US 
 
 Kg 
 
 RE1 
 
 wtblLu 
 
 sn 
 
 BSmi 
 
 m 
 
 BY THE AUTHOB OF 
 
 Hffit
 
 \A 
 
 I E> RAHY 
 OF THE 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 %Z1> 
 
 
 Zc 
 
 fh>
 
 CENTRAL CIRCULATION AND BOOKSTACKS 
 
 The person borrowing this material is 
 responsible for its renewal or return 
 before the Latest Date stamped below. You 
 may be charged a minimum fee of $75.00 
 for each non-returned or lost item. 
 Theft, mutilation, or defacement of library materials can 
 be causes for student disciplinary action. All materials 
 owned by the University of Illinois Library are the 
 property of the State of Illinois and are protected by 
 Article 1 6B of Illinois Criminal Law and Procedure. 
 TO RENEW, CALL (217) 333-8400. 
 University of Illinois Library at Urbana-Champaign 
 
 When renewing by phone, write new due date 
 below previous due date. LI 62
 
 CECILE 
 
 /» 
 
 OK, 
 
 ODERN DOLATERS. 
 
 BY 
 
 HAWLEY SMART, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 BREEZIE LANGTON,' 'BITTER IS THE RIND, 
 
 BTC. 
 
 ' In yesterday's reach and to-morrow's, 
 Out of sight though they lie of to-day, 
 There have been and there yet shall be sorrows 
 That smite not and bite not in play.' 
 
 IN THKEE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON. 
 
 NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1871.
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 8Z3 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 
 CHAPTEJ 
 
 > 
 
 
 I. 
 
 Childekley 
 
 
 II. 
 
 ' Mon Droit Naturel ' 
 
 
 III. 
 
 My Lady's Boudoir 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ernest de Vitre .... 
 
 
 V. 
 
 The Rehearsal .... 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Performance 
 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bertie on the Drama . 
 
 V 
 
 ft 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A Night at Aldershott 
 
 IX. 
 
 Lia's Meditations 
 
 
 X. 
 
 A Dinner in Eaton Square 
 
 XL 
 
 De Vitre's Levee 
 
 
 XII. 
 
 A Water-Party at Twickenham 
 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Mrs. St. Leger at Home 
 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Her Grace of Pumicestone's Ball 
 
 
 XV. 
 
 Death of Bertie .... 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 20 
 
 40 
 
 61 
 
 82 
 
 104 
 
 129 
 
 150 
 
 171 
 
 188 
 
 207 
 
 227 
 
 252 
 
 270 
 
 288 

 
 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTEB I. 
 
 1 CHILDERLEY.' 
 
 A pleasaxt smoking-room is that of Chil- 
 derley, with its squab, easy lounging chairs 
 and comfortable sofas. Proof engravings 
 decorate the walls, and that old oak cabinet 
 in the background is filled with specimens 
 of modern vertu in the shape of Partegas, 
 Cabanas, &c, of rare growth, antique brand, 
 and for which marvellous prices have been 
 given. Articles of vertu, forsooth ! Yea, 
 verily. Am I not writing of modern idola- 
 ters, and is not this a temple consecrated 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 U CECILE. 
 
 to the goddess Nicotine ? Many have wor- 
 shipped at her shrine in this room ; number- 
 less are the pleasant stories, merry jests, 
 quips and repartees that due sacrifice to her 
 rites has here evoked. The centre table is 
 decorated with a lamp, various cut glass 
 decanters, and several bottles of potash or 
 seltzer. The candles still burn on the ad- 
 jacent whist table, where the debris of a 
 rubber, in the shape of a confused heap 
 of cards and mother-of-pearl markers, lie 
 scattered. 
 
 'All nonsense, I tell you,' exclaims a 
 stout, florid man, with his back to the fire, 
 and who, with his legs a little apart, has 
 assumed a position on the hearth-rug that 
 inevitably betokens haranguing the audience. 
 4 1 tell you our morality is all cant, our 
 boasted civilisation a .sham. The Eomans 
 were infinitely our superiors on the latter 
 point. But to return to what we were 
 talking about, I say, and you'll have to 
 admit it ere long, that foundling hospitals
 
 c CHILDERLEY.' 3 
 
 are becoming a growing necessity in London. 
 You shut your eyes to one of the great vices 
 of the days we live in. You write whim- 
 pering letters to the " Times " about the 
 slaughter of pigeons. You ignore that the 
 days of Herod are revived. Foundling 
 hospitals are a great premium on vice, say 
 our moralists. Good ! we allow the organ- 
 isation of a grand system of child murder to 
 obviate their necessity. It is better that 
 murder should conceal shame than our pro- 
 priety should be shocked. I've nothing to 
 say about it. I have to talk or write about 
 these things professionally, and say my say 
 there. Only do not talk any more about 
 the advance of morals or civilisation,' and 
 Egerton Slane shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Can't agree with you, Slane. I'll admit 
 child murder has been lamentably on the 
 increase, and the late disclosures were shock- 
 ing in the extreme. But nobody can per- 
 suade me that the march of civilisation is 
 not progressing with rapid strides.' 
 
 B 2
 
 4 CECILE. 
 
 The speaker is Sir Hervey Mallandaine, 
 the owner of Childerley, a man a little the 
 wrong side of forty, and who has repre- 
 sented his county in Parliament for some 
 years. 
 
 ' I don't allow it,' retorted Slane (he never 
 did allow anything, and was invariably in 
 opposition to his companion of the hour). 
 1 Civilisation advances, bosh ! The ancients 
 had all we have, exceeded us in virtue, 
 eclipsed us in vice. What can you claim 
 for us ? I give you the electric telegraph 
 and railways ; the latter the ancients no 
 doubt would have had, but they foresaw the 
 inconvenience that would arise from them, 
 a fact we are slowly opening our eyes to. 
 It's no use going anywhere now, you can't 
 see anything when you get there for the 
 crowd. The Derby is a dream of the past, 
 a thing to read of in the papers, not see. 
 Telegraphs the same. No use attempting to 
 relate a story or communicate a bit of news. 
 Your auditor got it by telegraph two hours
 
 4 CHILDERLEY.' 5 
 
 ago. I always in these days wait to be 
 talked to.' 
 
 A roar of laughter greeted this last state- 
 ment, for the speaker was a notorious offen- 
 der in respect of what Madame de Stael 
 called ' that disease de monologue,' albeit, if 
 history tells truth, rather subject to it herself. 
 Egerton Slane is an influential journalist, 
 has written two or three successful novels, 
 has essayed as a dramatist, and all London 
 has been to laugh at the sparkling comedies 
 he has given them ; but in private life talk 
 he must, and the enunciation of any 
 view of a subject necessitates his looking 
 at it from a diametrically opposite point, 
 although he might have written a clever 
 leader in direct contradiction to his own 
 argument within the week. Man must dine 
 is an axiom. That man must talk was equally 
 so as regards Egerton Slane. For the re- 
 mainder, he promulgated in his conversation 
 the most cynical and eccentric views on 
 moral and social polity, was extremely
 
 6 CECILE. 
 
 popular, and secretly, after the manner of 
 
 most cynics, did many a kind and generous 
 
 turn to his less fortunate brothers and sisters 
 
 of the literary guild. 
 
 8 Yofi all laugh/ he exclaimed with a 
 
 smile. 8 What are you grinning at, Merriott ? 
 
 Do you natter yourself I'm going to let 
 
 you off; you who belong to that obsolete 
 
 institution, the British Cavalry ; or Eoland 
 
 Dance there, who is connected with that 
 
 • 
 worn out bureaucracy the War-office ? ' 
 
 8 Don't mind me, Egerton,' rejoined Dance, 
 a slight, dark man, who was lounging on the 
 sofa in full enjoyment of his evening cigar. 
 
 8 Well, I'll leave you alone for a few 
 minutes, just while I explain to Merriott why 
 I call his the obsolete branch of the service. 
 Your swords are no sharper, your horses no 
 better than those of the Mamelukes, and they 
 did little with the French squares in Egypt. 
 Men and horses can't be improved in the 
 same ratio as the implements for their de- 
 struction. You'll grant that Alec, eh ? '
 
 ' CHILDERLEY.' 7 
 
 'Grant anything,' laughed the interro- 
 gated, a tall good-looking captain of Lan- 
 cers. ' I'm not going to argue with you. 
 You're a little too good for me, although 
 you did trump my best spade in that last 
 rubber. I suppose we shall ride straight 
 when we're wanted ; we generally have, and 
 I don't think you'll have to complain next 
 time we're called on.' 
 
 ' Confound him ; he's changed front,' 
 laughed Slane. ■ No, my boy ; I'll not bring 
 you all on my back by arguing that the 
 Anglo-Saxon blood is deteriorating in its 
 indifference to danger. I'll ' 
 
 ' Stop ! ' exclaimed Sir Hervey. ' Even you 
 have made the admission that civilisation has 
 advanced.' 
 
 'How so?' 
 
 ' Why, you admit science has made vast 
 improvements regarding artillery, musketry, 
 iron clads, &c.' 
 
 ' Hah ! the destruction of life has been 
 comparatively simple from earliest history, if
 
 8 CECILE. 
 
 that is all your researches have done for 
 you.' 
 
 6 Halloa ! what about that cock pheasant ? 
 You missed to-day both barrels, Egerton,' 
 cried Dance. 
 
 ' Good night — come away Sir Hervey ; the 
 rising generation is getting irreverent ; al- 
 though I'm prepared to prove on mathe- 
 matical principles that pheasant's escape was 
 his fault not mine. He didn't fly as 
 wind and instinct should have dictated.' 
 
 'They don't sometimes,' observed the 
 Lancer. 
 
 ' Good night,' retorted Slane ; ' that Cabana 
 you're now lighting will avenge me amply. 
 How ill you'll be to-morrow from your de- 
 bauch on nicotine.' 
 
 4 Eum fish, Egerton,' observed Dance as 
 the door closed. ' Pleasant to meet though 
 anywhere, there's vim in his paradoxical con- 
 verse which is something in these days. It's 
 a treat to hear a man enunciate new views 
 even when you think them erroneous.'
 
 ' CHILDEELEY.' 9 
 
 ' Yes. Good day we had, hadn't we ? 
 Been a pleasant fortnight altogether. I'm 
 sorry it's over.' 
 
 4 1 should rather think you were, consider- 
 ing the awful running you've been making 
 with Lydia Eemington all the time. By 
 Jove, Alec, I begin to think you're in earnest 
 for once.' 
 
 ' Hum, that's just where it is — that's the 
 mischief of it.' 
 
 1 Why, how so ? ' enquired Dance. ' She 
 seems inclined to listen attentively enough to 
 your pretty speeches. I don't see you have 
 much cause to complain.' 
 
 Alec Merriott nipped the ash off his cigar 
 and paused a few seconds ere he replied. 
 ' Yes,' he said, at length, ' that's where it is. 
 I am in earnest, most tremendously in 
 earnest, and I'm blessed if I can make out 
 whether she is. I've flirted with a good 
 many and held my own pretty fairly, but 
 that's just where the difference lies, I never
 
 10 CECILE. 
 
 meant it before, and now I do, I suppose I 
 shall get the worst of it.' 
 
 ' Why the deuce should you ? ' enquired 
 the other. 
 
 ' You see, Eo, she's awfully clever ; I 
 don't think I am, eh ? ' and the speaker 
 gazed rather curiously into his companion's 
 face. 
 
 ' How do you mean ; I don't understand ? ' 
 8 Well, I play a decent rubber ; don't 
 trump my partner's best spade, as Egerton 
 Slane did to-night you know. I can shoot 
 tolerably straight, and hold my own when 
 hounds are running. Those ought to be 
 points in a man's favour.' 
 
 ' Of course, I know all that ; what are you 
 counting out your accomplishments for — 
 what's that got to do with it? She's not. 
 likely to object to you for not being a muff, 
 is she ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but you see Lydia goes in for intel- 
 lect, and all that sort of thing. Now that's 
 not my line ; I'm not a reading fellow. By
 
 6 CHILDERLEY.' 11 
 
 Jove, she's let me in for a devil of a mess 
 already. She's made me promise to play in 
 their amateur theatricals. I told her I could 
 never learn it.' 
 
 4 And what did she say to that ?' 
 
 ' " Oh, nonsense, Captain Merriott, you 
 have plenty of ability if you choose to exer- 
 cise it. All you men are so lazy now-a-days. 
 You will go through any amount of physical 
 exertion in pursuit of field sports, but you 
 won't take the trouble to let us see the best 
 of you." It's an awful go ; she will insist 
 upon it I'm clever.' 
 
 'Well, Alec, you'll have no difficulty 
 about disabusing her on that point,' 
 
 ' Don't chaff,' said Merriott, as he emitted 
 a wreath of blue vapour from beneath his 
 moustache. 'I tell you it is serious, I'm 
 awfully hard hit, and she will insist upon it 
 I can distinguish myself intellectually if I 
 will but try. Absurd idea of a girl in these 
 days caring about that. When they do, 
 they generally are strong-minded, and want
 
 12 CECILE. 
 
 to go in on their own account in that way. 
 But that's not Lydia, is it? ' 
 
 6 No ; Miss Eemington is as nice, graceful, 
 and ladylike a girl as one ever meets with. 
 I should never have suspected her of " am- 
 bitioning " that her lover should make his 
 mark in that wise,' 
 
 6 No, nor anyone else ; and she puts it all 
 so prettily, there's no refusing her. If she 
 told me to write a novel, I'm blessed if I 
 don't think I should be fool enough to try — 
 and what a go that would be.' 
 
 6 Well, Alec, we'll trust you won't be tried 
 so far.' 
 
 ' Oh, I can't say ; one never knows what 
 women will induce us to do when we've 
 once lost our heads about them ; ' and 
 Merriott puffed moodily at his cigar. 
 
 4 Another safeguard for you there, my 
 boy ; you would probably get no one to 
 publish your book, or read it if published.' 
 
 ' Don't be a fool ; it would be easy enough 
 to get it published if one paid for it ; and if
 
 ' CHILDERLEY. 13 
 
 I was ass enough to commit myself to the 
 first part of the performance, you don't 
 suppose I should stick at the second. As 
 for reading it, wouldn't all your dear 
 friends rush to see what an exhibition you 
 had made of yourself? Trust 'em, Eo, I 
 should have readers.' 
 
 ' Did you ever tell her about your winning 
 the steeplechase at Holmeswood, or any of 
 your deeds with bat and ball in the cricket- 
 field ? Women rather respect a man who 
 has made his mark in athletics.' 
 
 ' Not my form ; I'm not good at bragging 
 — other wav on. I rather like shooting a 
 fellow for a quiet fifty who's talking big in 
 that way.' 
 
 ' Quite right, mon enfant ; but you had 
 better play out your trumps when conversing 
 with the other sex. We rather see through 
 each other, and so do they ; but a good 
 many women take a man on his own 
 valuation, and only find out their mistake 
 afterwards.'
 
 14 CECILE. 
 
 ' You don't understand Lydia,' replied 
 Merriott, curtly. 'Don't think you quite 
 comprehend Pauline St. Leger either.' 
 
 ' Never mind my affairs,' said Dance, a 
 little sharply. ' We are old allies, Alec, but 
 that question is not before the house. When 
 I want your advice there, I'll ask it.' 
 
 'You'll never ask it, never mind why. 
 But look here, Eo, you've had a turn at 
 amateur theatricals, haven't you ? ' 
 
 Dance nodded assent. 
 
 ' Tell us a little about it. Much trouble 
 getting the words off, eh ? ' 
 
 ' No ; that's all easy enough. You'll pull 
 through without any trouble. Always recol- 
 lect there are only about two people in an 
 average amateur troop who know anything 
 about the business, and never above two more 
 into whom it is possible to instil any idea of 
 what they ought to do. The audience have all 
 seen it fifty times better done by professionals, 
 and are much more amused at your making 
 a mess of it than otherwise. You can't go 
 wrong if you don't lose your nerve.'
 
 ' childerley.' 15 
 
 c Ah ! it is nervous work, then, is it ? ' 
 
 'Not a bit; but there's a complaint called 
 stage-fright which sometimes bowls over both 
 amateurs and professionals.' 
 
 'The devil there is. Wish I'd kept out 
 of it — certain to come to grief. I say, you 
 must give us a lift, Bo.' 
 
 ' Of course I'll coach you. How did you 
 get on with your reading of your part to-day 
 with Miss Eemington ? ' 
 
 1 Not very well. I could have come out 
 strong in that love scene — felt as if I didn't 
 want any teaching; but she wouldn't give 
 me a chance. All her vivacity left her 
 there, and she gabbled through it, though I 
 told her it was the best part of the play, 
 where I was so anxious, for her sake, not 
 to fail, and implored her to go over it 
 carefully.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Dance, laughing, ' you'll do. 
 You have made no mistake in joining the 
 company ; it will do you good service, and 
 you're not the man to neglect your oppor- 
 tunities.'
 
 16 CECILE. 
 
 ' Don't understand,* replied Merriott, 
 gravely. 
 
 ' Not in the least, of course. Plenty of 
 acting in you, Alec,' rejoined the other. 
 'Your innocent face of vacuous incompre- 
 hension is a sublime study for the spectator.' 
 
 ' Well,' laughed the other* ' it was the idea 
 of doing that scene made me give in and 
 consent to join the fandango.' 
 
 1 Ah, well, we shall see what comes of it. 
 Time for bed now ; ' and Dance threw the 
 end of his cigar into the grate. ' Good 
 night.' 
 
 Alec Merriott paced his chamber for some 
 few minutes ere he proceeded to undress. 
 A tall, fair, good-looking man, to whom life 
 had been sunny so far. He had danced, shot, 
 hunted, flirted, &c, through the last half-score 
 years of his life, and no woman had cost him 
 much thought as yet. But now he felt he 
 had come to a crisis in his career. Lydia 
 Eemington's bright eyes, soft voice, and 
 piquant ways had been making wild work
 
 'CHILDEELEY. 17 
 
 with his heart of late. He is fain to own 
 himself in earnest this time. She is a 
 good match for any man ; a gay, lively girl, 
 the only daughter of a respectable gentle- 
 man who has made many ingots in the 
 City. A very family of idolaters — the father 
 worships money,, the mother fashion, and 
 the daughter professes to adore intellect. 
 Nothing much to despond about in all this. 
 But Alec Merriott is by no means the only 
 devotee who burns incense at Miss Beming- 
 ton's altar ; and when a man is really in love 
 he is vaguely conscious that he does not 
 show to the best advantage. He is apt to 
 overrate the capabilities of his rivals, and to 
 invest them with qualities they do not really 
 possess. Of course, he cannot exactly per- 
 ceive what the deuce women can see to like 
 in them, but he feels horribly apprehensive 
 that the one woman whose opinion is alone 
 of consequence in his eyes will be perverted 
 enough to view them favourably. Then 
 vol. I. c
 
 18 CECILE. 
 
 Alec knew that Eemington pere contem- 
 plated every one in an aurated light, and 
 he was aware that his gilding was not of 
 that massive description likely to find much 
 favour in Mr. Eemington's sight. With 
 regard to Mrs. Eemington, he stood upon 
 much more favourable ground. His name 
 was known at Hurlingham ; he was a 
 cricketer of mark at Lord's ; a member of 
 some of the best West-end clubs ; a welcome 
 guest in Belgravia, and a recognised man in 
 'the shires;' naturally, the maternal Ee- 
 mington thought highly of him. But, after 
 all, how he stood with Lydia was the thing 
 perhaps of most importance. As he himself 
 expressed it, ' That's where it is — is she in 
 earnest ? ' They have got on very well so 
 far; but Miss Eemington has only just de- 
 veloped this devotion to intellect — a side 
 of her character as yet unsuspected. Alec 
 has found himself rather in difficulties of 
 late, and feels conscious of being utterly 
 ignorant of more than one writer with
 
 ' CHILDERLEY.' 19 
 
 whom his enchantress has taken it for 
 granted he is well acquainted. 
 
 ' Devil of a go,' he muttered, ' her taking 
 up this theatrical freak — that is to say, en- 
 trapping me into it. Besides, she won't go 
 into the proper spirit of the rehearsals ; said 
 she would put me in the way of it, and then 
 shirks what I call the only interesting scene 
 in the play. Make a fool of myself, I sup- 
 pose,' he continued, as he leisurely undressed. 
 • "Well, a good many of us do that, and for 
 not half such pretty girls as Lydia. Wish I 
 knew whether she does really care a bit 
 about me though ; ' and he kicked his slippers 
 off viciously. ' Halloa, into the bath, by 
 Jingo ;' and having rescued his slipper, Har- 
 riott sought his pillow. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' MON DROIT NATUREL.' 
 
 A loxg struggle with the grey morning mist, 
 and then a bright January sun breaks over 
 Childerley, lighting up the grand old elm 
 avenue, and spreading Ins attenuated rays far 
 and wide over the great expanse of broken 
 park land that surrounds the old Elizabethan 
 house; shimmering over the placid waters 
 of the lake, and gilding the horns of the 
 deer as they busily strip the bark from the 
 branches cut down for them. The hares 
 are washing their faces, and nibbling such 
 grass as their researches may discover. A 
 few cock pheasants loiter in the sun, and in 
 the far distance you may discern an under- 
 keeper steadying a young retriever to 
 ground game.
 
 'MOX DROIT HATUBEL.' 21 
 
 A fair estate is Childerley, and has been 
 the property of the Mallandaines time out 
 of mind. They are old settlers in these 
 parts, and have lived amongst their people 
 the last three hundred years or so. If no 
 Mallandaine has achieved great distinction, 
 yet also never a Mallandaine of them all 
 has come to irrevocable, infinite grief. 
 They have kept clear of the iniquities of 
 the turf and the dice-box. A race that 
 have lived soberly, married discreetly, 
 spent much of their time on their estate, 
 and done their duty honestly and conscien- 
 tiously to their county and dependants. 
 
 Sir Hervey, the present representative of 
 the family, had followed in the steps of 
 his predecessors. He was well-known as 
 an excellent man of business, and had for 
 some years represented his county in Par- 
 liament. In one thing only, for a time, had 
 the baronet, in the opinion of his neighbours, 
 not recognised his duty as a Mallandaine : 
 he had not married. Numberless were
 
 22 CECILE. 
 
 the mothers, numerous the daughters, who 
 would have fain rectified this error on Sir 
 Hervey's part. A baronet with a good 
 property is worth looking after as times go 
 on the matrimonial exchange. There were 
 female Mallandaines who preached the ne- 
 cessity of the marriage contract to him, and 
 offered to produce an infinity of eligible 
 young ladies for his selection, with an ar- 
 dour that only elderly females with the 
 honour of their house at heart can achieve. 
 All in vain, useless, hopeless. Sir Hervey 
 was impervious to assault ; attack by storm 
 or approaches more insidious were alike 
 unavailing. The denunciations and lamen- 
 tations of his family were equally unsucces- 
 ful. ' Time enough ; I'm very well as I am,' 
 was all that the most vituperative appeal of 
 his most acidulated maiden aunt had been 
 able to wring from him. One of those dire 
 maidens who mingle much unpleasantness 
 with their views regarding their wealthy 
 relations.
 
 c MON DROIT NATUBEL.' 23 
 
 You can imagine the shriek, the uplifting 
 of hands, and upraising of eyebrows that 
 took place in the Mallandaine world when 
 Sir Hervey, without condescending to give 
 the slightest notice to his relations, in his 
 forty-first year married Cecile Bertrand, a 
 girl barely eighteen, the daughter of the 
 rector of his parish. Do we not all know 
 what a scream reverberates through our 
 social circle, when we leave the tramway 
 that has been laid down for us? Oh, my 
 brother, when your friends have prede- 
 stined you for the woolsack, and you lapse 
 into the abomination of writing burlesques, 
 what matter that you are good at the pro- 
 duction of burlesques ? When you abandon 
 your profession to follow your bent, how 
 you are wept and wailed over. What omi- 
 nous predictions are enunciated with regard 
 to your backslidings. Slowest to recognise 
 your success are those akin to you. They 
 harp upon your wondrous good fortune, 
 and refuse to acknowledge that you may
 
 24- CECILE. 
 
 have worked hard for such laurels as may 
 be your guerdou. 
 
 Sir Hervey was duly moaned over by 
 his relations, in strict accordance with the 
 recognised law. His innocent young wife 
 was stigmatised as a scheming, designing 
 woman by those elderly and affectionate 
 relatives ; but they made their moan among 
 themselves, for the baronet, though easy and 
 even-tempered in the extreme, had long 
 made manifest to their comprehension that 
 he chose his own road through life, and 
 brooked little interference with his choice. 
 He took his young wife abroad, and Cecile 
 was as delighted as a child with her foreign 
 tour, prolonged as it was for many months. 
 She was not only young, but even young 
 for her age. She had seen so little of this 
 world's pomps and vanities. The bloom of 
 girlhood was still on her. One ball at the 
 country town, at which she had been too shy 
 to talk much to her partners, and had been 
 about equally frightened and pleased ; such
 
 4 MON DROIT XATUREL. 20 
 
 her sole taste of the pleasures of society. 
 Pleasures indeed! pains and penalties we 
 dub them as we grow older, and find how 
 lightly the gilt overlays the ginger-bread. 
 When Sir Hervey took her to town next 
 season, the contempt of the women for the 
 quiet, modest, unassuming, timid country- 
 girl, with neither manner nor savoir vivre, 
 was unbounded. When the men, attracted 
 by her beauty, artlessness, and naivete, flocked 
 around her, the indignation of her sisters 
 knew no bounds. The little country-girl, 
 if she lacked that questionable advantage, 
 fashionable training, had a mind and had a 
 soul — two superfluities not much recognised 
 in fashionable society. The ingenue became 
 the rage. 'It's like drinking pure water 
 again only to talk to her. Gad, Sir, it 
 makes one feel young once more,' said Lord 
 Eathfarlin, whose libertinage and epigrams 
 were of continental celebrity. She was a 
 success of the season. Nature had given her 
 grace, beauty, and wit. Society gave her
 
 26 CECILE. 
 
 the self-possession which enabled her to use 
 her weapons. But her charm, after all, was 
 her freshness and originality. Easily pleased, 
 she made no scruple of showing that she 
 was so. Two seasons now had she shone 
 on the London world, and was as yet un- 
 tainted with its cynicism and wickedness, 
 even though she mixed freely therein. The 
 down was as yet upon the peach. The most 
 roue lips in all town would have stumbled 
 at fulsome compliment, or the relation of 
 dubious anecdote, to Lady Mallandaine. 
 
 One child only had so far blessed Sir 
 Hervey's marriage, a little boy now verging 
 on four years old, and around whom the 
 tendrils of the mother's heart were entwined 
 with all the ardour of her young, passionate, 
 loving nature. The baronet loved the child 
 much also in his quiet, sedate fashion ; 
 but what Briton involved in politics is im- 
 pulsive in his love for anything? The ex- 
 hibition of domestic affections seems to the 
 outer world incompatible with wielding the
 
 c MOtf DROIT NATUREL.' 27 
 
 destinies of nations. We are a little apt 
 to couple power with moroseness, and the 
 educated working people of England deem 
 the genial politician wanting in stability of 
 purpose. They are not altogether wrong ; 
 a jest or a gibe has deluged the world with 
 blood many times. 
 
 The bright January sun comes glinting 
 in at the low window at the bottom of the 
 servants' staircase. Leaning over the sill, 
 and criticising the landscape leisurely, is 
 a somewhat bullet-headed, close cropped, 
 clean-shaven individual. A slight wiry man 
 with a keen grey eye, and one of those full, 
 not coarse, lipped mouths that always seem 
 to tremble with the suppression of their own 
 roguery. The neatly-folded clothes on the 
 chair by his side, the can of hot water, and 
 the well-polished boots resting by his feet, 
 proclaim him valet to one of the sleepers 
 above. This is Mr. Joseph — more familiarly 
 known as Joe Butters — Alec Merriott's valet, 
 stud groom, and general factotum.
 
 28 CECILE. 
 
 1 Yes,' he murmured at length, ' it's a very 
 fair park ; a very tidy crib to put up at as 
 cribs go, is Childerley. The rations is 
 liberal ; and the ale — well, yes, the ale's 
 above the average. Shootin — well, the 
 Capten had ho cause to find fault with his 
 stands nor hacks yesterday. Think he's 
 trained a leetle off though lately ; I've seen 
 him straighter — more dead on 'em. Maybe 
 Sir Hervey's claret don't quite suit him ; 
 maybe 'tis Mister Dance keeps him up too 
 late o' nights. He's the very devil to sit up 
 is Mister Dance. This form won't do for 
 Hurlingham ; we shall loose no end of sovs 
 there, if we don't improve upon it. My 
 eye, it takes pretty straight shooting to get 
 home there.' And musing over the pigeon 
 shooting of last season, where he had 
 invariably loaded for his master, Mr. 
 Butters once more languidly contemplated 
 the prospect. ' Damme, makes me sick to 
 look at 'em,' he suddenly exclaimed, jerking 
 his whole body round, and turning his back
 
 'MON DROIT NATUREL.' 29 
 
 on the offending object. 'Stables — but 
 wot's the use of stables with nothing but 
 some heavy coach horses in 'em ; nothing 
 but my lady's ponies fit to look a second 
 time at. Wot's the use of a man as calls 
 hisself a coachman, and don't know what 
 won the Goodwood Cup ; and, cuss his im- 
 pudence, tried to persuade me he had cured 
 a crib biter. Childerley's all very well, but 
 the stables and all connected with 'em, bar 
 my lady's ponies, are — well, provincial ain't 
 a bit strong enough language to use con- 
 cerning 'em — simply the meanest turn out 
 ever I see.' 
 
 A light step behind him, and Mr. Butters 
 turns to encounter one of the archest faces 
 and trimmest figures a man would be likely 
 to meet with in a month's walking tour. 
 
 ' Bon jour, Monsieur Bouttare ; you ad- 
 mire de view very mooch dis beau matin, 
 observes Mdlle. Suzanne (Miss Bemington's 
 French maid), as she pauses, hot water in 
 hand, at the foot of the staircase. With her
 
 30 CECILE. 
 
 glossy black hair, arch dark eyes, somewhat 
 retrousse nose, and lithe pliant figure, Mdlle. 
 Suzanne looked very pretty as she stood 
 one foot on the stair and one hand on the 
 banister, and gave greeting to the slightly 
 acidulated Butters. 
 
 ' Good morning, Maamzelle. Nice morn- 
 ing, ain't it ? ' 
 
 1 Ah, yes. You leave us dis day, is it 
 not, Monsieur Bouttare? I am tres-fdchee, 
 what you call it, very sad you depart before 
 us ; ' and the soubrette favoured Mr. Butters 
 with a most expressive glance of her wicked 
 dark eyes. 
 
 ' Well, Maamzelle,' returned Joe, ' I'm 
 sorry myself. It's a tidy, decent, comfort- 
 able crib this Childerley. We've been very 
 jolly, ain't we, this last fortnight ? and you're 
 just about the nicest gal I've met for many 
 a day.' 
 
 ' Ah, you tink so ? You admire me,' said 
 the soubrette, laughing, and showing a very 
 white, regular set of teeth as she did so.
 
 6 MON DROIT NATUREL.' 31 
 
 ' You should, you know. It is all one. De 
 propere ting to do. When de maistare 
 make lofe to la dame, de man always make 
 lofe to de femme de chambre. You under- 
 stand ; as long as your maistare make lofe to 
 Mdlle. Lydia, you ought to make lofe a moi ; 
 c'est mon droit naturel;' and Suzanne gave 
 a saucy toss of her head, which rather in- 
 sinuated that she thought she could do with- 
 out the assistance of her droit naturel. 
 
 'And a very proper view to take of 
 things ; not but what you're quite nice 
 enough to feel nuts on without your put- 
 ting it in the light of my dooty. But, look 
 here, Suzanne, we ain't a going to part for 
 long, you know ; ' and here the artful Joe 
 drew close to the lady's maid. ' Still,' he 
 continued, ' there's always a pleasure in 
 doing one's dooty ; ' and as he spoke he sud- 
 denly slipped his arm round the soubrette's 
 waist, and snatched a kiss from her rosy lips. 
 
 ' Allez-vous-en ! ' exclaimed Suzanne, as she 
 wrenched herself free. ' How you dare '
 
 32 CECILE. 
 
 But a slight shriek and start from the duti- 
 ful Joe caused her to burst into a peal of 
 laughter. 
 
 That worthy was hopping about on one 
 leg, and giving vent to sundry whistles and 
 groans, as he rubbed and mopped with his 
 handkerchief at the other. 
 
 Mdlle. Suzanne, it may be remembered, 
 had a jug of hot water in her hand when 
 she paused to pass the compliments of the 
 morning to Mr. Butters. In the slight 
 struggle, caused by his amorous assault, that 
 hot water had been upset over Mr. Butters' 
 leg. It was not scalding, but quite hot 
 enough to bring the tears into Joe's eyes. 
 
 ' Scelerat] laughed the soubrette, 'you 
 make lofe too quick. It serve you right. 
 You not hurt serious, hein ? ' 
 
 ' Don't know,' responded Joe, ruefully ; 'it's 
 gallus hot. This is what comes of doing 
 one's dooty. Look here, Maamzelle, did you 
 do that a purpose ? ' 
 
 6 Non. You no comprehend your duty.
 
 'MON DROIT NATUEEL.' 33 
 
 Your rnaistare is un bel homme,' responded 
 Suzanne, still laughing. ' But notre affaire, 
 you see, is, what you call it, ruled by my 
 lady's. Your rnaistare no kiss, you no 
 kiss ; you understand ? ' 
 
 1 No, I'm blest if I do. How do you 
 know he don't ? ' 
 
 ' 1 no know. I guess only. But, Monsieur 
 Bouttare, you not angry, are you ? Ecoute/J 
 a 4mt, mon cher. Just run down and bring 
 me a leetle more of de hot water;' and 
 Suzanne tended her jug to Joe with a most 
 bewitching smile. 
 
 'You don't deserve it, you know you 
 don't. If I do, I'm to be paid for it.' 
 
 1 I've no money,' laughed Suzanne. ' What 
 you want ? You must do it for lofe, Mon- 
 sieur.' 
 
 ' Ah, you shall give me a kiss if I fetch 
 
 it: 
 
 - Imbecile ! We women, we never give 
 kisses. Go, get me my jug filled.' 
 
 'No, I won't ! I won't be scalded again,' 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 CECILE. 
 
 replied Joe, sulkily. ' I daresay you'd like 
 to do it.' 
 
 ' Monsieur Bouttare, vous etes un grand 
 sot. Women never give, but they are very 
 weak, and can't help it when men will take.' 
 
 Joe said nothing, but winked pleasantly 
 at the soubrette, and dashed downstairs to 
 obey her behest. 
 
 Suzanne leant over the window. She was 
 as wicked a little coquette as ever trod shoe- 
 leather, and had been exercising the whole 
 battery of her fascinations upon Mr. Butters 
 for the last fortnight. He was an astute 
 man was Joe Butters ; but the wily French- 
 woman had got considerably the better of 
 him of late. Indignantly as he would have 
 repudiated the idea, it was nevertheless a 
 fact that Suzanne could pretty well wind 
 the usually austere Joe round her finger. 
 Mr. Butters was wont to take a disparaging 
 view of things, horses and women generally 
 — more especially of the last. ' There's no 
 trusting dimity ' was a very favourite axiom
 
 6 MOX DROIT XATUEEL.' 35 
 
 of his. Yet this amiable cynic, if he did 
 not altogether trust, had certainly succumbed 
 ignominiously to woman's charms during 
 these last few days. 
 
 Suzanne smiles triumphantly as she gazes 
 out over the park. Women of all classes 
 feel a species of intoxication when they 
 make one of the opposite sex bow to their 
 fascinations. Whether they care for the 
 victim or whether they do not, the feeling 
 is the same. Women adore power. When 
 they love, they are apt to make a god of 
 their lover and invest him with strength and 
 talent that he is far from possessing. Then 
 they bow down and worship. When they 
 don't love, they are apt to anatomise the souls 
 of their captives. Men are comparatively 
 mere neophytes in the science of torture. 
 Had the members of the Spanish Inquisition 
 been women, it would have been a ' dour ' 
 time indeed for those who did not hold 
 the Catholic faith. 
 
 A step on the stairs, and Mr. Butters 
 i> 2
 
 36 CECILE. 
 
 emerges from the depths below with a jug 
 of hot water. Bendered cautious by past 
 experience, he deposits this, first of all, at 
 the bottom of the staircase, and then, ad- 
 vancing towards the window, steals his arm 
 round the apparently unconscious soubrette's 
 waist. In a second she yields to it, her face 
 turns to his, and the wicked black eyes look 
 up to him full of coquetry, temptation, and 
 allurement. Then, ere his lips can reach 
 hers, she jerks herself free from his embrace, 
 bestows upon him a smart box on the ears, 
 snatches up her jug, and, jumping up some 
 five or six stairs, exclaims : 
 
 ' Ah, but Monsieur Bouttare, you are un 
 2?eu tard. MonDieu! you expect me to wait 
 ever so long. Don't be angry ; soyez tran- 
 quille. Let me give you one leetle piece of 
 advice. De next time you kiss, you kiss 
 quick. You comprehend de ting better la 
 premiere fois, only for de water chaude.' 
 
 ' Go,' returned Butters, indignantly ; ' I 
 wash my hands of you. No Frenchers is to
 
 'MON DROIT NATUREL.' 37 
 
 be trusted, much less female Frenchers, 
 Maamzelle, I repudiates you.' 
 
 6 Hem ! you do noting of de kind. Venez 
 ici, Monsieur ; ' and Suzanne beckoned with 
 her finger that her indignant admirer should 
 approach. 'You no remember mon droit 
 naturel. You must be mon amant, wezer 
 you like it or no. While le Capitaine make 
 lofe to mi ladi, you most make lofe to me.' 
 
 ' I shall do nothing of the sort. I don't 
 care about you. You may allez anywhere 
 you like ; only allez, that's all I say.' 
 
 ' Ecoatez, Monsieur. Your maistare he assist 
 in our leetle entertainment, le petit drame — 
 play you call him — we make next month. 
 I sail see beaucoup of you about dat.' 
 
 4 No, you won't, Maamzelle. Wot the 
 Captain's about, to go in for such tomfoolery, 
 beats me altogether.' 
 
 • It's no tomfoolery at all. It's tres-joli, 
 vary nice. You enjoy de play too when you 
 see him,' replied the soubrette, laughing ; 
 4 and we have great fun in de repetitions, how
 
 38 CECILE. 
 
 you call deui — de getting him up. Au re- 
 vow ! ' and with a saucy nod Suzanne tripped 
 up stairs. 
 
 Mr. Butters looked after her meditatively, 
 and received another bright smile and quick 
 little nod over the banisters as the girl 
 turned on the landing. He plunged his hands 
 in his breeches pockets, and was for some little 
 time apparently lost in thought. Eecovering 
 himself at length, with a low whistle, he 
 murmured : ' They are rum uns, women is, 
 and no mistake. Now there's Suzanne ; she's a 
 tidy bit of muslin, she is — one of the small- 
 headed, clean-pasterned sort it does one good 
 to look at. But she's skittish as a clean-bred 
 colt. Wot eyes she has, and ain't they 
 wicked 'uns ! Ah, she'd be bad to break — 
 very ; shows temper there, or I ain't no judge ; 
 and Joe, my boy, you've been reckoned a 
 judge of 'osses in your time. If you under- 
 stands them, I reckon there ain't much you're 
 not fit to form an opinion about, specially 
 women ; they're so like 'em in their skeery
 
 'MON DROIT NATUBEL.' 39 
 
 ways — tricky, shying, bolting, and all man- 
 ner of unpleasantness, half play, half vice. 
 Yes, they're uncommon like young stock are 
 women ; ' and having arrived at this abstruse 
 conclusion, Mr. Butters picked up the clothes, 
 boots, and hot water, and proceeded to call 
 his master.
 
 40 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTEE in. 
 
 6 MY LADY'S BOUDOIR.' 
 
 A room habited in pale blue — for are not 
 rooms clothed as much as humanity ? 
 Have we not all seen the poor naked cham- 
 ber that boasts no clothes within which to 
 bedeck itself ? The tawdry apartment ! that 
 tells us at once what manner of personality 
 is identified with it; its garish-worked 
 chairs, its flaunting screens, its flaring carpet, 
 its gilded mirrors, and its gaily and gilded- 
 bound annuals. Do they not preach at 
 once that neither taste nor refinement are 
 dwellers therein ? The room of solidity ! in 
 which the furniture is all massive, good, heavy, 
 ponderous, and uncomfortable — where the 
 chairs are so straight in the back, and the 
 sofas are constructed with anything but a
 
 ; MY lady's boudoir.' 41 
 
 view to lounge upon. The snug sanctum of 
 the bachelor! where, though nothing is in 
 its place, vet everything seems at hand. The 
 shabby-looking easy-chairs, places to muse 
 or to sleep in, the sofa often as not doing 
 duty as a bed for some belated friend ; the 
 sporting prints, likenesses of the favourites 
 of the ballet, and the well-filled pipe-rack ; 
 all these, mixed up with buff-coloured French 
 novels, are another dress in which a room 
 may present itself. The attic, with its 
 dilapidated roof, a table, a broken chair, 
 two or three cracked plates or teacups, a 
 shivering, moaning woman stretched on a 
 paillasse of straw, imperfectly covered with 
 rags, three or four children crying round 
 her for food, and a husband, stupefied with 
 drink, reclining on the bare boards and rest- 
 ing his head against the wall. Such is 
 another livery that an apartment can some- 
 times assume. 
 
 But the room of which I am speaking is 
 clothed in pale blue. Azure the curtains, the
 
 42 CECILE. 
 
 pleasant lounging-chairs, the sofas, the paper ; 
 mirrors with silver inlaid ebony frames ; 
 bits of Sevres and Dresden, malachite and 
 gilt inkstands, ivory and silver nicknacks, 
 such as paper-knives, letter-weights, &c, 
 decorate the apartment. Fit shrine for the 
 presiding goddess thereof. Such is Lady 
 Mallandaine's boudoir at Childerley. 
 
 Mi ladi lounges there this morning in one 
 of the sky-blue chairs, which presents an ap- 
 propriate setting to the jewel it holds. Her 
 fair hair, blue eyes, delicate complexion, 
 and petite figure harmonise well with the 
 draping of the room ; opposite to her, occu- 
 pied with some one of those frivolities which 
 the ladies of our time dignify with the name 
 of work, is seated a sparkling brunette, 
 whose dark brown eyes and riante mouth 
 are still flashing and playing at her com- 
 panion's last speech. 
 
 ' Sorry they are gone, Cecile ? — of course 
 I am. So are you. Two pleasant men like 
 Captain Merriott and Mr. Dance dropping
 
 'my lady's boudoir.' 43 
 
 out of one's circle in the country is a thing 
 to cry about, you know.' 
 
 1 Well, I don't, quite take that view of the 
 case, Lia. I wish we could have kept them 
 a little longer, certainly. If you do cry 
 about thern, my dear, don't you think you 
 could limit your emotion to one only? 
 Don't regard their departure in too serious 
 a light,' continued Lady Mallandaine, laugh- 
 ing. ' Ophelia went mad for only one 
 Hamlet, you know.' 
 
 In the Mallandaine circle Lydia Eeming- 
 ton was always called Lia. The name had 
 come to her in this wise : Cecile's little boy 
 had been unable at first to master the name 
 of Lydia, and in his infantile attempts had 
 succeeded no further than Lia. And Lia 
 she had been to them ever since. 
 
 8 1 speak metaphorically, you know,' re- 
 torted Miss Eemington. ' I've not met the 
 man yet, Cecile, could make me weep in 
 earnest. They tell us the time comes to 
 most of us, both men and women, once at
 
 44 CECILE. 
 
 least in the course of our lives when we 
 meet our destiny and may have our heart- 
 strings wrung. For my part, I doubt it. 
 Our novelists and poets must tear passion to 
 shreds, you see, or they could produce no 
 dramatic effect ; there would be no situations, 
 in short. You, my dear, are the happiest 
 woman I know. You've one of the best 
 husbands in the world, but you hadn't a 
 grande passion for him when you married 
 him ;' and Lia looked a little inquisitively 
 at her companion. 
 
 'No,' replied Lady Mallandaine, and her 
 face flushed slightly as she spoke ; ' I don't 
 pretend to you that I was violently in love 
 with Hervey when I married him. I liked 
 him much, and esteemed him still more ; but 
 I think I should have loved him by this 
 dearly if he would have let me.' 
 
 'Let you! good heavens, what do you 
 mean ? ' 
 
 ' I mean this, Lia, if he would have let 
 me be to him all I could and would have
 
 ; ^rr lady's boudoir.' 45 
 
 been ; but he treats me as a child still. He 
 is kind and good to me always ; he humours 
 my slightest whim, but he don't let me share 
 his hopes and sorrows. He has never re- 
 cognised that his child-wife has become a 
 woman, with all a woman's craving for love 
 and sympathy. I was so young when he 
 married me ; no wonder he feared to trust 
 me altogether with his worries and troubles. 
 If I stole up to him when he looked grave, 
 and asked what was the matter, he would 
 reply, "Nothing, darling, of any conse- 
 quence. No use to darken your young life 
 with the shadows that sometimes cross 
 mine." He might he right then ; I know 
 he's wrong now.' 
 
 Lia Eemington stared open-eyed at her 
 friend. Never before had she seen Cecile 
 Mallandaine moved in this wise ; the deli- 
 cate lips quivered, and a tear trembled on 
 the long lashes. ' There, never mind, Lia, 
 dear; forget what I have said,' continued 
 Lady Mallandaine. ' I get nervous and out
 
 46 CECILE. 
 
 of sorts sometimes down here, and conjure 
 up all sorts of grievances that don't exist.' 
 
 A silence of some minutes took place. 
 They were dear friends those two. Friends 
 from their schoolhood — only children both 
 of them. But the bringing up of the twain 
 had been very different. Lydia Eemington, 
 child of wealthy parents, from her birth had 
 been accustomed to luxury and display. 
 This very training had imparted a tinge of 
 worldliness to her character. But she was 
 endued by nature with a frank, free, gene- 
 rous disposition that had prevented her from 
 hardening into the worldly young lady 
 women who have attained their twenty-first 
 year are a little wont to become under such 
 circumstances. There was a deal of honest, 
 genuine enthusiasm in Lydia Eemington for 
 all that was noble in art, literature, or huma- 
 nity. She was untainted by the polished 
 scepticism of the day. She could believe in 
 her fellow-creatures who counted neither 
 wealth nor rank amongst their credentials.
 
 1 my lady's boudoir.' 47 
 
 She felt considerable contempt for those 
 who took their status in society chiefly on 
 one or other of those platforms. She had, 
 moreover, a quick tongue of her own, and 
 was wont to use it a little sharply on those 
 who displeased her. Sole heiress of her 
 respected father's accumulations in the City 
 hive, it was a matter of course that she had 
 more than one pretender to her hand ; but 
 Lydia's somewhat brusque manner had 
 rather staggered most of these. True, the 
 impecunious, to whom marriage was syno- 
 nymous with relief from destitution, were 
 not to be repelled by such rebuffs. If you 
 'go in ' for restoring your shattered fortunes 
 by matrimony, you have of course made up 
 your mind to the swallowing of much dirt, 
 should needs be. But Lydia was far too clever 
 a girl not to reckon up her admirers at a 
 pretty true valuation, and ran little risk from 
 such sieges as these. Underlying her charac- 
 ter was a strong tinge of romance. Strange 
 thing in these days of realism and unbelief!
 
 48 CECILS. 
 
 Cecile Mallandaine, on the other hand. 
 was the only daughter of a quiet visionary 
 country clergyman, whose whole mind was 
 absorbed in roots. I speak etymologically. 
 He had devoted the best part of his life to 
 the consideration of whether the Scandina- 
 vian, the Celtic, or the Teuton tongue had 
 formed the principal basis of our hybrid 
 English language. Like most men indulging 
 in such researches, his opinion changed pretty 
 regularly every two years. He lived a quiet 
 dream-like life in his study, 'mid his books 
 and his papers. Two things alone had 
 roused him much of late years from these 
 abstruse speculations. First, the death of 
 his wife, which took place when Cecile was 
 in her sixteenth year ; and, secondly, when, 
 some eighteen months afterwards, Sir Hervey 
 had asked him for Cecile in marriage. He 
 had listened dumbfounded to the baronet's 
 proposal. In his eyes Cecile was as yet 
 quite a child ; but he liked and respected 
 Mallandaine, and at last, ascending from his
 
 ' my lady's boudoir.' 49 
 
 root-grubbing dream-land, he contemplated 
 the affair in a mundane light, and saw that 
 it was a better marriage than his girl could 
 have possibly hoped for. 
 
 To Cecile this announcement came as a 
 thunder-clap. She had known Sir Hervey 
 all her young life. He had always been 
 kind to her — even rather petted her as a 
 child ; but most assuredly her girlish fancy 
 had never pictured him as a lover. Still, 
 the life at the old ivy-covered rectory was 
 so stagnant ; she had seen so little of the 
 world, and her father so strongly put before 
 her the advantages of the position that she 
 would bear as Sir Hervey's wife, that she 
 found but little difficulty in assenting. 
 
 'My income, darling/ Mr. Bertrand had 
 said to her, ' is mostly but life income. You 
 live in comfort here ; but should anything 
 happen to me, you will have to face the 
 world on slender resources and with no pro- 
 tector. My family I quarrelled with upon the 
 occasion of my marriage. Your mother's, 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 CECILE. 
 
 Cecile, are none of them in such position as 
 to offer you a comfortable home. I have 
 known Hervey Mallandaine for years, and 
 never knew him do a mean or dishonour- 
 able thing. Do as you like, child ; but think 
 well before you say him nay. I grant he is 
 much older than you, but I was many years 
 older than your mother when I married her, 
 and we were very happy together. Your 
 fate is in your own hands, child, but I would 
 fain see you Hervey Mallandaine's wife.' 
 
 And after a few tears over that girlish 
 ideal which the maiden imagination inva- 
 riably depicts, Cecile said ' Yes ; ' and the 
 bells of Childerley welcomed her as Lady 
 Mallandaine. She had been popular in the 
 parish as Miss Bertrand ; but as lady of the 
 big house she became an object of worship — 
 not an uncommon progression as our status 
 in life advances. But do you think, my 
 brethren, there will be many to ask after 
 you as the flood-tide of life's ill-fortune 
 reaches your chin ? I trow not. We idolise
 
 1 my lady's boudoir.' 51 
 
 success in these days, but sympathise little 
 with those who fail to breast the tide. 
 Modern idolatry is a thing of a season. 
 We place our gods upon pedestals one 
 year, and spit upon them the next. Great 
 poet, great statesman, great general, was 
 he ? But when ? Fatal interrogatory ! Ah ! 
 yes, no doubt, a great man in his time ! 
 But we worship not at the altars of our 
 forefathers. We rehabilitate their histori- 
 cal enormities. We crucify those to whom 
 they bent the knee. Tempora mutantur ; 
 minds and morals likewise. 
 
 ' I am sorry,' said Lydia, gravely, at last. 
 4 1 am afraid, dearest, I have led you into 
 saying more than you intended. Better, 
 Cecile, we should forget what has passed, 
 is it not ? ' 
 
 < Yes — no. Lia, you are the only real 
 woman friend I have in the world. I know 
 I can trust you, and it's a relief sometimes 
 to pour out even our whimsies into some- 
 body's bosom/ 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 CECILE. 
 
 ' But, Cecile, you and Sir Hervey have 
 at all events one great bond of sympathy in 
 little Bertie.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes,' replied Lady Mallandaine, softly. 
 4 You know how I dote upon him ; yet in 
 that quiet undemonstrative way of his, I 
 doubt if Hervey is not as fond of the little 
 imp as I am.' 
 
 'And he will bring you closer together 
 yet, Cecile. Trust me, I speak like a pro- 
 phetess. You will be to your husband 
 yet all that you now long to be. Wicked 
 little monster ! do you know what he did 
 yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' No ; ' and Lady Mallandaine lifted her 
 blue eyes in mute interrogation. 
 
 - The little animal was curled up in one 
 of the library chairs while I was rehearsing, 
 with Captain Merriott, that love scene, 
 you know ; and Alec — I mean Captain Mer- 
 riott — was dreadfully absurd about it. He 
 kept insisting on it that we must go through 
 that embracing part — kept arguing that it
 
 'MY lady's boudoir.' 53 
 
 was only acting,' continued Lydia, blushing ; 
 8 that the great thing was to be " natural, 
 wasn't it ? " and he should never succeed in 
 that particular if I didn't rehearse it regu- 
 larly. As if that was likely ! ' 
 
 'Not in the least, my dear,' said Lady 
 Mallandaine, laughing. ' Shocking to think 
 of. Well, what had poor Bertie to say 
 to it ? ' 
 
 ' Why he started up, and — My gracious, 
 here the little torment comes in proper 
 person ; ' and as she spoke the door opened, 
 and a fair-haired child, clad in a dark velvet 
 frock, entered, and after deliberately con- 
 templating the twain, ran across to his 
 mother, and jumped upon her lap. 
 
 ' Come here, Sir,' said Lydia Eemington. 
 ' I want to talk to you, Bertie. You don't 
 know what lots of sugar-plums you may 
 not find in my pockets this morning.' 
 
 ' Go and speak to Lia, darling. Lia has 
 something to say to you,' said Lady Mal- 
 landaine, as she kissed the boy.
 
 54 CECILE 
 
 4 No, Mamma, Lia is naughty ! ' 
 
 ' What do you mean, Bertie ? ' 
 
 ' Lia is naughty, very naughty ! ' 
 
 ' Why, what has she done, child ? ' 
 
 'Mamma, when I say my lesson quite 
 right, you always kiss me, don't you ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Well, Captain Merriott said his lesson — 
 such a long lesson — so well ; much better 
 than I can do, Mamma ; and, naughty Lia, 
 she wouldn't kiss him ! ' 
 
 ' That was very wrong of Lia, wasn't it ? ' 
 said Cecile, and she bent her head laugh- 
 ingly over her child. ' But I think, Bertie, 
 I should go and forgive her now, and tell 
 her she must kiss Captain Merriott next time 
 if he does his lesson well.' 
 
 'Will you, Lia?' asked the boy, raising 
 his rosy face from his mother's breast and 
 looking inquisitively at Miss Eemington. 
 
 4 1 don't know ; come here, Bertie, and 
 then I'll tell you.' 
 
 'No,' replied the child. 'Lia sets me
 
 k MY lady's boudoir,' 55 
 
 lessons sometimes, Mamma, and she always 
 kisses me when I'm good ; and I never said 
 my lessons so well as Captain Merriott. 
 She's a naughty Lia ; I won't do any more 
 lessons for her.' 
 
 1 Come here, you little atrocity, and I will 
 kiss you and set you no lessons.' 
 
 1 I'm not a 'trocity, am I, Mamma ? ' 
 
 ' No, darling ; but run over now and make 
 friends with Lia.' 
 
 'Will Lia promise to be good, and give 
 me sugar-plums ? ' 
 
 c Yes, Bertie, darling ; ' and Miss Eemington 
 rattled a well-filled bonbonniere in her hand. 
 
 There was no withstanding that. The 
 boy stepped from his mother's knee, walked 
 across to Lia, and succumbed to her caresses 
 and burnt almonds. 
 
 Infantile idolatry is sweetmeats. Children 
 of far larger growth are equally corruptible 
 through the stomach. The votaries of the 
 art of which Brillat Savarin was high-priest 
 sway both men and opinions. If people
 
 56 CECILE. 
 
 dined satisfactorily, there would be no re- 
 volutions. The chaotic upheaving of the 
 masses is a furious and unrestrainable desire 
 to share the loaves and fishes of the upper 
 classes. They do not so much covet their 
 particular loaves and fishes, but it is ne- 
 cessary that they obtain food of some kind. 
 Man must live. The old cynical jest c does 
 not see that necessity,' but the carnivorous 
 animal does, and is docile neither to priest, 
 politician, nor philanthropist in his hour of 
 hunger. A slight fact that England hardly 
 appreciates in these days — days, too, of 
 much legislation as they are. 
 
 But a slight tap at the door is followed by 
 the appearance of nurse. Master Bertie, his 
 virtuous fit of indignation completely eva- 
 porated, kisses his Mamma and his dear Lia 
 most affectionately, and, with a bonbon of 
 portentous size, as regards his physical well- 
 doing, in his fist, takes his departure. 
 
 'Little monkey,' laughed Miss Reming- 
 ton, ' how he did tease me unknowingly.
 
 4 my lady's boudoir.' 57 
 
 Suppose he had brought all this out in the 
 drawing-room, Cecile ! ' 
 
 4 Well, rny dear,' said Lady Mallandaine, 
 demurely, though she had to bite her deli- 
 cate lips to keep from laughing, ' I think 
 then you would have considered that it 
 would have been best to let Captain Merriott 
 rehearse that embrace.' 
 
 'Cecile, I won't be laughed at,' exclaimed 
 Miss Eemington, springing to her feet. 
 6 What do you mean ? ' 
 
 1 Nothing, my dear ; what should I mean ? ' 
 
 ' Provoking thing, why won't you speak 
 out ? You think I'm epris with Alec Mer- 
 riott?' 
 
 ' I'll say nothing about that, but I'm quite 
 sure, Lia, that he is very devoted to you. 
 How far you mean to encourage his devotion 
 I honestly confess I can't judge. You have 
 been kind to him I should say this last fort- 
 night. Interests of the drama, I presume ? ' 
 
 Very handsome looked Lydia as she stood 
 confronting her hostess— the pale December
 
 58 CECILE. 
 
 sun lighting up her rich brown tresses, her 
 dark eyes sparkling, and the blood mantling 
 her cheeks. 
 
 ' You're wrong, Cecile ; not but what I like 
 Alec Merriott too ; but the man to whom I 
 give my heart must have made his mark 
 in this world. A romantic idea, you'll say. 
 Perhaps so; but I've a tinge of romance 
 about me, in spite of all my bringing up. I 
 don't go the length of desiring poverty with 
 genius. I have been too much accustomed 
 to luxury all my life to be able to dispense 
 with it now. An ill-organised menage repels 
 me. But I cannot love a man I cannot look 
 up to. My lover must be my master. To 
 love, I must stand a little in awe. Now, I 
 can't say the men I've met so far appal me 
 at all, and if I rather like Alec Merriott I 
 assuredly don't look up to him.' 
 
 ' You foolish Lia. I'm two years younger 
 than you, and don't believe I've seen as much 
 of the world as you have. But, mark me, 
 you'll end by doing the very opposite of all
 
 ' my lady's boudoir.' 59 
 
 this. You will fall in love with, and pro- 
 bably marry, some one who has never done 
 anything remarkable, and he'll most likely 
 be much nicer, pleasanter, and more agree- 
 able than if he had. The few men I've met, 
 my dear, who have distinguished themselves, 
 seem very much aware of it, and always gave 
 me the idea of expecting me to remember it 
 also. Now, Lia, you know we expect men 
 to admire us and not themselves/ 
 
 ' Do we, you innocent little worldling ? 
 Then all I can say in these days is, that we 
 are doomed to infinite disappointment. The 
 egotistical wretches — they think it too much 
 trouble to dance, and it's difficult to extract 
 even the ordinary courtesy due to us from 
 them. I always wait patiently myself, or 
 else they never do more than make a feint 
 of opening a door for you. One must draw 
 the line somewhere, and as long as there's a 
 man in the room he shall do that much for 
 me.' And as she spoke Lia drew herself up 
 to her full height, threw back her head, and
 
 60 CECILE. 
 
 seemed to challenge an invisible multitude 
 of male humanity to refuse her bidding. 
 
 ' Ah,' laughed Cecile, rising, ' he would be 
 a bold man who should refuse to obey your 
 behest just now. But come, let us go and 
 see after some luncheon, and as we havn't a 
 victim at present, why I'll open the door for 
 you myself.'
 
 ERNEST DE VITRE.' 61 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 'ERNEST DE VITRE.' 
 
 A MUSKY London morning — a day when one 
 feels at war with one's species, when we feel 
 intuitively that our letters will be harbingers 
 of evil, that the papers will contain nothing of 
 interest, that our friends will preface their con- 
 verse with ' what wretched weather ! ' and we 
 are conscious that the atmosphere is charged 
 with depression. It is London in December 
 — London in its most draggled state ; 
 theatres, if open, exhibiting mere stock 
 pieces, their energies absorbed in the getting 
 up of the pantomime— London just before 
 the holly, and Christmas beef, turkeys, 
 sausages, plum-puddings, other good cheer, 
 and stupendous advertisements regarding fit 
 Christmas gifts appear. A truly dead time in
 
 62 CECILE. 
 
 the big hive. The clubs are empty, the scat- 
 tered members thereof more bilious and acidu- 
 lated than usual, more bitter in the tongue, 
 more peremptory than ever on the subject 
 of fires, papers, and drafts ; more convinced 
 than usual that their own individual esta- 
 blishment is guilty of the most heinous mis- 
 management, and worst cookery in all Town. 
 A thick yellow fog seems to permeate every- 
 thing. It lies heavy in the throats of the 
 'bus conductors, and penetrates the bones of 
 the crossing-sweepers ; works its way up into 
 the miserable attics where yet more miserable 
 women, by the light of candles they can ill 
 afford, sit stitching for dear life ; pervades 
 with its noisome, depressing miasma the 
 breakfast-tables of Belgravia, and chills the 
 frames of the countless City clerks as they 
 hurry up the Strand or through Fleet Street, 
 on their way to business. It hurtles, curls, 
 and insinuates itself round and about one of 
 those narrow streets in the vicinity of Old 
 Jewry, and even invades the sacred precincts
 
 6 ERNEST DE VITRE.' 63 
 
 of the Fiddle and String Department — de- 
 partment consecrated for many years to job- 
 bery, corruption, and other uncleanness, but 
 quite necessary in these days of contrary legis- 
 lation, when the great art of political warfare 
 is embodied in the maxim of ' having preven- 
 ted your opponents doing anything useful in 
 their generation, your clear duty is then to 
 bring in the measures you previously op- 
 posed.' The insidious vapour, with a true 
 democratic tendency, has worked its way up 
 the stone staircase which characterises that 
 venerable institution, administered a slight 
 choking fit to the under-clerks, and pene- 
 trated the room of Mr. Ernest De Vitre, a 
 man of considerable mark in that influential 
 establishment. People, indeed, learned in the 
 somewhat abstruse working of the Fiddle 
 and String Department, had been heard to 
 say that they would considerably prefer De 
 Yitre's interest in their favour to that of the 
 nominal chief. They were right. De Yitre 
 was the heart of the office, his word law
 
 64 CECILE. 
 
 therein, and he a man of a temper little likely 
 to countenance any saplings that were not of 
 his own planting. 
 
 Ernest De Vitre sits in his room some- 
 what moodily this sombre morning ; excellent 
 as is the fire, easy as is the big leather chair 
 in which he reclines, he exhibits but a 
 moody face. A dark handsome face, with 
 reckless, resolute eyes, and a latent sneer 
 about the mouth. His hair is just shot with 
 grey ; so slightly as to be imperceptible by 
 night. Clean shaved on the upper lip, but 
 with a pair of symmetrical whiskers. A 
 man well known on town ; popular with 
 many, feared by many. A man of great 
 intellectual power ; a man of great social 
 power. He believed in nothing, had an ex- 
 cellent digestion, and was not much troubled 
 with a heart. His acquaintances were 
 numerous, his allies he could count upon his 
 fingers. He had no belief in friends. Such 
 was Ernest De Vitre — a man of good family, 
 but no more. Yet the London world bowed 
 
 /
 
 '" ERNEST DE YITRE / 65 
 
 down to hhn. Clever and sarcastic — yes ! 
 But it was not that. It was the immovable 
 serenity, the intense cynicism that he brought 
 into the fray. When you want nothing, and 
 have a great contempt for them, the civility 
 of your acquaintance is wont to become 
 sycophantic. Men of this type, as a rule, 
 abjure society; De Vitre did not. The 
 cards of the best people in London were on 
 his table. 
 
 When De Yitre first left college and joined 
 the Fiddle and String Department, he was 
 wholly dependent on an uncle. His parents 
 had died while he was yet but a child, and 
 left but little of this world's goods behind 
 them. His father's elder brother, a man of 
 good property, had brought him up. A 
 liberal but austere man, who, his nephew felt, 
 would brook no wildness or irregularity on his 
 part. De Yitre was a man to whom luxury 
 was a necessity. Self-sacrifice did not exist 
 in his catalogue of virtues. The gratification 
 of his passions he held to be merely following 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 CECILE. 
 
 the dictates of nature. When the dictates 
 of nature mean tastes for all the sybarite 
 pleasures of London life, such as racing, 
 pigeon-shooting, the opera, together with a 
 considerable penchant for gallantry, an allow- 
 ance of three hundred a year, and the 
 modest salary awarded to a neophyte in a 
 public office, do not go far in the pursuit. 
 
 Society has weaknesses ; society has corns ; 
 society is replete with tender places ; society 
 partakes immensely of the character of the 
 sheep. It is both timid, and follows its 
 leader. Study the social weaknesses and 
 fears of some of the leaders thereof, and 
 you become a necessity of their circle. They 
 either fear your tongue or demand your 
 support. Once established with its leaders, 
 and society follows suit ; as sheep tread on 
 each other's heels through a gateway. There 
 are skeletons in all houses ; with knowledge 
 of such skeleton you become either an ally 
 to be attached, or an enemy to be con- 
 ciliated.
 
 'ERXEST DE VITRE.' 67 
 
 Such was the formula upon which Ernest 
 de Vitre began his London life. He mixed 
 freely with men of all sorts — theatrical 
 people, literary people, racing men. rowing 
 men, club men. The result, in the hands 
 of a clever man, was a variety of useful in- 
 formation of which he made dexterous use. 
 He gave a hint to Lord Plunganpunt that 
 the favourite for the Leger was not in the 
 least intended to try for that important race ; 
 he let Lady Callander understand that he 
 knew where her diamonds were in pawn ; 
 warned that model of respectability and 
 piety, Sir William Clarkson, that that little 
 second menage of his in the vicinity of 
 8 Lords ' was already suspected by his good 
 lady. Welcome guest immediately in all 
 three establishments ! 
 
 1 I have a taste,' reasoned Ernest de Vitre, 
 ' for all the luxuries enjoyed by the wealthy. 
 My own income denies me their indulgence. 
 Now, my theory is precisely that of St. 
 Evremond, whose sole receipt for quelling 
 
 F 2
 
 68 CECILE. 
 
 his passions was to indulge them. I have 
 excellent introductions, income sufficient to 
 defray the expense of lodging, dress, washing, 
 kid gloves, &c. — that is, to provide myself 
 with the necessaries of life. For the luxuries, 
 I must look to my acquaintance. Nobody 
 in this world gives anything without an 
 equivalent. Now, to gain a footing with 
 the people who are able to administer to 
 my wants, there are three courses open to 
 me. I must amuse them, I must be of use 
 to them, or I must be a terror to them. I 
 repudiate the first. I decline to tumble for 
 my dry champagne, seats at the opera, ball 
 tickets, autumn shooting, &c. I shall adopt 
 the other two courses. I prefer that the 
 run of their country-houses and town esta- 
 blishments should be conceded, because I am 
 likely to be dangerous in opposition. I have 
 no objection to being of use in some sort to 
 them, provided they are of use to me.' In 
 such wise argued Ernest de Vitre on begin- 
 ning life in London.
 
 'ERNEST DE TITKE.' 69 
 
 When De Yitre talked of ' being of use to 
 people,' do not for one moment imagine that 
 he contemplated enacting that contemptible 
 rule, to wit, ' the useful man ' — the man who 
 earns his bread, verily of bitterness, so 
 hardly ; who will always make a fourth at 
 whist ; dance at his hostess's behest with 
 those unfortunately plain girls whom every 
 one else treats as the Levite did him that fell 
 among thieves, and passeth by ; or who is to 
 be disposed of on the back seats of carriages ; 
 to be consigned to the clutches of elderly 
 spinsters curious in the acquisition of know- 
 ledge on the subject of billiards ; in short, 
 to do duty as a buffer, and take the dead 
 weights of a party off the hostess's hands. 
 Far from it. It was little in that wise that 
 De Yitre contemplated being of use to 
 society. Eash would have been host or 
 hostess who, even in his early days, should 
 have meditated employing De Yitre in 
 that fashion. What he meant by being 
 useful in his generation to society was
 
 70 CECILE. 
 
 embodied in such hints as I have mentioned 
 that he bestowed on Lord Plunganpunt and 
 Sir William Clarkson. 
 
 Eudeness is a science. To be politely 
 rude requires natural talent and considerable 
 cultivation. Any fool can be coarsely rude. 
 It is so very easy to insult anyone. Such 
 is mere brutality ; a line of action that at 
 once draws forth the condemnation of the 
 world, and probably unpleasant conse- 
 quences, unless great physique should pro- 
 tect the author of such sans culottism. But 
 the bitter rapier-like stabs that must bleed 
 inwardly, those wounds at which society so 
 chuckles, and which our latter-day training 
 requires us to bear unmoved : the art of 
 insult admissible only in the best circles 
 — ah ! that is a thing of study. We have 
 all seen some one, either man or woman, 
 writhe under an impertinence and be power- 
 less to resent it. There is nothing tan- 
 gible to lay hold of. To show your indig- 
 nation is to acknowledge the hit, to evoke
 
 'ERXEST DE VITRE.' 71 
 
 the laughter of the bystanders, and to con- 
 fess ignorance of the days you live in. You 
 must keep pace with the age of which you 
 form a part. If the power of retort lies 
 not within you, either by nature or culti- 
 vation, then brace your mind to bear the 
 polished rudeness of the nineteenth century 
 with the stoicism that epoch demands of you. 
 Ernest De Yitre had early mastered this 
 fact, and could be acrid as the hyssop when 
 occasion demanded. Society rapidly recog- 
 nised that power in him. Society, as I have 
 before said, is sheepish in its character, and 
 when three or four of its leaders had opened 
 their eyes to and acknowledged this trait in 
 De Yitre, it bowed to, and believed in, a 
 tongue too sarcastic to be provoked. But 
 Ernest was far too clever a man to seek to 
 establish his footing in the London world 
 entirely on these grounds. He was a 
 favourite with most women. To them his 
 manner, except under bitter provocation, 
 was uniformly soft and caressing ; a tribute
 
 i J> CECILS. 
 
 they appreciated the more, because with 
 men he affected considerable hauteur and 
 indifference. 
 
 All this, it must be borne in mind, is de- 
 scriptive of De Vitre's first start on the 
 troubled sea of London life. Some five 
 years previously to the commencement of 
 this narrative De Vitre's uncle had died, and 
 left him an income of four thousand a year. 
 At this time he was of the London elect, 
 with the entree to one of the best and 
 fastest sets in the world of Belgravia. He 
 was now high in his office, a man of mark 
 therein, with considerable patronage, more 
 or less Id directly, running through his hands. 
 He had acquired a taste for power ; pulling 
 the strings of the puppets had grown to be 
 a necessity to him, and strings he pulled, 
 with sneering lips that neither Belgravian 
 nor theatrical circles deemed of. The Fiddle 
 and String Department, as a rule, gave him 
 credit for much manipulation of the wires 
 that involved the working of their very
 
 'ERNEST DE TITHE.' 73 
 
 complex administration ; and junior clerks 
 grumbled with bated breath over favour- 
 itism, interest, &c, which they deemed 
 swayed promotion and other things in their 
 time-honoured jobbing institution. 
 
 De Vitre had become accustomed to the 
 harness. If the collar had rather galled at 
 starting, it sat easy enough in these later 
 days. There is a vast difference between 
 the stool and desk of the neophyte and the 
 comfortable easy-chair of the past master. 
 He liked, moreover, the power and pa- 
 tronage afforded him ; for this man, cynic 
 and sybarite as he was, like most men of 
 intellect, had his ambitious cravings. From 
 the career he had embarked in, he could hope 
 for little more than he already held, but 
 he wielded undoubted sway in the Fiddle 
 and String Department, and though the thou- 
 
 d a year he now drew from it was hardly 
 an object to him, yet he had decided, to the 
 weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth of 
 those who bad deemed the exchange of their
 
 74 CECILE. 
 
 somewhat tight boots for De Vitre's easy 
 slippers a certainty on his uncle's death, to 
 still hold his position therein. Such is the 
 man who is now in a somewhat sombre 
 mood, running through his letters in the 
 comfortable room set apart for the second in 
 command of this most important depart- 
 ment. 
 
 'Odd,' he muttered, as he mused over 
 an epistle written on thin foreign paper. 
 'Havn't heard of Wyndham Gwynne for 
 ages, and now I get a letter from him. 
 Eight years since he and I were close allies. 
 Pleasant times they were too. It was those 
 pleasant times, by the way, sent him to 
 India, no doubt, and the penalties thereof 
 that have kept him so long in exile. Indis- 
 creet as usual, Wyndham never could learn 
 the art of being silent. What the devil does 
 he want to refer back to our old days at 
 Lasterton for, and what put it into his head 
 to ask if I knew what had become of my 
 old flame, the little governess down there ?
 
 ' ERNEST DE VITRE.' 75 
 
 He never could have known the denouement 
 of that history, I should think. It's not a 
 subject I am much given to look back upon. 
 Who could have guessed the little thing 
 would have taken matters the way she did ? 
 As for her present whereabouts, by gad, he 
 knows as much as I do. I moved heaven 
 and earth to find her once, without success, 
 but she had well-nigh faded from my me- 
 mory till his letter recalled her. I wonder 
 what did become of her; she disappeared 
 like an ignis fatnus. Yes, I was terribly 
 weak about her in those days. Quite lost 
 my head, and cared more for that little chit 
 than a sensible man ever should care for a 
 woman. Suppose I wasn't a sensible man in 
 those Lasterton times ; and yet I reckoned 
 myself no fool at eight-and-twenty — on that 
 subject, at all events. But we're all children 
 at times, when we fall into the hands of the 
 fair sex. As Pauline St. Leger said the other 
 day : " We make fools of you all, unless you're 
 our fatality ;" and if personal experience goes
 
 76 CECILE. 
 
 for aught, she should be a judge. She has 
 dealt out as much intoxication to men in her 
 time as ever did the Circe of the ancients. 
 By the way, if one ever could do Pauline 
 the injustice of supposing that she was in 
 earnest about a flirtation, I should deem 
 her epris with Roland Dance. Cut bono ? I 
 can't guess ; at all events, it is not probable 
 it will be for Dance's. I don't understand 
 her play there ; he has no money, and 
 Pauline generally looks that her admirers 
 should be gilded at all events. She wants 
 so many things — opera boxes, &c. — and St. 
 Leger, I know, has had a bad year. The 
 turf has been so unkind to him this season, 
 that she's not likely to find much assistance 
 or sinews of war in the matrimonial firm. 
 On short allowance, there, I should fancy ; 
 and luxury is a necessity to her as it is 
 to me.' 
 
 He rose, stirred the fire, and began moodily 
 to pace the room. 4 What a cursed day,' he 
 murmured, as he paused and glanced out of
 
 ' ERNEST DE VITRE.' 77 
 
 the window. w Fool that I was not to have 
 taken leave, and gone into the country some- 
 where. God knows I've plenty of invita- 
 tions. What could have brought back those 
 Lasterton days to Wyndhani Gwynne's re- 
 collection? What could have induced him 
 to mention them in a letter to me ? Write ! 
 he wanted his name put up for the Alcibiades ; 
 that's tangible enough ; but why allude to 
 that fishing excursion ? ' and, resuming his 
 seat, Ernest De Vitre leant his head upon 
 his hand, while memory carried him back 
 eight years in his life. 
 
 He saw again the quaint rustic inn by 
 the river, with its tiled gables, half-smothered 
 in creepers, climbing-roses, honeysuckle and 
 jasmine, that he and Gwynne had inhabited 
 eight years ago. The trout stream ran 
 brawling at the foot of the pretty garden. 
 How bored he had been with it all at first ; 
 how flat it seemed after the fast London 
 life which the doctors and Nature had both 
 warned him to abandon. How the fresh
 
 78 CECILE. 
 
 air and regular hours had made them dif- 
 ferent men by the end of a week. With 
 what gusto they relished the cheese and 
 bacon, or ham and eggs, that pretty well 
 comprised their bill of fare. How well he 
 recollected his first meeting with that bright 
 girlish figure in the low-water meadows, 
 and her terror of the somewhat ill-behaved 
 cow that had made them acquainted. He 
 could call to mind even now the light-blue 
 bonnet and white draperies she wore upon 
 the occasion. What a dear little thing she 
 was — so trusting and innocent ; and how had 
 he repaid that trust? 'Pshaw,' he muttered, 
 as his lip curled, ' au (liable with these old 
 memories.' But old memories are not quite 
 so easily laid at times, and though he had 
 taken up his pen and commenced to write, 
 a fair face, with soft blue eyes, seemed to 
 hover between his and the paper. He re- 
 called many a stroll along those low-water 
 meadows and through the old Cathedral 
 close, and as he did so the pen dropped
 
 ' ERNEST DE VITRE.' 70 
 
 from his fingers, and Ernest De Yitre sat 
 once more buried in thought. He had had 
 many an affaire in his day, but as he mused 
 he was fain to confess that he had never 
 cared for woman before or since as he had 
 for that bright fair-haired girl down at Las- 
 terton. The pretty foreign accent in which 
 she had confessed her love still rang in his 
 ears. How well he recollected the evening 
 she had whispered, ' I am so happy, so rich. 
 I was such a poor little thing — no friends, 
 no one to care for, or to love me. Now I 
 have everything. Ernest, you are my all ; 
 you love me ; I want no more.' Did another 
 speech of that lost love of his recur to him ? 
 — one that she made a little later. I trow 
 yes, or the set mouth and knit brows are no 
 indication of the workings of man's mind. A 
 speech, or rather a note, in which she said, 
 ' I was poor when I met you. I leave you 
 beggared of honour, faith, belief and trust in 
 human being. God help me, and forgive 
 you.'
 
 80 CECILE. 
 
 ' It's no use,' lie exclaimed at last, ' I can't 
 work. The devil take Wyndham Gwynne 
 for evoking these old memories. Yes, 
 Wyndham, my boy, I shall put you up for 
 the Alcibiades, and take deuced good care 
 you are duly black-balled when your time 
 comes. A man with such a taste for early 
 reminiscences is intolerable in days when the 
 raconteur of last week's news is not to be 
 borne with ;' and having sent word to the 
 next in authority that he was required on 
 business elsewhere, Ernest De Vitre plunged 
 out into the yellow fog and sought oblivion 
 of his early sin. 
 
 Ah, yes. You may be sceptic, sybarite, or 
 pagan, as you choose, but for the intellectual 
 and cultivated man there is a court from which 
 there is no appeal. These men carry about 
 them a conscience, seared and blunted it may 
 be ; dead upon many points that good men 
 deem of vital importance ; but still they have 
 a code (creed would hardly express my mean- 
 ing), infraction of which hangs heavily on
 
 ' ERXEST DE VITRE.' 81 
 
 their souls. The infringement of half the 
 Decalogue weighs little upon the minds of 
 such men as De Vitre, but they have an in- 
 distinctly defined code of honour that stands 
 to them in the place of religion. Not very 
 efficient morality this, I grant you, but such 
 as it is they hold more strictly by it than 
 many who profess considerably more. In 
 these times of much mock-rehgion, is it not 
 something, at all events, to see a man act 
 up to his professions, little as they may be? 
 In days when people declare so much, and 
 perform so little, it is edifying to see the 
 good deeds occasionally accomplished by 
 these poor backsliders who profess nothing. 
 
 vol. i. g-
 
 82 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 'THE REHEARSAL.' 
 
 A bleak east wind, with one of those 
 shimmering February suns that are but 
 of little account — mere glitter, with no 
 warmth in them — blinking over the wild 
 moorland and sandy-grown heather, tinting 
 those rows upon rows of black little huts 
 with its faint gilding, and flashing up a little 
 over the glass- covered parades of the perma- 
 nent barracks and roof of the racquet-court. 
 A route-marching day at Aldershott, The 
 army comes streaming home with dusty 
 boots and dirty faces. The army, as a rule, 
 is weeping. From the colonel to the drum- 
 mer can be traced two distinct black streaks 
 running from the corner of the eye to the 
 mouth, the result of the black dust which
 
 1 THE KEHEAESAL.' 83 
 
 the east wind scatters so freely. A true 
 democrat and no respecter of persons your 
 east wind, and he has shown no more defer- 
 ence to the general than to the fifer this 
 February morning. The army solaces itself 
 a good deal with pipes and light badinage. 
 It curses the weather, speaks disparagingly 
 rather of the morning's entertainment ; but, 
 above all, it weeps. The more it wipes its 
 eyes the dirtier the numberless faces that 
 constitute it become — varying from the two 
 before-mentioned streaks to smudging that 
 might give the idea of vague attempts at 
 the regular Ethiopian serenader's make-up. 
 The army has been concentrating itself this 
 morning at Farnham, and has protected that 
 town from the ravages of an imaginary 
 enemy with considerable ability and dis- 
 tinction. Colonels and generals look a little 
 wofully at the skeleton battalions, weak bat- 
 teries, and dragoon regiments, as they call to 
 mind experiences of this sort of thing having 
 to be done in genuine earnest, and contrast 
 
 G 2
 
 84 CECILE. 
 
 their resources then with those of these 
 latter days. They muse a little, perhaps, 
 over that saying of the Great Frederick's, 
 that ' God is with the great squadrons.' 
 However, the army approaches its canton- 
 ments, like all armies, savage for food, and, 
 having in some measure cleansed its face or 
 faces, precipitates itself on dinner in default 
 of other foe — that is to say, the rank and file 
 do ; the officers follow their example, but 
 call it by the name of lunch. 
 
 In one of the cavalry mess-rooms in the 
 permanent barracks, our old acquaintance 
 Alec Merriott is practically exemplifying his 
 theory that nothing makes you so con- 
 sumedly hungry as route-marching. 
 
 ' Cleavers, my boy,' he exclaims, ' send 
 the potatoes and that cup across. Very plea- 
 sant brew, by the way, does old Judkins 
 (the head mess-waiter) credit. Taking, or 
 protecting, or whatever we did relative to 
 Farnham this morning, is deuced hungry 
 work. Can't say I ever quite know what
 
 'THE REHEARSAL.' 85 
 
 we're up to on these occasions. Our gene- 
 rals keep their intentions as dark as if they 
 might influence the funds, or there really 
 was an enemy in the background.' 
 
 1 No use explaining to a fellow like you, 
 who's always thinking of hunting, shooting, 
 or cricket.' 
 
 ' Might happen to have been a good thing 
 to have given me a little knowledge of the 
 business, all the same,' retorted Alec. ' A 
 little insight into these imaginary fi eld-clays 
 would open our eyes a bit ; and, I take it, 
 the wider awake a commander finds his 
 subordinates, the better for all concerned, 
 especially him, when the play turns to 
 earnest.' 
 
 Cleavers rather stared. Alec was a good 
 officer, but this was quite a new formula for 
 him to enunciate. 
 
 6 Well,' he exclaimed at last, ' I'm off to 
 town, and shall leave the authorities to talk 
 over the taking or defending of Farnham, as 
 the case may be. Will you come, Alec ? '
 
 86 CECILE. 
 
 8 No ! Avaunt tempter ! Am I not vowed 
 to the drama ? A poor votary at the shrine 
 of Thalia. Oh, Lord, and don't I wish I 
 wasn't ? Did you ever act, Jack ? ' 
 8 Once,' replied the other, drily. 
 'Find it difficult?' 
 
 8 Not at all. I had only some half-dozen 
 sentences to say ; was in an awful funk ; 
 drank a tumbler of champagne just before I 
 went on, forgot every word of them, was 
 hustled off amidst roars of laughter, and 
 havn't been asked to perform since. Shouldn't 
 if I was ; don't think I'm cut out for an 
 actor.' 
 
 8 It is difficult learning the words,' said 
 Alec, musingly. 
 
 8 Not the least,' rejoined Cleavers ; l only 
 trouble is recollecting them when you want 
 'em. I knew mine well enough anywhere 
 except on the stage.' 
 
 8 Oh, but you overdid the winding-up 
 business. Drank a bottle of champagne ; 
 screwed as an owl, no doubt.'
 
 'THE REHEARSAL.' 87 
 
 'Devil a bit; might have done better if 
 I had been, perhaps. I was simply para- 
 lysed. Well, I'm off. Going to make But- 
 ters put you through, I suppose ? Take my 
 advice, Alec, and get hold of a professional 
 from town.' 
 
 < By G — d ! never thought of that. I will ; 
 I'll come up to-morrow, and see about it ; ' 
 and, nodding to his comrade, Alec Merriott 
 strolled across to his own quarters. 
 
 Arrived there, Alec's proceedings are 
 worthy of commemoration. He first di- 
 vested himself of his uniform, then indulged 
 in the luxury of a warm bath, and finally, 
 having attired himself in a gorgeous smoking- 
 jacket and slippers, proceeded to fill a brule- 
 gueule, and light it. That achieved, he took 
 up a small book of Lacy's acting edition of 
 the drama, and commenced to study it with 
 an intensity gratifying to witness, and that 
 should have stood him in good stead could 
 Lia Eemington only have witnessed it. 
 
 fc Extraordinary thing,' he exclaimed, after
 
 88 CECILE. 
 
 some time, ' how one's thoughts wander. I 
 can't get a bit of this into my head ; I keep 
 reading it over and over again, and thinking 
 of Lia Eemington, what's going to win the 
 Liverpool, or anything, in short, but this 
 confounded play. Strikes me they're more 
 amusing to see acted than read, by a 
 long chalk. And as for acting them ones- 
 self ' and here the speaker paused, 
 
 shrugged his shoulders, and emitted a cloud 
 of tobacco from under his moustache. ' Well, 
 I didn't want to do it. I never thought it 
 would be fun ; never much thought I could 
 do it. That's the deuce and all of getting 
 fond of a girl in earnest; they are always 
 leading you into some mess or other. As if 
 we didn't know best where our strength Jay, 
 with our own lights to guide us. However, 
 I'm in for it now ; as the song says — 
 
 Oh, what is the use of repining, 
 
 For where there's a will there's a way. 
 
 Hang it, I hope so, though I'm blessed if I 
 see the way much at present. This won't
 
 8 THE rehearsal/ 89 
 
 do ; I'm not progressing a yard ' — and, 
 springing to his feet, Alec first rang the bell, 
 and then, from habit, opened his door, and 
 vociferated ' Butters ! ' at the top of his voice. 
 
 A faint ' Yes, Sir ' came up from the 
 depths of the basement, followed in a few 
 seconds by Mr. Butters in proper person. 
 
 1 Did you want anything, Sir ? ' enquired 
 that worthy. 
 
 'Shouldn't have halloaed, if I hadn't,' 
 responded his master. ' Here, you have got 
 to hear me all this through again. Now, 
 don't be stupid over it to-day; recollect 
 what I told you yesterday. You're to read 
 out all those lines marked underneath with 
 ink ; those are the cues. Begin there ; catch 
 
 hold ' and, to Butter's evident dismay, 
 
 his master thrust the book into his hand. 
 
 ' In course I'll do my best, Sir ; but this 
 here play-acting beats me altogether. If it 
 were anything about horses, now ' 
 
 6 Which it isn't,' interrupted his master ; 
 ' wish to God it was. Hold your tongue,
 
 90 CECILE. 
 
 and do as you're told. You're rather fond of 
 relating your experiences of a racing-stable. 
 I take it they taught you that as part of 
 your alphabet ? ' 
 
 4 Quite right, Sir,' said Butters, brightening 
 at this allusion to what he conceived the 
 highest employment of man. 'I'll do my 
 dooty by you, Sir. You're entered for these 
 stakes, and bound to run. It ain't my 
 dooty, now you've made up your mind, to 
 tell you you're running out of your class. 
 My dooty, clear away, Mr. Alec, is to pitch 
 you out as fit as ever I can make you. I 
 don't want to be disrespectful, but it rayther 
 strikes me, Sir, you're terrible short of work 
 at present.' 
 
 To account for Mr. Butters' somewhat 
 easy maimer with his master, I must men- 
 tion that he had begun life in a Yorkshire 
 training-stable, from which, sore tribulation 
 to Joe, his increasing weight had at length 
 necessitated his discharge. He had then 
 become stud groom to Alec Merriott's
 
 'THE REHEAKSAL.' 91 
 
 father, a situation he obtained when Alec 
 was quite a boy, and continued to fill most 
 satisfactorily till the death of the old gentle- 
 man some four or live years back ; since 
 when he had officiated as prime minister to 
 the son. 
 
 4 Then you don't particularly fancy me 
 this time, Joe ? havn't much confidence in 
 my success, eh ? ' enquired Merriott, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 ' Wot d'ye want to go out of your line for ? 
 that's wot beats me. When you're a known 
 good horse on the flat, wot's the use of 
 entering for hurdles, Sir ? If it was pigeons, 
 cricket, or a spin across country, I'd have 
 no fear of your pulling through. But this 
 play-acting — we never trained for it before, 
 you see, and the worst is ' — and here Butters 
 lowered his voice and looked very grave and 
 mysterious—' we ain't got nothing to try 
 with.' 
 
 Alec Merriott burst out into a roar of 
 laughter as he put down his pipe. ' You
 
 92 CECILE. 
 
 old croaker/ he exclaimed, ' didn't I win the 
 Holmeswood steeplechase, and weren't you 
 in just as great a state of mind then because 
 we had nothing to try the mare with ? 
 Think of that, man ; besides, in this busi- 
 ness we never try except in public. Put 
 your old training-stable ideas out of your 
 head for a bit, and fire away.' 
 
 'Well, we did win then, there ain't no deny- 
 ing it, and you rode judgematical, that you 
 did. I gives you all manner of credit as 
 you deserves, Mr. Alec, for that. But don't 
 you go laughing at training-stables. They're 
 fine schools, they are ; they brings out ideas, 
 if so be one's got any. They teaches wot 
 you call philosphy. We learns how to bear 
 our rewerses ; not to be too bumptious when 
 we wins — and wot a deal of uncertainty there 
 is about things generally, and race osses in 
 partickler ! Bless me, when one thinks of 
 legs — how they go — how they fills just 
 when they didn't ought ! and how ' 
 
 1 Shut up, will you ? ' cried his master, s and
 
 'THE REHEARSAL.' 93 
 
 bear a hand with what you've got to do now. 
 Eecollect you're training me now.' 
 
 ' If it was but a running match even,' said 
 the incorrigible Butters. ' Beg pardon, Mr. 
 Alec, I'm just agoing to begin. Only don't 
 go too quick for me ; there's nothing like 
 slow work at starting. Now,' he continued, 
 solemnly, with the air of letting off a danger- 
 ous firework. ' " I shall know what's what as 
 well as the best of 'em" ' 
 
 ' " Your servant. Madam. I'm glad to 
 find you alone, for I've something of impor- 
 tance to speak to you about." ' 
 
 ' " I shall give you a civil answer." ' 
 
 ' " You give me so obliging a one, it en- 
 courages me to tell you in a few words what 
 
 I think." What I think — what I think 
 
 what the devil do I think, Joe ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know ; it ain't down in the book ; 
 but if you'd think better of it, may be it'd 
 be the best.' 
 
 ' Confound you, what comes next. Oh, I 
 know. " Your father has resolved to make
 
 94 CECILE. 
 
 me happy as your husband, and 1 hope 
 you'll do what he tells you." ' 
 
 1 That's not right ; leastways it ain't in 
 the book,' said Butters, gravely. 
 
 6 Bosh, not quite the words, perhaps, but 
 it's near enough. Go on, what's the next 
 cue?' 
 
 ' "Sir, I never •disobey my father in any- 
 thing but eating green gooseberries." 
 
 1 " So good." No. " Tm therefore impa- 
 tient." Pshaw, what the devil comes after 
 green gooseberries ? ' 
 
 1 Internal conwulsions ; leastways, that's 
 my experience mostly,' replied Butters, w T ith 
 perfectly unmoved countenance. 
 
 ' Confound you, Joe. You're no assist- 
 ance at all,' exclaimed Merriott, laughing. 
 8 Here, give me the book, do.' 
 
 But assistance is at hand, for of a verity 
 Mr. Butters, to do him justice, much against 
 his inclination, is undertaking a task beyond 
 his capabilities when he commences school- 
 master as regards the dratia. A cab is seen,
 
 'THE REHEARSAL.' 05 
 
 scattering the dust fast between Farnboro' 
 Station and the Barracks, that, at the inspira- 
 tion of Eoland Dance, is destined to bear 
 balm and consolation to the sorely perturbed 
 spirit of Alec Merriott. As it nears the 
 block in which Merriott's rooms are situated, 
 Dance leans out of the window and voci- 
 ferates some directions to the driver that 
 indicate thorough knowledge of the locality, 
 as well they may. For Eoland Dance is as 
 well known at the mess of the — th Lancers 
 as the regimental snuff-box. A few more 
 turns of the wheels and the cab pulls up at 
 the door of the house in which Merriott's 
 rooms are situated. 
 
 1 Come along, Puffin, my boy,' exclaims 
 Dance, as he springs from the cab. c This 
 is the home of the infant Eoscius. He 
 ought to have been born before the floats 
 and nurtured in a green-room, but you see 
 unfortunately he wasn't, and he 
 
 — ' had heard of battles, and he longed 
 To follow to the field some warlike lord ; '
 
 96 CECILE. 
 
 and so lie became a horse soldier instead 
 of a great tragedian. But, never mind, like 
 all great souls, he is delicately conscious 
 of his own deficiencies. A touch of thy 
 art, a small borrowing of thy experience, 
 and he shall rant it with the best of them, 
 eh?' 
 
 'Lead on, I follow thee,' responded the 
 actor, for such in sooth he was, and the pair 
 ran laughingly up the stone staircase and 
 knocked sharply at Merriott's door. 
 
 ' All hail, most noble Festus ! quoth Dance, 
 as he entered. Ha ! what, do we find thee 
 in the agony of inspiration? infusing thy 
 part into thy very marrow ? Let me intro- 
 duce you to Mr. Puffin, of the " Parthenon," 
 who has often dispelled the blues, distended 
 our cheeks with laughter, and distilled tears 
 from our eyes in acknowledgment of his 
 exquisite fooling.' 
 
 ' Charmed to make your acquaintance off 
 the stage, Mr. Puffin,' said Alec. ' That I 
 have known and admired you for a con-
 
 'THE REHEARSAL.' 97 
 
 siderable period on it, it is almost super- 
 fluous to state.' 
 
 The actor bowed. 
 
 'Now, Alec,' continued Dance, 'first we 
 want some lunch. Ha ! Butters, worthy 
 soul, dost hear thou our requirements ? ' 
 
 ' Do you mean you want something to 
 eat, Mr. Dance ? ' 
 
 ' Just so. He can get lunch for us here, 
 Alec, can't he ? ' 
 
 ' Of course. Eun across and see about it, 
 Joe, at once.' 
 
 ' And then, my boy, we'll have a regular 
 grind at the part. Puffin, here, is kind 
 enough to say he'll give you a lesson and 
 put you up to all the business of it.' 
 
 ' Upon my word,' said Merriott, ' you'll be 
 conferring a great favour on me, Mr. Puffin, 
 if you don't mind the trouble. I have un- 
 fortunately embarked in the drama without 
 the slightest rudimentary knowledge thereof, 
 and " heaped " is the only term that at all 
 describes my present state.' 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 CECILE. 
 
 ' Never fear, my boy, we're come from 
 town expressly to breathe the divine afflatus 
 into you. Divine afflatus, by the way, with 
 concomitant of lunch, got to be put into 
 you in precisely two hours, at the expiration 
 of which time we're off.' 
 
 c Can't you stop and dine ? ' 
 
 ' Thanks, no, Capt. Merriott,' replied the 
 actor, ' the British public expects its Puffin 
 at nine precisely, and can't be disappointed.' 
 
 6 Exactly,' broke in Dance ; ' the Parthenon 
 without Puffin, you see, is like " She Stoops 
 to Conquer " with Tony Lumpkin omitted. 
 Ah ! here's Butters and the food. Eeady for 
 you in ten minutes now, Alec. Must make a 
 hit of this dramatic venture, old fellow, you 
 know, or Miss Remington will never forgive 
 us.' 
 
 8 If it was only pigeons,' gasped Butters, 
 ( or anything we wos used to ! ' 
 
 ' Pooh, you old croaker,' laughed Dance. 
 ' Look here, Joe, I don't mind telling you — 
 sive me some wine — but there's nothing
 
 1 THE REHEARSAL? 99 
 
 your master's not capable of.' Butters shook 
 his head solemnly as he filled Eoland's glass ; 
 he evidently augured very ill of what he 
 would have denominated their histrionic 
 powers ; for Joe completely identified him- 
 self with his master's triumphs in the sport- 
 ing world, and would, in recounting a suc- 
 cessful innings at cricket of Merriott's, have 
 described it as ' we made seventy odd runs. 
 and never gave a chance.' 
 
 ' Done eating, Puffin? ' exclaimed the vola- 
 tile Dance. ' Now, Alec, where's the book ? 
 give us hold. Put a cigar into Puffin's 
 mouth, and attend to what he tells you. 1*11 
 read the cues, and he'll superintend.' 
 
 The rehearsal commenced, and Harriott 
 became at once conscious of a nervousness 
 he had never experienced before — that dim 
 consciousness of making a fool of himself to 
 which the Englishman is so peculiarly liable. 
 I don't believe that sensation is ever ex- 
 perienced by a Frenchman or an American. 
 They seem to be gifted by nature with a 
 
 H 2
 
 100 CECILE. 
 
 blessing denied to ourselves. Aplomb! — 
 we've no English word quite expresses it — 
 seems to come to them intuitively when 
 placed in strange or awkward situations. It 
 is that delicious conceit in one's self — one of 
 the most comfortable weaknesses man can 
 be endowed with. A conceited man ma)' 
 not be pleasant to meet ; but if he is but 
 only thoroughly embued with it, his journey 
 through life comes pleasant to him. Half 
 the people he meets will take him, unless 
 he's an utter fool, at his own valuation. He 
 don't believe that anyone laughs at him, and, 
 to penetrate the armour of self-esteem in 
 which he has clothed himself, takes sharper- 
 pointed arrows than are wont to be launched 
 his way. Of a verity there is much comfort 
 in conceit — remember that, oh, my diffident 
 brethren — away with humility's sackcloth. 
 Bedeck yourselves in purple, shower gar- 
 lands and oner up sacrifices at the shrine of 
 vanity. The votaries thereof have the best 
 of it in this world.
 
 'THE REHEARSAL.' 101 
 
 ' Excuse me, Captain Merriott,' said Puffin, 
 after a few minutes, ' but I can't be of much 
 use unless you will try to throw a little 
 action into your part. At present, you know, 
 you're only reciting it. For instance, in your 
 soliloquy here you speak it monotonously ; 
 that won't do — you must declaim it.. Besides, 
 in a lively comedy such as this is, you must 
 move about, and not deliver that speech all in 
 one place and in one attitude. This is more 
 the sort of thing ; ' and taking the book out of 
 Dance's hand, the actor rattled through the 
 speech with appropriate air and gesture. 
 1 Now,' he continued, c follow me closely ; 
 I'm going through the soliloquy again, and 
 I want you to imitate me as near as you can 
 afterwards.' 
 
 Once more Puffin ran through the speech. 
 'Now, Captain Merriott, try all you know, and, 
 above all, don't be afraid of it. Over acting 
 is soon toned down under judicious tuition.' 
 
 Alec essayed his best, but the imitation 
 was faint in the extreme, and he knew it.
 
 102 CECILS. 
 
 ' Stiff, a great deal too stiff. Don't be dis- 
 couraged about that ; ease on the stage is 
 of course an acquirement ; to be natural is 
 to seem awkward. There would be much 
 awkwardness noticed in drawing-rooms if 
 an attentive audience were watching. Try 
 that speech again ; if you can master that 
 one bit effectively, you'll have learnt a good 
 deal — you will have learnt a little how to 
 use your voice, a little how to move.' 
 
 It would be wearisome to follow Merriott 
 further through his tribulation ; suffice it to 
 say that little Mr. Puffin worked with won- 
 drous patience and good nature for over an 
 hour in his drilling, and it was finally ar- 
 ranged that Alec should receive some fur- 
 ther lessons in town at his hands. 
 
 Eoland Dance encouraged his friend with 
 much applause and light chaff, but he was 
 by no means satisfied with the performance. 
 He had done a little in the amateur line him- 
 self, and knew quite enough about it to feel 
 misgivings concerning Alec's attempts.
 
 'THE REHEARSAL.' 103 
 
 1 Well, time's up,' he exclaimed at last. 
 4 On we goes again. Cab at the door, eh, But- 
 ters ? All right, good bye, old fellow ; look 
 me up when you're in town for your next 
 lesson. Now, Puffin, flutter.' 
 
 4 Not in our class, Mr. Dance, that's wot 
 it is,' said Butters, as he shut the cab door. 
 4 It wasn't a satisfactory trial, wos it ? But 
 it's best to know the worst. If you can't 
 win, the sooner it's found out the better, ain't 
 it, Sir ? ' 
 
 4 You're an old fool, Joe,' retorted Dance, 
 
 as the trap drove off. 4 What do you think 
 of him, Puffin ? ' 
 
 4 If he's letter perfect, don't get nervous, 
 and if I have three more afternoons at him, 
 he'll pull through. But he'll never act, if 
 that's what you mean.'
 
 ] 04 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 c THE PERFORMANCE.' 
 
 London in March — east wind still strong in 
 the ascendant; springing upon you as you 
 turn corners, throwing dust into your eyes, 
 catarrh into your system, congesting your 
 liver, and enquiring tempestuously whether 
 there is a weak spot about your lungs. 
 Parliament has met, and shopkeepers as 
 usual inform you that town is filling — an 
 assertion that your own experience tells you 
 is untrue. Shopkeepers always do make 
 this visibly erroneous statement at this 
 period of the year. It seems to be a tradi- 
 tion among them ; perhaps it is that they 
 would insinuate now is your time to become 
 a purchaser before the flood-tide of compe- 
 tition sets in. Tailors, modistes, &c. begin
 
 'THE PERFORMANCE. ' 105 
 
 to rave about spring fashions, as if anything 
 except blankets could be of much repute in 
 a genuine English spring. The slaves of our 
 legislature, of course, are gathered together. 
 There are execrable propositions to be de- 
 nounced, wondrous schemes for our regene- 
 ration to be supported. There is the usual 
 feverish desire to know what Ministers mean 
 to do this session ; there are the economists 
 with a greedy eye for more paring down of 
 the emoluments of those connected with the 
 public service. What signifies efficiency, if 
 you can but reduce taxes ? — a great saving 
 to be effected perchance in the Fiddle and 
 String Department. It may be doubtful 
 economy — stupid business people even deem 
 it so — to employ bad servants at reduced 
 salaries in lieu of good men at the higher 
 figure. But reduction looks well in the 
 Budget, And if members have no special 
 eye upon any of these points, their consti- 
 tuencies expect them to vote, even if they 
 don't speak. As in these virtuous days you
 
 106 CECILE. 
 
 don't pay electors for the honour of repre- 
 senting them, it behoveth you should do 
 something for their gratification. If you go 
 into what they deem the wrong lobby, they 
 experience the satisfaction of making up 
 their minds to ask awkward questions in the 
 vacation, and to vote dead against you on 
 the next occasion you may solicit their 
 suffrages. 
 
 The Mallandaines have arrived in town 
 and established themselves in Belgravia. 
 My lady has heretofore made but short 
 seasons, Sir Hervey having usually preceded 
 her thither some six weeks or so, and they 
 have generally been amougst the early de- 
 partures. Cecile has not been strong, and 
 does not bear the racket of London life well. 
 But this year she has accompanied her 
 husband, and tells him she feels strong 
 enough for any amount of gaiety. She has, 
 moreover, promised Lia Eemington to wit- 
 ness her histrionic triumphs, and Cecile 
 really is interested in these theatricals. All
 
 6 THE PERFORMANCE.' 107 
 
 women are interested in a ]ove affair, and it 
 is Lady Mallandaine's belief that Lia cares a 
 good deal more about Alec Merriott than 
 she chooses to admit. She has an idea that 
 should Alec be successful in his role on this 
 occasion, that an eclair cissement is likely to 
 take place between the two. Who can 
 tell? You and I, reader, who have been 
 down at Aldershott and seen Merriott in 
 what the astute Mr. Butters would denomi- 
 nate his training, would augur ill of his 
 chance should it hang on such precarious 
 tenure. But woman, bless her ! has some 
 weaknesses, and her compassion for failure 
 is infinite. She thinks it is her duty oft- 
 times to pour balm into the wounds of our 
 sore-galled vanity. She will yield, from 
 compassion for our distress, what she would 
 deny us in the hour of victory, and yet if 
 she does care about you, how dearly she 
 loves that you should succeed. Quite a 
 metaphysical problem. Yet I would rather 
 in these circumstances finish a good second
 
 108 CECILE. 
 
 in a steeplechase with a broken collarbone 
 than win. It would be of infinitely more 
 use to one. 
 
 Almost needless to say that the Eeming- 
 tons are in town. Eemington pere finds his 
 house gradually limiting itself in accommo- 
 dation. His own sanctum was turned into 
 a property-room some days back. He has 
 been warned that his dressing-room will be 
 confiscated on the night The drawing-rooms 
 for some time have been untenantable. Mr. 
 Eemington begins to cast jealous eyes on the 
 hall porter's easy-chair, and mentally can see 
 no other place at home in which the study 
 of the ' Times ' seems feasible. He feels 
 serious apprehensions of coming to a chop 
 in the butler's pantry, by special favour, as 
 regards dinner. He knows he don't like 
 all this rout, but Mrs. Eemington's list of 
 acceptances reduces him to submission. 
 Worshipper of Mammon though he is, yet 
 he, like his wife, has a craving for a fashion- 
 able visiting-list and a paragraph in the
 
 'THE PERFORMANCE.' 109 
 
 ' Morning Post.' Besides, it's no use strug- 
 gling against Lia, and Lia has energetically 
 pronounced that theatricals she will have 
 this season. Mrs. Eemington alternates 
 between exultation and despondency. Her 
 feelings are governed principally by the 
 answers she receives to her invitations. She 
 sinks to the depths of despair upon finding 
 the Hon. Mrs. Silverton ' regrets,' &c. She 
 ascends to transcendental bliss upon learning 
 that Lady Manestone 'will be delighted.' 
 Words can hardly depict the dismay with 
 which, rushing breathless into Lia's room to 
 apprise her of Mrs. Silverton's defalcation, 
 she heard her daughter respond, ' Oh, bother 
 Mrs. Silverton, Mamma ; she's deaf, stupid, 
 and a bore.' 
 
 'But, my dear, she is an Honourable,' 
 gasped Mrs. Eemington. 
 
 ' And we are well and honourably ac- 
 quitted of her, mother darling. Of course, 
 it was all right to ask her, but I'm glad she's 
 not coming. She's as spiteful and disagree-
 
 110 CECILE. 
 
 able an old lady as there is in all London. 
 Don't fret so much about handles to the 
 name, mother ; there's plenty of pleasant 
 people who can't boast of them.' 
 
 'Don't be foolish, Lydia; you can't sup- 
 pose that your father and I are going to put 
 ourselves to all this inconvenience, let alone 
 the expense, to entertain nobodies.' 
 
 'No, my mother' — and Lia rose, walked 
 across the room to Mrs. Remington and 
 kissed her — C I don't suppose you would 
 quite understand why you turn the house 
 upside down unless I told you. Shall I tell 
 you ? Because you're a clear good mamma, 
 and can't deny your daughter anything ; and 
 then, you see, Papa don't know how to" say 
 no to you, and so Lia has got her own way, 
 and is having theatricals. Now, don't fret, 
 mother mine. They will go off beautifully ; 
 and as for Mrs. Silverton-- defend me from 
 Mrs. Silverton ! ' 
 
 ' But, Lydia, dear, are you quite sure we 
 shall have a good audience ? '
 
 'THE PERFORMANCE.' Ill 
 
 ' Good audience ! ' replied the girl, saucily. 
 4 If I didn't think so, I'd make Alec Merriott 
 bring up half Aldershott, and order Eoland 
 Dance to march the War Office down to a 
 man. Think of that for a claque ; ' and Lia 
 laughed merrily at the idea. 
 
 Mrs. Eemington retired appeased, if not 
 wholly comforted. 
 
 The night of the theatricals arrives. The 
 chop in the pantry that he had once con- 
 templated had become of late so very un- 
 certain in Mr. Eemington's eyes, that he 
 did what he should have done a week 
 previously — that is, betook himself to his 
 club, and there dined. However, he is 
 back again by this — all white tie and w r hite 
 waistcoat, very reel in the face, and bowing 
 at the top of the stairs like a Mandarin. He 
 reminds one a little, as he rubs his hands 
 with 'invisible soap,' of Hood's Sir Jacob, 
 who deemed 
 
 ' He bowed like a Guelph, 
 And would gladly have made a bow to himself, 
 Had such a bow been feasible.'
 
 112 CECILE. 
 
 People flock in rapidly. They have — that 
 is, the strangers — great uncertainty about 
 their host, and considerable misgivings- as to 
 whether he is not the head butler after all. 
 Men of the world shake hands — you always 
 should. What matter if you have shaken 
 hands with the butler ; you may find it 
 much to your benefit at supper-time. The 
 situation is far easier retraced than cutting 
 the master of the mansion. When in doubt, 
 shake hands is quite as reliable as the old 
 whist axiom of ' trump,' which latter is 
 generally productive of grief to that thir- 
 teenth card your partner has clung to so 
 long. 
 
 Mrs. Eemington looks imposing enough in 
 maize satin (she had a weakness for red 
 velvet, which has been unscrupulously 
 crushed by her daughter), and no doubt 
 exists concerning the mistress of the man- 
 sion. People come trooping in, and Mrs. 
 Eemington's heart swells with triumph as 
 many a titled name is vociferated up the
 
 'THE PERFORMANCE.' 113 
 
 staircase. Ladies of rank are very much 
 like other people, and are wont to assemble 
 where they think they will be amused. 
 There are those who come to sneer at the 
 performance — a good many of these ; there 
 are the good folks who expect to be amused 
 — poor creatures ; there are those who come 
 because they understand they will meet 
 everybody else there — acting quite in ac- 
 cordance with the laws that principally 
 govern society, these last. It does not 
 matter whether you like it, or want to do 
 it ; but if society decrees it the right thing 
 to be done, of course you must do it. Who 
 are you that you should presume to deny 
 sacrifice to the goddess Caprice, usually 
 designated Fashion ? 
 
 Lady Mallandaine is one of the early 
 arrivals. After greeting Mrs. Eemington, 
 she insists upon seeing Lia, and is forthwith 
 ushered up to that young lady's bedroom, 
 whom she finds under the hands of Suzanne. 
 
 ' Don't speak to me, Cecile,' exclaims Miss 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 CECILE. 
 
 Eemington. ' I'm in a state of perturbation 
 about how things will go off. Tt is all 
 about Alec. Fancy a man who can ride 
 steeplechases being nervous ! but he is, he 
 is — he says he's not, but I know better. 
 Suzanne here, too, can see it also.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Mademoiselle ; but de Capitaine he 
 recover him nerve after de first, you see. It 
 is le premier pas qui coute, you know. He 
 all right what you call tout de suite, directly. 
 
 ' What, Lia, you nervous ? — nonsense. 
 Your theatricals will go off beautifully. Don't 
 be apprehensive about them. You've got 
 such an audience all waiting to applaud you. 
 How pretty you look in your costume. I'm 
 sure it will be all your fault if Captain 
 Merriott forgets his words. If I were him, 
 I think you'd put them all out of my head 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' Don't flatter, Cecile ; but do I look 
 nice ? ' and Miss Eemington sprang from her 
 chair and contemplated herself in the pier- 
 glass. 'Yes, I think I shall do,' she con-
 
 1 THE PERFORMANCE.' 115 
 
 tinued, with a saucy toss of her head, after a 
 brief survey. ' But I must run away now, 
 and harangue mine army before the curtain 
 rises ; put strength into the faint-hearted ; 
 take courage myself from the bolder spirits. 
 Don't go without seeing me, Cecile, after the 
 struggle is over.' 
 
 ' Certainly not. Is it likely, Lia, I'd 
 leave -without congratulating you on your 
 triumph ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, my dear ; but if it's the other 
 thing,' retorted Miss Eemington, with a 
 little whimsical moue. 
 
 ' But it won't, it can't, and it shan't, be 
 the other thing,' cried Lady Mallandaine, 
 laughing ; and if it were, why we should 
 have to cry over. your failure together, as 
 we used to do over the old school grievances 
 in days lang syne.' 
 
 8 Au revoirj cried Miss Eemington, with a 
 stamp of her foot and a wave of her pocket- 
 handkerchief. ' I go where glory waits me ; ' 
 and Lia dashed rapidly downstairs, 
 i 2
 
 116 CECILE. 
 
 Cecile glided quietly back to the reception 
 rooms, which were now well filled. She 
 looked very lovely this evening, with just 
 one magnificent white camellia braided in 
 her fair silken tresses, her eyes sparkling, 
 and her face slightly flushed with her anxiety 
 about the double drama she conceived she 
 was about to witness. 
 
 1 Good evening, Lady Mallandaine,' ex- 
 claimed Eoland Dance. ' Come to witness 
 the consummation of the comedy which we 
 viewed in its early throes at Childerley ? 
 How's Bertie ? ' 
 
 ' Asleep, little darling, by this, I hope,' 
 laughed Cecile ; ' but he has been extremely 
 naughty to-night. He was so indignant, 
 poor child, because I wouldn't bring him 
 to see Lia act, and made me promise to 
 wake him when I came home, and tell him 
 all about it.' 
 
 ' A promise, I presume, you will hardly 
 comply with ? 
 
 4 1 don't know. I am very foolish about
 
 ; TIIE PERFORMANCE.' 117 
 
 nry boy— a fact, no doubt, Mr. Dance, you 
 have already fathomed. I always go and 
 look at him before I go to bed ; and, wicked 
 little thing, he will wake sometimes.' 
 
 ' Of course he will, Lady Mallandaine, if 
 you kiss him ; and you know T you do,' 
 laughed Eoland. 
 
 w Dout laugh at me, Mr. Dance,' replied 
 Cecile, blushing. ' A mother has a right to 
 be proud of her child, especially such a boy 
 as Bertie.' 
 
 'Yes, indeed,' returned Eoland, gravely. 
 ' It can't be said to be a weakness of mothers 
 in these days.' 
 
 6 Ah, you men ; you always sneer at us. 
 I don't suppose I differ much from other 
 mothers ; ' and Cecile looked curiously into 
 Dance's face — wondering, indeed, whether 
 she was more foolish about her child than 
 the matrons of her class were wont to be. 
 
 6 You wrong me, Lady Mallandaine. It 
 would be better, I think, if mothers in these 
 days were more like you. But it is getting
 
 :le. 
 
 time to take our places to witne 
 Bennington's triumph. I know she will be 
 a success. She can do, I am sure .'ting 
 
 but one. and that one the thing I hav - 
 on/ 
 
 * And tl ile. her eyes dancing 
 with fun. and much mirthful interrogation in 
 her brows. 
 
 1 like Alec Memo:: ! ' 
 kh, Mr. Dance, if I was a friend of his, 
 I think I'd tell him not quite to despond.' 
 
 • What do you mean ? do you think ' 
 
 1 Nothing, except that I nev 
 
 look so ] - she does to-night/ 
 
 ' Lady Mallandaine/ suddenly exclaimed a 
 voice by her side, will you allow mc 
 introduce you to Mr. De and without 
 
 more circumlocution. Mrs. Eemington pre- 
 sdDe Vita I . ale. 
 It d m odd that a man about Lon- 
 
 don like De Yitre should never before have 
 a Lady Mallandaine. a beauty who 
 had been much talked about in her first
 
 'THE PERFOK^IAXCE.' 119 
 
 season. But there are a good many sets in 
 the ramifications of that London world even 
 amongst those who are within the pale. It 
 so happened that De Vitre had been abroad 
 during Cecile's first season, and, as we all 
 know, you must be notorious in some way to 
 be talked of for two seasons in succession. 
 Cecile had not so distinguished herself. De 
 Vitre lived chiefly in one of the fastest sets 
 in London. Sir Hervey moved in a much 
 quieter circle of viveurs, who took their plea- 
 sure not only more sedately but with, perhaps, 
 a little more propriety. It was the first time 
 that De Vitre had ever penetrated to the man- 
 sion of the Eemingtons. Why he had come, 
 he could hardly have told, but there is un- 
 doubted fatality in these cases. Lounging, 
 bored and listless, against the door, his eye 
 was suddenly caught by Cecile's animated 
 face, as she conversed with Dance. He 
 gazed for a moment. ' My God ! how like ! ' 
 he muttered, and then, turning to the first 
 acquaintance who came to hand, he asked
 
 120 CECILE. 
 
 the name of that pretty fair woman with a 
 white camellia in her hair. 
 
 ' Lady Mallandaine, of course,' replied the 
 interrogated. ' What bosh, De Yitre ; your 
 affecting not to know her by sight.' 
 
 6 I don't affect,' retorted Ernest ; ' nobody, 
 with moderate ability, does after five-and- 
 twenty. I simply never saw her before.' 
 
 The interrogated looked unbelief, but he 
 was not going to be drawn into an exchange 
 of passes with Ernest De Yitre, reputed cun- 
 ning of fence and bitter in the tongue 
 through most club smoking-rooms. He dis- 
 believed, and went his way — safest end to 
 such converse mostly. Better, perchance, 
 were such reticence more often put in prac- 
 tice than it is, and there would be saving 
 of much circulation of verjuice through the 
 human system generally. 
 
 It was, of course, easy enough for De 
 Yitre then to get presented to Cecile ; and 
 hence the introduction we have witnessed. 
 Struck by the likeness between hers and
 
 'THE PERFORMANCE.' 121 
 
 that other face which Wyndham Gwynne's 
 letter of some months back had once more 
 conjured up so vividly to his memory, De 
 Vitre had made up his mind to know Lady 
 Mallandaine. It was not difficult, of course, 
 for a man of his savoir vivre to manoeuvre 
 himself into the seat next her to witness the 
 theatricals. When he chose to take the 
 trouble, De Vitre could talk well upon most 
 subjects. He exerted himself to-night. A 
 quick judge of character, he saw rapidly that 
 the sneering cynicism he most affected would 
 be distasteful to Cecile. Not a shade of it 
 tinged his discourse. He saw that she 
 had much enthusiasm upon many things at 
 which he habitually scoffed. He drew her 
 out upon these points, just differing suffi- 
 ciently with her to evoke animated defence 
 of her views thereon. Small cause for won- 
 der that Lady Mallandaine found him agree- 
 able, or that Roland Dance, who sat on the 
 other side of her, was lost in bewilderment 
 at the honeyed change m the usual gall of
 
 'J&/ 
 
 122 CECILE. 
 
 De Vitre's nature Dance had often met 
 him before, and was well aware what bitter 
 words abont men and things his lips were 
 wont to distil. True, his manner to women 
 was usually suave and caressing, but at times 
 he would attack their pet hobbies with merci- 
 less sarcasm. In general, no criticism would 
 have been more acrid than his on such 
 occasion as the present. To-night he was 
 lenient, and disposed to make allowances for 
 everyone and everything. 
 
 No need for us to follow the comedy 
 through all its phases ; we will content our- 
 selves with such results as affect the cha- 
 racters in whom we are interested. Lia 
 ■ MnUn.nrlai as displayed undoubted talent. She 
 looked charming, and acted with great grace 
 and esprit. Alec Merriott was undoubtedly 
 not a success, although he was better, per- 
 haps, than from what we already know 
 might have been predicted. It was quite 
 evident that he was very nervous, and in the 
 crack love scene with Miss Eemington almost
 
 'THE PEKFOEMAXCE.' 123 
 
 painfully so. Still the severe coaching of 
 the illustrious Puffin, and thorough know- 
 ledge of his words, saved hirn from coining 
 utterly to grief. Stiff he was very, and 
 painfully conscious of failure himself. It 
 was a performance on which his best 
 friends could hardly congratulate him. 
 
 ' Made an awful exhibition of myself, Bo,' 
 he remarked to that gentleman at supper. 
 'If it hadn't been for Puffin, should never 
 have pulled through. Ass I was to be led 
 into it at all ; wouldn't take any money to 
 go through it again. Lia in an awful rage 
 with me, no doubt. Fancy she'll admit the 
 intellectual's not my hue in future.' 
 
 ' Bosh,' replied his Jidus Achates ; ' a man 
 may not be an actor, but it's no sequitur that 
 he's a fool.' 
 
 ' You're a Job's comforter,' retorted Alec. 
 ' It is to be hoped there's a medium ; one 
 may not have great talent and still not be an 
 idiot, I presume ? ' 
 
 ' True, king ; pass the champagne. A
 
 124 CECILE. 
 
 man may have a great thirst and not be a 
 drunkard.' 
 
 In the lower regions also critical con- 
 versation goes on about the doings of the 
 night. 
 
 ' Your maistare, Monsieur Bouttare, he 
 not very good actor, I tink,' says Suzanne ; 
 'he want verve, he get frightened, nervous, 
 hem?' 
 
 6 Not likely we could afford to spend much 
 time over such tomfoolery, Maamzelle. 
 We've such lots of other things to think of,' 
 returned Butters, grimly. He also was dimly 
 conscious that his master had not distin- 
 guished himself. 
 
 8 Ah, but you see ; he very fond of Made- 
 moiselle Lydia. There was one great lofe 
 scene in his role. He no make de most of dat. 
 It was one great opportunity. You English 
 stupid, I tink ; you no make de most of de 
 opportunity ;' and Suzanne favoured her ad- 
 mirer with a most coquettish and provocative 
 smile.
 
 1 THE PERFORMANCE.' 125 
 
 4 Damme,' retorted Butters, sulkily, ' that's 
 all you womankind ever think of — love- 
 making. Do you suppose a man ain't no- 
 thing else to look to than that ? ' 
 
 ' Noting half so nice, I know,' laughed the 
 Frenchwoman, with a saucy toss of her 
 head. ' It's what de men of all nations 
 come to, man cher, soonest or latest. Ah, 
 you — you begin late ; all de worse for you, 
 Monsieur Bouttare ;' and the soubrette never 
 looked prettier or wickeder than as she 
 spoke, her black eyes sparkling and her 
 white teeth gleaming between her laughing 
 
 CO CO 
 
 lips. 
 
 Joe's sulkiness rather melted before the 
 charms of his enchantress. 
 
 ' I say, Suzanne,' he remarked, edging 
 towards her, ' I s'pose you began early ? ' 
 
 1 Man Dieu! yes ; we begin very early — in 
 de cradle in my country.' 
 
 6 Well, as I don't understand it, perhaps 
 you'll give me a lesson ? ' 
 
 'You no want dat ; you men find all dat
 
 126 CECILE. 
 
 out for yourselves very quick when you 
 want to learn ; ' and Suzanne toyed coquet- 
 tishly witli her apron. 
 
 1 Yes, but I'm only a beginner,' said the 
 insinuating Joe, as he stole an arm round 
 her waist. 
 
 ' You a very apt scholar, I tink, Monsieur 
 Bouttare,' rejoined Suzanne, laughing. 'M on 
 Diea ! dere is somebody coming,' and slip- 
 ping from his embrace, the soubrette glided 
 to the door. There she paused for a mo- 
 ment, and turning, observed, ' You must not 
 get on too quick with your alphabet, Mon- 
 sieur. Good night.' 
 
 6 They are all gone now, Cecile,' exclaimed 
 Lia, as she ushered her friend into her 
 boudoir. ' I've been dying to speak to you 
 all night. How did it go ? What did you 
 think of me ? ' 
 
 'You were simply charming — everyone 
 said so. It all went well. Captain 
 Merriott not quite so successful as one 
 could have wished, but it all '
 
 'THE PERFORMANCE.'" 127 
 
 'Ah, poor Alec,' interrupted Lia, 'he 
 got stage-fright shockingly. I'm so sorry 
 for him. I wanted to see him afterwards, 
 but never could ; he never came near me, 
 and his acting was all my doing. He never 
 would have dreamt of it if I had not per- 
 suaded him.' 
 
 1 1 thought he seemed nervous.' 
 
 1 Nervous ! You know the sentimental 
 scene I have with him. Although the stas^e 
 directions lay down " love-making ad libi- 
 tum" he was so nervous, my dear, that he 
 didn't even kiss me.' 
 
 ' Ah, you'll never forgive that,' returned 
 Cecile, laughing. ' So nice as you looked 
 too, Lia, it was too bad of him.' 
 
 ' Don't laugh ; I'm dreadfully annoyed 
 about it,' replied Miss Eemington. 
 
 ' What, not being kissed ! ' exclaimed Lady 
 Mallandaine. 'Bertie was right, Lia, and 
 you were very naughty that day at Chil- 
 derley, or Captain Merriott would have done 
 better/
 
 128 CECILE. 
 
 ' Don't be provoking, Cecile ; you know 
 what 1 mean.' 
 
 1 Better than you, my dear, I fancy ; but 
 it's dreadfully late. I must really say good 
 night, Lia. The carriage has been round 
 this half hour or more ; ' and Lady Mallan- 
 daine departed.
 
 BERTIE ON THE DRAMA.' 129 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 ' BERTIE ON THE DRAMA.' 
 
 It is the morning after the theatricals. 
 Cecile is breakfasting in her own boudoir, 
 for Sir Hervey, not given to late hours, 
 unless the House demands him, has con- 
 summated that meal some hours previously. 
 But he never interferes with the gaieties of 
 his young wife, and therefore they very 
 frequently during the London season do not 
 breakfast together. 
 
 Cecile sits musing over the occurrences 
 of the previous night. She is pondering as 
 to whether Lia is in earnest with regard to 
 Alec Merriott or not. She thinks so. Sud- 
 denly the door opens and Master Bertie, 
 with blooming cheeks, rushes into the apart- 
 ment, pauses a second, and then demurely 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 CECILE. 
 
 seats himself at some distance from his 
 mother. 
 
 ' Come here, my darling,' cried Cecile. 
 
 ' No — Mamma's been naughty. Bertie 
 only comes to her when she's good.' 
 
 ' How so, my child ? ' 
 
 ' Mamma said she would come and see me 
 last night, and she didn't.' 
 
 • I got home so late, Bertie, dear ; but I 
 did come and see you, and you were sleeping 
 so nicely I didn't like to awake you.' 
 
 'But you said you would, Mamma, you 
 know, and tell me all about Lia. Mamma 
 shouldn't tell stories to Bertie.' 
 
 ' Come here, darling, and hear about it 
 now.' 
 
 'No,' replied the boy, holding out after 
 the manner of children at times, though his 
 face betokened eager curiosity. The little 
 cheeks were flushed, and the blue eyes, so 
 like his mother's, sparkling. 
 
 ' You wicked little thing, come here and 
 make it up with Mamma ; ' and springing from
 
 1 BERTIE ON THE DRAMA.' 131 
 
 her seat Cecile rushed across the room, and 
 catching her boy in her arms, bore him back 
 to her own chair. 
 
 'Now, Bert, my pet/ she said, when she 
 had got him comfortably established on her 
 own lap, ' be good, and I'll tell you all about 
 it. What do you want to know, darling?' 
 
 ' Was it nice ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; so nice, like a scene out of fairy 
 land ; and Lia looked just like the princess I 
 told you about the other day, you know.' 
 
 6 And was there a naughty prince, who 
 wanted to lock her up and marry her ? ' en- 
 quired the boy, eagerly. 
 
 6 Yes ; and then there was the good prince 
 who came and conquered the naughty prince, 
 Bertie, and took her away in the end.' 
 
 6 Were there any giants, Mamma ? ' 
 
 1 No, dear, there were not any giants.' 
 
 6 Couldn't have been nice, Mamma, with- 
 out giants,' said Bertie, decisively ; ' unless,' 
 he continued meditatively, 'there were 
 dwarfs.' 
 
 K 2
 
 132 CECILE. 
 
 'No there were no dwarfs, either/ 
 
 ' What did the good prince feed Lia on?' 
 enquired the boy, with a child's practical 
 curiosity concerning eating and drinking. 
 
 ' I don't quite recollect,' said Cecile, slowly. 
 She had not the talent for improvising fairy 
 tales which distinguished Miss Eemington. 
 
 'Lia always makes the good prince feed 
 the princess on bread and honey and sugar- 
 plums,' said the boy, authoritatively, 'and 
 the bad one gives her black-beetles and 
 spiders. Didn't the good prince give Lia 
 her tea?' 
 
 ' No, darling,' replied Cecile, kissing him 
 and laughing. 
 
 ' I don't think it could have been at all 
 nice, Mamma ; and Lia said she would send 
 me some of the sugar-plums the good prince 
 was to give her. Did she ? ' 
 
 ' No ; perhaps she means to bring them 
 herself to-day. Poor Lia was so tired last 
 night, I think she forgot.' 
 
 ' Lia never forgets,' retorted the boy, 
 whose faith in, and love for, Miss Eemington
 
 'BERTIE OX THE DRAMA.' 133 
 
 were unbounded. ' He wasn't a good prince 
 and never gave her any. Oh, were there 
 any fairies, Mamma P ' 
 
 I No, my child, there were a great many 
 very pretty women, and a beautiful supper 
 after it was all over.' 
 
 I I don't think it could have been a nice 
 play,' said the boy, meditatively, ' with no 
 giants and no dwarfs and no fairies, and a 
 good prince who had no bread and honey 
 nor -sugar-plums. He might as well have 
 been a bad prince, you know. Anyone can 
 get black-beetles and spiders.' 
 
 A light tap at the door, and ere the in- 
 truder is well over the threshold, Bertie 
 springs from his mother's lap, exclaming, 
 'Papa, with goodies and kisses for Bertie.' 
 
 'Yes, Papa,' replies Sir Hervey, as he 
 catches the boy in his arms, ' with lots of 
 kisses, and nothing else for his boy this 
 morning. ' Good morning, Cecile.' 
 
 ' Bertie only wants kisses from Papa,' said 
 the child. ' You never came to see me all 
 yesterday.'
 
 134 CECILE. 
 
 'Too busy, child. Left Mamma to take 
 care of you. Had you a pleasant evening, 
 Cecile?' 
 
 ' Yes,' returned Lady Mallandaine. Lia 
 was a great success, and the whole thing 
 went off very well. Alec Merriott not quite 
 so good as we could have wished, but on the 
 whole there was no fault to be found. You 
 little Turk,' she said, rising, and addressing 
 her boy, ' you like Papa best, you know you 
 do.' 
 
 ' I don't see him so often as I do you, 
 Mamma ; but I like you too,' replied the boy 
 from his father's arms. 
 
 ' I am almost jealous of you, Hervey,' said 
 Cecile, ' when I see how fond he is of you/ 
 
 ' No cause, I think. He requires my stern 
 discipline at times to counteract the effects 
 of your spoiling.' 
 
 ' My spoiling, indeed,' laughed Lady Mal- 
 landaine. ' It's a very good match between 
 us ; but if one is worse than the other, it's 
 you. Bertie, my child, you must be sent to
 
 'BERTIE OX THE DRAMA.' 135 
 
 a severe school, where there are no fairies 
 nor princesses, only ogres.' 
 
 'Bertie won't go. Papa won't let him,' 
 replied the boy, nodding his head confi- 
 dently. 
 
 ' Papa must do what Mamma thinks right,' 
 said Sir Hervey, laughing. ' Jump down, 
 child ; I want to talk to her. There, you 
 little imp,' he continued, kissing him, * away 
 with you. Cecile, I want a dinner-party 
 next week. Will you make it up ? ' 
 
 ' Of course ; who do you want in par- 
 ticular ? I should like the Eemingtons and 
 Alec Merriott, if you don't mind. ISTow, 
 who else ? ' 
 
 ' I must ask Egerton Slane ; he's the man 
 in the present crisis. Babbington too, I 
 should like you to put down ; and ask young 
 Sir Alberic Hungerford; he's a schoolboy 
 almost now, but, if he can take up his posi- 
 tion, will be somebody in the future.' 
 
 ' Will you be quiet, Bertie ; you're tearing 
 my dress. What's the matter, child ?
 
 136 CECILE. 
 
 4 1 don't like Mr. Babbington, Mamma — 
 don't have him here.' 
 
 6 Hold your tongue, you little monkey. 
 Mr. Slane will be nice, Hervey, and I sup- 
 pose you want Mr. Babbington, or else Lia 
 can't bear him, and I think him rather heavy 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Yes, you must ask him, although I rather 
 agree with you, Cecile, he is not of much use 
 to a dinner-party.' 
 
 Not a bad-looking man Sir Hervey, as he 
 lounges with his back to the fire, talking to 
 his fair young wife. His hair is heavily shot 
 with grey, and thinning a bit at the top, 
 but he wears well, and is hale and hearty, 
 though verging on the finish of his ninth 
 lustre. And a pretty picture he looks down 
 upon. Cecile, buried in the depths of a low 
 dark velvet-covered lounging- chair, which 
 makes an admirable foil to her fair hair and 
 delicate complexion, with Bertie once more 
 established in her lap, is a bit of domestic 
 portraiture sweet to gaze upon. And so
 
 'BERTIE OX THE DRAMA. 1 137 
 
 thinks her husband as his eyes rest upon 
 her. 
 
 1 Then you will manage it all.' ' Ah ! ' he 
 exclaimed, as the door was again thrown 
 open and Miss Eemington made her appear- 
 ance, ' congratulations, Lia, on your triumph. 
 I feel as if I was welcoming Thalia in propria 
 persona' 
 
 Miss Eemington swept him a stage curtsy 
 of surpassing stateliness. ' Thalia makes 
 her acknowledgments, Sir Hervey,' she said, 
 as she shook hands with him, ; but can hardly 
 forgive your not being present to welcome 
 her success.' 
 
 4 1 couldn't get away from the House, in- 
 deed.' 
 
 ' House ! ' cried Lia. ' Don't attempt to 
 excuse yourself — thinking of the interests of 
 the country before my debut Passing musty 
 old Bills while I was making my first curtsy 
 to the British public. Sir Hervey, I don't 
 think I shall ever get over it.' 
 
 1 Ah, there were plenty of younger critics
 
 138 CECILE 
 
 whose praises were better worth having than 
 mine. But I must be off. Once more, Lia, 
 accept my congratulations and adieux.' And 
 the baronet departed. 
 
 Miss Eemington for the next quarter of 
 an hour became Bertie's property. The 
 child had so many questions to put concern- 
 ing this lamentable decadence of the drama. 
 How Lia could have allowed herself to be 
 concerned in a ' make-believe thing,' as he 
 termed it, in which there figured neither 
 giant, dwarf, nor fairy. On the subject of 
 sugar-plums he was certainly appeased, as 
 Miss Eemington produced a satisfactorily 
 filled bcmbonnwre, which, with some disregard 
 for veracity, she affirmed had been given her 
 by the good prince. 
 
 'There, come away, darling,' said Lady 
 Mallandaine, at length, ' I am sure Iia's had 
 enough of you for the present.' 
 
 8 No, Lia's never tired of me, Mamma ; 
 are you Lia ? ' replied Bertie, with all the 
 egoism of childhood.
 
 'BERTIE OX THE DRAMA.' 139 
 
 4 Let him stay, Cecile. Bert and I always 
 get on together. Don't we, rny boy ? ' 
 
 4 Yes, when you do what I want you, and 
 are good.' 
 
 But Master Bertie's reign was over. The 
 autocrat of his young life appeared in the 
 shape of his nurse, and summoned him to 
 his own special regions. He was a sweet- 
 tempered child, but ran considerable risk of 
 being spoiled. But his nurse, a quiet, mid- 
 dle-aged woman, ruled him with a firm but 
 steady hand, and Bertie knew that with her 
 there was no trifling. Cecile, quite conscious 
 of her own weakness regarding the boy, and 
 knowing that the woman was much attached 
 to him, had had the good sense never to in- 
 terfere when she exerted her authority ; so 
 Bertie made his exit quietly. 
 
 4 Now, Cecile,' exclaimed Miss Eemington, 
 1 1 am going to have a regular gossip with 
 you. First and foremost, what did you 
 mean by what you said last night ? Do you 
 think I am really in love with Alec ? '
 
 140 CECILE. 
 
 ' Begins to look a little like it, my dear/ 
 returned Lady Mallandaine, smiling. 
 
 ' Well, you're wrong, because I'm not. 
 I like him, and that's all. I have had flir- 
 tations, I'll admit, before ; shall have pro- 
 bably again. That's very different from 
 being in earnest — not the love we pictured 
 to ourselves when we were girls together, 
 Cecile.' 
 
 ' Listen a moment, Lia. You admit you 
 like him. Last night you were full of pity 
 for his failure. You don't recognise it yet, 
 but you'll wind up by loving Alec Merriott 
 in sober earnest, that's my belief ; and, what's 
 more, I think it would be a good thing for 
 you.' 
 
 ' I shall do nothing of the kind,' retorted 
 Miss Eemington, somewhat curtly. 'I have 
 formed my own idea of a lover, and feel that 
 he must be one whom I could look up to, 
 as I told you at Childerley. Alec don't 
 happen to fulfil that condition.' 
 
 1 Perhaps not,' replied Lady Mallandaine,
 
 1 BERTIE OX THE DRAMA.' 141 
 
 in a dreamy tone. ' But when you love 
 you're certain to do that. Woman invests 
 her lover always with attributes that he pro- 
 bably don't possess.' 
 
 4 You are talking nonsense, Cecile — talk- 
 ing of what you don't understand. Don't 
 think me unkind, dearest ; but your own 
 marriage, though a very happy one, you 
 know, was not a love match. You are 
 very fond of Sir Hervey now, no doubt, but 
 you've never been in love, Cecile.' 
 
 ' Havn't I ? ' said Lady Mallandaine, as a 
 faint blush suffused her delicate cheeks ; 
 ' there you are wrong.' 
 
 Miss Eemington gazed at her companion 
 with open eyes. She knew that Cecile had 
 been married almost as a school-girl. She 
 had been extremely intimate with her ever 
 since, and had never heard her name coupled 
 with that of anyone, even in the most de- 
 sultory way. She said nothing, but waited 
 breathlessly for further revelations. 
 
 ' Shall I tell you all about it, Lia ? ' said
 
 142 CECILE. 
 
 Lady Mallandaine, after a pause of some 
 seconds, almost amounting to minutes. ' It 
 is all over long ago now, and I like Hervey, 
 and there can be no harm in it. Years have 
 passed since I have seen him ; and, besides, I 
 don't know, or even think, that he ever 
 cared anything for me. It was my cousin 
 Wyndham Gwynne,' she continued, almost in 
 a whisper. ' I was but a school-girl in those 
 days, not sixteen, and he came down and 
 stayed with us. It was soon after the 
 Crimea, and he had distinguished himself 
 much there. His name was in more than 
 one despatch. More than one story had 
 come home to us through his people of his 
 deeds of " derring-do " in those times. Well,' 
 she went on, with a faint smile, ' he came, 
 saw, and conquered. Child as I was then, 
 living a rather isolated life, I had pictured 
 him a hero in my mind before I saw him. 
 You know what that means, Lia, at that age ? ' 
 
 Miss Eemington nodded assent. 
 
 8 And he looked it,' continued Cecile, with
 
 143 
 
 enthusiasm. ' Fancy a tall, dark, good-look- 
 ing, bronze-bearded man of eight-and-twenty, 
 and you have a picture of my cousin Wynd- 
 hani as I first saw him. How afraid I was 
 of him to commence with ! but he was so 
 kind and gentle that I soon got to know 
 him. He looked upon me, of course, as a 
 mere child; yet how good-natured he was 
 to my girlish whims ! He would take any 
 amount of trouble to gratify my school-girl 
 fancies. What wonder I adored him before 
 long ? He never knew it, and would, per- 
 haps, have cared little to know it, but 
 Wyndham's occasional visits were elysium 
 to me. What excuses I made to scribble to 
 him. Books, songs, &c. I was always writ- 
 ing to him for ; and he was always so good 
 about such things. Then came my poor 
 mother's illness, and Wyndham was present 
 at her death-bed. I can recollect the scene 
 now ' — and the tears rolled down Cecile's 
 cheeks as she recalled it. ' I was kneeling 
 by her bedside when she said " good bye " to
 
 144 CECILE. 
 
 him. " I have had a happy and peaceful 
 life, Wyndham," she said, "and am quite 
 resigned to lay it down ; but I have sent for 
 you for two things — to wish you good bye 
 and to ask you to be a brother to my girl. 
 You know what little experience my dear 
 husband has of worldly affairs ; you know 
 what temptations may assail a child like 
 Cecile. Will you promise, as far as in you 
 lies, to watch over her as your own sister ? " 
 
 6 He was deeply moved, and his reply is 
 graven on my memory. 
 
 ' " I am very fond of Cecile, aunt. She 
 shall be as a sister to me from this day ; as 
 long as I have hand to raise, tongue to use, 
 or a shilling in my purse, Cecile shall never 
 want counsel or protection." 
 
 1 " Thank you, Wyndham ; I knew I could 
 rely upon you. Good bye and God bless 
 you. You have made me very happy." 
 
 'And so my cousin went out from the 
 chamber of death. He laid his lips on my 
 poor mother's brow, pressed her hand in
 
 'BERTIE ON THE DRAMA.' 145 
 
 pledge of his good faith, and never saw her 
 more. Do I weary you, Lia ? ' 
 
 1 Weary me ! ' and the tears stood in Miss 
 Remington's eyes as she said so. 
 
 ' There's not much more to tell now. Of 
 course he was at the funeral, but I was too 
 absorbed in my own grief to think much 
 about him then. I only saw him once more. 
 He came down for one night, and told us he 
 must go to India. He seemed very sad, I 
 thought, but was gentle and kind as ever. 
 He asked me to come out into the garden 
 with him after dinner, and then he recurred 
 to his promise to my mother. 
 
 ' " You heard what I said, Cecile, at your 
 mother's death-bed. I adopted you then as 
 my sister as solemnly as if you had been 
 born such. I am not one to flinch from my 
 trust. Go to India I must ; but in doubt or 
 difficulty write as freely to me as you would 
 were I your brother in reality; and, cost 
 what it may, you will find me at your side 
 should necessity require it." 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 CECILE. 
 
 'What could I say? I know I nearly 
 choked. This man, whom I loved to dis- 
 traction, was going away for years, and told 
 me to look upon him as a brother. He 
 deemed me a school-girl yet, and never 
 dreamt he had stolen my heart away. What 
 I said now I forget. Some confused promise 
 to write to him often ; and so our interview 
 terminated. He left the next day, dropped 
 a light kiss on my cheek as he bade me 
 " good bye," and I, who was quivering with 
 emotion and longed to throw myself into his 
 arms and tell him how I loved him, had to 
 rest content with the observation " that I 
 was a sensitive thing, and cared a great deal 
 more for him than he was worth." The 
 tell-tale tears were in my eyes then, and 
 I cried them nearly out that afternoon. 
 Never so sore a heart had I, Lia, as that day ; 
 God forgive me, but not even on the day of 
 
 my mother's death ' 
 
 6 Forgive me, Cecile/ said Miss Eemington-, 
 6 and I thought you had never loved — were
 
 'BERTIE ON THE DRAMA.' 147 
 
 such a happy little thing. But you are that ! ' 
 and Lia looked almost anxiously into her 
 friend's face. 
 
 1 Ah, yes,' replied Lady Mallandaine, with 
 a soft smile, ' Hervey's so good to me, and 
 I've got my boy. I couldn't have married 
 him at that time, or for months afterwards ; 
 but then you see a year or more had elapsed 
 before he did ask me, and that made a dif- 
 ference. Wyndham and I corresponded — 
 correspond still — but his letters were bro- 
 therly ever. I have quite got over it all 
 now ; but don't tell me, Lia, dear, again that 
 I havn't had the complaint, and don't know 
 the symptoms.' 
 
 6 No, I shall never think that again ; but 
 you're wrong all the same. I shall never 
 marrv Alec Merriott.' 
 
 ' And I still hold to my opinion,' replied 
 Lady Mallandaine. ' I think you will, and 
 be very happy with him.' 
 
 Miss Eemington shook her head. ' Why, 
 it must be six years good since you have 
 
 L 2
 
 143 CECILE. 
 
 seen your cousin ? ' she remarked, interroga- 
 tively. 
 
 ; Yes, going on for seven. I think now 
 money difficulties had a good deal to do with 
 his going out to India. I meet people occa- 
 sionally who knew him in those clays, and 
 they tell me he exchanged to India because 
 he had lived with so fast a set when at home. 
 He got completely ruined trying to keep 
 pace with them. But if ever sorrow should 
 threaten me, Lia, I should look more to 
 Wyndham for help than to anyone, and I 
 have firm faith that he wouldn't fail me.' 
 
 ' What, before your husband, Cecile ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't quite mean that,' replied 
 Lady Mallandaine in a low voice ; * but, all 
 the same, I have an instinctive feeling that 
 in time of trouble Wyndham would prove 
 my best friend. I know it is wrong not to 
 rely more on Hervey. I can't help it. I 
 think sometimes I'm a little in awe of him 
 still.' 
 
 1 Well, I can't say I see any signs of it.'
 
 'BERTIE ON THE DRAMA.' 149 
 
 6 No,' said Cecile, laughing, ' I hope not. 
 He don't illtreat his little wife. I'm not 
 beaten in private, if you mean that, Lia. 
 But I have an undefined feeling that he 
 could be very stern about some things. He's 
 a man who can be strongly moved upon 
 occasion, little as you may think it. I have 
 only seen him really angry once, but he 
 frightened me then, angry as I was too. 
 His wrath so utterly swallowed up my smaller 
 indignation that I wound up by interceding 
 for the offender. It was Bertie's first nurse, 
 and she had been guilty of gross negligence 
 — negligence, indeed, that might have cost 
 the child's life. He was inexorable then, 
 stern and relentless. The only time he ever 
 said " No " to me. He wouldn't let me give 
 the poor wretch a character. But here's 
 lunch,' said Lady Mallandaine, as the butler 
 threw open the door, 'and if you're not 
 hungry, I am. Come along.'
 
 150 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 'A NIGHT AT ALDERSHOTT.' 
 
 Dowx across the wild moorland once more 
 speeds Eoland Dance — his destination the 
 " great military dustbin " of England. The 
 army is of course still weeping — chronic 
 state of the army during the spring months. 
 In the summer it melts. In the autumn it 
 growls, grumbles, and has grievances. In 
 the winter it shivers, sneezes, and is dyspep- 
 tic, and meditates upon its general ill-treat- 
 ment. Government considers that halcyon 
 days have dawned for the British army; 
 that the diet of beer, skittles, dust, and low 
 music-halls which it enjoys at Aldershott 
 constitute a paradise, the delights of which 
 should be limited to a select few. Hence 
 Government as far as possible reduces bat-
 
 151 
 
 talions to a minimum. The army is not 
 upon the whole much struck with itself. 
 It has a dim perception that it is becoming 
 a little theatrical in these days ; that though 
 it might furnish a tolerably large, if inhar- 
 monious, chorus in a spectacle, there might 
 be some little difficulty in the organisation 
 of a corps oVarmee even. What absurdity 
 in the army to doubt its own efficiency, 
 when those in high places are so satisfied 
 with the way it figures — in the Budget. 
 
 Eoland Dance jumps into his cab at Farn- 
 borough. You become conscious there of 
 your insignificance as not belonging to the 
 army. However, his direction to the driver 
 of ' — th Lancers' permanent barracks,' re- 
 stores confidence, and the man mutters 
 grimly, ' Come to join, I s'pose ; rather an 
 old 'un ; ' and speeds on his way. The army 
 is apparently taking its recreation more or 
 less drearily all along the road from the sta- 
 tion to the camp. Walking with its young 
 woman, beering itself, or practising march-
 
 152 CECILE. 
 
 ins under adverse circumstances. Eoland 
 has come down to dine with his friend 
 Alec Merriott, and either go back or take a 
 shake-down as circumstances may dictate. 
 They always do dictate the shake-down, but 
 one prefers a little uncertainty on such oc- 
 casions. Still it is as well to have a tooth- 
 brush with one at all events. The mess of 
 the — th is pleasant enough to the stranger 
 within their gates. They're a genial set, 
 rolling merrily enough adown the stream of 
 life. Their dry champagne and cookery are 
 unimpeachable, and the claret as good as is 
 compatible with a wandering cellar. But 
 Dance and Merriott decline the seductive 
 rubber or more noisy pool, and, their refec- 
 tion finished, adjourn to the latter's quarters 
 for a cigar. 
 
 1 Wanted to have a bit of a talk with you, 
 Eo,' exclaimed the host when they were 
 comfortably ensconced in lounging-chairs 
 and their cigars well under way. ' Must 
 consider the next move in the campaign.
 
 1 A NIGHT AT ALDEKSHOTT.' 153 
 
 old boy. Eegular mistake of mine that 
 theatrical business, you know. But I'm in 
 genuine earnest, and mean to marry Lia 
 Eemington. If she hadn't got that whim 
 in her head about a man making his mark 
 in the world, my chance would be good 
 enough, I think. A little stormy, perhaps, 
 when it came to conferring with the old 
 gentleman, but I should pull through at 
 last. I ain't afraid of him, though he'll 
 doubtless think Lia might do better.' 
 
 'Never mind, Alec. You certainly 
 weren't quite a success in " holding the 
 mirror up to Nature." I don't want to be 
 rude, but I think your mirror was a trifle 
 cracked, to say nothing of the quicksilver 
 being a little rubbed off at the back. 
 Women will have their whims. Always 
 humour, never thwart them ; that's my 
 maxim. The question now, Alec, is, how 
 we're to proceed with your intellectual 
 development. Got any idea yourself? ' 
 
 Merriott paused ere he replied, and lazily
 
 154 CECILE. 
 
 watched the smoke- wreaths as they rolled 
 round his head. ' Think I shall write a 
 book,' he observed at last. ' Fiction ain't 
 very difficult I should imagine from some of 
 the novels I read, and I can spell. Devil of 
 a grind, I know. Hate writing anything, 
 but then you see I've an object. And, d — n 
 it, I have seen a lot of these things about 
 which people only write. ' 
 
 Dance gave a low whistle. ' You're flying 
 high,' he remarked at last. ' No one can 
 give an opinion on that subject till he's 
 seen you try. The art of composition is 
 not acquired in a day. As you say, you've 
 seen plenty, if you can only put it down and 
 string it together. Look here, what sort of 
 memory have you got — pretty good ? ' 
 
 Merriott nodded. 
 
 6 Cram, Sir ; confound it all, that's the 
 game. Women's knowledge is always shal- 
 low. I don't suppose Miss Eemington is 
 any exception to the general rule. Mug, 
 Alec, as if you were grinding for a commis-
 
 ' A NIGHT AT ALDERSHOTT.' 155 
 
 sion, and then let loose the flood-gates of 
 your intelligence on her. Deuced deal easier, 
 old man, than writing a novel, which, to say 
 the least of it, is a very dubious experiment.' 
 
 Alec smiled as he retorted, ' It wouldn't 
 do ; she'd find me out to a moral, Eo ; besides, 
 I don't quite want to win Lia under false 
 colours. No, I'll go in for a book, I think.' 
 
 8 " God is great, and Mahomet is His 
 prophet." You'd better begin right off the 
 reel, because this next intellectual develop- 
 ment will take time, you know. Of course 
 I shall read it. I'm quite aware friendship 
 has its duties. I shan't flinch. Like the 
 hollow and unsympathising world, I shall read 
 it, and probably d — n it.' 
 
 'Can't say you're encouraging. Never 
 mind, I shall do it ; I feel I've all the — what 
 do you call it — oh, germs of genius in me.' 
 
 ' It's a remarkable fact,' observed Dance, 
 addressing the moderator lamp, ' but that's 
 what they all say before they begin. I dare- 
 say they're right. Only the germs, somehow,
 
 156 CECILE. 
 
 don't germinate and fructify. My dear 
 Alec, I'm not going to say another word, 
 except to wish you luck. A man who has 
 conceived a passion for the ink-bottle is no 
 more to be checked than one who has 
 yielded to the attractions of strong waters. 
 You have this pull : you don't take it out of 
 your constitution in the same way, and it 
 cures itself if necessary.' 
 
 The two smoked on in silence, both pon- 
 dering on the same subject, as to whether 
 Alec Merriott can write a book. ' Shouldn't 
 think so,' muses Dance, ' but then men I 
 should never have credited with that ability 
 have, and done it well too.' 
 
 The big camp is hushed. The ' last post ' 
 has long since sounded. The hoarse chal- 
 lenging of the sentries or the occasional 
 rattling of cabs alone break the stillness of 
 the night. Lights faintly gleam here and 
 there through well-curtained mess-room win- 
 dows, from the interior of which comes the 
 low hum of conversation and laughter. The
 
 1 A NIGHT AT ALDERSHOTT.' 157 
 
 ramp church glistens in the moonlight, its 
 natural deformity a trifle softened. The 
 pall of night has fallen over the great can- 
 tonment. ' God's lock,' as Bacon calls it, 
 is upon it. Suddenly, the shrill shriek of a 
 bugle penetrates Alec Merriott's quarters. 
 He listens for a moment ; then, springing to 
 his feet, exclaims, ' The alarm, by Jove ! 
 What the devil's the row, I wonder ? ' 
 
 ' Telegraph from Portsmouth to say some- 
 body's calling from the Continent,' said 
 Dance, as Alec threw up the window. 
 
 8 Fire ! fire ! Guard turn out ! ' came in 
 sonorous tones through the open casement, 
 mixed with the shrill cries of the bugles. 
 * Jove, there go our trumpets/ said Alec, 
 as their still shriller voice fell upon his ear. 
 'Bo, my boy, you're in luck. We've got up 
 a sensation for you. Off with your dress 
 clothes, tumble into that monkey-jacket of 
 mine, and come and see the soldiers put out 
 a fire. All right, Butters,' lie exclaimed, as 
 that worthy made his appearance ; ' I heard
 
 158 CECILE. 
 
 the " assembly ; " where is it ? Here, give 
 me my boots and jacket.' 
 
 c Fourth Hussar stables, Mr. Alec, and a 
 very tidy blaze it are too,' responded that 
 functionary, as he complied with his master s 
 requirements. ' It's up their infirmary way, 
 and they've a good bit of loose straw lying 
 about.' 
 
 ' All right ; come along, Eo,' and Merriott 
 hurried down the stairs to join his men. 
 
 Down the hill came the infantry pickets, 
 in their grey great coats, with steady tramp, 
 at the double, in silence unbroken, except for 
 the quick sharp authoritative ' Steady there ; 
 not too fast ; keep your ranks, men ! ' from 
 the officers, and, crossing the main road of 
 the permanent barracks, disappear in the 
 direction of the fire. The flames begin to 
 shoot up now hungry and ravenous for fresh 
 food. The fire king is abroad, although not 
 as yet in the plenitude of his power. Quick 
 rattling of wheels in many directions falls on 
 the ear, as the various camp engines, drawn
 
 ' A NIGHT AT ALDERSHOTT.' 159 
 
 by the soldiers, come racing to the spot ; for 
 the army regard a fire much as a New 
 York fire brigade would — that is, as a species 
 of intoxicating amusement. 
 
 The — th Lancers are formed up on parade, 
 but a few minutes after Merriott arrived 
 there, and he finds little difficulty in attaching 
 himself to the contingent destined to combat 
 with the conflagration, which moves off at 
 the double. 
 
 ' Come on, Eo, and see the fun ; they'll soon 
 get the best of it, no doubt ; but there will 
 be trouble probably about getting some of 
 the sick horses through the flames if it's bad, 
 as they say ; and if you never heard a horse 
 shriek in its agony you may this night, and 
 if you do you'll never forget it nor wish to 
 hear it again. I hope, poor brutes, they'll all 
 escape. At all events, our men are more 
 likely to be of use there than the infantry.' 
 
 Like an ants' nest when intruded upon, the 
 great hive is all alive — swarming out from 
 its various cells to the point of attack. The
 
 160 CECILE. 
 
 horses have been mostly got out by the time 
 Merriott's party reach the scene. The last 
 few come out, trembling and shivering with 
 fright, handkerchiefs and cloths bound over 
 their eyes, and even then needing cruel 
 punishment to make the poor panic-stricken 
 brutes evade the fiery winding-sheet that 
 threatens them. Steadily worked the en- 
 gines under the practised hands that guide 
 them, while the pickets form a chain of 
 sentries round the precincts of the fire, letting 
 no one within their enclosure except the 
 actual workers. The lurid light glares down 
 upon hundreds of white upturned faces. 
 Swish, swash, go the engines, in steady re- 
 sponse to the dull thud of the pumps. The 
 men work in the wrapped silence of disci- 
 pline. A few low muttered comments, and 
 the brief authoritative word of command 
 alone break the stillness of the night — still, 
 but for the sharp cracking and roaring of 
 the flames. 
 
 ' That place and the next are gone,' says
 
 'A NIGHT AT ALDEBSHOTT.' 161 
 
 an Engineer officer, as he passes, to Alec's 
 muttered interrogatory ; 4 but we shall stop it 
 there. No great harm done ; horses, poor 
 brutes, all got out. Only the loss of a few- 
 stables and some straw.' 
 
 The words have barely passed his lips ere 
 a piercing shriek rings through the night 
 air, and at the window of a straw-loft over 
 the blazing stables appears the figure of a 
 woman. An unkempt slovenly poor creature, 
 with dishevelled hair and bedraggled dress, 
 her eye-balls glaring with terror, her voice 
 uplifted in her agony. One of those poor 
 parasites of a camp that drag through their 
 miserable existence as they best may, 
 preaching in their wretched lives a more 
 bitter homily against vice than the lips of 
 the most eloquent can give vent to. Still, 
 poor woman, a fragment of humanity — frag- 
 ment indeed in much danger of incremation 
 at this present. 
 
 ' Ladders ! where are the ladders ? ' ' Here! ' 
 and ' here ! ' is the quick response in two or 
 
 vol. I. M
 
 162 CECILS. 
 
 three places. ' Forward ! that party on the 
 left ; steady ! the remainder. Forward at the 
 double, — th Lancers ! ' shouts Alec ; and he 
 and his party dash forward. Twice the 
 flames hiss out so fiercely that the soldiers 
 recoil ; but the engines have been turned 
 upon that spot, and for a few seconds suc- 
 ceed in wrestling with the flames for the as- 
 cendency. The third time the ladder is 
 planted — it reaches well to the window, but 
 the water has caused so much smoke by this 
 that hardly has it touched the sill before its 
 summit is enveloped and obscured. A dozen 
 willing hands hold the foot, and despe- 
 rately through the smoke Alec dashes up. 
 Choked, blinded, he feels his way rung by 
 rung. As he nears the top his brain swims, 
 the blood surges hotly to his temples, his 
 head feels as if splitting — mechanically he 
 yields and commences to descend. Ere he has 
 got above half-way back, the grasp of his 
 hand slackens, his head drops, and, wet, be- 
 grimed, and senseless, Alec falls back into
 
 1 A NIGHT AT ALDEKSHOTT.' 163 
 
 the arms of his own men. Again the flames 
 shoot up wildly, dispersing the dark smoke. 
 For a second, at that window a woman tosses 
 her arms in wild despair, and one more 
 agonized shriek rises above the crackling of 
 the flames. The cloud-wreaths of the fire 
 once more close in the horrible picture, and 
 naught but a few calcined bones shall 
 ever again be seen of that lost atom of 
 humanity. 
 
 They laid him flat on his back ; they dashed 
 water in his face ; they loosened his neck- 
 cloth ; and after a little Alec showed symp- 
 toms of reviving. ' Stand back, my lads,' said 
 the surgeon to the troopers who clustered 
 round their captain. 'Give him air, and 
 he'll do now. Get him to swallow this, if 
 you can,' he continued, handing some strong 
 ammonia to Eoland Dance, who was sup- 
 porting his friend's head — a head much 
 grimed, blackened, and with the fair curly 
 locks thereof somewhat singed to boot. 
 Eoland put it to Merriott's lips. The latter
 
 164 CECILE. 
 
 gulped it down with difficulty, coughed, 
 choked, spit a good deal of it out again, 
 raised himself, and looked vaguely round. 
 
 ' Where am I ? ' he murmured. Fire within 
 as well as fire without. How she shrieked, 
 poor wretch ! I can't see the top, I can't ! " 
 and here Alec dropped his head quietly back 
 on Eoland's shoulder and closed his eyes. 
 
 The surgeon bent over him for a moment, 
 and softly drew back the eyelid. ' He's all 
 right ; put him on a stretcher, some of you, 
 and carry him home. The soul, Sir,' he con- 
 tinued, 'has hardly as yet resumed her mortal 
 tenement. He's had a far gaze into the 
 other world — looked up to the gates of 
 death, in fact. But a miss is as good as a 
 mile in cases of asphyxy. Nothing to fear ; 
 he'll soon come round. I'll look in pre- 
 sently, but he'll be himself by that.' 
 
 The surgeon was right, and by the time 
 they had got Merriott to his own quarters 
 he was partially himself. Eather bruised by 
 his fall ; head still rather swimming, it may
 
 ' A NIGHT AT ALDERSHOTT.' 165 
 
 be ; but lie could talk rationally enough to 
 Eoland Dance about the event of the night. 
 
 ' Pooh ! I shall do now, Butters/ he ob- 
 served to that faithful servitor, who was ho- 
 vering about the room, and had been verily- 
 moved to sore tribulation when he saw his 
 master borne in by his own men, all 
 blackened and begrimed, and showing but 
 limited symptoms of vitality. ' Give me a 
 stiff glass of brandy and water now. I'll 
 sleep off the remaining effects of a purl from 
 a ladder before daybreak. Not half such a 
 burster as I got over the hurdles at Corling- 
 ford, when that jade, Fanny Flowers, never 
 rose an inch at the last from home.' 
 
 1 Didn't like the look of you, Alec, when 
 they first brought you back out of the 
 smoke,' said Dance, quietly. 
 
 c No ; before I got half a dozen steps up 
 that ladder I felt I was choking. Then came 
 the sensation of somebody pressing me down 
 as I groped my way upward, mixed with the 
 thought of that poor shrieking creature I
 
 166 CECILE. 
 
 had last seen above me. It seemed as if at 
 every step I took in that stifling darkness I 
 was raising a ton weight. Then I began to 
 give way and sink under the pressure. I 
 was going clown, down, crushed down ; and 
 then I recollect no more until it seemed as 
 if I had swallowed the flames.' 
 
 6 Ah ! that was the ammonia we got down 
 your throat.' 
 
 ' Liquid fire, it seemed ; but it warmed me 
 all through, and has brought me round again, 
 though I have some recollection of nearly 
 choking over it, to start with.' 
 
 ' I say, Alec, grand incident to start your 
 book with,' said Dance, after a slight pause. 
 
 'Ah!' replied the other, with a smile; 
 6 but I can't afford to go on picking up inci- 
 dents after this fashion. Think I'll turn in 
 now. You said the doctor meant to look 
 in. Give him a baccy and something to 
 drink, but don't let him wake me. I feel 
 like doing the sleep of the righteous.' 
 
 'Flummery ain't in my line, old fellow;
 
 4 A XIGHT AT ALDERSHOTT.' 167 
 
 but you deserve it this night, if anyone does, 
 for your plucky effort to save that unhappy 
 woman. Good night.' 
 
 Dance lit a cigar, and smoked meditatively. 
 ' Eum thing,' he mused, ' that fictitious attri- 
 bute we denominate courage. Here's this 
 man to-night faces the flames to save a waif 
 of humanity he never even saw before, while 
 a few nights back he trembled at facing the 
 footlights in the service of the girl he's madly 
 in love with. Matter of habit, I presume. 
 What's nervous work to one is child's play to 
 another. Blessed, if I don't believe what's 
 called courage is after all nothing better than 
 habitude. A man may have his heart in his 
 mouth standing up to Willsher's bowling, 
 who'd ride a hard-puller cool enough at 
 Becher's Brook in the Liverpool. I've often 
 heard it remarked by these soldiers that 
 artillerymen are more careless regarding 
 powder than other men — more apt to smoke 
 pipes in magazines, and so on. Bah ! I be- 
 lieve that's the case — "familiarity breeds
 
 168 CECILE. 
 
 contempt" — and we christen it courage. 
 Hum! flaw here in the argument, rather. 
 Don't think Alec ever did fire-brigade work 
 before. Still, as Egerton Slane lays down, 
 " life without speculation is a blank. If you 
 won't do it morally, intellectually, politically, 
 or scientifically, there remain but the Stock 
 Exchange and the turf to prevent you 
 assuming the cabbage formation." ' 
 
 The arrival of the doctor here broke in 
 upon Roland's meditations. He listened to 
 Dance's report. 4 What I prognosticated,' 
 he observed ; ' he is quite right — he don't 
 want to see me or I him. Nature and a 
 good night's rest will do more for him than 
 I or anyone else could. Thanks ; yes, I will 
 have a cigar. How that miserable woman 
 got over those stables, Heaven only knows. 
 Of course she'd no business in that place. 
 Smuggled there by some of the men, I pre- 
 sume. Tremendous monarch to view in the 
 majesty of his power, the fire-king, is he 
 not? I have stood almost transfixed with
 
 'A NIGHT AT ALDERSHOTT.' 169 
 
 awe, and seen six hundred houses licked up 
 by the flames in the space of a few hours. 
 That was in the suburb of a town on the 
 American continent. Wooden tenements, 
 and nothing but the brick chimneys to point 
 out where some four thousand people had 
 been previously living as the sun went down. 
 I was once, in India, witness of a tent catch- 
 ing fire, and that really was as comic an 
 incident as ever I saw. Somebody put a 
 candle too close to the canvas. It blazed up 
 as a newspaper might. We tumbled head 
 over heels out of it, and in something like 
 five minutes a couple of charred tent poles 
 were all that marked where our late habita- 
 tion had stood. But I must be off — good 
 night ; ' and the voluble doctor departed. 
 
 ' Queer thing,' mused Dance, as he smoked 
 on, ' the great war between these two powers 
 that rule this world of ours — fire and water 
 — ever combating, ever struggling. War- 
 fare of eternity, the savants tell us. Now 
 one obtaining a slight advantage, now the
 
 170 CECILE. 
 
 other. Any very decided preponderance 
 either way, and the destruction of our earth 
 not imminent but assured, and the vexed 
 question 'twixt the Neptunists and the Plu- 
 tonists at rest for ever — whether the end 
 of all things shall be by fire or by water. 
 Hum ! I am due at unearthly hours to- 
 morrow morning. Oh, dear ! this is what 
 comes of running down for a quiet dinner at 
 Aldershott. Never no more for this child.' 
 
 ' Good bye, Butters,' said Dance, as at an 
 early hour next morning he took his depar- 
 ture. ' You're master '11 do now, if you 
 can keep him out of assisting at further 
 conflagrations.' 
 
 ' That's where it is, Mr. Dance. Let'em 
 run in their class, I sais,' responded that 
 worthy. 'When a man's clearly bred to 
 shoot pigeons, and for the steeplechasing 
 and cricketing line of business, wots he want 
 going up ladders and mixing hisself up in 
 fires and theaytricals for ? It's going clear 
 agin Providence, damme.'
 
 lia's meditations.' 171 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 1 lia's meditations.' 
 
 Oh wad some power the giftie gie us, 
 To see ourselyes as others see us ! 
 
 SANG one of the greatest of our songsters 
 some eighty and odd years ago. Ah, me ! 
 but I think it is as well not. What miser- 
 able, mean, despicable bipeds we should 
 strip when the quill feathers of our self- 
 esteem were thus rudely plucked from us! 
 Fancy, my argumentative friend, when, after 
 twenty minutes of windy platitude and clap- 
 trap, you go your way exulting that you 
 have at last thoroughly convinced me of the 
 errors and darkness of my understanding 
 — fancy, I say, you're knowing, in the plain 
 vernacular, that I have but deemed you a 
 man of much verbiage and vociferation,
 
 172 CECILE. 
 
 succumbing simply to your oratorical efforts 
 from sheer boredom and weariness ; that 
 you have aroused the very indolence of my 
 nature into fiercest contention, and that I 
 would vote diametrically in opposition to 
 all previous convictions to avenge that 
 mauvais quart d'heure you occasioned me 
 in the pleasaunce not a month back — think, 
 I say, of your knowing all this. 
 
 ' See ourselves as others see us ! ' God 
 forbid ! There would be an end to marriage 
 and giving in marriage. There would be an 
 end to enterprise, an end — why go on ? 
 Could we but know how our compeers 
 estimate us, how many of us would ever 
 have heart to try anything really in earnest ? 
 Self-esteem — stigmatised, I know, by all 
 sorts of cruel names — vanity, conceit, and a 
 hundred more. Cling to it. Heed not the 
 voices of your circle ; boldly proclaim that 
 your lights are more brilliant than theirs. 
 Mankind are loth always, till the matter is 
 past dispute, to admit that he whom they
 
 lia's meditations.' 173 
 
 meet habitually has soared beyond them. 
 Not a weak point in his character, then, 
 that is not paraded and dwelt upon. 
 
 ' See ourselves as others see us ! ' Once 
 more, I say, Heaven forfend! To those who 
 have common sense, introspection must be 
 quite punishment enough. Why pull the 
 tails of society's peacocks before their time 
 — that time that so assuredly awaits them as 
 each decade in our ever-moving, ever-excit- 
 able age so steadily shows ? The stars in the 
 world of modern idolatry culminate quickly. 
 The planets of a few years back — where are 
 they? 
 
 You may have read — it is more in fashion 
 in these days to say, 'of course, you know ' — 
 a fashion which Dickens has so pleasantly sati- 
 rised in his ; Mr. Barlow ' paper. Still, you 
 may have read Xavier De Maistre's great 
 chapter about mirrors. Whether you have or 
 no, he says therein : ' Alas ! it is seldom that 
 deformity acknowledges itself, and breaks the 
 glass.' How can one agree with him, unless a
 
 174 CECILE. 
 
 maker of mirrors ? and though a temporary 
 demand for that article might follow, it would 
 most undoubtedly drop out of request if ' we 
 saw ourselves as others see us.' But though he 
 may moralise on the point, he eventually, in 
 the happiest language, puts the practical re- 
 sult of a peep in the glass before us : 'At the 
 moment when the reflection reaches our eyes, 
 and when we are clearly depicted such as 
 we are, the shadow of our self-esteem glides 
 between, and presents to us a divinity.' 
 
 Far better so ! Much more to our ad- 
 vantage and future well-doing that we should 
 believe that there is better stuff in us, than 
 that the awful looking-glass Burns hinted 
 at should be held before us. It is not 
 that I do not think that there are brave, 
 true, honest striving hearts in this world ; 
 but it is well for them that their energies 
 should not be paralysed at the outset by 
 hearing the hum of the drones. As Mr. 
 Helps hath it, ' what the spotted snakes 
 said' is a thing to be much contemned;
 
 'LIA'S MEDITATIONS/ 175 
 
 yet the ' spotted snakes ' carry much weight 
 in society. 
 
 Ida Eemington sits in front of her mirror 
 and regards her bright face with pardonable 
 complacency, while Suzanne brushes out the 
 dusk tresses that reach to her mistress's 
 waist. A frank, free, honest-hearted girl is 
 Lia. Quick-witted and keenly alive to her 
 position as one of the parvenues of society, 
 ever on the alert in that respect, she is 
 extremely sensitive to any slight or imper- 
 tinence that may be put upon her parents. 
 Fully aware of their separate foibles — of her 
 mother's absurd veneration for 'rank and 
 fashion, of her father's equally ludicrous 
 idolatry of Mammon — it is not very safe to 
 play upon either of these weaknesses in Miss 
 Kemington's hearing. She has a sharp 
 tongue of her own when she chooses, and 
 in more than one instance has she descended 
 heavily on the offender in this respect, and 
 made him somewhat repent of his mali- 
 cious pleasantry, People intimate with the
 
 176 CECILE. 
 
 Eemingtons are cautious regarding the 
 exercise of such humour in the daughter's 
 hearing, albeit the mounting of Mrs. Eem- 
 ington on her favourite hobby is decidedly 
 tempting. 
 
 Lia just now is thinking how very odd it 
 is that she has not set eyes on Alec Merriott 
 since the theatricals, now a little over a week 
 ago. He had been intimate with them for 
 some time, and of late had been so very 
 much about their house. Of course she 
 knew that he was one of her most devoted 
 admirers, and only wanted the slightest en- 
 couragement to declare himself such. Well, 
 he had almost done that, as it was ; but she 
 knew at a sign from her that Alec would ask 
 to be all in all to her. Now this was just 
 what Miss Eemington wished to avoid. She 
 was fond of him in a way. She liked danc- 
 ing with him ; preferred him as her cavalier 
 to anyone else ; would have sooner lost 
 any dangler in her train than Merriott ; but 
 she did not want to marry him. She told
 
 1 lia's meditations. * 177 
 
 Lady Mallandaine the truth, when she said 
 she liked him but did not love him. Wise 
 in her generation and clever of fence was 
 Lia, and she had need to be. Alec was no 
 novice in Cupid's arena, and Miss Eemington 
 had been hard put to it more than once to 
 prevent the eclaircissement she so deprecated. 
 That of course would completely put an end 
 to existing relations between them. But 
 that not having come to pass, Alec's deser- 
 tion was a cause of much meditation to Lia. 
 She missed him greatly. No woman likes the 
 escape of an admirer from her meshes, even 
 when she is perfectly indifferent to him. 
 She would still have him burn incense and 
 sacrifice at her altar. But when he is a 
 favoured adorer, the thing becomes serious. 
 It certainly was true that she acquitted him 
 of having relapsed into paganism and of 
 kneeling at the shrine of a new divinity. 
 But what had become of him ? Stationed at 
 Aldershott, which was the same thing as 
 living at Chelsea or Bayswater, what did he 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 CECILE. 
 
 mean by not coming near her for more than 
 a week? Before the theatricals, he had 
 appeared at the house on some pretence or 
 another five days out of the seven, on an 
 average — dining, lunching, calling, afternoon 
 tea, or whatever it might be. Lia knit her 
 brows, and then laughed at herself as the 
 mirror threw back the expression. ' Captain 
 Merriott,' she thought, ' there is what you 
 military men term " a wigging " due to and 
 awaiting you in Eaton Square.' 
 
 ' There, that will do, Suzanne ; put my 
 hair up quick, now. I'm awfully late as it 
 is. Is my mother down, do you know ? ' 
 
 ' Oui, Mademoiselle. I tink so by dis. 
 Madame rang for Mathilde some time back. 
 Monsieur votre pere, him breakfast early and 
 depart some hour ago.' 
 
 Lia's glossy tresses were soon coiled round 
 her pretty head by the deft fingers of the 
 Frenchwoman, and her toilette brought to a 
 speedy conclusion. 
 
 'Good morning, my mother,' exclaimed
 
 179 
 
 Miss Eemington, as she entered the breakfast- 
 room and disturbed her venerated parent in 
 the perusal of the ' Morning Post.' ' Shock- 
 ingly late, I'm afraid, as usual. Have you 
 begun breakfast ? ' 
 
 c No, Lia ; I waited for you, and amused 
 myself with the paper. I've not been down 
 very long.' 
 
 I will not say that the ' Morning Post ' 
 stood to Mrs. Eemington in the light of the 
 Scriptures, but it is certain that the venera- 
 tion with which that lady regarded that 
 and its companion, the ' Court Journal,' was 
 intense. She read them with belief and 
 enthusiasm. They were to her the veritable 
 chronicles of that world she so burned to 
 be identified with — indeed, in some measure 
 was. But the good lady's ambitions were 
 boundless. She knew that she was not quite 
 as yet of the elect. She mingled but spar- 
 ingly with coronets so far, and kenned not 
 the circle of the Court. Still she hoped to 
 compass her dreams in due course. Mrs. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 CECILE. 
 
 Kemington's theatricals, Mrs. Eemin^ton's 
 dinners, Mrs. Eemington's balls, &c, were 
 all duly notified in the journalistic history of 
 the country. With gold galore and a butler 
 understanding of his business, it would be 
 hard if they were not. The upper rungs of 
 society's ladder might be attained in time. 
 Her husband to a considerable extent shared 
 her weakness in this respect. Worshipper 
 of Mammon, he might be ; but to do him 
 justice, he was lavish of his wealth, and to 
 choose a son-in-law between strawberry 
 leaves encircling the brow and a man 
 whose cheque was good for a million, would 
 have made him a pitiable sight to see, re- 
 calling forcibly the apologue of the ass 
 'twixt the two bundles of hay. 
 
 ' Come along, Mamma ; tea is poured out. 
 What have you picked up out of the 
 papers ? ' 
 
 c Nothing much ; stop, gracious, listen to 
 this, Lia. " Fire at Aldershott. — The alarm 
 of fire rang out through the camp lines on
 
 ' lia's meditations.' 181 
 
 Tuesday night, and occasioned the turn out 
 of most of the troops in cantonment. It 
 proved to" be merely the ignition of some 
 straw in the vicinity of the infirmary stables 
 of the 4th Hussars. The fire, which for a 
 short time blazed with considerable violence, 
 was soon checked by the exertions of the 
 soldiery, although not before the adjoining 
 stabling had been devoured by the flames. 
 We regret to add that a woman unfor- 
 tunately perished in the conflagration, in 
 spite of the heroic efforts made to save her 
 by Captain Merriott, of the — th Lancers, 
 who, all but suffocated by the smoke, even- 
 tually fell senseless from the ladder he strove 
 to ascend to her rescue. We are glad to 
 add that the gallant officer shortly came to 
 himself again, and has sustained no serious 
 injury from his plucky exertions.' 
 
 1 Let me look, mother,' said Lia, rising. 
 She took the paper from Mrs. Eemington's 
 hand and threw her eye over the paragraph. 
 'This was Thursday,' she mused. 'Well,
 
 182 CECILE. 
 
 this would account probably for Alec's 
 absence yesterday ; but how about hjs pre- 
 vious defalcation?' It didn't acquit him 
 there one iota. No, the truant still richly 
 deserved the thong when he could be laid 
 hands on. 
 
 6 How provoking these papers are. Here 
 has Captain Merriott evidently done some- 
 thing to distinguish himself, and they give 
 us no particulars. I shall write to him to- 
 day, mother, to enquire how he is. He 
 don't deserve it, for his behaviour since the 
 theatricals has been simply abominable ; he 
 has never come near us.' 
 
 * He's afraid of you, perhaps, Lia. You 
 know you were very angry with him that 
 night.' 
 
 ' Afraid ! My dear mother, I wish it 
 were possible to make the men of this gene- 
 ration afraid. No,' she continued, with a 
 little moue, ' the only women they are ever 
 really alarmed at are the London hostesses 
 who own pleasant country houses with good
 
 'lia's meditations.' 183 
 
 shooting. I have seen them shiver and have 
 recourse to much paltry subterfuge on such 
 occasions as when, the male element proving 
 short, the hostess has determined " that every 
 man that night should do his duty." ' 
 
 ' Well, I am sure I am very sorry we 
 havn't seen him lately. I like Captain 
 Merriott : he knows everybody and tells me 
 everything.' 
 
 ' He ought to have a good deal to tell 
 next time he calls,' rejoined Miss Eeming- 
 ton, with some asperity, ' considering the 
 time he has taken to collect intelligence.' 
 
 There were a good many people in the 
 park that afternoon. It was one of those 
 exceptionally warm sunny days that we are 
 occasionally blessed with amid the misery of 
 our English spring. As Mrs. Eemington's 
 Victoria progressed leisurely down the rails, 
 Eoland Dance raised his hat from inside 
 them. A quick signal from Lia, and then 
 their carriage was instantly stopped. Dance 
 slipped underneath the iron palings, and in
 
 184 CEC1LE. 
 
 a second was shaking hands at the side of 
 the carriage. 
 
 'What is all this story about Captain 
 Merriott and the fire at Aldershottr ' enquired 
 Lia. 4 Do you know anything about it ?' 
 
 6 1 was down there, as it happened, and 
 saw the whole affair. The newspaper para- 
 graph is pretty correct,' returned Eoland, 
 quietly. ' I suppose you have seen that ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; but tell me all about it. First, how 
 is Captain Merriott ? ' 
 
 ' Hell do now ; but he didn't look well 
 when they first picked hirn up at the bottom 
 of the ladder, insensible, scorched, grimed, 
 and blackened.' 
 
 6 He's not burnt, not badly at least?' said 
 Lia, as her cheeks flushed, speaking in a low, 
 hurried voice. 
 
 ' No, nothing of any consequence. A bit 
 shook from the asphyxy and the fall, but 
 he'll be all right again in a few days.' 
 
 8 He behaved very gallantly, did he not ? * 
 enquired Lia.
 
 ' lia's meditations.' 185 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Eemington. Had you been 
 there, I think you would have owned he'd 
 plenty of nerve in the flames, whatever his 
 deficiencies before the footlights might be. 
 He made a very plucky effort to save a 
 woman, and didn't give in till the smoke 
 proved too much for him. He hadn't much 
 life in him when his men brought him out of 
 the hubbub.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Dance. Will you tell 
 him we are very anxious to hear that he has 
 quite got over it all, and that the most satis- 
 factory proof he can give of his recovery 
 will be to let us see him as soon as may be 
 in Eaton Square. Good bye.' 
 
 'Lady Mallandaine's right,' mused Eoland. 
 1 1 don't think Alec need despair in the long 
 run. The colour came into her cheeks when 
 she asked if he was burnt. ' Quite interest 
 enough there to be kindled into something 
 warmer if Alec carefully attends to it. Not 
 a girl to be wooed and won in a hurry ; the 
 best of them never are that; but being
 
 186 CECILE. 
 
 wooed they all like, and won they all 
 may be/ And with this comprehensive 
 resume of the fair sex, Dance continued his 
 stroll. 
 
 'Cecile now,' thought Miss Eemington, 
 as their carriage moved slowly on again, 6 I 
 daresay would argue, if she had been here, 
 that my asking after Captain Merriott was 
 testimony that I really feel a greater interest 
 in him than I admit. What nonsense ! One 
 may be interested enough in one's acquaint- 
 ance, I should hope, to feel a little moved at 
 the news of their being nearly burnt to 
 death, and a desire to know how they are 
 under the circumstances. No ; Cecile has 
 taken it into her little noddle that I am in 
 love with this man, and nothing will con- 
 vince her to the contrary until I marry 
 somebody else. Bless me, I don't want to 
 do that any more than I do to marry him. 
 I've no doubt there's a prince laid up for 
 me somewhere. A braw wooer when my 
 time comes. And yet I should make such
 
 ' lia's meditations.' 187 
 
 a nice old maid, I know I should,' and Lia's 
 face rippled with smiles at the idea. 
 
 I don't think she much believed in that 
 view of her life's future. 
 
 ' Don't you think it time to go home, 
 Lia ? ' enquired Mrs. Eemington. ' What 
 on earth are you laughing at ? ' 
 
 'I was thinking whom I should marry, 
 mother,' replied the girl. 
 
 ' You must marry a peer,' replied Mrs. 
 Eemington, gravely. ' Yes,' she continued, 
 unctuously, ' a peer of the realm.' 
 
 ' Won't do, mother,' cried Lia, gaily. 
 ' Not half swell enough. Eoyal blood to 
 some extent I insist on. Home, William.'
 
 1SS CECILE 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 'A DINNER IN EATON SQUARE.' 
 
 Dine ! Yes, we must dine. Dinner in these 
 days of civilisation is an act of sacrificial 
 worship. The gods of modern idolatry are 
 numerous as those of paganism. There is 
 no one fetish of them all, perhaps, commands 
 more impassioned votaries than the table. 
 We bow the knee to Mammon and Venus. 
 We throw chaplets to the high-priestesses of 
 Sonsr. Some of us kneel to Art. Some of 
 us sacrifice to Fortune. But the worshippers 
 of '44 claret, truffles, turtle soup, and cun- 
 ning entrees, are manifold in the land. Of 
 much experience was he who said the way 
 to the heart was through the gastric juices. 
 
 But dining is a science, and, considering 
 the years given to its cultivation, still a
 
 6 A DINGER IN EATOX SQUARE.' 189 
 
 backward science. Imperial Kome had made 
 great strides therein, but then came chaos ; 
 and in the dark ages there was, I opine, 
 much tearing to pieces of half-cooked flesh 
 and but little cooking. Mediaeval times did 
 not much mend matters in this respect, with 
 their barons of beef and oxen roasted whole. 
 Barbecued pig was, I imagine, a dish to 
 shudder at ; and the great Elizabeth herself 
 breakfasted on underdone beefsteaks and 
 tankards of spiced ale. But in the latter 
 part of the last century the science of dining 
 made rapid strides. There are dinners and 
 dinners. You may gorge yourself with 
 everything an epicure can mention in the 
 City, and I shall tell you on recapitulation 
 that you have ate, not dined. You are 
 lucky, possessing the wealth of Croesus, if 
 you accomplish six dinners in the year. A 
 dinner par excellence depends on many acces- 
 sories, principally on five : — The viands, wine, 
 and cookery I lump as one ; the room and 
 decoration as another ; thirdly, and a very
 
 190 CECILE. 
 
 important one, the guests ; fourthly, the 
 host, and if he does not play his metier 
 well, the remainder will go for nothing ; 
 lastly, luck. You shall give the pleasantest 
 and most successful dinner possible. Try 
 it yet another time. You shall have the 
 identical bill of fare again, cooked by the 
 same artist; exactly the same people, 
 and the result shall be unsatisfactory com- 
 pared with the former banquet. Why so ? 
 Because probably some of your guests were 
 not quite 'i' the vein,' the ball of con- 
 versation never got happily kicked off, or 
 you perchance made some slight error in 
 society's tactics. 
 
 ' The pleasures of the table are peculiar to 
 humanity. They suppose all the antecedent 
 cares for the preparation of the repast, for 
 the choice of place, and the assembling of 
 the guests,' quoth Brillat Savarin, a sage who 
 gave much thought to these things. For 
 myself, I would lay much stress on the 
 guests, more than on the cooking. We have
 
 'A DINNER m EATON SQUARE.' 191 
 
 most of us known pleasant dinners over 
 chops and pale ale, and dreary times over 
 champagne and venison. 
 
 'Tis not in mortals to command success, 
 But we'll do more, Sempronius, — we'll deserve it. 
 
 A host can but take that for his text. 
 
 Do you know that grim jest of Grimod de 
 la Eeyniere, a noted bon vivant in Paris in 
 the early days of this century, who, pretend- 
 ing to be sick for some time, eventually 
 published his death, and then had cards sent 
 to his friends inviting them to attend his 
 funeral ? They arrived in many mourning 
 coaches, encountering the hearse at the door. 
 When they were all assembled, the butler, in 
 deep mourning, threw open the dining-room 
 door, with ' Messieurs, vous etes servis' And 
 on entering, they found the head of the 
 table occupied by the supposed defunct, and 
 an excellent dinner spread for his friends in 
 extremis. Grimmest gastronomical joke of 
 which I have ever read. 
 
 Sir Hervey Mallandaine boasts a good cook,
 
 192 CECILE. 
 
 and his dinners are voted pleasant in the 
 London world. He never overdraws his 
 resources. No attempt to dine more than 
 the room will hold comfortably, or the 
 servants can satisfactorily wait upon, ever 
 takes place in the Mallandaine menage. The 
 well-bred, quiet, sensible master of the house 
 at the bottom, and the bright sunshiny 
 hostess at the top of the table, are in them- 
 selves great elements of success. It is diffi- 
 cult not to feel pleased with yourself under 
 the influence of either end of the board. 
 Cecile's fair girlish face is sweet to look 
 upon on such occasions. Some dozen people 
 are at present assembled in that pleasant 
 refectory, around the flower-decked table. 
 There is Egerton Slane, that iconoclast who 
 is ever tilting at what men are wont to hold 
 in esteem, differing with everybody, but withal 
 so whimsically, that he provokes far more 
 mirth than indignation. Just at present he 
 is riding his pet hobby, that our modern 
 civilisation is all a sham — a mere Brum-
 
 'A DINNER IX BATON SQUARE.' 193 
 
 magem imitation of that of imperial Eome. 
 ' More merciful, Sir Hervey ? not a particle. 
 "We care no more for the destruction of 
 human life than did the ancients. You may- 
 argue, certainly, that it is more merciful to 
 destroy life by opium and insufficient nou- 
 rishment in its first year, than to give it to 
 the lions in its prime. It admits of argu- 
 ment, no doubt. But it strikes me that 
 infanticide just now is as much a part of 
 our social system as the games of the arena 
 were that of the Eomans.' ■ 
 
 Human life — tenderness regarding it ! As 
 I pen these lines, we may well bow our heads, 
 and ask if this civilisation we so vaunt is aught 
 but the veriest sham that ever imposed on 
 mankind. When millions are compassing 
 each other's destruction ; when the dead are 
 counted by tens of thousands ; when the earth 
 is drenched with gore, and the cry of woe 
 and desolation extends over half Europe ; 
 when, for years to come, the Continent shall 
 be specked with maimed atoms of humanity ; 
 
 vol. I. o
 
 194 CECILE. 
 
 when the last half of the nineteenth century 
 has already put the butcheries of the first 
 completely in the shade ; when, in this very 
 year 1870, the wholesale business of war 
 was prefaced by the most sanguinary mas- 
 sacres in the retail trade of murder that the 
 century can as yet produce — it is meet, I 
 think, we speak but little of our boasted 
 civilisation, nor vaunt much the progress of 
 that religion which preacheth peace and 
 goodwill to all men ! 
 
 Merriott is seated next Miss Eemington. 
 A little audacity on the part of the dragoon, 
 to which the lady had rendered willing 
 assent, had easily forestalled Mr. Babbing- 
 ton's tardy advance in that direction. The 
 stout and eminently respectable Babbington 
 had for some time marked Lia down as a 
 meet and fitting helpmate to assist him in the 
 dispersion of those ingots which his youth had 
 been spent in accumulating. Mr. Eemington 
 gave him some mild encouragement in that 
 respect, and had more than once recom-
 
 'A DINNER IN EATON SQUAKE.' 195 
 
 mended him to his daughter's notice. ' A 
 warm man, my dear. Taken a strong fancy- 
 to you, Lia. One could hardly say to what 
 extent Babbington's name in the City is not 
 good. You may go further and fare worse, 
 child.' At all of which Lia laughed merrily, 
 and replied she might have to fall back on 
 him some day. Soldiers Mr. Babbington 
 regarded as an unmitigated curse to the 
 nation. He objected to the expense of a 
 standing army in time of peace, while war 
 was an absurdity no country in these days 
 ought to indulge in. It depreciated securi- 
 ties, and played the deuce with all commerce 
 and business arrangements generally. There- 
 fore Mr. Babbington viewed the sons of the 
 sabre with intense dislike in the aggregate, 
 and honoured Alec Merriott with his especial 
 aversion in particular. At the present mo- 
 ment, he is snorting over his food, according 
 to custom. Mr. Babbington holds that there 
 is a time for all things hazily, but fixedly,
 
 196 cecile' 
 
 and clearly that there is a time to eat 
 When his dinner is to his satisfaction, he 
 concentrates himself thereon, and wastes no 
 time in frivolous converse. 
 
 'Now, Captain Merriott, what do you 
 mean by being all this time without coming 
 to see me ? ' 
 
 ' Not much encouragement after what you 
 said to me the night of the theatricals,' re- 
 plied Alec. 
 
 4 1 don't think I said anything much to 
 anger you then ; but if I did, recollect I was 
 excited at the time.' 
 
 ' Will you be just? Did I want to act? 
 I gave way to you. Woman-like, you re- 
 viled me for failure in a thing attempted for 
 your sake.' 
 
 1 No ; I don't deserve that. Won't you 
 forgive me ? I only said, " What a mess 
 you've made of it ! " and you know you did. 
 Eut I am very sorry I said that much ; ' and 
 Miss Eemington put on the prettiest look of 
 contrition possible.
 
 'A DINNER IX EAT0X SQUARE.' 197 
 
 1 Well, I'll forgive you this time, Lia, on 
 one condition.' 
 
 1 You mustn't call me Lia ; I have told 
 you so before — it's not right, especially just 
 now,' said the young lady, laughing. 
 
 Alec glanced round to see who might be 
 participators in their conversation, which, 
 needless to say, had been conducted in a 
 low tone. Lady Mallandaine was on his 
 left, whom he rather looked upon as an 
 ally than otherwise in his present cam- 
 paign. Mr. Babbington, intent upon an 
 entree, was on Miss Eemington's other 
 side. 
 
 1 Ah ! I have been doin^ what wasn't right 
 so many years now, that I fear it is too late 
 to change/ 
 
 ' Silence,' said Lia, her eyes dancing with 
 fun. ■ Don't you know that my heavy ad- 
 mirer is within earshot, and that there's 
 nothing but a cotelette of super-excellence 
 intervenes between you and destruction? 
 You have had an escape, Sir. Your blood
 
 198 CECILE. 
 
 be upon your own head if you tempt Fortune 
 again.' 
 
 Merriott smiled. ' Yes, it behoves me to 
 be careful. If he fell on me corporeally or 
 pecuniarily, I should be crushed.' 
 
 ' Stay ; you never told me the condition on 
 which I was to be forgiven.' 
 
 'That you never ask me to act again. 
 Light, isn't it?' 
 
 ' Never, Captain Merriott,' laughed Lia ; 
 'never. Now don't be angry,' she con- 
 tinued, as she saw his brow darken. ' You, 
 who can do so many things well that men 
 set store by, need feel little annoyance that 
 you have failed for once in a line new to 
 you.' 
 
 ' I am sore, Lia,' he murmured, ' because 
 I failed in the first thing undertaken at your 
 asking.' 
 
 6 Hush ! don't be foolish. You did better 
 at Aldershott the other day than anything 
 you could have done on the stage. Though 
 you've not had the grace to tell me of
 
 4 A DINNER IX EATOX SQUARE.' 199 
 
 your deeds of " derring-do," other people 
 have.' 
 
 4 You really think so ? ' and the inflection 
 of Alec's voice told Miss Eemington she had 
 gone far enough.' 
 
 6 People say so,' she replied. ; Do ask 
 them to get me a glass of water, please.' 
 
 This attained, conversation became more 
 general, and Merriott achieved no further 
 tete-a-tete — so possible at a dinner-party if 
 two people are so minded, so easily evaded 
 if it seemeth good to one of them to avert 
 it. 
 
 Lady Mallandaine bent her head, and the 
 ladies rose. 
 
 ' I have left some properties under the 
 table, Captain Merriott, I know ; will you 
 collect them for me ? I always do drop my 
 things about. You can bring them to me 
 when you come upstairs,' said Lia, as she 
 rose and followed her hostess. 
 
 Sir Hervey and Egerton Slane are im- 
 mersed in an argument on literary art (there
 
 200 CECILE 
 
 is such a thing, reader), and the baronet is 
 inveighing against the realistic tendency of 
 the novelists and dramatists of the day. 
 
 ' No, you are wrong, Sir Hervey ; wrong, 
 I assure you,' exclaimed Slane. ' It is not 
 romance has died out of the world, but the 
 taste for sensation has come in. We caught 
 it, like the hooping-cough, from our eldest 
 child America. We prefer our novel 6 *, 
 poetry, and plays, like our cookery in these 
 days, rather high-flavoured. We require to 
 be shocked morally or physically — either 
 make me shudder while the hero goes 
 through a combat with six or its equivalent, 
 or else let me find the heroine naughtier 
 than ever I fancied previously.' 
 
 Here coffee was announced, and an ad- 
 journment upstairs speedily followed. But 
 Sir Hervey and Slane, who were interested in 
 their conversation, continued it in the draw- 
 ing-room. Their animated debate speedily 
 attracted Miss Kemington's attention. Now 
 Lia was very fond of hearing Slane declaim,
 
 'A DINNER IN EATON SQUARE.' 201 
 
 as was his wont when fairly started upon a 
 subject, and often threw in a shrewd ques- 
 tion or remark on such occasions. The 
 litterateur, who had rather a contemptuous 
 estimate of women's brains, as a rule, made 
 an exception in her favour. ' Clever girl 
 that,' he said once ; ' has read, has thought, 
 and neither thinks she has " rights " nor a 
 " mission." ' 
 
 ' Yes, Sir Hervey, it's no use disguising it. 
 To succeed on the English stage in these 
 days, you must be realistic ; as Mr. Crummies 
 said, " You must bring in the pump and 
 tubs." ' 
 
 'What do you think of "Lothair," Mr. 
 Slane ? ' enquired Lia. 
 
 4 Butchers are not allowed to sit on a jury, 
 Miss Eemington. Novelists should not be 
 allowed to adjudicate on their colleagues' 
 works.' 
 
 ' What has all that to do with it ? I don't 
 ask you to adjudicate ; I ask you to give an 
 opinion.'
 
 202 CECILE. 
 
 ' Did you ever ask a man his opinion 
 about another woman's beauty, Miss Eem- 
 ington ? ' 
 
 ' Well, no — not often — yes.' 
 
 ' Do you think you got a straightforward 
 answer ? ' 
 
 c Well, I own I rather doubt it. I never 
 knew a man thoroughly praise a woman to 
 me.' 
 
 1 Pas si bete ! Not quite, but something to 
 the point,' rejoined Slane. 
 
 1 Well, tell us what your own views are 
 on the art of novel- writing,' said Sir Hervey. 
 
 'Of the craft, and betray its secrets!' 
 laughed Egerton. c There's a Vehme-gericht 
 connected with literature which the affiliated 
 regard with awe. Of myself, I'll say nothing ; 
 but I'll tell you what some notable members 
 of the trade have laid down. One of our 
 leading novelists, who describes it as " the 
 highest, widest, noblest, and greatest of all the 
 arts," has seldom written a novel without a 
 purpose, and contends that is one of the aims
 
 'A DINNER IX EATON SQUARE.' 203 
 
 of fiction. Another, in the reprint of an early 
 work, alludes to it as that " mistaken thing a 
 novel with a purpose." Hear what some of 
 the French writers of fiction have said on the 
 subject. One saith : "A novelist is an his- 
 torian ; he relates customs instead of relating 
 facts. But it is a condition with the historian 
 that he should be veracious and exhaustive. 
 A well-written novel ought to be a photo 
 graphic picture of the manners of an epoch." 
 Another eminent French writer, one of the 
 famous forty, declares that " a novelist has 
 no right to calumniate his time, but that he 
 has a right to depict it." ' 
 
 ' There, Sir Hervey ; I can't lecture any 
 more on the subject. Of course I've a view 
 diametrically opposed to that of everyone 
 else. I always have, you know, or at all 
 events you say so.' 
 
 1 Generally pretty truthfully,' retorted the 
 baronet. 'But let's hear what it is.' 
 
 1 Not to-night ; I've done sermonising, and 
 am going to talk to Lady Mallandaine ; ' and
 
 204 CECILE. 
 
 Egerton crossed the room, and dropped into 
 a low chair by Cecile's side. 
 
 ' 1 have hardly had an opportunity to 
 sj)eak to you yet, Lady Mallandaine,' he 
 said ; ' your husband never will leave me and 
 my pet theories alone.' 
 
 1 Ah, I don't think you're a bit more mer- 
 ciful to his hobbies, Mr. Slane,' replied 
 Cecile, laughing. I know you never can 
 agree, and am quite sure you would both 
 of you feel much disappointed if you did.' 
 
 6 Good gracious ! why, that's my one fault. 
 I'm the most tolerant man out, and always 
 agree with everyone. But how's Bertie ? Has 
 he said or done anything remarkable lately ? ' 
 
 4 No,' smiled Cecile. ' Since his criticism 
 of the drama, he has not brought forth any- 
 thing worthy of relation/ 
 
 1 Ah,' said Egerton, ' I used to be a dis- 
 believer in these witticisms of children. I 
 always held that the juvenile precocities 
 which Leech so deliciously illustrated were 
 evolved, for the most part, over a cigar by
 
 'A DINNER IN EAT0X SQUAKE.' 205 
 
 the humorists of the "Punch" staff; but 
 Bertie and another child or two of my ac- 
 quaintance have caused me to recant that 
 early heresy.' 
 
 ' I'm sure, Mr. Slane,' returned Cecile, 
 ' you may. I have heard quite as quaint 
 speeches come from their little mouths as 
 any that I have read in " Punch." ' 
 
 1 As Bertie's mother, of course you've 
 authority to say so.' 
 
 ' Don't laugh at me about my boy,' cried 
 Cecile, c or I'll confide no more of his youth- 
 ful observations to your unbelieving ears.' 
 
 ' I don't. Have I not this moment re- 
 canted ? Have I not at this moment a story 
 — aye, a true story — to relate to you which 
 will puzzle Master Bertie to eclipse ? I was 
 staying at a house the other day, and at 
 lunch our hostess, who was not very well, 
 with a brief apology withdrew from the table 
 ere the meal was finished. Her daughter, a 
 bright- eyed little lady of some six years old, 
 was taking her dinner on the occasion. As
 
 206 CECILE. 
 
 her mother's skirt disappeared behind the 
 door, she looked slyly round for a minute, 
 and then exclaimed, " Now Mamma's gone, 
 let's be naughty and dirty the tablecloth ! " 
 
 A peal of laughter rang from Cecile's 
 lips. ' Is that really true, Mr. Slane,' she 
 cried, ' or did you invent it ? ' 
 
 6 No ; on my honour, Lady Mallandaine, I 
 heard it. You pay me a compliment when 
 you imagine I could have invented it. I 
 must say good night now ; but when Bertie 
 beats that, mind you let me know ; ' and 
 Egerton shook hands with his hostess and 
 departed. 
 
 6 No such desertion in future, Captain 
 Merriott, mind,' said Lia, gaily, as she bade 
 him good night, ' or you will drive me to 
 contesting with the enfrees for an ascendency 
 over Mr. Babbington. I must have a confi- 
 dential adviser, you know.' 
 
 'Sooner than you should be engaged in 
 such an inglorious struggle, pray still let me 
 officiate in that capacity. Good night.'
 
 de yitre's levee.' 207 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 'DE VITRE'S LEVEE.' 
 
 Ernest De Vitre lived in Curzon Street, 
 May Fair — a snug luxurious menage, and 
 much affected by those who had the entree 
 thereto. De Vitre's little dinners, De Vitre's 
 little lunches in the season, and little suppers 
 out of it, were affairs alluded to with rever- 
 ence by such as were initiated in the myste- 
 ries of that ' Hedonist ' temple. Some of the 
 pleasantest and wickedest people in London 
 were to be met at those later Saturnalia. I 
 do not mean that those two attributes always 
 go together — far from it. Yet methinks 
 what Burns denominated ' the unco guid ' 
 hardly represent what may be looked upon 
 as good company, with which to travel 
 through this vale of tears. Still you may be
 
 203 CECILE. 
 
 both agreeable and respectable, and yet no 
 holder of the hideous doctrine of Calvinism. 
 The world, however, is apt to look askew at 
 these pleasant people, who have the audacity 
 to disregard the grooves so arbitrarily laid 
 down for thern. With what a glow of 
 delight society gibbets those defiers of social 
 tyranny when the tempest at last overwhelms 
 them ! And what a miserable set of whipped 
 hounds we all are when confronted with the 
 thong of, not public opinion, but conven- 
 tional custom ! 
 
 It is an ugly world, offend : 
 
 Good people — how they wrangle ! 
 The manners that they never mend, 
 
 The characters they mangle. 
 They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, 
 
 And go to church on Sunday ; 
 And many are afraid of God, 
 
 And more of Mrs. Grundy. 
 
 Yes, to speak metaphorically, we most of 
 us put our tails tight between our legs, and 
 slink away down the beaten paths when Mrs. 
 Grundy begins cracking her dog- whip.
 
 ' de tithe's levee/ 209 
 
 Now Ernest De Yitre was one of those 
 few who snapped his fingers in society's face. 
 He made no parade at all of outraging 
 society's sensitive feelings, but society was 
 quite aware that, whether it wept over, 
 hooted, or pointed the finger of scorn at 
 Ernest De Yitre, that gentleman pursued the 
 even tenour of his way, and swerved from his 
 purpose not an iota. Society is so seldom 
 confronted in this wise that, unless its oppo- 
 nent showeth great weakness in the joints of 
 his armour, society is wont to cringe as igno- 
 miniously to the man who dares brave it as 
 the rest of us do before the arbitrary yoke 
 our own superstition has imposed. The set 
 in which De Yitre chiefly moved in London 
 were fast. They were wont even to astonish 
 the London world with the audacity of their 
 doings; and when they took flight to the 
 provinces, occasionally made the natives' hair 
 stand on end. Eespectable country families 
 stared aghast at the fashions imported by 
 these ' extremists ' into their sober neighbour- 
 
 VOL. i. p
 
 210 CECILE. 
 
 hoods, and viewed with awe the astonishing 
 toilettes in which the ladies of the coterie 
 habitually indulged. The local dames and 
 demoiselles held up their hands in depreca- 
 tion of such decolletee dresses, &c, and then 
 immediately harried their respective maids 
 and dressmakers to produce their similitudes. 
 High-priestess of this set was the Honourable 
 Mrs. Oxley St. Leger, sworn friend and ally 
 of De Yitre. 
 
 That gentleman sits this morning lounging 
 over the debris of his breakfast in somewhat 
 sombre frame of mind. As the summer sun 
 glints into the pleasant little morning-room, 
 he is conscious of a slight crumpling of the 
 rose leaves that envelop his Sybarite exist- 
 ence. In his early days he was content to 
 work steadily and wait patiently for any end 
 in life he deemed it worth while to attain. 
 But since he became a man of money, his 
 cards have played so easily for him that he 
 frets a little when they don't run to his liking. 
 He has been much struck with Lady Mai-
 
 'de vitre's levee.' 211 
 
 landaine, and is anxious to prosecute that ac- 
 quaintance. It has turned out much more 
 difficult than he could have supposed. Cecile 
 does not go out very much, and then moves 
 in a circle other than his own. He cer- 
 tainly has contrived to meet her some few 
 times since the Eemington theatricals, but 
 even on these somewhat rare occasions has 
 failed to obtain much in the way of a tete-a- 
 tete with her. 
 
 ' Curious,' he mutters, ' the likeness be- 
 tween them. There is even something of 
 the same trick of manner common to both. 
 Absurd the interest I feel about this woman, 
 still more so that I recognise that it springs 
 principally from her likeness to another. 
 Yes, and that other I cared for more than 
 any woman before or since. I must and will 
 know Lady Mallandaine well — psha ! not as I 
 know her now. She's like the harp with 
 the hundred strings, and I would fain that 
 they should all respond to the touch of my 
 finger. How lovely she looked the other 
 p 2
 
 2V2 CECILS. 
 
 night at the opera. How her face lit up 
 when she got excited about Miss Bemington's 
 success that night I first met her. I to 
 be beat,' he continued, as his lip curled, 
 ' about the mixing where I list in this 
 London melange — I, who could make the 
 skeleton dance in so many houses, if it 
 were worth my while to pull the strings ! 
 No, forsooth ! The set is humdrum and rather 
 out of my ken, but we've all seen the rose in 
 the kitchen-garden before now — no detri- 
 ment to the bloom that it budded amongst 
 the cabbages. It's a bore, but I suppose I 
 must cultivate the cabbages a bit, if I would 
 see my rose. Shall have to wade through a 
 deal of bad cookery and indifferent wine in 
 the pursuit, I'm afraid — by Jove, though, 
 some one told me Mallandaine had a cook.' 
 
 Here his meditations were interrupted by 
 the entrance of his valet, who silently pre- 
 sented a trio of notes on a salver. 
 
 De Vitre lit a cigar, and leisurely tore 
 open the monogram of the first. ' Lady
 
 c de vitre's levee.' 213 
 
 Ombreinere : will I excuse a short invita- 
 tion and dine on Thursday? Hum, depends 
 upon what engagements I have. Do, if I've 
 nothing better on hand ; decent dinner and 
 safe rubber. Not in this new set I want 
 to cultivate, though. Now for the next. 
 Clara Montresor has a few friends to cel- 
 brate (want of epsilon, I see) her success in 
 the new ballet of the " Transformation of 
 the Dryads ;" " do please come." Clara 
 wanders about the tenses rather. Glad she's 
 a success, but don't think I'm equal to at- 
 tending that " grand celebrate," as Mr. 
 Breitmann calls it. What's this? From 
 Jack Terryton : will I give him a little 
 time about last night's one fifty? May as 
 well do the graceful — devilish lucky if I ever 
 see it. My friend Jack's about broke.' 
 
 Here he arose, and sauntering across to 
 the writing-table, turned over the leaves of 
 a morocco-boimd engagement-book. 'Thurs- 
 day, dinner at the "Mastodon" — that's no 
 good ; ditto, with the Chippendale set at
 
 214 CECILE. 
 
 Eichinond — hardly hot enough for that ye 
 Lady Ornbremere will do.' 
 
 A touch of the bell brought his well- 
 trained valet to his presence. 
 
 He took up Terryton's note and put it in 
 his pocket, tossed the other two to his ser- 
 vant, and putting his finger upon the engage- 
 ment-book, said : 
 
 ' Accept Lady Onibremere's, Fletcher ; 
 fudge up excuses for these two and for that 
 supper of Miss Montresor's ; and leave them 
 open for me to look at.' 
 
 c Very good, Sir. There's a man or two 
 waiting to see you.' 
 
 ' Know anything about 'em ? People I 
 want to see, eh ? ' 
 
 ' You'd better see the first, Sir ; he's about 
 racing, I know. I can't quite make out the 
 other ; but I'll have another look at him, 
 and tell you, if I can, by the time you've 
 done with the first.' 
 
 4 All right ; show in number one.' 
 
 A few seconds, and a villanous beetle-
 
 'de vitee's levee.' 215 
 
 browed man, with gaudy necktie and parti- 
 cularly well-polished ankle-lace boots, made 
 his appearance. Ducking his head and 
 smoothing down his hair, he proceeded to 
 polish his face w r ith a coarse pockethandker- 
 chief, looked .uneasily round the room, as if 
 mistrusting something or somebody, and 
 finally remarked, ' Morning, Sir.' 
 
 ' Sit down, Tom,' remarked De Vitre, as, 
 whiffing his cigar, he lazily surveyed him 
 from the hearth-rug. ' What is it ? ' 
 
 ■ Wot is it ? ' responded that worthy, again 
 glancing suspiciously from the fireplace to 
 the sofa, from the sofa to the window. 
 ' Wot is it ? it's robbery wot's the matter.' 
 
 ' Go on,' replied his interlocutor, not one 
 whit discomposed by this enigmatical reply. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. De Yitre, there ain't no one 
 in hearing, is there ? ' and again his eyes 
 wandered round the apartment. 
 
 ' No ; it's all right. Go on.' 
 
 'Damme, then, I don't think she's meant, 
 after all. I told you she won her trial. She
 
 216 CECILE. 
 
 could win easy, if they'd let her ; but wot do 
 they mean by cantering her the last two 
 mornings, instead of sending her along, that's 
 wot licks me, eh ? ' 
 
 'Thank you, Tom; heard it last night. 
 You are quite right — Gallopade's not meant 
 for the Oakes.' 
 
 It was the first he had heard of it, all the 
 same ; but it was seldom De Yitre allowed 
 his myrmidons to think they brought news 
 to him, especially those of the turf. He 
 paid them liberally, but treated them scorn- 
 fully, and was merciless in his sarcasm on 
 false or useless information on any subject. 
 La main de fer, when liberal, is usually well 
 served. 
 
 ' That'll do,' he continued, in answer to 
 the tout's (for such he was) open-eyed aston- 
 ishment. ' Go down below, and Fletcher 
 will give you something to eat.' 
 
 Tom edged off his chair, ducked his head 
 again, and disappeared, lost in amazement at 
 his employer's sagacity.
 
 •' de vitre's levee.' 217 
 
 4 1 can't make this one out at all, Sir,' said 
 Fletcher, as he again entered the apartment. 
 1 He's in the shabby-genteel style ; says he 
 knew you years ago, and has something to 
 tell you you'll be glad to learn. Wants money, 
 I've no doubt. Will you see him, Sir?' 
 
 ' Well, yes ; I've nothing else to do. Im- 
 postor, of course ; but I rather like turning 
 one inside out for amusement at times.' 
 
 The man whom Fletcher now ushered .in 
 was a pale, cadaverous, middle-aged man, 
 with a red nose. He was attired in a suit of 
 seedy black, and a tie meant for white, but 
 inclining to tawny yellow. He stood fid- 
 getting with a napless shiny hat — the picture 
 of cringing embarrassment. 
 
 1 Begging-letter impostor, with his pockets 
 full of false certificates,' thought De Yitre ; 
 * rather fun anatomising him to begin upon, 
 and relegating him to Scotland-yard to wind 
 up with.' 
 
 ' You want to see me,' he observed. ■ Sit 
 down first ; say what about next.'
 
 218 CECILE. 
 
 The man bowed from his very hip-joints, 
 seated himself nervously on the extreme 
 edge of a chair, hemmed, coughed, and was 
 then apparently lost in examination of his 
 hat, which he turned round and round in his 
 tremulous hands. 
 
 'Speak,' said De Yitre, in his clear, re- 
 solute tones, as he mentally summed up 
 his visitor in the two words ' habitual 
 drunkard.' 
 
 The sharp, curt command startled, as it 
 was intended, the shy, nervous wretch to 
 whom it was addressed. He dropped his 
 hat, rose hurriedly from his chair, once more 
 bowed abjectly, as he drew an ominous roll 
 of paper from his pocket. 
 
 *■ Beg pardon, Sir, I'm sure. I ought to 
 apologise for intruding, but I thought — that 
 is — I felt — my health, Mr. De Vitre, has not 
 been good of late. A missionary subscrip- 
 tion-list, you see, Sir. Might I solicit a trifle 
 towards it ? In memory of bye-gone days, 
 might I say a sovereign ? '
 
 'de vitre's levee.' 219 
 
 As lie spoke, his eyes wandered anxiously 
 over the carpet ; he never raised them to 
 De Yitre's, though he at times glanced fur- 
 tively at his boots. The trembling hands 
 fldgetted nervously with the subscription- 
 list — a pitiable sight to see, like most of those 
 who worship at the shrine of Alcohol. 
 
 ' Health not good of late, eh ? No, my 
 man ; and it'll be a deuced deal worse, if you 
 don't take a pull, and drink with a little 
 more discretion than you've done these last 
 few days or more. Give me that list. Of 
 course it's a sham, and you as much en- 
 titled to collect for the missionaries as I 
 am. You men are supposed to understand 
 something of your trade. What the devil, 
 Sir, possessed you to think me a fit mark for 
 imposture ? What made you think me 
 likely to spare you? What could have 
 induced the idea that you would not pass 
 from my house to the hands of the police ? 
 Tell me ; I feel curious.' 
 
 ' Sir,' stammered the hapless wretch, as his
 
 220 CECILE. 
 
 mouth twitched painfully, l I'm a recognised 
 minister, though not of the Established 
 Church. If you don't choose to add— that 
 is, give — your mite — in short, I will go.' 
 
 ' You'll do nothing of the kind, except in 
 the custody of a policeman,' said De Yitre, 
 as he lounged back against the mantelpiece 
 and leisurely contemplated his victim. 
 
 That nerveless unfortunate sank back on 
 his chair, trembling visibly — most trans- 
 parent of impostors ever seen. 
 
 4 Look here, Sir ; you appealed to me in 
 memory of bye-gone days. I'm pretty good 
 at faces, but don't recollect yours. Explain 
 what you mean by that, if you wish to 
 escape being given in charge.' 
 
 4 Spare me, Mr. De Yitre ; ' and covering 
 his face with his hands, the miserable man 
 sobbed audibly. ' I don't wonder,' he said 
 at last, 4 you don't remember me. Give me 
 some brandy, for God's sake, and I will tell 
 you all.' 
 
 ' Not get much out of him without,' mur-
 
 w de vitre's levee.' 221 
 
 mured De Yitre to himself, as lie crossed the 
 room to a handsome spirit-case. Then, filling 
 a wine-glass full of brandy, he handed it to 
 the shaking wretch, whose eyes had followed 
 his every motion with all the fierce, eager 
 glitter of hunger. 
 
 Hunger to him, poor wrecked atom of 
 humanity ! He craved for the fatal stimu- 
 lant as the starving do for food. It was kill- 
 ing him fast, and he knew it, but all strength 
 of mind has departed from those whom the 
 1 Spirit-gnome ' has once claimed as his own. 
 
 The dull, wandering eves brightened as 
 he gulped down the fiery fluid. For the first 
 time he raised them, and looked De Yitre in 
 the face ; but his gaze sank before the keen, 
 merciless eyes of the latter. 'More,' he 
 gasped hoarsely, and held out the glass to be 
 replenished. 
 
 De Yitre eyed him narrowly for a second, 
 then half-filled it. 
 
 c There,' he said, ' that's enough. Poison 
 to you, I suppose you know ? '
 
 222 CECILE. 
 
 ' Know ! Yes,' said the other. ' Why 
 does it take so long to kill ? But it warms — 
 ah, it warms — one,' and he leisurely supped 
 the fresh supply De Vitre had poured out 
 for him. 
 
 6 You don't recollect me,' he continued ; 
 ' odd, perhaps, if you did. When a man 
 sticks steadily to that ' — and here he jerked 
 his head in the direction of the spirit-case — 
 ' for nearly ten years, it is wont to change 
 his appearance a good deal, and that for the 
 worse. Shall I tell you where we met last ? 
 It was in the Baptist school-room at Las- 
 terton.' 
 
 Master of himself as De Vitre was gene- 
 rally, he could not suppress a slight start at 
 this announcement ; but recovering himself 
 almost immediately, he turned towards the 
 fireplace and busied himself about the light- 
 ing of a fresh cigar. 
 
 6 Ah,' he said, as he once more confronted 
 his companion, ' I think I recollect you 
 now. You were the Methodistical drawing-
 
 ' de vitre's levee. 5 223 
 
 master of those days. Sorry to see you in 
 this plight.' 
 
 ' You should recollect me,' returned the 
 other, sadly. ' I was present at a great 
 moment in your life — a moment that made 
 me the thing you see. No ; I've hardly a 
 right to say that ; but all seemed to go wrong 
 with me from that day — that day which 
 convinced me there was no hope for me. I 
 wasn't the wretch in those times I am now, 
 and I've thought often, if you had never seen 
 Lasterton, it might have been as I hoped. 
 She might have learned to love me, had she 
 never met you. It's all over,' he continued, 
 ' many years ago ; but I can't forget yet, not 
 till that ' — and once more he nodded towards 
 the spirit-case — ' has made thinking impos- 
 sible.' 
 
 Steely and stern came De Yitre's reply. 
 1 You dare,' he said, ' to put your criminal 
 weakness on her or my shoulders. Better 
 her fate as it is than to have been fettered to 
 an habitual drunkard. Don't maunder to
 
 224 CECILE. 
 
 me, man, about that being the cause of your 
 backsliding. Whatever her fate with me, 
 it would have been worse with you.' 
 
 6 And that was ? ' enquired the other, 
 eagerly. 
 
 6 Death, poor child ! Not at my hands, of 
 course, and yet it was I took her where fever 
 was raging : but how could I dream it ? ' 
 
 ' My God ! ' and the broken man dropped 
 back in his chair, and the tears welled fast 
 through the fingers he covered his face with. 
 ' Ah ! ' he gasped at last, ' I never thought of 
 that ; I pictured her in comfort, in luxury, 
 and well taken care of.' 
 
 There was a pause of some moments, and 
 then De Vitre spoke in much softened tones. 
 
 ' Look here/ he said ; 4 you must go now. 
 There's more than ever you hoped to get 
 from me in support of your sham subscrip- 
 tion-list ; ' and he thrust a bank-note into 
 the trembling hands. ' It is in memory of 
 her. Now go. Such as you are, I can 
 assist you no more — you know it yourself;
 
 6 DE vitre's levee.' 225 
 
 were it otherwise, I had done so for her 
 sake.' 
 
 With many protestations of thanks, and 
 with maudlin tears running down his cheeks, 
 this shattered specimen of mankind took his 
 departure, incompetent even for the wretched 
 trade of deception on which he had em- 
 barked. 
 
 A drunken swindler the one, an habitual 
 worldly cynic the other — the memory of 
 the same woman whom they had both loved 
 the one soft spot left in their natures — a 
 common tie which made De Yitre, with all 
 his hardness of character, part tenderly with 
 the miserable man, whose life was but un- 
 consciousness and wailing. 
 
 The former continued musing for some 
 moments, as he lazily smoked on. ' Odd,' he 
 thought, ( reminiscences of those old Lasterton 
 days, after being buried in oblivion for a good 
 eight years, should begin to crop up now. 
 First Gwynne's letter ; then that extraordinary 
 likeness ; now this drunken wretch, with his 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 CECILE. 
 
 miserable memories. I lied when I told him 
 she was dead. I know no more what's be- 
 come of her than he does. Best to tell him 
 so, though. It is on the cards he might 
 turn troublesome, otherwise, when the drink 
 is in him, as I fancy it generally is nowa- 
 days. Poor devil ! what a fine-looking man 
 he was when I saw him last. However, a 
 steady course of brandy spoils the looks 
 mostly. I must know a little more about my 
 friend, though. Take it the authorities of 
 Scotland-yard are not wholly uninformed 
 with regard to his mode of life. If they are, 
 I shall enlighten them. A puppet it is as well 
 I should hold the strings of for the short 
 time it has left to live ; ' and De Yitre 
 threw his cigar into the fire.
 
 C A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 227 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 4 A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM. ' 
 
 Now, besides the pleasant mansion in Bel- 
 gravia, to which we have been already intro- 
 duced, Mr. Eemington was also the much-to- 
 be-envied owner of a villa on the banks of 
 the Thames, close to Twickenham — one of 
 those pleasant one-story houses all conserva- 
 tory and billiard-room to the uninitiated, but 
 which those conversant therewith know to 
 have a capital dining-room at the back, with 
 two or three cozy sitting-rooms looking out 
 on the parterre, under the varied designations 
 of morning, music, tea-room, or library, all 
 common terms that denote these temples of 
 idleness where the worshippers of the god- 
 dess may lounge, read, flirt, yawn, or sleep. 
 A smooth-shaven lawn runs down to the 
 q 2
 
 228 CECILE. 
 
 river's brink, and there stands a pictuiesque 
 boat-house, moored around which are some 
 half-dozen or more boating craft, ranging 
 from the flat-bottomed punt to the sculling 
 shallop. 
 
 A pet hobby was this of Mr. Eemington's. 
 I forget now how many gardeners he em- 
 ployed, or what his melons or pines cost him 
 apiece ; but this I do know, that upon one 
 of his friends once complaining of the mar- 
 vellous price he had had to pay for very 
 early strawberries, old Remington, on hear- 
 ing the figure, ejaculated, ' Cheap ; gad, dirt 
 
 cheap ; in fact, d d cheap. I grow my 
 
 own, and they cost me pretty well double 
 the money/ 
 
 The old gentleman was wondrous proud of 
 his house, grounds, flowers, fruit, &c, and 
 nothing pleased him so much in the dog- 
 days as a series of dinner-parties, lounging- 
 parties, water-parties — any name, in short, 
 you might please to give them, so they but 
 brought people to admire the villa and its sur-
 
 c A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 229 
 
 roundings. I have already said Mr. Beming- 
 ton was a worshipper of Mammon. He 
 reverenced the possessor of wealth ; he 
 had dedicated his life to its acquirement, but 
 he was no niggard in the distribution thereof. 
 
 DO 
 
 He was by no means afraid of dissipating the 
 ingots now he had got them. The cookery 
 and wines at the Twickenham villa began to 
 be talked about. How very perfect all the 
 arrangements were, and how pleasant an 
 evening might be passed there these hot 
 June nights, was bruited abroad. Then the 
 world became aware that, like the Turk in 
 the famous ballad of ' Lord Bateman,' 
 
 This Remington, he'd an only darter, 
 The fairest my two eyes e'er see — 
 
 presumptive heiress to the accumulations of 
 the City. The younger sons and those im- 
 pecunious of their generation put the screw 
 on their feminine belongings, and the Twick- 
 enham villa rapidly waxed into favour and 
 importance. People who would have refused 
 to know the Eemingtons last year schemed
 
 230 CECILE. 
 
 for invitations this. Good society can be 
 quite as sycophantic as bad, and the duchesses 
 and the Mrs. Smiths of this world are subject 
 to the same meannesses and weaknesses. The 
 study of human nature is not conducive to 
 the formation of a very high standard regard- 
 ing its innocence and simplicity. Cultivation 
 and a higher civilisation teach us to conceal 
 our baser tendencies; but their eradication 
 — ah ! that is another thing. 
 
 And so it came to pass that when Mrs. 
 Eemington's cards were out for a water- 
 party at the Twickenham villa, towards the 
 end of a sultry June, that good lady was 
 quite in a flutter of delight and perturbation 
 regarding the numerous applications she had 
 for tickets thereto. Good society can be 
 pretty brazened on these points, and Mrs. 
 Eemington's heart swelled with pride as 
 applications were insidiously made to her 
 on the part of people who had not hitherto 
 deigned to notice her. Frank, honest Lia 
 laughed at, and rather threw cold water on,
 
 'A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 231 
 
 many of these applicants. ' >Vhy trouble 
 our head, mother,' she would say, ' about 
 these people we don't know ? ' But Eeming- 
 ton pere also was awake to the glory of 
 exhibiting his flowers and pineries to a 
 fashionable mob, and invitations found their 
 way right and left. The lady hostess prided 
 herself much upon having been asked for a 
 card for the Hon. Mrs. Oxley St. Leger, a 
 fashionable leader of the great London world, 
 and pictured herself mixing with all the elite 
 of the land. She had not quite mastered 
 the fact that then' coming to her did not as 
 a sequitur involve her going to them — an 
 innocence that shows her still far from past 
 her novitiate in London life. 
 
 The recent utter collapse of the French 
 nation in war has been ascribed to the 
 enervating luxury and corruption of the Em- 
 pire. Is the life of our higher classes also 
 rotten at the core ? It is an age of luxury, 
 of disbelief, and of sybaritism ; but the grand 
 old love of field sports and athletic exercises,
 
 161 CECILS. 
 
 innate in our blood, will, I think, always save 
 us from utter decadence. The wildest and 
 most luxurious of our higher classes have 
 always a great respect for a quality called in 
 their shibboleth ' hardness.' They admire 
 the man who, after being up till four a.m., is 
 at the cover side the next morning, and rides 
 as straight as if he had retired to bed at 
 ten. ' Muscular Christianity' has been much 
 sneered at of late, but its teaching is not to 
 be despised for all that. 
 
 ' You little Turk ! ' exclaimed Cecile to 
 her boy, as she swept into her drawing-room, 
 all clad in shining raiment, ' come here, and 
 let me look at you. It's so good of Lia to 
 ask you ; and I can't take you, you know, 
 unless you're nicely dressed.' 
 
 Bertie was lying curled up on an ottoman ; 
 he sprang down as his mother spoke, and ran 
 towards her. 
 
 ' But I've got on all my best things, 
 Mamma ; and nurse says I look very hand-
 
 6 A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 233 
 
 some, and I'm to go on the water with Lia — 
 she promised. And is the carriage ready ?' 
 
 1 Xot quite, child,' replied Cecile, as she 
 looked down upon him, and with all a 
 mother's love heartily endorsed nurse's 
 opinion. 
 
 And the boy was fair to look upon, in 
 his jacket and knickerbockers of violet velvet, 
 with stockings to match and little buckled 
 shoes ; his fair hair brushed back ; while his 
 eyes sparkled and his cheeks flushed in anti- 
 cipation of the day's pleasure. 
 
 ' Yes, Bertie darling,' she remarked after 
 kissing him, ' you look very nice ; and you 
 are going to take care of Mamma to-day, are 
 you not P Take care of her all the way to 
 Twickenham, and bring her back again after- 
 wards.' 
 
 1 Yes. Mamma looks nice, too,' observed 
 the child, sententiously. ' But I'm to go out 
 in a boat, Lia promised.' 
 
 1 Of course you will, dear ; and you'll be
 
 234 CECILE. 
 
 very good, and answer prettily when you're 
 spoken to — won't you, Bertie ? ' 
 
 8 Yes, if they're nice people, Mamma ; but 
 I don't like everybody.' 
 
 ' No, my child — nobody does ; but Bertie 
 mustn't be rude, all the same.' 
 
 ' I never am.' 
 
 c Bert, my boy, don't tell stories. You are 
 sometimes ; but you won't be to-day, will 
 you?' 
 
 1 Not if I can help it, Mamma, and no nasty 
 people talk to me.' 
 
 6 Hush, child, here's the carriage. Come 
 along.' And taking her boy by the hand, 
 Cecile made her way downstairs. 
 
 The Twickenham lawn was thronged with 
 variegated toilettes when Cecile arrived. 
 Although she had numerous friends and 
 acquaintance present, yet there were also a 
 great many faces of the vast London world 
 that she encountered for pretty well the first 
 time. Her fair face and girlish figure at- 
 tracted much attention from these last, as she
 
 'A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 235 
 
 made her way across the lawn in search of 
 Lia — attention to which Bertie not a little 
 contributed ; the one child present in all that 
 gay throng. Suddenly Ernest De Yitre stood 
 before her. 
 
 1 Pray accept my arm, Lady Mallandaine. 
 You are doubtless in search of Miss Eeming- 
 ton. I left her just now at the head of a 
 little coterie of her own.' 
 
 Cecile gladly accepted De Yitre's escort. 
 He appeared opportunely, just as she was 
 beginning to feel the want of a cavalier. De 
 Yitre was wont to do so on such occasions. 
 He calculated his opportunities with a cool- 
 ness and patience not understanded by the 
 generality of men. He had watched Lady 
 Mallandaine's arrival, but had not stepped 
 forward till he had seen her glance round, 
 half timidly, half impatiently, in search of an 
 escort. Women in the London world who 
 had been epris with De Yitre (and they were 
 not wanting) were always lavish in their 
 encomiums on his tact. He seemed like a
 
 236 CECILE. 
 
 guardian angel to the object of his worship, 
 he had such a knack of turning up on critical 
 occasions. He fell from the clouds to rescue 
 them from boredom ; turned up just as op- 
 portunely to relieve them from an awkward 
 situation. It was very simple to account 
 for. De Vitre was ever-present in the society 
 the regnant goddess of the time might 
 frequent. He was a quick reader of faces 
 and signs. Few knew society's landmarks 
 more accurately than he. Could it be much 
 wonder that to this keen critical observer 
 the one face he was for the time making it 
 his principal business to study was fair, 
 open, and legible ? 
 
 At this moment Koland Dance passed them 
 in close attendance upon a lady ; and as he 
 raised his hat to Cecile, his fair companion 
 bent her stately head to De Vitre. 
 
 A woman to turn and look again at. Tall 
 and supple of figure, she swept across the 
 grass with haughty, undulating movement 
 that challenged attention and criticism. A
 
 'A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM. ' 237 
 
 pale yet slightly worn face, with a pre- 
 dominant expression of extreme weariness ; 
 magnificent black eyes, generally half veiled 
 under their lids, but which ever and anon 
 flashed upon you with a bold, insolent stare 
 — such was Pauline St. Leger, a woman 
 whose acquaintance had been fatal to many 
 men, and was ever dangerous to such of her 
 own sex as she condescended to be upon 
 terms of intimacy with. Like the leopard — 
 beautiful, powerful, dangerous, and relent- 
 less — a woman who, had her life been cast 
 differently, might have been a jewel well 
 worth the wearing — who had germs of good 
 even still left in her, though well-nigh 
 stifled by the career she had run — Pauline 
 was capable of generosity even yet at times, 
 and had more than once showed mercy un- 
 fitting her character as the free lance she 
 had now become. 
 
 4 Who was that ? ' enquired Cecile of her 
 companion ; ' the lady, I mean, with Mr. 
 Dance?'
 
 238 CECILE. 
 
 ' Don't you know Mrs. St. Leger?' re- 
 turned De Yitre. c I should have thought 
 you must have met her. She is one of the 
 pleasantest women of my acquaintance. 
 Eather belied by the world, because she a 
 little despises the conventionalities — a thing 
 the world is apt to carp at, but with no real 
 harm in her.' 
 
 Hardly a true verdict this ; but then De 
 Vitre and Pauline St. Leger were bound in 
 a strict camaraderie. 
 
 ' No ; I have heard of her often, of course, 
 but never saw her, I think, before. Surely 
 there is Lia — Miss Eemington, I mean.' 
 
 As she spoke Lia came forward to meet 
 her, attended by Alec Merriott, Slane, and 
 some three or four more. 
 
 ' I thought you were never coming, Ce- 
 cile,' exclaimed that young lady as she 
 greeted her guest ; ' and Bertie, my darling, 
 I thought I should have to go boating by 
 myself. The punt is all ready, Bert, and 
 we'll go for a row as soon as I can get away.'
 
 A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 239 
 
 ' You mustn't be long, Lia— I want to go 
 on the water ; and you promised, you know.' 
 
 1 Yes, child, and so you shall. Lia always 
 keeps her promises, doesn't she? But I 
 must look after my guests a little, Bert.' 
 
 1 Of course you must, Miss Eemington ; 
 and my worn cheeks and parched lips might 
 already attest the privations I have suffered 
 while watching you and Alec there talk 
 nonsense,' exclaimed Egerton Slane. ' Come 
 along with me, little man,' he continued, 
 catching the boy in his arms. 'Tell her' 
 — and he nodded his head towards Miss 
 Eemington — 'to feed us first, and she may 
 do as she lists with us afterwards.' 
 
 He was a child of great likes and dislikes, 
 Bertie ; but though Slane had never vouch- 
 safed him any great notice, he was a favourite 
 with the boy, and from his shoulder he 
 exclaimed — 
 
 ' Yes ; we are hungry, Lia. Get us some- 
 thing to eat, and then we'll all go on the 
 water. Won't that be nice ? '
 
 240 CECILE. 
 
 Miss Bemington laughed merrily. 
 
 ' Corne along,' she cried. ' Captain Mer- 
 riott, you shall carve for us first, and pull 
 stroke of my boat, as a reward, afterwards ; 
 and Mr. Slane, if you won't find fault with 
 or contradict anybody for half an hour, you 
 shall be one of my crew also.' 
 
 4 Absurd ! I never contradict anyone ; and 
 what could there be at " The Willows" (the 
 name of the villa) to find fault with ? ' 
 
 4 Why, isn't there me, if there's nothing 
 else ? and you know you're rude enough to 
 do it.' 
 
 * Come along, Bertie, she's getting abusive 
 and improper;' and Slane dashed off towards 
 a secluded room dedicated to creature com- 
 forts which he, as an habitue, knew right 
 well, followed by the rest of the laughing 
 troop. 
 
 ' There, Sir,' he said, as he placed the boy 
 in a chair ; ' what can we do for your wor- 
 ship now? Will you have a little cold 
 chicken, or wait for the fricasseed lightning
 
 'A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 241 
 
 I've ordered for my own eating? There'll 
 be some stewed elephant in directly.' 
 
 ' Don't tell stories,' replied Bertie, gravely ; 
 ' and you musn't be rude to Lia, because I 
 shan't let you ; and I want some ham, please 
 — oh ! and there's strawberries.' 
 
 ' No ; I shall sit here, thanks, Captain 
 Merriott, betwixt Bertie, whom I love, and 
 Mr. Slane, whom I hate, or ought to do.' 
 
 c Charmed to hear it ; women change their 
 minds weekly. If Bertie has the best of it 
 to-day, my turn comes next' 
 
 They were great allies those two, and 
 always indulged in much badinage. 
 
 6 You will find that, like most of your 
 theories, fallacious,' laughed Miss Remington. 
 
 1 And you say I'm not to contradict. I 
 will— I shall— I do.' 
 
 1 It's very rude to contradict, Mamma 
 says,' chimed in Bertie. 
 
 ' And Mamma's right, dear, and Mr. 
 Slane's wrong, as usual — isn't he?' 
 
 1 There's no arguing with women and 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 CECILE. 
 
 infants,' retorted Slane. c Pass that pie, Alec, 
 and — yes, you may send the champagne with 
 it. I was only debarred from contradiction, 
 feminine idea of argument ; and from finding 
 fault, feminine idea of differing in opinion.' 
 
 De Yitre meanwhile had unobtrusively 
 attached himself to the party. He knew 
 them all, but, except in the case of Egerton 
 Slane, his acquaintanceship was of the 
 slightest. He said but little as yet, quietly 
 took care of Lady Mallandaine, and was 
 prepared to exert himself in any way that 
 might further the end he had in view — to 
 wit, a closer intimacy with Cecile and her 
 friends than he as yet possessed. 
 
 But the nondescript meal comes to an 
 end. Bertie has escaped from his chair, and, 
 having climbed into Lia's lap, is exercising 
 much pressure with regard to the aquatic 
 part of the entertainment. 
 
 ' Now,' cried Miss Eemington, ' Lady Mal- 
 landaine and I are going to hoist our flag. 
 Who 'lists under our banner ? '
 
 'A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.* 243 
 
 Universal assent from the men, and a 
 general move across the lawn to the river. 
 There, under the active direction of Alec 
 Merriott, a good heavy, roomy wherry, fitted 
 as a randan, is speedily unmoored from the 
 boat-house and paddled up to the lawn for 
 the ladies to embark. 
 
 'Come along, Bertie, darling,' said Miss 
 Eemington ; and, accompanied by the child, 
 she was assisted to the stern of the wherry. 
 4 Oh, dear ! I have forgot my parasol,' she 
 exclaimed. ' Would you mind, Captain 
 Merriott, running up to the luncheon-room 
 for it?' 
 
 1 Of course not ; I'll be back in a minute ; ' 
 and Alec sprang to the bank and ran across 
 the lawn. 
 
 Cecile was standing on the bank, talk- 
 ing with De Yitre, when a piercing shriek 
 from Lia and a half-smothered cry from her 
 boy smote her ear. She turned her head 
 just in time to see Bertie disappear in the 
 water and Slane snatch back Miss Eemington 
 » 2
 
 244 CECILE. 
 
 from following in a hopeless attempt to save 
 him. 
 
 Her cheeks blanched, her heart seemed to 
 stand still, her limbs trembled beneath her, 
 the very blood seemed frozen in her veins. 
 Speech, motion, almost thought, seemed 
 paralysed. 
 
 Quick as lightning a man's hat and coat 
 are cast upon the bank. Ere the remainder 
 of the spectators' minds have well grasped 
 the fact of the accident, Ernest De Vitre's 
 close -pressed hands cleave the glittering 
 water, and, with a much more ostensive 
 splash, he also disappears from the sight of 
 the bystanders. It is but for a few seconds, 
 and then he rises, bearing the boy in one 
 hand, and in less than half a dozen strokes 
 is clinging with his burden to the bank. 
 Plenty of hands there to help them ashore, 
 and, with Bertie still in his arms, crying 
 and shivering from his immersion, he dashes 
 up to Lady Mallandaine. Cecile makes some 
 ineffectual attempts to speak, and then falls
 
 'A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 245 
 
 back senseless into the arms of the nearest 
 looker-on. 
 
 8 Miss Eemington/ exclaimed De Yitre, in 
 quick, authoritative tones, ' I'll leave Lady 
 Mallandaine to your care, and run up with 
 this boy to the house. Nothing but a duck- 
 ing ; still, perhaps, the sooner he's between 
 blankets the better.' 
 
 But that mysterious current, which, in 
 default of a better term, I must call the 
 magic circle of electric sympathy had 
 already spread. The whisper of an accident 
 flew with lightning rapidity through that 
 gay throng. They clustered towards the 
 river, as De Yitre, dripping and coatless, 
 bore Bertie swiftly towards the house. The 
 little knot on the bank around Cecile of 
 course attracted attention, and, amongst 
 others, Eoland Dance, with Mrs. St. Leger 
 on his arm, pushed through the crowd. 
 Lia, shockingly unnerved herself, supported 
 Cecile's head in her lap and bathed her 
 temples.
 
 246 CECILE. 
 
 Pauline took the whole thing in at a 
 glance. 
 
 c Stop, Eoland,' she said, as she marked 
 that Cecile's quivering lips and fluttering 
 eyelids gave signs of returning animation ; 
 ' I can be of use here. They have all lost 
 their heads ; even Miss Remington is not 
 herself.' 
 
 Dropping Dance's arm, she glided into the 
 circle, and, as Lady Mallandaine opened her 
 eyes and stared vaguely around, bent over 
 her, and whispered in that low thrilling 
 voice that had turned so many men's heads, 
 8 Your boy is quite safe and wants you. 
 Won't you come to him ? ' 
 
 Cecile started, and sat up with a low 
 choking sob. ' Where, where is he ? ' she 
 gasped. 
 
 ' Safe in the house, and asking for his 
 Mamma,' returned Pauline, audaciously. 
 c Won't you try to come to him ? ' 
 
 The spell answered, and in a few seconds, 
 leaning on Mrs. St. Leger's arnv Cecile
 
 'A WATER-PAKTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 247 
 
 crossed the lawn and made lier way to her 
 darhng's bedside. 
 
 De Vitre met her at the door of the 
 chamber with a reassuring smile. c You 
 will find your boy all right, Lady Mallan- 
 daine, and very mutinous at having been put 
 to bed. There is nothing the matter with 
 him ; but of course his clothes are too wet to 
 put on. You had better exercise your autho- 
 rity, for he is getting beyond me ; ' and De 
 Vitre passed out, with a bow, to make some 
 arrangement for changing his own dripping 
 garments. 
 
 ' Oh, Lia,' murmured the mother to Miss 
 Kemington, who accompanied her, ' I thought 
 I had lost him. How did it all happen? 
 Bertie, dear, how could you fall into the 
 water ? ' and seating herself on the bedside, 
 Cecile gathered her treasure in her arms. 
 
 6 I hardly know,' replied Lia. ' I just 
 caught sight of him as he toppled over, and 
 made a jump to save him ; but, I think, if
 
 248 CECILE. 
 
 Mr. Slane had not caught me, I should have 
 only fallen in also/ 
 
 ' That would have been nice,' replied the 
 boy, ' because then you would have had to go 
 to bed too. I was so frightened, Mamma, and 
 it was so cold ; and I only know I thought I 
 should never get out again, till I found that 
 gentleman running with me across the lawn. 
 But I am warm now ; and who is he ? ' 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' muttered Cecile, as she 
 pictured how he might have been lying cold 
 and dank at the bottom of the river even 
 now but for that prompt assistance. ' It was 
 Mr. De Vitre saved him, Lia, was it not? 
 I've a dim recollection of seeing some one 
 jump into the water just as I lost sight of 
 him.' 
 
 ' Yes, it was Mr. De Vitre ; he sprang in 
 directly, and brought him out in a few 
 seconds ; and you fainted just as he bore 
 him up the bank to you.' 
 
 ' I owe him a great debt of gratitude,'
 
 'A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 249 
 
 murmured Lady Mallandaine ; ' more than I 
 can ever repay.' 
 
 At last Bertie fell asleep ; and while some 
 wraps were improvised for his return to 
 town, Cecile went downstairs, her principal 
 object being to thank Ernest De Vitre for 
 her boy's life. But De Vitre was gone ; he 
 had borrowed some garments from the 
 butler, and departed forthwith. 
 
 Many expressions of sympathy were 
 showered on Cecile ; and amongst others, 
 Mrs. St. Leger came up to her once more. 
 ' I trust, Lady Mallandaine,' she said, ' your 
 boy is none the worse for his plunge ; I hear 
 not. We have never met before, but cir- 
 cumstances sometimes overrule the stereo- 
 typed laws of society, and I trust you will 
 allow me to call and ask after your child.' 
 
 What could Cecile say to this speech, 
 delivered in Pauline St. Leger's most winning 
 manner? and how winning that could be, 
 when she chose, even her enemies, by no 
 means few, could testify. Moreover, she
 
 250 CECILE. 
 
 could but feel kindly to her who had first 
 whispered the assurance in her ear of 
 Bertie's safety. She could but smile, and 
 say she should be delighted to see her. 
 And thus in one afternoon, urged by the 
 most sacred feeling of woman's life — love for 
 her child — did Cecile forge the first links of 
 a chain that occasioned her afterwards much 
 bitter suffering and anguish. 
 
 But the carriages come rolling up, and 
 the guests once more wend their way home- 
 ward. Wearied and worn the many, flushed 
 and delighted the few — for, alas ! we so soon 
 grow old, and become bored with society's 
 charms. The cup of pleasure is so shallow 
 that the goblet is speedily drained, and it is 
 but for a brief season that all is gaiety. 
 Most malcontent of all that assembly, per- 
 haps, is a tall fair man, who journey eth to 
 town behind a big regalia in solitude and a 
 hansom. 
 
 6 Just my infernal luck,' he mutters, ' to 
 be sent for that cursed parasol when the
 
 'A WATER-PARTY AT TWICKENHAM.' 251 
 
 accident happened. I don't want to run 
 down De Vitre ; he was prompt and quick, 
 but any fool that could swim could have 
 done it too. With Lia there, it would have 
 been a real turn for me. No good a bit to 
 him, and made him deuced uncomfortable 
 into the bargain. Confound it, I never can 
 get a chance ; ' and Alec Merriott leant back 
 and deluged the fresh night air with tobacco 
 smoke.
 
 252 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 ' MRS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 
 
 It has been asserted that it is ' women who 
 corrupt women.' I have no wish to enter 
 into this ethical question ; but that the de- 
 terioration of woman's moral nature is in the 
 aggregate far more the work of her female 
 associates than of her male, I have no hesita- 
 tion in affirming. Men only gain great ascen- 
 dency over women through their affections, 
 and that in itself constitutes a great antidote 
 to corruption. But the pitiless sneers of her 
 sisters, the wounds to her vanity that the 
 inability to vie with them in dress or 
 equipage inflict, the polished gibe, the petty 
 spitefulness that shows up her weakness in 
 taste, talent, beauty, or wealth — these are 
 hard to bear. What wonder that feminine
 
 ' MRS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 253 
 
 nature at times can bear no more, and 
 recks little at what cost it may turn the 
 tables. 
 
 A somewhat stormy life had been Pauline 
 St. Leger's. A gay, clever, handsome girl, 
 with a decided will of her own, she came at 
 eighteen direct from school to take the head 
 of her father's establishment. And what a 
 post that was ! It was the presiding over the 
 household of a reprobate, well-nigh ruined 
 gambler ; a house frequented by turfites, 
 vauriens, young men of good family, but with 
 neither principles nor expectations ; a house 
 in which a lady rarely set foot. ' Old Beard- 
 more is a capital fellow, with equally capital 
 claret and shooting ; rather a rip, of course, 
 but what does it matter ? — pleasant house to 
 stay at, and you're sure of a rubber at decent 
 (which might be translated high) points.' 
 In such wise spoke the fast and irreverent 
 youth of this generation regarding Miss 
 Beardmore's father. 
 
 Soon it was whispered about that old
 
 254 CECILE. 
 
 Beardmore had a daughter — a marvellously 
 handsome daughter. ' A real clipper, you 
 know, not made up for sale, but just about 
 the handsomest girl I ever saw,' said Jemmy 
 Brattle, the well-known gentleman-rider, 
 whose artistic and straightforward perform- 
 ances the sporting papers were never tired of 
 eulogising, but who, it was whispered, had 
 once or twice been mixed up in suspicious 
 transactions ; which, in plain English, meant 
 that there was nothing in the shape of turf 
 robbery that Mr. Brattle was not ready to 
 lend a hand in, always providing that it in 
 some way conduced to his, Mr. Brattle's, 
 benefit. 
 
 Still Miss Beardmore was rarely seen in 
 society. She might appear at the county 
 ball, and on such occasions had no lack of 
 partners. Far from it ; she was the rage ; 
 but the women tabooed her. It was not to 
 be supposed that a clever girl like Pauline 
 could be blind to this fact, and if she smiled 
 outwardly she bled inwardly. She was bit-
 
 'MRS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 255 
 
 terly sore about the way the ladies of the 
 county passed her over, for it must be borne 
 in mind that the Beardmores were of good 
 blood in those parts, and though much im- 
 poverished of late years, were still owners 
 nominally of many acres, heavily mortgaged 
 though they might be. 
 
 But the fact was, Mr. Beardmore was a 
 man on whom respectability looked askance. 
 It was not that he had gambled and come to 
 grief ; it was not that he had raced and im- 
 poverished his property largely — society does 
 not thrust out men for such peccadilloes — but 
 for some years after his wife's death, which 
 took place when Pauline was but a child, 
 Brancepath had been no decorous establish- 
 ment — a rendezvous of men of no character, 
 of ladies of more than doubtful. True it 
 was that since his daughter's assumption of 
 the reins of government, Brancepath had in a 
 modified sense reformed. Dubious feminine 
 society had disappeared from that time, but 
 the men who visited there were still by no
 
 256 CECILE. 
 
 means of the elect, and not of the kind wel- 
 comed in ordinary country houses. 
 
 Ere she had attained her twentieth year, it 
 presented itself clearly to Pauline's mind that 
 if she ever wished to attain any social status 
 • — and she dearly coveted it — she must marry. 
 At that time the two most elegible admirers 
 in her train were Ernest De Yitre and the 
 Honourable Oxley St. Leger. St. Leger was a 
 colonel in the Guards, arrived at pretty well 
 the end of his resources ; a man leading 
 much such a life as her father had led ; good 
 looking, and with all the easv manner of 
 good society. Pauline inherited from her 
 mother some twenty-five thousand pounds, 
 which became her own upon attaining her 
 majority. The frequenters of the house 
 rather opined that she would marry De 
 Yitre ; but he suddenly gave up his visits to 
 Brancepath, and within another six months 
 Pauline had married Oxley St. Leger. Her 
 father upon that occasion did her about the 
 first good turn that he had ever done — in
 
 ' MKS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 257 
 
 insisting that her own fortune should be 
 rigidly settled on herself and children. Chil- 
 dren there were none. It was an ill-assorted 
 marriage, and by the end of a year each 
 went his and her own way. I don't mean that 
 they separated; they still lived nominally 
 under the same roof in a little house in May 
 Fair, in which they had set up their tent, but 
 by tacit consent each took his and her own 
 path in life. Mrs. St. Leger visited, stayed, 
 and went out where she listed ; while her 
 husband frequented his own haunts, and dis- 
 appeared on various and mysterious jaunts 
 unquestioned by her. 
 
 Handsome, clever, and with a most win- 
 ning manner, aided by the introduction her 
 husband's family gave her, Pauline, not 
 slowly, but rapidly made her way into 
 society. The men were at once at her feet ; 
 but her early experiences taught Pauline that 
 she must make her way with the women too, 
 and she laid herself out most successfully to 
 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 CECILE. 
 
 conciliate the latter. She played at starting 
 the role of the neglected wife with marvellous 
 success ; and people who regarded Oxley St. 
 Leger as an exceedingly black sheep, pitied 
 and petted his deserted partner. It was 
 wonderful how soon she became a power in 
 fashionable circles. She dressed to perfec- 
 tion ; but as for entertaining, of course the 
 Oxley St. Legers were not expected to do 
 that. 'We are such paupers, you know/ 
 Pauline would say with a smile, ' I can't ask 
 you to dinner ; but come and see me at lunch, 
 and I can promise you shall not be poisoned.' 
 Mrs. St. Leger 's luncheons were soon an 
 established fact in the London world, and 
 no invitation of that kind was more eagerly 
 jumped at in the season. 
 
 All this occurred, of course, some years 
 before the date of my story. At the present 
 moment Pauline was quite a leader in the 
 set she affected, and had no difficulty in 
 obtaining an entree into any house she 
 coveted. It is true people did sometimes
 
 'MRS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 259 
 
 muse and ponder over how the Oxley St. 
 Legers carried on — how Mrs. St. Leger 
 settled for her numberless rich and becoming 
 toilettes, opera boxes, &c. But the little 
 house in May Fair was their own, and the 
 ways of the Providence that tempers the wind 
 to the shorn lambs of Bohemia are inscrutable. 
 The St. Legers both belonged to that un- 
 fathomable race which reckons within its 
 magic circle both peers and vagabonds. So 
 still they scrambled on. Women in Pauline's 
 position can generally compass opera boxes, 
 carriages, &c. in great measure gratuitously, 
 and of course Mrs. St. Leger was not quite 
 the woman to overlook her tithes of this 
 kind. 
 
 • Next to trying to break the bank at Ba- 
 den,' I once heard a veteran of many London 
 experiences observe, ' the most expensive 
 thing I know is a flirtation with a married 
 woman, practically, but not legally, separated 
 from her husband.' And I fancy many of 
 Pauline's admirers would have endorsed that 
 
 8 2
 
 260 CECILE. 
 
 statement. That Mrs. St. Leger's name had 
 been at times coupled with a good many 
 men's was a matter of course ; but though 
 often talked about, Pauline had never given 
 rise to scandal such as she was unable to live 
 down. In one case only had the London 
 world shown a strange clemency, and that was 
 regarding her intimacy with Ernest De Vitre. 
 It was true there was some slight babble 
 years back concerning their friendship, but 
 it had rapidly passed over, and at this time 
 Mrs. St. Leger and De Vitre were regarded 
 as sworn allies without scandal or detriment. 
 They lived in the same set, visited the same 
 country houses in the autumn, and he was 
 one of the most constant habitues of the little 
 house in May Fair ; yet none of the London 
 world now-a-days ever dreamt of coupling 
 those two in scandalous story. 
 
 Some three weeks have elapsed since the 
 Twickenham water-party, and Pauline has 
 cemented her acquaintance with Lady Mal- 
 landaine. I don't mean that they are inti-
 
 'MRS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 261 
 
 mates, but calls have been exchanged, and 
 they are inscribed upon each other's visiting- 
 lists. Mrs. St. Leger sits in her pretty 
 drawing-room, leaning her cheek upon her 
 hand and lost in thought. The delicate eye- 
 brows straighten their curve, and the mouth 
 hardens a little, as she muses. Miserable 
 subject of meditation that graves lines on 
 most of our faces and sprinkles our hair with 
 silver — 'ways and means.' There are of 
 course the slight percentage of millionaires to 
 whom scarcity of gold is a thing unknown — 
 objects indeed of envy these ! but for the 
 blessed conviction that life may be made too 
 easy — yes, you may arrive at anathematising 
 the rose leaves. Still to most of us there 
 comes the hour when we meditate upon that 
 insolvable problem, the paying of five shil- 
 lings with half-a-crown. And that problem 
 it was that occupied Pauline St. Leger's 
 thoughts this fair summer morning. By no 
 means the first time such difficulty had pre- 
 sented itself. Common enough phase in her
 
 262 CECILE. 
 
 father's harum-scarum establishment during 
 her regime there. 
 
 But the announcement of Mr. De Vitre 
 broke the thread of Pauline's sombre mus- 
 ings, and her brow cleared as she welcomed 
 Ernest. 
 
 ' Sit down and talk to me,' she exclaimed ; 
 * my thoughts have been none of the 
 brightest, and I would fain change their 
 current.' 
 
 ' What's the matter ? What has gone 
 wronor now ? ' 
 
 'Nothing. Simply the old story — I am 
 horrible hard up, and don't see my way. 
 There, that will do ; I don't want to talk to 
 you about it as yet, though you've been my 
 confidant pretty often on such points.' 
 
 * Yes,' returned De Vitre, from the depths 
 of an easy-chair in which he had ensconced 
 himself ; ' and I trust you will allow have 
 exerted myself to the best of my ability to 
 assist you on such occasions.' 
 
 6 Oh, yes, you've been very kind ; but
 
 6 MRS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 263 
 
 don't bore me with recapitulation of past 
 benefits just now. By the way, I have 
 never had an opportunity of expressing my 
 admiration of your conduct at Twickenham. 
 Has the Eoyal Humane Society sent you a 
 medal yet ? ' 
 
 ' No,' laughed De Vitre ; 'Iain afraid my 
 heroic struggles just out of my depth, about 
 fifteen feet from the bank, and within reach 
 of unlimited assistance, have been overlooked 
 by that vigilant body.' 
 
 ' Ah, never mind ! No doubt you got a 
 very pretty note from Lady Mallandaine ; 
 and after the way you went on about her 
 the other night at the Courthopes, I dare- 
 say you think that more to the purpose.' 
 
 ' I don't remember saying more than that 
 I had just met her, and was much impressed 
 with her beauty,' replied Ernest, lazily. 
 
 ' Well, all these things go by comparison 
 — that's raving for you. But she is pretty — 
 very pretty ; and what is more, she is a sweet 
 innocent little thing, without being so insipid
 
 204 CECILE. 
 
 as such women are mostly ;' and Pauline 
 shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' Why, have you made her acquaintance ? ' 
 exclaimed De Vitre, with considerable as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 ' Yes,' laughed Mrs. St. Leger ; ' I hadn't 
 the opportunity of exhibiting heroism to your 
 extent, but I had the opportunity of being 
 useful. Of course she fainted on seeing the 
 catastrophe — women of her type always do ; 
 and the people who ran to her assistance 
 had all lost their heads. The minute she 
 came to herself I administered the stimulant 
 she wanted, but which the others were too 
 confused to think of.' 
 
 ' And that was ? ' 
 
 ' Simply to tell her that her boy was safe 
 and asking for her. It acted like magic. 
 She was pale as death and shaking like an 
 aspen. I know, because I gave her my arm 
 across the lawn, and could feel how she 
 trembled ; but she mastered herself at once. 
 She's devoted to that boy — and a fine little
 
 6 MRS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 265 
 
 fellow he is. I wonder,' continued Pauline, 
 musingly, ' if I had had a child, whether I 
 could have cared about the little animal in 
 that fashion.' 
 
 ' I've no doubt you would have made a 
 most exemplary mother,' replied De Yitre, 
 with a slight inflection of the voice. 
 
 'Don't lie to me, Ernest,' retorted Mrs. 
 St. Leger, with a flash of her dark eyes as 
 the slight sarcasm of the tones caught her 
 ear; 'you know you don't think so. I'm 
 not fond of children, but it may be different 
 with one's own.' 
 
 'And pray have you seen Lady Mallan- 
 daine since ? ' asked De Yitre. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Pauline, as she pushed back 
 the heavy masses of hair from her temples ; 
 ' I called to enquire after the little unfor- 
 tunate, and was admitted. I hardly know 
 what made me ask to go in — on Poland 
 Dance's account, I think ; they are great 
 friends of his, you know. So that now we 
 have exchanged cards.'
 
 266 CECILE. 
 
 1 If one could do you the injustice of sup- 
 posing you to have a weakness, Pauline, I 
 should say you had for Eoland Dance.' 
 
 ' Poor Eoland ! ' said Mrs. St. Leger, 
 musingly. ' Yes, I do like him. He is 
 genuine, at all events ; and despite his Lon- 
 don training, I can see him wince when I'm 
 kind to Sir Alberic. Not worth catching? 
 Well, perhaps not ; but we kill sometimes to 
 desennuyee.' 
 
 4 If your victims only knew your senti- 
 ments,' laughed De Vitre, ' they would taste 
 but modified happiness.' 
 
 c Quite as much as they deserve. You 
 are wretches, most of you ; and it is only re- 
 tributive justice that a few of us should have 
 the power of reprisal. It was Madame de 
 Stael, wasn't it, who said, " Plus fai connu 
 les hommes, mieuxfai aime les chiens?" I 
 never understood that remark until I saw 
 her picture. He must have been rather a 
 bold or a blind man who ventured to talk 
 soft nonsense to her.'
 
 'MRS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 267 
 
 ' According to what we are told, nobody 
 ever had much chance to talk anything to 
 her. She did all that herself.' 
 
 ' Yes, and the poor dogs had to listen. 
 That would quite account for her singular 
 preference,' said Pauline, laughing. ' But 
 havn't you anything to tell me this morning ? 
 Has not the Anti-Lysistrata been amusing 
 lately?' 
 
 ' Well, not very. Egerton Slane declared 
 the other night that, though it was quite 
 probable in a few years that our representa- 
 tives would be all women, he felt quite sure 
 that, from a misconception of the office, 
 they would never agree about electing 
 a "Speaker," as they would be all candi- 
 dates.' 
 
 ' Yes, that's like Mr. Slane.' 
 
 c While Durant enlivened us with an 
 historiette (of course of his own manufac- 
 ture) that Mrs. Axminster — people, you 
 know, who have just taken that big house 
 near Eutland Gate, and made their money
 
 268 CECILE. 
 
 in carpets — had quarrelled with her husband 
 about the colour of her carriage-horses. 
 She had heard (baize) bays were in fashion, 
 and expected them to be pea-green.' 
 
 1 Mr. Durant is not so happy as usual,' 
 replied Pauline, with a slight smile. ' But, 
 Ernest, I want to know how it is you are so 
 struck with Lady Mallandaine.' 
 
 1 Pray, who told you that I was ? ' enquired 
 De Yitre. 
 
 ' Mine own eyes ; I know you so well. 
 It's not like you to take the trouble to get 
 introduced to anyone who don't happen to 
 move in your own circle without strong 
 reasons.' 
 
 ' Your eyes are not only very handsome, 
 but very keen,' he replied. ' If you must 
 know, she is a reminiscence to me.' 
 
 * Why, you never saw her till the other 
 day. I don't understand you.' 
 
 1 No. Well, she's wonderfully like a 
 woman who was a great deal to me many 
 years ago — no one you ever saw or heard
 
 1 MKS. ST. LEGER AT HOME.' 269 
 
 of. It was that old memory, I think, im- 
 pelled me to make her acquaintance.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Mrs. St. Leger, musingly, ■ I 
 think I can understand that. Well, all I can 
 say is, if you mean to cultivate her, the fates 
 have been most propitious. Fishing that 
 boy out of the water the other day gives 
 you a great start. It bridges over all the 
 preliminaries, and places you on an intimate 
 footing at once.' 
 
 De Yitre made no reply, but toyed care- 
 lessly with a paper-knife that he had picked 
 up from the adjoining table. 
 
 4 Well, Ernest,' said Mrs. St. Leger, rising, 
 1 1 must go out now and get a little fresh 
 air. I don't apologise to you for my lack of 
 courtesy. Will you come to lunch ? ' 
 
 ' No, thanks, not to-day ;' and De Yitre 
 made his obeisance.
 
 270 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 ' HER GRACE OF PUMICESTONE'S BALL.' 
 
 Exceeding was the gratitude of Cecile for 
 what she looked upon as ' her boy's life.' 
 Sir Hervey's card was on De Vitre 's table 
 the next morning, accompanied by a manly 
 note of heartfelt thankfulness, regretting that 
 he had so far failed to acknowledge per- 
 sonally the obligation under which he had 
 been placed. To this was added a tear- 
 stained fluttering little note from Cecile, 
 begging that Mr. De Vitre would call and 
 let her thank him for his chivalrous action, 
 and show her personally that he had sus- 
 tained no harm from his gallant exertions in 
 her child's behalf. 
 
 Ernest De Vitre did call. He laughingly 
 disclaimed any particular credit on the oc-
 
 6 HER GRACE OF PUMICESTOXE'S BALL.' 271 
 
 casion ; said that he had the mere luck to be 
 the first to see the child topple over; that 
 there were half a score men on the bank 
 who could have rendered service prompt and 
 effective as he had done ; and wound up by 
 making great friends with the originator of 
 the scene, Master Bertie himself. 
 
 6 No, Mr. De Yitre,' said Cecile, as she said 
 good-bye to him at the expiration of his first 
 visit ; ' you don't cheat us out of our gratitude 
 in that fashion — does he, Hervey ? Whether 
 there were hands as willing or not to help 
 me at my need, it is clear there were none 
 so ready. We are no longer acquaintances, 
 but friends in earnest, remember ;' and the 
 tears stood in Cecile's eyes as she extended 
 her hand to him. 
 
 6 Yes, De Yitre, I hope you will take what 
 my wife says as really meant. Circumstances 
 carry us swiftly over years of casual acquaint- 
 ance at times. Either here or at Childerley, 
 we shall be only too glad to see you when- 
 ever you will volunteer us a visit.'
 
 272 CECILE. 
 
 And Ernest De Yitre had prosecuted his 
 acquaintance with the Mallandaines pretty 
 assiduously ever since. He often dropped in 
 to lunch, and was by this time regarded quite 
 as to be expected by Cecile at least three days 
 a week. He had dined there three or four 
 times, and had quite established himself on 
 the easy footing of an ami de la maison. 
 
 Bertie had never quite got over his duck- 
 ing. The boy was rather delicate, strong 
 and healthy as he looked, and a violent cold 
 had been the result — a cold which he seemed 
 unable to shake off. Still, though not quite 
 himself, the doctors agreed in their prognos- 
 tications that change of air would speedily 
 put him to rights ; and as the Mallandaines 
 were to leave town for Childerley in the 
 course of the ensuing fortnight, that would 
 be speedily attainable. 
 
 The season was well-nigh at its dregs. It 
 was later far than Lady Mallandaine had ever 
 'kept high feast and festival' before in 
 London. She lingered but for one ball.
 
 'HER GRACE OF PUMICESTONE'S BALL.' 273 
 
 Rumour said it was to be the great event 
 of the year. A ticket for Clanronald House 
 was the subject of much intrigue and 
 manoeuvring. 
 
 Her Grace of Pumicestone (the owner 
 thereof), daughter of a grand old Scottish 
 family, who, tracing their descent back 
 to pre-Adamite times, had only at last 
 fairly lost the chain amongst the mastodons, 
 had been brought up to wed strawberry 
 leaves. She had succeeded — a fact not always 
 given to such high intention. She had con- 
 tributed little further to this world beyond 
 showing her contempt for the very inferior 
 clay that composed the generation it was 
 her misfortune to be born in. To speak geo- 
 logically, it was the old red-sandstone con- 
 templating the new deposits. Nothing but 
 geological metaphor is left in which to de- 
 scribe the antiquity of her Grace's family. 
 Although now grown somewhat angular and 
 ill-favoured (red-standstone formation show- 
 ing the encroachments of democracy's flood- 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 CECILE. 
 
 tides), yet society still shrank, as, clad in 
 velvet and radiant with diamonds, she super- 
 ciliously surveyed it through her heavy gold 
 eyeglass. When her Grace deigned to receive, 
 society cringed, and, metaphorically speak- 
 ing, licked her very doorsteps for cards of 
 invitation. 
 
 What are these mock idols that society 
 erects, and, like the Eastern fanatic, ap- 
 proaches over weary miles on its bended 
 knees? Fashion! Money I Notoriety! — the 
 trinity of gods that modern idolaters worship. 
 It reminds one of the old game of forfeits. 
 We bow to the first, kneel to the second, 
 and are lost in awe and admiration of the 
 third. Her Grace of Pumicestone combined 
 all three. The possession of the two first 
 would have conferred upon her the third, 
 even had she not enjoyed the reputation 
 of a faculty for rudeness almost without 
 parallel. It was not cleverness or satirical 
 power on her Grace's part — far from it. It 
 was not with intentional object of wounding — 
 no, her Grace was not maliciously disposed
 
 1 HER GRACE OF PUMICESTOXE S BALL. Z i 
 
 But it was the utter negation that the gene- 
 rality of mankind with whom she came in 
 contact were of the same flesh and blood as 
 herself. She looked upon them mostly as a 
 rather lower type of humanity, and treated 
 them either with contemptuous kindness or 
 freezing indifference. 
 
 Lady Mallandaine had received a card 
 for the great Clanronald House ball, much 
 to her astonishment, for she mixed not in 
 the distinguished circle of winch her Grace 
 constituted the sim. But, nevertheless, Cecile 
 felt a slight flush of pardonable vanity at 
 finding herself in possession of the entree to 
 the innermost circle of the London world. 
 She was quite aware how people canvassed, 
 schemed, and toiled to compass the posses- 
 sion of one of these bits of cardboard. Hers 
 had come to her unsought, and Cecile was 
 not a little proud of her right to set her 
 slipper in Clanronald House, if she so chose. 
 
 Not much mystery really how it came. 
 Ernest De Yitre, as has been before men- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 CECILE. 
 
 tioned, pulled the strings of a good many of 
 the puppets of London life. I don't know 
 that his acquaintance with the Duchess, which 
 was slight, quite enabled him to do this ; 
 but there were plenty of weak spots in the 
 Duke's character likely to be assailable by a 
 man like De Vitre. It was not the set he 
 himself most affected. In the very fast and 
 free-and-easy circle in which he and Pauline 
 St. Leger bore sway, I am afraid the Pumice- 
 stone circle were looked upon as a little 
 heavy; a set to which it behoved you to 
 show that you had the entree, and then to 
 be bored with it as little as might be. 
 
 But it is the night of the Duchess's ball, 
 and Cecile is in sore tribulation. Little 
 Bertie has been ailing for some days, and 
 to-night is more feverish and restless than 
 usual. Cecile has been devoted to him, and, 
 much as she wishes to attend this ball, can 
 hardly make up her mind to leave her child. 
 True, the doctors tell her that there is nothing 
 of any consequence amiss ; but the mother's
 
 • HER GKACB OF FUMICESTONK*S BALL.' 277 
 
 heart quakes at the bare idea of harm corning 
 to her darling. She consults Sir Hervey at 
 dinner anxiously, but fails to inoculate him 
 with her fears. Fond as he is of his boy, his 
 more masculine nerves don't sympathise with 
 her to this extent. He also feels a certain 
 pride that his young wife's name should 
 figure amongst the list that were present at 
 Her Grace of Pumicestone's ball. 
 
 Cecile is distracted. She does not like to 
 leave her child, and yet she would fain for a 
 short time appear at Clanronald House. 
 
 ' Don't leave me, Mamma/ cries Bertie ; 
 8 I am so hot, and my head aches so. How 
 pretty you look to-night; but you're not 
 going away, are you ? ' 
 
 She was standing by his bedside in her 
 ball dress ; ferns and geraniums wreathed in 
 her soft fair hair; her mind shaken by 
 nervous doubt and vacillation. 
 
 ' He's no worse, Hannah, is he ? ' she en- 
 quired, anxiously. 
 
 6 No, my lady ; don't you fret about him.
 
 278 CECILE. 
 
 He lias a bad cold, and is a little feverish 
 and restless, but there is no reason for you 
 to be alarmed. I shall be with him till you 
 return/ 
 
 ' Bertie, darling,' said Cecile, as she bent 
 over him and pressed her lips to the poor 
 flushed little face, ' Mamma must leave you 
 for a short time. You'll be brave, my own, 
 won't you ? I know, Bert, you are suffering, 
 but Mamma will be away only a very short 
 time.' 
 
 ' Don't go, Mamma; please don't go,' replied 
 the child, querulously ; { my head is so hot.' 
 
 ' Send down to Sir Hervey, and say I want 
 to see him here immediately,' exclaimed 
 Lady Mallandaine. 
 
 And Hannah at once obeyed her mistress's 
 mandate. 
 
 Careless of her dress, Cecile gathered her 
 boy in her arms, and bathed his forehead 
 with vinegar and water. c That's better, 
 Bertie, dear, isn't it ? ' she said, as, after a 
 few minutes he nestled down into her em-
 
 ' HER GRACE OF PUMICESTONE'S BALL.' 279 
 
 brace ; ' more comfortable now, pet, are you 
 not?' 
 
 ' Yes, Mamma ; but don't go away from 
 Bertie to-night ; Mamma won't, will she ? ' 
 And the child threw his little arms round her 
 neck, and pressed his parched, fever-dried 
 lips against her cheek. 
 
 8 Sir Hervey has gone down to the House, 
 my lady,' said Hannah, as she quietly glided 
 to the bedside; 'and the carriage is to come 
 round for you in half an hour.' 
 
 ' But I can't leave him, Hannah ; look 
 how flushed he is.' 
 
 1 No, Mamma can't go,' murmured Bertie, 
 dreamily ; ! 1 can't let Mamma go to-night.' 
 And as he spoke the clasp round her neck 
 relaxed, the little head drooped upon her 
 shoulder, the lids fell over the fever-lit eyes, 
 and the child slept in his mother's arms. 
 
 ' He's asleep, Hannah,' whispered Cecile. 
 
 ' Yes, my lady ; put him down gently on 
 the bed, and leave me to take charge of him 
 till such times as you get back. He won't
 
 280 CECILE. 
 
 wake now for a couple of hours or more, I'll 
 warrant.' 
 
 Cecile slipped her child back into his bed, 
 and laid her lips lightly on his brow. That 
 his breathing was slightly heavy and stertor- 
 ous struck neither her nor the nurse. A few 
 minutes to repair the slight disarrangement 
 of her coiffure that Bertie had occasioned, 
 and she was on her way to Clanronald 
 House. 
 
 Bright shone the .lamps, and lightly rang 
 out the music through hall, reception-room, 
 and corridor. A large portion of the people 
 that constitute the London world were as- 
 sembled to assist at the last grand festival of 
 the season. The votaries of Fashion made 
 dance and libation at the last state cere- 
 monial of the goddess. Christmas was yet 
 afar off, and the penances exacted by mil- 
 liners' bills and lavish opera boxes a Nemesis 
 of the future. 
 
 8 And how's Bertie, Lady Mallandaine ? ' 
 said De Yitre, as he encountered her on the
 
 'HER GRACE OF PUMICESTONE'S BALL.' 281 
 
 threshold of the principal saloon some few- 
 minutes after her arrival. 
 
 6 By no means well, poor child ! Only he 
 fell off to sleep before I left, or I don't think 
 you would have seen me here to-night.' 
 
 De Vitre murmured some commonplace 
 regrets at not hearing a better account of 
 the boy. ' Will you take my arm, Lady 
 Mallandaine ? ' he continued. ' I don't know 
 whether you wish to make your curtsy to 
 our hostess. She only recollects Eoyalty and 
 the very bluest blood on these occasions. I 
 never presume to intrude on her myself at 
 these times, though she once did me the 
 honour to think me amusing.' 
 
 ' A compliment,' laughed Cecile, ' that I 
 presume you are unable to return.' 
 
 5 No ; there you are wrong. When I can 
 get the chance of drawing her out, I think 
 there are few people amuse me more. She 
 ought to have lived in the days of Louis 
 Quatorze. Her sentiments are quite those 
 of that epoch. She has never realised that
 
 282 CECILE. 
 
 the House of Lords now has to move with 
 the age ; that our nobility had to choose 
 between leading democracy or being swampt 
 by it ; and that a large portion of them have 
 had the intelligence to lead the wave, instead 
 of going down in a hopeless attempt to stem 
 the torrent — ten thousand pardons ! I ought 
 not to bore you with my political ideas and 
 democratic sentiments/ 
 
 ' I like to hear you talk,' said Cecile. 
 fi As the wife of a Member, I have to interest 
 myself in such things, recollect.' 
 
 6 True ; I had forgot that. When a con- 
 stituency elects a married representative, it 
 has a dual representation. Single, certainly, 
 in the House ; but socially it polls two strong 
 votes. Women are such thorough partisans 
 they never take up a cause by halves.' 
 
 1 I don't think, Mr. De Vitre, you have a 
 very good opinion of us generally? ' and Cecile 
 looked inquisitively at her companion. 
 
 ' I won't deny it, Lady Mallandaine ; I 
 have been — nay, am — rather a severe judge
 
 ' HER GRACE OF PUMICESTOXE'S BALL.' 283 
 
 of your sex, perhaps. Society is not a very 
 fair field in which to estimate them. Women 
 can be guilty of such meanness and pettiness 
 of action regarding each other in the London 
 arena — the stage upon which I see most of 
 them — that I own to not placing much faith 
 in them.' 
 
 ' But you should, Mr. De Vitre. I am but 
 young in the world's ways, you will say, but 
 I know it is good for you all to have faith in 
 us. You become worse men, believe me, 
 when you estimate us contemptuously. Be- 
 cause it may have been your fortune to have 
 known some weak and spiteful characters 
 amongst us, don't make the mistake of 
 gauging us all from an indifferent sample.' 
 
 c I won't say you are not right ; but belief 
 comes hard when faith is once shaken. Ah ! 
 here comes Merriott, seeking you, apparently. 
 
 1 Did ye not hear it ? No, 'twas but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance — let joy be unconfined ! ' 
 
 Alec Merriott came up to them at this
 
 284 
 
 CECILE. 
 
 minute, his face wearing a more serious 
 aspect than was the wont of that gay dragoon. 
 ' Lady Mallandaine,' he said, ' I am sent to 
 ask you to come to the tea-room for a 
 minute. Will you accept my escort there ? ' 
 
 ' Why, who can want me there ? ' enquired 
 Cecile, laughing. ' Lia is not here, I know.' 
 
 ' I think you had better go,' said De Vitre, 
 quietly. His quick eye had already gathered 
 from Merriott's manner that there was some- 
 thing wrong. 
 
 ' What is it, Captain Merriott ? ' enquired 
 Cecile eagerly, as she took his arm, with a 
 little nod to De Vitre. ' Am I to see anyone 
 pleasant when I get there, or is this a mere 
 subterfuge to enable you to chant Lia's 
 praises, and enlist me in your behalf? ' 
 
 4 No, Lady Mallandaine/ returned Alec, 
 gravely; 'I would not have brought you 
 there for that. I was sent to fetch you, and 
 know that it is right that you should come.' 
 
 A chill ran through Cecile's veins. Already 
 she felt a presentiment of coming evil. Her
 
 'HER GRACE OF PUMICESTONE'S BALL.' 285 
 
 thoughts turned rapidly towards her child. 
 8 It's not a message from home for me, is it ? 
 Oh, do be quick ; how these people do stop 
 up the way ! What is it ? Do you know ? 
 Speak, Captain Merriott ; what is it ? ' 
 
 * I can't tell you,' replied Alec, gravely. 
 * I don't know,' and he turned round, to en- 
 counter the face, now pale with terror, that 
 looked appealingly up to him. ' But here 
 we are at last ;' and he entered the tea-room. 
 
 1 Hervey ! my God, what has happened ? ' 
 gasped Cecile, as she was met by her hus- 
 band on the threshold. 
 
 Sir Hervey's stern, haggard face spoke 
 volumes. ' You must come home, Cecile, at 
 once,' he said in a low, hoarse voice. 
 
 6 Yes, at once. My cloak, quick, Captain 
 Merriott. What of Bertie? Is he worse, 
 Hervey ? Of course he is, or you would not 
 have come for me. What do they say ? 
 The doctor has been sent for ? How wrong 
 and wicked I was to come here to-night ! 
 Tell me what is it?'
 
 286 CECILE. 
 
 ' Thanks, Merriott,' said Sir Hervey, as he 
 took the opera-cloak from Alec's hands, and 
 threw it over his wife's shoulders. ' Come 
 away quick now, Cecile. Whether you are 
 to see poor dear Bertie alive again or no is 
 now a question of minutes.' 
 
 ' Don't say so, Hervey, please don't,' whis- 
 pered Cecile with streaming eyes, as she 
 crept close to him in the carriage. Is there 
 no hope ? ' 
 
 ' My darling,' replied her husband, c it 
 would be wrong to trifle with you now. 
 Nerve yourself to bear the shock as you best 
 may ; ' and as he spoke he gathered his girlish 
 wife in his arms. ' Poor Bertie's case was 
 hopeless when I came to fetch you. If you 
 see him once more alive, it is all you can 
 ever hope for. Eecollect, Cecile, I loved 
 him as much as you, though I'm not perhaps 
 so demonstrative , Let us bear our burden 
 together, my wife. Sympathy lightens these 
 trials, bitter though they must be.' 
 
 'You're very good,' murmured Cecile.
 
 6 HER GRACE OF PUMICESTONE'S BALL.' 287 
 
 'You ought to hate nie — a mother who 
 could leave her child as I have done, and 
 Bertie asked me — asked me to — tcf stay with 
 him to-night ; ' and here a torrent of tears 
 choked her utterance. ' I shall never forgive 
 myself — never!' she exclaimed, faintly, as 
 the carriage pulled up at their own door.
 
 288 CECILE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 4 DEATH OF BERTIE.' 
 
 The carriage stops. No need to ring : the 
 butler is standing on the steps, with the door 
 open behind him. He murmurs a confi- 
 dential reply to the curt interrogatory Sir 
 Hervey put to him as he supports his young 
 wife up the steps. No; all is not over so 
 far. The angel of death hovers o'er the 
 house with unlifted hand, but has as yet for- 
 borne to strike. The servants haunt the 
 staircase, with that mingled expression of 
 curiosity and terror that their faces mostly 
 assume when grief or death menace the 
 establishment of which they are a part. 
 
 4 Courage, Cecile ! ' whispers Sir Hervey ; 
 ' Bertie is still alive, scant hope though there 
 may be.'
 
 'DEATH OF BERTIE.' 289 
 
 Her limbs tremble under her as she hurries 
 up the staircase, clutching the balustrade 
 tightly and nervously in her passage. She 
 pauses for a moment at the door of the room, 
 then with a supreme effort pushes it open 
 and steps in. 
 
 Standing by the mantelpiece is the doctor, 
 his eye carefully watching the clock, from 
 which it occasionally wanders to a minim- 
 glass or his patient. Poor Bertie is tossing 
 restlessly in Hannah's arms, rolling his poor 
 little fever-split head incessantly. The flushed 
 face, the delirium-lit eye, made Cecile's heart 
 stand still ; but a quick, low remark from 
 Hannah recalled her to herself. 
 
 6 Please don't give way, my lady Do keep 
 firm, for the child's sake and your own. He 
 don't know what he's saying, poor lamb ! but 
 he calls for you incessantly. Dare you take 
 him?' 
 
 1 Yes/ said Cecile ; ' give him to me. 
 Bertie, darling, did you think Mamma never 
 would come?' And taking the child in her 
 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 CECILE. 
 
 arms, she seated herself in the arm-chair that 
 Hannah vacated. 
 
 ' Down — down ! I don't like the water ; I 
 shall never get out ! Mamma ! where is 
 Mamma ? why don't you come to Bertie ? So 
 naughty of you not to come when Bertie's 
 so frightened. Oh, I'm so cold ! wrap me up, 
 please. Go 'way, Lia; I don't love you — 
 you let me fall in. Oh, why don't Mamma 
 come ? ' 
 
 ' Mamma's here, darling,' murmured Cecile, 
 as she pressed her lips to the boy's burning 
 brow. 
 
 1 No, Hannah, I didn't/ muttered Bertie, 
 as he tossed restlessly in her arms. ' I never 
 touched it — it was broke when I came in.' 
 
 Some childish trouble or peccadillo haunts 
 the restless brain. 
 
 4 Lady Mallandaine,' said the doctor, in a 
 low voice, c you must make him swallow this. 
 I am giving him stimulants every half hour.' 
 
 8 Is there any hope ? ' asked Cecile, eagerly. 
 
 ' He is in very great danger, but there's
 
 'DEATH OF BERTIE.' 291 
 
 always a chance while there's life in fever 
 cases.' 
 
 1 No, no, I can't ; it's so hot,' moaned the 
 child ; c I don't want it ; ' and the fever-dried 
 hands strove to push the cup back from the 
 parched lips. It was with difficulty that 
 they succeeded in making him swallow a 
 portion of the medicine. 
 
 1 Mamma, Mamma,' he continued, querul- 
 ously, ' where are you ? Bertie's so ill ! why 
 are you not here ? ' 
 
 With cheeks pale as death and streaming 
 eyes, Cecile rocked her darling in her arms. 
 For the second time in her young life she 
 was realising a great sorrow. Her mother's 
 death had seemed hard to bear, but now she 
 was going through, though she knew it not, 
 the mere prelude to unutterable woe. 
 
 A hushed step on the landing, and her 
 husband glided into the room. He cast a 
 mute look of interrogation at the doctor, 
 who replied by an almost imperceptible shake 
 of the head. 
 
 u 2
 
 292 CECILE. 
 
 ' I have come,' he whispered, ' to bear 
 with you my share of affliction, Cecile. Pro- 
 vidence seems dealing hard with us. We 
 can but say, God's will be done ! ' 
 
 She stared vacantly at him, and made no 
 reply. There she sat in all the gaiety of her 
 ball dress — the flowers still wreathed in her 
 fair hair, the diamonds still glittering round 
 her throat and in her ears. Could the 
 revellers at Clanronald House have seen her 
 now, fitter sermon had never been preached 
 on the world and its vanities. 
 
 Bertie has dozed off into a fitful, fever- 
 haunted sleep, from which at times he starts 
 with incoherent babble. The candles burn 
 with that cold, peculiar light that heralds the 
 coming day. From time to time the doctor 
 leans over the boy, scans him narrowly, or 
 puts a finger on his pulse. Sir Hervey 
 sits silent and motionless, save when, after 
 the doctor's slight examination, he raises 
 his eyes mutely. Always the same silent 
 negative.
 
 ' DEATH OF BERTIE.' 293 
 
 Cecile, too, raises her tear-stained face on 
 such occasions, but with a slight shiver lets 
 fall her eyes without even waiting for that 
 slight shake of the head. She can read her 
 boy's death-warrant in his face. 
 
 The London life seems hushed. Slowly 
 and solemnly at intervals the church clocks 
 boom out the hour, and four metallic strokes 
 from a neighbouring steeple announce that 
 another day has dawned over the big city — 
 a hot, sulphureous day, such as London en- 
 counters in July — still Cecile gathers her boy 
 in her arms, still Sir Hervey sits motionless, 
 while the doctor and Hannah silently await 
 the end. 
 
 Suddenly Bertie, with a start, awakes from 
 his troubled sleep. He gazes about wildly 
 for a second, then, as he looks up at Cecile, 
 he exclaims, ' Mamma, dear, I know you now! 
 Kiss Bertie, for Bertie is going away ! I want 
 Papa ! ' 
 
 The tears fell fast from Cecile's eyes on the 
 boy's face, as she pressed her lips to his, and
 
 294 CECILE. 
 
 glittered, too, in those of her husband, as he 
 bent over the child. 
 
 1 1 am going away, Papa. Give my love to 
 Lia, and take care of poor Mamma. I have 
 been so ill, but I am quite easy now. Good 
 bye, Mamma ;' and as he spoke the boy raised 
 his head to meet his mother's answering kiss ; 
 but ere their lips met, the little head fell back 
 upon her breast, a slight shiver convulsed 
 his frame, and Bertie's course was run. 
 
 Sir Hervey clasps her hands as the doctor 
 gently takes the dead child from her embrace. 
 He leads her away, and she follows docile as 
 if in a dream. The tears have ceased to flow, 
 and Cecile feels as if her very eye-balls were 
 seared. She yields mechanically while her 
 own maid and Hannah put her to bed. She 
 is stunned by the blow. She is dimly con- 
 scious that a terrible grief has overtaken her. 
 She grasps feebly at the idea that she has 
 been guilty of an atrocious crime. 
 
 The doctor, the next morning, when he 
 sees her, is somewhat perturbed at her state.
 
 ' DEATH OF BERTIE.' 295 
 
 'Lady Mallandaine, Sir Hervey, is of a 
 very sensitive and imaginative disposition,' 
 he observed. ' This shock has been very 
 great to her, and quite too much in some 
 respects for her mind.' 
 
 ' Good God ! ' said the baronet, ' you don't 
 mean that I'm called upon to bear this too ? 
 You can't mean that my wife's mind has 
 given way under our affliction ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not ; but Lady Mallandaine, in 
 the first agony of her grief, is labouring under 
 a very painful hallucination, which requires 
 some little tact, care, and attention to dispel. 
 I have no doubt of her mind very shortly 
 recovering its balance, but it indubitably is 
 in danger on one point at present.' 
 
 'And that is?' enquired the baronet, 
 anxiously. 
 
 ' The death of her child. It's difficult to 
 get her to say much just now, in the morbid 
 state of mind she's lapsed into ; but I can 
 see distinctly that she accuses herself of being 
 the cause of his death. She thinks that had
 
 296 CECILE. 
 
 she stayed by his side, instead of going out 
 last night, he might have been saved. She 
 is reproaching herself bitterly on this point ; 
 and the more she broods over it, the worse 
 it will be for her. See her yourself, and 
 make her talk about her boy's death, and 
 combat this view of it. Send for the most 
 intimate female friend she has, and give her 
 similar instructions. Better keep the wound 
 green than let it scar over such an ulcer as 
 that. I need scarcely add that the poor child 
 died from acute inflammation of the lungs, 
 and that it was beyond human skill or atten- 
 tion to arrest what Providence had decreed.' 
 On this hint, Sir Hervey wrote a few lines 
 to Lia Eemington, and Lia was on her way 
 to Eaton Square as quickly as wheels 
 could carry her. The baronet's note was 
 the first intimation that she received of the 
 desolation that had befallen him, and Lia 
 was inexpressibly shocked and grieved at 
 the intelligence. To think that the bright 
 sunshiny boy of whom she was so fond, and
 
 'DEATH OF BERTIE.' 297 
 
 who, on his side, was so fond of her, was 
 
 gone — that she was never to see more of him 
 
 than — 
 
 1 that chill, changeless brow, 
 Where cold obstruction's apathy 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart — ' 
 
 brought hot tears from Lia's eyes. Sadly, too, 
 she thought of Cecile. How she was bound 
 up in poor Bertie, Lia knew only too well. 
 She pictured also the blow it must be for 
 Sir Hervey, for, though an undemonstrative 
 man, Lia was quite aware what a deep love he 
 had cherished for his boy. And all so sudden, 
 too, she thought. What a crash of all his 
 proud hopes and aspirations for his heir ! and 
 then she called to mind numberless little 
 instances that had indicated what pride the 
 baronet had taken in the poor dead child, 
 whom he had so fondly hoped would one 
 day stand in his place. 
 
 At length she arrived at the Mallandaines' 
 house, and was shown into Sir Hervey 's own 
 room.
 
 298 CEC1LE. 
 
 ' I knew you would come, Lia, to our help 
 iu our sore affliction,' he said, as he met 
 her and took her hand. ' The blow has 
 come upon us like a thunderbolt. For my- 
 self, I am sore stricken, but can bear it. 
 Heavy as the stroke is, I bow to it and trust 
 that an all- wise Euler knows best what is 
 good for us. But Cecile, poor child, is dis- 
 traught. We can do nothing with her. She 
 accuses herself of being the cause of poor 
 Bertie's death, and is past my reasoning 
 with.' 
 
 ' Oh, Sir Hervey, I am so sorry for you 
 both. I am so grieved myself about poor 
 darling Bertie. What can I do? only 
 tell me ; ' and the tears rained fast down 
 from Miss Eemington's bright eyes as she 
 spoke. 
 
 6 There's much for you to do, Lia. You 
 must combat this hallucination of Cecile's. 
 If she shrinks from speaking of it, do you 
 open the question. The doctor says it is 
 imperative, if possible, to disabuse her mind
 
 'DEATH OP BERTIE.' 299 
 
 on this point, and that we had better wound 
 her feelings now than let her morbidly brood 
 on that idea.' 
 
 6 I see. I will do my best, though I only 
 feel fit just now to sob my heart out. Will 
 she see me, do you think ? ' 
 
 4 We'll not give her the chance to say "No." 
 Come along. Thanks, Lia,' muttered the 
 baronet, as he opened the door of Lady 
 Mallandaine's room. 'I knew you would 
 not fail us in our need.' 
 
 Miss Eemington paused for a moment on 
 the threshold and gazed around. Cecile was 
 crouched in a small chair on the hearth-rug, 
 staring vacantly into the empty grate. She 
 did not even raise her head at the slight 
 noise made by the opening door. 
 
 In another second Lia had dashed across 
 the room, bound her arms round her, and 
 exclaimed, c Oh, Cecile, my darling ! ' 
 
 Lady Mallandaine struggled for a few 
 seconds to extricate herself from the em- 
 brace, but Lia held too tightly, and in less
 
 300 CECILE. 
 
 than a minute was sobbing on her shoulder 
 as if her heart would break. 
 
 With dry stony eyes Cecile contemplated 
 her for a little, and then, endeavouring to 
 push her back, exclaimed — 
 
 6 Go away, Lia. Ah ! you cry for him. 
 Hush, don't touch me, Lia. You don't want to 
 stain yourself by contact with his murderess, 
 do you ? Go ! ' 
 
 ' I won't. I loved him as well as you did. 
 How dare you say such shocking things of 
 yourself? Cecile, my darling, my sister in all 
 but name, if your place was by his bedside, 
 was not mine also? Think, dearest, that 
 when you accuse yourself you accuse me. 
 We have lost him, mine own. Xo effort on 
 our part could have saved him ; but, for his 
 memory and that of our old friendship, I 
 claim my right to weep for him with his 
 mother ; ' and here her tears choked Lia's 
 utterance, though she relaxed the embrace 
 in which she held her companion not one 
 iota.
 
 'DEATH OF BEKTIE.' 301 
 
 For a few seconds there was silence 
 between those two, and then, in tremulous 
 tones, Cecile whispered, ' Lia, can you 
 honestly — don't you think — I mean, do you 
 hold me blameless ? 
 
 ' Yes, dearest. Hervey and I know well 
 you would have died yourself to save that 
 poor little life. Nothing, the doctors say, 
 could have been done for him ; but, Cecile, 
 you have a husband as stricken as yourself. 
 You've a sister, myself, who feels this deeply 
 as you do. Won't you mourn with us ? 
 You have no right to seek isolation from the 
 fellow-sharers of your bereavement.' 
 
 ' Oh, Lia, Lia ! I'm so miserable. I can but 
 think if I had remained at his bedside, as I 
 should, it might have been different,' and 
 at last Cecile mingled her tears with her 
 friend's. 
 
 6 But don't you think,' she continued, after 
 a little, ' Hervey thinks so ? ' 
 
 ' No, no, no ! — never ! For heaven's sake, 
 Cecile, disabuse your mind of that idea.
 
 302 CECILE. 
 
 Worse poison you never can take ; ' and Lia 
 looked anxiously up into her friend's face. 
 
 But Lady Mallandaine shook her head 
 mournfully, and made no reply. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: ?I1INTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AMD CO., NEW-STBEET SQUABE 
 
 ISO PABLIAMBMI STBEET
 
 AT ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 
 BEtfTLEY'S FAVOURITE NOVELS. 
 
 With Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 65. each. 
 
 ROLAND YORKE. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. By the Hon. Lady Georgiana 
 
 FuiXEBTON. 
 
 RED AS A ROSE IS SHE. By the Author of ' Cometh 
 up as a Flower.' 
 
 BREEZIE LANGTON. A Story of '52 to '55. By Hawley 
 
 Smaet. 
 LADY ADELAIDE'S OATH. By the Author of ' East 
 
 Lynne.' 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE'S THREE CLERKS. 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. By Lady 
 
 GrEORGIAXA FrLLEBTON. 
 
 QUITS. By the Author of ' Initials.' 
 
 EAST LYNNE. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
 
 THE CHANNINGS. By the Author of « East Lynne.' 
 
 MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. By the same 
 
 Author. 
 THE INITIALS. By the Author of ' Quits,' ■ At Odds,' &c. 
 COMETH UP AS A FLOWER. By the Author of « Red 
 
 as a Rose is She.' 
 MISS AUSTEN'S SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 PRIDE AND PREJUDICE. 
 
 MANSFIELD PARK. 
 
 NORTHANGER ABBEY and PER- 
 SUASION. 
 LADY SUSAN and THE WATSONS. 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SOX, New Burlington Street.

 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 042044906