote, 
 enclosing a note from her uncle ; and the con- 
 sequence was that the brothers arranged a
 
 MR. page's will. 163 
 
 meeting at the Dolpliin Hotel, Southampton. 
 
 In a bow-windowed room on the first floor 
 of that fine old hostelry, from which you could 
 look up and down Southampton's long, busy, 
 pictm-esque High-street, Devil Branscombe met 
 his clerical brother. You can always get a 
 good bottle of wine at the Dolphin, and there 
 stood between them a claret-jug, holding excel- 
 lent Chateau-Lafitte. And thus they con- 
 versed : 
 
 " I told Drax not to pay over that thousand 
 pounds to your account at Coutts's, not know- 
 ing how you might stand there," said Walter. 
 
 " I don't think you often make a mistake. 
 My account must be a good deal overdrawn. 
 The thousand will be useful for immediate ex- 
 penses." 
 
 *' So I thought, and brought it with me in 
 notes. Claudia doesn't want any money just 
 now. She's been living for nothing at poor 
 Page's, and her own little income is quite 
 enough for her." 
 
 " What in the world made Page leave young 
 Langton anything?" 
 
 M 2
 
 164 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Langton is engaged to his daughter — a 
 mere baby — only sixteen ; we can do anything 
 with her." 
 
 " ^Vhat do you propose to do ?" 
 
 " Listen a moment. Drax " Here the 
 
 Rector dropped his voice involuntarily 
 
 " Drax has told me the contents of that sealed 
 codicil. It leaves the whole property in this 
 way : If Langton and the Httle girl are mar- 
 ried, half of it is settled on each of them. The 
 same thing is to take place if she declines to 
 marry him. But, if he declines to marry her, 
 she gets the whole property." 
 
 " Is the codicil valid, do you think I" 
 
 " Well, if not, it is no good for us to upset it, 
 as of com'se the child would then get everything 
 unconditionally." 
 
 " I don't see anything to be done," said Ralph 
 Branscombe, meditatively. 
 
 " I do," said the Rector. *' That boy showed 
 s}Tnptoms of beuig taken with Claudia. What 
 if she were to marry him T 
 
 " What good would that be 1 It would leave 
 the little girl independent."
 
 MB. paob's will. 165 
 
 ** But suppose Raphael were to marry her ? I 
 should think he would have no difficulty.'*' 
 
 " By Jove ! I shouldn't have thought of that 
 arrangement. Well, what do you want me to do?" 
 
 " Write to Claudia ; or, better still, see her, 
 and teU her to marry young Langton. She has 
 ^iscinated him already, I fancy." 
 
 "My Claudia's too good for the yoxmg lout," 
 said Devil Branscombe. " But it seems a fine 
 combination. I ought to see her to explain it 
 to her. I tell you what — leave it to me — ^111 
 come to Idlechester." 
 
 " Is it safe ?'' asked the Rector. 
 
 "No ; thafs the fun of it. Kit was, I 
 come, m manage the affair." 
 
 A few days later than this, as old Langton 
 the tanner, in the dusk of evening, was looking 
 round the tanyard, he became aware of a tall 
 man on the other side of the brook. Rather to 
 his surprise, the stranger splashed across the 
 shallow stream, and coming up to him, said, 
 
 •• Well, Langton, how are you?" 
 • \V . the Squire!" exclaimed the old 
 
 tanner in i;-' >• :nent.
 
 166 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Ay, my old friend, here I am," said Devil 
 Branscombe. "And now, will you do me a 
 good turn ? Get me quietly into your house, 
 and let me sleep there a couple of nights, with- 
 out a word said to anybody. Will you f 
 
 "I shall have to tell one of the woman folk, 
 Squire — my daughter Harriet. She's so cursed 
 sharp, she'd be sure to find it out ; but she won't 
 split. And there's the spare bed-room looking 
 out on the street ; you might be there a twelve- 
 month and nobody know. None of the maids 
 go there ; only Harriet." 
 
 " That will do capitally," said Ralph. " I'll 
 trust any daughter of yours, my old friend. 
 But how shall I get in ?" 
 
 "That's just what I must get Harriet to man- 
 age," said the tanner. 
 
 And Harriet managed it extremely well. 
 
 The " best bedroom," an immense chamber on 
 the first floor, occupying half the width of the 
 house, had not been tenanted within the me- 
 mory of this generation. But to have used it 
 for any other purpose would have been sacri- 
 lege. It was the pride of Aunt Harriet's heart.
 
 167 
 
 She gave it periodical dustings, and kept it al- 
 ways in as good order as if she expected a visit 
 from the Queen. And as she never, except at 
 lustrations, allowed anyone but herself to enter 
 it, it was a perfect place of concealment for 
 Devil Branscombe. Here he found himself that 
 evening, with wax candles burning, and the 
 best bed — a great bed of Ware, almost — pre- 
 pared for his reception. And, when everybody 
 else was in bed. Aunt Harriet brought up for 
 him a copious supper — an uncut ham and an 
 enormous home-made loaf, and a mighty tank- 
 ard of her father's ale. He rather enjoyed his 
 position. It was a cm^ious change after rusti- 
 cating in Guernsey, an island more picturesque 
 than social, where he smoked on the pier all 
 day and played loo or billiards at the club all 
 night. Here, snugly hidden, he looked down 
 upon the familiar High-street of Idlechester, 
 and upon the house in which his brother-in-law 
 died. He saw Stephen Langton call to inquire 
 for his sweetheart in the early forenoon, and 
 turn sadly away when told that she did not 
 feel well enough to see him. He saw the Re-
 
 168 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 verend Walter and his pious daughter, Wini- 
 fred, enter the house ; and by-and-by he saw 
 the Rector go away again, Winifred remaining. 
 He saw Claudia come out for a stroll, beautiful 
 as ever in her sable attire, and little dreaming 
 that her father's eyes were upon her. He saw 
 scores of faces that he knew, and criticised the 
 changes time had brought them. And, so 
 amused was he at his whimsical position, that 
 he wrote a long letter to Raphael (who was at 
 Venice) describing all that he saw, and fully 
 explaining the Rector's subtle schemes. 
 
 Not till the second day did he decide to act. 
 Then he requested Aunt Harriet to communi- 
 cate cautiously to Miss Branscombe that she 
 wanted to speak to her. 
 
 " Don't say a word to her about me. Bring 
 her up here at once. Won't she be astonished I 
 But if she screams, by the Lord Harry, I'll for- 
 feit a ten pound note." 
 
 Miss Harriet Langton acted on her instruc- 
 tions, and Claudia, considerably surprised, walk- 
 ed across the street, and was showTi into the 
 parlour — a room little altered since we first
 
 MR. page's will. 169 
 
 knew it, except that there was no bright-eyed 
 boy dreaming at one window, no oracular okl 
 lady knitting at the other. Old Mrs. Langton 
 was dead. Being asked to walk up staii'S, Claudia 
 could scarcely do less than comply ; and she 
 certainly was rather amazed to find her father 
 comfortably sitting in one of those vast bed-room 
 easy-chairs which arrided our ancestors. Aunt 
 Harriet left them alone. 
 
 " Lock the doors, Claudia," said Ralph Brans- 
 combe. " You look sm-prised to see me. I came 
 over from Guernsey on pm-pose to have a talk 
 to you." 
 
 *' I'm very glad to see you, papa," she said, 
 seating herself opposite to him. "You are 
 looking uncommonly well." 
 
 " Yes, I don't wear badly, and I've been very 
 quiet lately. But we must talk of business, 
 child : I think you can do a good thing for us 
 all." 
 
 *' I am ready to try," she said; "but I hope 
 it doesn't involve playing ecarte,for that's a thing 
 I never could do properly." 
 
 " I want you to marry that young Langton."
 
 170 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 ** What /" she said, " why, he's a mere boy, 
 papa." 
 
 " So much the easier to manage. But come, 
 what difference is there between you ? seven or 
 eight years, perhaps. It is a mere trifle — and 
 you don't look above twenty, really." 
 
 " You flatter, Mr. Branscombe. But what good 
 should I do by marrying him ? He's only got ^yb 
 hundred a year." 
 
 '' That's not the point. We have discovered 
 the nature of that sealed paper of Page's. If 
 Langton marries your little cousin, they are to 
 have all the property ; and if she should refuse 
 him, each is to have half; but if he declines to 
 have her, she gets the whole." 
 
 " Well, I don't see." 
 
 " Why, if you get hold of young Langton, 
 Raphael can marry the girl." 
 
 " Oh, indeed. Well, it's a brilliant idea — Uncle 
 Walter's, I guess. Let me think — if I marry 
 Stephen, we shall have about seven hundred a 
 year between us, which isn't much. Then he's 
 a mere boy : why, I remember saving him from 
 being whipped when he was a child at school.
 
 MR. page's will. 171 
 
 Still, he's good looking, and he might be obedi- 
 ent. Well, then, Raphael is to marry Anne. 
 Will he? And will she have him? I don't think 
 she'd break her heart about Stephen, and I be- 
 lieve anybody could marry her who chose to try. 
 But are you sure about Raphael, papa ?" 
 
 " One can't be sm-e about anything ; but if he 
 isn't compromised elsewhere, I fancy he'll do it. 
 I have written to him to meet me as soon as I 
 get away from here." 
 
 " And you want to get away at once, of course, 
 because it is dangerous. Well, I'll sacrifice my- 
 self, if Stephen will have me. He's a nice boy 
 after all." 
 
 "How long will it take you to land him?" 
 asked her father, in angler's phrase. 
 
 " A month or two, perhaps. What shall you 
 do in the meantime ?" 
 
 " Go to Baden, I think, and try a new mar- 
 tingale. Poor Page's thousand will last some 
 little time, as of com^se I shan't pay any 
 debts." 
 
 " But, papa, if Raphael marries Anne, won't 
 it be possible to make things square, and live
 
 172 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 quietly again ? You must be dreadfully weary 
 of this hide and seek." 
 
 "We'll try what can be done," he replied. 
 " I think my wild oats ought to be nearly sown." 
 
 Claudia left him, and he watched her cross the 
 street to Mr. Page's. He stood looking thought- 
 fully out of the wmdow for some time, and by- 
 and-by noticed a stout seedy man pass slowly 
 up the pavement, giving what seemed a signifi- 
 cant glance at the opposite house. He was just 
 the sort of man one associates with writs, and 
 Devil Branscombe felt an uneasy sensation. The 
 man was followed at some distance by two other 
 men ; one of these looked like an Essex or Salis- 
 bury-street lawyer ; the other Ralph Branscombe 
 knew too well. He was a shrewd and resolute 
 officer who had been in pursuit of him for a year 
 or two. 
 
 "By Jove," he said to himself, " those beggars 
 have traced me somehow. How the deuce have 
 they managed it ? Luckily they don't seem to 
 guess I'm here. I'm glad Claudia was safe across 
 before they could see her." 
 
 At that moment he started ; for his door.
 
 MR. page's ^TLL. 173 
 
 which he had not locked after Claudia, was sud- 
 denly opened, but the person who entered was 
 only old Langton. 
 
 " There are sharks abroad, Squu-e," he said. 
 "I've just seen Lauiie, the Sheriff's officer, look- 
 ing very knowingly at Page's house ; and two 
 other fellows followed him, and they went away 
 together. I was standing at the gate, and 
 saw them. The others are London chaps, I 
 guess." 
 
 *' I saw them, Langton, and know who they 
 are. How shall I get away ? They'll watch all 
 the coaches." 
 
 " I've got an idea, Sqmre. There's a night 
 mail that passes the cross roads a way towards 
 Eastford about two in the morning. It goes 
 right over the Downs to Salisbury. It's fom'teen 
 miles, about ; my mare '11 do it easy in an hour 
 and a quarter. Shall I drive you over to- 
 night ?" 
 
 "The very thing," he repHed. " We can start 
 after your people are in bed. It won't do to go 
 from the High-street, though." 
 
 "No," said Langton, "I thought of that. ^Ye
 
 174 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 can have the trap down in the back lane, and 
 walk across the tanyard." 
 
 "But how will you get the mare round there? 
 And who'll be in charge of her till we come f 
 
 " Ah," replied the tanner, " that's a puzzler. 
 I can't ti'ust her with everybody, and besides, 
 any giddy boy won't do." 
 
 After a pause, he resumed. 
 
 " I think I see what to do. The mare and 
 trap are in the Half Moon stables, luckily ; I left 
 them there when I drove in with a commercial 
 the other day. I'll manage it. Squire, never 
 fear." 
 
 Away went the loyal old tanner to the Half 
 Moon, and called for ale. Jack Winslow served 
 him, looking as piquant as ever. 
 
 "Jack," he said, "you're not timorsome, I 
 know. I want you to take out my mare and 
 trap to-night at a quarter past tAvelve, and drive 
 down to Lane End, and wait for me and a 
 friend. You must do it all yourself, and not 
 say a word to anybody, before or after. It's 
 a matter of life and death, almost. You're not 
 afraid?"
 
 ]^m. page's will. 175 
 
 "Not likely. I'll do it. It will be a jolly lark. 
 I'll be there to a minute. You won't have the 
 lamps, I suppose ?" 
 
 " No, certainly not. And if anybody interferes 
 with you down there " 
 
 "He won't interfere with anybody else for 
 some time. Don't be afraid for me, Mr. Langton. 
 I can take care of myself." 
 
 The tanner was on tenter hooks till his family 
 were gone to bed that night. But they were all 
 off in capital time ; and he and Ralph, after a stiff 
 glass of brandy and water, made their way into 
 the tanyard at the hour appointed. There was 
 neither moon nor stars, and it was pitch-dark. 
 
 "Keep right behind me, Squire, and put your 
 hand on my shoulder. There are lots of pits 
 about here, but I know my way blindfold." 
 
 A tanyard is not a nice place to walk in at 
 night, the pits being divided by very narrow 
 pathways, awkward enough by daylight, while 
 the lime pits, in which the haii* is scorched from 
 the hides, are so surrounded by a white deposit, 
 that when quite fall, they can hardly be distin- 
 guished from the fii-m earth around them. As
 
 176 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 the two men advanced along a path so strewn 
 with soft tan that then- footsteps gave no sound, 
 Langton became suddenly aware of a light 
 moving in front of them. He stood still for a mo- 
 ment. It was evidently a lantern. 
 
 " I verily believe those villains are prowding 
 about here, Squire. What can they be after at 
 this time of night f 
 
 " Perhaps they w^ant to find some place to 
 hide and keep watch," whispered Ralph. 
 
 " I'll be hanged if I can make it out. But 
 come along quietly, and be ready for a row. We 
 shall have to meet them, they're right in our 
 way." 
 
 The lantern which the approaching party 
 carried carefully in front of them served to ex- 
 pose them to Ralph and the tanner. There 
 were two men only, who turned out to be the 
 lawyer and the London officer. Laurie, the local 
 man, was not interested enough in the capture 
 to undertake midnight reconnoissances. They 
 carried theu light low, and stooped as they 
 walked to make out the path, and did not no- 
 tice anyone approaching till the tanner collared
 
 MR. page's will. 177 
 
 one of them A\4tli his strong right hand, and ex- 
 claimmg, 
 
 " Thieves, by Jingo !" swung the unlucky in- 
 truder into the nearest tan-pit. The lantern was 
 smashed ; the other man was so affrighted by 
 his perplexing position that he w^ent down on 
 his hands and knees, groping for the path ; and 
 Langton and Branscombe, kicking him out of 
 the way, pushed forward do^Ti the hill, crossed 
 the brook, and were soon at Lane End. 
 
 " That poor devil w^on't be di'owTied, I hope," 
 said Ralph. 
 
 " DrowTied, no !" said Langton. " He'll be 
 tanned, though. There isn't much stuff in that 
 pit, but I doubt if he'll get out till the morning, 
 unless the other rascal has sense enough to help 
 hhn." 
 
 " I expect he'll be afraid to move," said Ralph. 
 " It's a deuced awkward trap to be caught in. 
 Your men will probably find them both there in 
 the morning." 
 
 ^Miich tui'ned out to be the case. You have 
 probably never fallen into a tan-pit, reader. I 
 have, and I assm-e you it is not nice. It was 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 178 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 the lawyer who got in, and there he was found 
 at about half-past six, up to his arm-pits in tan. 
 The bailiff, more fortunate, had scrambled to the 
 sloping side of a bark stack, where he had slept, 
 but he had not strength enough to get his com- 
 panion out, and so they had to wait till the men 
 came to work. Everybody roared with laughter 
 at the professional gentleman's plight ; but the 
 old tanner told him it would do him good, sub- 
 stituting a healthier smell for the bad odour 
 observable in low attorneys. He had a great 
 mind, he said, to give them into custody for 
 trespassing, and on suspicion of theft. 
 
 Ralph and his guide found the trap standing 
 at Lane End, the mare now and then giving an 
 impatient stamp of her fore-foot. Jack Wins- 
 low jumped out, and it was not so dark that 
 Devil Branscombe could not recognize a petti- 
 coat. 
 
 " By Jove, Langton," he said, " why, who's 
 
 this r 
 
 " You know her well enough, Squire ; it's 
 Jack Winslow." 
 
 "Egad," he exclaimed, "you are a trump,
 
 MR. page's will. 179 
 
 Jack ; I must give you a kiss for this. Why, 
 there isn't another gii*l in England would have 
 had the pluck to do it." 
 
 So Ralph Branscombe pressed the buxom bar- 
 maid's lips, and sprang into the trap, and away 
 went the mare with that long swinging trot 
 into which the tanner broke the animals he 
 drove. Meanwhile Jack Winslow walked fear- 
 lessly up the lane, and through the stable en- 
 trance to the Half Moon, and found her way to 
 her bedchamber. 
 
 ^* I didn't think it was the Squire," she said 
 to herself while disrobing. " Well, he's a gentle- 
 man every inch, though they do say he's so 
 wild, and he's just the man I'd marry, if he was 
 young enough and would have me." 
 
 How these wild men fascinate women of aU 
 sorts ! 
 
 " I'm well out of that, Langton," said Ralph, 
 as the mare went merrily along. 
 
 "Yes; they were on the scent, evidently. 
 Downright fools to come into the yard by night, 
 though. I suppose those Londoners had never 
 seen a tanyard before." 
 
 n2
 
 180 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " They won't want to see another," said Ralph, 
 laughing. " What a thorough trump that little 
 Winslow girl is ! I gave her a kiss, but I'd have 
 given her a handM of guineas if I'd thought 
 she'd take them " 
 
 " You'd have mortally offended her," said the 
 tanner, '^ Send her some trifle when you're safe 
 — a bit of your hair in a locket, or some such 
 truck, and she'll be delighted." 
 
 " I will," said Branscombe — and he did. 
 
 A night drive in fine weather is always plea- 
 sant, and is peculiarly exhilaratmg when you 
 have just succeeded in eluding some imminent 
 evil — when you feel safe and free after long sus- 
 pense. So Branscombe and Langton were in 
 high glee when they reached the cross roads. 
 The mare had gone like the wmd ; it wasn't 
 half-past one, and the mail came by at two. 
 They knocked up the landlord of the little inn, 
 and the kitchen fire was resuscitated, and some- 
 thing hot and strong prepared Ralph Brans- 
 combe for his ride over the great plain. Oh ! 
 those old comitry inns, with their generous 
 kitchens, then- strong home-brewed ale, their
 
 MR. page's will. 181 
 
 great flitches always ready to be sliced and 
 broiled, their fresh eggs, their wholesome, neat- 
 handed waitresses ! Steam has annihilated 
 them ; and I am one of those who find no con- 
 solation in the gaudy coffee-rooms of the Mag- 
 nificent Hotel (Limited). 
 
 But there are the lamps of the Salisbury mail.
 
 182 
 
 CHAPTER VIII, 
 
 THE panther's WOOING, 
 
 CLAUDIA had nndertaken a task of double 
 difficnlty — difficult for Stephen, difficult for 
 herself. Perhaps she rather under-estimated 
 the difficulty, so far as Stephen wa& concerned. 
 He was a boy, she thought, and boys are seldom 
 true to their first love fancy ; and surely she 
 was far more bewitching than that little Anne 
 Page. Buit she looked her own difficulty fairly 
 in the face ; she was old enougli to know her 
 own need; she required, as old Langton had 
 said to himself ten years before, a man to rule 
 her ; she was well aware that a miserable life 
 awaited her if she manned a person her inferior 
 in strength of will, in force of character. She 
 should have her own way in such a case ; but
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 183 
 
 she did not want her own way ; she w^anted to 
 be obliged to accept the way of a man she wor- 
 shipped, a man she loved and feared, a man at 
 whose feet she crouched, a verj tame submissive 
 panther indeed. Knowing all this, she felt that 
 the sacrifice she contemplated making for her 
 father was of no common magnitude. 
 
 I venture to think that the neoteric novelist 
 is generally a trifle too fond of Httle girls. I 
 mean — don't be offended, young ladies — chil- 
 dren of eighteen or nineteen, infantile heromes, 
 who are very pretty, and fresh, and nice, but 
 who can by no possibility have any definite 
 character. Watch, as I have watched, a gM's 
 development from seventeen to tAventy-seven, 
 and say if from her peculiarities at the former 
 age it is possible to judge what she will be at 
 the latter. It is hard to understand why pretty 
 creatures fr-esh from the nui'sery are perpetually 
 chosen as heroines. They are seldom such in 
 real life, and it would be a dreadful bore if they 
 were. Only boys and foolish elderly men tliink 
 of marrying girls of eighteen or thereabout. 
 Perhaps the truth is that the woman in her
 
 284 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 blamed. It was quite a boy-and-girl engagement 
 between her and Stephen. What child of six- 
 teen can be expected to know her own mind ? 
 And Stephen was away ; she never saw him ; she 
 dared not receive a letter from him, for fear of 
 her cousin Claudia. So she listened to Hum- 
 phrey, who skilfully carried on the campaign, 
 notwithstanding the keenness of Claudia's eyes. 
 But Claudia was busy with her baronet. 
 
 In mid-January Humphrey left " his little 
 wife " — as he already styled her, unrebuked, 
 and Miss Marsden and MangnaWs Questions re- 
 turned. And Sir Arthur Willesden went to 
 town, leaving the Panther plenty of time to look 
 after Anne. And, when the year had advanced 
 a little further, Claudia one day received a let- 
 ter in a hand she had not seen for an age. 
 Thus it ran : — 
 
 "No. — , Clarges Street. 
 
 "Dear Claudia, — I have just returned to 
 England, after a few days with the old gentle- 
 man, who has got the gout, and is delightfully 
 fierce. I've a deal to do in town, and I want a
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 285 
 
 long talk to you about the position of affairs ; so 
 come up and let us converse. Start at once, 
 that's a good girl. 
 
 " Raphael." 
 
 Claudia always obeyed her brother ; besides 
 at this period she desired the diversion of a trip 
 to London. So having received tliis letter at 
 the breakfast hour, she at once announced that 
 Raphael had returned, and that she was going 
 to London to meet him, and that, no doubt, he 
 would come back T\dth her. Her imcle and 
 cousm were delighted at the news, and Anne 
 Page opened her ears. 
 
 " You will like your Cousin Raphael, Anne," 
 said Claudia, condescendingly. " He likes pretty 
 little gii'ls." 
 
 Miss Page by no means admired Miss Bran- 
 scombe's condescension. 
 
 The Panther was to start early the next 
 morning ; that night she and Whiifred had a 
 talk, part of which Anne Page overheard — for 
 " little pitchers have long ears." This was the 
 part ; —
 
 186 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 What, it may be asked, could this brilliant crea- 
 ture, a social expert, learn of a boy like young 
 Langton ? Much. A poet of the day has de- 
 scribed a young lady who, being christened 
 Louisa, and being rather fast, has been re- 
 christened "Unlimited Loo," in rhymes like 
 these, so far as I can remember them : — 
 
 " Loo's a voice most delicious to carol 
 
 Mr. Tennyson's songs to the harp ; 
 She can manage a light double-barrel ; 
 
 She can angle for trout or for carp : 
 So wisely she talks about science, 
 
 You'd think her a regular blue : 
 She sets every rule at defiance— 
 
 And we style her Unlimited Loo. 
 
 " She can pull a stroke-par on the river, 
 
 Like that muscular hero, Tom Brown ; 
 She can ride, and at fences don't quiver 
 
 Where many a hunter goes down ; - 
 She's plucky, but vastly more pleasant 
 
 Than most of the nursery crew ; 
 She can shoot, dress, and carve a cock pleasant. 
 
 This wiHul Unlimited Loo." 
 
 Now Claudia had all Miss Loo's accomplish- 
 ments, and was qnite as unlimited ; but there 
 was one thing wliereof Claudia had a ladylike 
 ignorance, and that was literature. I don't of
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 187 
 
 course mean contemporary literatnre — i.e.y Ten- 
 nyson, Tnpper, all the new novels, and the 
 Saturday Revieic. She knew nothing of the clas- 
 sical literature of this or any other nation ; and 
 here she found a teacher iu Stephen. He, being 
 omnivorous, had read Chaucer, Shakespeare, 
 Spenser, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher — 
 had gone farther afield, readmg all that is best 
 in the literature of Greece and of Rome — had 
 mastered Spanish, Italian, German, French, and 
 could quote for her Calderon, Camoens, Chia- 
 brera, Goethe, or Heiae and Alfred de Musset. 
 I do not mean to say he had scholarly or accu- 
 rate knowledge of any one of these languages ; 
 he had not. But he had, in that apprehensive 
 faculty of his, a power which enabled him to im- 
 derstand great poets more thoroughly than 
 many a perfect scholar. Parson was the victim 
 of false quantities to the last, though he taught 
 us the laws of Greek verse. Peacock, whose 
 algebra has well been styled " The Ivanhoe ot 
 Cambridge," could not solve an equation prob- 
 lem. Stephen Langton could scarcely write a 
 grammatical phrase ia any tongue save English ;
 
 188 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 but lie tasted authors as diverse as Aristo- 
 plianes, Aiiacreoii, Heine, Beranger, with most 
 appreciative palate. 
 
 Now Claudia Branscombe's policy was transi- 
 tive from the brilliant social mood to the Pla- 
 tonic and psychological. And here, as I have 
 said, Stephen wa^ so apt as to astonish her — al- 
 most to alarm her. She became rather afraid 
 of the boy's progress being too rapid. Learned 
 in the love-lore of the poets, he was first lectu- 
 rer and then improvisator. The noble library 
 furnished abundant material. Pleasant morn- 
 ings of autumn vanished but too swiftly in its 
 easy chairs or out beneath the leafage of the 
 gardens. Let me sketch but one such morning. 
 
 Humphry Morfill had brought Anne Page to 
 that seat beneath the acacia where Stephen had 
 declared himself her lover, and was teaching her 
 chess. It was a most barefaced pretext. Anne 
 couldn't learn the moves, and wouldn't try; 
 her pretty white hands played with the white 
 ivory ; her sweet cheek flushed as she listened 
 to Humphi'ey's gay joyous spirited talk. A capi- 
 tal talker, Humphrey ; never dull or taciturn or
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 189 
 
 melancholy, like Stephen; always ready with 
 easy converse that had perhaps very little in it, 
 but was enlivening and effervescent, like the 
 foam of champagne. So they were pretending 
 to play chess, and Humphrey was chattering, 
 and Anne was listening di-eamily, delightedly. 
 lA^ere were the other twain ? 
 
 There was a cool shady seat under the tent- 
 like greenery of a superb plane-tree : " such 
 tents the patnarchs loved." On a mimic lake, 
 tranquil and pellucid, swam a very flotilla of un- 
 usual water-fowl, rarce aves in terris. The mound 
 on which rose the plane sloped to this lakelet. 
 Claudia sat upon the tm-f, a volume wide open 
 on her lap. Stephen looked over the fan* wliite 
 page, and ^^ith eager finger pointed to the 
 lines — 
 
 " Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, 
 
 Steal from his figure and no pace perceived ; 
 
 So your sweet hue, which metbinks still doth stand 
 Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived ; 
 
 For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred? 
 
 Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead." 
 
 " Very poetic flattery," said Claudia ; " but 
 even Shakespeare was too weak for time. The
 
 190 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 fair face faded. Who was she, I wonder ? " 
 
 " She is immortal in his verse, at any rate," 
 said Stephen. "But nobody believes that beauty's 
 summer is dead." 
 
 " It is melancholy to think that what poor 
 beauty one may have is stealing away every 
 moment just as certainly as the shadow moves 
 on the dial." 
 
 *' HeracHtus remarked that you never twice 
 cross the same stream or twice look on the same 
 face. Yet," went on Stephen — daring boy ! — 
 *' you seem to me the very same vision of 
 beauty that dawned upon me at that sordid 
 school." 
 
 " Don't talk of it," she interposed, hurriedly. 
 " Why, there have been ten April perfumes in 
 ten hot Junes burned since then ! I could al- 
 most cry, Stephen, when I think how dreadfully 
 old I am growing — and you, why you are just 
 beginning to live," 
 
 There certainly was a misty moisture in those 
 wondrous black eyes of hers. 
 
 " You are not altered," said Stephen. " I 
 could fancy — I do sometimes fancy — ^that the
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 191 
 
 whole time is a dream, and that I shall wake up 
 in the morning a Httle boy, in that snug room 
 at Kingsleat, with your nightdress on. I re- 
 member now what wonderful frills it had." 
 
 " You were a wicked little boy," she said, turn- 
 ing round upon him wdth a flash of the liquid 
 black eyes. " What business have you with my 
 nightdresses ?" 
 
 " Ah !" said Stephen, throwing himself back 
 upon the soft green tm-f and closing his eyes, 
 " it is a dream, I know. I am not on the grass 
 under a plane-tree : I am half asleep in a de- 
 licious bed — half asleep, drowsily dozing — and 
 you are going to get into bed in the next room 
 — and before you do, you will stoop over me 
 and give me a kiss. I know you will." 
 
 Why, Claudia, Claudia, what can this impu- 
 dent boy mean ? Is he not a trifle too precoce ? 
 Is he forgetting sweet Anne Page? Or is it 
 only that facile humour which ever coexists with 
 poetry ? A momentous problem. 
 
 Claudia looked down upon him. His eyes 
 were closed ; the leaf shadows of the plane flut- 
 tered over his boyish face ; his lips were half
 
 192 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 parted, expectant. She stooped, and her abun- 
 dant black tresses showered over him, and she 
 pressed her Kps to his. She conld not resist the 
 impulse; it was magic, magnetic. He caught 
 her before she could rise again, and gave her 
 kiss for kiss. Sprmging to his feet, he laughed 
 merrily, and exclaimed, 
 
 " Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty." 
 
 He could see Claudia blush a rosy red — she 
 who blushed seldom indeed. And Claudia could 
 feel the warm blush tingle and redden through 
 her every limb. What had she done ? She was 
 playing with edged tools. She was afraid of 
 this boy whom hitherto she had regarded with 
 tolerant contempt. She was afraid of herself 
 and of him. 
 
 " Sweet-and-thirty, you mean," she said. 
 " Now, you must not do that again, Stephen, or 
 I shall be very angry. You are a naughty boy." 
 
 He stooped over her, caught her two hands in 
 his, and looked right into those great black 
 changeful eyes. There was a strange expres- 
 sion in them — an almost piteous expression. 
 
 " Why, Claudia," he said, " there is no need
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 193 
 
 to be angry. We went back a few years, that 
 is all. I was a poor little schoolboy again, and 
 you were the kind and beautiful vision that 
 came suddenly to give me one day's pleasure. 
 And you gave me a kiss of your own free will, 
 you must admit." 
 
 " You are cruel," she said, looking away from 
 him. " Let me go. I am tu-ed of this child's 
 
 play." 
 
 She rose to her feet, imperious and angry as 
 the virgin goddess, that day the luckless hunts- 
 man beheld her white-skinned beauty in the 
 Gargaphian waters. If Claudia had been at 
 this moment a goddess I don't know what might 
 have chanced to Stephen. You see, being very 
 angry with herself, she natm-ally vented her ire 
 upon him. 
 
 " You should go back to school again if I had 
 my way," she said, " and learn better manners. 
 I wonder at your impertinence." 
 
 " My dear Miss Claudia," said Stephen, " will 
 you listen for a minute ? You are unreasonably 
 angry with yourself for being so generous as to 
 recall old times by giving me a kiss, and so you 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 pretend to be angry with me. Now what harm 
 in the world have you done or have I done ? In 
 point of fact yon were only kissing a little boy 
 in one of your own night-gowns." 
 
 Claudia thought it best to laugh. She knew 
 it was ridiculous to quarrel with Stephen for 
 her own mistake. 
 
 "I'll never kiss you again, sir, never," she 
 said. 
 
 "Don't make rash promises," replied Ste- 
 phen. " I really think that in order to console 
 me for the scolding I have had, you ought to 
 give me one more kiss — or at least let me take 
 one. I shan't be able to believe you forgive me, 
 else." 
 
 I think I may leave the reader to guess how 
 this overture was received. 
 
 Claudia could not for a long time decide whe- 
 ther Stephen had any touch of feeling towards 
 her. His manner perplexed her. With Anne- 
 Page he assumed the rights of betrothal, and 
 tacitly treated her as his future wife, giving 
 her indeed slight lectures, and making sugges- 
 tions as to her conduct, all which Anne took
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 195 
 
 with sweet submission. But he appeared to 
 prefer Claudia's society, and lost no occasion 
 for a quiet conversation with her, and ^vrote 
 verses for her, and left Anne Page for Hum- 
 phrey Morfill to amuse. He, notliing loth, 
 a;nused her, and little Anne seemed quite con- 
 tent. Winifred tried once or twice to make her 
 jealous of Claudia; but Anne could not feel 
 jealousy. 
 
 " He likes Claudia's company," said Anne, 
 "and why shouldn't he enjoy it'? We love one 
 another, you know, Stephen and I ; but we need 
 not always be talking about it." 
 
 " It appears to me," said Winifr*ed, " that nei- 
 ther of you cares about the other. If he runs 
 away with Claudia, I suppose you'll take up 
 with Mr. Morfill." 
 
 "Claudia is much too old for Stephen. She 
 is Hke a mother to hun," said Anne, with a touch 
 of demure spitefrdness. 
 
 Wmifred only wanted to make a little mis- 
 chief. She and her father watched Claudia's 
 game with much interest, and hoped to see her 
 successful ; and I suppose, if they had witnessetl 
 
 o2
 
 196 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 that scene under the plane tree, they would 
 have felt certain of her triumph. The Panther 
 felt no such certainty. 
 
 When they parted, she went to her room, and 
 kneeling on a stool at the window, looked out 
 upon the garden. There was still upon her 
 cheeks the remnant of that angry blush, like 
 the rosy streaks in the west that mark where 
 the sun went down in splendour. She bit her 
 beautiful nether lip ; she clenched on one ano- 
 ther her small white hands ; her bosom panted 
 beneath her bodice ; her great black eyes had a 
 lurid light in them. 
 
 " Shall I gain him ?" she soliloquised. " I 
 don't know. He is a strange boy, with some- 
 thing about him that I cannot understand. He 
 made me kiss him just now. I believe he could 
 do it again, this moment, though 1 hate him for 
 it. Yes, I hate him sometimes. I like liim a 
 little now and then ; but he shall not have such 
 power over me. Why, I could have cried with 
 spite. Oh ! if he was only the little puny boy 
 he was when I knew him first, I'd whip him to 
 death almost — I declare I would. Hateful crea-
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 197 
 
 ture! When I marry Mm he shall pay for all 
 this, ni make him my slave. Can If I will 
 —I must ; he shall submit to my wdll. To think 
 that this mere boy should be able to make me 
 hate him so. I wonder what Cis would say, if 
 I told her !" 
 
 The idea of the Bishop's lady's probable 
 amazement made our Panther laugh. She grew 
 less moody. She bathed her fak cheeks in fra- 
 grant water, and cooled away the excitement 
 which had so thrilled every nerve of her body. 
 She looked out upon the garden ; Stephen and 
 Humphrey and Anne Page were grouped to- 
 gether by the fountain ; Humphrey was throw- 
 ing pebbles into the water ; Stephen, holdini;- 
 his sweetheart's hand in his, was saying some- 
 thing to which she eagerly listened. 
 
 " No ; she shall not have him," said the Pan- 
 ther to herself. " I will not be defied by two 
 childi-en. They cannot know what love is." 
 
 So through the pleasant autumn weather she 
 did her utmost to charm him. She wasted 
 upon hhn a myriad times the art which had 
 been triumphant with admirers of far greater
 
 198 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 pretension. It was a strange game tliej 
 played — she conscious, Stephen nnconscious. 
 Day after day passed deHghtfnlly, yet the Pan- 
 ther could not be sure of her prey. His very 
 innocence foiled her — ^his boyish love for sweet 
 Anne Page — ^his reverent admiration for herself, 
 reverent, though, as we have seen, chequered 
 wdth irreverent incidents. And the great term 
 time of Cambridge came rapidly on, when Hum- 
 phrey Morfill would be away, and her work 
 w^ould be retarded by Anne Page's company. 
 She resolved soon to make some decisive move. 
 It was most important, for her father's sake, to 
 win this game ; and, besides, she was now too 
 excited in the pm^suit to relmquish it. 
 
 Whence it happened that, after much reflec- 
 tion, she fixed upon an evening for that purpose. 
 Eager in her enterprise, she was yet cool and 
 considerate. " This boy," she said to herself, 
 " cannot believe that I really love him, as I 
 want him to believe ; he thinks me beyond him ; 
 I must prove to him that I am not so. He will 
 fall at my feet and worship me, when once he 
 perceives his good fortune. As yet he is afraid."
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 199 
 
 And so she decided upon time and place, and on 
 a plan of action. 
 
 There was a lecture at some Idlechester In- 
 stitute, by one of those wandering geniuses 
 who skim the froth of other men's minds, and 
 retail it for a few guineas nightly. I rather 
 think it was on chemistry; and sweet Anne 
 Page, having a pretty childish liking for seeing 
 potassium flaming upon ice, and hearing the ex- 
 plosion of oxyhydrogen soap-bubbles, asked 
 Stephen to take her. But Stephen was too 
 busy, he said ; the foolish fellow was hard at 
 work on a magazine article, which of course 
 was eventually refused ; so he suggested that 
 Humphrey would be glad to go. And thus it 
 was arranged. 
 
 Which our wicked Panther knowing, that 
 afternoon in the garden she reminded Stephen 
 of a translation he had promised her of those 
 delicious verses of Chiabrera's — 
 *' Belle rose porporine, 
 
 Che tra spine 
 
 Sull' aurora non aprite : 
 
 Ma ministre degli Amori, 
 
 Bei testori 
 
 Di bei denti custodite."
 
 200 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Cunning as Eve her progenitrix, mother and 
 mistress of many tricks, she knew well that the 
 young scribbler could not refuse her his rhymes, 
 whensoever she desired them ; and so she de- 
 sired them this very evening. And so, when 
 Humphrey had taken Anne away to their che- 
 mistry, Stephen arrived with his MS., and be- 
 gan with more fluency than felicity — 
 
 " Ruddy Roses ! not the blossoms 
 
 Whose sweet bosoms 
 Morning wets with crystal dew ; 
 
 But lip-roses, 
 
 Where reposes 
 Love, and music trembles through !" 
 
 And of course the Panther's lustrous eyes bright- 
 ened with admiration ; and of course he read 
 more of his polyglottisms, all about love — leave 
 the boy alone for that. But by-and-by Claudia 
 interrupted the readings with — 
 " Stephen, how old is Anne Page ?" 
 " In her seventeenth year," he said. 
 " And when are you going to marry her?" 
 *' That," he replied, " depends on her guar- 
 dians. If Mr. Page had lived, he would doubt- 
 less have wished her to wait a few years."
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 201 
 
 " And you are in no hm-ry ?" 
 
 " VThj should I be ? We are both very young. 
 It would be wrong to hurry her. She is scarcely 
 old enough to know her own mind." 
 
 *' Ai'e you f asked Claudia, with some empha- 
 sis. 
 
 " Well," he said, rising from his seat and 
 walking up and down the room, " I think I am. 
 You know I have been in love wdth her for ten 
 years at least," he continued, with a light laugh. 
 
 " Stephen," she said, with a very low inflec- 
 tion of her most musical voice, " Stephen, do 
 not make a mistake in this matter. Do not 
 mistake a mere childish fancy for true love. 
 You young poets rhyme about true love with- 
 out dreaming of its marvellous power. Oh ! it 
 is something so dehcious that the delight is on 
 the very verge of agony. It is too divine 
 for us to enjoy it fully, and that is why its 
 course can never run smooth. The gods envy 
 those who love. Be careful, Stephen." 
 
 "Why, Claudia," he said, astonished at her 
 vehemence, "have you ever known true love, 
 then?"
 
 202 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Shall I tell you a great secret, Stephen ? 
 No," she said, playfully putting her pretty fin- 
 ger to her lip, " no, you cannot be trusted. No, 
 I won't tell you." 
 
 "You may trust me," he said. "I should 
 very much like to know that there is anyone 
 whom you think worth loving." 
 
 " Oh ! there is," she said ; " there is." 
 There was a pause. At length she said — 
 " Come here, Stephen. Kneel down. I don't 
 want you to look at me while I tell you my 
 secret." 
 
 He knelt at her feet, and buried his face in 
 her lap, as if they were playing forfeits. She 
 ran her delicate fingers through his bright crisp 
 curly hair. He was very patient. At last she 
 said, 
 
 *' I am afraid. Can't you guess, Stephen f 
 " I can only guess that he is a very happy 
 man," he answered, trying to raise his head 
 and look at her face. But she would not let him. 
 " He is too happy," she said, " too fortunate. 
 He cares nothing for me. Oh ! I cannot tell 
 you, Stephen."
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 203 
 
 " How you delight to tantalize me," he said. 
 
 "Listen, Stephen, listen," she whispered. 
 " Tell nobody. Forget that you have heard it. 
 She bowed her head towards him, so that he 
 felt her breath upon his hair. ''It is you I 
 love r 
 
 Still she held him in his sweet prison ; then, 
 as with a sudden revulsion, she pushed him 
 from her, saying — 
 
 "Go away — you despise me, I know — go 
 away directly." 
 
 She buried her face in her hands, and sobbed 
 passionately. 
 
 Stephen was astounded. With all her appa- 
 rent passion, he could not believe her. He had 
 never dreamt of loving Claudia, of being un- 
 faithful to sweet Anne Page. He was thunder- 
 struck, yet scarcely credulous. 
 
 "Claudia," he said, "what have you told 
 mer 
 
 " Stephen," she replied, standing erect, and 
 looking upon him fearlessly with dilated orbs 
 of living light, " I have told you the truth. I 
 am foolish enough, wicked enough, to love you,
 
 204 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 though I know you can never love me. Per- 
 haps you some day will love as madly, and 
 then you will know how vain it is to strive to 
 repress such love. Oh ! Stephen, Stephen, my 
 darling, pity me !" 
 
 She threw herself upon him. She flung her 
 arms around him wildly, and clung to liim, lip, 
 breast, and lissom limb. She kissed him as 
 Cleopatra might have kissed broad-fronted 
 Cassar in her youth. He could not help return- 
 ing the pressure of that irresistible embrace. 
 For a half-minute, it may be, locked in each 
 other's arms, Stephen and Claudia forgot, or 
 seemed to forget, everything but love. So Hero 
 and Leander may have clung together ere the 
 bold swimmer sprang into Hellespont on his re- 
 turn. 
 
 But the Panther felt that she had not tri- 
 umphed. She had miscalculated her power 
 over him. And she was not surprised, when 
 that vehement embrace was over, to hear him 
 say, 
 
 " Claudia, this is very terrible. I pity you." 
 
 Yes, this was her humiliation, only too well
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 205 
 
 deserved, she felt. She had vainly exhausted 
 all her resources, even those which no woman 
 should stoop to use. She had offered herself to 
 tliis boy, and was rejected. Even the secret 
 might not be kept ; he and Anne Page perhaps 
 would talk of her with a pitying smile as " poor 
 Claudia." Her haughty temper chafed at the 
 numberless probabilities which crowded her 
 imagination. If Raphael should hear of it ! 
 Raphael would believe Stephen to blame — 
 would call him to account ; and what would he 
 say to her ? Oh, that she had never rim such 
 a risk ! Oh, that she had never taken a fancy 
 to this contemptuous boy years before ! 
 
 " I msh I could love you, Claudia," he went 
 on, breaking the silence, " I owe you a great 
 debt of gratitude." 
 
 This was worse than all. Every word he 
 uttered, though intended kindly, filled her with 
 deeper shame, with hotter ire. She bit her lip 
 till it bled ; she clenched her beautiful hands 
 till the nails indented their soft palms. She 
 would have given half her life at that moment 
 to be revenged upon Stephen. Oh ! to tortm-e
 
 206 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 him with some intense ingenuity of tortm-e— - 
 something beyond all that the Inquisition ever 
 invented ! 
 
 Humphrey Morfill's knock was heard at the 
 front door. 
 
 " Tell them I have a headache—anything," 
 she said, and was gone in an instant. 
 
 So Stephen told them he had called in to 
 hear their account of the lecture, and that Miss 
 Branscombe had a bad headache ; and Anne 
 Page ran away to see if she could do anything 
 for her cousin ; and Humphrey criticised the 
 lecturer's theories, and laughed at the awk- 
 wardness of his experiments, and was learned 
 upon isomeric substances ; and by-and-by Anne 
 returned to say that Claudia was coming pre- 
 sently, and they must stop to supper, which 
 they did ; and Humprey Morfiil announced 
 his intention of performing a chemical experi- 
 ment superior to any at the lecture, and accord- 
 ingly, bemg furnished with a lobster and some 
 anchovies and olives and capers and lettuce 
 and endive and various condiments, made such
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 207 
 
 a salad as only a first-rate operator could pro- 
 duce. 
 
 Claudia came down looking radiant, and sup- 
 per went off with joyous gaiety. 
 
 " Chemistry," said Humphrey, " is a wonder- 
 ful science, if one only knew somthing beyond 
 its mere facts. I want to know why two gases 
 form water, when mixed in given proportions — 
 why chlorine destroys colours and odoui's — 
 why laughing gas intoxicates you. What we 
 call science is only classified ignorance." 
 
 " Then it is just as well to be ignorant with- 
 out classification, as ladies generally are," said 
 Claudia. 
 
 " What a beautiful colour the vapour of 
 iodine is !" said ilnne. " I don't think I ever 
 beheld anything so exquisite." 
 
 " If I recollect," observed Claudia, " it is very 
 much the colour of Stephen's eyes." 
 
 " Ironical flattery is cruel," said Stephen, Avho 
 was rather surprised at Claudia's gaiety. 
 
 " How strange," said Anne, " that that stuff 
 — what did he call it ? — should catch fire when 
 it touches water ! It seems so absurd."
 
 208 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Potassium, you mean," said Humphrey. 
 "Well, that experiment illustrates the weakness 
 of what is called chemical science." 
 
 " How so f asked the Panther. 
 
 "Why, look here. Two elements, oxygen 
 and hydrogen, are in close partnership — closer 
 than man and wife a great deal. The result 
 we call water, and drink it — some of us. Now 
 why should there be a third malignant element 
 that takes delight in separating these two at- 
 tached lovers ? Potassium is the rascal ; he — 
 or perhaps I had better say she, for it is quite a 
 ladylike business — ^has so strong a passion for 
 oxygen, that she forcibly extracts her true love 
 from the water, and so violently as to set both 
 the hydrogen and herself on fire. Whence this 
 mad passion ? Chemists only say — ' Oh ! potas- 
 sium has a great affinity for oxygen.' To me 
 it almost seems like the jealous work of a living 
 creature, just as if Rosaline, the scarlet-lipped 
 beauty whom that rascal Romeo deserted for 
 Juliet, had followed him in wild anger, and 
 killed both Juliet and herself." 
 
 " That is the action of potassium, is it f said
 
 THE panther's WOOING. 209 
 
 Claudia. " The chemical type of a jealous wo- 
 man. Curious ! Anne, the lecturer did not 
 tell you all this, did he ?" 
 
 "No, it is some of Mr. MorfiU's fantastic 
 speculation. He is fond of odd notions. I think 
 he would have been an alchemist or an astrolo- 
 ger if he had lived in old times." 
 
 " I believe in both sciences," said Stephen. 
 
 " I beHeve it is getting late," said Humphrey. 
 " Come, the ladies are tired of us." 
 
 They rose to go. Claudia took an opportu- 
 nity to approach Stephen, and whispered in his 
 ear with singular distinctness — 
 
 "/ hate you, Stephen. You shall never marry 
 Anne Pager 
 
 He gave her a sorrowful look, and then went 
 away with his Mend. But not home, as yet ; 
 it was a night of glorious moonlight, and they 
 paced the cathedral close, solacing themselves 
 with the enchanted weed. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 210 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 
 
 TTE is somewhat daring who ventures to make 
 -^-^ Venice a scene of his romance. Has not 
 Shakespeare the myriad-minded been there 
 twice? — once with his wondrous comedy and 
 peerless Portia, and that divine little Jewess 
 Jessica — 
 
 " In such a night 
 Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
 Slander her love, and he forgave it her" — 
 
 once with that tear-compelling tragedy of the 
 doom of Desdemona, with 
 
 " That whiter skin of hers than snow. 
 And smooth as monumental alabaster" ? 
 
 Nor Shakespeare only ; but men of smaller mould 
 than he, to whom yet we in this day seem pig- 
 mies. Voltaire's kings, and Schiller's masked
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 211 
 
 Armenian : Byron, hymning in his strongest 
 verse the " sea Cybele, fresh fr'om ocean," fed 
 with gems of " the exhaustless East," and in an- 
 other mood telling the story of Beppo ; Shelley, 
 longing 
 
 " Never to leave sweet Venice, for to me 
 
 It was delight to ride by the lone sea ; 
 
 And then the town is silent — one may write 
 
 Or read in gondolas, by day or night, 
 
 Unseen, uninterrupted : 
 
 later, Disraeli the younger, with that hero whose 
 story, as his preface tells us, " has had the rare 
 fortune of being cherished by great men :" and 
 Ruskin, who puts artistic and architectural para- 
 dox in sonorous prose : and Arthur Clough, ex- 
 claiming, 
 
 " O beautiful beneath the magic moon 
 To walk the watery way of palaces ; 
 O beautiful, o'er-vaulted with gemmed blue 
 This spacious court ; with colour and with gold, 
 With cupolas and pinnacles and points. 
 And crosses multiplex and tips and balls, 
 (Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix. 
 Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused ;) 
 Fantastically perfect this lone pile 
 Of Oriental glory ; those long ranges 
 Of classic chiselling ; this gay flickering crowd, 
 And the calm Campanile !" 
 
 p 2
 
 212 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Last, but how far from least, the greatest of 
 Hvmg poets has been " In a Gondola," and has 
 
 sung 
 
 ' ' O which were best, to roam or rest ? 
 The land's lap or the water's breast ? 
 To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves 
 Or swim in lucid shallows, just 
 Eluding water-lily leaves, 
 An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust 
 To lock you, whom release he must ; 
 Which life were best on summer eves ?" 
 
 Ah, can I venture on the charmed Venetian 
 water after these ? Can I write in my gondola 
 after Shelley's divine lyrics, or look up eager- 
 ly for a flushed face at a balcony for an em- 
 brace of her whom Browning beheld stretching 
 to regain her lost loory, till 
 
 " Quick the round smooth cord of gold, 
 The coiled hair on her head, unrolled. 
 Fell down her Uke a gorgeous snake 
 The Roman girls were wont of old. 
 When Rome there was, for coolness' sake, 
 To let lie curling o'er their bosoms" ? 
 
 Pshaw ! Authors must not be cowards in these 
 days : " faint heart never won fair lady :" and 
 there is one fair lady whom I fain would win to 
 read this story.
 
 IX A GOXDOLA. 213 
 
 Raphael Branscombe was in the silent city; not 
 because, like Contamii Fleming, he was drawn 
 thither by some magic impulse, but simply be- 
 cause he rather liked it. And though, again 
 unlike Contarini, the Seraph had no special pre- 
 disposition for conspiraces, he had a wonderful 
 genius for adventm-e. He was in the midst of 
 one now ; or perhaps 'twere better to say it had 
 reached its acme, and Raphael was getting a little 
 tired of it. 
 
 The Seraph was singularly unaltered since 
 we saw him at Kingsleat, so long ago. He was 
 boyish and beautiful as ever. No trace of beard 
 or wliisker marred the feminine curves of cheek 
 and chin. You might have thought that he 
 drank the elixir of youth. He lay back in his 
 chair at breakfast, according to his old custom ; 
 and Louis supplied him abundantly with comes- 
 tibles ; and he gazed languidly through an open 
 window towards a palace on the opposite side 
 of the narrow canal. 
 
 In that palace dwelt two English ladies, the 
 Countess of Shottesbrooke and Lady Emilia 
 Hastings, her youngest daughter. The elder
 
 214 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 lady was an average countess dowager, unplea- 
 santly hard up. As for Lady Emilia — I am 
 tempted again to quote a famous poet — 
 
 '' ^Vas a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, — 
 On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its 
 
 bed, 
 O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might 
 
 base his head." 
 
 Yes : Emilia was veiy much " such a lady." 
 She reminded me often of Browning's Ottima, or 
 of Byron's Dudii — 
 
 " Being somewhat large and languishing and lazy, 
 Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy." 
 
 She had driven a good many people crazy in 
 her time ; and was at present occupied in doing 
 the same kind act for a young Mr. Bouverie 
 Hudson, a millionaii-e of five and twenty, whose 
 father was generally believed to have been a 
 tailor, and whose prsenomen, according to some 
 wicked wit, had been given him because he 
 lodged in Bouverie-street. Hudson was a very 
 agreeable affable innocent young fellow, who 
 was maddened by Lady Emilia's sleepy beauty. 
 The Countess encouraged him ; he would be a
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 215 
 
 capital match for her daughter ; but he could not 
 succeed in awakening the slightest amount of 
 interest in those great drowsy eyes of hers. 
 
 Even now, as Raphael lounged over his late 
 breakfast, IVIr. Bouverie Hudson was in attend- 
 ance on the lady of his love. He had arranged 
 a morning stroll in a gondola, if I may use such 
 a phrase, to see some chm'ch or palace or island 
 of the lagoons — I forget what. And the hour 
 had come, and the Comitess had abeady 
 di-essed to start, and Lady ^Emilia declined to 
 move. 
 
 " I am so weary of it all," she said. " And it 
 is so hot." 
 
 And she sank back in her chau' the very pic- 
 ture of lassitude. 
 
 " It will be pleasantly cool on the water," said 
 the Countess. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, don't try to persuade me. You 
 know what an indolent creature I am. You go 
 with Mr. Hudson — you'll enjoy it, I daresay — 
 and bring him back to dinner." 
 
 She sighed with the exertion of saying so 
 much. Her invincible indolence made her quite
 
 216 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 an autocrat. So the Countess of Shottesbrooke 
 and Mr. Bouverie Hudson started together, the 
 young gentleman looking anything but happy. 
 
 Their gondola had scarcely left the steps 
 when Lady Emilia so far exerted herself as to 
 rise from her seat, and fasten to the blind of the 
 balcony a morsel of rosy ribbon. Then she actu- 
 ally went and dressed herself, and, returning to 
 the saloon, sat watching by the window. 
 
 " Confomid the girl !" murmured Raphael to 
 himself, as he saw that silken signal. " Louis, 
 the gondola." 
 
 He prepared to go out, though in leisurely 
 fashion. Having lighted a cigar, he also fast- 
 ened a strip of ribbon to the blind. When 
 Emilia saw it, she sprang up with a promptitude, 
 and tripped down the marble stairs with an 
 agility, which you would not have imagined in 
 her. 
 
 Raphael's gondola shot rapidly across from 
 one palace portal to the other. When the Lady 
 Emilia had entered it, away it floated through 
 these labyrinthine canals — what matter whi- 
 ther ?
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 217 
 
 A sunny atmosphere of delight seemed to sur- 
 round ^miha as she lay back on the cushions, 
 alone with Raphael. They were silent for along 
 time. At last Raphael, ha\Tng finished his cigar, 
 half rose from his seat, and looked upon the 
 lady's face, and kissed her droopmg eyelids. 
 
 " So Hudson is teasmg you still, my child ?" 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes, and Mamma encourages him di-eadfLiUy. 
 Oh, I am so tired of it all. I wish I had never 
 seen you, Raphael." 
 
 " Why, you silly little thing," he exclaimed, 
 " what next ? You know that an hour with me 
 on these quiet waters is worth a year of your 
 slow lazy life. What have I taught you, 
 come?" 
 
 " You have taught me to love you, Raphael. 
 And I wish I had not learnt it. And I never 
 know whether you love me, or not." 
 
 " That is a question on which no young lady 
 should permit herself to have a doubt." 
 
 '''Do you love me, Raphael?" she asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " How many times have you asked me that.
 
 218 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Emilia 1 And how many times have I told you 
 that I don't care very much for anybody but 
 myself? When will you learn to know me, 
 child?" 
 
 " I don't like you when you jest in this way," 
 she said. " If you don't love me, why do you 
 kiss me ? — why do you ?" 
 
 " Because I like it," he replied. " You are very 
 nice — and you love me, I know, which is very 
 pleasant — and I like to float in a gondola with 
 my arm round your waist, and your charming 
 head on my shoulder. And if I am satisfied, 
 why should not you be, my pet ?" 
 
 " But this can't go on for ever," she said, in 
 speech far more rapid than his; for she was 
 eager, and he was cool and calm. " You know 
 it can't ; what am I to do ?" 
 
 "For ever," said Raphael, meditatively. "No, 
 indeed. Perhaps an eternity of it might get 
 monotonous, but I am not yet very much 
 fatigued. Oh ! if I could only stay in one place 
 without being bored, and you could always be 
 beautiful and young, it would be very tolerable 
 here in Venice."
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 219 
 
 And he kissed her lips this time. And then 
 he lazily lit another cigar. 
 
 " But, Raphael," she said, after a long pause, 
 "what am I to do? Tell me. You haven't 
 told me r 
 
 " Marry Hudson, I should think." 
 
 " Oh ! now you are cruel !" she cried, pas- 
 sionately. " You know I hate that man." 
 
 " AVhich need not prevent your marrying him. 
 He worships you. Come, child, be reasonable ; 
 you know I can't marry ; you know you must 
 marry money. Here is this good-tempered 
 young fellow as madly in love with you as you 
 are with me. Make him happy — and be as con- 
 tented as you can manage to be yourself." 
 
 " Raphael, you are a fiend !" 
 
 " Don't be abusive, my pet, or I won't give 
 you another kiss this morning. Was it my fault, 
 you Httle fool, that you fell passionately in love 
 with me ? Why, you were like a ripe peach — 
 you dropt into my hand, you know you did. I 
 have told you all this before; you need not 
 make a man talk so much this hot weather. 
 There ! my cigar is out."
 
 220 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Emilia was lialf smiles, half tears. So fool- 
 ishly she loved this man that she could not be 
 angry with him. She was his slave. She could 
 have thrown herself on the ground at a word, 
 for him to tread upon her. I believe she would 
 have cast herself headlong into the canal, if 
 Raphael had bidden her. And now, while he 
 talked with this cool cynicism, she clung to him 
 with servile love. 
 
 " If I could marry," resumed the Seraph, after 
 a while, " I would marry you, Emilia — and that 
 is more than I ever said to any woman before. 
 If either you or I had a clear thousand a year, 
 I would marry you. I don't know that I should 
 be happy ; I think not ; if I know myself at all, 
 I should desert you in about six months. But 
 you would be happy — for a week or two." 
 
 And he hummed — he had a capital tenor voice, 
 
 Raphael — a stanza of Murger's song : 
 
 " Yesterday seeing the swallows whirl, 
 Summer's guests in a happier clime, 
 I thought once more of the darling girl 
 
 Who used to love me — when she had time — 
 u_When she had time !" 
 
 " Ah !" said Lady Emilia, with a sigh, after
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 221 
 
 another pause, " what would my brother say if 
 he knew f 
 
 " My dear gn-1," said Raphael, " you are in a 
 fanciful state this morning. Be calm. I like 
 repose. If you worry yourself your eyes will 
 lose theu- brightness, and your cheeks their 
 colour, and yom- bust its divine curve — and then 
 you won't catch me in a gondola with you again 
 in a hmTy. Your brother the Earl is as gallant 
 a boy as ever lived — and ifhe knew, why, I suppose 
 he'd kill me, for it wouldn't be gentlemanly for 
 me to kill him, you know — and I really shouldn't 
 so much care if I felt sure there was a Venice 
 in the next world, and a pretty ^Emilia ready 
 to love me. But the parsons, who ought to 
 know, I suppose, don't give one any such ideas, 
 I'm sorry to say." 
 
 The well-disciplined gondolier, who knew the 
 value of time, had brought them back to where 
 Lady ^Emilia dwelt. Raphael gave her a fare- 
 well kiss. 
 
 " Good-bye, cliild," he said. " Go and tell 
 mamma, like a dutiful daughter, that you think 
 you'll marry Hudson, if he'll make a good settle-
 
 222 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 ment on you. I'll make you a wedding present. 
 Run away." 
 
 She ascended the stairs. He, returning to his 
 palace, found that the post had in the interval 
 arrived, and that there was a letter in his 
 father's well-known hand. Better say "fist," 
 perhaps ; Devil Branscombe wrote a most 
 characteristic and unmistakeable fist, and sealed 
 his letters with a vast shapeless splash of wax, 
 whereon a muzzled mastiff and the motto 
 " Cave r seemed equally characteristic. 
 
 " What's the row now ?" said Raphael, break- 
 ing the seal. The letter was dated from Idle- 
 chester. " By Jove," said Raphael to himself, 
 " the old gentleman has taken a queer fancy." 
 Thus ran the epistle : — 
 
 " Dear Raphael, 
 
 " You remember old Langton the 
 tanner — big old fellow with a strong smell of 
 leather. Well, here I am in his house in the 
 High-street, comfortably shut up in a front 
 bed-room, and watching all that goes on at 
 poor Page's opposite. Amusing rather. No-
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 223 
 
 body knows I'm here, though Walter knew I 
 was coming; settled it all with him at the 
 Dolphin at Southampton. Very fair ^dne at the 
 Dolphin, for a country inn. 
 
 " You'll say, what the deuce is it all about ? 
 Well, Page left his money so that half of it ^dll 
 go to old Langton's grandson, if we don't look 
 sharp. Your uncle, who's got his wits about 
 him, suggested the best way out of it — Claudia 
 to marry young Langton, and then you to come 
 over and marry Page's Httle girl. She's very 
 pretty, I hear ; and, as you've had your fling, it 
 can't matter much whom you marry. She's got 
 close upon four thousand a year. 
 
 " So I want you to come and meet me and 
 talk it over. I shall start for Guernsey as soon 
 as I've talked to Claudia. I saw her go along 
 the street just now. Wouldn't she have been 
 astonished if she had known who was looking 
 at her ! " R. B. 
 
 " P.S. I mean to go to Baden or some such 
 place, and see if I've any luck with the thousand 
 Page left me. He might as well have made it
 
 224 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 ten. I shall wait for you in Guernsey — but be 
 as quick as you can, for I'm tired of the infernal 
 hole." 
 
 "That's your game, is it, old gentleman?" 
 said Raphael. *' Under the circumstances, per- 
 haps I'd better not hurry myself. You can't 
 spend much money in Guernsey, at any rate. 
 However, I must go to talk to you, that's cer- 
 tain — and it will be a fine opportmiity of drop- 
 ping that little Hastings. She's getting tire- 
 some, poor child. As to Anne Page, why, she 
 must be a mere baby yet. So much the better 
 perhaps, in some respects. Her money would 
 make us all right." 
 
 The next morning Raphael signalled early to 
 liis fair neighbour opposite, and sat smoking 
 in proximity to the window, awaiting a reply. 
 None came all through the long bright day. 
 
 "Strange," he thought. "Emilia is gene- 
 rally in a deuce of a hurry. I suppose the old 
 woman has made her go out somewhere." 
 
 But when on the next day the same thing 
 happened, Raphael said to his valet,
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 225 
 
 " Louis, I want you to find out quietly what 
 Lady Shottesbrooke is doing." 
 
 " Her ladyship has left Venice, sir," said Louis, 
 promptly. " 1 have just heard it." 
 
 Louis was a model valet, always knew what 
 his master wanted to know, but never entered 
 on a subject except by his master's desire. 
 
 " Left, eh !" soliloquized Raphael. " I wonder 
 if there has been a row. Louis," he said to his 
 valet, *' I shall leave too. I shall go to Rome 
 for a day or two, and then I think of crossing 
 to Corsica. We'll start this evening." 
 
 There had been a row. We left Emilia slowly 
 ascending the palace stairs. When she reached 
 the saloon, to her amazement she was received 
 by her mother. 
 
 " Well, Lady Emilia Hastings, pray where 
 have you been ? I thought you were too indo- 
 lent to move." 
 
 "I suppose one may change one's mind, 
 mamma." 
 
 " Oh I of com-se. At the same time I presume 
 I may inquhe where you have been, and in 
 whose company." 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Whom do I know here ?" asked Lady 
 Emilia. " What do you mean by * In whose 
 company T " 
 
 " I mean," said the Countess, " that for a 
 young lady of your rank to be alone in a gon- 
 dola with a man whose character is so bad as 
 Mr. Raphael Branscombe's is sufficient to ruin 
 her reputation." 
 
 The girl was taken by surprise. Though the 
 noiseless labyrinthine canals of Venice, with 
 their mysterious gondolas, are the natural home 
 of intrigue, yet the secrets of the Venetian 
 waters are not always kept. Gossip exists 
 there, especially among the resident English: 
 and the Countess had that very morning en- 
 countered another dowager who knew more 
 than herself of her daughter's movements. So 
 she had hastily returned, finding some pretext 
 for the alteration of her design, and dismissing 
 Mr. Hudson till dinner-time. 
 
 " If Mr. Branscombe has so bad a character," 
 said Lady Emilia, " why do you let him come 
 here?" 
 
 " It is impossible," said the Countess, " to ex-
 
 IN A GONDOLA. 227 
 
 elude an Englishman of fashion, whom you meet 
 eveiywhere. But if he were the most virtuous 
 man in the world, it would not justify you in 
 going out with him alone." 
 
 " Not if I were affianced to him f she asked. 
 
 "^\Tiy, that would be worse than all," the 
 Countess almost shrieked. " He has no money ; 
 he is a pauper, and is far too clever to marry a 
 pauper. Emilia," she said solemnly, " I don't 
 know how far you have gone with him, and I 
 have no wish to know, but we shall leave Venice 
 at once — and you will accept Mr. Hudson." 
 
 "iVeyer," said ^miHa. 
 
 " You will,'' repHed her mother, firmly. "Other- 
 wise I will write at once to Edward, and tell 
 him of your intrigue with this Mr. Branscombe." 
 
 The tlu-eat was effective. The young Earl, 
 his sister knew well, had a high notion of the 
 family honour. Sanspeur et sans reproche himself, 
 and descended from a stainless ancestry, he was 
 certain to hear of her doings with indignation. 
 
 " Good heaven !" she thought, " and Raphael 
 would be killed. He said he could not defend 
 himself. It is dreadful." 
 
 q2
 
 228 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Poor girl, she was awakened from her indolent 
 languor now. She loved this man, who was 
 utterly unworthy of her, with the most absolute 
 love. And if she sacrificed herself to a man for 
 whom she cared nothing, it was to save Raphael 
 from her brother's vengeance. 
 
 " Mamma," she said, faintly, " I submit. Now 
 leave me alone, please." She sank back in her 
 chair and wept as if her heart would break. 
 
 The Countess, heedless of her daughter's tears, 
 went away smiling at her own success. 
 
 That day the happy Hudson, after a charming 
 dinner, received from the Countess a Innt that 
 he might speak. And he spoke, frankly and 
 fairly, like a fine foolish young fellow as he was ; 
 and Lady Emilia intoxicated him with an indo- 
 lent Yes. But ah, poor child, she shuddered at 
 his delight, and shrank from the lips that touch- 
 ed her own. And, before they started for Eng- 
 land, she wrote a note to Raphael, which came to 
 him through a gondolier, after she was gone. It 
 was a very little note. 
 
 " Dear cruel Raphael, — I have obeyed you. 
 I should not have had courage, but Mamma
 
 IN A GOXDOLA. 229 
 
 found out that I love you, and I was afraid Ed- 
 ward would kill you. I don't know what she 
 knows. Forget me, please. " ^^IILIA." 
 
 " Poor little rogue !" thought Raphael, when 
 he read it. " That's all over." 
 
 He went, as he intended, to Rome ; having 
 
 written to his father to say that he was on his 
 
 way to Guernsey. Rome had not at that time 
 
 become quite such a suburb of London as it now 
 
 is. People had not begun to write — 
 
 ' ' Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella, 
 That day at the tomb of Csecilia Metella." 
 
 There was no croquet at the Aldobrandini. 
 Story and Weld had not written their dreary 
 books, nor had my friend Mr. Locker set up as 
 Laureat of the eternal city. Raphael only stay- 
 ed a day or two ; there was, of com-se, nobody 
 there ; and he took wing to Naples, to look once 
 more upon its voluptuous bay and the pale cone 
 of Vesuvius. Raphael, a thorough Epicurean, 
 intensely enjoyed fine scenery. All his tastes 
 were exquisite. If he had possessed any kind 
 of ethics, he would have been a very good sort 
 of fellow.
 
 230 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 
 
 I DO not know what drew Raphael Brans- 
 combe to Corsica. I am disposed to think 
 it was destiny. When a man does a thing inex- 
 plicable not only to the world but to himself, he 
 is perhaps drawn mto one of those currents of 
 life which seem often to interfere with its main 
 tidal movement. If any one had asked Raphael 
 why he was going to the mysterious island of 
 revenge and of conquest, he certainly could not 
 have told. The idea had only occurred to him 
 when he heard that Emilia had left Venice ; but 
 he made up his mmd instantly, although he 
 knew that his father was anxiously awaiting 
 him in quite another island, eager to start for 
 some place where he could get rid of that un- 
 lucky thousand pounds.
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 231 
 
 Raphael crossed in a sailing-boat from Livorno. 
 The Tuscan channel is sprinkled with lovely 
 islets — sporades of the Italian sea. Passing out 
 of sight of Livorno's crowded harbour, lying at 
 the foot of Monte Nero ; passing Meloria, a soli- 
 tary rock with a shattered tower, by which was 
 fought the sea fight which destroyed the Geno- 
 ese republic; passing Gorgona and Capraja, 
 where one remembers Dante's execration against 
 Pisa — 
 
 "Movasi la Capraja e la Gorgona, 
 E faccian siepe ad Arno in su la foce, 
 Si ch' egli annieghi in te ogni persona," — 
 
 and where one also naturally thinks of ancho- 
 vies; passing Elba too, where men vainly 
 thought to imprison a Titan ; the voyager ap- 
 proaches Bastia. Raphael entered the harbour 
 with its dark amphitheatre of mountains, at 
 eventide. The first words that he heard 
 through the dim light upon the quay were 
 Ammazzato! ammazzato ! A Corsican had be- 
 come rather excited in conversation with a 
 friend, and had stabbed him with three strokes 
 of a dagger ; ammazzato con tre colpi di pugnale.
 
 232 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Tbe sbh^ri were after him ; he had fled to the 
 macchia. He who once flies to the macchia, the 
 wild mountains and forests of Corsica, is a ban- 
 dit for life. 
 
 Raphael was rather amused than alarmed by 
 this ominous reception. After some trouble he 
 got into a locanda where, by the smoky light 
 of an ill-trimmed oil-lamp, he supped on wheat en 
 bread and cheese of ewe's milk and fiery Corsi- 
 can wine. He got slight rest that night. In 
 the early morning he strolled down to the beach, 
 and dipped in the divine wave, and feasted his 
 sight with the islets of Capraja and Elba and 
 romance-empurpled Monte Cristo, afar amid the 
 haze. Then, an experienced traveller, he went 
 to the fish-market to look for breakfast ; and 
 was recommended to try the murena, the best 
 of all fish, which resembles a serpent of por- 
 phyry ; and gazed with delight on the innu- 
 merable piscine forms of the Corsican waters. 
 Thence to the fruit-market on the Piazza Fava- 
 leni, where the peaches, apricots, green almonds, 
 pomegranates, Muscat grapes from Cape Corso, 
 figs, magnificent melons, were crowded in pro-
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 233 
 
 fuse abundance. Beautiful young girls bring 
 them in baskets on their heads, whose abundant 
 tresses are hidden by the picturesque mandile, a 
 head-dress older than the Tarqmns. 
 
 Raphael thoroughly enjoyed all this. He had 
 with him but one book, a favourite comrade of 
 travel, a Tauchnitz Odyssey ; he read it by the 
 sea in Corsica, and thought himself in Ogygia. 
 Do not fear, reader, that I am going to follow 
 him step by step. Forgetting his eager father, 
 he went to Fabiani, the bookseller, and bought 
 of him Marmocchi's topogi-aphic work on Cor- 
 sica. He climbed the green mountain Car do, 
 and looked down upon the Mediterranean, whose 
 hue, as Dante said, is color del oriental zaffiro, and 
 crushed out as he climbed the odoiu- of those 
 myriad flowers and herbs which caused Napo- 
 leon to say at St. Helena, " I should know Cor- 
 sica with my eyes shut, by its fragrance." Then 
 from Bastia he traversed Cape Corso, and en- 
 tered the beautiful stalactite cavern of Brando, 
 and rested in Lmi's enchanted valley, tasting 
 its wondrous wine, and crossed the Serra to 
 Pino on the Ligurian Sea, and ascended to the
 
 234 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Tower of Seneca, where the Stoic and poetaster 
 expiated his ambitions love by eight years' exile, 
 exclaiming — 
 
 *' Hie sola hsec duo sunt, exsul et exsilium," 
 and returning, sailed the coast to Vesovato, 
 whence Mnrat, " a great knight and a small in- 
 tellect," made his last attempt to recover his 
 lost kingdom, and climbed through the chestnut 
 groves and festooned clematis to lofty Oreto 
 (pros), where he found no locanda, but frank 
 hospitality. A peasant, in brown smock and 
 Phrygian cap, gave him soup of vegetables, 
 goat's flesh, and peaches, the pretty daughter 
 waiting at table, and wondering at the stranger. 
 After supper he went to the church, standing 
 on the verge of a steep rock, whence there is an 
 incomparable view over chestnut-covered moun- 
 tains and an island-dotted sea ; and there meet- 
 ing the Cure, enjoyed a delicious glass of wine 
 with him, and a pleasant talk about the two 
 Paolis, Pasquale and Clement, the one states- 
 man and leader, the other soldier and fanatic. 
 Then he retm-ned and chatted to the playful 
 Giulia, a merry maiden of sixteen, who did not
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 235 
 
 know her own age, but knew she looked very 
 pretty in the faldetta, and so brought it out and 
 arrayed herself with it for the wanderer's 
 amusement. And the next day, with the pea- 
 sant as guide, he rode through the chestnut 
 forests of Orezza, where a family can live if they 
 possess six groats and as many chestnut-trees, to 
 Morosaglia, the bu-thplace of Paoli. 
 
 Ferdinand Gregorovius, in his delightful book 
 about this romantic island, says that it contains 
 men of Homer, of Plutarch, and of Goethe. 
 Raphael found some of each among the goat- 
 herds of Monte Rotondo, where the wild waters 
 of the milk-white Restonica foam endlessly, and 
 the herdsmen store their cheeses in the very 
 caverns of Polyphemus ; on the dizzy steep of 
 Bonifazio, whence you see the fanal on Sar- 
 dinia's northernmost cape, while on the islets 
 below lie half-hewn columns which were meant 
 for mighty houses in the Rome of the Csesars ; 
 above all, at Isola Rossa, whose blood-red island 
 cliffs and gray Pisan towers and phosphorescent 
 sea delighted him. He echoed the poetic tra- 
 veller who exclaimed, " Verily, I swear I have
 
 236 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 reached the magic shore of the Lotos-eaters." 
 As you enter the town there rises a fountain in 
 an open space, where is a bust of Paoh, who 
 built the place under a fire from Genoese gun- 
 boats. Children were playing there; one of 
 these, a beautiful boy about eight years old, 
 showed him the way to a little coffee-house. 
 Here a merry young landlady, Chilina Benve- 
 nuta, made him an abmidant supper of fish and 
 fruit, and gave him pleasant songs to the 
 guitar as he sipped his wine on a marble bench 
 outside, gazing at sunset on the sea. 
 
 " By the ghost of Odysseus," he said to him- 
 self, "here will I stay awhile, though I eat 
 nothing save murenas and mulberries, and though 
 the head of the house of Branscombe never reach 
 Baden." 
 
 He stayed. He sailed on those charmed 
 waters in a boat called the Fantasia — a poetic 
 name ; he loitered on the three red cliffs, and on 
 the snow white sands streaked with sanguine 
 coral dust, and along by the little nunnery in a 
 garden by the sea, where dwell the Sisters of 
 the Madonna alle Grazie. And he made the ac-
 
 ox AX ISLAXD. 237 
 
 quaintance of a fine old Corsican, kingly as Alci- 
 nous, who dwelt among his oKve grounds and 
 vineyards and mulberry gardens in Homeric 
 simplicity, with only a granddaughter as com- 
 panion. Angelo Montalti made the Englishman 
 wondrously welcome, and gave him hroccio cake, 
 and trout from the hill-streams, and goat's flesh 
 dressed by his own hands, and fruit from his 
 multitudinous trees, and the fragrant but too 
 fiery wine of his own vineyards, while sweet 
 young Fiordilisa Montalti stood and served the 
 guest in primaeval fashion. 
 
 Fiordilisa, the lily of Isola Rossa, was slender 
 and shapely, and full of maidenhood's pure sim- 
 plicity. She looked upon Raphael as Nausicaa 
 on that famous wanderer of the elder world. 
 She would have delighted an Italian painter 
 with her haii' of Apollo's aubm-n, and her eyes 
 of Athene's colom-, and her fluent flexile form. 
 A child ; no more ; but how beautiful a child ! 
 Those bare round warm white arms ; those 
 hands, snowy as the dehcate hroccio ; that liquid 
 Italian voice, which at eventide rang sweetly in 
 the wild plaintive voceri ; that dainty rosebud of
 
 238 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 a mouth, honey-sweet for the kisses that are to 
 come — Raphael fomid them only too attractive. 
 And Raphael always coveted the beauty which 
 he saw. 
 
 It was an out-door life at Isola Rossa. On 
 the sea-shore or in the sea itself the children of 
 the village played in happy crowds. At night, 
 sometimes outside the little locanda, sometimes 
 in a great green orchard of Angelo Montalti's, 
 full of grey olives and old gnarled mulberry 
 trees — there was idyllic song, sometimes play- 
 ful, sometimes touched with divine melancholy. 
 The young girls and boys would improvise 
 couplets, as in Fra Lippo Lippi — 
 
 " Flower o' the broom, 
 Take away love, and our earth is a tomb." 
 
 " Flower o' the quince, 
 I let Lisa go, and what good's in life since ?" 
 
 " Flower o' the rose, 
 K I have been merry, what matter who knows ?" 
 
 " Flower o' the clove, 
 AU the Latin I construe is amo I love." 
 
 " Flower o' the thorn, 
 Joy of the midnight is sorrow at morn !" 
 
 Or sometimes —
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 239 
 
 " Amo un presideute, 
 
 Sta in letto senza dente !" 
 " Amo un cameriere. 
 
 Sta in letto senza here !" 
 
 Oh! what a ripple of laughter from gay young 
 lips at each successive distich ! Raphael, sensi- 
 tive to all sweet influences, thought he had 
 never known any enjoyment so near perfection. 
 He forgot Venice, and poor beautiful ^Emilia 
 soon to be tied to her millionau-e ; he forgot 
 sweet Anne Page, whom he was expected to 
 marry ; I regret to say he forgot Devil Brans- 
 combe, who used to stalk up and down the ca- 
 codorous old pier at Guernsey, and mto Red- 
 stone's shop, and through the market towards 
 Cadic's for his cigars, swearing in muttered 
 thunder at his recusant son and hen-. 
 
 "You should buy land, signor, and settle 
 among us," said the coquettish Chilina one 
 morning, as Raphael sat over his breakfast un- 
 der a great mulberry tree which shaded the casa. 
 Then she sang — 
 
 " I love a stranger who 
 Lingers here with nothing to .do." 
 
 Raphael smiled at the notion of his buying 
 
 land, but answered —
 
 240 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " If I were obliged to remain here I should 
 want to be away. I enjoy being here, because 
 I ought to be somewhere else." 
 
 Chilina laughed merrily, showing the whitest 
 teeth in the world. 
 
 " You are as bad as my husband,*' she said ; 
 " he is always wanting to go to Paris. What is 
 Paris Kke? Is it much larger than Corsica? 
 Is England in Paris f ' 
 
 Kaphael had often to reply to questions such 
 as these. After giving such explanation as he 
 could, he lit a cigar and started for Montalti's, 
 lazily loitering along the sands, and gazing 
 where birds innumerable haunted the blood-red 
 cliffs. 
 
 Angelo Montalti was about seventy — a fine 
 athletic old patriarch, full of spirit. The history 
 of Corsica, the noble career of Paoli, the mar- 
 vellous triumphs of Napoleon, were his favom-ite 
 subjects of converse with the stranger. Raphael 
 found him amid his olive and orange trees, with 
 Fiordilisa, fresh as the dewy dawn, by his side. 
 And he also this morning said : 
 
 " Why not remain among us, Signor Raf-
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 241 
 
 faelle ? Camillo Saliceti is dead : his house is to 
 be sold — the wliite house wdth the green blinds 
 under the great chestnut trees where the little 
 river Ostriconi enters the sea." 
 
 " Ah ! that would be charming," said the Lily 
 with delight. " You ^dll stay, will you not V 
 
 "I will stay," he answered, "till I am obliged 
 to go. It must be soon, I fear. And I am hap- 
 pier than I ever was, or shall be again." 
 
 " And you fly from happiness ?" said Angelo. 
 " Thus all men do, so I cannot wonder at you. 
 But stay while you will, and when you abandon 
 us we shall regret you." 
 
 I wish I had the magic pencil of Millais to 
 paint that old grey house ^dth its orchards by 
 the sea, and the aged Angelo, and the beautififl 
 child, and Raphael standing under the golden- 
 fruited and pm-ple-berried leafage. I can see it 
 all : I can hear Fiordihsa's low sweet voice, 
 more musical than the coo of a dove : but, 
 reader, I want you also to see and hear. 
 
 " I want to sail this morning in the Fantasia,'' 
 said Raphael. " Will you come, Fiordilisa ? 
 Will you come, Angelo ?" 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Go you, Fiordilisa," said Montalti. " I have 
 many things to do." 
 
 So away tripped the beautifal girl for her fal- 
 detta, and she and Raphael went over the white 
 coral-veined sands to where the lateen-sailed 
 boat had been pushed out by a couple of fisher- 
 men ; and soon they were outside the ruddy 
 islands, whence the long peninsula of Cape 
 Corso, and the little town, and the three magni- 
 cent mountains behind it, Santa Angiola, Santa 
 Susanna, and rugged Feliceto, with villages 
 clinging to their steep sides, made up a glorious 
 landscape. Raphael steered : Fiordilisa trailed 
 her fingers in the sparklmg sea, and murmured 
 a low song. 
 
 " Sing, Lisa," he said, " so that I may hear 
 
 you." 
 
 " After you, Signor Raffaelle," she said. " You 
 first." 
 
 So he sang, in that luscious tenor of his — 
 
 " Come to the garden, Minna, my sweet ! 
 
 Foamless and calm is the violet sea : 
 O thy dainty lips and thy finger tips 
 
 Shall be stained with the fruit of the mulberry tree.
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 243 
 
 " Heat of the noontide, Minna, my sweet ! 
 
 Chains back the winds from their wandering glee, 
 But the air is cool as a forest pool 
 
 Under dense green boughs of the mulberry tree. 
 
 " Loop back thy tresses, Minna, my sweet ! 
 
 Those rich brown ringlets fluttering free ; 
 And the summer shall flush thee with brighter blush 
 
 Than the ruddiest fruit of the mulberry tree. 
 
 " Summer and Love, O, Minna, my sweet ! 
 
 Are angels twain who dwell with thee : 
 Lo now they pursue us, and merrily woo us 
 
 Forth to the shade of the mulberry tree." 
 
 The song died across the windless wave. 
 The Lily of Isola Rossa looked at the singer 
 with madid eyes and lips half parted. Raphael, 
 only too skilled in such devil's diagnosis, saw 
 in those moist orbs and tremulous lips the first 
 symptoms of love. 
 
 " Now, Fiordilisa, I am goiag to tack. Then 
 sing." And she sang — 
 
 " Why do I love the sea's sweet lustre 
 When with him o'er the waves I go ? 
 Is it because the foam bells cluster? 
 Is it because the free winds blow ? 
 Is it for sunset's beauty ? No ! 
 
 " Why do I love the garden alleys, 
 Golden above and green below ? 
 
 r2
 
 244 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Why do I love the shadowy valleys 
 Cooled by the icy brooklet's flow ? 
 Is it for shade and sweetness ? No ! 
 
 "Ah, should I love the ocean-furrows 
 Purple and green in sunset's glow — 
 Ah, should I love the wind's susurrus 
 Where on the hills gray olives grow — 
 If I were there without him ? No ! " 
 
 Very poorly have I translated the easy sim- 
 plicity of the fluent Italian. These Corsican 
 maidens have the art of the Improvisatrice ; 
 their song is spontaneous. How gaily the arch 
 and piquant "iVb" came with exquisite iteration 
 and reiteration from Fiordilisa's charming lips. 
 
 Raphael could resist no longer. He drew the 
 beautiful creature to himself, and kissed her 
 with passionate kisses. 
 
 " Will you be my wife, Lisa f he said. 
 
 Fiordilisa sank upon his breast. She was 
 won, this Nausicaa of Corsica. She gave her- 
 self to him with utter love, with a child's faith, 
 in the simplicity and purity of her nature. And, 
 as he steered the Fantasia shorewards, with the 
 Lily of Isola Rossa lying in his arms, and gaz- 
 ing into his dreamy inscrutable eyes, Raphael
 
 ox AN ISLAXD. 245 
 
 thought there might be a Avorse fate than to 
 dwell upon 
 
 " Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas" 
 with a creatiu'e so di\"ine as Fiorclilisa. Love 
 had breathed a soul mto her, as uito Undine ; 
 she was no longer the cliildish little Corsican 
 village gu-1, but a maiden of romance, fit bride 
 for the knightliest wooer ; and Raphael knew^ 
 that amid all his many amours, he loved never 
 so truly, never so worthily. 
 
 He ran the Fantasia ashore. He lifted the 
 little beauty over the shallow water to the 
 sands. They walked together, slowly and 
 lovingly, to old Montalti's. It was a delicious 
 afternoon in that land 
 
 " In which it seemed always afternoon." 
 They entered the gray gateway, and the patri- 
 archal Corsican advanced towards them under 
 the fantastic trees. As he approached, the 
 Lily ran forward and threw her arms aromid 
 him, and kissed him. Then she ran away ; for it 
 was nearly dinner time, and dinner was her care. 
 
 " Signor Montalti, I love your granddaugh- 
 ter," said Raphael.
 
 246 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Old Angelo looked surprised. 
 
 " She is a child," he said. 
 
 " How old is she f asked Raphael. 
 
 " She is sixteen. Well, perhaps it is not too 
 young. Her mother married at sixteen. But, 
 wdll you stay among us, Signor RafFaelle ?" 
 
 " I will stay among you," said Raphael. 
 
 " Then I say nothing against it," said Angelo. 
 "She loves you f 
 
 " She does." 
 
 " It is well. You are wiser than we, and 
 wealthier, and when I die, you may desire to 
 leave Corsica. But do not sell the old house of 
 the Montaltis." 
 
 " Do not fear," answered Raphael. " I belong 
 myself to too old a race not to respect old me- 
 mories." 
 
 Raphael Branscombe, a complete Epicurean, 
 with whom indolence was a passion and ener- 
 getic action only an occasional impulse, aban- 
 doned himself wholly to the delight of love. 
 How pleasantly they dined that day, the two 
 men at table, as usual, and Fiordilisa waiting 
 upon them — an island princess of the primaeval
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 247 
 
 time ministering to Nestor and Odysseus ! How 
 her fair face flushed as she looked upon her hero 
 — the wanderer she had won ! 
 
 " Now," said Angelo, putting aside the green 
 -wine-flask, whose sole stopper was a vine- 
 leaf, " now ^dll I show you there is wine in 
 Corsica." 
 
 The old man descended into a cool crypt, and 
 brought thence a stone jar, holding about three 
 quarts — dark red its hue, its form Etruscan. He 
 poured the wine into the great globular goblets, 
 an oily amber liquid with a strange sparkle in 
 its depths. 
 
 *' It is of the year in wliich my son Angelo 
 was born — Fiordilisa's father. He would be 
 thirty-five if he lived now." 
 
 The Seraph had tasted wine, in his time — in 
 as many places and of as many qualities as most 
 men. But never had there passed his lips any- 
 thing to equal this old wine of Corsica, which, 
 fiery in its youth, had mellowed into nectarous 
 perfection. They drank to the happiness of the 
 bridal that was to come. 
 
 It was fixed early — a month fi-om that day.
 
 248 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 And, when the day came, a Trovata or trium- 
 phal arch of greenery and flowers arose oppo- 
 site the Casa Montalti. And Fiordilisa, mounted 
 on a snow-wliite pony, gaily caparisoned, passed 
 under this archway amid a joyous procession to 
 the little town. And girls from the balconies of 
 Isola Rossa strewed flowers and grains of wheat 
 as the bride passed ; and guns were fired, and the 
 mandoline and cornamusa played as they went to 
 the church. And, after the venerable priest had 
 performed the ceremony, there was a gay festi- 
 val at Montalti's house ; and a baby, m swad- 
 dling clothes, with numberless ribbons and 
 flowers, was placed in Fiordilisa's hands, and 
 they sang 
 
 " Dio vi dia buona fortuna, 
 Tre di maschi e femmin' una !" 
 
 Raphael, in whom the dramatic faculty was 
 strong, entered into all this with consummate 
 felicity. When the revel was over, and the sweet 
 night of autumn fell with its veiling mist upon 
 Isola Rossa, Angel o Montalti said to his son-in- 
 law, — " RafFaelle, you should have been born a 
 Corsican."
 
 ox AX ISLAXD. 249 
 
 But Fiordilisa — white, slender, fi-agraut, as 
 the snow'y hyacmth — is gone to her chamber, 
 and the silence of sleep falls on Isola Rossa. 
 
 Previous to his bridal, Raphael had sent his 
 faithful attendant Louis to England for money, 
 telling him also to go to Guernsey and make 
 the best excuses he could to Ralph Branscombe 
 for his son's delay. Louis was despatched before 
 anything was kno^vn in the village of his mas- 
 ter's maiTying design, and was dnected to wait 
 for orders in Paris. For the astute Raphael, 
 without contemplating bigamy or anytliing of 
 the kind, thought it advisable, at least for the 
 present, to keep his marriage unknown. He 
 did not send any such notice to the Times as 
 this : — 
 
 " On the 19th of September, at Isola Rossa, 
 Corsica, by the Abbate Malaspina, Raphael, 
 only son of Ralph Branscombe, of Branscombe, 
 to Fiordihsa, granddaughter of Angelo Mon- 
 talti." 
 
 But he actually wrote out such a notice, to see 
 how it looked, and laughed heartily as he thought 
 of the sensation it would cause in society. What
 
 250 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 would his father say, and his uncle, and Claudia, 
 and Lady Emilia, and a thousand others who 
 knew him ? And who did not know the Seraph 
 — who, at least, that was anybody ? Satan's 
 rude remark to Ithuriel and Zephon was strictly 
 applicable here. 
 
 So away went Louis on his master's affairs 
 to England. And, having done his London 
 business, he found his way to Guernsey, and 
 told Devil Branscombe a long story of his own 
 invention about his master's being taken ill in 
 Sardinia, and bemg so anxious about the delay 
 that he insisted on his valet's leaving him to 
 explain it to his father. Which the old gentle- 
 man believing, only swore a little at Raphael's 
 stupidity in going to such out of the way places, 
 and told Louis to make haste back to his mas- 
 ter, and intrusted him with the following char- 
 acteristic note : — 
 
 " Dear Raphael, 
 
 " What the devil do you fall ill for, 
 just now ? Look alive and get better, and make 
 haste home and marry that little girl. I shall
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 251 
 
 still wait here for you. ; it's pleasant in the cold 
 weather ; and I'll be hanged if you can spend 
 anything, for claret and brandy and cigars cost 
 nothing, and there isn't a pretty woman in the 
 place. So I've put a couple of hundreds into 
 this letter, for I'm better off just now than I have 
 been since we cleared out young Ranthorp, who 
 was so spoony on Claudia. 
 
 "Louis says I may expect you in a fort- 
 night ; so, mind, I expect you. 
 
 "R. B." 
 
 Louis had thought it best to make such an 
 assertion, in order to keep the old gentleman 
 quiet. Moreover, he knew nothing of his mas- 
 ter's intentions, and judged, from being ordered 
 to await him in Paris, that he meant soon to 
 leave Corsica. So the valet, having faithfully 
 fulfilled all his orders, and sent Raphael his let- 
 ters and remittances, took holiday in Paris, wait- 
 ing patiently. 
 
 And Raphael and Fiordilisa spent their honey- 
 moon at Isola Rossa. The Seraph felt no en- 
 nuL He found his child-bride in all things per-
 
 252 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 feet, exquisite. She worshipped him ; he had 
 been worshipped before, and by highborn Eng- 
 lish maidens ; but the royal dignity and primae- 
 val simplicity of this daughter of romance de- 
 lighted him far more. Born far beyond the 
 weary world of fashion and flirtation, the Lily 
 of Isola Rossa was a creature of poetry, poetic, 
 even when she milked the goats, and made the 
 white balls of cheese-curd, and came with bare 
 round arms to serve her grandfather and hus- 
 band at the table. Ay, a simple mythical Ionian 
 poetry surrounded her, as she came sometimes 
 through the breezy shadows of the orange- 
 orchard with a basket of Hesperian fruit, or a 
 red jar of clear water from the fountain upon 
 her sunny head. Raphael would meet her at 
 the portal, and kiss her white brow, and say — 
 
 " Now, Lisa, you have done enough work. Let 
 us sail on the bay in the Fantasia J^ 
 
 Raphael was popular in the little Corsican 
 town. His remarkable personal beauty, the 
 beauty of the son of Cinyras, was strange and 
 attractive to the artistic perceptions of the 
 towns-folk. He was liberal : for though poor in
 
 ON AX ISLAND. 253 
 
 London, Raphael found himself opulent in Isola 
 Rossa, and liberality was a characteristic of the 
 Branscombes. He made friends of everybody, 
 and went out fishing with the fishermen, and 
 astonished them by the skill with which his 
 rifle brought down the cliff-pigeons, by the dar- 
 ing with which he swam far out to sea. He 
 brought Fiordilisa down on moonlit evenings to 
 join in the merry music outside Chilina's coffee- 
 house. And when the old shoemaker of Calvi 
 came over with his sixteen-stringed cetera, the 
 same which Gregorovius heard in his wander- 
 ings, and improvised a wonderous serenata which 
 told how — 
 
 " A stranger to Isola Rossa 
 
 Has come in a fortunate hour, 
 And he sees the sweet maid of Montalti 
 
 In the shade of the mulberry bower, 
 And he woos the fair darling whose tresses 
 
 All golden faU down in a shower 
 On her shoulders of rosy white marble — 
 
 Our Fiordilisa, the flower" — 
 
 then Raphael gladdened the old man's heart 
 vnth. a gift such as a chieftain of the Odyssey 
 might have bestowed on Demodocus. 
 
 So Raphael was popular in Isola Rossa — and
 
 254 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 old Angelo Montalti was happy — and sweet Fi- 
 ordilisa was happy with that transcendant hap- 
 piness which no pen can describe, but which 
 the gM's heart feels when Eros has entered the 
 warm white nest of her bosom, which heaves to 
 the flutter of his wings. She drank perilous 
 draughts of the vintage of love. There was 
 no prophetic troubadour to sing to her — 
 
 '^ Ay, quench thy deep thirst, ere the moment has flown 
 But once in the lifetime of mortals 'tis known — 
 But once — and old Care, an inflexible churl, 
 Will darken the days of the prettiest girl." 
 
 And so the charmed hours flew by joyously, 
 and all was tranquil on that delicious coast. It 
 was an idyl : alas ! I am not Theocritus. 
 
 Raphael's letters reached him safely ; with 
 them the thoughtful Louis had sent files of pa- 
 pers from London and Paris, and an ample sup- 
 ply of the novels of both cities. Some choice 
 comestibles and liqueurs were also forwarded : 
 for the Epicurean, much as he enjoyed the fish 
 and fruit of Corsica,' missed his old luxuries. 
 And a few chaste gems for Fiordilisa, which an 
 aesthetic crony of Raphael's had been requested
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 255 
 
 to choose for him. All these came to Ajaccio 
 by the steamer from Marseille ; and Raphael 
 sailed in the Fantasia round the coast to fetch 
 them. Wilful Fiordilisa longed to go, but he 
 would not let her ; and as they shoved off from 
 the white sands the pretty creature wept at 
 this fii'st partmg. The sagacious man of the 
 world knew that to accustom her to partings 
 would be wise. 
 
 'Tis myth, doubtless, that Ajaccio was found- 
 ed by Ajax ; but a greater hero than the son 
 of Telamonwas born there. Raphael, having 
 received his letters and packages, and written 
 to Louis a letter of three words — " Wait at 
 Paris " — and visited the Casa Buonaparte, and 
 passed one delightful evening on the Place du 
 Diamant, looking on the glorious bay, again 
 started for Isola Rossa. His sole companion 
 was the husband of Chilina, the merry young 
 landlady of the coffee-house. Marc Antonio, 
 though a fisherman, had never voyaged as far 
 as Ajaccio before, and thought that Paris could 
 not be grander. The Corsicans are a stay-at- 
 home people, except when they turn banditti.
 
 256 S^VEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 And Fiordilisa and Chilina were waiting on tlie 
 sands where the saucy Fatitasia, as good a sea- 
 boat as my old friend Harry Waring's Secret, 
 came flashmg round the red tongue of land on 
 the left. As she ran in upon the sands, the 
 eager girl sprang into the shallow water to- 
 wards Raphael. 
 
 "My God!" he said to himself, "how the 
 child loves me !" 
 
 They went home to dinner. Marc Antonio 
 bringing up the packages, which Raphael had 
 not opened. And when the pleasant simple 
 meal was over, he said, 
 
 " Now, Lisa, you shall see what they have 
 sent me." 
 
 She knelt upon the floor, opening package 
 after package, while old Angelo and Raphael 
 sipped their wine, and Marc Antonio, who had 
 just brought up the last, stood with wondering 
 eyes. 
 
 " Books !" she exclaimed. " Oh, what a 
 number ! Why, you cannot read all these, my 
 Raphael. What are these square boxes ? Oh ! 
 what hundreds of cigars ! And this case — help
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 257 
 
 me to open it, Marc Antonio. Bottles, I declare. 
 "WTiy, have we no wine in Isola Rossa ?" she 
 asked, reproachfully. 
 
 " That is not wine," he said, and took out a 
 bottle of Gui'a9ao, "Now, Angelo, let us try tliis.'' 
 
 The old gentleman and Marc Antonio, 
 drinkers by habit of a fiery wine, took to the 
 liqueur natm-ally. 
 
 " It is good," said they both, with simultane- 
 ous sententiousness. 
 
 " Here is what will suit you better," said Ra- 
 phael to Fiordihsa, sprinking her with the Fran- 
 gipanni of Piesse. 
 
 " Oh, how sweet !" 
 
 And then she found a superb Cashmere shawl, 
 Avhich she threw gracefully over her shoulders ; 
 and then Raphael opened the casket of jewelry, 
 and fastened round her beautiftd throat a neck- 
 lace of Orient pearls, almost as white as her 
 skin. 
 
 " You will make her vain, Raffaelle," said old 
 Montalti, gravely. 
 
 " He has done that already," she said ; ** he 
 has loved me." 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 A brooch of emerald, the very colour of the 
 Mediterranean ; a brilliant set in dead gold, to 
 sparkle on her white finger ; a tiny watch, with 
 heavy gold chain, that seemed too massive for 
 her delicate neck : these were some of the beau- 
 tiful .gifts which Raphael lavished upon her in 
 loving profusion. Marc Antonio went home 
 and told his light-hearted little wife of these 
 unprecedented splendours ; and Isola Rossa that 
 evening and all the next day had a most de- 
 lightful theme for gossip and for marvel. 
 
 " The Englishman is a great prince," said 
 Marc Antonio, with an air of profound belief. 
 
 " He is a hero, and our friend," said Chilina. 
 
 Pleasantly passed the flying houi's for Ra- 
 phael and his beautiful bride. But at last there 
 arrived from Paris more despatches, of various 
 kinds ; and, when he had read them, he said to 
 Fiordilisa, 
 
 " My Flower, I must leave you for a while." 
 
 " Oh, why, Raffaelle !" 
 
 " My father is ill at Paris, and wants much to 
 see me. I cannot disobey his desire ; you would 
 not wish me to f
 
 ON AN ISLAND. 259 
 
 " No, Raffaelle," she said, though her beauti- 
 ful blight eyes were dimmed with tears. " You 
 must go. Go soon and soon retm-n." 
 
 "My darling, yes. And you must be very 
 happy, for my sake." 
 
 " I will try," she replied. " I shall think of 
 nothing but your return. Oh ! how I shall 
 watch for the Fantasia when Marc Antonio is 
 gone to meet you at Ajaccio !" 
 
 So Raphael departed for Ajaccio, and caught 
 the Marseille steamer, and made no pause upon 
 liis journey until he reached the Hotel Bris- 
 tol at Paris. There he arrived late in the even- 
 ing, and ordered supper, and sent a messenger 
 with a note to Louis's quarters. That prince 
 of valets made his appearance on the instant. 
 
 " I am going to England, Louis," he said. 
 *' Be ready to start to-morrow morning. I hope 
 you have enjoyed your long holiday." 
 
 " Passably, Monsieur," was the reply. *' I 
 prefer being in attendance on Monsieur." 
 
 " We shall have to cross to Guernsey, Louis," 
 said Raphael. " My father is still there." 
 
 " Would not Monsieur prefer to go to St. 
 
 s 2.
 
 260 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Malo, and cross by the Jersey steamboat ? " 
 "An excellent idea," said Raphael. 
 Before he went to bed he wrote a long and 
 
 loving letter to Fiordilisa. 
 When it was finished and sealed, he said, 
 " Poor little rogue ! I wonder if I shall ever 
 
 see her again."
 
 261 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 
 
 HHORTLY after the chemical lectm-e, the Rev. 
 ^ Walter Branscombe, having to return to 
 Kingsleat, took his ward with him. Claudia of 
 course accompanied him, and they settled down 
 at the Rectory. This step was in contravention 
 of Mr. Page's will ; but the Rector and Mr. 
 Drax were both of opinion that though Miss 
 Page was dh-ected to reside in the house at 
 Idlechester, it was quite allowable for her occa- 
 sionally to visit her relations. The suggestion 
 was Claudia's ; she recommended Anne's being 
 as much as possible separated from Stephen 
 Langton. 
 
 " I thought," said her uncle, indirectly refer- 
 ring to the plot which he had suggested to his
 
 262 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 brother, " that you might like to see him your- 
 self now and then, Claudia." 
 
 " I despise the boy,'" she said, viciously em- 
 phatic : whence the Rector, whose acumen was 
 considerable, at once guessed that she had tried 
 and failed. 
 
 Ah, that poor Panther ! how she vexed her- 
 self, tortured herself, over the afifah ! To have 
 offered herself — she, whom so many had vainly 
 wooed — to a mere boy, and to be refused ! 
 She wept tears of rage in the solitude of her 
 chamber. She vowed to be revenged on Ste- 
 phen Langton. Whatever happened, he should 
 not marry Anne Page, she was thoroughly de- 
 termined. But she felt powerless to do him in- 
 jury, and all her indignation recoiled upon her- 
 self, intensifying her punishment. 
 
 The Rectory was a very quiet household. 
 The Rector did his duty in his old regular fash- 
 ion ; Winifred was as parochial as ever, and ra- 
 ther more ceremonial ; Anne Page continued 
 her studies with her governess ; and Claudia con- 
 jugated semiuyer. She was prodigiously bored at 
 Kingsleat. So long as she had a plot to carry out,
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 253 
 
 her life had some interest in it ; but the plot had 
 failed, and she was utterly T^dthout occupation. 
 She could not di'ive tandem to Idlechester, as m 
 the old days when she was left mistress of her 
 father's establishment. She could only go out 
 for decorous au-ings in the Rector's dignified 
 equipage. She heard not a line from her father ; 
 she did not know when to expect Raphael, to 
 come and w^ed the little heu'ess. And, indeed, 
 she was a trifle afraid of the Seraph's arrival. 
 He was almost preternaturally acute. She w^as 
 in mortal dread of his discovering what had oc- 
 cmTed between her and Stephen. Altogether, 
 Claudia was anything but happy. 
 
 At length however something occurred to 
 render the Panther a little less miserable. It 
 was a fine December day, and the fii'st flakes of 
 a snow storm were descending. Claudia and 
 Winifi-ed sat together in the drawing-room, 
 which looked out upon the steep deserted street 
 of Kingsleat. The Panther was listlessly read- 
 ing La Pucelle de Belleville : and the Saint was 
 writing an interminable letter. At last the 
 former spoke —
 
 264 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Really, Winifred, the scratcliing of your pen 
 is very irritating. Who in the world will read 
 a letter of such prodigious length f 
 
 " Oh ! it will be read," answered Winifred. 
 
 " Now do tell me to whom you are writing at 
 such unconscionable length. I won't say a word 
 to Uncle Walter." 
 
 "My father is quite welcome to know all 
 about it," she replied, indignantly. " As you 
 are so inquisitive, I am writing to Father Remi- 
 gius.' He is my confessor, and when I am at 
 Kingsleat I confess to him by letter." 
 
 The Panther bm^st into a silvery peal of laugh- 
 ter. It was quite a relief in the monotony of 
 Kingsleat to have anything so ridiculous to 
 laugh at. 
 
 " My goodness !" she exclaimed, " what a num- 
 ber of sins you must have committed to fill all 
 those sheets ! I had no idea you were such a 
 dreadfully wicked girl. Do let me read it, 
 Winny, I am sure it will be more amusing than 
 Paul de Kock, though he is great fun about 
 dalegonsr 
 
 "I am ashamed of you, Claudia," said the
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 265 
 
 Saint. " I would not let you see it for the 
 world." 
 
 " Well, is there anything about calegons in it ?" 
 
 At this interesting point of the colloquy the 
 door opened, and a servant announced Sir Ar- 
 thur Willesden. 
 
 "Dear me, Su* Arthui*," exclaimed the Pan- 
 ther, rising from her chair to meet him, *' how 
 glad I am to see you ! You are welcome, in 
 this desert. This is my cousin Winifred." 
 
 Sir Ai'thm- was a fine young fellow, an awful 
 swell, whose brains and morals had all run to 
 whiskers and moustache. He was just Mr. 
 Tennyson's "oiled and curled Assyrian bull." 
 He had been very wild in his time, and had kept 
 racehorses, and other beautiful animals, and had 
 played ecarte with Devil Branscombe, in that 
 villa by the Thames where the Panther presided 
 at the Httle suppers, and now he was in the 
 hands of the Hebrews. He had come to Kmgs- 
 leat entirely to see Claudia, on whom, to use his 
 own elegant English, "he was — aw — spoons, 
 rather," and had been vainly racking liis brain 
 all through the journey to invent some osten-
 
 266 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 sible reason for coming. But she was so pleased 
 to see an old acquaintance of the nobler sex that 
 she asked him no questions. 
 
 " It's — aw — a dull place this, rather, I fancy," 
 he said. 
 
 " Dismally dull," said Claudia, " suicidally 
 dull. Winifred and I were just drawing lots 
 who should drink laudanum first, when you in- 
 terrupted us : weren't we, Winny f 
 
 The Saint looked aghast. 
 
 "It would be shocking — aw — for two such 
 — aw — divine creatures to commit suicide." 
 
 " Thank you. Sir Arthur," said the Panther. 
 "Thank you for Winny too: nobody ever 
 tells her she's divine except her father-confessor. 
 Now you're here, you must stay to luncheon, 
 Sir Arthur." 
 
 " Very happy — aw," said he. " No particular 
 fun — aw — walking about in this infernal snow. 
 Horrid bad wine at the — aw — Mitre, where I'm 
 stopping." 
 
 " You shall have a good glass of wme here," 
 said the Panther, " and then you shall tell me 
 all the news of the town. Papa and Raphael
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 267 
 
 are both on the Continent, and I hear nothmg 
 from anybody." 
 
 " Is — aw — the Seraph all right ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh ! he's quite seraphic, I expect," she an- 
 swered. " But positively I don't know : I haven't 
 heard from liim for an age. I am in some hopes 
 of his coming down here." 
 
 "Do you — aw — know his address? I ow^e 
 him a monkey on the Leger." 
 
 "No," she said. "I dare say he'll be very 
 glad of it, for he's always hard up." 
 
 " Aw — so am I — so's everybody, I think." 
 
 Winifred was rather perplexed by this off- 
 hand confabulation. She didn't know anything 
 about the Leger, and hadn't the least idea what 
 a monkey meant, and had no notion of any 
 cherubim and seraphim except those in the 
 Te Deum, I fear the fast young ladies of the 
 day will think her ignorance exaggerated ; but 
 I can assm-e them it is true to the letter. 
 
 So Arthur Willesden stayed to luncheon, and 
 to dinner, and astonished the Rector by floormg 
 a couple of bottles of his finest port and being 
 none the worse for it.
 
 268 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Don't — aw — hunt at Melton for nothing," he 
 remarked. " That's the place to learn to drink 
 port." 
 
 The yonng baronet, though he rode sixteen 
 stone, was a first-flight man in the shires, and 
 never funked anytliing. He was a cool head, 
 like Raphael, but his was the coolness of un- 
 conquerable stolidity. The Panther, to keep 
 Anne Page in the background till the Seraph's 
 arrival, had ordained that that young lady 
 should dine at midday, and only appear at 
 dessert : she had also put her back into short 
 frocks and frilled trowsers, very much to her in- 
 dignation. These alterations had been made 
 on the removal to Kingsleat. Sweet Anne Page 
 was very indignant about it ; she thought her- 
 self quite a woman, being nearly seventeen, and 
 engaged to be married ; but Claudia was reso- 
 lute, and her will, as we know, was pretty 
 strong. So Anne, who was very fresh and 
 petite., really looked about twelve in her infantile 
 costume. When she entered the dining-room, 
 shy and bashfal, on the present occasion, Sir 
 Arthur exclaimed,
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 269 
 
 " Aw — what a pretty little girl ! Come here, 
 my dear — aw — and give me a kiss." He was 
 sitting near the door, and had actually pulled 
 her on his knee and kissed her before she was 
 aware of his intention. The poor child burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "Don't be silly, Anne," said Claudia. *' If 
 you cry, you shall be sent to bed." 
 
 The Panther could not get at Stephen, but 
 she could persecute his poor little sweetheart 
 for his sake, and she did so mercilessly. If Ste- 
 phen could have knoAvn it, she would have been 
 delighted. 
 
 Sir Arthur Willesden stayed at the Mitre for 
 a long time, much to the landlord's satisfaction. 
 He carried on a continuous flirtation with Clau- 
 dia. He was alw^ays lunching or dining at the 
 Rectory; but, as the Rector kept ecclesiastic 
 hom's, he used to sup at the ]\Iitre about mid- 
 night, and play billiards with whomsoever he 
 encountered. He seldom lost. Raphael, the 
 best amateur in England, had made him pay for 
 his skill in the game ; and now the baronet 
 made sad havoc ^vith the fast young fellows of
 
 270 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 Kingsleat. But then they were deHghted to 
 lose money to a baronet — and so distmguished 
 a baronet as Sir Arthur Willesden. Why, his 
 name ^as in BeUs Life every week ! Hadn't 
 he won the Two Thousand with Isosceles, and 
 run second for the Derby? And he actually 
 condescended to win their provincial unaristo- 
 cratic half-crowns at pool ! 
 
 Meanwhile, Stephen was melancholy enough 
 in his Idlechester lodgings. The Rector had 
 courteously informed him that he considered 
 Anne Page too young to be regarded as actu- 
 ally engaged to him ; that, in fact, her educa- 
 tion had been greatly neglected, and it was 
 requisite that she should pass her time in the 
 school-room ; and that correspondence was not 
 to be thought of. Stephen was of course obliged 
 to acquiesce, and to have faith in his fairy prin- 
 cess. Such faith he had ; and it consoled him 
 pretty well ; and he pTU'sued his studies after his 
 desultory fashion. It was desperately dull work. 
 
 He wanted a confidante. Humphrey MorfiU 
 was away ; and besides, he had always shrunk 
 from talking of his engagement to Humphrey.
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 271 
 
 Stephen had a chivah-ous idea of women. 
 Spenser, or Sii' Philip Sidney, or the Earl of 
 Sm-rey could not have put them on a loftier, 
 purer pedestal. But Humphrey professed to 
 be a man of the world ; he had lax and cyni- 
 cal notions about women; he thought Anne 
 Page a nice little ghl enough, but much too 
 yomig for any practical pm-poses. So, had 
 Humphrey been in the cathedi'al city, Stephen 
 would not have confided in him. And having 
 no friend in his own family, Stephen was at 
 length di'iven to tell his difficulties to Jack 
 Winslow, and found in the vivacious barmaid a 
 warm sympathizer. Even she, however, thought 
 Anne very young to be anybody's sweetheart ; 
 but she was liighly indignant at the Rector's 
 interfering with an arrangement w4iich Mr. Page 
 had sanctioned. 
 
 One frosty forenoon Stephen, utterly weary 
 of writing and reading, with which his uncon- 
 trollable thoughts perpetually mterfered, strolled 
 down to the Half Moon and solaced himself 
 with a tankard of bitter ale and a cigar. He 
 often met his grandfather there, who would
 
 272 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 hail liim with " Well, Steve !" but deemed him 
 too much a boy for a sustained conversation. 
 But this morning business was slack, and the 
 bar-parlour empty, and the fair barmaid had 
 leisure to gossip. 
 
 " I should write to the young lady," she said, 
 *'if I were you." 
 
 " Mr. Branscombe prohibits it," he replied. 
 
 " What right has he or anybody to come be- 
 tween you and Miss Page, when her poor dead 
 father wished her to marry you ? I would write, 
 I tell you." 
 
 " But then," urged Stephen, " they probably 
 examine the letters, and I should get her into 
 trouble." 
 
 " Ah, that would be a pity. But I'll tell you 
 what : I'm going over to Kingsleat to see my 
 aunt one day next week. You write a letter, 
 and I'll see if I can't get her to have it so that 
 no one shall know." 
 
 This project delighted Stephen, who had the 
 letter ready in good time. Wednesday was 
 market day at Kingsleat, and was the day Miss 
 Winslow chose for her visit. To her honour be
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 273 
 
 it said, tiiat she allowed Stephen's affahs to 
 take precedence of her own. Before visiting 
 her aunt she took a walk thi'ongh the crowded 
 High Street, and was rewarded by seeing Anne 
 and her governess returning homewards after a 
 morning stroll. At this moment occurred to 
 Jack Avhat before she had not thought of — that, 
 though she knew Anne by sight, Anne probably 
 did not know her. This was perplexmg. How- 
 ever, she decided to watch for an opportunity. 
 
 Kmgsleat street is very steep. Very slowly 
 did Anne and the governess walk up it, Jack 
 Winslow following. By-and-by Miss Marsden 
 looked into a bookseller's shop at some new 
 print there exhibited : and Jack, with great 
 promptitude, gave Anne a gentle touch, and 
 showed her the letter. Instinct told her it came 
 from Stephen : she took it, and her hand re- 
 turned with it to her muff: and the kind-hearted 
 messenger was gone before the governess turned 
 from the window. 
 
 But alack, Kingsleat street is narrow as well 
 as steep. By ill fortune, Claudia was descend- 
 ing on the other side, and her keen glance took 
 
 VOL. 1. T
 
 274 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 in the whole transaction. She crossed the street 
 and addressed Miss Marsden. 
 
 " If you are not tired," she said, " will you go 
 to old Mason's in East Street, and tell him Wini- 
 fred can't come to see him to-day 1 I'll take 
 charge of Anne." 
 
 The governess obeyed. Claudia had promised 
 the Saint to call for her on this old bed-ridden 
 client of hers, whom she supplied with broth and 
 sermons. The other two walked slowly to the 
 Rectory. 
 
 " Come up to my room, dear," said the Pan- 
 ther, in the hall, " I want to speak to you." 
 
 Anne followed her cousin, devoid of suspicion, 
 though anxious in the possession of a letter 
 which she eagerly desired to read. 
 
 " Sit down, child," said Claudia, " and take 
 off your hat, I have something to say to you." 
 
 Anne did as she was bid, putting on a table 
 that stood m the centre of the room her muff 
 with the precious letter in it. Claudia also dis- 
 robed ; and, having done so, took up the muff, 
 which she held carelessly in her hand. Out fell 
 the letter. Claudia picked it up.
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 275 
 
 " Whj, Anne, my dear," she said to her 
 cousin, who was in a state of consternation, 
 " where did you get this ? Who is it from ?" 
 
 Anne was too thoroughly consternated to re- 
 ply. Claudia broke the seal. 
 
 " Oh ! Claudia, please don't read it !" cried 
 Anne Page, eagerly ; " it is only for me to read." 
 
 "Indeed," said the Panther, coolly. "You 
 evidently know all about it. I see it is from 
 Stephen Langton, with whom you have been 
 forbidden to correspond." 
 
 Claudia read it. It was a good letter, loving 
 yet trustfril, eager yet patient, boyish yet manly. 
 The Panther did not love Stephen ; but what 
 would she not have given for such a letter from 
 him ? Oh ! the bitter pain of reading it ! Oh ! 
 the thii-st for revenge it caused in her jealous 
 heart ! Having read it, she folded it up and 
 put it aside. 
 
 "Oh! Claudia, dear," cried Anne, with strain- 
 ing eyes, " you will let me have it now, won't 
 
 you?" 
 
 " Certainly not," she replied. " I shall show 
 it to your uncle, and shall then send it back to 
 
 T 2
 
 276 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 the writer. It is a most improper letter." 
 
 Poor little Anne ! 
 
 But, after all, was not Claudia most to be 
 pitied ? Every word of that loving letter had 
 gone keen to her passionate heart, a barbed 
 arrow, which would not be withdrawn. She 
 was athirst for revenge. 
 
 " Sweet is revenge — especially to women" — 
 
 according to Byron's version of Juvenal. 
 
 " I am very much ashamed of you, Anne," she 
 continued, after a pause, " a mere child like you. 
 I could not have believed you were so sly and 
 cunning as to carry on a clandestme correspond- 
 ence." 
 
 Anne was silent. She was too prostrated to 
 defend herself from such a charge, or to plead 
 her father's authority for her engagement to 
 Stephen. I think Claudia's feelings of revenge 
 ought by this time to have been satisfied, but 
 it is a passion insatiable. And, by evil hap, the 
 Panther's eye caught among the ladylike trifles 
 upon her centre table, among smelling-flasks 
 and inkstands and gem-cases and honhonnieres,
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 277 
 
 a small jewelled riding-whip. She took it up. 
 
 " Come with me to jom- own room, Anne," 
 she said. " I shall punish you, and you will go 
 to bed." 
 
 Poor little Anne ! Have you ever seen a wasp 
 catch flies, reader ? Sweet Anne Page was as 
 p ownerless in the hands of the Panther as a fly 
 in the clutches of a wasp. I don't think Claudia 
 hurt her very much, but the humiliation was too 
 cruel. "\^Tiat young lady, engaged to be mar- 
 ried, would like to be w^hipt and sent to bed — 
 even if she deserved it ? And really our poor 
 little heroine did not deserve it. 
 
 Claudia felt a good deal better on her return 
 to her own room. She put the letter in an 
 envelope and sent it back to Stephen. And she 
 told what had occurred to her Uncle Walter and 
 Winifred, who mildly approved. And when, at 
 dessert that day. Sir Arthur missed "that pretty 
 child," she said, 
 
 " Oh ! she has been naughty to-day, Su- 
 Arthm-. She has been sent to bed." 
 
 It was an ineffable luxury to Claudia to 
 humiliate, to persecute, to subject to mental and
 
 278 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 physical pain, the girl for whom she had been 
 rejected by Stephen Langton. 
 
 About the middle of the month Humphrey 
 MorfiU appeared on the scene from Cambridge. 
 As the Rector and Dr. Winter were on good 
 terms — and as Claudia had encom^aged Hum- 
 phrey's visits at Idlechester — it would have 
 been difficult to prevent his having some inter- 
 course with Anne Page. But the Panther had 
 no such intention. She wisely considered that 
 the great thing to be done was to efface from 
 her cousin's mmd the memory of Stephen. 
 Humphrey, she thought, was not dangerous; 
 and Humphrey could occupy Anne with a little 
 harmless semi-flirtation till Raphael's much- 
 desired advent. Accordingly, Anne's school- 
 room imprisonment was relaxed, and the gover- 
 ness went away to spend her Christmas with 
 her relations — that is, if governesses have rela- 
 tions; and Humphrey Morfill used to look in 
 pretty often at the Rectory, though not quite 
 so often as Sir Arthur. 
 
 Humphrey was ambitious and astute. He did 
 not know that any engagement, authorised or
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 279 
 
 unauthorised, existed between Stephen and 
 Anne, ahhough it was clear to him that there 
 was some sort of imderstanding. But. if he had 
 known of then betrothal, he would have cared 
 little, deeming all things fair in love and war. 
 To this yoimg man, eager above everthing to 
 i-ise in the world, it had occurred that to marry 
 Anne Page would be of immense seiwice to liim. 
 He knew that gold has a power of floatation in 
 the ocean of life akin to that of cork in the actual 
 ocean. He had conversed much ^dth the little 
 Page at Idlechester ; had done his best to open 
 her mind ; and had come to the conclusion that 
 it would not break her heart if she did not 
 marry Stephen. He resolved to carry his ope- 
 rations somewhat farther this Christmas vaca- 
 tion. And, as the Rector was always busy, and 
 Winifi'ed busier, and the governess absent, and 
 the Panther greatly occupied with the Ass^-rian 
 baronet, Humphi-ey had ample opportimities. 
 
 He was rather astonished the fii-st morning, 
 when the charming child entered in her short 
 frock and frilled calecons. But he chd not ex- 
 hibit his astonishment. Winifi-ed and Claudia
 
 280 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 and Sir Arthur were all present : he awaited his 
 opportunity. It soon came. The Saint had 
 parochial business which took her away. The 
 Baronet wanted to skate — ^had heard of a pond 
 half a mile out of town where the ice was capi- 
 pital — would Claudia come? Wouldn't she? 
 The Panther skated superbly ; and by good hap, 
 her maid, Margot, remembered where a pair of 
 her skates might be found. Humphrey found 
 himself left alone with sweet Anne Page — which 
 was just what he wanted. They soon became 
 confidential : and by-and-by Humphrey ventured 
 to ask the reason of her infantile costume. 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know," said Anne blushing. 
 "Claudia wants to make me out a baby. I sup- 
 pose it's because she's not very young herself." 
 
 " I have no doubt," said Humphrey, " she 
 would very much like to be as young and as 
 pretty as you are. But you need not care 
 about it. You look a very charming little girl : 
 only you know one fancies you are not too old 
 to be taken on one's knee and kissed." 
 
 " Yes, — that horrid Sir Arthur Willesden 
 positively did it one day at dessert. It's just
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 281 
 
 like Claudia, flirting with that man, all because 
 he's a baronet." 
 
 " You don't seem very fond of your cousin, 
 Miss Page ?" said Morfill. 
 
 " Fond of her ! If you knew — but oh ! I 
 couldn't tell you. I detest her." 
 
 "What, isn't she kind to you ? No one could 
 be cruel to you, surely." 
 
 " I don't laiow what you would call cruel," 
 said the young lady. " I only know I should 
 very much like to do to her what she did to me." 
 
 "What was it?" asked Humphi*ey in the kind- 
 est tone. " Tell me. Let me try to help you. 
 No one ought to be cruel to you.'' 
 
 This sort of thing was successful at last : and 
 Anne with much blushing hesitation, confided to 
 Humphrey the fact that Claudia had actually 
 whipped her ; but she would not tell the cause, 
 though he tned very hard to get at it. And he 
 advised her never agam to submit to any such 
 indignity, but to ring the bell for the servants, if 
 Claudia threatened her. WHiich she promised to 
 do, though with a conviction that her courage 
 would fail in the Panther's presence.
 
 282 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " By Jove !" said Morfill to himself, as he 
 walked towards the Grammar School, " that is 
 a verdant little party. I don't wonder at her 
 knocking under to Miss Branscombe, though ; 
 she's enough to terrify anybody at all weak- 
 minded. I'll tell you what, sir " — ^he was talk- 
 ing to himself, a habit of his — " I think I'll 
 marry that child. She doesn't care for Stephen. 
 He's too philosophic and poetic for her. She'll 
 marry anybody who'll put her in long frocks 
 and promise not to whip her. She's a passive, 
 receptive, reflective sort of girl — takes her 
 colouring from the last man that's with her. 
 I'd rather have a girl with a character; but 
 then her money's worth having. If I get it, I 
 can make myself Lord Chancellor. By Jove, 
 I'll marry her." 
 
 Humphrey Morfill adhered to the policy 
 which he had marked out for himself. He de- 
 voted all his spare time to Anne Page. He won 
 her confidence, and consoled her under her per- 
 secutions. Not that she was very much per- 
 secuted : Claudia was too fully occupied to 
 trouble herself about her ; but she was still
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 283 
 
 treated in tlie childish fashion, which she dis- 
 liked. Humphi'ey was not far wrong in his 
 judgment of her character. Stephen had mag- 
 netized her by his imaginative power ; but she 
 had just come to an age when the material ex- 
 citements of the real world attracted her more 
 than Stephen's poetic visions ; and Humphrey 
 stimulated her fancy wdth pictm-es of London 
 life, balls and evening parties, the undreamt de- 
 lights of the Opera and the theatres. He knew 
 well what he was about. She "drank the 
 milk of paradise " — that paradise of pretty wo- 
 men, society. She thought it would be delight- 
 ful to escape from the nursery into the wondrous 
 independence of married womanhood. Therefore 
 she listened to Humphrey with much attention. 
 Stephen, she thought, w^ould never take her be- 
 yond Idlechester ; he said nothing about those 
 gaieties which Humphrey so eloquently de- 
 scribed. I am sorry to say that, as a result of 
 all this, Humphrey hit upon an ingenious ar- 
 rangement whereby Anne and he could corre- 
 spond upon his retm-n to Cambridge. 
 
 Sweet Anne Page is not to be too severely
 
 284 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 blamed. It was quite a boy-and-girl engagement 
 between her and Stephen. What child of six- 
 teen can be expected to know her own mind ? 
 And Stephen was away ; she never saw liim ; she 
 dared not receive a letter from him, for fear of 
 her cousin Claudia. So she listened to Hum- 
 phrey, who skilfully carried on the campaign, 
 notwithstanding the keenness of Claudia's eyes. 
 But Claudia was busy with her baronet. 
 
 In mid-January Humphrey left " his little 
 wife " — as he already styled her, unrebuked, 
 and Miss Marsden and MangnalTs Questions re- 
 turned. And Sir Arthur Willesden went to 
 town, leaving the Panther plenty of time to look 
 after Anne. And, when the year had advanced 
 a little further, Claudia one day received a let- 
 ter in a hand she had not seen for an age. 
 Thus it ran : — 
 
 "No. — , Clarges Street, 
 
 "Dear Claudia, — I have just returned to 
 England, after a few days with the old gentle- 
 man, who has got the gout, and is delightfally 
 fierce. I've a deal to do in town, and I want a
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 285 
 
 long talk to you about the position of affairs ; so 
 come up and let us converse. Start at once, 
 that's a good girl. 
 
 " Raphael." 
 
 Claudia always obeyed her brother ; besides 
 at this period she desired the diversion of a trip 
 to London. So having received tliis letter at 
 the breakfast horn*, she at once announced that 
 Raphael had returned, and that she was going 
 to London to meet him, and that, no doubt, he 
 would come back wdth her. Her uncle and 
 cousin were delighted at the news, and Anne 
 Page opened her ears. 
 
 " You will like your Cousin Raphael, Anne," 
 said Claudia, condescendingly. " He likes pretty 
 little girls." 
 
 Miss Page by no means admired Miss Bran- 
 scombe's condescension. 
 
 The Panther was to start early the next 
 morning ; that night she and Winifred had a 
 talk, part of which Anne Page overheard — for 
 " little pitchers have long ears." This was the 
 part : —
 
 286 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " Look after Anne, Winifred," said the Pan- 
 ther. " She's very sly. You remember when 
 I caught her corresponding with Stephen t" 
 
 " You've not found her out in anything since, 
 have you ?" 
 
 " No," said Claudia, laughing. " I think this 
 little instrument " — Anne could guess what she 
 took up — *' gave her a lesson in the subject that 
 she hasn't forgotten yet. But perhaps she will 
 begin playing her tricks again when my back is 
 turned." 
 
 "Do you think Raphael will like her well 
 enough to marry her f asked Winifred. 
 
 "I don't see why not," said the Panther. 
 " She's pretty, you must admit, though it's a 
 very babyish prettiness. She'll improve by-and- 
 by. Won't he keep her in order if he does 
 marry her !" 
 
 "Perhaps she won't have him," suggested 
 Winifred. 
 
 " Pshaw ! she'll fall in love with liim directly.- 
 The dear fellow is irresistible," she said, with a 
 laugh. " Besides, if she was troublesome, I'd 
 make her have him."
 
 ANOTHER WOOER. 287 
 
 This was what Anne Page heard, an mterest- 
 ed and terrified eavesdi'opper. A^^ence it hap- 
 pened that the mailcoach that took Miss Bran- 
 scombe townwards, earned also a letter which 
 branched off somewhere to Cambridge. 
 
 "Darling Humphrey, — Cousin Claudia is 
 gone to London, and Cousin Raphael is coming 
 back with her, and 1 am to marry Mm. I hate 
 him. Nobody can help me but you, Humphrey 
 dear. I am dreadfully frightened, dreadfully. 
 " Your own little wife, 
 
 " Anne Page." 
 
 Which epistle, in due com*se reacliing St. 
 John's College, took a certain undergraduate 
 rather aback. 
 
 '* What's to be done now, sir f said flum- 
 phi'ey to Morfill in the solitude of his rooms. " I 
 mustn't let this Kttle party sKp through my fingers. 
 That Miss Branscombe's so determined, she'd 
 compel the Httle fool to marry him, and Anne is 
 such a little fool, she'd do it if they threatened 
 to whip her for refusing, and, moreover — from 
 all I hear — i\Ir. Raphael Branscombe is an ex-
 
 288 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 perienced and successful practitioner in lovemak- 
 ing. If he get's down there, you're done, Mr. 
 Morfill, that's obvious. And, as you've got no 
 money, I don't quite see what you're to do. 
 Suppose we have a pipe together, and rumi- 
 nate?" 
 
 The result of his rumination was that he 
 started that very day for Idlechester, and rather 
 astonished Stephen Langton by looking him up 
 in Little College Green.
 
 289 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AIAIE. 
 
 Ty APHAEL acted on his valet's advice, crossed 
 -■-*' from St Malo, and, spending as little time 
 as possible in Jersey, took the mail-steamer for 
 the sister island. And, as he walked up the 
 steps of the pier at Guernsey, one of the first fig- 
 ures that caught his eye was his father's tall 
 and portly form. Ralph Branscombe was enjoy- 
 ing his customary matutine stroll. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Raphael, walking up to him, 
 " here I am at last, you see." 
 
 "Ah," responded his father, looking at his 
 son from head to foot, as if to ascertain whether 
 he was really the right person. *' Well, I'm not 
 sorry to see you. You don't look as if you'd 
 been quite as ill as that rascal of yours pre- 
 tended." 
 
 VOL. 1. U
 
 290 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 " He's a capital liar," said Raphael. " I don't 
 think I have had even a headache since I had 
 the pleasure of seeing you last." 
 
 " And may one inquhe how you have been 
 amusing yourself?" asked Devil Branscombe. 
 
 " I found some rather shy game," he replied. 
 " Oh, I have been amused, I assure you. But, 
 with your permission, I'll go and have some 
 breakfast : I'm as hungry as a hunter." 
 
 Ralph Branscombe took his son to his rooms 
 on the Esplanade. At first he lived at Mar- 
 shall's Royal Yacht Club Hotel — in those days 
 a pretentious gloomy place, where, with the 
 usual fatuity of hotel-keepers, you were charged 
 six shillings a bottle for wme that you could 
 buy at Greenslade's, just opposite, at eighteen 
 shillings a dozen. When he had decided to 
 wait for his son in this happy island, beyond the 
 reach of temptation and creditors, Ralph Bran- 
 scombe took apartments. They were kept by 
 an adipose widow with a couple of daughters, 
 one of whom was so excessively handsome that 
 the old gentleman was almost tempted to make 
 love to her.
 
 ALME. 291 
 
 "And liow do jou get on in this tranquil 
 island?" asked Raphael, after he had finished 
 his breakfast, skilfiillj manufacturing a cigarette 
 the while. 
 
 "It is slow — confoundedly slow. And the 
 people are the queerest lot you ever saw. They 
 have a tremendously exclusive aristocracy, 
 Tuppers and Careys and Brocks and Dobrees, 
 who won't look at the unhappy natives that 
 don't belong to their set. Sixties, tliey call 
 themselves ; can't guess why." 
 
 " Got about sixty pounds a year each, per- 
 haps," suggested Raphael. "But what is the 
 place good for f 
 
 " Well, there's scenery, you know, and sea- 
 bathing. And the jfish is capital, and so is the 
 fruit. And claret and cognac and cigars are 
 cheap. And there are some deuced pretty girls." 
 
 " These are recommendations," said Raphael, 
 meditatively. " That was a pretty little party 
 who brought in breakfast just now, but she'll be 
 awfully fat at forty. How do you spend your 
 evenings I" 
 
 " There's a club," he replied, " and two or 
 
 u2
 
 292 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 three of the members have satisfactory ideas 
 about van-john and loo. I have been teaching 
 them poker, lately.'' 
 
 " Yon don't dine ont, I suppose f ' 
 
 " The aborigmes have not yet reached that 
 stage of civilization. From what I hear, they 
 invite people to tea." 
 
 " Frightful barbarism !" said Raphael. " Well, 
 about this marrying scheme of youi's — or the 
 Rector's rather. That little Page is a dumpy 
 child, isn't she, just out of the nursery." 
 
 " She's pretty," said his father ; " Claudia 
 thinl^s her charming. And four thousand a year 
 is worth having." 
 
 " True. I'll go over and see her, and if she's 
 not very bad style, I may marry her. Will Clau- 
 dia marry that young Langton f 
 
 "She agreed to the arrangement." 
 
 " I don't half like it. She's too good for that 
 sort of fellow. However, I'll see all about it 
 when I go down there." 
 
 " You'll stay here a day or two, I suppose," 
 said Ralph. " It's a luxury to get some one to 
 talk to."
 
 AIAIE. 293 
 
 "Is there nobody here that you know ?" 
 
 " Most of the EngKsh people are getting out 
 of the way of their creditors, and prefer Jersey, 
 which is a free and easy sort of place. By the 
 way, there's a man lately come that you may 
 know, perhaps, young Hudson ; he married a sis- 
 ter of Shottesbrooke's." 
 
 "By Jove," exclaimed Raphael, "what brings 
 him here ? Has he got his wife with him ?" 
 
 " I beheve he has. They are lodging up at a 
 place called the New Ground. Do you know 
 much of him ?" 
 
 " Never spoke to him. I used to know Lady 
 Emilia, sKghtly." 
 
 That evening the Branscombes went down to 
 the club, and very shortly Mr. Hudson was 
 for the first time introduced. A very negative 
 young fellow was Lady Emilia's husband : but 
 gold glorified him — deified him in the eyes of 
 some people. He had a very great belief in him- 
 self and always found plenty of toadies to en- 
 courage that belief. His inordinate vanity 
 thi-ove on the flattery of men who dined with 
 him and borrowed money of liim.
 
 2^4 SWEET AXNE PAGE. 
 
 There was not any very lively play this even- 
 ing — ^some old fogies had settled down to whist ; 
 Devil Branscombe, despairing of anything faster, 
 had joined a party. Raphael was smoking pati- 
 ently. At last Hudson exclaimed — 
 
 " Confound it, this is uncommonly slow. Is 
 there a billiard-room anywhere ?" 
 
 " Upon my life, I don't know," said Raphael, 
 " I only came here to-day, and unless I see some 
 improvement, I think I shall be off agam to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " Well, there must be a billiard-room," said 
 Hudson. " Let's go round to the hotel and as- 
 certain." 
 
 "I have no particular objection," said Ra- 
 phael. " Are you a good player ?" 
 
 " Not a very bad one, I think," he replied. 
 
 They went away together, and succeeded in 
 finding a billiard-room down a steep flight of 
 stone steps, in which St. Peter's Port abounds. 
 
 " We'll put a sovereign on the game," said 
 Hudson, " if you like." 
 
 " Just as you please," answered Raphael, care- 
 lessly.
 
 AIAIE. 295 
 
 Hudson was an average player, and the Ser- 
 aph had not touched a cue for some months. 
 The former went ahead at first ; but when he 
 was thirty-seven to Raphael's thirteen, the Ser- 
 aph made a break, and scored his fifty with per- 
 fect ease. 
 
 " I must give you odds," he remarked, mildly. 
 Tliis sort of thing didn't suit Hudson, who 
 liked winning. So, after another game, he 
 said — 
 
 " Suppose we go up to my rooms, and see if 
 we can get some supper ? I dare say my wife 
 finds it rather slow." 
 
 " Very well," said the Seraph. " I have met 
 Lady ^Emilia before now. I used to know the 
 old Earl." 
 
 " By Jove," observed Hudson, " she'll be de- 
 lighted to meet an old acquaintance." 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder," soliloquized the Seraph. 
 
 The New Ground is a rectangular piece of 
 turf, with gravel walks and some tolerable trees. 
 The houses in its vicinity look as if they had 
 been built for barracks. There are two or three 
 occupied as lodging-houses ; and in the largest
 
 296 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 of these, a corner house, Mr. Hudson had taken 
 apartments. From the windows there was a 
 fine view over the sea, a mile distant. He and 
 Raphael toiled up Smith-street and the Candie 
 Road, and at length reached this elevated part 
 of the subui'bs. When they entered the draw- 
 ing-room there was no one there, although lights 
 were burning. 
 
 " Can't be gone to bed yet," said Hudson. "I'll 
 go and fetch her." 
 
 " Don't disturb Lady Emilia on my account," 
 urged Raphael, with great indifference. 
 
 Mr. Hudson found his way to his wife's room. 
 I regret to say the lady in question was "in a 
 temper." She had not been many months 
 married; she knew no one in the island; and 
 she had been sitting in solitary weariness while 
 her husband lost his sovereigns at billiards. 
 
 Bouverie Hudson was a good deal afraid of 
 his wife. She was a thorough aristocrat; she 
 was divinely beautiful ; she was aristocratically 
 indolent. He felt his insignificance in her pre- 
 sence. He was particularly proud of her, feel- 
 ing that he had purchased one of the finest wo-
 
 AL\IE. 297 
 
 men in the market — a London Circassian of 
 high price. But he was not particularly fond 
 of a tete-a-tete with her. 
 
 *'I have brought you a visitor, Emilia," he 
 said. 
 
 " Have you? How kind ! Some vulgar young 
 islander, I suppose, who wants some supper." 
 
 *' Why, no. He may want some supper, but 
 he's neither vulgar nor young. It's a gentleman 
 you know slightly." 
 
 "Indeed! Well, I hope he is rather more 
 amusing than you are. Tell me who he is, that 
 I may judge whether he is worth the trouble of 
 going doAvn stairs again." 
 
 "It is Mr. Raphael Branscombe,"said Bouverie. 
 
 She did not reply for a moment : the news 
 had been sudden. Then she said, languidly, — 
 
 " Ah, he will be a change. Well, go down 
 and entertain him. I will come presently." This 
 she uttered in her most lazily imperious tone. 
 
 But, when her husband had left her, she lock- 
 ed the door, threw herself on her knees at the 
 foot of the bed, and exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh, my God, why have you let tliis man
 
 298 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 come here ? What have I done to be so tortured ? 
 Oh, Raphael, Raphael, how I love you ! and yet 
 how I hate you ! What shall I do ? What shall 
 
 I dor 
 
 At last she arose and cooled her eyes and 
 forehead, and threw a lace shawl over those 
 white marble shoulders, and descended, looking 
 like a queen ; and very calm and steady was the 
 voice in which she said — 
 
 " I am glad to see you again, Mr. Branscombe." 
 
 Supper was served, and over a good bottle of 
 claret the Seraph and Hudson got on amicably 
 enough. 
 
 " By the way," said Raphael, " isn't there an 
 island called Sark one ought to see — a place 
 with cliffs and caverns, and that sort of thing ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Lady Emilia. " Suppose 
 we go across to-morrow, if it's fine. Your fa- 
 ther will join us, I dare say, Mr. Branscombe." 
 
 " To-morrow is rather too sharp," said Hud- 
 son. " We shall have to take provisions ; there's 
 nothing on the island but lobsters and rabbits." 
 
 " Very well ; suppose we fix it for early the 
 next mornmg," said Raphael. " My man, Louis,
 
 AIAIE. 299 
 
 is a capital caterer : lie shall look up provisions. 
 We'll inquii'e about a boat the fii*st thing to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Thus it was arranged, the Seraph and Hudson 
 making an appointment to meet in the Market 
 before breakfast ; and then he started for the 
 Esplanade, having parted from iEmilia with just 
 one pressm^e of the hand. 
 
 *' She's a wonderiully fine woman," thought 
 Raphael to himself, as he smoked his cigar, pass- 
 ing beneath the Bailiff's garden wall ; " and she 
 cares about as much as I do for that prig of a 
 Bouverie Hudson; but I must be careful. When 
 those languid creatm-es get possessed A^dth the 
 devil of love, they are infernally troublesome ; 
 and there's Anne Page waiting for me, and poor 
 little Fiordilisa." 
 
 I think at that moment the Seraph wished 
 himself back at Isola Rossa agam. 
 
 Louis was waiting for him. Devil Branscombe 
 had not yet got away fr-om his whist. The 
 Seraph gave his valet some orders about the 
 Sark expedition and dismissed him. Then he 
 sat by the window, watching the moonlight upon
 
 300 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 the sea and a flood of glistening silver, and re- 
 flected on his position. It was rather an amus- 
 ing one. 
 
 Bj-and-by — ^he heard a tap at the door, and 
 said, " Come in !" — entered the widow's pret- 
 tiest daughter. She wanted to know what time 
 he would like to breakfast. 
 
 "What's yom-name, child?" asked the Seraph. 
 
 " Ellen, sir." 
 
 " Ah. And pray. Miss Nelly, what time does 
 my respected father generally breakfast ?" 
 
 " About twelve, sn." 
 
 " Amazing old gentleman ! And what time do 
 you breakfast, Nelly f 
 
 " At eight, sn." 
 
 " Good. Then you may bring me up a cup 
 of coffee when you breakfast, and mind you 
 make it strong, that's a good girl, and mind you 
 bring it yom'self, for I know you'll look so con- 
 foundedly fresh and pretty in the morning, 
 you'll give me an appetite." 
 
 Ellen blushed. She was only nineteen, this 
 little girl, though her fine development caused 
 her to look several years older. There's a good
 
 AIAIE. 301 
 
 deal of flirtation in those islands, and she was 
 not wholly ignorant of the art. And the Seraph's 
 unique beauty of person fascinated her. 
 
 "Come here, Nelly," he said. She approached 
 him, and he gave her what he called a fraternal 
 kiss. "There, good night, little ghl. Don't 
 forget the coffee." 
 
 His father, who had let himself in with a latch- 
 key, had been an amused spectator of this brief 
 scene. 
 
 " You get on fast, Raphael," he remarked. " I 
 fear you don't improve. Now, Ellen, be off to 
 bed, or I'll tell your mamma of yom' naughti- 
 ness." 
 
 " The Hudsons and I are gouig to Sark the 
 day after to-morrow," said the Seraph. " Will 
 you come ? How can we get a boat f 
 
 " I can find you a clipping little cutter-yacht 
 that will just do. I want to see Sark, but cer- 
 tainly shouldn't have made any great effort in 
 that direction." 
 
 The following day the necessary arrangements 
 were made : and the party was increased by two 
 persons. These were a Mr. and Mrs. Wugk,
 
 302 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 who, notwithstanding their queer name, were to- 
 lerably English. Wugk was a musician of 
 Flemish descent, but born in England — a man 
 of real genius as a composer, but unutterably- 
 lazy. Mrs. AVugk was a native of Guernsey, 
 and one of the most charming of the island 
 beauties. Ralph Branscombe had made Wugk's 
 acquaintance at the club ; and encountering him 
 in the Market, enlisted him for the trip. He 
 was a capital comrade, knowing the island well 
 — and of course Lady Emilia would be glad of 
 a feminine companion. 
 
 So in due time they started, a pleasant party ; 
 and were landed in Sark, an island where land- 
 ing is difficult — so difficult indeed that the Lords 
 of the Admiralty are said to have come there on 
 a tour of inspection, and to have gone away 
 again without discovering where the harbour 
 lay. The legend is not incredible ; the tunnel 
 by which you must approach the interior is quite 
 invisible from the sea. I have always fancied 
 that Cu'ce's mystical island must have been very 
 like Sark. But there were no painters in water- 
 colours in Homer's days, whereas Sark has been
 
 AIAIE. 303 
 
 fortunate in an artist of the Channel, Mr. Paul 
 Naftel, who has done upon canvas, for its cliffs 
 and bays, what words can never do. Its caverns 
 are wondrous. The Gouliots are famous for 
 their population of zoophytes, many very rare ; 
 a perfect tapestry of these creatm^es, blood-red 
 and yellow and olive-green, hides the rugged 
 walls. But the Boutiques are transcendently fme. 
 After scrambling thi'ough torttfous passages in 
 half-darkness, it is glorious to come out upon a 
 platform of rock beneath a Titanic portal open 
 to the ocean. Surely the sons of Poseidon dwelt 
 in those colossal halls, and looked forth upon the 
 sohtary waste of waters. Does that smgle 
 white sail in the distance carry Odysseus and 
 liis heroic followers across the wine-colom'ed 
 sea? 
 
 Our party stayed longer ui the island than 
 they at first intended. The ^vind changed, so 
 that they could not easily get back to Guernsey 
 — and they thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful 
 loneliness of the place. It is a charming islet 
 for lovers of lazmess and scenery — of lobsters 
 and rabbits. Louis exhibited his culinary skill,
 
 304 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 and produced a marvellous variety of capital 
 dishes from these materials only. 
 
 One day they started to see the Boutiques — 
 all but Devil Branscombe, who had a touch of 
 gout, and was smoking in bed. You go along 
 a broad green terrace above the sea ; the steep 
 grassy slope beneath grows steeper as it de- 
 scends to the brink of the cliff. This is on your 
 right ; presently you pass an opening on your 
 left, which gives you a view right through the 
 island. A little farther the path narrows and 
 grows steeper ; and then you have to descend 
 and reascend in a way which Alpine clubmen 
 would think a trifle, but which perplexes weak 
 nerves. Hudson and Lady Emilia were in ad- 
 vance ; then Wugk and his wife ; finally Raphael. 
 
 Suddenly there was a pause. 
 
 " I can't stand this," said Hudson. " I'm get- 
 ing giddy. You'd better turn back, Emilia." 
 
 "Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind. I 
 came out to see the caves, and I mean to see 
 them. If you are giddy, go back and wait ; Mr. 
 Wugk will take care of me, and Mr. Branscombe 
 of Mrs. Wugk."
 
 AIAEE. 305 
 
 Hudson acceded to this arrangement : but pre- 
 sently Mrs. Wugk's courage also failed, so Ra- 
 phael brought her back and left her with Hud- 
 son. 
 
 " Lady Emilia can't come to much harm now," 
 said the Seraph, " as there will be two of us to 
 take care of her." 
 
 The trio made their way through the caverns, 
 standing at last upon a great ocean-threshold, 
 with a gateway of giants above. It was a 
 strangely beautiful way to approach that vast 
 stretch of hyaline. A sail or two, far off — a sea- 
 mew or two, nearer at hand — no other sign of 
 life. The golden sunlight slept upon an im- 
 measur cable waste of blue. 
 
 To return was found rather harder work than 
 entry had been. They were getting on very 
 well, however, when Lady Emilia felt faint, 
 and was unable to proceed. After some little 
 discussion, Raphael said — 
 
 " You see, she's afraid to go on. We must 
 get a boat round. I'll go and see to it, if you'll 
 stay mth Lady Emilia." 
 
 "No, no," she said. "Let Mr. Wugk go — 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 30G SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 he knows the island better — he will be quicker." 
 
 And Wugk, seeing no objection to the ar- 
 rangement, went. 
 
 " Well," thought Raphael, " she is determined 
 to have a tete-a-tete with me. I deserve a scold- 
 ing, no doubt, and I suppose she means to give 
 me one." 
 
 He found her a confortable seat of the ever- 
 lasting granite, and then lighted a cigarette. 
 
 "Why did you come here, Raphael?" she asked 
 after a time. 
 
 " Not to see you, child. I had filial duties to 
 perform. Having performed them, I mean to 
 be off." 
 
 " I wish you were drowning in that water, 
 Raphael. I should hke to watch you sinking, 
 and know that I could save you if I liked." 
 
 " And not do it, of course, amiable girl ! Tell 
 me now, what harm have I done you f 
 
 " Did not you make me love you ? Is that no 
 harm, when you cared nothing for me, when I 
 had to marry another man ?" 
 
 " Well, you don't seem to have much love for 
 me now ; and as that is the case, and as you
 
 AIAIE. 307 
 
 have a husband ^^dth plenty of money, I again 
 say I have done you no harm." 
 
 " What, there is no harm in remorse — no harm 
 in lying beside a husband I detest — no harm in 
 being a murderess ! I am a mm-deress, if longing 
 to do murder makes one. I want to be away from 
 these tempting cliiFrf. I fear — Oh, I fear I shall 
 push him over the brink some day." 
 
 " Really, ^EmiHa," he said, calmly, " you are 
 very foolish. You are a perfect child to talk all 
 this nonsense. Hudson seems a very good fel- 
 low — tiy and be comfortable with him." 
 
 " Yes, that's it — that's the way you talk. Oh, 
 why couldn't I guess all this before I loved you i 
 You win a woman's love — you win a woman 
 who is your slave, who would die for you, who 
 cares for no other creatiu-e m the Avide world, 
 and then you crush her and throw her away, 
 caring no more for her than for the end of a 
 cigar. Oh, I know now ; but why can't gh'ls know 
 in time, before they begin to love men with the 
 beauty of devils and mth ten times more 
 cruelty f ' 
 
 Raphael was taken aback by this torrent of
 
 308 SWEET ANNE PAGE. 
 
 words. He said nothing, but wished the boat 
 would come round ; and by good luck, so it did, 
 within five minutes. 
 
 " If I kill him it is your doing," she whispered, 
 as they advanced towards the boat. 
 
 " Tired of waitmgf shouted Hudson, cheerily. 
 " Catch me going to see caverns again !" 
 
 Next day the wind shifted, and they got back 
 to Guernsey, no murder having as yet been 
 committed. And the day after, Eaphael took the 
 mail steamer to Southampton, resolving to leave 
 Lady Emilia to her own devices. And, as we 
 have seen, Claudia heard of him from Clarges- 
 street. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWBLL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
 
 'gg^gggmia