d:
 
 EX-LIBRIS 
 F. E.DlNSHAW
 
 a I B RAR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 U N I V E.R5 ITY 
 or 1 LLl NOIS 
 
 823 
 Bi6 
 
 v/i
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 3- jdobd. 
 
 BY THE AUTHORS OF 
 
 "READY-MONEY MORTIBOY," 
 
 "my little girl," "this son of VULCAN," ETC. 
 
 AV THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, 
 
 STRAND. 
 
 1875. 
 
 [all rights of translation and KErRODVCTION ARE RESERVED.]
 
 LONDON : 
 SWEETINC! AND CO., PRINTER^ 
 
 SO, gray's inn road.
 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 "^ 
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 \ 
 
 ^i' 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HEN the Princess Belle-Belle In the 
 
 story is ravished from the castle, and 
 
 carried off by the wicked sorcerers 
 
 and demons of the rabble rout, she 
 
 meets her troubles resigned, and leaves them 
 
 unchanged. No anxieties of mind are able to 
 
 dim the lustrous splendour of her beauty, or to 
 
 furrow that fair cheek with the lines of trouble. 
 
 She plunges into the sea of sorrow with a sigh, 
 T^but emerges with a smile. Prince Florio is sure 
 
 to be constant : her loveliness is not evanescent, 
 
 ;like that of ordinary damsels; she waits in pa- 
 
 c.tience, conscious of the abiding disposition of 
 
 "^her charms and the fidelity of her lover. Above 
 
 . VOL. I. I
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 all, she has no duties. Heroines are never 
 expected to do more than sit down. If the 
 worst comes to the worst, she has but to cry, 
 in the attitude of a startled fawn, " Unhand 
 me, sir!" and straightway one at least of her 
 defenders rushes in, sword drawn, and frees her 
 in a twinkling from her oppressor. These dra- 
 matic rescues, indeed, are nothing more than the 
 Princess Belle-Belle expects. And when the last 
 chapter arrives, after which comes the real dul- 
 ness of life, with tranquil wedded love and the 
 rearing up to virtue of Princess Belle-Belle the 
 Second, she steps to the throne on which, be- 
 neath the glare of the lime light, she poses a 
 graceful farewell, ere she quits the agitated 
 waters of adventure for the secluded haven of 
 safety. In the after-years she will yawn, per- 
 haps, over the peaceful present, while she recalls 
 the variety and the charm, the doubt and the 
 uncertainty, of the troubled past. It is a great 
 thing to be a heroine of romance; but then it 
 is so different from being a heroine of reality. 
 
 For, to begin with, in real land. Princess Belle- 
 Belle is not alone in her misfortunes. If she is 
 torn from the delights of her childhood; if the
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 fabric of fortune fall about her ears ; if the grim 
 order of destiny oblige her to pack up her traps, 
 and be off and away from her earthly paradise — 
 she does not go alone. The thunderbolts which 
 strike one, strike many; the misfortunes which 
 fall upon one, fall upon all her family; and the 
 fair young princess, instead of bewailing her 
 fate, must needs tuck up her sleeves, put on her 
 oldest dress, and work with the rest and for the 
 rest, oblivious, save when the respite of night 
 brings time for thought, of all she has lost. 
 Florio is gone. Ah! will he come back un- 
 changed .'' The years are passing on ; will they 
 leave the cheek as fair, the eye as bright, the lips 
 as rij>e, the smile as ready, the dimples as deep.^ 
 Poor Belle-Belle of reality! She forgets herself 
 in her devotion to the rest; she lives out her 
 life spending it for others. Hers is the self-de- 
 nial which is the highest lot of poor humanity, 
 and yet seems to us creatures of self the hardest 
 and the saddest. When the winters have passed 
 their appointed number; when her fair hair is 
 touched with untimely grey; when the crows'- 
 feet have fallen too early around her lustrous 
 eyes; when her hands are rough with toil; when 
 
 I — 2
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 her face — her sweet, comely face — is lined with 
 care; when her shapely fici^ure is shrunken; 
 when the thousand little graces and delights of 
 her maidenly ways are forgotten and lost — 
 Florio returns. He comes back to his Belle- 
 Belle, but, alas, he loves her no more. Down 
 falls the castle of cards ; the chambers of 
 imagery are despoiled of all their golden pic- 
 tures. Were it not for the vision that greets her 
 streaming eyes, and comforts her stricken heart, 
 poor Belle-Belle would be sorrowful indeed. 
 But she has gained the higher glor}'. To those 
 who wait and work comes a reward not hoped 
 for or expected. The peace which passeth all 
 understanding is theirs at last. Theirs are the 
 soft strains of rejoicing resignation; theirs is 
 a crown, if they care to wear it, more glorious 
 than any wreath of the Nemrean games; theirs 
 is the golden harp, with which to celebrate the 
 mysterious victory over sorrow and disappoint- 
 ment — the solution of the problem insoluble to 
 the world, the final triumph of Love over Pain. 
 
 We are on the highest slope of a breezy cliff, 
 a foreland of the glorious coast which makes
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 North Devon the loveliest of English counties. 
 The path, mounting straight up from the village 
 below without any curve or winding, out of 
 effeminate regard for the steepness of the hill, 
 has left the thick hedges, which at its lower 
 levels rise over it on each side, like an old arch 
 out of which the keystone has dropped, but 
 which yet preserves its stability. It has passed 
 beyond the fringe of flowers on either hand — the 
 tall foxglove, yellow hawkweed, pink herbrobert, 
 and the white milfoil ; it has emerged upon the 
 open down, where it runs along the edge of the 
 precipice, and looks out upon the tossing sea 
 beneath and beyond. The great waves of the 
 Channel show from this height no signs of 
 motion, save in the white lines of crested foam 
 and wild seahorses' manes that lie flecked about 
 the surface; the steamer below, that is tossing 
 and rolling as she plunges along, seems to be 
 moving on a sea of molten glass; the clouds 
 that fly across the sky cast their shadows before 
 and behind them upon the waters; and the face 
 of ocean, as you gaze upon it to its blue dis- 
 tances beyond, is as bright, as profound, and as 
 impenetrable as the face of the Sphinx rising
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 out of the white sands and warmed with the 
 cloudless sunshine of the desert. For that ''mul- 
 titudinous smile" which we quote so often is a 
 subjective thing. We see in the ocean, as in 
 nature, what we feel in ourselves: we are in a 
 mood of laughter, and ocean smiles; we are in a 
 mood of sadness, and ocean is grave; we are 
 contemplative, and its face is like that of the 
 owl-faced Athene for unutterable wisdom. On 
 either side the hill descends rapidly; on either 
 side the view is nearly the same. To right and 
 left is seen a circular cove, into which the waves 
 rush through the narrow mouth and sweep back, 
 dragging with them shingle, stones, drift-wood, 
 seaweed — all the flotsam and jetsam of a wild 
 coast. On either side are long jagged teeth of 
 rock, lying in slanting strata, stuck at the 
 entrance of the little bay like sharks' teeth^ 
 ready to grip and destroy. Behind the cove is 
 the perpendicular face of the rock, with ledges 
 on which grow wild rose, honeysuckle, black- 
 berry, and bramble; and curving down to meet 
 the sands slide the long slopes of the hill, 
 planted thickly by the great gardener — Nature 
 — with giant ferns, among which a tall man
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 would tramp, shoulder . high, like some Titan . 
 among the palms of a tropical island. On the 
 right hand is a narrow ledge of sand, with rock 
 that crops up in dentated edges, and backed 
 only by its bulwark of straight and steep preci- 
 pice; and on the left is a hamlet, consisting of 
 half a dozen cottages, and one pretty house 
 standing by itself, apart from the rest. You . 
 may distinguish it without the aid of any glass : 
 in this bright and clear August; sunlight. It is 
 little more than a cottage, with its single storey . 
 rising above the verandah, which seems to run 
 all round it; it is covered to its highest chim- 
 ney pots with a flowing robe of clematis, fringed 
 withwesteria and Virginia creeper. It has a fair 
 lawn in front, stretching away from the sea ; and 
 if you were near enough, you would see that its 
 gardens are planted almost wholly with roses — 
 roses of every colour: roses white and red, of 
 York and of Lancaster; roses brighter than any 
 that bloom in the gardens of Gulistan; roses of 
 Provence and of Auvergne; roses of Gueldres, 
 and roses of England. 
 
 Hard by the cottage is the church, never-fail- 
 ing adjunct of the English hamlet — a grey old
 
 8 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 structure, too large for the scanty congregation 
 which on Sunday gathers within its mouldering 
 walls. The pathway slopes down the hill to 
 join the cart road — a Slough of Despond in the 
 winter, and in the summer a gridiron of Saint 
 Laurence. This winds in and out among the 
 houses; passes here by the mill-wheel, rolling 
 slowly round under the light pressure of the 
 streamlet, that drips rather than flows upon the 
 broad feathers, and turns round the creaking, 
 strong machine; here by the gate of the farm- 
 yard, where the pigs lie poking contented noses 
 into the reeking straw, content to believe that 
 the days of transformation into bacon are yet 
 far off, though the fiat has already been issued, 
 and the knife of fate been sharpened; here by 
 an orchard, red and yellow with the apples that 
 will soon be gathered and sent to the cider- 
 press ; here by the village school, where the 
 voices of the children are rising in the afternoon 
 hymn of dismissal ; and lastly down to the shore, 
 where the ruts are lost in sand and shingle. It 
 is high tide, or else you might see the carts 
 gathering the seaweed, which is drifted up in 
 heaps; but now the waves are beating and lash-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 ing about the sides of the cove, and the one 
 boat which belongs to Comb Leigh is tossing 
 like a cork at anchor. If you look inland, you 
 see a long valley stretching back far into the 
 grey distance, where the mists of the summer 
 afternoon lie over the hillsides, and wrap the 
 trees that are nearer with the softness of a 
 Claude landscape, and those that arc farther 
 with drapery of transparent muslin, through 
 which, as through the Coan robe, you may see 
 the leafy limbs all ranged in seemly order. The 
 meadows lie between the trees — broad slopes, 
 ^reen with pasture land, or yellow with the 
 ripened corn that waits to be cut. A fair 
 English landscape, meaning peace and pros- 
 perity and the blessing of heaven and earth. 
 
 And on the cliff, on the very highest part, 
 between the path and the precipice, where a 
 gentle slope affords ten feet or so of breadth 
 on which to lie and rest and watch the sea, are 
 two young people. 
 
 One of them — she — is sitting pulling a flower 
 carelessly, and the other — he — is lying at her 
 feet, looking now upon the sea beneath him, and 
 now at the fair face above him.
 
 lo WITH HARP AND CROWX 
 
 It is a face a little irregular of feature, though 
 oval of form; the forehead is too high, the chin 
 a trifle too pronounced, the nose not quite 
 straight; and the whole is crowned with brown 
 hair, with just — as the sunlight falls slantingly 
 upon it — the smallest tinge of gold to give it 
 colour and warmth. It is a face where you 
 might expect a pair of bright and restless, muti- 
 nous eyes; in their stead you find them clear and 
 steadfast of expression — eyes whose depths a 
 painter, could he study them, might take as 
 models for the illustration of many virtues, but 
 chiefly those of courage, truth, and love. If I 
 were to classify women, as my own sex has 
 been so often classified by philosophers, I should 
 divide her, first of all, into two great sections 
 by means of her eyes. For the e>'^s of some 
 Avomen mean love, and of some an incapacity 
 for love. The former are the sisters, wives, 
 mothers, and aunts to whom children of all ages 
 passionately cling ; the others arc those whom 
 we respect, or love perhaps, as in duty bounds 
 because they happen to be near to us. Their 
 hearts are cold ; they love themselves more than 
 their own: if they have children, they neglect
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. ir 
 
 them; if they have husbands, they slight them; 
 if they have abilities or the faculty of imitation, 
 they write movingly about domestic affections 
 with that unreal twang that we know as well as 
 the familiar gag of an actor. The girl sitting on 
 the cliff had eyes that could love; they rested 
 from time to time furtively upon the curly head 
 by her knees, and on the comely limbs which lay 
 stretched at full length upon the sward. Her 
 head was bare, and in her lap lay the straw hat 
 she had worn on her walk up the hill. 
 
 The young man broke the silence with a 
 laugh. 
 
 *'We have got metaphysical, Marion — another 
 word for nonsensical. Have we nothing better 
 to talk about after our long parting.? And tell 
 me, cannot you find some way of reconciling 
 duty with pleasure?" 
 
 She turned her head a little to one side — 
 girls in the country get these tricks and ways 
 — while she thought a moment, before she 
 answered — 
 
 "I do think that the way of duty is sometimes 
 a very hard one. And when so many people 
 are disappointed in the world, when we read of
 
 '12 WITH HARP AXD CROWN, 
 
 so many lives falling short of their ideal, oh, 
 surely it is better to give up thinking of life as 
 bringing pleasure, and only make up our minds 
 to bear and do what is right!" 
 
 "You to give up the pleasures of life, Marion? 
 You — why, Democritus in — in — a brown hol- 
 land frock and a red ribbon!" 
 
 "The ribbon is not red, but magenta." 
 
 "Matter of detail; and — and the prettiest little 
 boots in the world." 
 
 She drew them back with a blush. 
 
 "Gerald, if life has pleasures and duties too, I 
 think it has besides great nonsenses, which must 
 not be allowed." 
 
 "Forgive me, Marion," he said, looking up 
 ^vith his frank smile. " Forgive me, and let me 
 finish. Do you seriously propose to give up 
 looking for happiness.^" 
 
 "Ah, no," she replied, softening at once, 
 and brightening like the face of a lake when 
 the April cloud has passed. "No, it is not 
 that, Gerald. I look forward to a great deal 
 of happiness. I am happy now at home — I 
 hope I shall be happy always, in some way 
 or other; only I think it cannot be right to
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 13. 
 
 set your entire heart upon one way of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 "I do so set mine," said the young man. 
 "Marion, I think life is full of joys and glori- 
 ous gleams of happiness. They call it stormy. 
 Nonsense! it is a Pacific Ocean for calm and 
 sunniness. See now, I am six and twenty, or 
 very nearly; you, Marion, are already two and 
 twenty. We have walked and talked together 
 for at least twelve years — how many unhappy 
 days have we known?" 
 
 " None, Gerald, thank God ! " 
 
 " And how many shall we know ? None,. 
 Marion, none ! " He sprang to his feet, and 
 looked out upon the sea, where the sun was 
 hastening to his western bed. " It is an in- 
 vention of old women and cowards that mis- 
 fortune is always hanging over us. Why should 
 we pitch our songs in a minor key because 
 bad things happen "i They will not happen to 
 us ; and if they do, our singing penitential 
 psalms will not alter the course of events. *If 
 I ever wanted a thing,' Byron used to pule and 
 cry, * I never got it.' Then why the deuce — I 
 beg your pardon, Marion — why could he not
 
 14 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 help himself to it ? Did he expect it would 
 drop into his mouth ? I hate a man who sits 
 and wishes, when he might be up and working. 
 It is far better to have no wishes at all, to sit 
 and wait like an Arab. I used to watch them, 
 Marion, in the desert of Egypt, before I went 
 to Brazil, under the blue sky of evening and 
 night, in their attitude of dignity, while we 
 smaller fry chattered. They are the only people 
 who want nothing and hope for nothing ; they 
 accept and are contented. We who belong to 
 a colder climate are for ever discontented with 
 our lot ; we grumble and struggle." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 *' No one, at least, will accuse you of being 
 contented with things as they are. Are you as 
 great a Radical as you used to be when you 
 left us four years ago ?" 
 
 "We are all Radicals at one and twenty, I 
 suppose. But, Marion, I have found out now 
 the truest happiness in life, and I mean to try 
 for it." 
 
 "What is that, Gerald.?" 
 
 " Marion, it is love." 
 
 She did not reply, but her cheek turned a
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 15 
 
 ■deep red ; and presently she became aware, 
 without looking up, that his eyes were fixed 
 on her. If you know people very well, and 
 are thinking of them, you get to feel when 
 they are looking at you, without turning your 
 own eyes to ascertain the fact. Perhaps this 
 is elective affinity, or perhaps it is biology, or 
 perhaps we know all about a thing when we 
 can give it a fine name. Scientific gentlemen, 
 it is certain, when they have once called a 
 millstone by a Greek name, are instantly ena- 
 bled to see several inches deeper than other 
 folk into it. 
 
 ** Love, Marlon," he went on, sinking again 
 on the grass, and gazing into her face — "love 
 requires two people. Let us two love one 
 another." 
 
 "We always have, Gerald," the girl mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Always, Marion. How many times have 
 we climbed this hill together, and sat here look- 
 ing at the sea! We have been lovers always, 
 from the days when I had to help you along 
 if you got tired. Always we have loved each 
 other, Marion. But I did not know how much,
 
 i6 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 or with what kind of love, till I was cominsr 
 back to England, and thought of you day and 
 night. We used to be brother and sister, but 
 we are that no more. The long separation has 
 parted the old bond between us, but the new 
 one has come In its place. I want you to be 
 more to me than we have ever been before 
 to each other. Marion, I want you to be my 
 wife." 
 
 She was silent for a while. 
 
 "Tell me, dear, that you can love me with 
 a warmer feeling than that of a sister for her 
 brother." 
 
 She looked him straight and full in the face ; 
 there was no doubt, no hesitation there. 
 
 " I do love you, Gerald. I do not know how 
 you want me to love you, but I am certain that 
 no wife could ever love you more." 
 
 He took her hand and kissed it, softly at 
 first, and then passionate!}'. 
 
 "The thought has never been out of my 
 mind, dear Marlon, since I became a man. I 
 have seen no other girl that I could love, and I 
 resolved to tell you my heart the first day wc 
 were alone together. Yesterday I was afraid
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 17 
 
 to speak lest I might spoil all, lest I had made 
 a, mistake. Marion, we have made no mistake, 
 have we ? We love each other ; we will give 
 each other our lives. Speak to me, dearest ! " 
 
 " If thy handmaid find favour in the eyes of 
 my lord, and if — " 
 
 "No, Marion, you are not my servant; you 
 are my princess and my queen." 
 
 And this time he did not kiss her hand, but 
 drew her face down to his own, and pressed her 
 lips to his. Marion's heart passed from her 
 with the kiss, and she drew back blushing, con- 
 fused, trembling. 
 
 Then Gerald besfan to tell her of the lives 
 they would lead together, and the happiness 
 before them ; and, as he talked, Marion grew 
 cold, and her heart fell. She shivered. 
 
 "I feel," she said, "as if I had lost some- 
 thing.". 
 
 "It is your hand that you have lost, my 
 darling, for that is given to me." 
 
 "Not that, Gerald, not that," she replied. 
 " Let us go home ; I am cold." 
 
 The clouds had gathered up from the south, 
 and were lowering black before them as they 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 i8 IVITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 rose to go down the hill to Comb Leigh. 
 Marion turned for another look at the sea : 
 the waves were black, and the grey face of 
 ocean was troubled with the crows'-feet of in- 
 numerable cares. There was no sunlight on 
 the waters, and sea and cloud were blended to- 
 gether in the far horizon. Gerald passed his arm 
 through hers, and led her gently down the hill. 
 
 "Don't be saddened by a rain cloud, Marion 
 dear," he whispered. " Life has got nothing to 
 do with weather. Look at the lightning up the 
 valley! One might as well hear evil in the 
 growling of the distant thunder." 
 
 " It is not the cloud," Marion replied, burst- 
 ing into tears — "it is not the cloud, Gerald; 
 but as you spoke to me, I knew that you loved 
 me ; I knew it was comings and I felt so happy 
 — oh, so happy ! — all in a moment to know that 
 you were really and truly my lover. I had not 
 thought of it till the last few days, since you 
 came home again, and we have been different 
 to each other. And suddenly my happiness 
 seemed to be dashed like a cup of water from 
 my lips. What does it mean, Gerald } what 
 does it mean t "
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 19 
 
 " It means that my Marion is the best and 
 dearest of all the girls that ever lived, as well 
 as the prettiest and sweetest. It means that 
 she gave me her heart, and felt cold for a 
 moment for want of it. And it means that my 
 love is a little frightened to think what she has 
 done, and all she has pledged herself to. See, 
 dear, the clouds are rising again over the 
 woods ; there is the rift among them, and the 
 bit of blue. Look at the glint of sunshine 
 on the copper beech yonder. Everything is 
 brighter for the rain, though it has been but 
 a shower. See how the hills seem to start into 
 light and colour again ; that is a picture of our 
 life, dear. Marion, Marion, stay here by the 
 stile, and let me tell you again how I love you 
 — so ; let me press you in my arms. Dear, 
 dear, dear' Marion, how I love you — how I love 
 you!" 
 
 It was two hours later when they reached the 
 bottom of the lane — Marion bright again, laugh- 
 ing at herself, and animated. 
 
 At the gate of the Rosery they stopped. 
 
 " I must go home," said Gerald. " Tell your 
 father what you like, dearest." 
 
 2—2
 
 20 WITH HARP AND CROIVN. 
 
 " I cannot say anything- even to Adie, Gerald. 
 Come and tell papa to-night. Good-bye." 
 ** Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." 
 He pressed her hands, and looked her full in 
 the face with eyes of passionate longing — a look 
 that Marion was to treasure up in her heart for 
 ever. The first tender words and the first warm 
 look of a lover are as sacred to a woman as the 
 first little shoes of her eldest born. It seemed as 
 if his eyes were on her and his hands in hers still 
 when she recovered from the first tumult of her 
 heart, and lifted her eyes to watch her lover, 
 striding along the road that led up the valley to 
 Chacomb Hall. 

 
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 ,d^^^SSK^B 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 fAPTAIN REVEL, on half-pay, of her 
 Majesty's Navy — that service which 
 we treat so badly and regard so 
 proudly— was not in any respect like 
 the mariner Ben Bowling, or Admiral Benbow, or 
 Lieutenant Luff, the sailors with whom the lite- 
 rature of imagination has made the world fami- 
 liar. He did not wear loose blue trousers and a 
 pilot coat, nor did he hitch up his garments 
 in moments of aroused virtue, nor did he drink 
 rum, nor did he swear, unless under provocation, 
 nor did he stand habitually with his legs apart, 
 nor did he have a red nose. He was a sailor of 
 quite the modern school, though now a man of 
 between fifty and sixty years of age; being a 
 rather quiet and precise man, with little of the 
 self-assertion that usually comes from habits of
 
 22 IVITJI HARP ASD CROU'X 
 
 command; modest of speech, and diffident in 
 manner. He was pale, and had cheeks hollowed 
 with study; short-sighted, and carried double 
 glasses; and was absent, frequently wandering 
 away from the topic, and having to be recalled 
 by his daughter Marion. He was a student in 
 literature and a dabbler in science, as great a 
 gardener as Adam, and learned in flowers, espe- 
 cially roses, of which he had all the varieties that 
 he could afford to buy. His face, with thin sharp 
 features and delicately clear outlines, proclaimed 
 his foreign extraction; for Captain Fabien de 
 Lussac Revel was a Frenchman and the son 
 of a Frenchman, although an English officer. 
 Out of the great army of anigrcs — who mostly, 
 it must be confessed, left their country for their 
 country's good — a few found commissions in the 
 English navy, and fought as manfully against 
 the France of the new regime as any Frenchman 
 had ever fought under Jean Bart or Labour- 
 donnaye. Among these was the Comtc dc 
 Reville, who carried abnegation of his country 
 so far as to Anglicise his name, and appeared 
 on the Navy List as Lieutenant Revel. He 
 never mounted any higher on the ladder of
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 23 
 
 promotion, but he put his son into the service 
 and brought him up as an Englishman. Captain 
 Revel preserved the papers which proved his 
 ancestry and his title, in case he should ever 
 wish to resume it, and pleased himself with the 
 comfortable reflection that his race was an an- 
 cient and honourable one, with a history as long 
 as its pedigree. 
 
 He came to Comb Leigh when he retired 
 from the navy, some sixteen years before our 
 story opens, with three children, his half-pay, 
 and a modest patrimony. He had married 
 twice. By the first marriage he had one child, 
 Marion, now aged twenty-two; by the second 
 he had a son Fred, now nearly twenty, and a 
 daughter, Adrienne, now sixteen. 
 
 Marion you have seen. Of two girls one is 
 always the daughter of the house, the father's 
 friend and confidante — the ruler, if there is no 
 mother; the prime minister, if there is; and in 
 any case the teacher and adviser. This was 
 Marion. As for the son Fred, he was at Oxford, 
 where it was felt certain that he would achieve 
 great things. Adrienne, little Adie, was the play- 
 thing and darling, and, like all darlings, childish
 
 24 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 for her years, and exacting of much tenderness 
 and sympathy. 
 
 It was a liouschold full of tenderness. The 
 captain was a soft-hearted man, fond of his 
 children; the children, brought up in the seclu- 
 sion of a happy valley into which the outer 
 world penetrated rarely, believed that no one 
 was so wise, so good, and so learned as their 
 father. Those are the happiest families where 
 all believe in each other, just as he is the hap- 
 piest man who mostly believes in himself. The 
 quality of self-conceit, if it is valuable for the 
 individual, is priceless for the family. We all 
 know those domestic circles, never tired of each 
 other, in which Jack, otherwise a miracle of 
 stupidity, is supposed to have the finest voice 
 in the world; Tom, who got prizes at school, 
 is the cleverest man in the world; Susan, the 
 saucer-eyed, is the prettiest girl; and Jane, with 
 a face like a frying-pan, the most remarkable. 
 IMarion Revel honestly believed that her brother 
 PVed was far cleverer than his compeers, though 
 he failed to get any prizes at all as a boy, and 
 had not yet distinguished himself at college; 
 while little Adie seemed to her the personifica-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 25 
 
 tion of brightness, affection, and beauty. To 
 the outer world, Fred Revel was a good-natured, 
 handsome young fellow, who took things as 
 easily as if he had been born to ten thousand 
 a year; to the unprejudiced observer, Adie was 
 a girl with a face which a few years might render 
 beautiful, and a figure which required the ripen- 
 ing of two or three summers before you could 
 pronounce an opinion on it. And, up to the pre- 
 sent, if the captain has had any anxiety about 
 .his son's future, it has not crossed his lips. In 
 .truth, he has had none. When Fred refused 
 at thirteen to go into the navy, his father was 
 grieved, but let the boy have his way. When 
 he grew older and resolved upon going to the 
 University, the captain, convinced that educa- 
 tion was the finest thing in the world, devised 
 with Marion schemes of pinching and economy, 
 to get for the boy all the advantages of learn- 
 ing. He is at present making the most of 
 those advantages. He attends the college lec- 
 tures, at which undergraduates learn so much 
 and are so thankful for; he has, through the 
 thoughtful kindness of Oxford tradesmen, a 
 fair mount occasionally, a tolerable glass of
 
 26 WITH HARP AND CROU'X. 
 
 claret in his rooms, can give those little break- 
 fasts by which the fatigues of study are dis- 
 pelled, can decorate his apartment with costly 
 engravings, and can partake in all the amuse- 
 ments of the place. Oxford and Cambridge 
 are rich indeed in endowments, but they are 
 richer in those fine philanthropists Avho force 
 fine things upon inexperienced youth, and teach 
 them lessons, never contemplated by the pious 
 founders, in the luxury of that rich outer world 
 to which few undergraduates will ever belong. 
 Like so many of his kind, young Fred Revel, 
 too, on his allowance of two hundred pounds 
 a year, was living at the rate of a thousand 
 in eight months, without as yet troubling him- 
 self as to what the end might be. 
 
 Ah, how pleasant It is, this paradise of the 
 youthful fool, whose every banquet is a delight, 
 and every noisy revelry a feast of reason ! A 
 dream from which the awaking may be bitter, 
 but the recollection is sweet. We in England 
 have much to be thankful for, and especially 
 that we have two such places as Oxford and 
 Cambridge, where for three years the poorest 
 undergraduate may enjoy the privileges of un-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 27 
 
 limited tick, and feel all the reality of being; 
 rich. A great English University is like a 
 dream of fairy-land ; in it those who work and 
 are good boys and are lucky get pocketsful of 
 money for all the rest of their lives ; those who^ 
 lie idling in the sun or sit singing in the shade 
 are patted on the head by their tutors, tempted 
 to eat, drink, and be merry by the benefactors 
 above named, and troubled by no difficulties or 
 debts till the allotted time runs out. So the 
 Sheikh of the Mountains took his young men 
 into an Eden, where houris brought them iced 
 sherbet and played with them upon beds of 
 roses for three days and three nights ; then 
 they were taken out, and paid the penalty for 
 the brief season of joy by a life of obedience 
 and slavery. After all, they could remember. 
 
 The girls knew nothing of this pleasantness ;: 
 girls are taught, very properly, to believe that 
 young men are always engaged in intense study 
 when they are not discussing points of philo- 
 sophy. Marion and Adie thought that Fred 
 was hard at work. When he came home, re- 
 splendent in the gorgeous costume proper to 
 the High, he wanted a long holiday, and must
 
 28 WITH HARP AXD CROIVN. 
 
 put away his books. Moreover, he must tell 
 them of the Oxford world. Fred was willing 
 to listen to reason ; during the vacations he was 
 content to forego the improvement of his mind, 
 and devoted himself, like the best of brothers, 
 to boating, fishing, and his sisters. 
 
 This little Anglicised French family, living in 
 the quietest place in all England, without any 
 relations or connections in the country, where 
 they had settled like Naomi in the tribe of 
 Judah, had but one house where they could 
 find intercourse with the outer world. It lay 
 a mile and a half up the valley, and was called 
 Chacomb Hall. There had been a hamlet of 
 Chacomb and a race of Squire Chacombs from 
 time immemorial. No Chacomb had ever dis- 
 tinguished himself; no event connected the 
 place with the history of the country ; the 
 annals of the hamlet boasted no village Hamp- 
 den, so that very likely there never was one 
 there at all ; and if there had been a IMilton 
 ever born among them, he was mute and in- 
 glorious, and so might just as well have been 
 a Smith. 
 
 But for the Revels there was Gerald Chacomb.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 29 
 
 He was older than Marion by some four years,. 
 and had been her only friend and chief com- 
 panion. The two, when Gerald was at home 
 for his holidays, roamed about the hills to- 
 gether like Paul and Virginia, as loving and as 
 thoughtful of each other, though of sterner stufi" 
 than that sentimental and unfortunate couple. 
 They knew every bird in the woods by its call, 
 every Avild flower, and every tree ; they were 
 wise in the manners and customs of the smaller 
 beasts of prey — weasels and polecats and mar- 
 tens, and their like — which lie hidden in the 
 Devonshire woods ; they learned together b}' 
 long familiarity that neglected science of wood- 
 craft which no books can teach ; and when the- 
 boy, obeying the instincts of his nature, took to 
 reading works of travel and natural history, it 
 was to Marion that he read them, filling her 
 soul as well as his own with images of the 
 strange wild animals of those Southern lands, 
 dim with the haze of perpetual heat, filled with 
 the haunted silence of a tropical noon, and 
 bright with the splendour of cobra, panther, and' 
 jaguar. They sat side by side on the edge of 
 the cliff, while Gerald read aloud of the mighty
 
 WITH HARP AND CROIVX. 
 
 river, across whose broad bosom the green and 
 gold serpents glide in the blaze of the sun ; on 
 whose shores lies the lazy alligator ; and to 
 whose waters come to lap, at morning and at 
 eve, the chattering monkey, the sleek puma, and 
 the giant python. 
 
 " It is over there, Marlon." Gerald would 
 point across the sea. " Only three weeks' 
 voyage, and wc could get there and see it for 
 ourselves. When I am a man I will go." 
 
 When he was a man he did go. Nothing 
 could stop him. He left the University, and 
 obtained a travelling fellowship, which, with the 
 little fortune he had inherited from his mother, 
 made him independent of his father s opposition. 
 
 Marion stayed at home, and tried to paint — 
 it was her only accomplishment — the scenes 
 Avhich Gerald's letters described. She covered 
 acres of paper with imaginary sketches, in which 
 were reproduced his stories of the life he led 
 upon the Amazons and Orinoco. 
 
 While he travelled, she, womanlike, looked 
 on, watched, and waited, almost unconscious of 
 the place he filled in her life. 
 
 Four years : it is a long time even In the life
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 31 
 
 of a man whose years are like a piled-up sheaf, 
 and whose days are hastening the swifter to 
 their autumn, as the waters hurry the faster as 
 they near the fall ; but it is a great gap indeed 
 in that period when a girl is becoming a woman, 
 Marion was eighteen when Gerald Chacomb 
 went away, full then of the trembling perplex- 
 ities and twilight visions of the future which 
 surround the way of a girl. She was twenty- 
 two when he came back, a woman ripe for love ; 
 and Gerald Chacomb was doubly a man, be- 
 cause he was a lover.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 |ERALD CHACOMB strode with 
 swinging step along the road up 
 the valley to Chacomb Hall, his 
 heart aglow, his eyes aflame, his 
 h'ps trembling with the recollection of the last 
 two hours. Nor did he trouble himself to 
 wonder how his father might take it. That 
 consideration, indeed, one must own, was not 
 one that often stood in the way of his resolu- 
 tions. His plan was rather to treat the pater- 
 nal permission as a kind of grace after meat ; 
 to act first, and ask afterwards ; to do, and 
 then, with filial care that his father should have 
 some part, to insure a kind o[ posthumous 
 concurrence in the deed. And as he stepped 
 along, his thoughts ran mainly on the life he 
 vould lead at Chacomb.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 33 
 
 " The governor wants me to live at home and 
 potter about among the Collection. Hang the 
 Collection! Well, he will be happy. Marion 
 will like to be near her own people, so she will 
 be happy too. I should like to take her away 
 with me somewhere, but I suppose that cannot 
 be. My pretty Marion !" 
 
 About a mile from Comb Leigh he was 
 awakened disagreeably from his meditations 
 by the appearance of a man waiting for him 
 by the roadside. He was a big, burly man, 
 dressed in a fashion not often seen in the lanes 
 of North Devon: a sober suit of black, with 
 a tall hat; his long-tailed frock coat swung 
 back from his big, brawny shoulders; and his 
 waistcoat, as far removed from the M.B. type 
 as is possible in a black waistcoat, showed an 
 expanse of shirt front which might have been 
 whiter; his trousers were wide and bulged at 
 the knees, as if he sat writing in them .with 
 his feet under the chair, after the manner of 
 those to whom Nature has not been prodigal 
 in the matter of legs — though his were long; 
 his hat was glossy, and yet not new; and he 
 wore no gloves. In his hand he carried a silk 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 umbrella, which had seen slenderer days; and 
 about the whole appearance of the man there 
 w^as manifest the desire to preserve somehow 
 a respectable exterior. His features were coarse 
 and common, but not more vulgar than may 
 be seen in many a man who is bidden to sit 
 up high at great festivals. When he laughed, 
 which was often, he laughed with the mouth, 
 and not the eyes; when he smiled, the frequency 
 of his smiles depending a good deal on the 
 company he was in, he smiled with his lips, 
 and showed his teeth. Strangers, who were apt 
 to take a violent dislike to him at first sight, 
 often found themselves before the evening was 
 over talking confidentially to him, and next 
 morning repented. His name was Joseph 
 Chacomb, and he was Fellow of the Royal 
 College of Physicians, and first cousin to INIr. 
 Chauncey Chacomb, the squire of Chacomb 
 Hall. 
 
 "You here.^" said Gerald, holding out his 
 hand with no very cordial show. 
 
 "I am, as you see, my boy," returned the 
 other. "And right glad to welcome the tra- 
 veller home. Left the patients with a brother
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 35 
 
 poisoner. He is younger than I am, and his 
 conscience is clearer. Came down last night 
 as far as Exeter. You are looking in splendid 
 condition. As for your father, he is a different 
 man already. You know, my dear boy, his 
 temper." 
 
 ** Never mind my father's temper." 
 " I don't mind it. I am the only man who 
 mever did mind it. In fact, I rather like it If 
 I was his son, I dare say I should think a 
 great deal of it. Being only Dr. Chacomb 
 — ^Joe Chacomb — with a practice like a joint- 
 stock company (Why.? Because it's limited), 
 I can afford to sit down and laugh. How- 
 •ever, he has made a splendid addition to the 
 Collection — an undoubted Dow, and he's now 
 at home with it on his knees. My cousin 
 Chauncey ought to have been a good father if 
 he treated his baby — you, the only — as he treats 
 his Collection. But then your head was not 
 hy an Old Master, eh.? — after the manner of 
 an Old Master." 
 
 Gerald was irritated, partly at a long-stand- 
 ing dislike of the man, and partly owing to the 
 interruption to his thoughts, but he laughed. 
 
 3—2
 
 36 WITH HARP AXD CROU'X. 
 
 "You arc on your way home, I suppose. 
 Captain Revel is with your father. It wants 
 two hours of dinner. This Devonshire air,. 
 what an appetite it gives! If I Hvcd here, I 
 would have two dinners a day and a supper. 
 It must be dreadful to be poor at Chacomb. 
 Perhaps it is to escape their country appetite 
 that so many people come up to London — 
 that, and to get their medical attendance for 
 nothing. Tell me about your travels, Gerald. 
 Your beard improves you, and you've filled., 
 out about the shoulders. You are like your 
 grandfather: he was a fair Chacomb. Your 
 father is a black Chacomb. And I am a red 
 Chacomb. We are nearly prismatic. All the 
 colours of the family represented in us three. 
 In the smoking-room to-night you shall tell 
 me some of your adventures, eh.^" 
 
 He winked,, and looked so knowing that 
 Gerald felt inclined to kick him. 
 
 "By Jove! I wish I had had your chances 
 of seeing the world. But when I was one and 
 twenty I was walking the hospital; and ever 
 since I've been making blue pills and brew- 
 ing black draughts. All the rest of the Phar-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 37 
 
 macopoeia is humbug, Gerald. With blue pills 
 and black draughts I'd clear out half the sick 
 wards of the hospital: beat doctors black and 
 blue, eh? But never mind that. Tell me 
 where you went, and all about it. The squire 
 is hazy in geography. I believe he thinks 
 Brazil is in Africa." 
 
 Presently they reached Chacomb Hall. 
 
 The Hall was approached by an avenue 
 of elms, under which the carriage drive ran, 
 grandly arclied over by branches so close 
 together that the crowded leaves supported 
 each other, and remained upon the trees till 
 January. The house stood on a slope: a great 
 square modern house, with no pretensions to 
 beauty save a western gable. This portion 
 was built of brick — a warm and soft brick, 
 over which j^ears had spread a mellow tinge; 
 two sides of it were clothed with ivy; the 
 third looked due west down the valley to the 
 5ea; and in clear days — most days in North 
 Devon arc clear — you got a glimpse of Lundy 
 in the far distance from the upper window. 
 This bit, the last of the old Hall, had been 
 mercifully preserved by that interposition of
 
 38 WITH HARP A AD CROWN. 
 
 Providence ^vhich killed the former squire — a 
 great builder — and gave the estate to his cousin, 
 Gerald's father. 
 
 Between Chauncey Chacomb as a young 
 man and the estate there had once been so 
 many lives, that in accepting a clerkship in 
 Somerset House at a hundred a year, he 
 thought himself provided with all the goods 
 the gods would send him. Dis alitcr I'ismn. 
 The owner of Chacomb had no children; the 
 two intervening lives fell in; and Chauncey at 
 thirty came into possession. 
 
 At thirty-five he took a wife. Also, about 
 this period he began to form those Collections 
 of his which, he felt, could make him famous. 
 When he was thirty-seven his wife presented 
 him with a son. The same annus niirahilis was 
 also remarkable for the acquisition of a rose 
 noble ; an original Murillo, purchased through 
 the agency and by the advice of Mr. Burls, 
 the eminent picture dealer; the picking up of 
 an ancient pike-head, which marvellously re- 
 sembled the useful end of a modern spud; and 
 for the death of his wife, who never recovered 
 the effects of her confinement.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 39 
 
 The Collection was the bugbear of Gerald 
 Chacomb's boyish existence. He knew every 
 glass case and its contents. He knew by heart 
 the expository discourse with which his father 
 would explain his treasures while he exhibited 
 them to the unhappy wanderer whose steps 
 brought him to the door. The cases were 
 placed in what Mr. Chacomb called his library, 
 though he never read, and his son had carried 
 away the books to his own side of the house, the 
 old portion. The Collection contained coins, flint 
 implements, bronze ornaments, beads, swords 
 and daggers, and a multifarious collection 
 over which the rustic gaped and the antiquary 
 yawned. For, in truth, Mr. Chacomb's Col- 
 lection was as valueless a set of trumpery 
 forgeries, worthless curios, modern antiques, 
 and twopenny bric-a-brac as might be picked 
 up at Cairo, Rome, Naples, Jerusalem, or any 
 other place where the chief industry is that of 
 forging ancient relics. No bishop of the twelfth 
 century, travelling to Palestine for the good of 
 his sinful soul, was more eager after saints' 
 bones than Mr. Chacomb after any old frag- 
 ment to which he could attach a history. He
 
 40 WITH HARP AXD CROWX. 
 
 had travelled, too, and brought home with him, 
 after each voyage, stones from the places he had 
 visited. These got a good deal mixed on the 
 way ; so that what had been a fragment from 
 Luxor was exhibited as a specimen of the 
 marble of the Acropolis at Athens, and what 
 had been knocked off the long-suffering Sphinx 
 was labelled as a stone from the Colosseum of 
 Rome. Young j\Ir. Chacomb, too, in his irre- 
 verence for the past, had still further jumbled 
 and confused things, by altering labels and 
 changing stones — sins pardonable only on the 
 score of youth and ignorance of archaeology. 
 
 All his spare moments Mr. Chacomb devoted 
 to writing the catalogue of his Collection. It 
 was a bulky manuscript, which he constantly 
 wrote, re-wrote, and corrected. Here was re- 
 corded the history of each precious relic, told 
 at length, with all the circumstances connected 
 with its find, and an excursus on the probable 
 connection of the treasure with the political 
 history of the period at which ]\Ir. Chacomb's 
 imagination chose to fix the date. The docu- 
 ment was the repository of all that its author 
 owned of fancy, history, or scholarship. His
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 41 
 
 reading, such as it was, bore perpetually upon 
 his catalogue. He bought journals of the ar- 
 chaeological societies, and he hunted them for 
 new hints with which to embellish his cata- 
 logue. 
 
 On the walls of the room in which the 
 Chacomb Collection was placed hung a dozen 
 masterpieces, to which the squire added as op- 
 portunity offered. 
 
 " I have," he was wont to say, " only a few 
 pictures, but I am proud to say that they are 
 originals." 
 
 In one sense they were originals, having been 
 mostly painted for Mr. Burls, and at the request 
 of that distinguished collector, by young men in 
 his employ; their natural merits being improved 
 by a resemblance, perhaps accidental, to one or 
 other of the great masters. Any one can copy 
 a picture in a gallery, but it requires a painter 
 of genius to produce an original work in the 
 style of a master. Latterly, however, Mr. Burls 
 had few dealings with his former patron; for Dr. 
 Joseph Chacomb suddenly developed a curious 
 taste In oil paintings, and became the fortunate 
 means of introducing to his cousin one or two
 
 43 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 chcfs'd'ccuvrc of the very greatest value, which 
 he obtained for him, on commission, at a com- 
 paratively small cost. 
 
 Gerald found his father, as usual, In the Col- 
 lection. The glass cases were open ; on the 
 table stood his basin of water, his hydrochloric 
 acid for treating the coins, his camel's-hair 
 brush, and his labels. But instead of fussing, 
 as usual, among them, the squire was sitting 
 in an easy-chair by the window, nursing a 
 blackened and smoke-dried picture in a tar- 
 nished gilt frame. And standing by him, eye- 
 glasses in hand, was Captain Revel. 
 
 Mr. Chauncey Chacomb's appearance did not 
 proclaim aloud his parentage of Gerald. For 
 the son was fair and tall, square-shouldered and 
 stalwart, while the father was short and dark. 
 Gerald's face was round and comely, while his 
 father's was sharp and hard. The squire, in 
 fact, recalled the old portraits of Richard the 
 Third. He had the same look of ability in 
 the low, square forehead ; the same cunning 
 which the limner always depicts in the ex- 
 pression of that wicked Plantagenct : he was 
 strong, like Richard ; and, like Richard, he was
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 45. 
 
 slightly deformed — though not in the same way,, 
 for his right shoulder was higher than his left^ 
 This gave his appearance an awkwardness to 
 which no familiarity ever quite accustomed his 
 friends. His manner was always cold, but with 
 a studied civility. He smiled a good deal, but 
 not so often nor in the same way as his cousin,, 
 the doctor ; and he never deceived any living 
 soul into the belief that he was going to com-^ 
 mit, for him or her, an unselfish act. Chauncey 
 Chacomb, as a clerk in the Admiralty, was un- 
 social and unpopular. When the news came of 
 his cousin's death, there was an impious but 
 intelligible expression of feeling among his 
 fellows that so great a piece of fortune might 
 have been bestowed more fitly upon one with 
 more of the makings of a good fellow. As a 
 lady supplies with ceruse, rouge, padding, and 
 other artful agencies the deficiencies of Nature, 
 so Mr. Chacomb learned to wreathe his face in 
 habitual smiles, and assume a cordiality towards 
 the world which he did not feel. He was not 
 cynical, but indifferent. He did not sneer at 
 people, nor was he envious of them, nor did he 
 impute unworthy motives, nor did he say bitter
 
 44 WITH HAKP AXD CROll'X. 
 
 and carping things ; he was only cold and care- 
 less. To the aims and objects of his kind, to 
 the tendencies and movements of his time, to 
 the sufferings and sorrows of men and women, — 
 to these hopes and fears Chauncey Chacomb 
 was dead. He loved but one created thing — 
 not himself, because he Vv'as too conscious of his 
 own defects to love Chauncey Chacomb, but his 
 son; and he had only one vulnerable point at 
 which his hide of indifference could be pierced 
 by a simple pin's point — his invaluable Collec- 
 tion. 
 
 When the rhinoceros, at whom you may dis- 
 charge your arrows and hurl your javelins till 
 you are tired, actually feels the prick of one 
 'which by accident finds out a thin place in the 
 hide carelessly flung across the creature's back, 
 like a railway rug over a lady's knees, he begins 
 to rage and roar, and makes things perilous for 
 the black Nimrods in his neighbourhood. The 
 rhinoceros, in fact, gets into a vulgar rage, and 
 plays indiscriminate devilry. The elephant, on 
 the other hand, if anybody hurts him, keeps his 
 resentment to himself till the chance comes of 
 paying off old scores. Then he puts his big foot
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 45 
 
 on the offender, who is seldom strong enough to 
 preserve much rotundity after the operation, and 
 pretends, with an apologetic twirl of his trunk,, 
 that it was by accident. 
 
 Mr. Chauncey Chacomb, not elephantine in 
 any other respect, had the nature of that glo- 
 rious creature in this, that he nursed his wrath. 
 When he was offended he smiled, and, taking 
 the injury night after night to bed with him, 
 tenderly looked after it, fostered and fed it, kept, 
 it always alive and flourishing, and looked on 
 admiringly while the little ugly monster grew 
 up into a great amorphous Frankenstein. 
 
 He brooded over a wrong. He pleased him- 
 self with inventing schemes of imaginary re- 
 venge, on which he would gloat, picturing the 
 agonies of the victim and his own ungodly tri- 
 umph. Twenty years before this story begins,. 
 he had received, as he thought, a great injury 
 and a wanton insult from a man who unthink- 
 ingly scoffed at his ancient arrow-heads, and 
 disputed the authenticity of his beloved rose 
 noble. The man who did it had long ago 
 forgotten the whole thing, but in Chauncey 
 Chacomb's mind it was flourishing like an ever-
 
 46 WITH HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 green bay tree, growing ever taller and spread- 
 ing wider, like a Norfolk Island pine. For 
 twenty years he had been in almost daily 
 intercourse with this man, dining at his table, 
 walking and talking with him, asking and 
 giving advice, receiving his confidences, and 
 appearing, to all the rustic world of Comb 
 Leigh, his dearest and most intimate friend. 
 
 And he hated him all the time. Day after 
 day, and night after night, Chauncey Chacomb 
 pursued the shadow of an imaginary revenge for 
 an imagined injury. It was a sort of habit. 
 Perhaps he would have done his enemy no harm 
 had he found the opportunity. But the hatred, 
 unforgivingness, and malice lay in his heart, like 
 those little devils whom the magician puts into 
 bottles — so lively and so harmless, so long as tJie 
 bottle is corked. 
 
 This enemy who believed himself, who was 
 believed by everybody, to be Chauncey Cha- 
 comb's greatest friend, was the man who stood 
 by him, looking at the newly bought picture, 
 when Gerald and the doctor came into the 
 room.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 
 THINK I should have it cleaned, 
 Chacomb," the captain said, look- 
 ing at the picture with puzzled 
 eyes. " See what you make of 
 it, Gerald." 
 
 At first sight nothing was to be made out 
 of it at all, except a perfectly black surface, 
 covered with a dull and much cracked varnish, 
 set in a dingy frame. Mr. Chacomb placed 
 it on a chair before the window, and began 
 to move slowly before it in a semicircle, so as 
 to catch the light from every possible point 
 of view, holding his hands, after the manner 
 of art critics, slightly curved over his eyes. 
 His attitude was one of speechless admira- 
 tion. The doctor, with a gleam on his face 
 which might mean amusement, and might
 
 48 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 mean incredulity, or, indeed, almost anything, 
 took his place beside his cousin, and began a 
 similar pantomime of observation with a grave 
 countenance. 
 
 There was one thing especially noticeable 
 about Dr. Chacomb, that the spirit of mimicry 
 was so strong in him as sometimes to make 
 him overact his part, and even to lead, by too 
 zealous an impersonation, to the loss of many 
 little coups carefully prepared beforehand. On 
 the present occasion, with an involuntary glance 
 at the other two, to see if they realized the 
 humour of the situation, he crept with the 
 squire slowly from left to right and from right 
 to left, swaying his big shoulders and rolling 
 his head, in grave imitation of his cousin, occa- 
 sionally throwing in a gesture, a gasp, or an 
 indication of rapture, as some hitherto unob- 
 served beauty rewarded his inspection. 
 
 "What delicacy!" murmured Chauncey Cha- 
 comb. 
 
 "What fidelity!" echoed the doctor in a 
 whisper. 
 
 "Splendid breadth of outline!" exclaimed the 
 squire, bringing his forefinger round in a compre-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 49 
 
 hensive circle, which finished by pointing to the 
 fine proportions of the doctor. 
 
 "Majesty and height!" replied the doctor, 
 with an upward sweep. 
 
 "You see it, Joseph.-*" said the squire. 
 
 "I do, Chauncey. Now that you point it 
 out, I do." 
 
 "Then hang me," said the captain, who had 
 no perception of the ridiculous — "hang me if 
 I can see anything at all!" 
 
 Chauncey Chacomb answered not a word, 
 but pointed to the centre of the panel. 
 
 Revel shook his head. The doctor sighed 
 with pity, and nodded approbation. 
 
 "I suppose," said Gerald, "that we have not 
 been able to catch the right light. I can see 
 nothing at all ; but I dare say I shall make it 
 out presently. Perhaps there are duskier pic- 
 tures even than this in galleries, and people 
 admire them. Tell me what it is, father." 
 
 "I am studying it," replied Mr. Chacomb, 
 solemnly. "There is a trunk, and — and — yes 
 — it is a leg — an arm and hand, and what 
 appears to be a head, but I am not quite 
 sure. More delicate flesh tints I think I never 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 WITH HARP AXD CKOWX. 
 
 saw. Revel, it would be a sin to have this 
 masterpiece touched. Look at that curve — 
 see— Hogarth's line of beauty anticipated." 
 
 "I see," said the perverse captain, "a daub 
 of drab-colour paint, that looks as if it had 
 been laid on by the brush of a house painter. 
 All the rest is black panel, varnished by an 
 apprentice. Come, Chacomb, you do not surely 
 mean us to admire this.'*" 
 
 "Not unless you like. Revel. Eh, Joseph 1 
 not unless he likes," said the squire, chuckling. 
 
 "Certainly, Captain Revel, no one can force 
 you to admire anything," said the courtier. 
 "Still, if delicacy and breadth of outline fail 
 to please you, what will.''" 
 
 "Tut, tut," said the captain ; "I may be a 
 fool, but I cannot sec anything." 
 
 "Gerald," said his father, " look at it care- 
 fully. Come where I am standing; here, my 
 boy. You must see that leg," he added, almost 
 piteously. 
 
 "There is certainly something, but I cannot 
 — my eye wants your training, father — I can- 
 not make out what it is." 
 The captain whistled softly.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 51 
 
 . "Mr. Burls said it was a Dow, did he? Well, 
 it may be a Do; but I don't think it is a 
 Dow." 
 
 At this simple joke they all laughed, except 
 the squire, who had not learned how any one 
 could dare to laugh at a picture of the Col- 
 lection. 
 
 "What do you propose to call it.-*" asked the 
 captain. 
 
 "Burls believed it to be the Village Pork- 
 shop," the doctor said, modestly. "He promised 
 to bring up all the details by a new process 
 if—" 
 
 "I won't have it cleaned," the squire inter- 
 posed, putting his hands in his pockets, and 
 falling back in admiration. "Nothing should 
 induce me to have his cpnfounded process, 
 applied to this beautiful thing. What are you 
 doing. Revel?" 
 
 The captain, turning it round, was tapping 
 the back with his knuckles. 
 
 "It is odd," he said. "The panel seems 
 double. Lend me a knife, Gerald." 
 
 He cut the paper, and loosened the nails 
 which held the board to the frame. Then 
 
 4 — 2 
 
 UBRARt 
 
 UN/vERsmroFruiNois
 
 52 WITH HARP AND CROWX. 
 
 behold a great marvel. For it was a false 
 back, and behind it, on the reverse of the 
 panel, lay the true picture, the back of which 
 they had been admiring. A young girl's face, 
 fresh as Etty, creamy as Greuzc, bright as 
 Titian, with the pearly tints of health and 
 innocence — a beautiful painting, whose pig- 
 ments were as unfaded as if they had beeii' 
 laid on the day before. It had been turned 
 round for some purpose of preservation, and 
 so had been left, forgotten and secure — 
 guarded only by some tradition that it was 
 a picture — and probably lying among a lot of 
 lumber waiting for a purchaser. 
 
 "Why, in the name of all that's — " the cap- 
 tain turned it round and round — " here's the 
 picture itself; and, by gad, Chacomb, we've 
 been looking at the back ! " 
 
 " Then it is a Dow, after all," cried the 
 doctor, with much presence of mind. *' Dow, 
 you see, Gerald ; dos in French — back — eh .'* 
 Ho! ho! Chauncey, my boy, we've been sold! 
 That rascal Burls ! Wait till I get back to 
 town, and have it out with him." 
 
 " It is the most extraordinary thing I ever
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 53 
 
 knew," said the captain. "And a sweet little 
 painting, after all. Chacomb, you are in luck. 
 This damsel's face strikes me as a good deal 
 better than the delicate — ha! ha! — the delicate 
 ilesh tints and the fidelity of touch. I don't 
 think—" 
 
 Here he caught a glimpse of the discomfited 
 squire, and, though little prone to extravagant 
 mirth, sat down and fairly bubbled over with 
 laughter. 
 
 "The back of the picture, after all. Only 
 the back ! How about the flesh tints, eh ? 
 And the leg, and the line of beauty! The de- 
 licacy and the fidelity! Chacomb, we shall 
 never forget it, never!" 
 
 When Don Quixote, the Knight of the Rue- 
 ful Countenance, experienced that adventure of 
 the fulling-mills, which is known to all who 
 are acquainted with his biography, he showed 
 no more melancholy spectacle of discomfiture 
 than Chauncey Chacomb at this sudden collapse 
 of his newly acquired masterpiece. His frame 
 shrank ; his hands hung down ; his face was 
 jpale, save where the cheeks were flushed with 
 an angry red. The doctor had retired. One
 
 54 , WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 glance at his cousin had been too much for 
 him ; and stealing quietly through the window, 
 he retired to a convenient spot out of sight, 
 where he might sit down and laugh at his 
 case. 
 
 The captain turned the picture round, and 
 set it in its proper place. 
 
 " This is almost worth sending to the papers,'* 
 he said. ** The prettiest little picture, too, Chaj- 
 comb. Come, man, you can afford to laugh, 
 because you have won. Why, this fresh, bright 
 girl's face is worth all the sham Gerard Dows 
 you could buy in a lump of Burls and all his 
 people." 
 
 But Chauncey Chacomb was too disturbed 
 to answer. 
 
 " Come, Chacomb, you are not angry, are 
 you ? Even the best judges get deceived some- 
 times. Though, of all the wonderful things — 
 how Marion will laugh when I toll her ! Now 
 who could have suspected — who the deuce 
 could tell that the thing was hindside before I 
 I've seen a sailor get on horseback with his 
 nose to the crupper ; but hang mc if I ever 
 saw a picture stern on before ! "
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 55 
 
 "Angry?" echoed the sqiure. "Angry? No, 
 why should I be ? As you say, we all make 
 mistakes. My cousin there, for instance — " 
 
 "Oh, I," said the doctor cheerily, who had 
 returned refreshed — " I was the first to make 
 the mistake. It was I who put you all out. 
 Laugh at me as much as ever you like, if you 
 must laugh. Ho ! ho ! " 
 
 He laughed as if he was laughing at some- 
 body else. 
 
 "Yes," said Chauncey, with woebegone face. 
 "Ha! ha!" 
 
 It was an interjection with so little of the 
 emotional and spontaneous character about it 
 that the doctor laughed the louder. 
 
 "When I think of myself," he said, "in 
 Burls's shop — I went there, you know, with 
 this thing under my arm — I will never forgive 
 Burls — never. *What is it worth. Burls?' I 
 asked him. * It's worth — ' Well, never mind 
 the price Burls put upon it, because it would 
 astonish you. * It is a genuine Gerard Dow ' — 
 Burls's own words, not mine. * A Gerard Dow ; 
 and I shouldn't wonder if it does not turn out 
 to be the long-lost Village Porkshop.' The
 
 •56 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 long-lost Village Porkshop — think of that, 
 Chauncey." 
 
 " I never heard of that picture," said the 
 captain. 
 
 " Perhaps not," the doctor went on. " Very 
 few people have." 
 
 This struck him as being a remark so true, 
 and so apposite to the fable he was inventing, 
 that he broke into a new laugh. 
 
 ** Excuse me, Chauncey ; you ought to laugh, 
 not I. But I can't help it, for the life of me. 
 What I thought were flesh tints, he said was 
 dead pig. Never trust Burls again, Chauncey." 
 
 The squire's face relaxed. 
 
 " Of course I was deceived," he said, rather 
 hoarsely. " And as for the picture, Joseph, you 
 may take it back, and — " 
 
 " No, don't do that," said the captain. " The 
 picture is really a good one. Look at it again, 
 Chacomb. Do keep it if you can." 
 
 The squire shook his head gloomily. 
 
 " No ; I shall send it back." 
 
 But he kept it all the same, and the picture 
 still hangs in Chacomb Hall, where those who 
 now own the place tell its strange story.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 57 
 
 Then the captain looked at his watch, and 
 went away, Gerald with him. Chauncey Cha- 
 comb listened to their voices outside the house. 
 When their steps had died away, he turned to 
 his cousin, who was expecting one of the sharp 
 speeches which the head of the Chacomb house 
 was accustomed to use in moments of dis- 
 pleasure to such of his relations as owed him 
 money. It was annoying to the doctor, because 
 he wanted to borrow more, and was most sin- 
 cerely anxious that his cousin should be kept 
 in good temper. But the squire was not think- 
 ing of him. 
 
 "It is envy, Joseph," he whispered, with a 
 kind of groan — "it is malignant envy. I am 
 richer than he is, and he envies me and sneers 
 at me. You saw it, Joseph — you saw how his 
 lips turned pale with envy when he found the 
 picture hidden behind the frame. He envies 
 me my money, he envies me my Collection, 
 and he even envies me my son — my Gerald." 
 
 The doctor was entirely confused with this 
 sudden and unexpected turn ; he began, indeed, 
 to murmur that it was highly creditable to the 
 captain, but left off in time.
 
 S8 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 " If I were like other collectors," the squire 
 went on, ** I should be annoyed at such an in- 
 cident. It might be a blot on my reputation ; 
 but I can afford to disregard that. It is not 
 even that he should be able to make up a story 
 out of it, and laugh at me. It is the man's real 
 nature that I see through and despise. That 
 is the contemptible thing." 
 
 *' It is," sighed the doctor, getting interested. 
 " That really is the saddest part of the whole 
 affair." 
 
 " I am glad you noticed it as well as myself. 
 Joseph, let us two have one more look at this 
 picture — what he calls the back of it — eh } 
 Put it in the light again — so. What do you 
 think } Tell me candidly, Joe." 
 
 The doctor's eyes glistened as he caught the 
 cue. 
 
 "Think .^ What I thought all along, Chauncey; 
 though Revel put me out a little at first with his 
 confounded discovery. The real picture is here, 
 after all; just where we were looking at it." 
 
 He glanced doubtfully at his cousin. The 
 assertion seemed too daring. But it was re- 
 ceived with credulity.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 59. 
 
 "I kneiv it all along — I was certain of it. We 
 can't deny the girl's head, Joe — any one can see 
 that. A modern thing, put in by some copyist- 
 Pretty enough, too. It wants eyes to see the 
 other, though. Let us look at it again. Yes; 
 Joe, you are quite sure — are you quite sure that 
 you see the details.?" 
 
 "As sure as I was at the very first." 
 
 This, at least, was true. 
 
 "Ah, now it is our turn to triumph! Joe, if 
 he makes a story out of it — 'good enough to- 
 send to the papers,' Revel said — if he does, we 
 shall have the laugh over him, eh.? After all^ 
 you can't take in the real connoisseur." 
 
 "Burls would hardly go so far as to see a 
 picture when there was none. I rely more on 
 Burls and yourself than on my own eyes. But^ 
 there it is — why, Lord bless me, how can 
 Revel—" 
 
 "Spite and envy, Joe; it is what we must 
 expect in the world. Ah, sometimes one would- 
 be a hermit." 
 
 "You feel things too much, Chauncey. It is 
 the goodness, you see, of your heart that runs 
 away with you."
 
 6o WITH HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 "Perhaps, Joseph, perhaps." 
 
 He had spoken in a braggart, self-satisfied 
 voice; but in putting the picture down, he laid 
 it with the face upwards. 
 
 "Now," said the doctor, when the squire left 
 him to dress for dinner, "I wish for once that 
 I knew a little of my own profession. Chauncey 
 has got a twist somewhere to-day. I thought he 
 would have had a fit when Revel went away. 
 Perhaps it is his heart going wrong, if I only 
 knew it. Too much goodness — ho! ho! Hum- 
 bug won't teach mc, however, what I should 
 like to find out. It is a good thing enough for 
 the workaday world. Humbug doctors sick 
 people; humbug makes them thankful when 
 they get well again; humbug even, sometimes, 
 makes them happy to go off; humbug fills 
 rny scanty coffers; humbug makes my clients 
 believe in a couple of capital letters and a red 
 lamp; but humbug breaks down when you want 
 it to be uncommercially useful. It pays all my 
 bills, but it won't help me to read the problem 
 of Chauncey Chacomb. Is he cracked.^ Has 
 my cousin dropped a tile.'' None of the family 
 ever showed any inclination to mania. But
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 6i 
 
 it looks queer. He rounds on his dearest 
 friend, and slangs him. He gets as mad as a 
 badger in a cask, without even being baited 
 with the rubbish and the general foolishness 
 of the Collection. As for this picture, which 
 I bought without looking at — who the devil 
 would have thought that a picture could be 
 hindside before? However, Joe, my boy, you 
 have not done so badly. You have sold it for 
 ten times what you gave. You have had a holi- 
 day from the infernal shop; you have got your' 
 travelling expenses paid, with a trifle over; you 
 are in hopes of borrowing the hundred pounds 
 your creditors want so badly; and you have got 
 a whole bottle of port before you. I don't 
 think, on the whole, that the original Joseph, in 
 his palmiest and artfulest days, could have done 
 much better for himself with Pharaoh than I 
 have with Chauncey. And then," he added, 
 with some confusion as to scriptural sequence,. 
 "there is certainly no Potiphar's Wife in North 
 Devon. Potiphar lives in London." 
 
 Chauncey Chacomb locked the door with 
 extreme care in his own rcom, and then aban- 
 doned himself, with all the pleasure of a secret
 
 62 WITH HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 voluptuary, to the rapture of unbridled rage. 
 He strode backwards and forwards, swinging 
 his arms, cracking his fingers, dancing, gesticu- 
 lating, with fiercely glaring eyes, as he gave 
 full play to a revenge worthy of the Furies, 
 devising schemes of retaliation in which he had 
 his enemy at his feet and crouching before him. 
 I believe, and am firmly convinced, that if one 
 half of the world were judges, the other half 
 would be condemned to undying torment ; else 
 why the frequent "damn"? But then, the 
 usurpers of the throne of IMinos, lacking that 
 functionary's judicial coldness, would presently 
 repent and be sorry. To be sure, their repent- 
 ance would not make the fatigues of Sisyphus, 
 toiling after his aggravating stone, a whit more 
 endurable; but, to the philosopher, the picture 
 of judges and prisoners, both justly unhappy 
 together, might not be without its useful lesson. 
 At this moment, Chauncey Chacomb believed 
 that, if an opportunity should occur, there would 
 be nothing in the way of revenge too dreadful 
 to resolve upon. The laugh of the captain had 
 fallen upon his nerves like the lecturer's oxygen 
 upon the wire in the glass — that instructive
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 63 
 
 experiment which we used to see at lectures 
 before chemistry was taught in schools — rousing 
 and stimulating the dull spark to a flame. 
 
 It is one of the advantages of a small place, 
 where society is limited necessarily to a circle 
 of two or three, that the soil adapts itself espe- 
 cially to the growth of the passion flowers of 
 envy and suspicion. In great cities they are 
 reared with extreme difficulty, and kept alive 
 only with watchfulness and attention. But in 
 the country they grow like the giant lianes in 
 the tropics, twisting and twirling, strengthening 
 and increasing, till they squeeze the spiritual 
 life out of the tree which has been their host. 
 
 In London we hate each other honestly, par- 
 ticularly we who have reviewed each other's 
 books, and been reviewed : it is a keen emotion, 
 but seldom roused. Nobbs hates Dobbs ; when 
 Nobbs meets Dobbs his liver is stirred to the 
 extent of wishing he could knock him down, 
 were he strong enough and were no one looking. 
 If Dobbs is spoken of, Nobbs coarsely swears 
 if he is of the old school, or calmly smiles — the 
 5mile of superior venom — if he belongs to the 
 party of sweetness and light. For the rest,
 
 64 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 neither Nobbs nor Dobbs wastes time in think- 
 ing of each other. But in the soh'tudes of the 
 country, hatred may become a cherished and a 
 beautiful possession, the priceless pearl of imagi- 
 nation, the salt and spice of life, the chief thing 
 which confers superiority, dignity, and the sense 
 of power. 
 
 " I could kill him now where I stand," said 
 the wry-necked little squire, who, like the ma- 
 jority of mankind, felt most largely the gifts of 
 bull-dog tenacity and reckless daring when there 
 was nothing present on which to exercise them. 
 *' I could kill him now, with his cold laugh and 
 his sneer. He thinks I am his friend ; how can 
 I undeceive him } He thinks he can do what 
 he likes with me ; how can I show him the 
 truth } He thinks he can direct and order me ; 
 how can I let him know — Gar ! If I could 
 crush him to powder beneath my feet ; if I 
 could sell him up, and send him and his beggars 
 upon the streets; If I could ruin his name; if 
 I could blight his hopes — I would do It. If, 
 unknown to all the world, I could compass his 
 end — I would — yes, yes, }-cs, I would do that 
 too ! "
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. ^5 
 
 And the squire burst into a short laugh, not 
 the laugh of irony, or that of conscious power 
 — these being impossible, except in works of 
 fiction — but a laugh of pretended amusement 
 combined with spite : it is a laugh that may be 
 heard any day among men discussing those of 
 their friends who are in the same trade with 
 themselves. Its invention is said to be due to 
 Sir Fretful Plagiary ; but my own belief is that 
 the distinguished dramatist appropriated that, 
 as well as other beauties, from older men. 
 Lucian, to my certain knowledge, laughs in 
 much the same way, and perhaps earlier authors 
 handed down the method to him. Chauncey 
 Chacomb laughed, hitching up his uneven 
 shoulder with an action which seemed like 
 imparting a confidence to his right ear. Then 
 he opened a secret drawer in an escritoire by 
 touching a spring. In it, among a lot of old 
 jewellery and trifles, lay the most commonplace 
 of all worldly possessions — a simple box, labelled 
 " Cockle's Antibilious Pills." This he took out 
 and opened, gazing at the contents with a look 
 which amounted almost to rapture. To the 
 superficial observer the box contained only 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 IVITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 those blue-black globules and the nasty white 
 magnesia, put in by the philanthropic manu- 
 facturer to deter us from taking too many. To 
 Chauncey Chacomb the box spoke a whole 
 volume, in folio, of evil imagination and back- 
 handed revenge. 
 
 " I wonder which of them it is," he said, 
 sitting down and shaking up the pills. "Who 
 would think that it lies among the rest, so like 
 them all that the Devil himself could not tell 
 which it was. There were a lot of pale yellow 
 crystals — poisonous little deadly crystals — in a 
 drawer in the laboratory which Joseph showed 
 me. When nobody was looking I took a pinch. 
 And in the night I made up a pill, rolling up 
 the crystals in the middle of coloured bread 
 so that it looked like a Cockle. He who takes 
 that pill will have pains and convulsions all 
 over ; and then he will bend back, like a bow 
 turned the wrong way, with liis heels touching 
 the back of his head ; and then he will go off 
 altogether. 1 la ! Revel would look well with 
 his heels kicking the back of his head. And 
 dignified. Just as he was having his final curl, 
 I could whisper softly in his car that I had
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 67 
 
 done it, and that it was a lesson to teach him 
 for the future not to sneer and flout at better 
 men — yes, better men than himself. 
 
 "It would be dangerous, because some one 
 else might take the pill, and I bear no malice 
 to any one else. Revel is my only enemy. 
 Perhaps the girls don't take Cockle's. But then 
 Fred might. If I could make sure that only 
 the captain would use the box, I could leave it 
 on his dressing table. And I should watch and 
 wait. A week, a month, a year would pass, and 
 the captain would be strong and well. Then 
 would come a day when he would feel a little 
 queer. And then — then — then — ah-h ! " 
 
 He gave a sigh of infinite satisfaction, and 
 closed the box, gazing at it with loving eyes, 
 such as a mediaeval bravo might have turned, 
 after purging his soul by confession, upon his 
 sharp and trusty stiletto. Then he replaced it 
 in the escritoire, and locked up all safe. And 
 then he rubbed his hands softly, dressed for 
 dinner, and went downstairs just as the gong 
 sounded. 
 
 For the moment, his ill-temper and malice 
 had vanished. They came from time to time, 
 
 5—2
 
 68 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 like those familiars, formerly the plague of 
 foolish old women, who, to be fed, sold their 
 ridiculous souls to the Devil, Chauncey Cha- 
 comb allayed their voracity with dreams and 
 schemes of revenge. Perhaps, had he been in- 
 duced to carry his visions into reality, there 
 would have been nothing left to dream about, 
 and so the world would have become a thirsty 
 Sahara of actual fact. The Tempter insinuates 
 his abominable counsels into some of us with 
 fancied evil. We dream of crime and wild re- 
 venge, wearying, not satiating, the worst passions 
 of the soul; and to some the vision is dearer 
 than one of luxury, pride, glory, honour, or even 
 fair women. 
 
 The squire, then, having indulged his genius, 
 fed his familiar, smoothed his mind, and crushed 
 his imaginary enemy, came down to dinner in 
 better temper. The doctor was cheerful, as he 
 always was at dinner-time. Gerald was happy, 
 if a little silent, and the talk went round as if 
 no one of all three had a single thought in the 
 background. This, you see, is the grandest 
 achievement which our modern civilization has 
 wrought for us. It has enabled us to use speech
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. ' 69 
 
 so as to forget care, as well, according to the 
 cynic, as to conceal thought. The squire put 
 his secret hatred behind him ; the doctor forgot 
 his anxieties about money; and Gerald, as 
 hungry as a man of five and twenty ought to 
 be, forgot Marion. 
 
 As soon as dinner was over, the younger man 
 left the other two with the wine, and went 
 out. Presently they heard him crunching the 
 gravel-walk beneath the elms. The squire's 
 eyes contracted with an impatient expression. 
 
 "Not back three days," he said, "and off 
 again to the cottage. You see, Joseph— you 
 see ! He cannot be allowed to spend a single 
 evening with his father. Revel entices him 
 away." 
 
 "There are other attractions at the cottage 
 besides Revel ; there are two young ladies." 
 
 "Cousin Joseph," said the squire, "do you 
 forget that you are speaking to a Chacomb, 
 that you yourself are a Chacomb, and that 
 Captain Revel is a mere half-pay officer?" 
 
 "Cousin Chauncey," returned the doctor, un- 
 abashed, "I remember that the Chacombs have 
 been owners of this pleasant and secluded little
 
 70 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 hamlet for a large number of generations. 
 During that time they have done nothing to 
 distinguish themselves, except to show that 
 they can hold on to what they have got. Do 
 you forget that Captain Revel is the last repre- 
 sentative of an ancient and honourable French 
 house } " 
 
 "Bah! — a beggarly French title!" 
 
 "Whose ancestors were fighting men with the 
 king, while ours were ploughing Devonshire 
 clays. So far as family goes, my cousin, we 
 must give in. To be sure, we — that is, you — 
 have got money." 
 
 "I would rather give it all to — to — to you, 
 Joseph," said Chauncey, flushing, "than that 
 Gerald should have a penny if he marries one 
 of those Revel girls." 
 
 "Ay, ay.?" the doctor replied, thoughtfully. 
 Then he looked up and laughed. 
 
 "To be sure, Chauncey, if you were going 
 off before me, which isn't likely, comparing 
 your constitution and mine" — he was as strong 
 as one of the New Forest oaks, to look at — 
 "I should say, leave me your money, by all 
 means. Still, if you do not want mischief to be
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 71 
 
 done, you might perhaps keep Gerald out of 
 the way of it. You know that the best method 
 of handling the patent safety matches is not 
 to let them get near the outside of the box, 
 ch?" 
 
 Here the squire banged the table, and used 
 a strong expression — what some writers used to 
 call a Saxon expression, until we were taught 
 that there never were any Saxons at all, and 
 reflected besides that the word is really of 
 Latin origin. 
 
 "Everybody would think," the doctor went 
 on, with a half-glance at his cousin's face, *'that 
 you wanted it. You and the captain are 
 bosom friends; you go there, he comes here; the 
 girls come here when they like; you — No, 
 Chauncey, you really should not bang the 
 table when all the glasses are on it. You have 
 spilt some of my port on the cloth — a sinful 
 waste of excellent wine. Before you bang again, 
 allow me to take another sip." 
 
 "Finish the bottle," said Chauncey, rising ab- 
 ruptly; "I shall go into the garden." 
 
 He left his guest, and, passing through the 
 open window, stepped out upon the lawn.
 
 72 WITH HARP AXD CROIVX. 
 
 The doctor looked after him with a smile, and 
 ^ave up his whole mind to quiet enjoyment of 
 the port. When there was no longer any in 
 the decanter, he rose thoughtfully, and followed 
 his host. 
 
 Chauncey Chacomb was marching backwards 
 and forwards, gesticulating. The devils, which 
 had slept for a while, were awake again, and 
 rending him to pieces. It was singular that 
 the secret he had kept for so many years 
 should be irresistibly torn from him by so foolish 
 an accident as that of the picture. But it was 
 so. He could no longer contain himself or his 
 passion. Every feeling which overmasters a 
 man must, soon or late, find expression, and 
 take unto itself a confidant. 
 
 "Come, Chauncey," said the doctor, taking 
 him by the arm. "I am a medical man, you 
 know, and cannot have you exciting yourself. 
 Relieve your mind, and have done with it. 
 'Give sorrow words,' as Shakspeare says; and 
 if you don't tell me, tell somebody else. What 
 a man like you, in good health, with a fine 
 income and no debts, can have to trouble him, 
 I don't know. ]Uit you have something. Re-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 73 
 
 pressed care, my friend, is like suppressed gout 
 — it plays the devil with the constitution. 
 That's why they say that care killed a cat, I 
 suppose. I had a case last week of a man, 
 about your age, but of slighter build, who 
 choked, Chauncey, literally choked, not to use 
 the technical term, with the effort of keeping 
 something on his mind. As he was dying, he 
 tried to communicate it to me; but too late, 
 poor fellow, too late ! — and he is gone. I be- 
 lieve if he had lived I should have come in 
 for something handsome in his will. There is 
 another man I attend every day, who is para- 
 lyzed in the lower limbs through getting into 
 a righteous rage with his son, and trying to 
 keep it under. Give Nature way, Chauncey. 
 You are annoyed, and very naturally, because 
 Revel found out what had escaped you and 
 me — eh? Bah! Sit down and swear for five 
 minutes, and then forget it." 
 
 "Oh, if I could trust you!" groaned the 
 squire. 
 
 "That seems an odd thing to say, after all 
 these years-. Not trust me.^ Why, who the 
 deuce have you ever trusted except me."* Who
 
 74 WITH HARP AX J) CROIVX. 
 
 helped you to get the Collection together? 
 Who watched and lay in wait for bargains for 
 you? Who stood between you and my lady 
 when you had the kick-up? Who has always 
 been your best friend? In the words of the 
 poet, 
 
 " Who bailed him when they ran him in ? 
 Who backed the bill and nailed the tin? 
 Who never flinched through thick and thin? 
 
 His cousin." 
 
 Not that you were ever run in, Chauncey — on 
 the contrary, I believe it was I who once — but 
 never mind. The meaning is clear. Come, old 
 fellow, out with it. Make a clean breast, or you 
 will be having — you'll be having — " he paused 
 to think what he could best frighten his cousin 
 with — " you will be having angina pectoris. 
 That's a thing that comes of sudden excite- 
 ment. It catches you in the heart like the five 
 claws of a wild beast ; grips there, and never 
 lets go till it has torn it all to pieces; and you 
 die after five and twenty minutes of agony. 
 Give mc your wrist. So. Good Heaven ! a 
 hundred and twenty to the minute. And now 
 put out your tongue. My poor Chauncey, you
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 75 
 
 must take care, you must indeed. I think I 
 ought to bleed you." 
 
 Chauncey sat down and gasped. 
 
 " I hate him, Joe," he said. " I hate him 
 worse than I hat-^ mortal sin. Don't tell any 
 one, but I hate him." 
 
 "Who.? Gerald.?" 
 
 " No — Revel, Revel ! I've hated him for 
 fifteen years." 
 
 The doctor looked at him with a puzzled ex- 
 pression. He saw f .^r the moment no possible 
 way to make anything for himself out of this 
 revelation. 
 
 " He tramples on me ; he insults me before 
 my own son ; he sneers at me ; he gives himself 
 airs of superiority. I hate him ! " 
 
 The doctor remained thoughtful for a little 
 while. Then he spoke professionally. 
 
 " Come up to town ; go and travel ; see other 
 scenes and other people. If you hate Revel 
 when you return, come to me again. No " — for 
 the squire was going to speak again — " no, you 
 have told me quite enough. I thought there 
 might have been some reason; I mean — yes- 
 tell me of something else."
 
 76 WITH HARP AND CROWX, 
 
 The squire shrank back into himself again. 
 
 " Promise me, Joseph," he said, catching him 
 helplessly by the hand, "that you will keep 
 my secret. I can't help it," he added, piteously 
 — " I can't indeed. The sight of him makes 
 me mad. I want to kill him ; I want to do 
 him mischief. I lie awake and think about it 
 at night. Tell me, Joe — you know I have 
 always told you everything — we have no 
 secrets from each other, have we } We never 
 had." 
 
 " None, Chauncey, none," replied the men- 
 dacious physician, whose pocket-book was bulg- 
 ing with secrets unsuspected by his cousin. "I 
 am thankful to say that I have always been as 
 open with you as you with me — as open with 
 you as you with me," he repeated, pleased with 
 the roundness of the phrase. 
 
 '"'Then, Joe, tell me if you meant what you 
 said — if you think there is any chance — any 
 danger of Gerald falling in love with that 
 Marion girl. If there were, I would — " 
 
 "What would you do, Chauncey.?" 
 
 " I would cut him off with a shilling, Joe. I 
 would leave all my money to you, I would, by
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. yj 
 
 gad — Chacomb Hall, and the Collection, and 
 everything." 
 
 The doctor looked round him. They were in 
 the centre of the lawn : behind him stood the 
 Hall ; before him stood the great trees of the 
 avenue ; on either hand stretched long green 
 glades up the hillside; a sweet breath of sum- 
 mer was in the air ; the sun was long gone 
 down, and only the light sapphire hues of 
 evening left in the west ; but the moon was 
 up — the full August moon, the harvest moon — 
 pouring floods of silver light on wood and copse, 
 softening the straight lines of the modern part 
 of the Hall, and bringing out into relief every 
 buttress and projection of the old western gable 
 as lovingly as if they had belonged to Mel- 
 rose Abbey. There was a deep stillness in 
 the woods. To the doctor's heart, weary with 
 struggle, trouble, and the endless fight that 
 belongs to a man who is ever sinning and ever 
 trying to escape the consequences of his sin, the 
 squire's words brought a sudden hope like a ray 
 of sunshine. 
 
 " Answer me, Joseph. Have you reason ?" 
 " Perhaps, Chauncey, perhaps," said the doc-
 
 78 IViril HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 tor. " So you would cut off your own flesh 
 and blood for a marriage against your per- 
 mission?" 
 
 " I would. Mind you, Joe, Chacomb belongs 
 to the Chacombs. If Gerald does not get it, it 
 goes to you." 
 
 "Lord, Lord!" said the doctor, "we talk non- 
 sense. You are only sixteen years older than I 
 — and will outlive me. Put such things out of 
 your mind. As for Gerald, of course he will 
 marry to please you — sons always do," he added, 
 in a sort of undertone. "Come in, Chauncey. 
 Let us have some brandy and water after this 
 cold talk. I must doctor you. And don't 
 trouble yourself about Revel for a while. 
 Control yourself, my cousin. We Chacombs 
 should be strong to act, but slow to speak. 
 Your secrets are safe with me." 
 
 Gerald came home at twelve, and found the 
 doctor smoking a cigar outside the house. 
 
 They walked up and down together in the 
 calm night. 
 
 "If I were you, Gerald, my boy," said the 
 doctor, " I should marry. It has always been
 
 With hArp and crown, 79 
 
 my greatest regret that I did not marry. Get 
 yourself a wife, and soon." 
 
 " I mean to," said Gerald. 
 
 " Very proper. And I hope you will have the 
 good sense to choose the right girl." 
 
 " I have chosen, if I may say so, the best and 
 sweetest girl in all the world. I've known her 
 nearly all her life, and there can be no mistake 
 about her being the right girl." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it, Gerald, very glad ; 
 and I am sure your father will be greatly 
 pleased — greatly pleased. Good night, my dear 
 boy, good night." 
 
 -^m
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 If there were rage and fury at the 
 Hall, at the Roscry it was all love 
 and calm. 
 
 Gerald and Marion were together 
 on the sands, which the receding tide had left 
 dry : without, the wavelets followed each other, 
 caressing the beach and lapping gently against 
 the edges of the great sharp rocks ; the softest 
 of moons was over their heads, the softest of 
 breezes playing in their faces. Together they 
 strolled hand in hand, with the soft warm pres- 
 sure of early love. A woman unthinkingly 
 lends her hand to be caressed, and, lo ! her 
 fond heart straightway glows with thoughts 
 of unutterable haj^pincss, and her charmed 
 thoughts hover about the image of her lover, 
 like the silly pigeon round the enchantress ser-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 8t 
 
 pent. They were silent, because there was 
 nothing to say. The immoral grammarians of 
 every tongue have with one consent placed the 
 verb to love first of all the conjugations, so that 
 those who read may learn more things than 
 grammar — lo f amo, je f airne, and all the rest. 
 That said, little is left but to say it again, or to 
 be silent while the pulses vibrate from one to 
 the other, singing speechlessly, like the trembling 
 strings of Anacreon's lyre, nothing but love, 
 love, love, which swears to be unchanging and 
 eternal. 
 
 From the cottage came the sound of a piano. 
 Adie was playing, while her father was reading. 
 Presently the music ceased, and everything was 
 still save the ripple of the waves. 
 
 *'I suppose we ought to go in, Marion," said 
 Gerald. "Reflect, dear, before we tell the world. 
 There is yet time to reflect; no one has heard 
 your promise but me. Think it all over again, 
 and tell me, dearest, once more if you can love 
 me." 
 
 There are many thousand stories yet to be 
 Written about human life, although so many 
 thousand exist already. Fate shakes up the 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 Wirff HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 great kaleidoscope, and produces combinations 
 without number; but there is one which never 
 tires. On such a night a youth told a maiden 
 that he loved her; on such a night she threw 
 her white arms round his neck, and with self- 
 abandonment most maidenly and pure, laid her 
 face against his face, as he stooped his head to 
 meet it, and whispered words, while her heart 
 beat with the tumult of strange and new feel- 
 ings, which were never to be forgotten or re- 
 called. 
 
 "Gerald, you know that I love you, and — oh, 
 gently, gently, Gerald dear." 
 
 He led her, trembling and glowing, back to 
 her father's house, daughter still, but yet not 
 quite the same. For maid Marion was pledged, 
 and the golden cestus was ready to be loosed. 
 
 They found Adie standing on the steps of the 
 verandah. She is a girl of sixteen — the age 
 when childhood and maidenhood meet, and 
 make each other ashamed, as the old thoughts 
 of the one arc beaten back by the new-born 
 thoughts of the other; a tall and lithe damsel, 
 with thin \o\v^ limbs which want filling out. 
 She is unlike her sister at every point. Her fea-
 
 With harp and crown. 83 
 
 tures are straighter and clearer; her blue eyes 
 are bright, but they want the depth of Marion's; 
 her fair hair hangs, as a young maiden's should, 
 loose about her shoulders ; she carries her head 
 with a certain defiant haughtiness, unlike her 
 sister's modest pose; and while Marion's lips are 
 closed with the earnestness of duty and resolve, 
 Adrienne's are lightly parted, as if catching at 
 some unknown pleasure. 
 
 "You arc come back, then!" she cried, petu- 
 lantly. "Gerald, it is too bad. Only home 
 three days, and you monopolize Marion the 
 whole afternoon and evening. No, sir, I am too 
 big to be kissed now; and I don't want my hair 
 pulled, thank you. And, Marion, something has 
 happened. Fred has written to papa, and there 
 is a big bundle of letters come from Oxford, and 
 papa is put out." 
 
 Marion's heart fell. Her brother Fred was 
 one of that too numerous class of correspondents 
 who write only when, as Adrienne said, "some- 
 thing has happened." That, in our euphemistic 
 manner of speech, means something bad. 
 
 "What is it, Adie?" 
 
 "I do not know. The letter was brought this 
 
 6—2
 
 §4 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 afternoon, but stupid Susan forgot to give it to 
 papa till this evening. He turned quite pale 
 when he read it, and of course won't tell me any- 
 thing. Go in, IMarion, and say what }'0u can for 
 poor Fred. I suppose he is in another scrape. 
 Fred never writes unless he is in a scrape, 
 Gerald. And ever since I have been old 
 enough to be told things, the dear boy always 
 has been in a scrape." 
 
 Marion, troubled, went into the drawing-room, 
 where her father was sitting at his own table 
 with a pile of papers before him. It was the 
 family room. It was long, low, and narrow: it 
 had a piano, a bookcase, and a table — the cap- 
 tain's — covered with books. It was Marion's 
 studio, Adie's practising-room, and their father's 
 library, all in one. When Fred was at home it 
 was his lounging-room as well. Captain Revel's 
 face, as he sat before the lamp and read his 
 letters, was pale, and his hand trembled. 
 
 "Come in, my dear. Is that Gerald outside?" 
 
 "What is it, papa?" 
 
 "Call Gerald, IMarion. We want his advice. 
 Gerald, help me if }'ou can. We are simple 
 people here," he said, bitterl}', "and (ko not
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 85 
 
 understand the ways of the learned world. 
 Read my son's letter, and advise me what I am 
 to do. Listen, Marion, my child. It is your 
 brother's latest freak." 
 Gerald read — 
 
 *'My dear Father— I am sorry to have to tell 
 you that I got into a mess at Oxford last June. 
 I did not like to let you know the truth at the 
 beginning of the Long, and I hoped the tutor 
 would manage to get me out of it. But I find 
 that he cannot. Perhaps he has himself written 
 to you by this time. The fact is, I was rusti- 
 cated for a year for a little escapade in which I 
 foolishly joined. Lord Rodney Benbow was the 
 other man. We laid a train of powder round 
 the court for a firework, which no one would 
 have cared very much about, only Rodne}^ 
 would finish it up with a cracker or two at the 
 Dean's door. The porter saw us, and gave in- 
 formation. So the Dons had us up, and made 
 unpleasant remarks; and we were rusticated. I 
 hope you will not be greatly annoyed. It will 
 delay my degree for a twelvemonth, but that is 
 all. You will be glad to learn that I have en-
 
 86 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 joyed the reading party greatly. We had good 
 fishing, and very good fun all round. Lord 
 Rodney wants me to join him in a journey up 
 the Nile, and to the East, to last till the expira- 
 tion of our sentence. He very kindly offers to 
 bear most of the expenses. But of course I 
 cannot accept his invitation till I hear from you, 
 as I cannot ask him to pay the travelling fares. 
 Rustication is not so very awful a thing, after all ; 
 and I dare say we shall get over it. Tell me if 
 you would like me to run down to the Comb 
 before we start for Egypt. Love to Marion and 
 my little Adic. — Your affectionate son, 
 
 "Frederick Revel." 
 
 "Oxford is a place where young men arc sent 
 to receive the highest education the world can 
 give," said Captain Revel, "and at twenty years 
 of age they behave like naval cadets. He calls 
 a public disgrace nothing. He talks of losing a 
 year as if it was nothing. And he offers to go 
 out to Egypt as if it was a part of the course. 
 Gerald, you know all our family secrets — if we 
 have any secrets. Advise me what to do." 
 
 Gerald hesitated.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 87 
 
 "After all, it is hardly a disgrace, sir," he 
 began. 
 
 "Not a disgrace? Not a disgrace for a man 
 of twenty to be firing crackers at his superior 
 officer's door like a boy of twelve? Why, at 
 twenty I was cutting out slavers on the West 
 Coast. It may be no disgrace at Oxford, but it 
 is a sore disgrace at Comb Leigh." 
 
 "I mean," said Gerald, "that the offence is 
 foolish enough, but not — not — in fact, it might 
 have been worse." 
 
 "The boy is light-headed," groaned the cap- 
 tain. " A feather turns him : he has no more 
 will than the shuttlecock ; he — " 
 
 " Papa," said Marion, " don't be too hard on 
 poor Fred." 
 
 " It was for Oxford," the captain went on, 
 pacing up and down the room, "that we saved 
 and scraped, Marion and I — " 
 
 " Oh, never mind that, papa !" 
 
 " It was to give him the best start in life that 
 a lad can have, and the best education, that 
 I denied my girl here the training that she 
 deserved. We pinched in her dress and in our 
 living, Gerald ; wc made Marion governess to
 
 88 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 Aclie when she ought to have been herself at 
 school ; we have lived cooped up in this little 
 village when I might have taken her to sec 
 something of the world, — in order that Fred 
 might have the means of going to a public 
 school and the University. And this is the end 
 of it. He was to have brought credit on the 
 old name — a name older and more honourable 
 on the other side of the water than yours, 
 Gerald, my boy — he was to be the pride of all 
 of us ; and see what it has all come to. Look 
 at it, Marion— think of it." 
 
 "Nay, sir," said Gerald, "all is not lost be- 
 cause Fred has been unluckily foolish." 
 
 " All is not lost } No. All would not be lost 
 if the boy would work, but he will not. This is 
 the last blow. Fred has spent all our savings, 
 Marion, my dear. There is nothing left. You 
 did not read his postscript, Gerald. He tells 
 me the tutor has sent on his bills. And here 
 they are. He adds a remark that they may 
 v/ait." 
 
 " Oh, Gerald," murmured Marion, '' say some- 
 thing to help." 
 
 May I look at the bills, sir ? "
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 89 
 
 " Look at them all. It is a pretty collection 
 for one year of Oxford life. Champagne, claret, 
 water-colours, engravings, boats, horses, for the 
 son of a half-pay officer! You have been at 
 Oxford, Gerald. Tell me, if you can, that all 
 young men are f o." 
 
 Gerald was silent for a while. 
 
 " Fred has been extravagant," he said. " Let 
 us own that he has been as foolish as a man 
 well can be. Still, he is but twenty." 
 
 "But twenty.-^ Yes, with a long life before 
 him, and, like a ship with no ballast to keep 
 her steady, without principle." 
 
 "Oh, papa!" 
 
 " Marion, shuffling words do not alter facts. 
 Fred's life is before him, and what will he do 
 with it } * Unstable as water, he shall not ex- 
 cel.' " 
 
 "Let the debts wait," said Gerald. "As he 
 has contracted them, let him do what many a 
 man has to do — pay them afterwards. They 
 will be a log about his neck for years ; but he 
 will have to pay them in the long run." 
 
 "No, Gerald," said the captain, "we will not 
 do that; will we, Marion.^ Wc will not let a
 
 90 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 pack of cheating horse-dealers and rascals make 
 jokes on the name of Revel. We will pay them 
 every farthing, if \vc starve for it ourselves. But 
 he must never set foot again in Oxford." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Gerald, hesitatingly — " per- 
 haps, captain — if — if — if you would let me make 
 terms with these fellows — " 
 
 " Thank you, Gerald ; but I will not borrow 
 of you. If I want a loan, I will ask your father, 
 my old friend. He will do it for me. Fred's 
 debts shall be paid. But the debts are nothing, 
 nothing — we can scrape for a few years more, 
 and settle them. As for the boy, all the world 
 / knows already, I suppose, that he is rusticated 
 — all the world except ourselves. He came 
 home, sir, with the shame of the thing still upon 
 him, to play and sing and laugh with the girls 
 whose money he had wasted; and not a word 
 to me, though he knew I must learn it, sooner 
 or later. Marion, say, if you can, something in 
 excuse for your brother. I can find nothing." 
 
 Marion's tears came into her eyes, but she 
 could not say a word. It was all too cruel. 
 
 "And ho wants to travel — as a reward, I sup- 
 pose, for his folly," said the captain, bitterly.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 91 
 
 " I know what I will do : I will see your father, 
 Gerald, and borrow the money from him to pay 
 off all in full. I will go up to town myself, take 
 the boy down to Oxford, and settle up every 
 liability. Then he shall apologize to tfie college 
 authorities, and take his name off the boards. 
 I sent him there to work; and since he will only 
 play, he may come to Comb Leigh and lay 
 trains of gunpowder round the cove, if he likes. 
 They cost less here." 
 
 Marion looked at Gerald. 
 
 "Perhaps, sir," he said, "I may be able to 
 arrange for you. Let me go to town and see 
 him. Let me bring Fred home to you. And 
 — and — Captain Revels — perhaps a word or two 
 of kindness may affect him more deeply than 
 anger. You were good enough to take me into 
 your confidence, you know." 
 
 "Aye, Gerald, aye; you can say what you 
 like in this house." 
 
 " May I, sir.^ Then let me say another thing, 
 though it is not a favourable moment. Captain 
 Revel, accept me as another son." 
 
 He took Marion's hand. 
 
 " I asked this dear girl to-day," he went on.
 
 92 U'JTII HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "to be my wife. Will you consent if she will — 
 since she does?" 
 
 "Marion, Gerald, T did not look for this!" 
 
 The captain was silent for a while. The two 
 stood before him like a pair of prisoners waiting 
 their sentence. When he spoke, it was with the 
 voice and look of one whose thoughts are far off. 
 
 " When Marion was born, I was angry and 
 disappointed that the child was not a boy. 
 When Fred was born, I rejoiced, because the 
 old line might still be carried on. Fred's 
 mother — well, never mind. Marion and I 
 brought up the two babies. When Marion was. 
 only six years old, I repented of my disappoint- 
 ment, and thanked God solemnly for my girl, 
 Gerald." 
 
 He stopped, and taking her head upon his 
 breast, patted her face, while he went on — 
 
 " I have thanked God daily ever since for 
 her. Not a morning, not an evening, that I 
 have not thanked Him for His great gift of this 
 my daughter. What Marion has been to me 
 and my house, who knows but myself.^ How 
 can I tell, even to you, who have known her so 
 long, how Marion has been the stay and comfort
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWJSt, 93 
 
 of my life ? Marion, you have wasted the spring 
 of your time on your father and your sister — " 
 
 " No, father, not wasted." 
 
 "Not wasted, dear," he repeated. "The life 
 of love is never wasted : it is like the rain which 
 fertilizes, and the sun which brings forth; we 
 see the fruits, and we forget the way they grew. 
 Not wasted, Marion ; only spent and given for 
 us. You want to take her away from me, 
 Gerald. It is a great thing you ask, but it shall 
 be as my child wishes." 
 
 "Gerald knows what I wish," said Marion, 
 simply. " But not to leave you, father — not to 
 leave you." 
 
 " Chacomb is not very far off," Gerald said. 
 
 " It will be as good as a hundred miles away 
 when I have to come to breakfast in the morn- 
 ing and find no Marion. My dear, your father 
 is selfish — he thinks of nothing but his own 
 comfort — forgive him, and go with your lover. 
 I have nothing to give with her, Gerald; but 
 she brings you a heart full of love — ah, Marion, 
 my daughter! — full of love. That is her only 
 heritage, for her brother has wasted all the rest." 
 
 " Never mind her brother, sir," said Gerald.
 
 94 iriTII HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 "You have given me somctliing of a right to 
 interfere, and I will go to town and bring him 
 back to you to-morrow, if you let me." 
 
 "Ay, bring him back, Gerald. Tell him that 
 he must come home, and spend no more money, 
 while we consider his future. My heart is too 
 full to-night to have any anger in it. By Jove, 
 I wish you could tie him up and give him three 
 dozen, and so wipe out all the score. Now leave 
 me, both of you, to go through these bills, and 
 find out what I shall have to borrow." 
 
 Not a thought crossed the simple sailor's mind 
 that his old friend — his companion of near a 
 score of years — could possibly object to lending 
 him any sum he might ask. Not an idea that 
 a Chacomb could object to an alliance with a 
 Revel. 
 
 ^Ji^^s^' 
 
 %^
 
 .tt 
 
 Mil 
 
 aa^ 
 
 ilUfli^><I^^WHIWMMHMJ»lillO 1 
 
 ^^S^ 
 
 '^^r^^mu^^^mmMmmmm 
 
 i^sig™^^ 
 
 1^1 
 
 m^^m 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ERALD looked back at the captain 
 as he drew Marion silently from the 
 room. The papers lay spread be- 
 neath his hands, but he was not 
 looking at them. His thoughts had flown 
 back a long way beyond Fred and his debts; 
 they were in the old time before Marion was 
 born. His eyes were full, and his lips were 
 moving. People who, in these superior times, 
 believe in such things, might have thought him 
 praying. 
 
 Outside in the garden, swinging her hat 
 by the strings, and singing as she went, was 
 Adic — untroubled, though she knew there was 
 trouble. Hers was the light nature, which she 
 shared with her brother Fred, of being able 
 to disbelieve in trouble. She was impatient
 
 96 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 with people who took things seriously; she 
 wanted everybody not to mind; she could not 
 bear to see Marion and her father vexing them- 
 selves because Fred could not keep in the 
 straight and narrow way; it was incomprehen- 
 sible to her why anything should give trouble 
 except sickness and suffering. 
 
 "I am glad you have come," she said, "be- 
 cause now, I suppose, it is all made right again. 
 I heard you all talking, and poor Fred's name 
 used a good deal; so I thought I ought not to 
 listen, and went right away down to the cove. 
 See what it is, Gerald, to be in a small house 
 when you are not considered grown up, and 
 must keep out of the way. Well, Marion, you 
 have smoothed things, I hope, for the poor boy. 
 Marion is the greatest peacemaker in all the 
 world, Gerald." 
 
 " I am sure she is," said her lover. 
 
 **See, dear," said Marion. " It is past eleven, 
 and you will catch cold. Let us go in." 
 
 Adie pouted, but obeyed. 
 
 "Good night, Gerald. You may kiss me if 
 you like; it's very nice, but I don't think you 
 ought to, you know; you don't kiss Marion. It
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 97 
 
 is pleasant to have you back again, though I 
 suppose I am too big now for the old games we 
 used to have. But there's the swing still, and 
 we can go fishing; and I can play to you now, 
 instead of Marion; and we can sing trios. Don't 
 go off to any horrid places. Marion used to 
 read your letters a dozen times, and got creeps 
 and shivers over the snakes and alligators. 
 Marion, I keep fancying I hear footsteps in 
 the shrubbery. I was getting quite nervous 
 when you came in. Good night, Gerald." 
 
 "Come, Marion," said her lover, when her 
 sister ran in — " come to the gate, at least, with 
 me. See, what a lovely night! Everybody is 
 asleep; walk two steps up the lane with me. 
 It has not been a pleasant ending to the first 
 day of our engagement, dear Marion; but you 
 will be happy in spite of Fred's weakness, will 
 you not.^ After all, he is only a schoolboy, as 
 you said." 
 
 "No, Gerald; but a man ought to be strong; 
 it is his duty." 
 
 " I will go to town to-morrow, and see what I 
 can do with him. We shall be back the day 
 after, and — enough of Fred, dear Marion. Now, 
 
 VOL. L 7
 
 98 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 when no one is looking but the moon, which 
 has seen so many kisses, put your arms round 
 my neck, and promise me all over again. My 
 love, it is too great happiness. This is what I 
 dreamed of when I was abroad ; it was for this 
 that I came home. My dear love, my Marion, 
 could there ever come a time when I should 
 cease to love you.'*" 
 
 Ten minutes later Marion turned to go into 
 the house. Gerald was walking home. Comb 
 Leigh was all asleep. And then she heard, as 
 Adie had heard, steps in the shrubbery. 
 
 She stopped and listened. 
 
 "Marion!" 
 
 It was a voice that she knew, calling her in 
 low tones. She turned sick with dread. 
 
 " Marion, come here into the shrubbeiy." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and obeyed. 
 
 " Oh, Fred, Fred, Fred ! " she whispered, kiss- 
 ing him, " how could you be so wicked and so 
 foolish.?" 
 
 It is Fred, hiding behind the shrubs for a 
 chance to speak to Marion. His handsome face 
 is clouded with a little care, but not very much. 
 His blue eyes and fair hair are like Adrienne's,
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 99 
 
 as is the lofty carriage of his head. His chin is 
 narrow and retreating, and the corners of his 
 mouth are weak. But for beauty of form he is 
 a very Apollo, and his voice is as sweet as a 
 flute. 
 
 "I don't know," he replied. "I was wicked 
 because I was so foolish; I was foolish because 
 I was so wicked; and of course I have been a 
 great ass. Don't reproach me, Marion; I came 
 here for a little comfort, and you must not turn 
 upon me." 
 
 *'How can I help turning upon you.'* You 
 are breaking my father's heart." 
 
 "Nonsense, Marion! — nonsense, sweet maid 
 Marion!" he laughed, flippantly. " People don't 
 break their hearts for a trifle of money to be 
 paid for their sons' debts. They get very angry, 
 pay up, and then forgive them." 
 
 " Come in, and see him. Don't hide behind 
 the bushes in your father's own garden, Fred. 
 Be brave. Come in, and beg his pardon." 
 
 "I don't know about being brave," he replied. 
 "If I hadn't gone such an awful cropper, I 
 shouldn't mind so much ; but addition is a beast 
 of a rule in arithmetic when you come to bring it 
 
 7—2
 
 loo IVITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 home to yourself; and I find that the people 
 have all sent in their bills, and there will be the 
 devil and all, and — " 
 
 "And, oh, Fred, why did you not tell us in 
 June?" 
 
 "Well, you see, my sister, the fact is, I 
 thought there would be a tremendous row, and 
 — and — when I came down the tutor's letter 
 arrived with me; so I took it from the postman, 
 and thought it would be just as well that the 
 governor should not have it." 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me, Fred, that you 
 actually stopped a letter intended for your 
 father?" 
 
 "That, Marion, is just exactly what I did do. 
 No one knows it except yourself, and no one 
 ever will. Now, Marion, don't go on and be 
 silly. There's no great harm done, after all." 
 
 "Oh, Fred, Fred!" she cried; "and you that wc 
 hoped so much of! It isn't only the debt and 
 the folly and the disgrace; but, oh, my brother, 
 it is the terrible disappointment." (Bp* 
 
 He shook off her hand from his shoulder. 
 
 "That's the way with the women. They cr}' 
 and lament about nothing. There, Marion,
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. loi 
 
 don't make mountains out of molehills. A little 
 debt and a stupid rustication. Now kiss me, 
 and say you forgive." 
 
 "As if I should not forgive. But it is not my 
 forgiveness that will do any good. Only come 
 in and see him." 
 
 "No, Marion, I will not. I came down this 
 evening — travelled with the mail that brought 
 my letter — and hung about here while you were 
 talking with Gerald Chacomb. Adie wrote to 
 me that he was back again; but I could not 
 see him through the trees. I knew his voice, 
 though. If you were a different sort of girl, I 
 should have thought you were spooning. Well, 
 I want you to be my friend. Smooth him over. 
 Tell him he need not worry about the debts. 
 Oxford tradesmen always give long credit, and 
 we will pay them somehow. And I want to go 
 to Egypt with Lord Rodney. He's quite the 
 best fellow in the world." 
 
 "And where is the money to come from.-*" 
 
 "It won't cost much. Rodney will pay for 
 all but the travelling expenses. Don't you see 
 the importance of keeping a friend like that?" 
 
 "Have you forgotten, Fred, that you have no
 
 102 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 money, that you have spent all that your father 
 set aside for you, and that you will have to 
 work your own way in the world?" 
 
 "Don't put things in such a bald, coarse 
 manner, Marion. It's bad enough to be poor, 
 without being reminded of it." 
 
 "What are we to do, Fred.-* Oh, what arc we 
 to do about you.'*" 
 
 "Just nothing, Marion. Let things go on by 
 themselves. It is always the wisest thing not to 
 fidget and fuss. My dear child, you are making 
 a great deal of worry." 
 
 "Fred, you do not understand — you will not 
 understand ! There is no more money left, none 
 at all ; but that is nothing. It is you that we are 
 anxious about — your future, your own conduct. 
 Once more, will you come in and see your 
 father.?" 
 
 "No, I will not," he returned, doggedly. "I 
 shall go back as I came. You had better go 
 and tell him that I have been here." 
 
 "It would break his heart to learn that his 
 son came home and waited outside like a — 
 like a—" 
 
 "Like a burglar, I suppose."
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 103 
 
 "Afraid to go into the house and seek his for- 
 giveness." 
 
 "Yes, I am afraid. It is all very well for you, 
 Marion. You are his favourite. You have 
 been his companion always. It is with me that 
 he has been always stern and unforgiving. 
 Poor little Adie and I are the children of his 
 second wife. It is not our fault, I suppose." 
 
 "Fred, you are unjust." 
 
 "Very likely. I do everything that is wrong. 
 I go to Oxford, and I live among gentlemen, and 
 not among cads, as a gentleman. It costs my 
 father a little more than he expected. I am 
 unlucky enough not to get the scholarships and 
 prizes you thought I should get. If you only 
 knew the kind of men who do get these things, 
 you would not think so badly of me." 
 
 "Gerald Chacomb got a scholarship, and was 
 a fellow." 
 
 "Gerald Chacomb is a prig. Well, it is no 
 use talking, Marion; go and fetch my little Adie 
 out to give me a kiss. SJie won't reproach her 
 brother when he is down on his luck. If she 
 cannot help me as you can, she can tell me I 
 have done nothing disgraceful or dishonourable."
 
 104 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "No, I will not bring Adie to you. She is in 
 bed, poor child. Tell me what I can do for you, 
 Fred — don't be cruel. You know there's nothing 
 in the world I would not do for you. But, oh, 
 if you would only come in with me!" 
 
 "Then I tell you what you shall do for me. 
 To-morrow you will get my father to write me a 
 letter sanctioning the Egypt journey; and — and, 
 Marion, have you got any money.'*" 
 
 "I have ten pounds left from my own money." 
 
 **Then lend me that, my dear girl. I will 
 
 give it you back as soon as ever I have any 
 
 more. I must get back to London. Run and 
 
 bring it at once, because I must be off." 
 
 Marion said nothing, but went away for her 
 purse. It was all she had, and with it^vanished 
 her last hope of any new dresses. But she gave 
 it with a cheerful countenance, such as the Lord 
 loveth. 
 
 "And now, Fred, what are you going to do.'" 
 "I shall walk on to Barnstaple, and go up to 
 town by the night train. Write to mc at the 
 Tavistock, where Rodney and I are staying." 
 "Fred, do not — do not spend more mone)-." 
 "The Tavistock is the cheapest place in all
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 105 
 
 London," he replied, airily. "You could not 
 spend money there if you wanted ever so much. 
 Good night, Marion dear. You are the best of 
 all girls, only a little inclined to sermonize. 
 You will never get a husband if you are so 
 solemn and serious. Come, give me a kiss. 
 There — you are a dear girl — and now one for 
 Adie. And now I will be off. Mind, I depend 
 upon your good offices. You will — " 
 
 "I will do what I can for you — when have I 
 not.? And, oh, Fred — " remembering suddenly 
 that Gerald was going to town on purpose to 
 see him. 
 
 But Fred kissed her lightly on the cheek, and 
 was gone. 
 
 Marian sighed, and returned to her father. 
 
 "You will be happy, child," said the captain, 
 patting her cheek, "as you deserve to be, my 
 dear — as you deserve to be. I am sorry that 
 this other thing has fallen upon us on such a 
 day; we ought to have been all gladness and 
 joy for my girl's engagement." 
 
 "Do not think of it, papa, more than you can 
 help. Gerald will go to town and see Fred ; and 
 we must hope for the best. Let us always re-
 
 io6 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 member our bright-faced boy, with his winning 
 ways, and how we loved him." 
 
 She spoke as if licr half-brother were about 
 ten years younger than herself 
 
 " Remember what you have always said about 
 his weakness of will, and how he would fall into 
 temptation — it was the fault of his nature : we 
 must make allowances for all. Do not let him 
 go to that wicked place any more; we will keep 
 him here for a little, and try to make him steady. 
 And then, papa, he is only a schoolboy — is he 
 not?" 
 
 " I will endeavour, dear, to remember, and to 
 make allowances. But the disappointment is 
 grievous, Marion. After all, money spent is 
 gone, and we are foolish to regret it. Only 
 I can make no more now; and when I die, 
 dear Marion, what is to become of those two 
 helpless children 1 Who will provide for them.'* 
 Thank God, dear, that your future is at least 
 placed above starvation point." 
 
 " We are in better hands than our own, father. 
 Now, go to bed, dear. Let me put up all your 
 papers. See, here is a letter unopened among 
 them."
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 107 
 
 "Another bill, Marion — another bill. I will 
 look at it to-morrow." 
 
 He put it into his pocket, and shut up the 
 packet of Fred's bills in his desk. 
 
 " My daughter " — he took her face in his 
 hands, and held it up to his — two faces as 
 honest, brave, and true as this world has ever 
 seen, and both strangely alike — " my daughter, 
 I am going to lose you. I, that have had the 
 first place, shall have to be content with the 
 second. It is the way of the world, and I do 
 not repine, dear. Remember always, my child, 
 that no husband can love you better than your 
 father." 
 
 "I know it, father!" whispered Marion. 
 
 " I did not think I should be so moved, my 
 dear, by anything. It seems as if I had so 
 much to say, and no time to say it in. I feel 
 as if opportunities for talking to my daughter 
 would come no more, and yet so much is 
 untold. It seems as if I were going — not my 
 Marion." 
 
 *'You are nervous, papa, dear. You will be 
 better to-morrow." 
 
 " Good night, dear. God bless my darling !
 
 loS WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 God preserve her from harm, and surround her 
 with happiness and love." 
 
 The captain's voice broke down, and his eyes 
 melted into tears. 
 
 So the girl's day, that should have been the 
 happiest in her life, was spoiled by her brother's 
 fault; and the night that should have been as 
 a bridal night was mingled with a sense of 
 bitterness that jarred upon her joy. Through 
 her soul flowed the harmonies of love, but now 
 and then the thought of her brother struck dis- 
 cordant notes, and marred the music. Somehow, 
 in the education of our boys, we have dropped 
 out one or two of the elements of morality. 
 They do not learn in our great schools and uni- 
 versities the grand duty of looking things in the 
 face. If they arc taught the lesson of working 
 first and enjoying afterwards, it does not seem 
 to stick; and the simple principles of common 
 sense, which should assign to every boy his own 
 way of beginning the battle of life, are left to be 
 taught by experience. Now, as Herodotus says, 
 " Our lessons arc mainly taught by our suffer- 
 ings." Poor Fred wanted to enjoy. And, that 
 he might enjoy, he had brought upon his father's
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 109 
 
 house the common tragedy of a ruined home. 
 Meantime, with his sister's last ten pounds in 
 his pocket, he was marching gaily across the 
 country, to catch the mail train from Barn- 
 staple.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 lARLY in the morning Marion was 
 roused from sleep by a familiar 
 signal. Not a lover's serenade, for 
 Gerald was in his bed at Chacomb; 
 nor by the voice of the lark leaving his watery 
 nest; nor by the early crow of chanticleer; but 
 by the rattling of gravel thrown up at her win- 
 dow. She knew it for the reveille of her father, 
 and, throwing open the casemate, looked out — 
 her face making a pretty picture, with the long 
 hair loose, ciiiiibiis solutis, floating round and 
 over it ; her cheeks as dainty as a peach, and 
 her dimpled mouth. Paint me such a picture, 
 cunning limner. Put in a hand holding a white 
 garment to the throat, lest the sun, who wants 
 to see so much, should catch a glimpse of her 
 marble bosom. Let her eyes be bright, but
 
 WITH HARP AND CRO WN. 1 1 1 
 
 full and deep withal; give her oval face the 
 curves that belong to the artistic mind, the 
 mind that feels what others only see ; give her 
 eyebrows the slightest possible curve at the 
 corners, to show a latent possibility of will; her 
 forehead must be narrow rather than broad, 
 but a little higher than sculptors have granted 
 to Venus ; over her face throw, if you can, some 
 of the expression of the great Love goddess; 
 let there be a newly awakened look of Venus. 
 She is looking out of a square casement with 
 diamond panes; above and on each side is the 
 thick thatch, with green and grey for colour- 
 ing, edged with deep shade; swallows are flying 
 in and out of the nests, regardless of her pre- 
 sence; creepers are climbing up from below, and 
 twisting lithe tendrils round every little projec- 
 tion, and tossing unoccupied arms about the 
 open window as the wind blows them to and fro. 
 In the garden is her father. On his face no signs 
 of last night's trouble, for the morn is bright. He 
 has slept, and the good has driven off the evil. 
 
 "Dress quickly, Marion, and come down," he 
 whispered, loud enough for her to hear. "Do 
 not wake Adie."
 
 1 1 2 Win I HARP AND CRO WN. 
 
 Adie was in her own room, next to Marion's, 
 sleeping soundly. The two servants, who com- 
 pleted the household, were asleep too ; for it was 
 only five, and nothing astir yet but the captain. 
 Nothing? Everything. The birds were busy 
 with the early worm — the early worm was busy 
 about affairs connected with his own digestive 
 organs. The swallow hunted the fly, the fly 
 looked about for the midge; and nature wore 
 that busy and cheerful aspect — we associate it 
 with universal joy and hymns of praise — when 
 everything is hunting and being hunted. There 
 were sounds from the village, whose life was 
 already awake and hard at work : a pump- 
 handle was working noisily ; a ploughboy was 
 whistling ; cocks were clearing their throats ; 
 somebody was sharpening a tool upon the 
 grindstone ; pigs were grunting ; an ass — pro- 
 bably a descendant of Lucius, the Golden Ass 
 of Apuleius — full of emotion at the brightness 
 of the dawn, was greeting Aurora with melo- 
 dious bray; a child was crying — Nature in her 
 loveliest moods seems somehow dissatisfied un- 
 less she can throw in a squalling child; a woman 
 was scolding — if all were harmony the sweetest
 
 WITH HARP AND CRO WN. 1 1 3 
 
 morning would pall upon the senses — but at 
 such a distance as only to touch the soul with 
 a little jar, a saddened sense of dissonance ; 
 and the freshest of breezes was lifting the leaves 
 upon their stalks and waving the branches. 
 
 Happiness wakes first ; hope, next ; trouble, 
 last. The unfortunate young gentleman in the 
 picture, who is just going to be awakened to 
 fight the tiger for the gratification of Nero and 
 the delight of the Roman ladies, is very truth- 
 fully represented in that stage of dreaminess 
 which precedes the happy waking. In another 
 moment he will open eyes full of hope ; in the 
 next he will turn to the roaring and hungry 
 creature who now pokes eager claws through 
 the bars at him, eager to slay and devour, and 
 the trouble of horrid anticipation will begin. 
 Marion woke to happiness and hope. The only 
 trouble in her heart was the thought of her 
 brother, and this, for the nonce, she put aside. 
 It was one that could wait. 
 
 "It is such a morning, Marion darling," said 
 the captain. "Dress and come down, and we 
 will go for a sail." 
 
 It was indeed a morning of the very finest — 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 such a morning as makes those who have been 
 pulled out of bed at six to glow with conscious 
 virtue, because it seems like the reward of a 
 good action. Happy those who have only got 
 up early on fine mornings. There are men — 
 living men — who have risen at six on rainy 
 mornings, and so learned to probe some of the 
 deeper depths of remorse. 
 
 Then began a day which was destined after- 
 wards to live in her memory — so short, and yet 
 so long — all her life. Not one single detail was 
 ever to be lost. She remembered how she knelt 
 for a moment while her father called to her; how 
 she prayed quickly for him, for Gerald, and for 
 Fred ; how she caught her straw hat — the dainty 
 little straw, brown with sunshine and sea breezes, 
 that sat on her head like a crown — and ran 
 lightly downstairs into the garden and her 
 father's arms. 
 
 He took her face in his hands, kissing her on 
 the cheeks and on the lips and on the forehead 
 in a comprehensive way unusual with him. Then 
 he held her for a moment without saying any- 
 thing; and then he passed his hand through her 
 hair, which hung loose in pretty morning fashion.
 
 WITH HA RP AND CRO WN. 1 1 5 
 
 "My daughter," he whispered, "and so I am 
 going to lose you." 
 
 "Not yet, papa; and not altogether, you know." 
 
 He shook his head, and let her go. 
 
 "Let us make the best of the bright morning, 
 my dearest. I lay awake half the night think- 
 ing of you and Gerald and poor Fred, until it 
 occurred to me that thinking would be of no 
 possible use; so I gave it up and went to sleep. 
 Never mind, dear. I will make it up to-night. 
 Tell your father all about it, Marion." 
 
 "There is nothing to tell," she replied, red- 
 dening a little. " It was only yesterday afternoon 
 that Gerald—" 
 
 "Well, dear, I am not going to ask you what 
 Gerald said. You know that lovers' words are 
 sacred." 
 
 "Gerald told me he loved me, that is all. He 
 said he loved me even before he went away; 
 and I knew nothing of it." 
 
 " But you were always fond of Gerald." 
 
 "Oh, yes, papa — always fond of him; but not 
 in that way. And it all seems so different now. 
 I cannot tell you how different. The world is 
 changed with me since yesterday." 
 
 8—2
 
 1 1 6 1 1 'J 77/ J LI RP A XD CRO IV N. 
 
 " Ves, life is so. A woman leaves her father 
 and her mother, and cleaveth to her husband. 
 It is the rule of Nature." 
 
 *' But I (\o not want to leave you, my dear 
 father." 
 
 "No, dear. You do not want to, but you will 
 have to leave me. Thank God, you can go 
 happily with the man you love." 
 
 " I do love Gerald," she murmured. 
 
 ** And so yesterday was the very first time 
 that young man spoke to you on this important 
 subject.^" 
 
 "Yes, the first time; unless, perhaps, it was 
 the day before he left us to go to America, 
 when we had our last v;alk together. I remem- 
 ber it so well. We were walking home through 
 Chacomb Wood, listening to the birds. I was 
 saying how stupid and lonely it would be with- 
 out him, and he— but perhaps he did not mean 
 anything." 
 
 " What did he say, Marion .^ That is, if I 
 may ask." 
 
 " He said that he hoped I should always find 
 it lonely and stupid without him." 
 
 " Some prayers are granted," said her father.
 
 WIJH HARP AND CROWN. 117 
 
 ** One of the old philosophers — I suppose it 
 must have been Socrates, because nobody else 
 ever seems to have said anything at all — used 
 to say that men ought to be very careful what 
 they prayed for. The gods, he remarked, some- 
 times give us what we ask for, and pretty fools 
 we look then. However, Gerald's prayer seems 
 to have been a reasonable one, considering 
 everything." 
 
 "You are not jealous, are you, dear.^ You 
 know I love you better than anybody in this 
 world; better even — yes, perhaps better than 
 my Gerald. But I love him too." 
 
 " No, dear, I am not jealous," said the captain, 
 stoutly. 
 
 " Tell me you are glad, papa." 
 
 " Half-truths, my dear, as your poet Tenny- 
 son would tell you, are a very dangerous kind of 
 falsehood. I am not glad on my own account. 
 I am saddened, and a little confused to know 
 what I shall do without you. But I am more 
 glad than I can tell you for your sake, dear. 
 You are going to marry the best young fellow in 
 all the world. I do believe, the most honest, the 
 truest, the most loyal, and the most generous."
 
 ii8 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 Marion's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "You are the best and kindest of dear fathers. 
 Gerald is all that you have said, I am sure, and 
 a thousand things more." 
 
 " You will have to find out how to manage 
 your husband, you know, IMarion. The old rule 
 used to be, never to let him know how much you 
 love him. That is nonsense. I will give you a 
 better. Make him proud of his work, whatever 
 it is. Keep up the flame in his heart; learn to 
 follow him in his career; cultivate his ambition; 
 never suffer him to think meanly of himself. 
 Remember, my dear, that your husband's career 
 is a more important thing than his love: keep 
 him steadfast to the one, and you will have the 
 other. The true ars anioris is the use of in- 
 telligent sympathy. You drive }-our husband 
 with a light rein when you drive him to suc- 
 
 cess." 
 
 " But I do not want to drive Gerald, papa." 
 "Do you not, dear.-* Chaucer's ladies con- 
 fessed that what they liked best of all earthly 
 things was power. But perhaps the women of 
 the nineteenth century arc wiser." 
 " I shall always be proud of Gerald."
 
 WITH HARP AND CRO WN. 1 19 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; there are ladies who value 
 their lords according to the market value of 
 their abilities and attainments. Well, be happy, 
 dearest, let who will be wise. You will go and 
 put yourself under the heel of that young man ; 
 he will be your tyrant; he will order you and 
 direct you — " 
 
 "Papa, papa, papa — zvill you be quiet .-* So 
 long as he loves me, what matter what he does 
 or says.'^ People who love each other cannot 
 help being kind and thoughtful." 
 
 " Come down to the cove, my dear, and let us 
 get the boat ready." 
 
 The boat was tossing in the middle of the 
 tiny harbour, fretting at the rope which held her, 
 while the blue waves came rolling in over the 
 bar of sand, and tearing themselves to pieces 
 against the ragged rock on either hand. She 
 was a strong and serviceable little craft, not 
 afraid of a North Devon sea or a stiff breeze — 
 one of poor Kingsley's keen north-easters — and 
 as safe in a squall as a Portsmouth wherry. 
 
 The captain hauled in the rope, and Marion 
 shipped the rudder while he went to the boat- 
 house for mast and sails. If Marion had few
 
 I20 IVITH HARP AND CROIVX. 
 
 accomplishments, she possessed one in perfection 
 — the art of sailing. It was a kind of instinct 
 with her. Had she been so fortunate as to live 
 in the days when there were no boats, she 
 would have been the first to arm her heart with 
 triple brass, and invent a raft of some kind for 
 herself. Fallen on days when there is little in 
 this way left to invent, except torpedoes, she 
 made herself as handy as any boy on the whole 
 coast, from Burnham to Clovelly; good at the 
 rudder, good at lowering the sail, good at keep- 
 ing the boat's head before the wind, good at 
 tacking, good at running, with gunwale touching 
 the water, before the steady Channel breeze. 
 
 " The breeze is fresh, IMarion." He took the 
 oars, and rowed out of the cove into the sea 
 beyond. "Now, then, up with the canvas; keep 
 her steady; so! Now she feels it. Dip your 
 nose in it; jump and dance, my pretty; show 
 them a clean pair of heels." He was address- 
 ing the boat. " Isn't this better than lying in 
 bed.^ And now, Marion, we are quite alone, and 
 there is nobody but ourselves to hear — let us 
 talk about your marriage." 
 
 "But I am only just engaged, papa."
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 121 
 
 "Gerald is six and twenty, dear — an age 
 when a young man does not look on waiting 
 with any rapture. This morning I will walk 
 over and talk to Chacomb about it. I expect 
 him to be as pleased as I am myself." 
 
 " Papa, I am afraid of Mr. Chacomb." 
 
 *' Nonsense, Marion." 
 
 " It is not nonsense. Sometimes he looks so 
 odd. I have seen him looking sideways at you, 
 papa, when he thought no one saw him ; and it 
 was as if he wanted to strangle you. And we 
 have known him all these years, and I never 
 draw any closer to him." 
 
 " Chacomb has his reserved side, Marion, but 
 he is a good fellow at heart; and he is very fond 
 of Gerald." 
 
 " Ah, yes," said the girl, softening, " he is fond 
 of Gerald. His voice drops when he speaks 
 to him; his eyes follow him about; he forgets 
 to hitch up his shoulder when Gerald is with 
 him; and — and, oh, papa,' he is jealous of 
 you." 
 
 " Marion, you suspicious child, you are 
 * making up,' " said her father. 
 
 " No, I am not. It is all true. And suppose
 
 122 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 he were to become jealous of me after I am 
 married?" 
 
 "Then he will be a great donkey, dear. Put 
 these fancies out of your head. Chaunccy Cha- 
 comb is as fond of you as I am almost, though 
 he does not show it. As for me, I believe there 
 is nothing that he would not do for me. For 
 nearly twenty years we have been companions 
 and friends. No, dear; wc are happy in having 
 such a neighbour as Chacomb, without thinking 
 of his son at all. You will own it when I bring 
 him back with me to-night to wish you joy. 
 Look at the colours on that rock, dear; grey, 
 purple, green, and black — a bluish black it 
 looks from here. There are the cormorants 
 flying about the point. We will come out some 
 very still day, and try to sketch the light of 
 these early mornings. But I shall have to come 
 out alone soon, shall I not.*^ Marion, when you 
 arc married you will take poor little Adie with 
 you to see something of the world, will you 
 not?" 
 
 They lapsed into silence for a while, wrapped 
 in their thoughts, and watching the water as the 
 boat flew before the breeze. The captain's face
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 123 
 
 was composed and grave, but his expression was 
 that of one who looks forward. 
 
 So they glided swiftly past the long shore of 
 headland after headland; passing the peaceful 
 villages lying in long streets behind the coves; 
 catching glimpiies of homesteads dotted here 
 and there, and hearing the tinkle of the sheep 
 bells from the high downs. Presently the cap- 
 tain shook himself together. 
 
 " I am dull for you, Marion; but I was think- 
 ing. Let us 'bout ship, and tack for Comb 
 Leigh again. I was thinking about the old 
 days — the days before you were born, my dear. 
 Strange that the time should come back to me 
 to-day so vividly that I thought put away and 
 buried long ago. I never told you, Marion, 
 about your mother's marriage; somehow we 
 have not talked together a great deal about 
 her, even when we have been alone. 
 
 "She was very beautiful, Marion — more beau- 
 tiful than you, my dear. She was the most 
 beautiful woman I have ever seen, and the 
 best and kindest. You are like her so far. She 
 was the daughter of a man in the position of 
 Chauncey Chacomb — a country squire of Dor-
 
 124 WITH HARP AND CROIVX. 
 
 setshire. Until I knew her father, I did not 
 understand what was meant by county families 
 and county pride. ]\Iy dear, your grandfather 
 was as proud as Lucifer. He had nothing what- 
 ever, so far as I could ever learn, no single point 
 of distinction, to be proud of He and his 
 grandfathers had held their estates for a great 
 many generations. During all these centuries, 
 always opulent, always well educated, always 
 with every chance of success, not one single 
 man had ever distinguished himself Most of 
 the great Englishmen, somehow, do seem to 
 come from the landed people ; but your mother's 
 family had not yet produced even a third-rate 
 great man. However, the fact remained that 
 he was proud. I was only a lieutenant, with 
 very little except my pay. Mar}' loved me. I 
 spoke to her father, and was received with 
 rather more contumely, I thought, than he 
 would have bestowed upon one of his own 
 footmen coming with the same request. I 
 was a Frenchman; that was his first objec- 
 tion. * No Frenchman,' he said, * could possibly 
 be of good family.' Thereupon I produced the 
 dear old genealogy — yuu know it, dear — with
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 125 
 
 Charlemagne, Godfrey of Bouillon, and the rest 
 of them. He laughed at the pedigree, which he 
 politely insinuated was a forged one. * If I had 
 a pedigree,' he said, * where were the estates?* 
 You see, he could not possibly understand de- 
 scent without estates. Of course, it was hopeless 
 to explain to him what the Revolution had done 
 for us. Also it was hopeless to tell him that, 
 with his great fortune, it ought to matter simply 
 nothing — and would have mattered nothing in 
 old France — whether I had money or not. So, 
 dear, as it was of no use to expect anything 
 from him, and time was valuable, we took 
 the law into our own hands, Mary and I, 
 and ran away together. We were married 
 the same day at Southampton. When your 
 grandfather received the fatal news, he sent 
 a letter cutting his daughter off with the little 
 portion he could not touch. It is what you 
 have now, dear Marion — your fifty pounds a 
 year. Then he struck her name out of the 
 big Bible, forbade her ever to be mentioned 
 again, and sat down with the consciousness 
 of having behaved in a manner becoming his 
 dignity."
 
 126 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "Poor mamma!" 
 
 '• She cried a little at first, but we made our- 
 selves happy. I had a little money to spend, 
 and we went to visit the old place in France, 
 which I had never seen at all. Then we agreed 
 to live at Portsmouth until I could get a ship, 
 for which I had to wait about a year. Marion, 
 it was a very happy year, the happiest year 
 I ever had. Only a year, and then you came, 
 my dear; and — and I lost your mother. So I 
 went to sea again; and — well, until you grew 
 up, my love, and could talk to me, I had very 
 little happiness." 
 
 Of his second wife the captain never spoke 
 to any one. Fred and Adie had learned 
 by some instinct to ask no questions about 
 their mother. Nor had Marion ever ventured 
 to lift the curtain which her father kept 
 closed. 
 
 "And now, Marion, that you arc going to 
 marry into one of the oldest county families in 
 Devonshire — as old as the Carews, or the Mays, 
 or the Poles — we might, perhaps, think about a 
 reconciliation. I have lived out of the world 
 with you too long. You will be able, when
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 127 
 
 you are married, to go into society ; and I 
 should like you to go with such family cre- 
 dentials as we can boast." 
 
 "But, papa, have we no relations in France?" 
 
 "Cousins in plenty, dear; and some day I 
 will hunt them out, and we will go over and 
 call upon them; and I will take my own name 
 and title again for the occasion." 
 
 "I am glad," said Marion, "that in all the 
 great family of humanity we have some one to 
 call of our kin." 
 
 "To-morrow, dear, I will give you all your 
 mother's letters. You shall read her love letters 
 to me. I think I could not have shown them 
 to you before your heart had learned what love 
 means, and what those letters had been to me 
 — how sacred and how precious. I want your 
 mother to teach you, from her grave, some- 
 thing of what a woman can be to her lover 
 and her husband. I should not like you to be 
 married without learning for yourself all that 
 these letters can teach. Enough talking, dear- 
 est. Here is Comb Leigh. Have you enjoyed 
 your sail.-*" 
 
 "Yes, papa; but the talk more."
 
 128 
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "Now, then. Hold her up, Marion — so — 
 cleverly steered. There is Adie coming down 
 to meet us. Breakfast — breakfast, both my 
 daughters." 
 
 He kissed Adie on the forehead ; but as they 
 walked up to the house together, his arm was 
 on the neck of his elder girl.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ERHAPS if one were asked to name 
 a time when his courage would be 
 highest and his spirits most buoyant 
 he would fix by choice upon a holi- 
 day morning in August, when the sun was shin- 
 ing. All the better, then, if he might be on the 
 North Devon coast, watching the course of the 
 south-west wind sweeping up the broad stretches 
 of the Bristol Channel, and crisping the waves 
 into foaming curls. Great, above all, is the 
 power of the sun. When Aurora and old 
 Tithonus, like a buxom young Cambridge bed- 
 maker and an elderly gyp, have put out the 
 stars and swept up the untidy clouds, the sun 
 goeth forth to work marvels. We know very 
 well how he brings with his breath the golden 
 clusters to the laburnum, and the blushes with 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 his staring to the young grape's cheek. What 
 we do not sufficiently take note of is his power 
 on the heart of man, bringing to it flowers and 
 fruit as to a tree, and making tender sprays of 
 imagination shoot up even in the most unlikely 
 breasts. I believe that if you nail a scholar 
 to a south wall, he will become a ripe scholar; 
 and I am sure that a young prig, caught early, 
 and trained like a pear tree, may be made to 
 
 produce in time big word-criticisms in the . 
 
 People who live habitually in the sun never 
 nurse evil dispositions, or brood over fancied 
 wrongs, or spend valuable time in anticipating 
 evil. It is best, therefore, to be born in August, 
 so that the first things your eyes rest upon in 
 this world may be flowers, the clear sky, the 
 sun, and faces which, like Ruth among the 
 stooks, "praise the Lord with sweetest looks." 
 I can hardly think it lucky to be born in March 
 or April, when east winds blow. Children of 
 those months are apt to grow up perverse, ill- 
 conditioned, and of uncertain temper; and it is 
 of course ridiculous for any one to be born 
 between December and Februaiy. The folk of 
 sunny lands, prone, it may be, to sudden storms
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 131 
 
 — even to sticking wrathful knives in neigh- 
 bourly ribs — are a gay and light-hearted people, 
 dwelling together in amity, careless of the 
 future. 
 
 The sunshine entered into Captain Revel's 
 heart. He had no misgivings this morning — 
 no doubt about the future. What had been 
 dark was now bright The sky was clear above 
 him. He* left the cottage to call upon the 
 squire, Marion watching him as he slowly 
 started on his journey. First he loitered for a 
 few minutes among his roses ; then he stepped 
 into the road briskly, but stopped to hold a 
 short conversation with a neighbour's dog, one 
 of his oldest and most trusted friends. Then, 
 apparently at the dog's invitation, he looked 
 into the farmyard and inspected the pigs. 
 
 "Oh, papa," said Marion to herself, "do go on." 
 Then he stood for five minutes in the road, 
 studying thoughtfully the mechanism of the 
 water-wheel. Being quite satisfied at length 
 with its working, he proceeded a few steps higher 
 up. Here there was a smithy with the smith 
 hard at work, the fire blazing and roaring, the 
 anvil ringing, and the sparks flying. 
 
 9—2
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "Now he will go in and talk to the smith," 
 thought Marion. 
 
 The captain did not go in, but he stood at 
 the doorway talking to the man. The sparks 
 of the hammer ceased, the roaring of the bellows 
 dropped to an occasional groan; and in the 
 quiet of the noonday Marion heard the voices. 
 Then the captain took out his pocket-book, and 
 made a little sketch. Marion knew what he was 
 drawing. Back at the end of the low, dark- 
 smithy part of the roof had fallen in, and the 
 sunlight streaming through the opening made 
 shifting lights and shades among the blackened 
 beams and the iron tools hanging upon the 
 nails. 
 
 " I wish I was with him," said Marion. 
 
 The sketch finished, the captain nodded a 
 friendly farewell to the smith, and proceeded 
 a few yards farther. Presently there crossed 
 his path a file of geese, following each other 
 with heads down, outstretched necks, flapping 
 wings, and as much importance in their manner 
 as if they were a band of strong-minded women 
 with a particular engagement, now due, to go 
 and sit upon a platform and demand that ever}'-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 133 
 
 thing should be all argued out again from the 
 beginning, with a special proviso that no more 
 knowledge should be imparted into the con- 
 troversy than each woman could herself boast. 
 
 "Cackle, cackle, cackle!" cried the geese. 
 "Leave us to reconstruct the world: we know 
 everything. Cackle, cackle — ^we will teach the 
 world everything; we will upset everything. 
 Let the ganders lay the eggs. Cackle, cackle! 
 Sage and onions shall be cultivated no more. 
 We will argue only with those who agree with 
 us. Cackle, cackle ! We are the wise and 
 learned sex. Who is this two-legged creature 
 in the path.^ Let him go and lay eggs." 
 
 " Pardon, mesdames," said the captain, taking 
 off his hat and making a very fine bow, quite 
 a reverence of the artcien regime^ to the little 
 procession. 
 
 They crossed the road and plunged into the 
 next field, when they began to fall out with 
 each other. 
 
 Then the captain went on. 
 
 Presently he came to where the road to 
 Chacomb was met by the path which ran down 
 from the cliffs, the same lane which Marion and
 
 134 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 Gerald had climbed the day before. Here he 
 stopped, and hesitating for a moment, took the 
 turn to the left, and began to walk up the 
 lane. 
 
 " I thought," said Marion, with a little dis- 
 appointment, "that he was going to Chacomb 
 Hall." 
 
 The fact was that the captain, wrapped in his 
 thoughts, quite forgot the purpose with which 
 he started, and was now taking his customary 
 walk up the hill. 
 
 When he was out of sight, Marion went into 
 the house for something to read. New and 
 recent literature rarely found its way to Comb 
 Leigh, and the most attractive volume she could 
 find was one of Pope's poems. She chose this, 
 and retreated to the shadiest place in the 
 garden, where she could escape the rattle of 
 her younger sister's talk, and sat down with 
 the volume open before her. But her thoughts 
 very soon wandered far away from the poet. 
 Ah, philosophers and verse-makers, how many a 
 time your books are opened, and the characters, 
 which never reach the brain, read by the eye 
 alone! The ghost of the little Twickenham
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 135 
 
 poet was looking down upon her from the 
 spirit world. * She is reading me/ he observed, 
 with pardonable pride, to his friend Boling- 
 broke. " She is reading my poems. Observe, 
 my St. John, she leaves all meaner things to 
 vain ambition and the pride of kings. She 
 could do nothing better. Prudent nymph ! 
 Happy bard!" 
 
 First her thoughts wandered away to Gerald, 
 and to the sweet confidences of yesterday. 
 There was the novitas rei, the newness of the 
 thing, which yet seemed, under all the circum- 
 stances, as if nothing else could ever have been 
 expected. It was not strange at all. She be- 
 longed to Gerald, she said to herself; but then, 
 somehow, she always had belonged to Gerald, 
 and so that was nothing new. And then she 
 fell to wondering what Gerald's father would 
 say, and her thoughts yielding to the soft influ- 
 ence of the summer season, she began, in dreamy 
 fashion, with lids dropped, to listen to the sounds 
 in the air around her. The geese, after disput- 
 ing with each other as to which knew most, 
 through personal wrongs in particular, about the 
 rights of geese in general, fell to pecking and
 
 136 WITH HARP AND CROIVA'. 
 
 snapping, quite like platform ladies, and with 
 such a cackle as may be heard on a Saturday 
 evening in RatclilT-highway, what time the 
 placcns uxor expects her husband to return with 
 wavering step and multiplying eye, bringing 
 home the scanty residue of the weekly wage. 
 After this battle, the geese, arriving at the con- 
 clusion that there was nothing to be got by argu- 
 ing with nasty, obstinate things who would not 
 listen, retired to separate corners and sulked, 
 making savage dabs at tasteless tufts of grass, 
 and pitching, with more than usual vehemence, 
 into the unwary worm. All this time the black- 
 smith's hammer was ringing on the anvil, the 
 bellows was wheezing, the flames were roaring. 
 Presently the old village carpenter, who was 
 also a boatman, came along the road, swearing 
 softly and melodiously, because there was no- 
 body to talk to, at things in general, and bear- 
 ing with him something hot and smoking, which 
 he began to daub over the bottom of his boat. 
 The smoke curled up, black and sooty grey, 
 darkening, where it spread, the clear blue of the 
 sky. Then the carpenter, too, taking his ham- 
 mer, chimed in with the blacksmith, the geese.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 137 
 
 the anvil, and the fire, with a steady tap-tap, as 
 he tinkered and cobbled the bottom of his old 
 craft. Every sound was separate and well- 
 defined, but yet seemed to blend together and 
 make music. Marion's thoughts passed away 
 wholly from herself, and became a part of what 
 she heard ; so that in the future, where this 
 morning was to live for ever, it seemed as if no 
 precious moment had been lost, nor one single 
 thing dropped from her memory of what made 
 it sweet and beautiful. Besides the blacksmith, 
 and the boatman, and the geese, she became 
 aware of the great water-wheel going round with 
 a steady burr-r-r in deep undertone, like the 
 pedal notes of an organ ; there was a grasshop- 
 per at the foot of an apple tree, pretending to 
 be an Italian and a cigale; there were those big 
 foolish fellows, the credulous humble-bees, going 
 about with their trumpets, firmly convinced, and 
 trying to convince other people, that the devil 
 was dead, and that " warm days should never 
 cease;" there were the pigs, fond and faithful 
 lovers of the present, grunting violoncello notes 
 of satisfaction and content; there was the turkey, 
 whom the poetical Scott calls the bubbly-
 
 138 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 jock, gobbling in the distance, with a melodious 
 gurgle as of an oboe played softly; with him 
 were the ducks, a material-minded race, whose 
 hearts are too much set upon things of this 
 world — they quacked like the gentle flageolet 
 in its lower notes ; there was a peacock who 
 screamed, and it was as if cymbals clashed ; 
 everything chimed in, as if there was no shirk- 
 ing possible on such a day, but all must help to 
 swell the great concerted piece. The waves 
 lapped gently upon the shore, the leaves rustled 
 in the light breeze, and from the orchard came 
 the twittering of the birds. Marion knew how 
 to distinguish them every one : that was the 
 cooing of the wood-pigeon; that the shrill pipe 
 of the wren. 
 
 " August is late for him,*' said Marion. 
 
 The chaffinch, somewhere invisible, added his 
 monotonous song; the little bluetit flew from 
 branch to branch with a short, quick note, in im- 
 patience at the concert; the blackcap sang as if 
 he was uncertain whether to imitate the nightin- 
 gale or the blackbird ; on the top of a rugged and 
 twisted old apple tree sat the chiff-chaff, calling 
 his own name as loudly as if he were playing a
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 139 
 
 part in a burlesque; the yellowhammer, who 
 also had words as well as tune, sang his refrain 
 of "a little bit of bread and no cheese," with a 
 tremendous emphasis on the no; and the great- 
 tit added its two notes, like a saw grinding not 
 out of harmony with the rest. 
 
 "There are more," said Marion to herself; "but 
 I cannot make them all out." 
 
 As she listened, peace flowed in upon her soul 
 with a rush like the bore of a tidal river; the 
 music set itself to words ; and voices sang round 
 her — 
 
 "Gerald — Gerald — Gerald — my lover 
 Gerald ! " 
 
 Presently her head leant backwards, her eyes 
 closed, and the volume dropped from her hands 
 upon the grass. 
 
 " Observe, my St. John," said the rejoicing 
 timbra of Pope, " she is closing her eyes to re- 
 flect upon the words of wisdom she has read in 
 
 ME." 
 
 Nobody now took any more notice of the mag- 
 nificent village orchestra; but all the instruments, 
 including the birds, the geese, the pigs, and the 
 waves, went on, which is an unfeeling way with
 
 I40 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 Nature, just the same. The face of the h'stener 
 lay turned a little to the left ; the lips were 
 parted with a smile; the wind lifted and 
 dropped the brown hair upon the forehead ; in 
 the dimples, at the corners of her mouth, lurked 
 a thousand little sleeping loves ; the eyes, 
 Marion's sweet and steadfast eyes, were closed. 
 The girl is happy. Let her rest.
 
 mmmtmmmmmmMM' mLMvi i 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HE lane up which the captain was 
 walking was a lane of set and se- 
 rious purpose. It ran straight up the 
 hill, bending neither to the right nor 
 to the left, perhaps in imitation of bigger roads 
 built by the Romans. It was paved with loose 
 flat stones, like stepping-stones or stairs, and now 
 and then made you desire, when they slipped 
 from your foot and brought you down, to pile 
 them in a heap, and use them to raise your 
 Bethel instead of your woes, as recommended 
 by the hymn. Nevertheless, a pretty lane, set 
 on either side with a hedge whereon climbed 
 and clung the wild rose, its blossoms gone for 
 the summer, but bright with hips; the honey- 
 suckle, which is mercifully ordered to bloom 
 from June till October; and the sweet wild con-
 
 142 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 volvulus, which flowers whenever it gets any 
 encouragement in the way of sunshine. Half- 
 way up the lane there was a pound, erected 
 once by a defunct churchwarden of Puritanical 
 views as regards straying animals. As he was 
 alone in his opinions, and died without disciples, 
 no living thing had ever been impounded in it. 
 Sitting on the topmost bar of the pound, his 
 feet on the second rail, among the long grass 
 and weeds which grew up in the interior of this 
 sunlit dungeon, and poked spikey heads through 
 the rails, was the very man whom Captain 
 Revel wished to see — Chauncey Chacomb. The 
 squire was, unfortunately, more moody, more 
 savage this morning than thejfprevious night. 
 He was especially angry with himself, because 
 he had let his great secret, the secret of his 
 overpowering jealousy and hatred, pass from 
 himself to the doctor. So felt Samson when he 
 awoke in the morning, and remembered what 
 he had told to Dalilah. He had noticed his 
 cousin's strange and searching glance. He knew 
 what it meant. It wanted no words for him to 
 understand that Joe Chacomb thought him — 
 Chauncey — to be going mad; and he knew, be-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 143 
 
 sides, that it was true. He had pressed upon 
 his cousin that morning a cheque for double the 
 sum he had asked for the day before, and both 
 felt that it was to pay for silence. They had 
 walked together gloomily after breakfast up the 
 lane, and Joseph, tired of his moody companion, 
 went on and left him on the rail, alone with 
 his reflections. He did not look well. His face 
 was pallid ; his eyes were bloodshot, for he had 
 been awake all night; his lips were twitching; 
 there was a long, straight crease across his fore- 
 head; his right shoulder — the uneven one — was 
 hitched up to his ear; his fingers were beating a 
 tattoo upon the rail. What cruel fate was this 
 that brought the two men together in such a 
 place, and at such a time.-* 
 
 It is in the seventeenth century style — quite 
 rococo now, and antiquated — to attribute dis- 
 astrous events to the agency of the Devil in 
 person. The more modern, perhaps, the better, 
 plan is to avoid going quite to the bottom of 
 things, and say that accident, circumstance, or 
 chance led to such and such a conjunction of 
 events. What are we to say? Is it design, or 
 is it chance? One is taken, and the other left.
 
 144 WITH JIARP AXn CROWN 
 
 One catches the train which is going to be 
 smashed, but goes off jeering at the other who is 
 too late, and is left behind upon the platform. 
 One starts for Australia by the steamer which 
 founders in the Bay of Biscay, while the other 
 waits for that which is going to resist the storm. 
 One gets a bullet in the head, while the other 
 comes out of the battle with only his coat sleeve 
 riddled. On this August morning, a man took 
 a turn to the left instead of keeping straight on, 
 as he had intended. Safety was in the one 
 path, and in the other — death. 
 
 The rugged upland path led the captain's 
 straying feet slowly up the flat stones which 
 formed the rough steps of the lane. Before him, 
 leading him insensibly, in fact, by the hand, 
 stalked the fine actor who plays the principal 
 part in the Danse Macabre. It is a defect in 
 that otherwise admirable series of drawings, that 
 every single sketch is a group of two, wherein 
 the intention of the leading flgure, despite his 
 politeness — you will observe the gallant bear- 
 ing of the Chevalier La IMort towards the 
 ladies — is but too apparent. A later artist 
 would have represented the Disguise of Mors.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 145 
 
 He would have shown him as lurking beneath a 
 stone in the shape of a viper, or flying through 
 the air as an eagle, or crouching in shrubs like a 
 panther, or even sitting on an old village pound 
 by the side of mad Chauncey Chacomb, whis- 
 pering devilry. But, in any case, the patient — 
 or beneficiary — Dominus Moribundus, would 
 have advanced to his fate with a step as cheery, 
 a smile as jocund, a bearing as gallant, a coun- 
 tenance as unsuspicious, a heart as light, as Cap- 
 tain Revel. 
 
 He greeted Chacomb with a laugh, which 
 reminded him of yesterday's humiliation — a 
 laugh which set every nerve of the jealous and 
 suspicious man tingling ; a laugh utterly regard- 
 less of those morbid feelings which natures 
 such as Chauncey Chacomb's generally mistake 
 for evidences of superior delicacy and refine- 
 ment. 
 
 "You, Chacomb?" he cried; "and up here? 
 The very man I wanted to see. Come off your 
 perch, man, and walk up to the top with me. 
 Where's the doctor? Did Gerald go off this 
 morning? How is the picture looking to-day? 
 Ha! ha! We shall find it a breather for the next 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 five minutes. Not so young as we were, we old 
 fellows. How are the flesh tints, and the deli- 
 cate outlines of the panel, eh.'' Ho! ho!" 
 
 Chaunccy Chacomb screwed his mouth into 
 what he meant for a smile, and slowly de- 
 scended from his rail. If he was getting older — 
 granted that he was sixty-one — so much the 
 more reason for hiding the fact away. If he 
 had made a mistake about the picture — and he 
 was not so certain of that — it was an addi- 
 tional proof of bad taste in the captain to harp 
 upon it. * 
 
 "Not so young as we were, Revel!" he re- 
 peated. "None of us are, I suppose." 
 
 "I like the niggers for one thing," said Revel, 
 leading the way; "they never know their own 
 age within forty or fifty years. I once knew an 
 old fellow on the West Coast who died at a 
 hundred and twenty, as near as could be 
 guessed, and refused to be comforted when he 
 was being snuffed out, because he was cut off in 
 his youth." 
 
 "I am not a hundred and twenty," returned 
 the other, gloomily. 
 
 Revel did not notice his bad temper. He
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 147 
 
 was one of those men whose own tempers are 
 so equable, that they are slow to suspect ill- 
 temper in others. Nothing short of the wildest 
 outbreak on the part of Chauncey Chacomb 
 would have made the captain realise that his old 
 friend could be actuated by any but the most 
 kindly and cheerful sentiments. 
 
 "Look round, Chacomb, at the view up the 
 valley. I do not know which is the best time in 
 the day to mount this hill. I think such a 
 morning as this, when there is no mist to hide 
 the glorious breadth of colour. There was a 
 light sea fog at six, but it has gone. There is a 
 picture for you. It ought to be all the more en- 
 joyable for being your own, eh.-* A more valu- 
 able picture than any in the Collection. Pos- 
 session adds an additional charm of its own, I 
 should think. I remember going to France 
 about three and twenty years ago. I took my 
 first wife there, in fact, for our honeymoon, poor 
 thing, to show her the old place that was ours 
 for a thousand years, until the Revolution swept 
 us all away. It was on a summer morning like 
 this. The ruins of the chateau are on the left 
 bank of the Loire as you go down — the digue^ 
 
 10 — 2
 
 148 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 you know, is on the other side. There is a town 
 on the right bank, just a scrap of a town; a 
 bridge over the river, whicli runs like a brook 
 over its shallow and pebbly bed ; and on the 
 other side there is a little hill where they built 
 the castle — one tower at each end, halls and 
 chapels and dungeons between — almost a royal 
 castle for the memory of abominable things; for 
 my people were great sticklers for seigneurial 
 rights. Very odd, Chacomb, that a man's heart 
 glows with pride to remember that his ancestors 
 were great rogues. The place is all in ruins 
 now, but I went over it and spent the pleasantest 
 day in all my life, pointing out to my wife the 
 place where the thumbscrewing went on, where 
 the rack stood, where the peasants were shut up 
 on bread and water, and all the rest of it. It 
 was just such a day as this, and we stood on the 
 top of the tower, and looked over miles of as 
 fertile country as there is in France. All ours 
 once. I understood the pride of ownership for 
 the first time, though I had no part or share in a 
 single rood of land. I envy you, Chacomb." 
 
 The squire's head relented a little. It is un- 
 doubtedly a pleasant thing to be envied. The
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 149 
 
 desire of exciting envy is, perhaps, next to the 
 spur of necessity, one of the principal motives to 
 work and stimulants to success. Those who de- 
 precate the love of envy are themselves those 
 most liable to the passion — the poor and disap- 
 pointed folk, not the rich and envied. I have 
 known ladies who, I am quite certain, enjoyed 
 their own fine things in proportion to the green 
 and bilious feelings of envy they saw aroused in 
 their friends and guests. If you want to see 
 the highest enjoyment, chiefly caused by the 
 awakening of profound envy in others, give a 
 small schoolboy a watch and chain; a youthful 
 schoolgirl a sealskin jacket; or a charity child a 
 fourpenny-piece. 
 
 "Yes, Chacomb," the captain went on, "I envy 
 you. I wish I had broad acres and forest land 
 of my own, as my grandfather had. It would 
 help me now, at all events." 
 
 The squire, who was panting behind him, in- 
 stinctively took his hands out of his pockets and 
 buttoned up his coat. At all events, he would 
 lend no money. 
 
 ''Why now.-^" he asked. 
 
 "First, because I should have less anxiety
 
 ISO WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 about that boy of mine; and secondly, because 
 I should not have to let my Marion go to your 
 Gerald empty-handed." 
 
 The squire lifted his head, wagged it, nodded 
 it, and grinned silently. Then he accelerated 
 his pace, and lessened the distance between the 
 captain and himself. 
 
 "Say that again, Revel. I did not quite 
 catch." 
 
 "I say, Chacomb, that I am sorry to let 
 Marion go almost empty-handed to her hus- 
 band." 
 
 "Ah!" said the squire. 
 
 "When did Gerald tell you.?" 
 
 "He did not tell me." 
 
 The captain went on, still striding in advance. 
 It was like one of those processions that may be 
 seen in a mediaeval manuscript. First marches 
 the knight, chivalrous and frank; behind him 
 goes the villein, with the thoughts of a villein 
 stamped upon his face; with the latter, arm in 
 arm, no less a personage than the Devil. The 
 first walked with a light and springy step, the 
 sunshine pouring over the hedge upon his face ; 
 he walked as one whose heart is full of hope;
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 151 
 
 the second, crouching and bent, seemed to pull 
 his feet painfully, step by step, up the ascent. 
 He was in shadow, too, being much shorter than 
 the other, save when a gap in the bushes allowed 
 the sunshine to throw a gleam of light upon his 
 face, which brought out the more forcibly the 
 seaminess with which his passions were furrow- 
 ing it. As for the third Person, he was invisible. 
 Had it been otherwise, I would joyfully have 
 described him to you in this place, and then my 
 history would have been indeed original, unique, 
 and priceless. 
 
 "Gerald did not tell you! Ah, he went off too 
 early this morning. But you suspected, old 
 friend, eh.^ You thought, perhaps, what might 
 happen when the boy came home again?" 
 
 "I suspected? Yes, I did suspect," said the 
 squire. 
 
 "I did not, Chacomb. You knew your boy 
 better than I did. But it seems natural now: 
 a thing so right and fitting for both that, though 
 it was only arranged last night, it has settled 
 down in my thoughts as completely as if it had 
 been arranged from the beginning. To be sure, 
 the pair have been always together, except when
 
 K2 ]\'/TIf HARP AiXn CROWN. 
 
 Gerald was away. You know the long letters 
 he used to send her. There was not a word of 
 love in a deskful of them ; but it would be easy 
 to read them now by the light of what we know, 
 and find out proofs — ehi* — of something deeper 
 than friendship. I wish you joy, Chacomb, of 
 your new daughter. Marion will make a fair 
 chatelaine of Chacomb Hall." 
 
 The squire answered nothing, but twitched up 
 his right shoulder with a half-glance sideways, 
 as if to make sure that it was there. That por- 
 tion of his frame might have been the chosen 
 seat of an evil genius, from the attention he 
 bestowed upon it in disturbed and anxious mo- 
 ments. A look of doubt, as if his way was not 
 quite clear before him, crossed his face. Then 
 he lifted his head and listened again, for the 
 captain's heart was full, and he must needs 
 go on. 
 
 " Gerald and Marion — Marion and Gerald — 
 they have been in my thoughts together so long 
 that it will be no effort to keep them together 
 always. Gerald and Marion. It is a great 
 happiness to me — a greater happiness, Cha- 
 comb, than I could have hoped or expected.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 153 
 
 Gerald has been to me always as dear as my 
 own son. There is no boy to whom I would 
 more gladly entrust my girl's happiness." 
 
 His son's praises only made the self-tormentor 
 more angry. But he chafed in silence. 
 
 " I do think, Chacomb," the captain went on, 
 " that Heaven is kinder to us than we can even 
 ask. When things look darkest, comes a touch 
 of fortune that lights up the whole atmosphere 
 again. They looked very dull last night when 
 I heard how Fred had disgraced himself Did 
 Gerald tell you that.?" 
 
 "No — no! Disgraced himself.'* Tell me 
 about that," answered the squire, quickly. 
 " He has been rusticated for a year." 
 " Ah!" The squire smacked his lips and drew 
 a long breath — perhaps of fatigue. " Was it — 
 was it for anything more than usually shameful 
 and dishonourable.?" 
 
 "As you please to look at it. Gerald tries 
 to make light of it. It was only a schoolboy 
 freak." 
 
 "A schoolboy freak, you call it. Fred is only 
 twenty, is he.?" 
 
 "Very nearly. He is three years younger
 
 154 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 than Marion. The news came last night. I 
 was gloomily looking over the letters and 
 bills—" 
 
 " Fred has got into debt, then? Ah!" 
 
 " When the two came in, and told me all 
 about it. Well, I have had a long spell of fair 
 weather: I must expect an occasional squall. 
 But I have thought it all out, Chacomb. I will 
 tell you what I propose. I take it for granted, 
 my dear old friend, that you are as pleased at 
 the match as I am. Gerald will stay at home 
 with you; he will be your right-hand man. 
 Marion will show you what it. means to have a 
 daughter. You shall lend me money to pay off 
 the prodigal's debts. We will have the wedding 
 in September; and then I shall take the boy 
 to London, put him to some work, and take 
 care of him myself. Poor Fred is only a boy, 
 after all." 
 
 As the captain enumerated each clause of his 
 proposed plan of perfect happiness, the squire's 
 right car and shoulder came together with little 
 jerks, each of great meaning. 
 
 " Oh, Fred is only a boy. And the marriage 
 will take place in September. And you will
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 155 
 
 go to London to take care of him. I see. Very 
 good." 
 
 " That is what I think of doing. It runs in 
 the blood, you see. My father, who was forty- 
 five when he married, began with what you may 
 call a good solid foundation of debt. The here- 
 ditary tendency passed over me, and has at- 
 tacked poor Fred. Unfortunate that I did not 
 foresee the danger. Then I should not have 
 had to borrow of you." 
 
 " Quite so," said the squire, with a grin. 
 " That's very unfortunate ; extremely unfortu- 
 nate — that is." 
 
 " Fred's debts come to about a thousand 
 pounds, all told. Not so bad for the son of 
 a half-pay officer, is it.? But what should we 
 have said if he had emulated the example of 
 his great-great-uncle, the chevalier, who distin- 
 guished himself, a century and a half ago, by 
 a career rather shorter and a great deal merrier? 
 It only lasted six months. He was a private 
 friend of the Regent, and a very particular 
 friend of the Countess de Parabere. Some other 
 young fellow ran him through the body, after 
 one poor little summer ' on the chuck,' as we
 
 156 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 used to say in the navy, and they found his 
 debts were half a milHon of francs. No one 
 paid them, poor fellow ; and history, while it 
 drops a tear over the chevalier, has none for his 
 creditors. There must have been something 
 winning about the young fellow to make all the 
 world trust him. Perhaps Fred is like him. At 
 all events, Chacomb, this is the position of 
 affairs. There is a balance of four hundred or 
 so in the bank, all that is left of the money 
 saved for the boy's education. Marion and I 
 put it by, you know. There will be six hun- 
 dred to pay. Now, I intend to ask you for that 
 sum, Chacomb." 
 
 *' Ah!" said the squire, who was growing pur- 
 ple in the face, perhaps with the exertion of 
 going uphill. 
 
 " Yes, you shall lend me that sum, and I shall 
 be able to pay you back when Fred gets an 
 income." 
 
 *' When Fred gets — ah ! — gets an income," 
 gasped the squire. 
 
 " It will be a few years — two or three years — 
 first, I am afraid. But I shall devote myself to 
 the boy. Never fear for Fred, Chacomb. Per-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWiY. 157 
 
 haps I have been too fond of my Marion, and 
 neglected the boy. That shall be seen to — and 
 at once." 
 
 The squire, answering nothing, began to 
 swing his arms backwards and forwards. Over 
 his face came the same expression which had 
 alarmed the doctor the previous night, a look of 
 uncontrollable passion, which surged up into his 
 cheeks in bursts of crimson, and receded, leaving 
 them pallid; which made his lips full and his 
 mouth tremble; which gave unwonted fire to 
 his eyes. But now the doctor was not present, 
 and Chauncey Chacomb, with that invisible com- 
 panion we have spoken of, had it all his own 
 way. 
 
 As the captain spoke the last words, the lane 
 came to an end at a field gate which led to 
 the open down. The level of the summit was 
 reached. 
 
 " Ah," cried Revel, " here we are at last." 
 
 Without looking round he vaulted the gate, 
 and turned off upon the level, springy turf 
 towards the edge of the cliff, followed by the 
 other two, a little distance behind him — Chaun- 
 cey Chacomb and the Devil.
 
 158 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 " The grass is pleasant after the stony path," 
 said the captain. " This is the place that my 
 girl is so fond of. I believe she used to sit up 
 here by herself, and watch the ships coming up 
 the Channel — ' silver sails all out of the west ' — 
 thinking that one of them might bring Gerald. 
 I will take you where she used to come: the 
 very best place for a good sea view, especially 
 when it is fine enough to see Lundy, between 
 this and Clovelly. You may watch the sea, if 
 you like, while I read you my young scape- 
 grace's letter." 
 
 Captain Revel was like the unfortunate draper 
 in " Pierre Pathelin," divided between his wool 
 and his sheep, inasmuch as his thoughts went 
 from one thing to the other. They were divided 
 between Marion and Fred. 
 
 "And when we have read the letter, we will 
 talk over Gerald and Marion's affairs." 
 
 There was near them a fourth person lying 
 on the grass, whom Chauncey Chacomb had 
 forgotten, his cousin Joseph. He was reclining 
 supine in considerable comfort; his head was 
 propped on a pillow made up of a little mound 
 of tufted grass, surrounded by one of the
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 159 
 
 squire's soft felt hats — a new and a very good 
 hat — which he had crumpled up ; he had put on 
 a new Tweed coat belonging also to the head of 
 the Chacomb clan — it mattered very little about 
 the sleeves being too short; he was smoking 
 one of half a dozen cigars he had thoughtfully 
 taken from Gerald's own box, brought by him 
 from Havana; he occasionally tapped with 
 thankfulness that portion of his chest on which 
 lay the pocket-book with Chauncey Chacomb's 
 cheque for ^200; his legs were crossed and his 
 arms thrown out upon the grass, so that the 
 warm sun and the cool breeze could work un- 
 checked all their beneficent will upon him. 
 
 His eyes were half-closed as he watched the 
 blue wreaths from his cigar rise daintily into the 
 air, and the wind blow them away, streaming 
 like a girl's tresses by the sea -shore. Near him 
 sat a fat and motherly-looking ewe, pretending 
 to be pleased rather than frightened at the 
 proximity of the stranger. Every now and 
 then he made faces at her, blew the smoke in 
 her direction, and even shook a menacing boot 
 at her. In vain: the experienced matron 
 smiled like a Celestial, but moved not. Ugly
 
 i6o WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 faces do not hurt, they amuse; boots may 
 shake, but do not fly off like flints and pebbles; 
 tobacco smoke is even pleasant in the open air. 
 To be sure, all sheep naturally have an aver- 
 sion to the smell within closed doors, because 
 butchers' assistants have a habit of smoking 
 common tobacco in certain places, never named 
 among the race, where the associations are un- 
 pleasant. So the sheep sat and looked on; 
 while the doctor, in murmuring tones, like one 
 who eats the lotos in a land where it is always 
 afternoon, addressed her with honeyed words 
 and dulcet tones. 
 
 " Mother of mutton," he said, with a smack of 
 his lips, "fear not the stranger who comes with 
 neither club nor dog. Your children, madam, 
 have gone, perhaps, to the bourne which makes 
 that stranger the man he is. The lambs whom 
 you imagine to be in exile in foreign lands have 
 worked up into these arms and legs, and this 
 scientific brain. 'Alas, unmindful of mint sauce, 
 among the mint they played.' There is thus, 
 madam, if one may say so, a kind of relation- 
 ship between us. We may even one day knit 
 closer the tie that binds us. The grass which
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, i6i 
 
 you are champing — it is succulent, and eats 
 short, I am sure, from the expression of your 
 open countenance — may perhaps, in other forms, 
 become part of the frame of the humble philo- 
 sopher who addresses you. This, madam, is a 
 law of the universe : life preys on life, the strong 
 devour the weak; and though I sincerely hope 
 that I shall not eat your ladyship, and that your 
 sphere of maternal usefulness may be protracted 
 for many a happy summer, you will acknow- 
 ledge that I must devour somebody, and may 
 have to devour you. Animals with brains are 
 more dangerous to lambs than animals with 
 muscles. Your respected husband, madam, Sir 
 Timothy Ram — I believe it is a good old 
 county name — is a strong creature, but a 
 mighty fool; the fox is a crafty animal, and, 
 though he lacks strength, has hitherto ma- 
 naged to preserve his independence. I, La 
 Mere, if you will allow me the expression, 
 am both strong and crafty; therefore I am 
 to be feared by lambs. I will ^wo: you a 
 wrinkle, madam: never you work for yourself, 
 if you can get any one to work for you. Joseph 
 Chacomb, O sheep of solemn vacancy, is forty- 
 VOL. I. . II
 
 i62 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 five years of age; he has hitherto made other 
 people work for him; he proposes to continue 
 that line of action ; and he hopes devoutly 
 never to do any more work at all. For his 
 cousin Chauncey has blossomed into an Ass so 
 enormous, that it would be an unspeakably 
 sinful thing to let another have the squeezing 
 and the plucking of him. Families should keep 
 their hawks as well as their pigeons among 
 themselves; and it is only Christian to do 
 unto your cousin that which other men would 
 do unto him if they could. Gerald, madam, 
 is an ass of another kind. My own sincere 
 prayer is that Gerald may marry Marion, 
 and—" 
 
 Here his soliloquy was cut short by the 
 sound of voices, or of one voice, and raising his 
 head a little he saw Revel, with the squire fol- 
 lowing at his heels, walking as I have described 
 across the down in the direction of the clift" 
 Naturally he did not sec the third person, who 
 was invisible. 
 
 " What the devil is the matter with Chaun- 
 cey.-*" murmured the doctor. " He looks exactly 
 as he did last night."
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. ' 163 
 
 Just then the squire raised his face, so that 
 the sunlight fell full upon it. 
 
 "By gad," said the doctor, rousing himself, 
 " I believe there will be a row. Look at the 
 captain pointing placidly with his stick to the 
 sea, while Ch^iuncey mops and mows behind 
 him, like an ape who would like to swear 
 horribly, but forgets the words. This grows 
 interesting." 
 
 Chauncey Chacomb followed mechanically, 
 his body bent and half crouching, though the 
 ground was level; but his hands were spread 
 out half-way between the hips and the shoul- 
 ders, with quick restless movements ; his eyes 
 watched Revel's back with a strange intensity 
 of gaze, which was like a wild beast's glare ; 
 his lips worked uneasily; his cheek twitched. 
 
 **I wonder if he is mad?" said the doctor, 
 watching. " I've a good mind to go and spoil 
 the row. I believe he must be mad." 
 
 He sat up to see better. The ewe, thinking 
 the time for dissimulation was past, started to 
 her feet and scuttled off in undisguised terror. 
 But Dr. Chacomb was not thinking of her. 
 
 IT — 2
 
 i64 IVITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "I am sure," he said to himself, "that if 
 Chauncey had a dagger he would stick it into 
 Revel's back. He looks more dangerous than 
 he did last night. There viust be a row. Why- 
 does not Revel turn round ? It would be fun to 
 see him, just now, catch that charming expres- 
 sion on my cousin's face, when it looks most 
 devilish. If they come to a fight I shall have 
 to intervene, like the Queen's Proctor, or a po- 
 liceman at a pantomime." 
 
 He had not long to wait. 
 
 The two moved on across the ground, which 
 rose a little until it reached a sort of saddle- 
 back, from which the turf sloped rapidly for 
 eight feet or so, until it came to the edge of 
 the cliff, which here descended almost perpen- 
 dicularly to the sea. The figures stood out for 
 a moment to the doctor's eye like two black 
 silhouettes before the bright and sunny sky : 
 the one erect and tall, the other crouched and 
 misshapen. 
 
 Then the captain stopped. 
 
 "Here we are, Chacomb. The best place in 
 all Devonshire on a fine summer's day; a place 
 for lovers to sit and dream. I believe it was
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 165 
 
 here that Gerald and Marion yesterday came 
 to an understanding, as the country folk say. 
 Ha! ha! Now we will sit down and talk it 
 over." He turned round slowly, as a man 
 does who is looking for a soft place to sit 
 down upon. ''Good God, Chacomb, what is 
 the matter?" 
 
 The man's face was wild with boiling rage: 
 his cheek was white ; his eyes were red ; his 
 hands were raised to the level of his face, and 
 held palms outward ; his teeth chattered, but he 
 could find no words. Chauncey Chacomb was 
 mad, much more mad than when, the night be- 
 fore, he had poured out the secret of his foolish 
 soul. 
 
 " Chacomb!" repeated the captain. 
 
 " I — I — I hate you I " stammered the other, 
 feeling about the air with his hands, as if search- 
 ing for words. "I hate you! I would kill you 
 if I could!" 
 
 He moved forward with a threatening ges- 
 ture. Captain Revel, bewildered, stepped back. 
 And then — then, all in a moment, the bloodshot 
 eyes of the madman looked into space, for Cap- 
 tain Revel had disappeared. His foot slipped
 
 i66 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 upon the smooth grass as he recoiled before the 
 threatening gestures of his companion; he reeled 
 and staggered; he fell head foremost on the 
 slope; he caught with both hands at the short 
 turf, but the roots came away from the rocky- 
 soil in his grasp; and, without a cry or a sound, 
 he rolled over the edge of the cliff, and was 
 gone. 
 
 When the fit left Chauncey Chacomb, he re- 
 membered, as in a dream, the captain's last look 
 of horror, and it remained with him an accusing 
 spirit till the day of his death. 
 
 It took him a few moments to realize what 
 had happened. When he did, his madness being 
 still strong upon him, he threw himself forward 
 on the slope, at imminent risk of falling over, 
 and lay on hands and knees, with his head pro- 
 jected over the edge. The cliff was about a 
 hundred feet high, not quite perpendicular. Just 
 above the water was a narrow ledge. On this 
 ledge lay a helpless mass of clothes and broken 
 bones, which had a minute before been Captain 
 Revel. It still moved, so that he was not dead. 
 
 The wretched man cried and shouted, exult- 
 ing like an Israelite over the fall of his enemy.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 167 
 
 "Revel" — the rocks rang out the name, and 
 the echoes took it up, and repeated it along the 
 black line of curved and indented cliff — " Revel 
 — Revel — Revel — listen, before you die. Gerald 
 shall never marry Marion — do you hear? I will 
 lend no money to your spendthrift son — do you 
 hear? Fred and the girls shall starve — do you 
 hear? I lend them money? I will see them 
 begging their bread in the streets first. Do you 
 hear? do you hear? do you hear? There you 
 are, and there you will die. Ho! ho! ho! 
 There you will die!" 
 
 Did the broken and shattered form of the 
 man below catch the mockings of his enemy, as 
 they rolled from point to point round the coves 
 and bays of the vexed shore? But the harsh 
 tones did not break upon the sleep of the in- 
 nocent girl by Comb Leigh Cove, to mar the 
 beauty of her love dream. 
 
 The squire felt with thankfulness that he had 
 recovered his powers of speech, and was going 
 on with greatly increased freedom and liberty of 
 utterance, but found he could not, being sud- 
 denly and violently pulled backwards by the 
 heels. It was his cousin dragging him up, at the
 
 1 68 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 risk of his own life and limbs — a more perilous 
 feat than the rescue of a drowning man; for 
 Chauncey Chacomb kicked and writhed, shout- 
 ing curses and imprecations on Revel, on his 
 cousin, and on Marion. Doctor Joseph, however, 
 went about his work with great coolness, and, 
 after five minutes' struggle, had his cousin safely 
 on the level sward, with one hand firmly in his 
 collar, coat and shirt and all. 
 
 "Let me go!" cried the maniac; "let me go! 
 Let me see him die! Joseph, it isn't half 
 enough to kill him. I want to taunt him. Let 
 me go! Suppose he were to die before I have 
 told him all. Oh, what a chance to miss!" 
 
 " Be quiet, madman, or I will squeeze the 
 breath out of your miserable little body. Be 
 quiet, I say." 
 
 The doctor shook him backwards and for- 
 wards till his struggles ceased, and then turned 
 him round, and looked straight into his eyes. 
 
 "Let me go, Joe," he whimpered; "let me go 
 — please let me go; and I will give you five 
 hundred pounds. I want just to have one more 
 look — one more look. Ah, one more!" 
 
 Here his voice died away in broken murmurs;
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 169 
 
 and he fell to shaking like one who has an ague. 
 For he could not choose but look back into 
 the doctor's eyes, which seemed searching into 
 his very soul. He struggled to speak, but his 
 tongue refused to move ; he tried to turn away 
 his gaze, but he could not: the mesmeric in- 
 fluence of the stronger will was upon the weaker. 
 His mania passed away from him, his arms 
 dropped, his lips closed. The doctor, still hold- 
 ing him by one hand, made a pass or two with 
 the other, and then laid him gently on the inner 
 slope of the sward, his face turned inland. 
 
 "So," he said; "here is a devil of a business! 
 What is to be done next ?" 
 
 What, indeed ! He left his patient safe for a 
 while in his mesmeric sleep, and crept warily 
 down the slope. Where it shelved most steeply, 
 close to the edge, he laid himself along the 
 ground, and digging knees, toes, and elbows in 
 the turf, he looked over. It was a fearful place ; 
 the cliff was inclined at a slight angle to the ver- 
 tical, was stuck with small ledges and projections, 
 on which the man had broken his fall, and so pro- 
 longed his pains. He lay on the lowest ledge, but 
 now seemed motionless and dead. The doctor
 
 I70 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 noticed that the projection ran along the base 
 of the cliff, and apparently round the corner, 
 and into a cleft in the wall, where Nature 
 seemed to have designed a cove, but changed 
 her mind owing- to the difficulties of the under- 
 
 •t> 
 
 taking. 
 
 "I might get down there," said the doctor; 
 " at any rate, I can try." 
 
 He scrambled back, and looked again at his 
 cousin. 
 
 " Sleep on, you miserable little madman," he 
 said. "A pretty morning's work you've done. 
 Sleep, you — you — you microcephalous imbecile, 
 till I come back and kick you up." 
 
 Chauncey Chacomb made no answer. His 
 eyes were closed, and he was sleeping. 
 
 "Had I known anything of the medical pro- 
 fession," the doctor murmured, " I should have 
 locked you up last night. A strait-waistcoat 
 and a little gruel, and myself for your private 
 physician and adviser. What a chance — what 
 a chance to miss ! Everything," he added with 
 a sigh, and hurrying along the cliff to the gap — 
 " everything is in the hands of the man who has 
 taught himself his profession. Joseph Chacomb,
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 171 
 
 you were a fool, a very great fool, not to read 
 in the days of your youth. I wonder if I can 
 get down there?" 
 
 It was his only chance, for all along the road 
 beyond the waves washed the bare faces of the 
 vertical cliff. But here, where the ledge seemed 
 to be carried round the curve of the rock,, there 
 was a deep indentation, as if a large knife had 
 begun to cut a triangular stile, but failing partly 
 in the task, had left a ragged mass at the bottom 
 piled up by broken rocks and overgrown with 
 brambles. 
 
 It was possible to get down as far as this 
 by an active man; but beyond.? Beyond it 
 the waters ran into the gap, and at its mouth 
 the cliffs stood face to face to make a gate. 
 But the doctor thought it looked just possible 
 to get round by the boulders and rocks that lay 
 about the entrance. 
 
 "I don't like it," he said; "but I will try. I 
 think Chauncey will do for half an hour." 
 
 He talked to himself, as was his wont, in 
 cheerful tones; but his face was pale and his 
 hand shook as he thought of the murdered 
 man.
 
 172 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "Murdered," he said, half aloud; "murdered, 
 if ever man was murdered!" 
 
 There was a kind of landslip at the end of 
 the gap, down which he lowered himself step by 
 step, holding by bramble and briar, clinging to 
 projecting rocks, which gave way beneath his 
 weight, creeping warily along the edge of preci- 
 pices—not Alpine, certainly, but high enough to 
 kill him if he fell — and dropping down smooth 
 faces from ledge to ledge. But at last he stood 
 above the water, where a single stone gave him 
 a slippery foothold. He looked round him, and 
 groaned. 
 
 " Chauncey, if I get safe out of this, I will 
 make you pay for it." 
 
 It was a black and savage-looking place, in 
 which the waves, though it was a comparatively 
 smooth day outside, flung up jets and fountains 
 of spray and foam, with loud whistlings and 
 roarings, which sometimes frightened belated 
 market women coming along the down after 
 dark, when the weather was stormy and the 
 wind high. 
 
 He looked round him, and saw at the back 
 the cave, dark and yawning. He shuddered.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 173 
 
 " I suppose the king of the octopuses holds 
 his throne there. I hope his majesty is asleep. 
 It would be a sweet thing to see his long claws 
 coming out of the cave, and feel them catching 
 me round the neck, and I without so much as a 
 penknife — even a toothpick might be useful." 
 
 He clambered, clung, and crept along the 
 black and sloping sides of the infernal hole, 
 towards the opening. There he found his fur- 
 ther progress stopped by a rough, serrated rock, 
 standing like a sentinel to bar his way. He 
 whistled in despair. The big, dark rock barred 
 his progress, and he felt as if he could neither 
 get forward nor back. Then he sat down, his 
 feet dangling over the water, and began to re- 
 flect, looking at the boulder. 
 
 ** I can't get over you," he murmured, " you 
 big, black devil; but I might get round you. 
 Suppose I was to fall in and be drowned, like 
 a rat in a trap, as I believe I shall! It would 
 serve me right, for getting down here at all. I 
 should be found in a few years, perhaps, all that 
 would be left of me — a button or two, a purse 
 with some money, a silver watch : that would be 
 the final edition of the works of this Josephit?.
 
 174 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 Suppose, which is equally probable, that I have 
 to wait here and starve slowly till the octopus in 
 the cave thinks he is strong enough to throw off 
 the mask and attack mc. Chauncey, if ever I 
 do get back, it shall be bad for you. No!" as he 
 made another effort to get over the rock which 
 barred him from further advance. He looked 
 down into the dark depths beneath him. " That 
 won't do. Pah! The crabs are mustering in all 
 their force, and sending invitations to their rela- 
 tions. I can see them at the bottom, I believe. 
 The lobsters will hear of it, and come without 
 being invited. There are yellow star-fish lying 
 on the stones across the water — they have eyes, 
 and are longing to be at me. There must be 
 whelks, too, at the bottom. When they have 
 eaten me, they will be caught and eaten them- 
 selves, from a stall, with pepper and vinegar, in 
 Whitechapel. If I fall in, they will say that I 
 went a-shrimping. Come, Joseph Chacomb, pull 
 yourself together — pluck up." 
 
 He laid himself flat upon the rough and slop- 
 ing surface, holding on by one foot and both 
 hands, while he threw his leg round till he met 
 with a projection. Bit by bit he struggled on,
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 175 
 
 panting and wheezing, for the doctor was not 
 so young as he had been, till he found himself 
 round the point, and with both feet on the 
 narrow and broken ledge on which the captain 
 lay. He made his way cautiously along, and in 
 five minutes was kneeling beside the form which 
 lay apparently inanimate upon the rock. 
 
 "Poor beggar! poor beggar!" murmured the 
 doctor; "and to think that he might have been 
 alive and well still if Chauncey had not been an 
 Ass!" 
 
 He felt the pulse — the left arm was crushed 
 and broken, lying under the body, but the right 
 appeared to be comparatively uninjured. There 
 was a faint motion — it takes a good deal to beat 
 the life out of a man. The doctor dipped his 
 hat in the sea, and, raising the head, poured the 
 water over it. The captain's face was pale and 
 white ; from his mouth oozed the blood drop by 
 drop. 
 
 "Revel," whispered the doctor, "Revel, can 
 you speak .^" 
 
 There was no answer; nothing to show that he 
 heard, or comprehended, or lived — only the dull, 
 slow beating of the pulse at the doctor's finger.
 
 176 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "Oh, that I were on the cliff now!" said 
 Joseph. " What would I give for a boat? And 
 how the deuce am I get him, or myself either, 
 out of this?" 
 
 He resolved to try the next point; and step- 
 ping lightly over the prostrate form, to which 
 he could do nothing, he crept along the ledge 
 in the same direction, and disappeared behind 
 the next point. 
 
 It was half an hour later when he returned in 
 Revel's own boat, rowed by a couple of farm 
 boys. In the boat sat Marion. As the doctor 
 — rough, coarse in grain, selfish, and cynical — 
 looked at the face of the girl, so suddenly 
 stricken that there was no time for weeping, no 
 room for despair, the unaccustomed tears rolled 
 down his cheeks. 
 
 They brought It, the poor crushed form, 
 covered with a sheet, home to Comb Leigh in 
 the boat. As they lifted the body, the doctor 
 saw Chauncey Chacomb standing near. By his 
 trembling limbs, by the wan light in his eyes, 
 by his moaning and crying, he saw that the 
 madman only partly understood what had hap- 
 pened, and how. As they bore the captain to
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 177 
 
 the cottage, Chauncey followed with stagger- 
 ing step. His confused brain knew, in a be- 
 wildered sort of way, that he had somehow 
 caused the thing to happen. He could not 
 remember yet; but he was filled with a dread- 
 ful terror. He dimly perceived that there 
 would be no rest or happiness for him any 
 more: the seal of Cain, the murderer, was 
 on his brow. But his victim's pulse yet beat, 
 though feebly. For three long hours they 
 waited round the bedside. Marion at his head, 
 dry-eyed; Adie, weeping and sobbing, at the 
 foot of the bed; Chauncey standing helpless 
 and silent, turning his bewildered eyes from 
 one to the other. The sun shone in at the 
 window, where the captain's roses climbed 
 about, throwing their branches across the light, 
 and making fantastic patterns in the shifting 
 shadows of the floor. 
 
 Suddenly the watchers saw a change. There 
 was a slight quivering of the limbs, and the 
 captain opened his eyes for a moment. 
 
 " He is coming to his senses," the doctor 
 whispered. ** He hears, my girl; be brave." 
 
 " Father," she whispered, "do you know me?" 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 As she touched his poor pale h*ps with hers, 
 he opened his eyes again, and looked at her in 
 a strange, wondering way, with a tender pity in 
 them. His thoughts were all with her — Marion 
 saw it with a wild tumult of misery and happi- 
 ness — all with her. 
 
 Then his lips parted, and she went closer. 
 
 " Marion" he whispered, " my poor, poor 
 Marion! — I see it all! It was not my fault. 
 Endure to the end, my darling — and always 
 trust in God. My dear! — my dear! — my dear!" 
 
 His eyes both dropped as in very weariness; 
 and presently the doctor, laying his hand upon 
 the captain's heart, found that he had fallen into 
 the sleep from which there is no earthly waking.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WEEK has passed; the coroner has 
 come to Comb Leigh upon his 
 errand, and by the help of a dozen 
 farmers the inquest has been held. 
 The conduct and appearance of Mr. Chauncey 
 Chacomb, the principal witness, were remark- 
 able: the reporter said that his overmastering 
 grief did equal credit to his heart and to his 
 head. In incoherent accents, and with hesitat- 
 ing tongue, he set forth what was well known to 
 everybody present — how the deceased gentle- 
 man and himself had been almost daily com- 
 panions for many years; and how, while they 
 were talking together on the cliff, the captain's 
 foot slipped, and he fell. Being asked by an 
 intelligent juryman if he knew of any cause — 
 orange peel now, a thing he had heard was fatal 
 
 12 — 2
 
 i8o WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 to many a man — why the captain should have 
 sh'ppcd, he stated, after the coroner had called 
 attention to the fact that orange peel would be 
 a comparatively rare thing to find in August at 
 the top of the cliff, that he knew of no cause or 
 reason whatever. Being asked by another intel- 
 ligent juryman if the captain was possibly un- 
 well that morning — bile now, a thing often felt 
 by himself, the questioner, after a market dinner 
 — Mr. Chacomb said that Captain Revel had 
 made no complaint as to biliousness. Being 
 asked if the spot was considered dangerous, Mr. 
 Chacomb said that, on the contrar}% he had un- 
 derstood it to be a favourite spot for lovers to sit 
 and watch the view, and that he had never heard 
 of any one under those circumstances falling 
 over. Another juryman interposed with the re- 
 mark that it was very true, and he had sat there 
 himself in younger days; whereat everybody 
 laughed. From time to time 'Chauncey Cha- 
 comb, while giving his evidence, looked ner- 
 vously at his cousin, who sat with his head 
 down, but made no sign. The doctor's testi- 
 mony was given with greater vigour, and bore 
 internal evidence of careful preparation. It
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. i8i 
 
 made, as he intended, a profound impression. 
 He had heard, he explained, his cousin Mr. 
 Chauncey Chacomb's cry for help, and on 
 hastening to the place, and looking over the 
 edge of the cliff, saw the deceased gentleman 
 lying on the rocks below. He had then made 
 his way to the spot by a breakneck path, which 
 he described at length with pardonable aggrava- 
 tion of the difficulties, and had finally succeeded 
 in getting round the point and hailing the boat. 
 The juiy were unanimous in expressing their 
 highest admiration of Dr. Chacomb's heroism in 
 attempting a rescue. They were also unanimous 
 in concurring that Parliament should be peti- 
 tioned to put handrails round all cliffs, and 
 provide rope ladders in case of any one falling 
 over. And then they brought in their verdict 
 of "Accidental death." What other verdict was 
 possible ? Evil looks do not murder; and who 
 was there except the doctor to say that the man 
 slipped and fell, overcome with confusion at 
 the threatening looks and gestures of his com- 
 panion } 
 
 As for Fred, for whom Gerald had gone in 
 search, he came home in time to attend the
 
 i82 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 funeral. Not waiting for the paternal per- 
 mission to go to Egypt, he had started at once, 
 on getting the ten pounds from Marion, with a 
 sanguine confidence that more would follow, and 
 yet with some forebodings how his father might 
 take it. At Paris, he saw the news in Galignani, 
 and hastened back. He bore himself steadily 
 at the funeral, and the village folk congratulated 
 each other that the captain's boy was so brave 
 and fine a young fellow, and so admirably qua- 
 lified to help his sisters. 
 
 Marion called upon him, indeed, at once for 
 help, endeavouring to face the realities of the 
 future. But in vain. Her brother would not 
 look at the facts as they were. He put it off; 
 he fenced with the necessity; he refused to read 
 through the papers; he declined to let her know 
 his liabilities. And yet he looked forward with 
 a confident cheerfulness to a wonderful future; 
 for with men of Fred's character it is the leading 
 trait that they never can face anything real. 
 
 "You see, dear Fred, we viiist consider things; 
 we have very little money — only the insurance; 
 and we imist consider what is to be done." 
 
 "I think, Marion"— with a yawn— " that it
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 183 
 
 shows singularly little regard for my poor 
 father's memory to begin this kind of talk the 
 very first day after he is buried. And as 
 for the future, I see no cause for any anxiety 
 at all. I have already told you that Lord 
 Rodney — " 
 
 " The firework man. Oh, Fred ! " 
 
 "Has promised to get me something good. 
 What will it matter, then, that my father has 
 left us no money } I hope, Marion, you will 
 remember that, as the head of the family, I shall 
 always feel it my duty to provide for you and 
 Adie." 
 
 Marion repressed her rising irritation. 
 
 " Yes, Fred, it is very good of you to say so, 
 and to think so; but Lord Rodney is in Egypt; 
 we do not know when he will come back ; and it 
 will not do to trust to vague hopes. We have 
 to pay off your debts first; and what are we to 
 do till your friend finds something that will suit 
 you?" 
 
 "Confound it, Marion, do not worry a man! 
 If things look bad, staring at them won't make 
 them look any better. Let us sit down and 
 wait till they come round again. At all events.
 
 i84 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 there is the insurance ; and something will turn 
 up." 
 
 Always a belief that things, if left alone, 
 would right themselves; always that blind con- 
 fidence which borders dangerously near the 
 Paradise of fools. It is with certain natures 
 infectious. Adie caught it of her brother. She, 
 too, protested against the folly of anxiety about 
 the future; she, too, found it a flying in the 
 face of Providence to add up bills and think 
 of ways and means ; and, with Fred, would leave 
 Marion alone with her papers, to wander along 
 the leafy lanes, and to talk together of the merry 
 days in store for them, and the pleasant paths 
 of careless folly. It might seem safe to pro- 
 phecy of Fred that there will be few more 
 pleasant lingerings in the sunshine for him ; but 
 prophecy— since the school of the Prophets 
 finally broke up and dissolved when Malachi left 
 it — has been an eminently unsafe thing. Some 
 things we know, of course, from long experience. 
 The clever boy of the school becomes a pauper, 
 after a thousand failures ; the good boy gets 
 hanged, after a long course of hypocrisy. Any 
 one can prophecy so far; but what shall we say
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 185 
 
 about the bad and lazy boy ? Observers have 
 remarked that though in after-life he continues 
 to wallow in his laziness and badness, like a pig 
 of the flock of Epicurus, he too often gets a 
 good income, a pleasant life, and easy times. 
 " Women," Dr. Chacomb once said to me, " can 
 always, unless they belong to the passive or 
 stupid class, foretell the future. Unfortunately 
 their' power is limited, and they are all like 
 Cassandra, inasmuch as they only see the bad 
 things that are coming." Still, that is better 
 than nothing, especially when you get predic- 
 tions about your enemies' coming misfortunes. 
 Why is it that one-half — the greater half — of 
 mankind have been excluded from the Jewish 
 Prophets t Had it been otherwise, what a 
 screaming sisterhood should we have had ! 
 Fancy a dozen Deborahs pouring out the heart's 
 fulness of invective, exultation, and denuncia- 
 tion! Fancy the lost splendours, the tragic 
 predictions, of a wronged and angry Hebrew 
 woman ! 
 
 Marion, left alone, went carefully through her 
 father's papers. The letters she put aside to be 
 burned ; the accounts, and all that seemed to
 
 1 86 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 refer to money, she kept. And so one morning, 
 a few days after the funeral, she came across a 
 secret that sent the blood from her cheek. 
 
 A dreadful secret; a shameful secret; a secret 
 that touched the happiness and the self-respect of 
 those dearest to her; a secret that told her why, 
 in the prime of early manhood, her father, an 
 ambitious and active man, could resign his hopes 
 for the future, and take refuge in a country 
 village, where he was unknown, and the thing 
 could not follow him. 
 
 " My poor dear father!" she murmured. "He 
 suffered this through all these years, and made 
 no sign. What shall I do, what shall I do to 
 keep it secret.-^ I may at least tell Gerald." 
 
 But where was Gerald.^ He had disappeared. 
 No letter came from him, and he made no sign. 
 It was strange. At Chacomb Hall the two men 
 thought nothing of it; Gerald was not in cither's 
 thoughts. At the Rosery there was one at 
 least who looked and waited all the day, who 
 watched and waited all the night. But no news 
 could come; for Gerald, fresh from Brazilian 
 lowlands, was working off a fever — one of half a 
 dozen left in his system as a parting gift of the
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 187 
 
 Oroonoco swamps — in a hotel at Boulogne, 
 unable to write, and fretting over the delay that 
 kept him from Marion. 
 
 It was at this juncture that Joseph Cha- 
 comb, quite unexpectedly and to his own as- 
 tonishment, developed an entirely new side of 
 character. He appeared as the man of sym- 
 pathy. During the bad days before the funeral 
 he would walk over every morning, and do what 
 work there was to do. When that business was 
 finished, he still came in readiness to work at 
 Marion's request. She ended by liking him and 
 looking for him. He was rough, and he took 
 dreadful views of human nature. Still he was 
 kind. He went through the papers with her — 
 Fred's papers of debts — noting things that 
 might be reduced; while the culprit himself was 
 lying on the grass in the shade, or singing duets 
 with Adie. 
 
 " Well, there are all the bills before us. Of 
 course," he said, "we are not going to pay half 
 of them." 
 
 "But we must; Fred owes them." 
 
 " I know. We need not pay one single far- 
 thing, I believe. They are debts contracted in his
 
 WITH HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 minority. Fred is not yet twenty-one. Besides, 
 they are all extravagant debts. You cannot 
 make a minor pay for things manifestly unneces- 
 sary. Look here: an Oxford hack, no doubt a 
 broken-winded, spavined, knock-kneed roarer, at 
 two pounds a day; the tennis court at three and 
 sixpence an hour, with a few pounds added in 
 for beer. Where is their licence, Miss Revel.'* 
 answer me that — where is their licence.-* And 
 what is this.'* Rabbit coursing in a dog-fancier's 
 back yard. Could any British jury pass that 
 account — even a jury of small tradesmen.-* 
 Why, the thing is illegal. Come, Miss Marion, 
 if you pay this bill, I will Jdo^^o^v a guinea of 
 you, give it to the Society for the Suppression 
 of Cruelty to Animals, and make them pro- 
 secute the rascal, with your brother for principal 
 witness. As for these bills — champagne at a 
 hundred and twenty shillings, claret at ninety, 
 port at eighty-five — you will just leave me to do 
 what I can for you." 
 
 "It is very kind," said IMarion; "that is, if it 
 is just." 
 
 " Of course it is just. There is one thing I 
 should like to understand: why the young
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 189 
 
 fellows at Oxford, who belong to exactly the 
 same class as the young fellows at the hospitals, 
 are so much better off in the way of tick. Show 
 me, if you please, the London wine merchant 
 who will trust a medical student with cham« 
 pagne, or even with the homely Bass. Lord, 
 what a delicious time I should have had, with 
 an undergraduate's credit at my back! Look 
 here, again: a bill for badger baiting. Now, 
 you know, that is too barefaced. Fancy having 
 your badger baited on credit! Scoring up 
 chalks for worrying a varmint in a tub! He's 
 a glutton for enjoyment, Fred is." 
 
 He bundled all the bills into his pocket. 
 
 "Leave it all to me. I will do just the 
 reverse of the unjust steward. I will sit down 
 quickly and write off half: the champagne shall 
 stand at fifty, and that will leave a handsome 
 profit; the port at forty-eight, and that will be 
 dear at the price; and as for the badger baiter, 
 he shall not be paid at all. Miss Revel, the 
 dishonesty of people is to the Christian mind 
 appalling; to the unchristian mind — that is, to 
 me — it shows how very, very few Christian 
 minds there are."
 
 I90 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "If they do not accept your offer?" said 
 Marion. 
 
 " Then I button up my pockets. Then I say 
 to them, ' Men and brethren, naked came ye 
 into the world ; naked, so far as I am concerned, 
 shall ye continue to go through the world.' I 
 beg your pardon, Miss Revel; I mean that they 
 may then proceed to whistle for their money." 
 
 " But I could not bear to have Fred laden 
 with debts, perhaps worried and persecuted by 
 lawyers' letters." 
 
 ''Could you not.-^" he replied, with a twinkle 
 in his eyes. " Fred would bear it with very 
 great resignation, I am sure." 
 
 " Ah, yes, Fred has the sweetest of tempers," 
 said Marion, tenderly. 
 
 "Hum! I like tempers a little more snap- 
 pish. Well, never mind your brother for the 
 present. What can I do for you personally, 
 Miss Revel .-^ Do you propose to remain in this 
 cottage.''" 
 
 "We are your cousin's tenants — Mr. Cha- 
 comb's tenants. Did he ask you to put that 
 question.?" 
 
 " No, he did not. The fact is, Chauncey is
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 191 
 
 knocked silly, quite literally. I never knew a 
 man such mournful company as he is. Not that 
 he was ever festive; but of late days — " 
 
 " You forget, Dr. Chacomb, that the last few 
 days have not been festive days to any of us." 
 
 "Pardon me —I do not forget it. Well, 
 Chauncey has made no allusion whatever to the 
 subject. The question was dictated by my own 
 curiosity — my impertinence, if you will." 
 
 " No, no ; but I have hardly yet considered it 
 at all. It is so strange to me, looking forward 
 to the future; and yet we must. And Fred is 
 no help to me as yet." 
 
 "Then let me be a help." 
 
 "You are very kind. Dr. Chacomb. I cannot 
 tell you how grateful I am to you. Please give 
 me your advice about this letter. My father had 
 insured his life for two thousand pounds. I 
 noticed, the day before his death, that very 
 letter lying on his table, and gave it to him. 
 He put it in his pocket, and it was found there 
 afterwards. Will you read it.?" 
 
 It was an official letter on blue paper, remind- 
 ing Captain Revel that the days of grace for the 
 payment of the premium would expire on the
 
 192 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 13th of August, when the policy, unless the sum 
 was paid, would become null and void. 
 
 "He died on the 12th," said Marion. 
 
 "Yes." The doctor looked grave. "I suppose 
 we cannot put off the delay on the postman or 
 anybody, can we.-* He got it on the nth, or 
 perhaps a week before, and forgot to open it. 
 It looks bad, but it might perhaps be fought." 
 
 "What do you mean, Dr. Chacomb.^" 
 
 "I mean, Miss Revel, that your father's in- 
 surance policy is probably a piece of waste 
 paper. You may light candles with it." 
 
 "But, Dr. Chacomb, it cannot be. My father 
 has been insured for five and twenty years." 
 
 "It can be, because the company have made 
 an iniquitous rule, and because his premium was 
 not paid at a certain date. There is one chance, 
 and only one. Considering the circumstances of 
 the case, your father's long-standing policy, and 
 the rest, thedirectors may concede the point." 
 
 "But, Dr. Chacomb, they must concede it. I 
 suppose the directors are gentlemen." 
 
 "We are all gentlemen in this world. It is a 
 fa^oji dc parley. The mistake is, to suppose that 
 the fact of our being gentlemen prevents us
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 193 
 
 from doing dishonourable things, especially when 
 we are on Boards. There is the custom of the 
 trade, which enables a man to break the eighth 
 commandment without a pang. There is the 
 necessity of making money, which really does 
 blacken the moral eye; and when one is on a 
 committee, you see, the moral responsibility is 
 divided. Dirty things are done by directors, 
 which not one of them would do by himself. 
 The railway directors overwork their servants, 
 and overrun their trains. The insurance direc- 
 tors pass an unjust law about the premiums, and 
 rob the children of their inheritance." 
 
 "I wish I understood," said Marion. 
 
 "It is an easy thing," the doctor went on; 
 "only the actuaries are afraid to let people know 
 how easy it is. Life insurance is an admirable 
 plan of making the long-lived people pay for 
 those who die first. Of course no one minds 
 living a little longer than his neighbours. So 
 many people are born, so many die, every year. 
 It is all, or ought to be, carefully calculated and 
 made out; so that, you see, anybody knows at 
 any time what is his expectation of life. Very 
 well ; when your father insured, five and twenty 
 VOL I. 13
 
 194 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 years ago, he agreed to pay so much a year, so- 
 that if he lived long enough he "would pay for 
 those who died young; and if not, that he would 
 be paid for by those who lived longer. He was 
 to go on paying all his life, and at a certain 
 day; that was in the bargain." 
 
 "Then all my father's money is lost.^" said 
 Marion. 
 
 "But there is something else. It happens 
 that at any time a policy has a surrender value, 
 which is the greater the longer it has run on. 
 In other words, the insurance company will 
 always pay you a certain sum — which ought 
 not to be an arbitrary sum at all, but a pro- 
 perly advertised one — for giving up the policy. 
 Understand me: your father's policy a month 
 ago, after twenty-five years' premium, was worth 
 a large sum — nothing like his insurance, but 
 still a large sum. Now listen: the insurance 
 companies have robbed us for generations, and 
 are robbing us still. As I have no shares in any 
 of them, I have no interest in hiding the fact. 
 They rob us in the surrender value, which they 
 understate; and they rob us far more when, as 
 in your own case, a premium is not paid, and
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. iq 
 
 y:> 
 
 they put into their pockets the whole of its sur- 
 render vakie." 
 
 "Is there no help?" asked Marion. 
 
 "Perhaps; we will try." 
 
 He wrote the next day, explaining the cir- 
 cumstance. He first asked for the insurance 
 in full. The secretary reminded him that the 
 policy had lapsed. Then the doctor referred 
 the case to the board, which confirmed the 
 secretary. Then the doctor wrote a long and 
 careful letter, setting forth his revolutionary 
 views as to surrender value. The answer to this 
 was referred to the actuary, who, not having 
 time to write an essay on the subject of life 
 assurance, referred the doctor to the two great 
 standard works on insurance, and begged him to 
 correct his views. The doctor, who enjoyed the 
 correspondence amazingly, thereupon prepared 
 the Prospectus of a Company which propounded 
 an entirely new system of insurance. No one 
 took any notice of his pamphlet, which fell flat 
 upon the market; and Dr. Chacomb, having 
 some other work to do, allowed the matter to 
 drop. The following is an extract from the 
 prospectus.
 
 196 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 "Every man shall insure for himself, and not 
 for his neighbour, and he shall insure for the 
 expectation of his own life. 
 
 "If a man pay one pound at the age of thirty, 
 his expectation of life being then about thirty- 
 three years, he shall receive a policy, not to be 
 forfeited, for the sum of one pound at com- 
 pound interest for thirty-three years. In other 
 words, he can leave his heirs the sum of nearly 
 three pounds. 
 
 "The new insurance company is thus a sav- 
 ings bank, in which nothing but deposit accounts 
 are kept, and from which no money can be 
 taken. 
 
 "A man can use his own discretion, by 
 insuring when he pleases, and for what he 
 pleases. 
 
 "If a man, for instance, marries at twenty- 
 four, he will be able to insure for a thousand 
 pounds by paying a sum down of not much 
 more than a quarter. 
 
 "It is a system which will require veiy little 
 expense of management. 
 
 "The new company will take ten per cent, out 
 of profits, but not more, and will be paid off;
 
 WITH HARP AND CROIVX. i()7 
 
 after which the rate of Interest on insurance will 
 be lowered. 
 
 "The new company will engage the services 
 of Joseph Chacomb, Esq., M.D., as secretary 
 and manager, at a salary of one thousand 
 pounds per annj.m, guaranteed for five years, in 
 consideration of the idea. Dr. Chacomb will 
 also be the consulting physician." 
 
 It was a beautiful prospectus, and I have 
 always thought it contained the germs of a just 
 and prudent idea. But then I am not an 
 actuary. As regards the letters, they gradually 
 ceased, and the usual result happened — that 
 the company won. But let us return to the 
 present. 
 
 Marion laid before her only adviser a paper 
 on which she had put down the family resources 
 as clearly as she had calculated them. The list 
 began with the insurance, through which the 
 doctor ran his pen. 
 
 "We will talk about that afterwards. Now 
 let us see. .Deducting the arrangement I shall 
 make with your brother's creditors, there will 
 remain in the bank a hundred and fifty pounds ;
 
 198 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 your own little fortune, settled on yourself, of 
 fifty pounds a year; and the furniture of the 
 cottage. Is this absolutely all?" 
 
 " I am afraid it is all we have. Oh, Dr. 
 Chacomb, do not say that they will take away 
 all our insurance money!" 
 
 " I can say nothing till I have heard from 
 the office; but let us talk as if they were 
 going to be rogues — most men in committee 
 are, you know. And so, my dear young lady, 
 on that supposition, what do you propose to 
 do Avith those two children playing on the 
 lawn.?" 
 
 They were literally playing on the lawn, and, 
 with the carelessness that belonged to their cha- 
 racter, laughing and singing while they played. 
 Marion looked, and sighed. 
 
 " I have hardly begun to think about it. 
 What can I do? What are we all to do? And 
 oh, Dr. Chacomb, wlicre is Gerald? Why does 
 he not come to us?" 
 
 " We do not Icnow. Surely, Miss Revel, if 
 any one knew, you would." 
 
 It was an arrow shot at a venture. 
 
 "Yes; but I have not heard from him since
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 199 
 
 he went to London. Where can he be ? I am 
 not able to think about anything else till I have 
 .a letter from him." 
 
 " She is engaged to him, then," thought the 
 doctor, with great satisfaction. 
 
 "Have you spoken to Mr. Chacomb yet.''" he 
 asked, aloud. 
 
 "Not yet. Gerald was to have spoken. It 
 was only the day before . , . . and when my 
 poor father left the house for the last time it 
 was on his way to Chacomb Hall, to tell his old 
 friend — his old friend," she repeated, thought- 
 fully. "Mr. Chacomb does not like me. He 
 never did. What will he say when he hears of 
 our engagement.^" 
 
 "What can he say. Miss Revel, except to 
 welcome the daughter of his friend.'*" 
 
 " I do not know. I have sometimes watched 
 him when he thought no one was looking, and 
 was perhaps off his guard. I think Gerald's 
 father is somehow an unhappy man. He has 
 feelings that he hides; secret thoughts that he 
 does not like to show to the world. I have seen 
 him look at my father — his daily companion — 
 with an expression that seemed full of suspicion,
 
 200 WITH HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 hatred, and revenge. Then he would turn to 
 mc, and it was Avith eyes of dislike. I used 
 to lauc^h, thinking of it afterwards. But I do 
 not laugh now; for what may it mean to 
 me.?" 
 
 " It means that the squire will be proud of 
 his new daughter, when Gerald takes you 
 home." 
 
 "Ah, when Gerald takes me home! When 
 will that be? When will that be? Where is he 
 now?" 
 
 "At all events. Miss Revel, Gerald is not a 
 man to trouble himself much about what his 
 father thinks. At least, I should not if I were 
 Gerald." 
 
 This was a speech to which there could be 
 no reply. 
 
 Dr. Chacomb arranged with her about his 
 visit to Oxford, gave her the name of a solicitor 
 under whose care she was to place the slender 
 family fortunes, and left her for the time. On 
 the lawn Fred and Adie were lightening the 
 load of anxiety with an extemporized Badmin- 
 ton, though that j^astimc was not yet known to 
 the world.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 201 
 
 " Battledore and shuttlecock is a very healthy 
 exercise, Fred Revel," said the adviser — "capi- 
 tal for children, I believe. Can you walk a little 
 way with me?" 
 
 " With pleasure." 
 
 The young man's face did not manifest any 
 lively emotion of joy, but he desisted from his 
 game, tossed the toys to Adie, and lounged into 
 the road after the doctor, yawning heavily. 
 
 "You find Comb Leigh dull after Oxford.?" 
 
 "Dull!" said Fred. "It's dead and buried, 
 put away and forgotten. However, under the 
 sad circumstances, I must stay here to advise 
 the girls, and arrange the future for them, dull 
 though it is." 
 
 " Of course," said the doctor, with a smile of 
 cynical delight, " they naturally look to you, as 
 the head of the family, for support and guidance. 
 What would Marion do with the accounts with- 
 out you?" 
 
 Fred reddened a little. 
 
 "I wish I could support them," he said, 
 honestly. " I sincerely wish I saw njy way. 
 Can you give me any advice. Dr. Chacomb?" 
 
 "Let us sit down," said the doctor. "The
 
 202 WITH HARP AXD CROIVX. 
 
 road is dusty at this season, and steep at all 
 seasons. As the poet says : — 
 
 * These confounded long hills and rough, uneven ways 
 Draw out our miles and make them wearisome.' 
 
 I will light a cigar, if }'ou do not object." 
 
 He lit one — it was one of Gerald's, the doctor 
 having been so fortunate as to secure the whole 
 box in the absence of its owner — but neglected 
 to offer one to Fred. 
 
 " I like being in the country," he said, stretch- 
 ing his legs in the shade of the hazel shrubs, and 
 sitting on the grass by the roadside, " if it is 
 only for the comfort of a cigar in the open. 
 Comb Leigh is a delicious spot for a meditative 
 weed. Now, my young friend, you want my 
 advice. Good ; I am forty-five, and you are 
 twenty. I have the advantage over you of a 
 quarter of a century. I wish it was the other 
 way about, because I would a great deal rather 
 be twenty than forty-five. But, as Horace 
 . says — 
 
 ' The fleeting years go by, my friends, 
 Time borrows what he never lends ; 
 Youth doth not save, but always spends, 
 Drinks all the wine that Heaven sends, 
 And burns his candles at both ends.'
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 203 
 
 And so on. You are fresher from college than 
 myself, and may go on with the quotation." 
 
 " Tell me what you would advise me to take 
 up as a profession.'^" 
 
 " That is the most difficult thing of all to do. 
 Let us see. Can you keep accounts?" 
 
 "No; I never could add up, except the points 
 at whist." 
 
 "Do you write a good hand.'*" 
 
 "Am I a clerk?" 
 ^, " You would not be likely to pass any com- 
 petitive examination, I suppose?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! That is why I am afraid — only I 
 don't like to tell Marion so — that Lord Rodney's 
 influence will not be of much use to me." 
 
 "Ah, some young fellows, without any turn 
 for books, pick up a pretty fair living as parsons. 
 Just now it pays better than it used to. Would 
 you — ? No? Very well, then. I put the law 
 out of the question, because, without reading 
 something, it is, I am sorry to say, impossible to 
 get anything in the legal profession. Some men 
 — myself included — do pretty well at the medi- 
 cal line, without injuring the delicate structure 
 of the cerebellum over the preliminary studies."
 
 204 WITH HARP AND CROUW. 
 
 "Nothing could make mc read anatomy." 
 " Then we must leave the beaten paths, and 
 try the unrecognized professions. My artless 
 young friend, there are many pleasures in be- 
 longing to an unrecognized profession. You 
 hold an uncertain social status, Avhich has its 
 charms ; you arc a kind of Bohemian, which 
 relieves you of many moral duties ; you are not 
 expected to exhibit any more virtues than you 
 like; you find the way open for association, 
 particularly of a convivial nature, with crowds 
 of good fellows, impecunious like yourself; 
 you arc always devising new combinations for 
 making money, which sharpens your wits till 
 they grow as keen as a razor ; and the profits, 
 my young friend, the profits, if you do make 
 a coup, are sometimes very handsome." 
 
 The doctor spoke with the enthusiasm of ex- 
 perience. 
 
 "But what arc these professions.?" 
 " Their name is legion. I call m}-sclf a doc- 
 tor ; but I belong in reality, for my practice is 
 but small, to the tribe of adventurers. Doing 
 things on commission is the first method that 
 occurs to me. You may sell anything on com-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 205 
 
 mission, but some things are not pleasant. I 
 knew a man once, formerly in the Carabineers, 
 Avho took to selling antibilious pills ; they gave 
 him a very handsome per centage indeed, but 
 twelve months of the work aged him more than 
 five and twenty previous years of hard drinking. 
 Some men recommend shops to their friends, 
 and get a commission from the shopkeeper — 
 members of club committees do it, I believe, 
 and it seems an easy way of making money; 
 but it does not last. You can't be always re- 
 commending people to go to different places to 
 buy things ; and then the shop people cheat 
 you shamefully in your commissions. They 
 have no sense of honour, that class. A friend 
 ■of mine in this walk of life was once very cruelly 
 treated by a cigar dealer, after introducing a 
 young millionaire who actually smoked himself 
 to death off his shilling Havanas. Coals are not 
 iDad, though they have a bad name. But then, 
 you see, so many people go into coals. You 
 want nothing but an office, and you are not 
 obliged to buy a single ton. You get up the 
 patter, and then you are a dummy, and all your 
 orders go to the real people, who pay you ten
 
 2o6 IVITH HARP AND CROWX. 
 
 per cent. Agencies are good, provided you can 
 hit on one not yet driven to death ; but, Lord, 
 the rapacity of people is dreadful to think of! 
 A gentleman adventurer in these days has to 
 fight very hard, whatever line he takes up. Li- 
 terature, I suppose, you would have no taste 
 for, though some literary friends of mine have 
 managed to get along without reading anything 
 except old magazines and \.\\q Aiuiita I Register. 
 How should you like to be an advertising 
 agent? It is a business which depends en- 
 tirely upon personal appearance and manners. 
 You would have a very good chance — a very 
 good chance indeed." 
 
 'M don't like any of your professions," said 
 Fred. *' It does not seem to mc that a gentle- 
 man would take up a single one of those lines." 
 
 **A gentleman!" said the doctor, impatiently. 
 "I should like to write an essay, if I Avere an 
 author — they arc a scaly lot, and thank Heaven 
 I am not one — on the word. Formerly it meant 
 everybody who wore the king's uniform ; now it 
 means everybody who does not. Young man, 
 put your gentility in your pocket till }^ou can 
 afford to take it out again. A gentleman out at
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 207 
 
 elbows, and pretending to be a gentleman still, 
 is a sorry spectacle. Let us see if we can find 
 anything else for you. Remember, however, 
 that we cannot escape certain laws. If we have 
 no money, we must work or starve. Obviously, 
 the thing is to get the lightest work possible. 
 You have been trained to nothing ; you have to 
 find some work that you can do ; you have, in 
 short, to prove yourself capable of inventing 
 your own path in the world." 
 
 "It would not be quite the thing, would it, 
 for the representative of a great French name to 
 be selling coals on commission V Fred asked, 
 with his sweetest smile, and as if the question 
 was a clincher. 
 
 *' Representative — nonsense! Will your count- 
 ship fill your pockets } Will it keep you and 
 your sisters } Will it give you decent clothes .? 
 If not, forget it as fast as you can. I've known 
 a good many loose fish in the world ; the worst 
 I ever knew was an Honourable without a far- 
 thing, who found it impossible to forget his 
 birth. Look you, Mr. Frederick Revel, I like 
 to call things by their right names. You have 
 already wasted and squandered the whole of the
 
 2o8 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 little patrimony saved for yourself and your 
 sisters by your father; and you have got nothing 
 to show for it. You have been sent to expensive 
 schools, and only learned the art of getting tick. 
 You arc twenty years of age, and }"ou have your 
 living to get. What will you do ?" 
 
 " I do not know your right — " 
 
 "Very likely not. You may make up your 
 mind to work, or you may make up your mind 
 to parade your gentility. Gentleman, indeed ! 
 When shall we hear the last of the old, worn- 
 out rubbish .'* " 
 
 Fred was silent. 
 
 " You must, if you work at all, begin with the 
 humblest kind of work — farm work even — or 
 you must take up with some such line as I have 
 shown you. Of course you may, if you please, 
 live upon the very small fortune and the exer- 
 tions of your sister." 
 
 "You presume, sir," said Fred, "on the trifling 
 services you have rendered us. Your advice is 
 insulting and ungentlemanly. I shall not live 
 upon my sister's exertions, nor shall I become 
 a tout and a cad. You will please to give me 
 no more advice."
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 209 
 
 He turned on his heel, and left the doctor. 
 
 "I know the breed," said Joseph, watching 
 the young man as he hurried down the lane 
 with impatient gestures — " I know the breed 
 well. They kick and fume when they hear the 
 truth. They are full of noble sentiments ; they 
 are your lip gentlemen. I know the receding 
 chin, the shifty lips which curve into what 
 novelists call a sweet smile ; and I know the 
 bright eye, with what the same gentry call a 
 hundred laughs lying in it, which looks as if 
 there was nothing but sincerity and unselfish- 
 ness behind. I suppose the lad got it from his 
 mother. Wonder who his mother was? *The 
 dancing eye,' as they call it, means a callous 
 heart. I never knew a fellow with it yet who 
 would budge a step to oblige anybody. That 
 is an aphorism presented by Joseph Chacomb, 
 Esq., M.D., to literature generally. The dancing 
 eye means the callous heart. It's very neat. 
 Give me the quiet eyes of Marion. Happy 
 beggar, Gerald ! — unless he's got into trouble. 
 Wonder where he is } Maybe gone dead, like 
 the captain; in which case — " he was growing 
 calmly meditative in the bright sunshine, and 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 WITH HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 lay back making his gentle reflections, and 
 yawning — " in which case, ah-h ! it wouldn't 
 be bad for me. I should begin by locking up 
 Chauncey. 
 
 "Wonder if I was like that boy when I was 
 twenty-one. Think not. I knew more of the 
 world. There were the makings of a very fine 
 man about Joe Chacomb, only he had not 
 the fair start. Might have been different — Joe 
 might — if he had had the Chacomb rents instead 
 of the little Ass up yonder. Forty-five last 
 ■month, and nothing done yet — no money in the 
 Funds, nothing to chuck away in foreign minesi 
 and nothing in the Bank. As for his moral 
 character, Joe's best friends — that is, the men 
 who know him best — don't believe he has got 
 any morals at all. Once Joe was a mealy-faced 
 boy, with a rosy cheek. Joe was one of the little 
 cherubim; sang anthems, Joe did, in a church 
 choir, with a white nightgown on, like a blessed 
 angel. Life is rum — very rum. Joe would be 
 uncomfortable now among the blessed angels. 
 He wouldn't know how to handle his harp; he's 
 forgotten the treble of all the anthems, and can't 
 sing bass. Joe makes schemes of plunder ; Joe
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 211 
 
 borrows without intending to pay back; Joe 
 wants to see Gerald marry the Revel girl, and 
 get cut off by his idiotic father. Joe is no 
 longer a cherub at all — unless he is one of those 
 unlucky cherubs who've tumbled down. After 
 all" — he sat up and stretched himself, with a 
 yawn — "we are as things have made us. Joe 
 isn't any worse than his neighbours. It is beau- 
 tiful weather, and this is a lovely cigar." 
 
 14 — 2
 
 ^\ ^J 
 
 ■d^ 
 
 "^ 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 URING these days Chauncey Cha- 
 comb kept entirely at home, and re- 
 fused to go outside the gates of the 
 lodge. His cousin, who watched him 
 with an interest growing daily, observed that a 
 curious change was creeping over the squire's 
 expression. His very features seemed changed. 
 There had been formerly a look of cunning and 
 suspicion latent in the man's face, which always 
 made themselves felt in the sharp, quick upward 
 glances of his small keen eyes. That was gone. 
 His occasional wild glances, apparently uncon- 
 trollable, which first roused the doctor's suspi- 
 cions, disappeared as well. There were no more 
 bursts of a jealous rage, perhaps because tl:c 
 object of the rage was dead; but in place of 
 all these there was left a settled gloom, a sad-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 213 
 
 ness which never varied. The spare form was 
 shrunken. Chauncey Chacomb had become 
 smaller; his head was lower between his 
 shoulders; he stooped as he walked; he noticed 
 nothing. If his cousin plied him with wine at 
 dinner, he drank it, and remained as dismal as if 
 it had been cold tea. He made no reference to 
 the absence of his son, paid no attention to 
 external matters, and made no sign of interest 
 in anything, except that he heard the name of 
 Revel with a visible shrinking and horror. The 
 worst sign was that he neglected the Collection; 
 he forgot to correct the Catalogue; he locked up 
 his drawers, and left the keys on his dressing- 
 table; and he spent the day in wandering aim- 
 lessly about from room to room. 
 
 "Go," said Joseph Chacomb one morning, 
 pushing him into the Collection room — "go and 
 potter about as you used to; that will do you 
 good." 
 
 Chauncey made no resistance; but when, an 
 hour later, the doctor opened the door, he found 
 him sitting in a straight-backed chair, in the 
 middle of the room, his thoughts far away from 
 any of his curiosities.
 
 214 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 Then he watched his cousin more closely.. 
 He observed that every day after breakfast 
 Chauncey manifested a keen desire to be left 
 alone. One morning he pretended to go out^ 
 but returned after the space of five minutes. 
 He found that Chauncey had crept away to 
 Gerald's rooms, which were, as has been stated, 
 in the western gable, the old part of the house. 
 Hither, when Chauncey began to make his Col- 
 lection, had been transported gradually the old 
 shelves of books which once formed the library.. 
 They were ranged in rows in Gerald's study, 
 Gerald's bed-room, and the room which Gerald 
 used for his workshop: an old and curious 
 library, consisting almost entirely of French 
 eighteenth century books, those works of learn- 
 ing in which the French of that time excelled. 
 People got together materials in the sixteenth 
 century; they learned in the seventeenth; they 
 boiled down, digested, annotated, and correlated 
 in the eighteenth. Every kind of subject was 
 treated of in this cyclopaedic collection, which 
 was especially rich in books on medicine. The 
 doctor, stepping silently over the carpets in the 
 direction pointed out b}- the footman, passed
 
 WITH HARP AND CRO WN. 2 1 
 
 through the open doors, and found Chauncey in 
 Gerald's bed-room. He was not sighing over the 
 vacant place of his son; he was not shedding a 
 tear over the portrait of his son's mother, which 
 hung upon the wall ; he was not thinking of son 
 or mother either, because he was thinking of 
 himself He was standing at the shelves, with a 
 book in his hands, swiftly devouring the contents. 
 Dr. Chacomb marked the eager and concen- 
 trated gaze of his eyes, as he read page after 
 page, turning over swiftly, as if he sought for 
 something that concerned himself Presently he 
 put back the book with a heavy sigh, and sat 
 down. The doctor marked the volume — it was 
 an old calf-bound octavo, whose gilt lettering 
 was faded so that he could not read the name, 
 but he saw its place among the rest. Then, 
 having made his observation, he slipped away, 
 and presently his cousin came out, with a de- 
 jected air, and crept like some scared and sick 
 animal into the shade of the trees of his park. 
 Then the doctor sought the place, and took 
 down the volume. It was a French treatise on 
 hallucinations and diseases of the brain. 
 
 "I thought so," said the doctor. "The poor
 
 2i6 WITH HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 little beggar has quite gone out of his wits. We 
 may as well see what he has been reading, 
 anyhow." 
 
 He carried the book away with him, and read 
 i\\ it that night before going to bed. There was 
 a strange and dreadful fascination about the 
 pages. They fixed the eyes on the letters, while 
 the vivid images of haunting heads seemed 
 to crowd round the reader, to float around his 
 brain, and to whisper in his ears. The doctor 
 threw it away at last, with a shudder. Before 
 netting into bed he opened the window and 
 looked out. On the lawn, a silver sheet lit by 
 the splendid harvest moon, was walking back- 
 wards and forwards his cousin Chauncey, swing- 
 ing his arms, tossing them over his head, rolling 
 about as if he were drunk. He looked at his 
 watch. It was two o'clock. 
 
 'T wonder if he lias been carrying on this 
 game every night," he murmured. "Upon my 
 word, I don't like it. Why, hang it, he might 
 come in and murder a man while he was asleep." 
 
 He hastened to lock and bolt the door, and 
 then, feeling a little safer, he went to bed and 
 to sleep.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 217 
 
 Next day he tried to rouse his cousin. He 
 made him go with him for a walk, almost drag- 
 ging him by the arm. 
 
 "Chauncey," he said, "you are getting worse 
 
 company than ever. I wish I could only hear 
 
 < 
 
 you swear a little. Try, my dear fellow, just 
 one small damn, to break the ice." 
 
 Chauncey shook his head mournfully. 
 
 " I fear I shall never swear again, Joe," he 
 murmured. " Never again." 
 
 "Don't say that, Chauncey," returned his 
 cousin, really affected at this dreary prospect; 
 " you are young yet, and while there's life 
 there's hope. Pull yourself together." 
 
 But he would not be coaxed into cheerfulness. 
 
 Then the doctor tried bullying. It was after 
 Minner. Now, Joseph Chacomb, who was not at 
 all times — owing to pecuniary conditions — accus- 
 tomed to what the Americans call a square meal, 
 was making the most of his stay at Chacomb. 
 The dinner, when he was at the Hall, was like 
 Mr. Cook's tours — personally conducted. He 
 •ordered it and looked after it himself, down to 
 the potatoes, which he liked served as a separate 
 dish, to remind him of the merry days when he
 
 2i8 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 
 
 was a student in the Ouartier Latin; and to the 
 beer, which he drank from a tankard, to remind 
 him of hospital days in London — for the doctor 
 liked to be sentimental over his dinner. In the 
 same spirit of poetical reminiscence, he chose 
 every day a bottle of Chauncey's best and oldest 
 port, of which he drank every drop, to remind 
 him of the aspirations which had once filled his 
 brain. Naturally, after the port he wanted con- 
 versation, and then found himself with a man 
 who neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 " I would rather sit with the Aldgate pump, 
 Chauncey. Hang me if the pump would not be a 
 more lively companion. At least it could wag a 
 handle. What are you staring at.'* Do shut your 
 eyes, man; and if you must stare, look at mc." 
 
 His cousin was sitting with his short legs 
 tucked under his chair; his uneven shoulder was 
 level with his right ear, and his head bent down 
 to meet it. The room was dark, save for a pair 
 of wax candles on the table; the windows were 
 open, for it was a sultry night, and thunder was 
 in the air. Chauncey Chacomb was staring 
 straight before him, into the darkest part of the 
 room, with a steadfast gaze.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 219 
 
 " Don't glare in that way, Chauncey. It's 
 simply disgusting to a man who wants to be 
 cheerful. Tell me, my dear fellow," he con- 
 tinued, quite softly — " tell me, if you can, what 
 you see every night. Tell me why you go out 
 into the park when you ought to be asleep." 
 
 " Always the same thing, Joseph — always the 
 same thing. I see Revel's eyes. There — there 
 — there!" he shrieked, as a gleam of summer 
 lightning lit up the room for a moment. " He 
 is here himself I saw his face as well as his 
 eyes. And yet he is dead. Joseph, help me! 
 Oh, cousin Joseph, help me! It is dreadful to- 
 see a dead man's face." 
 
 His voice dropped to a low wail. He sank 
 his head into his hands, and bowed himself upon 
 the table, covering his eyes and moaning. 
 
 The doctor shivered, and looked round him. 
 uneasily. The dining-room was dark with crim- 
 son paper and heavy hangings. 
 
 " I hate a place where there is no gas," he 
 murmured. "And I hate a room like this,, 
 which nothing will light up. Here, Chauncey,. 
 old man, wake up! We will go into the draw- 
 ing-room, and light all the lamps and candles..
 
 220 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 Come, I will play you backgammon for sixpence 
 a game, if you like." 
 
 This was genuine self-denial on the part of 
 Joseph, because he hated backgammon; and, 
 like a great many poor men with grand ideas of 
 money, he despised sixpences. Chauncey got 
 up, and followed his cousin in silence. Presently, 
 he recovered so far as to take an interest in the 
 game. He won three in succession, and putting 
 up the sixpences in his pocket, went so far as to 
 chuckle. But then he relapsed suddenly into 
 his former moody state, and sat intently watch- 
 ing nothing. 
 
 When the doctor had put him to bed, with a 
 little dose of morphia, he proceeded to consider 
 the position. 
 
 "Which," he said, " I cannot say I like. It is 
 not interesting, and it does not promise to be 
 profitable. I am wasting my time here — time is 
 valuable at five and forty — when I ought to be 
 back in town. Things will go wrong if I stay 
 idling here, and I do not understand what I 
 shall gain by waiting on. I believe Chauncey 
 has gone mad; but I don't see just yet how that 
 will do any good to me. That Revel girl runs
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 221 
 
 in my head. I believe I shall end by seeing her 
 eyes just as Chauncey sees the captain's. Per- 
 haps something has happened to Gerald; but it 
 is no use expecting that. Let us see. Gerald 
 comes back; Gerald marries the girl — as if that 
 ought not to be enough for any young fellow. 
 His father cuts him off — but his father is mad. 
 Then who is to prove it.-* Suppose I say he is 
 sane. The worst of making calculations about 
 what is going to happen is, that what you expect 
 never does happen. The best scheme is discon- 
 certed by the one thing that is least likely. 
 After all, the cleverest man is the man who 
 knows how to use things as they turn up, and at 
 once. It is no use making a book on the events. 
 I shall wait and see what turns up." 
 
 The time wore on, with no news from Gerald. 
 
 " Let us wait still," said the doctor. 
 
 But it was weary waiting for Marion. The 
 past was gone, and with it all the promise of 
 golden fruit. The future was dark, the present 
 was a blank. 
 
 One day — a fortnight after the death of her 
 father — Marion could bear the suspense no
 
 222 IVITH HARP AND CROll^N. 
 
 longer. At least she could sec Mr. Chacomb, 
 and tell him all. 
 
 It was in the niorning — such a morning as that 
 ^vhen she sat in the garden and fell asleep, to be 
 awakened by the tramp of feet that brought 
 back her dying father. The house was quiet 
 and lonely, for the other two had gone out 
 together. The sight of the flowers, the wind in 
 the trees, the songs of the birds, all fell upon her 
 nerves like blows upon some heavy instrument. 
 
 She left the cottage, and turned into the lane 
 that led to Chacomb Hall. 
 
 She met no one on the road. Had she been 
 in a mood to mark them, the flowers of early 
 .autumn were springing in the hedges at her feet, 
 and she would have rejoiced in the sounds and 
 sights^^of Nature which called to her unheard as 
 with a voice of sympathy. But Marion had no 
 eyes or ears. She was listening to the voices of 
 her thoughts, which were sad and heavy. In a 
 fitful way, as people do when they are disturbed 
 by some great sorrow, she noticed little things 
 which passed across her brain, assuming great 
 importance for the moment, and then vanishing. 
 Behind those evanescent images lay the shadow
 
 WITH HARP AND CRO WN. 223 
 
 of her sorrow, and with it the heavy prescience 
 of more trouble. She recalled the words of her 
 father, the last time they were together; the 
 last talk with her lover — and where was Gerald ? 
 Dark and boding were the spectres of her brain, 
 like those of Sisera's mother when her son lay 
 murdered by the woman whom Deborah blessed 
 above all women. " Why is his chariot long in 
 coming.?" But she could not return answer to 
 herself even in words, " Has he not sped.?" She 
 came to the stone pillars and the iron gates of 
 Chacomb Hall, and looked up the long avenue of 
 elms, cool and shady, which led to the house. 
 Then, after a moment's hesitation, she left the 
 road, and walked quickly up the drive. On 
 either hand lay Chacomb Park, with its broad 
 stretches of grass and clumps of trees. At the 
 end of the avenue she could see the western 
 gable, with its warm red brick, its pointed roof, 
 and its latticed windows. These were Gerald's 
 rooms. Her pulse quickened when she saw 
 them. Perhaps — perhaps there might be news 
 of Gerald. Presently, in the shadiest and dark- 
 est part of the avenue, where there lay on either 
 side thick plantations, there came across her
 
 224 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 path and stood in front of her — as Apollyon 
 met Christian — the man she partly hoped but 
 greatly feared to meet : Gerald's father. When 
 he saw the girl coming, he threw up both his 
 arms, and cried aloud — 
 
 "Why do you come here? What have I to 
 do with you? Why do you come to me in your 
 black dress? Do you accuse me? Do you 
 dare to say I did it?" 
 
 "Accuse you, Mr. Chacomb?" she stammered. 
 
 "Then why are you here?" 
 
 "I came to ask if you know — if you have 
 heard anything about Gerald." 
 
 "Gerald — Gerald?" he replied, impatiently. 
 What is all this about Gerald? He is away — 
 he has been away for four years. Stay; m}- 
 memory is confused. Gerald came back again. 
 He was at home for four days, and now he has 
 gone. I forget things very strangely. Where 
 has he gone to?" 
 
 "You arc not well, I\Ir. Chacomb?" 
 
 "I am quite well. That is, Marion, I am not 
 well, and the doctor watches me about. I have 
 dreadful dreams. Sometimes I think I did it." 
 
 *' Did what?"
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 225 
 
 He looked cunningly out of his small eyes. 
 
 "No — no; I am not going to tell you that. 
 Let us talk of something else." 
 
 As he spoke a change came over him, and he 
 seemed to become quite suddenly quiet, self- 
 contained, and impenetrable. 
 
 "You came to ask after Gerald, Marion.?" he 
 said. "Pardon my brusqueness this morning. 
 I was thinking of other things, and am not quite 
 well. Yes; it is a great anxiety to me that I 
 do not know anything about my son. He is, 
 however, sure to return soon. The sad news, 
 when it reaches him, will bring him home. He 
 was always fond of your poor father." 
 
 " I hope he will come back soon," said Marion, 
 sadly. " Do you know that we are going away, 
 Mr. Chacomb.?" 
 
 "No. Are you going away.? Actually go- 
 ing to leave the cottage.? Where shall I find 
 another tenant.? Going to — where are you 
 going to.?" 
 
 He spoke as if he was uncertain whether to 
 be pleased or sorry. 
 
 "We arc going to London. We have no 
 money at all now. The wicked insurance people 
 
 VOL. T. 15
 
 226 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 refuse to pay my poor father's policy. We arc 
 going to sell all that wc can, and move to where 
 we can get emplo}'ment of some kind — whatever 
 kind may suit us." 
 
 "Aye— aye," he replied. "Well, Miss Revel, 
 you have my good wishes, my very good wishes. 
 I should think that your brother's talents would 
 be quite certain, directly they find a proper 
 scope, a fitting channel, to put your sister and 
 yourself in affluence." 
 
 " Poor Fred ! I fear we cannot depend en- 
 tirely upon him. I shall try to get some work 
 for myself" 
 
 "Quite right; quite right. IMany ladies get 
 work for themselves nowadays, I hear, and do 
 not mind it very much." 
 
 " It is not a question of whether wc mind it 
 or not," said Marion; "we have to do it." 
 
 " Dear me, dear mc! — that is very sad." 
 
 " I want to talk to you about Gerald, Mr. 
 Chacomb," said Marion, blushing. 
 
 "My son Gerald. Yes, yes — oh, certainly," 
 said the squire, blandly. 
 
 "Tell me, Mr. Chacomb, did Gerald say any- 
 thing to you ever about me.''"
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 227 
 
 Mr. Chacomb shook his head, and looked sur- 
 prised. 
 
 "Did he tell you that — that we were en- 
 gaged ? " 
 
 " He did not," said Mr. Chacomb, with de- 
 cision. 
 
 " I suppose he had no time. We were en- 
 gaged, with my father's consent — " 
 
 " Oh, with your father's consent! Your father 
 agreed to it, did he.'*" 
 
 "The day before — before the dreadful day 
 my father went out to talk it over with you. 
 He met you on the hill; did he say nothing — 
 nothing at all to you.^" 
 
 "How could he find time to say anything, 
 Miss Revel.?" 
 
 " Then I must tell you, for it is right that you 
 should know," said the girl. "Gerald told me 
 in the afternoon — we were sitting on the very 
 place where my father fell — that he — he loved 
 me; and I accepted him. In the evening we 
 told my father." 
 
 " Gerald had a father too," said the squire. 
 
 "He promised to tell you about it. Why did 
 he not?" 
 
 15 — 2
 
 228 WITH HARP A AD CROlVxV. 
 
 "Young lady," said Mr. Chacomb, with dig- 
 nity, and slowly, "you had better take the ver\- 
 first train to London, you and your brother and 
 sister. It may save future unpleasantness. As 
 the engagement has only been entered upon for 
 one day, to speak correctly, I think wc may con- 
 sider at once that it has never been made. You 
 think me unkind. Perhaps; but I wish you to 
 know the truth. Understand, if you please, once 
 for all, and clearly, that under no circumstances 
 should I have consented to your marriage with 
 my son — under no circumstances — none. And 
 certainly not now — certainly not now." 
 
 She looked at him with much the same eyes 
 as he remembered in her father. He was stag- 
 gered for a moment, but presently went on again, 
 with dignity — 
 
 " It would be best for all of }ou to go away 
 at once, before Gerald returns. I can then 
 explain to him my reasons, if I choose to do so, 
 for refusing my consent. It never could have 
 been given, remember. Gerald Chacomb is heir 
 to the Chacomb estate; he must marry position 
 and wealth. Besides — but my reasons have 
 nothing to do with you."
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 229 
 
 " Nothing," said Marion, proudly. " At least, 
 I have told you I am engaged to Gerald. What 
 your reasons may effect with him I do not know, 
 and cannot tell. But I am engaged to Gerald 
 until he releases me. Now I understand — now 
 I understand." 
 
 ^'What do you understand.^ What do you 
 mean.?" 
 
 She looked at him steadily, trying to put a 
 sudden gleam of conviction into her words. 
 
 "Now I understand the expression that I 
 used to catch sometimes in your eyes, when you 
 looked at my poor father. Mr. Chacomb, you 
 hated him. I know it now. And you rejoice 
 at our misfortunes. You were with him at his 
 death. You have not told us yet why, when 
 you two were together on the cliff, my father, 
 who had walked there a thousand times, fell over, 
 and only one was left. Why did my father fall?" 
 
 The words were spoken at random, but the 
 man turned pale and trembled. He answered 
 nothing, but his lips moved. 
 
 ''Why did my father stop and fall.^^" repeated 
 the girl. 
 
 " I do not know," he stammered — " I do not
 
 WITH HARP AND CROU\\\ 
 
 know. How can I tell? He slipped, he fell. You 
 heard my evidence at the inquest. Go and ask 
 everybody if it is not true. How dare you say 
 such things.'* How dare you ask such questions.'*" 
 
 "Why did you hate him, Mr. Chacomb.''" she 
 went on, quickly. " Was it because he was kind, 
 and you are cruel ; because he was unselfish, and 
 you are selfish; because he was loved by every- 
 body, and you — arc not; because he was frank 
 and sweet-tempered, and you are jealous and 
 suspicious.^ Were these your reasons, Vlx. Cha- 
 comb, for hating a good man.?" 
 
 She stopped for a moment, and continued> 
 with a softer voice — 
 
 "You are Gerald's father — that is why we 
 tried to like you. I see now that it was labour 
 lost. When Gerald and I marry, it will not 
 be to come here. Your permission will not be 
 asked. I shall never pretend to love you, any 
 more than you can love me. For I know too 
 much — I understand too much. But I am en- 
 gaged to Gerald still, and shall remain pledged 
 to him until he releases me himself" 
 
 The blood ran hotly to his cheeks, and he 
 moved his hands uneasily.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 231 
 
 "You shall never marry him — do you hear? 
 You shall never marry him. I would rather 
 that Gerald was lying dead before me in the 
 path. I would rather — rather — " 
 
 She interrupted him fiercely — 
 
 "Rather say I fell from the cliff, Mr. Cha- 
 comb." 
 
 The words fell from her lips before she un- 
 derstood their full meaning. They produced a 
 strange effect upon him. He shifted his feet, 
 and turned his head about as a man troubled 
 with a sudden sharp spasm of pain. But he 
 mastered this, and drew himself upright, reach- 
 ing to the shoulder of the tall girl before him. 
 
 "Then," he said, calmly, "if you will have 
 the truth, hear it. Marry my son if you like — 
 marry Gerald if you can. But if you do, you 
 will marry the son of your father's murderer. 
 Yes," he continued, as she recoiled with a cry 
 — " his murderer. I did it. I pushed him over 
 the edge. I always hated him, and I never, 
 somehow, got a good, safe opportunity till then 
 of doing him a mischief. He drove me mad, 
 too, all the way up the hill, talking of you and 
 Gerald, and what fine things he was going to do
 
 ■j~ 
 
 WITH HARP AXD CROIVN. 
 
 when you were married, with my money — my 
 money. I had no knife, or pistol, or anything 
 to kill him with, or I should have done it when 
 I was walking behind him in the lane. He 
 laughed at me the day before about my pic- 
 tures, too. It was not likely I was going to 
 forget that. So, when we came to the edge, I 
 pushed him over. He fell very quick, INIarlon, 
 so that I had only a short opportunity of seeing 
 him roll over and over; but I lay down w^hen 
 he w^as gone, and mocked him from the edge. 
 I think he heard what I said — at least, I hope 
 so. If I had you in the same place, Marion 
 Revel, I would push you over too. It is a nice 
 wild spot for lovers to sit and talk, is it not? 
 and a nice wild spot for people to wreak their 
 revenge on their enemies. I cannot harm you 
 here, because I should be found out; and my 
 constant principle is never to be found out. 
 For instance, I had thought of poisoning him 
 with a pill, but I kept putting it off because I 
 was afraid. I am glad now that I did not. 
 That damned cousin of mine finds out most 
 things, and he is always watching and follow- 
 ing me abovit, He woqld have found out, very
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 233 
 
 likely, if I had used the pill. Well," he went on, 
 with great steadiness, "you know the truth now. 
 I do not suppose for a moment that you will 
 want to marry Gerald after what I have told 
 you. Take my advice, and go to London at 
 once, to avoid any more trouble. I am a dan- 
 gerous man, and if you don't accede to my 
 wishes, I shall very likely do a mischief to your 
 brother Fred, or perhaps to your sister. Go at 
 once, I say, and before a worse thing happens." 
 
 The girl, stunned by the cruelty and horror of 
 the thing, could make no answer. Mr. Cha- 
 comb's voice rose to a shriek as he began his 
 last sentence, but sank into a sort of moan as he 
 finished it ; for he saw before him the doctor, 
 walking up the avenue. 
 
 He came straight to the squire, and took him 
 by the arm. 
 
 " Better go in, Chauncey — go in, and wait for 
 me. Go, I say !" 
 
 Then Mr. Chacomb turned quietly, and walked 
 away. 
 
 " Has he been talking wildly, Miss Revel } 
 I am sorry you met him. Chauncey is a little 
 — no, if you please, not a little, but a good deal
 
 23 ^ UlTII HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 upset just at present. The suddenness of the 
 calamity of last week affected his nerves, and 
 he does not know what he says. You see, he is 
 quite amenable with me; he knows his excitable 
 nature, and obeys orders at least." 
 
 " Is it excitement 'i Is it madness V 
 
 " Who can say what is madness and what is 
 not.?" 
 
 " I know he hated my father," said Marion. 
 " That must have been madness. But now, I 
 know more. Poor Gerald!" she added, softly, 
 " it is very hard on him ; and now it must all 
 be over." 
 
 '* Why must it be all over } " 
 
 " I cannot tell you. It is another secret that 
 I must bear in silence. Dr. Chacomb, help me, 
 in the name of Heaven, to get away from this 
 horrible place. The air stifles mc. I am always 
 finding something new and dreadful. There is 
 murder in it, and madness, and horror. Oh, 
 what shall I do— what shall I do.?" 
 
 "Tell me what Chauncey has been saying. 
 Has he been talking wildly?" 
 
 "No; ho has been tallying sense. Ah, mc ! 
 he has been talking sense."
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 235 
 
 "Then it is the first time for a week and 
 more. Miss Marion, if you will tell me nothing, 
 I can only obey your orders. You shall go to- 
 morrow, if you will. I will send after you the 
 furniture that you will want in London. Per- 
 haps it will be btst to get out of his way, and to 
 go at once. Now let me know how I may help 
 you with Gerald." 
 
 She clasped her hands tightly, to keep down 
 the tears that rose to her eyes and the sobs to 
 her throat. 
 
 "It is too much to bear," she moaned — "it is 
 too much. What have I done, what has my poor 
 father done, that he should be punished like 
 this } It is but a week ago — no, a week ago we 
 were in wretchedness — only a fortnight ago the 
 world was bright and happy. I had his love, 
 my dear father's love, and Gerald's too. But 
 that was only for one day. I had one day of 
 the most perfect happiness that a girl can have 
 in this world. I had Gerald's hand in mine ; his 
 lips touched mine; I saw his eyes soften as they 
 met mine — oh, what happiness, what happiness ! 
 It all vanished in a moment. And now his own 
 fi;ithcr, my Gerald's father, sets between us a
 
 23^^ U'lTJI HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 barrier that can never be passed. I must give 
 him up." 
 
 " Let nothing that Chauncey Chacomb has 
 said make you give up Gerald," said the doc- 
 tor. " He is mad ; how mad I cannot sa}', but 
 mad enough to make his words wild. Forget 
 what he has said." 
 
 " I cannot forget what he has done. Oh, cruel, 
 cruel!" 
 
 She sat upon a fallen trunk and sobbed. 
 Joseph Chacomb watched her with a pity 
 which penetrated even the triple folds of self- 
 isliness which wrapped his heart. 
 
 "I will go," she said. "Thank you for all 
 your kindness to me. I cannot tell you how I 
 thank you. We will go to London to-morrow. 
 Anything, anything to get away from this 
 dreadful place. I will write a letter to Gerald, 
 and send it to you for him. When he comes 
 back you will giv^e it him. Promise me that 
 without my permission, you will not tell him 
 where we are." 
 
 "It is odd," thought the doctor, "that now, at 
 this most important juncture, when I ought to 
 want her to marry Gerald above all things, my
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 237 
 
 own interests seem nowhere. Can I be growing 
 sympathetic — I, who have always been preach- 
 ing self-interest? It is only a troubled girl, 
 only a woman breaking her heart, and I must 
 needs help her because she bids me." 
 
 "I promise," he said. "You shall do with me 
 as you please. I will keep your address a secret 
 till you bid me speak. But think again. Do 
 not set the words of a miserable creature like 
 Chauncey Chacomb against the happiness of 
 your life. Do not turn Gerald away bccau.':e 
 his father has said harsh things. If Gerald were 
 here himself to plead — " 
 
 " Ah ! " she caught at the words with a gasp. 
 ** If Gerald were here himself it would be harder 
 to say, but sweeter to remember. We should 
 part in love, and I should have his farewell. 
 Now, oh, now what will he think of me — what 
 will he think of me } for I can tell him nothing." 
 
 " In God's name," cried Joseph, moved out cf 
 himself, "what has Chauncey said ? What mis- 
 chief has he brewed in your mind V 
 
 She shook her head, and gave him her hand. 
 
 " Good-bye. I will write you a letter for 
 .Gerald to-night — if I can, if I can."
 
 238 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 She left him, and sped swiftly down the 
 avenue, with bowed head. 
 
 Joseph Chacomb looked after her with some- 
 thing like moisture in his eye. Then he blew 
 his nose. 
 
 " I have not felt so," he said, " since I went to 
 the Adelphi for the first time, and saw Celeste 
 play Janet Pride. I thought I had mastered the 
 weakness. What the deuce ! It was not I who 
 made this girl's trouble ; it was not my fault, I 
 suppose, that Chauncey broke out in a new 
 place ; it was not through me. I believe that 
 Chauncey — and what can he have told her, I 
 wonder? Things in this world never go straight. 
 It is just as I said last night : make every allow- 
 ance and the most careful calculation, have your 
 combinations arranged like a professional book- 
 maker, down comes an accident that no one 
 foresees, and smashes it all up. Only a week 
 ago — to be sure, I did think Chauncey cracked, 
 even before this last business — I saw the 
 most beautiful, the most fortunate chance. 
 Gerald, who is as headstrong as a mule, was 
 going to marry the girl, in spite of his father; 
 tlierc was going to be a grand family kick-up j
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 239 
 
 the crooked little animal, with a brain as un- 
 settled as his body, was going to leave every- 
 thing to me. I know his life is a bad one, and 
 this place, with its lovely income, was going to 
 be mine. It is too bad, upon my word ! No 
 will would stand a contest with Chauncey as 
 mad as a hatter. The servants will talk, if no 
 one else does. It is a splendid stake missed. 
 And now we must confine ourselves to smaller 
 operations. At all events, let us borrow all we can. 
 The wise man, like Joseph Chacomb, gathers his 
 roses while he may. Poor Marion! the girl's eyes 
 are enough to melt the heart of St. Anthony." 
 
 Six days afterwards — the Revels gone — 
 Gerald appeared, worn and weak from his fever, 
 and ignorant of what had happened. Joseph 
 Chacomb told him in a few words. 
 
 *' Gone } Marion gone t And without wait- 
 ing to see me V 
 
 " She is gone. All the village children are 
 crying after her still ; but she has left a letter 
 for you." 
 
 Gerald tore it open. 
 
 " What is this } " he cried, fiercely. " Do you 
 know the contents of this letter? "
 
 24© WITH HARP AXD CROlVX. 
 
 " I know," said the doctor, " that she asked 
 me to give you a letter containing her farewell 
 to you, and that she made me promise not to 
 give you her address without her permission." 
 
 ** It is your doing ! I believe this is your 
 doing!" the young man burst out. 
 
 " It is not," returned the doctor. " I am inno- 
 cent of any knowledge even of Miss Revel's rea- 
 son. She refused to tell me. You may bcliexe 
 me, Gerald, when I assure you that I wanted 
 above all things to see you married, and to her." 
 
 " Then who — do you know — for God's sake 
 tell me something ! — do you know anything, the 
 smallest thing, that could make her write tin's 
 letter .'* Read it, read it slowly, and try to 
 account for it." 
 
 The doctor read as follows: — 
 
 " Di:ar Gerald — A thing has happened 
 which will prevent our ever being to each other 
 what we hoped to be. Think kindly of me — 
 indeed, it is not my fault! I pray you earnestly 
 not to try to see me. Forget me, and forgot 
 the words we spoke to each other. That can 
 never be thought of now which you hoped for
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 24! 
 
 then, and I too — God knows. You may believe 
 that ft is no \\^\\\ matter which forces me to 
 write this letter. "Makion." 
 
 " What does it mean? I cannot understand it. 
 I was seized at Boulogne with a touch of my 
 old marsh fever, and have had a baddish fort- 
 night. The moment I could travel I returned, 
 to find this letter, and the place deserted." 
 
 " Yes, and the captain in the churchyard." 
 
 " Have you no clue ? Man, you were here 
 the whole time ; you must know something." 
 
 "Gerald, if you want to know why Marion 
 wrote the letter, you must ask your father. I 
 do not know what he said to her, nor why she 
 wrote the letter." 
 
 The conversation took place on the way from 
 the Barnstaple railway station, whither the doc- 
 tor drove to meet Gerald. Nothing more was 
 said till they reached the Hall. 
 
 "Where is my father.^" the young man asked. 
 
 "With his Collection, I believe. Gerald, be 
 patient with him ; he is excited and worn by the 
 captain's sudden death." 
 
 Gerald pushed the doctor roughly back, and 
 
 Vol. J. 16
 
 242 WITH HARP AND CROIVN. 
 
 ran up the steps. Joseph Chacomb heard him 
 open and shut the door of the museum, and 
 groaned. 
 
 " Now all the fat is in the fire. Anyhow, it is 
 only hastening the inevitable row. We shall 
 have to lock up Chauncey to-night with a strait- 
 waistcoat, I suppose. Dear, dear, what a pity 
 for me, and for Marion too, poor girl, that things 
 could not run smoothly ! " 
 
 He never knew what passed between the 
 father and the son. He heard loud voices, 
 which died away ; he heard the shrill notes of 
 Chauncey Chacomb ; he heard his cries and 
 entreaties. In ten minutes Gerald came out, 
 white and trembling. 
 
 " Go to my father, cousin," he said. " Do 
 what you can for him. Hide him — for God's 
 sake hide him from people, lest he should talk. 
 Treat him kindly so long as he lives, for I shall 
 never see him again." 
 
 " What have you said, Gerald ?" 
 
 "Do not ask me. If he tells you, you will 
 keep it secret, for the credit of the name. 
 Joseph" — he gasped for breath, being perhaps 
 still weak from his recent illness — " I am going
 
 WITH HARP AND CRO WN. 243 
 
 away, away from England. I cannot bear to 
 stay here. I leave my father to you, mind. He 
 is to be your charge if I never return. Tell 
 Marion, when you see her, that I accept the in- 
 evitable, but I love her still.' 
 
 " I will take care of your father, but why — T 
 
 "Again, do not ask me. Has that fellow 
 taken out my luggage.-^ Very good; then it 
 may remain in the dogcart. I shall drive back 
 to the station. Perhaps I will write to you 
 from London." 
 
 He seized the reins, and drove away, leaving 
 the doctor speechless. 
 
 Then he went to see his cousin. Chauncey 
 was sitting, calm and composed, at the window. 
 He raised his eyes heavily when he saw the 
 doctor, but did not speak. 
 
 He maintained a perfect silence for four days. 
 The doctor began seriously to think of a private 
 asylum. Then came a letter from Gerald, tell- 
 ing in the fewest words possible that he was 
 starting immediately for Southern Africa, and 
 would be gone when the letter arrived. 
 
 " I ask," he said, " for no news, because thefc 
 can be none but bad news. I leave no address^ 
 
 16 — 2
 
 2U IVITH HARP AXD CROWiW 
 
 and shall not f^o to the post-ofiFice nt the Capr 
 nr Xatal for letters. Perhaps I shall come back 
 i^ain in a few yea is. Perhaps not all.' 
 
 Joseph Chacomb read the letter to Chauncc)- 
 in the evcninci:. 
 
 " I had absolutely made up my mind, Joe, 
 that Gerald should not marry that Revel girl. 
 I hate her as much as I hated her father. Did 
 you hear how she turned upon mc, and forced 
 me to tell the whole truth — the whole truth, 
 by Jove.? Well, I told Gerald just what I told 
 Marion." 
 
 "What did you tell them, Chauncey.?" 
 " Marion found it out herself, and taxed mc 
 with it. As no one was looking, not even you, I 
 confessed it all at once, and laughed at her. She 
 did not look so scared as you might have ex- 
 pected; only her eyes were something like the 
 captain's when he fell; but not so wild — no, not 
 so wild: there never were eyes so wild as those. 
 But they reminded mc, you know. And when 
 Gerald came in just now — Gerald is a handsome 
 boy when he is in a rage — I told him too. lie 
 looked like his mother, very much. It is odd 
 how little that boy resembles me."
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 245 
 
 "What, in Heaven's name, did you tell them?" 
 
 " Why, Joe, where is the use of pretending 
 between ourselves? You know as well as I. 
 You saw me do it. You saw me with your own 
 eyes push him over the cliff. That was why the 
 only evidence you gave at the inquest was how 
 you tried to rescue him. / understood — yes, I 
 understood perfectly well. You cannot deceive 
 a man of my penetration." 
 
 " Let me look at you, Chauncey." 
 
 " Look at me as long as you like. You 
 thought I was mad. I thought so myself for a 
 little while. But I am not. I was never cooler 
 in my life. It is true that I lost my composure 
 a little when Gerald swore he would never re- 
 turn home again. That was natural with such a 
 fine boy as Gerald — a boy to be proud of — only 
 I am quite sure he did not mean it. He can 
 never, you see, marry the daughter of the man I 
 murdered. No, Joseph, you are a clever fellow, 
 but you will not make me out to be mad. That 
 is past even your medical skill." 
 
 " Chauncey, pull ygurself together, man. 
 Think, think what you are saying. I saw it 
 all, from the beginning."
 
 246 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 *'I know you did, Joe — I know you did. And 
 very good it was of you to hold your tongue. 
 Very good and thoughtful indeed. To be sure, 
 you were always a kind-hearted fellow." 
 
 ''I saw it, I say. Chauncey, you did not 
 touch the man : he slipped and fell. Your hands 
 were six feet from him, and more." 
 
 *' Kind of you, Joe — cousinly. Let us keep 
 up the family honour, outside, and say so every- 
 where. You and I know better." 
 
 *'What am I to say to this man.?" cried the 
 helpless physician. " How am I to persuade 
 him } Good heavens, Chauncey, I tell you 
 that you did not push Captain Revel over the 
 cHff." 
 
 " Quite right, when you speak so loud." 
 
 " Who the devil is to speak soft in such a 
 matter.-* Chauncey," he said, in a stage whisper, 
 "you did not — you did not — you did not do it. 
 It is a delusion which you will shake off when 
 you recover." 
 
 " I am recovered," said the squire. " I know 
 well now. I sec the whole scene before me. But 
 let us talk no more about it. The inquest was 
 'Accidental death.' So that I am quite safe.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN, 247 
 
 Only it will be well to keep things quiet to our- 
 selves, will it not?" 
 
 " Quite off his head," murmured the medical 
 man — *' quite! Come, Chauncey, come, my poor 
 cousin," Joseph pleaded, "put this awful hallu- 
 cination out of your mind." 
 
 " Do not be a hypocrite, Joseph Chacomb. I 
 hate hypocrisy where it is unnecessary. So 
 would you, if you had had, like me, all your life, 
 somehow or other, to pretend. I pretended to 
 be in love with Gerald's mother. I pretended to 
 be fond of your society — " 
 
 " Gad!" cried the doctor, " this is like a horrid 
 nightmare." 
 
 " I pretended to be the special friend of 
 Revel; I pretended to like his girl; and I pre- 
 tended to be sorry for what has happened. But 
 I was glad, Joe — I was glad — only for one 
 thing." 
 
 "What is that, Chauncey.^" asked the doctor, 
 catching at a possible means of restoring him. 
 
 " It is, Joe, that I understand now what the 
 Lord did when he put a seal on Cain's fore- 
 head. He has put one on mine, and I feel it 
 hot and heavy. It grows hotter and heavier
 
 248 Willi HARP AXD CROWN. 
 
 every day. I expect it will be like red-hot 
 steel before I am dead. But I must bear it, 
 and everything else. You will not hear me 
 complain, Joe, whatever I suffer. It is upon me 
 day and night — day and night. It would have 
 been better that I had never been born, for I 
 have lived to be a murderer." 
 
 Then the doctor, by a stroke of inspiration, 
 bethought him all at once of his own utterances 
 on the cleverness which is able to make capital 
 out of things as they happen, rather than to 
 speculate on things that might happen. 
 
 He rose solemnly, and standing before his 
 cousin, a great burly person, over a misshapen, 
 withered little man, like a big schoolmaster over 
 a small boy, shook his forefinger — a very large, 
 fat, and red forefinger, terrible in its shaking as 
 Jupiter's nod — at his face. 
 
 " Cousin Chauncey, when people are mad, 
 they are sent to asylums. If they make a 
 noise, they are put into strait-waistcoats. If 
 they fling themselves about, they are put into 
 padded rooms. If they do not obey the 
 keepers, the fellows kneel on them and break 
 their ribs, and then say that the foolish mad-
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 249 
 
 man did it^ himself. They tickle the soles of 
 their feet with feathers ; they put them on bread 
 and water; they never let them go out in the 
 open air; they laugh at them, and mock them; 
 they give them no books to read ; they shut 
 them up with gibbering idiots, who dangle their 
 hands — so — and drive them really mad with 
 their dreadful grinning; or else with raving ma- 
 niacs, who glare and roar, and tear with their 
 claws. Cousin Chauncey, you, I am sorry in- 
 deed to perceive, are gone mad. But at present 
 I am the only man who knows it. I shall be 
 good to you, and hide it — so long as you help 
 me — from the world. But I must treat you, for 
 the future, as you behave to me. I shall manage 
 your affairs for you; put a proper person into 
 the house to have charge of you when I am in 
 London ; receive and lay out your money for 
 you ; take care of your estates for you ; and, so 
 far as I can, prevent your making a fool of your- 
 self. In return, you shall have your liberty, and 
 shall do whatever you please within bounds; 
 only you will hold your tongue. Try to get rid 
 of me, and I shut you up; try to shake me off, 
 and I lock you up in an asylum. Gerald is gone,
 
 2;0 
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 and I think he will come back no more to Eng- 
 land. I am the heir. Make a will, and I will 
 prove that you were mad. Rebel if you dare; 
 try to get away from my protection if you can: 
 you are in my power, cousin Chauncey, and very 
 thankful — very thankful indeed — you ought to 
 be that you have got a physician in the family 
 to take care of you, hide your little failings, and 
 —and spend your money for you, by gad!"
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I AST and west of Tottenham-court- 
 road — a thoroughfare whose great 
 shops have not been able to redeem 
 it from a vulgarity which enters into 
 the soul of those who journey upon its flags — 
 there run lines of parallel streets, this part of 
 London being as regular as the city of Philadel- 
 phia, U.S.A. When they were originally built, 
 a hundred and forty years ago, they displayed 
 in their fronts a good deal of aristocratic hauteur 
 and coldness, befitting an expensive and fashion- 
 able part of town. Their coldness remains, but 
 their haughtiness has vanished. The streets are 
 not vulgar, but vulgarized. Queer trades are 
 carried on in the houses; brass plates, shutters, 
 and window blinds bear announcements of call- 
 ings alien to the general experience. A modeller
 
 U'l in HARP A.Xn CROU'.W 
 
 of human limbs, a stipplcr of photographs, a 
 wax flower maker, a valentine and lace-paper 
 manufacturer, a maker of playing cards, a 
 painter of fans, a Parisian artist engaged upon 
 the petty trifles on which we waste our money 
 at Christmas and Easter: these are some of the 
 professionals who live side by side in Lowland- 
 street, Tottenham-court-road, in such amity as 
 is consistent with trades which are not in rivalry. 
 The majority of the ground floors belong to the 
 offices and workshops; the first and higher floors 
 are let out either on a system of flats, or in se- 
 parate rooms to ladies and gentlemen who are, 
 as a rule, occupied elsewhere during the day. 
 It is to apartments in Lowland-street that the 
 gallant young draper's assistant of Oxford-street 
 brings home his lovely bride. It is here that the 
 tutor (London B.A.), who gives lessons at a shil- 
 ling an hour in all the sciences and most lan- 
 guages, finds a lodging adapted to his modest 
 wants. It is to this retreat that the translator 
 and the literary compiler, whose days are spent 
 in the British Museum, return when midnight 
 closes the'public-house. Here are third-rate act- 
 resses and actors ; here are betting men, whose
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 253 
 
 sphere of action is limited to the suburban fix- 
 tures; here are City clerks, who. by chumminc:^ 
 together, are able to atTor^l one festive evenings 
 in the week at the Oxford ; here arc the young 
 and hopeful who look for better days ; here are 
 the old and battered, praying that the worse 
 days may not become the worst ; here are those 
 who pretend to have fallen from affluence, and 
 pride themselves, like Lucifer, upon the depth of 
 their fall ; here are those, once gentlefolk indeed, 
 A\'ho would, if they could, fain forget the past 
 and be contented with the present. The ro- 
 mance, the contrast, the poetry of London are 
 not always where we have agreed to place them. 
 Where life is assured and easy, the romance is 
 of the drawing-room school, which ripples rather 
 than disturbs the surface. Among the reeking 
 and foul purlieus of the courts, about which not 
 even a penny paper, trying to work up to the 
 highest sensational level, dares to tell the whole, 
 horrible truth, the romance, if there is any- 
 thing that is not real, is brutally and repulsively 
 tragic. Perhaps it is among these strugglers in 
 byeways for life, these hangers-on to the orna- 
 mental robes of civilization, these people who
 
 254 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 profit by the foibles and vanities, rather than 
 the necessities of their fellows, that a deeper ro- 
 mance may be found, in which life is really ear- 
 nest, and the situations are really melodramatic. 
 
 No. 15, Lowland-street stands at the corner 
 which marks the confluence of that thoroughfare 
 with Euphrates-row, a place of less pronounced 
 respectability. It is on the south side of the 
 street; its door bears two plates, one of brass: 
 on this the name of Ruddiman represents, as 
 was supposed a generation or two back, a land- 
 lord long deceased. The plate has remained, a 
 monument of his worth, destined to last as long 
 as the brass, and entirely unexpected in life, 
 Immortality sometimes takes a shape not looked 
 for. The other plate, a brighter and a newer 
 one, is above it. It is in zinc, and proclaims 
 the fact that here is Mr. Rhyl Owen's Academy. 
 The door itself is decorated and furnished with 
 a row of half a dozen bell handles, each of which 
 is attached to its own room. In the window of 
 the ground floor is a card, setting forth that 
 lessons may be procured from Mr. Rhyl Owen 
 on moderate terms, in book-keeping, French
 
 IVITH HARP AND CROWN. 1$^ 
 
 " ~ - — ' — ' ' — 
 
 correspondence, Latin, arithmetic, and penman- 
 ship in all its branches. At the back of the 
 house, where once stood the garden, in the old 
 times before Euphrates-row was a modern en- 
 croachment on the privacy of Lowland-street, 
 they have built the school-room — a long and low 
 apartment, whence may be heard, at morn and 
 afternoon, the buzz of many lessons, the voice of 
 the admonisher, and the wail of the admonished. 
 That is the select academy of Mr. Rhyl Owen. 
 In the evening it is let out as a genteel dancing 
 school, to a professor with a respectable con- 
 nection, whose daughters assist in imparting a 
 knowledge of the art, and in maintaining the 
 lofty tone of the establishment. Ladies of the 
 ballet are not admitted to these lessons. Once 
 a year — I am sorry the anniversary will not fall 
 within the limits of this book — a ball is given : 
 tickets of admission for lady and gentleman, 
 half a crown each; refreshments, provided by 
 the eminent host of the Grapes, of course are 
 extra. The staircase of the house is dingy, 
 and one which is sometimes swept, but rarely 
 cleaned. The wainscoted walls are blackened at 
 about the height of four feet six, where people's
 
 256 WITH HARP AM) CROWX. 
 
 shoulders have nibbed asfainst them for five 
 srenerations ; but it is .1 broad an.! handsome 
 staircase — not so stately as one of those in the 
 decayed houses of Soho, but a staircase which 
 shows conscientious work and no contract. The 
 house, as compared witli most in the street, 
 is thinly populated. On the third floor front 
 dwells a lady who may have heard of seventy 
 springs, but as all her life has been passed in 
 London, she has never actually seen one. She 
 lives on her means, and is reported by the out- 
 side world to be possessed of a comfortable in- 
 come. It may be so, and it is perhaps nothing 
 but a miserly disposition which makes her lie 
 in bed rather than light a fire, dine habitually 
 off bread and butter, and find a banquet in 
 a plate of cold beef bought at a cook-shop in 
 luiphrates-row. Perhaps, however, it is her os- 
 tentatious cleanliness which favours the idea. 
 One of the bed-rooms at the back of the same 
 floor is occupied by a young gentleman of four 
 or five and twent}', who lives with his sister 
 downstairs, and is supposed to be engaged " in 
 the City." On the .second floor there lives a 
 hermit. This class of thinker is not so numerous
 
 WrrH HARP AND CROWN. 257 
 
 as in the old days when — as in the sixth century, 
 before the Cahph Omar came to change things 
 — the whole of Palestine resounded perpetually, 
 day and night, and from end to end, with the 
 litanies of those who fasted and sang, and the 
 howls of those who flogged their own sinful 
 backs. I have, myself, only known one or two 
 cases of the modern hermit. One was a man 
 who got into the habit of living quite alone, 
 never going out of his chambers except to 
 dinner, and then always to a restaurant close at 
 hand, where hje sat daily on the same bench and 
 had the same food. He is still living, though 
 prematurely grey. The other was the case of 
 Mr. Lilliecrip, the hermit of Lowland-street. He 
 was not a religious hermit, so far as the public 
 knew, nor did he sing litanies like a Benedictine, 
 nor did he flagellate himself with a cat-o'-nine- 
 tails like a repentant garotter, nor did he fast 
 and macerate himself like a Ritualist in Lent. 
 But he had earned and maintained the character 
 of a hermit by simply never going outside his 
 own door. He had the two rooms, back and 
 front, and the voice of rumour was busy with 
 him. He was reputed rich; he was said to be 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 a nobleman In disguise; he was as great a 
 mystery as the Man with the Iron Mask; he 
 was a great criminal ; he was a murderer hiding 
 from the law; he was a forger, afraid to go into 
 the streets; he was a political spy, obliged to 
 keep himself dark; but, above all, he was fabu- 
 lously, enormously, tremendously rich, and could 
 buy up the whole of Lowland-street and never 
 feel it. On the ground floor, as has been stated, 
 is Mr. Rhyl Owen; with him his daughter Wini- 
 fred, of her Majesty's Telegraph Department. 
 And the first floor, together with the bed-room 
 of the third floor back above mentioned, is let 
 at twelve shillings a week, taken by the quarter 
 and money paid in advance, to a family con- 
 sisting of two young ladies and their brother. 
 The elder of the two paints all day at her easel 
 when she Is not copying at the National Gallery; 
 the younger sits at home and watches her sister, 
 or goes out with her brother to walk along the 
 streets and look at the shops. For it is four 
 years since the captain died. Comb Leigh has 
 long since passed away into the dim twilight of 
 the happy past. The Revels — Marion, Fred, and 
 Adie — have descended together to the level of
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 259 
 
 Lowland-street, and to the life that is called 
 " from hand to mouth." 
 
 It is an evening in April, when the advent of 
 spring makes itself felt in the heart of London 
 by longer daylight and colder winds, rather than 
 by any of the gracious phenomena familiar to 
 lovers of nature in the country. All the children 
 are in the street, playing noisily; the nearest 
 clock has struck six; a German band blows at 
 the corner with an energy which shows temper 
 as well as tune; and the cold wind which, out- 
 side London, has stripped the apple tree of its 
 blossoms, turned the lilac flowers brown, curled 
 up the young leaves of the roses, and killed 
 every little peachlet which was beginning to 
 swell out on its tiny stalk, is sweeping through 
 the streets and round the corners, driving the 
 shavings and bits of paper round and round 
 in the areas, rasping the housemaid's elbows, 
 and painting the children's legs a lively red. 
 Where does it come from, this bitter wind 
 of the east? Does it always blow across 
 the flats which stretch from Ostend to the 
 Ural Mountains? And what manner of people 
 
 17 — 2
 
 26o WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 arc those who dwell beneath its baneful in- 
 fluence? 
 
 On the ground floor of No. 15, Mr. Rhyl 
 Owen is engaged in putting away his tea-things, 
 having prepared and eaten that meal by himself, 
 according to his usual wont, after the dismissal 
 of the boys. The room is at once his dining, 
 sitting, and sleeping apartment. A turn-up bed- 
 stead of the old-fashioned kind, constructed to 
 look as much like a wardrobe as possible, stands 
 in one corner; a wooden arm-chair is in the 
 window; a cupboard by the fireplace holds the 
 crockery of the menage ; two or three hanging 
 shelves contain Mr. Owen's library, which con- 
 sists principally of translations — not used as 
 cribs, but forming, when he is not engaged upon 
 Plutarch or the Book of Proverbs, his favourite 
 reading; for Mr. Owen is as fond of Homer, 
 Virgil, and Ovid as any other schoolmaster, 
 though his mastery of their original tongues is 
 defective. The table is equally divided between 
 a pile of exercise books and a girl's workbox; 
 an easy-chair stands by the fireplace, and one 
 or two other chairs complete the furniture. 
 The tenant of the room is small in stature, like
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 261 
 
 Zaccheus, Tydeus, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, and 
 most of the other men known in history. His 
 face is seamed, crow's-footed, crossed and fur- 
 rowed by a thousand lines, every one of which 
 represents a vexation or a disappointment. His 
 short and curly hair is an iron grey, and stands 
 up all over his head, giving him a look of 
 perpetual surprise. He wears neither beard nor 
 whiskers. His eyebrows are thick and black, 
 as if he was of a fierce and determined nature, 
 which he is not. On his large and bony hands 
 the knuckles stand out like cairns upon a hill- 
 side. His lips are large and mobile; his eyes are 
 as bright as a ferret's. He is dressed in a long 
 black frock, once a coat belonging to a taller 
 member of society; its extreme rustiness pro- 
 claims its durability, and furnishes a proof that 
 English honesty is not yet become a byeword 
 and a proverb among the nations, in spite of 
 the sizing of cotton and the manufacture of 
 shoddy. Round his neck is a voluminous black 
 tie. His linen, for it is Friday evening, might 
 be cleaner with advantage. His legs are encased 
 in trousers of a dark grey. How much his 
 garments bulge at the elbows and the knees,
 
 262 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 how their folds and sinuosities betray the ha- 
 bitual disposition of their master's legs beneath 
 the chair, it would be long to tell. On his head 
 he wears a black skullcap. 
 
 Mr. Rhyl Owen placed the tea-things in the 
 cupboard, reduced the fire to a minimum, and 
 taking his pipe from the mantelshelf — a long 
 clay — loaded and lit it. Then he looked all 
 round the room, like a dog who searches about 
 for the most comfortable place, took a book 
 from the shelf, sat down in the wooden chair, 
 with his back to the light, and heaved a mighty 
 sigh. 
 
 Just at the moment when he took the first 
 Avhiff a knock came to the door, accompanied by 
 the rustle of feminine garments. He listened 
 for a moment, and an expression, half of fear, 
 half of annoyance, crossed his face. 
 
 " If that's Mrs. Candy," he called out, as the 
 door partly opened, " you needn't say, ma'am, 
 what you came to say. I caned your second 
 to-day, and I caned your eldest yesterday, and 
 I shall do my duty upon both boys' trousers 
 to-morrow if they deserve it. So you may take 
 your boys away or not, as you like, Mrs. Candy.
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 263 
 
 There's the national schools," he went on, in a 
 lower voice, as if he was working off an angry- 
 mood ; " there's the young coxcomb of a certi- 
 ficated master; he knows everything. He ought 
 to be caned for conceit, and I should like to 
 have the job. ' Wisdom is too high for a fool.' 
 You had better send them there. And there's 
 the Roman Catholic schools, where the priest 
 ought to be caned, and I should like to have 
 that job too." 
 
 "It isn't Mrs. Candy, Mr. Owen," said a voice 
 from outside. 
 
 "If it's the milk, you must come again, then; 
 I've got no money." 
 
 There was a little laugh. 
 
 "It isn't the milk." 
 
 Mr. Owen walked to the door with the so- 
 lemnity that a schoolmaster of many years' 
 standing naturally acquires, and opened it him- 
 self. 
 
 "Oh, it's you. Miss Adie, is it?" he cried, with 
 a changed voice. 
 
 "May I come in, Mr. Owen?" 
 
 "Surely, surely; come in." 
 
 She came in — the Adie Revel we left four
 
 264 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 years ago, a young girl of sixteen. She is 
 twenty now, and a woman ; her figure is tall and 
 shapely; her face, with features perfectly and 
 absolutely regular, is set in a framework of light 
 and waving hair; her eyes are of that limpid 
 blue which seems as full of expression as the 
 eyes of Sappho or Heloise; her lips are parted 
 in a smile, which seems one of perpetual con- 
 tent — it is the smile of a nature which looks for 
 little more than to get the greatest enjoyment 
 possible out of life; and the expression of her 
 eyes, which seems so deep, is as yet but the light 
 of youth and health. Love, quickener of the 
 real nature, has not yet come to transform the 
 maiden. The sorrows of her life have passed 
 over her as the breath of evening over a sea of 
 molten glass, and left no trace behind. Her 
 dress is of a cheap and common stuff, but it is 
 made, by herself, in that perfect taste which 
 almost deceives even feminine appraisers of the 
 marketable value of other women's costume. It 
 falls about her in folds as graceful as if it had 
 been of silk, and fits her slender figure as if it 
 had been made in Regent-street. Round her neck 
 she wears a blue ribbon tied in a simple knot —
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 265 
 
 her only ornament. But she is so beautiful that 
 she wants none, it is pleasure enough to look 
 upon her; and if you listen while she speaks, 
 you hear a voice as clear and musical as any 
 bell, if somewhat thin — a voice which seems 
 to be the fitting organ for a soul of infinite 
 depths. 
 
 ''Come in, my pretty," said the schoolmas- 
 ter, the lines in his face softening all over, just 
 as the lines in an old building soften when 
 the sunshine suddenly falls upon them. "Come 
 in and sit down, and talk to me. I've had 
 my tea, and I have lighted my pipe, but I am 
 grumpy." 
 
 "Poor old man!" said Adie, touching his 
 cheek with the tips of her fingers. "Why is he 
 grumpy?" 
 
 "Miserrimus," said Mr. Owen, bringing his 
 chair from the window to the fireside, and 
 putting back the coals he had taken off — 
 "Miserrimus (nominative case, masculine gender, 
 superlative degree, from misery wretched) is the 
 adjective that describes a schoolmaster. It is 
 told that Dionysius the Younger sank to the 
 lowest depths of misery, and became a school-
 
 266 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 master — the lowest depths, you see: that is how 
 men gird at the profession. Shakspeare puts a 
 Welsh schoolmaster like me upon the stage to 
 be laughed at. No one ever forgot that Louis 
 Philippe had been a schoolmaster. Johnson was 
 called a pedagogue all his life. Not a cheating, 
 yard-of-tape-measuring counter-jumper among 
 them all but thinks the schoolmaster an inferior 
 animal — not one so poor to do him reverence. 
 Lord! Lord! what does it matter, Miss Adie.^ 
 We get our holidays, and then we can go fishing, 
 and forget our troubles. And, after all, there's 
 the blessed pipe. And Solomon says a word 
 or two for us — 'Receive knowledge rather than 
 choice gold.' What made you come down and 
 see me, young lady.'' Not but what I am proud 
 to have you here." 
 
 The girl turned red for a moment. 
 "I came down because I was all alone up- 
 stairs, with nothing to do, and — and — oh, Mr. 
 Owen, give me some tea. We have got no 
 money, and I am so hungry." 
 
 ''Tea.'* To be sure, to be sure." He got up 
 and began to bustle about, laying another stick 
 on the fire. "Why, what in the name of
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 267 
 
 Surely Miss Revel hasn't had any misfortunes. 
 Wait a minute, my dear, wait one moment. The 
 kettle is on the sing. Hungry! I have been 
 hungry myself, and it's a dreadful thing. Miss 
 Adie — a dreadful thing." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Oh, not so very dreadful. Marion went out 
 yesterday to sell some pictures, but could not 
 get her money, so we had no dinner. This morn- 
 ing we finished all the bread for breakfast, and 
 Marion went out again directly afterwards, and 
 has not come home since. I worked till I was 
 tired, and then I went to sleep. But sleeping 
 won't make up for no dinner." 
 
 "Where is your brother.^" asked Mr. Owen, 
 shortly. 
 
 "He's gone into the City. But Fred will look 
 after himself — he always does." 
 
 "No dinner to-day, and none yesterday. Both 
 days I had a beautiful dinner, and just now I 
 was grumbling!" 
 
 He shook his head as if he was sick of the 
 selfishness of human nature, dived into the cup- 
 board and produced a piece of bacon, from which 
 he cut two or three slices. The girl looked on
 
 268 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 with ill-disguised eagerness while the bacon was 
 cooking in the little Dutch oven. When it was 
 ready, she devoured it with the natural eager- 
 ness of an appetite sharpened by the absence of 
 dinner for two days. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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