LI B RAFLY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 UN IVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS
 
 CENWAl CIRCUWriON AND BOOKSTACKS 
 
 The person borrowing th- "'*"*'■''» 
 
 responsible for ,f?r^ ^^ material is 
 before the loS dL ^^^^' °'- ^^^t"™ 
 
 owned by the Un^I,M''?,7 ""'?"■: ^'' "«"«™ls 
 
 'W J a 2005 
 
 L162
 
 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 BY 
 
 MORTIMER AND FRANCES COLLINS. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1878. 
 
 All rinhtsreserved.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE. 
 
 BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.
 
 
 ^^3 
 
 V^. 
 
 
 TO 
 
 MRS. BYRON BLEWITT 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 DEDICATED.
 
 THE VILLAGE COMEDY 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE COPSE HILL INN. 
 
 Comedy meaneth sweet play in a village. 
 
 British Birds. 
 
 Valentine : . . . . Landlords differ, friend. 
 
 There be some put salt i' the tankard. 
 Orson : .... Ay, a plague to them. 
 
 They themselves drink not, so they spoil 
 
 good liquor. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 '' T ET us go up this hill," said Frank 
 -*^ Forncett to his companion, " and 
 we shall get a good view of the country 
 round." 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 Frank Forncett and his young friend, 
 Harry Rivers, were making an autumn 
 tramp through Oakshire, and had taken the 
 train from London to a Thames-side town, 
 whence they had begun their walk. 
 
 '' What a splendid view !" said Harry, as 
 they reached the top of the knoll. 
 
 " I wish we'd brought a glass," said 
 Frank ; "we might make out some of the 
 country." 
 
 They were standing near a clump of 
 trees, under which some beneficent person 
 had placed a large bench. An old man 
 was sitting on the bench, evidently resting 
 from the load he had been carrying. As 
 the gentlemen approached he got up, lifted 
 his hat most courteously, and said : 
 
 " Gentlemen, I hope I am not in your 
 way." 
 
 Although his clothes looked ragged and 
 old, he had no roughness in his manner,
 
 THE COPSE HILL INN. 3 
 
 but showed a natural gentleness ; and his 
 blue eyes were so bright, and long white 
 hair so picturesque, that Harry Rivers, who 
 was an impetuous 3^outh, became enthusias- 
 tic about him, and wanted to find some 
 way of offering him money, as he thought by 
 the appearance of his clothes he must need 
 it. He said : 
 
 " Pray don't move. You must need rest 
 if you have carried such a load as that up 
 the hill. Have you far to go ?" 
 
 " Not much farther, sir. But, you see, I 
 ain't as young as I was." 
 
 "I daresay you are a good age," said 
 Frank Forncett. 
 
 " I'm in my eighty-five," said the old 
 man. 
 
 "Then, perhaps, you are the oldest in- 
 habitant," said Frank ; " there are generally 
 two or three ' oldest inhabitants ' about a 
 
 village." 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 ''Well, sir, now that old Webb is gone, 
 I suppose I am about the oldest. I am 
 older than the church and the inn and the 
 shop, and most of the houses in the village. 
 But that church you see over there, sir, v^ith 
 the tall spire, is a sight older than me, for 
 they say it's six hundred years." 
 
 " What is the name of this village ?" said 
 Frank. 
 
 " Copse Hill, sir." 
 
 "And may I ask your name?" said 
 Harry modestly, feeling that age should be 
 respected. 
 
 "Leonard Day, sir; but I'm generally 
 called Old Leonard in these parts." 
 
 " May I have the pleasure of making you 
 a present ?" said Harry, pushing five shillings 
 into the old man's hand. 
 
 " God bless you, sir," said Old Leonard 
 in astonishment ; " you must be a most ex- 
 traordinary good young gentleman."
 
 THE COPSE HILL INN. 5 
 
 " If you are going to act in that way to 
 all the picturesque ragged old men you 
 meet in villages on your way," said Frank, 
 *' you'll have to write to your father before 
 we come to the end of our tramp and ask 
 him for another cheque." 
 
 " But, look here," said Harry, as they 
 made their way down the hill through yellow 
 furze and purple heather, " what a pretty 
 village ! Really, it is the prettiest I ever 
 saw in mv life. Just look at that inn in the 
 broad sunlight, and the burly landlord at 
 the door. What a picture ! and what a 
 jolly little nest of a house there is enclosed 
 by all those trees. And look at the village 
 shop across the green there. What is it 
 painted on the board ? Baker, Grocer, 
 Draper, Ready-made Clothes and Hats ! 
 I suppose that is the only shop. What a 
 primitive place to be only thirty miles from 
 London. How I should like to dream away
 
 6 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 my life here ! I should like to live in that 
 nest and work in the garden, and nail up 
 the roses and honeysuckles on the walls, and 
 never leave this peaceful spot ! How I 
 envy you, old fellow ; you could do all that 
 if you like ; you are not obliged to work 
 as I am ; I hear of nothing but my career — 
 as if I cared for a career ! Why can't my 
 father let me have enough to come and live 
 in a cottage and be quiet ?" 
 
 "My dear boy, you talk nonsense; you 
 don't know the world yet. In calculating 
 life you leave no room for the passions of 
 men, either good or evil." 
 
 '' But there can be no evil in such a place 
 as this : surely everything must go smooth- 
 ly here. There are no rival shopkeepers 
 to hate one another, and the people who 
 live in the cottages round must be good 
 when they have such beautiful country al- 
 ways before their eyes. I can understand
 
 THE COPSE HILL INN. 7 
 
 that in squalid streets, in close towns, there 
 must be everything that is bad ; but in such 
 a lovely spot as this people cannot help being 
 good." 
 
 " Well, let us go in and taste the village 
 ale, and I'll bet you a cigar, Frank, that in a 
 very few minutes I'll show you that there is 
 as much evil speaking, lying, and slandering 
 here as anywhere ; and I'll bet another 
 cigar that the shopkeeper and innkeeper 
 have a quarrel." 
 
 They entered the village inn, the Plei- 
 ades. 
 
 " A fine morning, gentlemen," said Big- 
 gins, the landlord, a man of the Daniel 
 Lambert build. There was a kind of surli- 
 ness in his civility. 
 
 " Yes," said Frank Forncett, " it is a fine 
 morning. We want to taste your ale, land- 
 lord, and perhaps you can give us a bit of 
 bread and cheese."
 
 8 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 "Come in, sir," said Biggins. 
 
 "Now then, some bread and cheese and 
 ale," said Biggins to liis wife, a pleasant- 
 looking woman, who seemed rather above 
 her position. 
 
 " Will you walk into the parlour," she 
 said, " and it shall be brought to you." 
 
 "N05 thank you," said Frank, whose idea 
 was gossip, " it will do here." 
 
 The "bar" of the Pleiades was a small 
 room with a bow window, which enabled 
 you to see what was going on either up or 
 down the road, and there was an aggressive 
 clock over the fireplace. 
 
 Mrs. Biggins busied herself to supply the 
 travellers' wants, and old Biggins, whose 
 body seemed too heavy for his legs, flop- 
 ped down on the window-seat, and eyed 
 them drowsily. Harry Rivers was some- 
 what disappointed with what he supposed 
 was an ideal landlord. His burly form at
 
 THE COPSE HILL INN. ^ 
 
 the doorway, seen from the hill, looked 
 picturesque ; but nearer inspection showed 
 that his fibre was coarse and his frame 
 heavy. 
 
 ''This is a very pretty village, landlord ; 
 it is called Copse Hill, is it not?" 
 
 ''Yes," said Biggins, with a grunt. 
 
 " Do you know" the population of the 
 place?" said Frank. 
 
 Biggins scarcely understood the meaning 
 of this. 
 
 " How many people ?" explained Frank. 
 
 " Well, sir," he answered slowly, '' I don't 
 know that I've ever counted, but there's a 
 main few comes here for beer. It's a dead- 
 and-alive sort of place, and w^ouldn't do me 
 much good but for the farming and carry- 
 ing." 
 
 "Oh! then you are a farmer and carrier," 
 said Frank. " By the way, you've a famous 
 man somewhere in these parts, I believe."
 
 10 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 " A famous man ! I haven't heard of 
 him," said Biggins. '' Have you ?'' he said, 
 addressing his wife, as she came in with 
 the bread and cheese. 
 
 " IN; o," she said, ^' I don't know of anyone 
 about here particularly famous. There's 
 Sir Herbert West and Squire Ashley, and 
 Mr. Perivale and Captain Lovelace." 
 
 ^' No, I mean Mr. Manly Frowde ; doesn't 
 he live in these parts ?" 
 
 '' Oh, yes," said the landlady ; " but he's 
 nobody ; he lives just over there in a little 
 house behind those trees ; but he's nobody 
 at all : he keeps no carriage, and has only 
 an odd man about the place. We don't 
 take him as much account, sir." 
 
 " So much for honour in one's own vil- 
 lage, Harry," said Frank. 
 
 "Have you a post-office here?" said 
 Frank to Mrs. Biggins. He had noticed
 
 THE COPSE HILL INX. 11 
 
 that the viUage shop was a post-ofFice, and 
 wanted to hear what was the landlord's 
 opinion of the shopkeeper. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Mrs. Biggins ; " it is over 
 at the shop there." 
 
 " They seem to sell everything there," 
 said Frank. *' Who keeps the shop ?" 
 
 " Miss Tattleton," said the landlady. 
 
 " And a nice character she is," said Big- 
 gins, who suddenly sat upright, as if he had 
 found somethinor sufficientlv worth sittin^r 
 upright for. " Why, I wouldn't post a letter 
 there for anything. Not I, I'd rather have 
 my old mare out and trot off to Wenley to 
 post my letter. It was all along of that 
 there fellow who lives in there," pointing to 
 Manly Frowde's place, '' that she got that 
 post-office. We used to have a pillar-box, 
 and quite enough too, but that there fellow 
 in there must have a post-office ; a pilhir-
 
 12 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 box ain't good enough for him. And so he 
 writes to some of these here people up in 
 London, and he gets just what he likes. 
 Why, if a poor fellow gets a drop too much 
 and makes a bit of a noise outside here, he 
 writes to some of these here people and 
 down come the police on us. They say 
 now he's going to have a telegraft down 
 here, but I shan't send no telegrafts through 
 that busybody, Miss Tattleton, and I don't 
 know who else will.'' 
 
 Biggins seemed inclined to go on, but was 
 out of breath with such a long speech. His 
 remarks were generally laconic, unless some 
 one whom he considered his enemy was 
 mentioned. At this time Miss Tattleton 
 and Mr. Manly Frowde happened to be his 
 chief enemies. 
 
 "I say, Harry," said Frank, quietly, ''two 
 cigars."
 
 THE COPSE HILL INX. 1^ 
 
 Harry's face had certainly lost a trifle of 
 its sunshine. 
 
 ''Cigars, sir, did you say?" put in Mrs. 
 Bio^eins. 
 
 "No, thank you, we've plenty with 
 us." 
 
 Harry quietly pulled out his case and 
 offered it to Frank, who took two cigars 
 with a quiet air of amusement. 
 
 As they walked away Mrs. Biggins sta- 
 tioned herself at the bar window to see 
 which way they went. 
 
 " Going over to the old cat, I suppose," 
 grunted Biggins. '' Don't think much of 
 them gents." 
 
 "The eldest one was no gentleman, I 
 should say," observed Mrs. Biggins, " for 
 he wears almost as shabby a coat as that 
 Frowde." 
 
 " Perhaps they've come after the silver 
 spoons," said Biggins.
 
 14 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 ''There they go into the shop," said Mrs. 
 Biggins. 
 
 " A nice lot of lies she'll tell 'em," said 
 the landlord.
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 
 
 O gossip, tliou delicious thing ! 
 
 Thou tirest not, like love or liquor : 
 When there's a story with a sting 
 
 How shrill tongues move, how green eyes flicker ! 
 
 '* '\7[7ELL, Harry, what do you think of 
 * ^ your ideal village landlord ?" said 
 Forncett. 
 
 ^* He certainly does not seem to be living 
 in charity with his neighbours, but then he 
 may be an exception. Perhaps we shall 
 find the shopkeeper more amiably disposed. 
 Good morning," he said to a middle-aged, 
 brisk-looking woman who opened the shop 
 door as the two gentlemen approached.
 
 16 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 The door was divided in two, and humble 
 customers squeezed through half as best 
 they might, but when Miss Tattleton saw 
 anyone of consequence coming, she gene- 
 rally unbolted the other half, and gave a 
 courteous greeting. Though not always 
 might the greeting be courteous : it would 
 partly depend on the day of the week. 
 Miss Tattleton was occasionally visited by 
 commercial gentlemen, who prowd from 
 place to place with long faces and long 
 bills, and whose faces elongate if they do 
 not happen to receive precisely the sum of 
 money they expect, since they know that 
 their employers will visit on them the sins 
 of their customers. 
 
 Miss Tattleton gave long credit to villagers, 
 which was perhaps worse for them than for 
 herself, as when once they had run up a 
 heavy score they found it almost impossible 
 to pay it quite off. Still, as she would ob-
 
 \ 
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 17 
 
 serve, the poor things must not starve, and 
 no doubt she saved many a family from 
 going on the parish in the time of their 
 distress. Then when there were weeks of 
 frost in winter, or wet weather in summer, 
 half the parish would be taking credit from 
 the village shop, hoping for better days 
 soon. 
 
 Miss Tattleton's travellers did not share 
 her sympathy with the poor, but only wanted 
 their money, and she, in disgust, nicknamed 
 them "fiends." Therefore, should you go 
 to her shop when she has had a visit from 
 a fiend, you will not find her in a good 
 temper. Her dormant cynicism will be de- 
 veloped. She will not have a good word 
 for anyone, and will describe all her neigh- 
 bours in unpolished epigrams. 
 
 Miss Tattleton to-day is radiant. It is a 
 good harvest, her poor customers are bring- 
 ing in money, and there is plenty for any 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
 i
 
 18 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 fiend that may turn up. Besides, she sees 
 a couple of strangers, and anything new is 
 her delight. Dressed in a bright cotton 
 dress, and pleased with herself and all the 
 world, she looks twenty years younger than 
 she probably is. 
 
 *' Good morning, sir," she said, in answer 
 to Harry's greeting. " Will you take seats, 
 gentlemen ?" 
 
 "No, thank you," said Harry, who at 
 once sat on the counter, and began survey- 
 ing the contents of the shop. 
 
 It was a small room with a counter on 
 each side, where were draperies and groceries 
 of all sorts; cheese, butter, lard, eggs, sweets, 
 corduroys, smockfrocks, gaiters, crockery, 
 tin-ware ; and from the ceiling hung brooms 
 and brushes, boots and shoes, candles, grid- 
 irons, tea-pots, saucepans, and many other 
 things. 
 
 *'What a curious mixture," said Harry.
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 19 
 
 ^' You can get everything you want, from a 
 rasher of bacon for breakfast to a candle to 
 light you to bed." 
 
 *' Yes, sir, and some paper and envelopes 
 to write to your sweetheart," said Miss Tattle- 
 ton. "But don't you want something of 
 this sort?" and she handed him a pair of 
 baby's socks. She always has a touch of 
 impertinence, sometimes pleasant, and some- 
 times spiteful. 
 
 "I am rather too old to wear them," said 
 Harry, ''and too young to want them for 
 somebody else." 
 
 " There would be no harm in having a 
 pair ready," said Frank, who entered into 
 the fun of the thing. " Your time must 
 come." 
 
 " It doesn't come to everyone," said Miss 
 Tattleton, " or I should be a grandmother 
 by now ; but what can 1 serve you with ?" 
 
 " I have come for some postage stamps, 
 
 c2
 
 20 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 and to know whether you have any bad 
 people in these parts," said Frank. 
 
 "Postage stamps are plentiful, but bad 
 people are scarce. We are a very well-be- 
 haved village : the parson works so hard that 
 they think of making him a bishop, the school- 
 master talks Latin, the innkeeper sells good 
 beer, and never uses bad language, and as 
 for myself I try to prevent gossip. There's 
 somebody across the way who writes books 
 and never puts any of us into them, though 
 there is great temptation, as we are a queer 
 lot." Miss Tattleton thought herself great 
 at irony. 
 
 " What a jolly place this must be to live 
 in," said Rivers. " Is there a cottage to let ?" 
 he said, jokingly, "with just room to swing 
 a cat in." 
 
 " We don't allow swinging cats in this 
 village. You would not swing that beauty, 
 would you?" pointing toamagnificentmouser,
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 21 
 
 with long fur, too lazy to open her 
 eyes. 
 
 "If I tried, her mistress might scratch, if 
 she didn't. But how about a cottage?" said 
 Eivers . 
 
 "I have heard that the gentleman who 
 lives across the lane there is going away. He 
 wants to marry a few daughters, and young 
 men are scarce about here." 
 
 " Now, Forncett, w^ouldn't that place suit 
 you ? You might take the house and one 
 of the daughters as well, and I could come 
 and stay with you." 
 
 " Is that house really to be let ?" said 
 Frank Forncett, seriously. 
 
 " Well, sir, I had it from the coachman, 
 as had it from the lady's-maid, that the 
 family thinks of going to live near London 
 to bring the youngest young lady out. They 
 haven't put up a notice to let, but I've 
 heard they have employed an agent, and I
 
 22 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 know people have been coming to see it, so 
 there would be no harm in inquiring." 
 
 '' And so your neighbour opposite writes 
 books ?" said Frank ; " but I suppose none of 
 you read them." 
 
 '' I don't read his rubbish," said Miss 
 Tattleton ; '* but I'm told he puts me in his 
 books and says I keep a scandal-shop. I 
 gave him a bit of my mind one day, and told 
 him he was ruining my business by saying 
 that. At our ^ Penny Readings ' he reads a 
 lot of foolish verses about the people here, 
 and fancies he is going to keep us all in 
 order, though I do think he has improved 
 the language of the landlord over the way, 
 who used to swear awful till Mr. Frowde 
 made fun about it at a penny reading." 
 
 '' But I thought you were all such good 
 people, and that there was no swearing or 
 slandering or anything wrong. In such a 
 lovely peaceful little place as this you ought
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 23 
 
 to live like a happy family," said enthusias- 
 tic Harry. 
 
 ^' You had better come and show us the 
 way, sir," answered Miss Tattleton. 
 
 ^' And who lives in that house ?" said 
 Frank Forncett, pointing to a good-sized 
 red-brick house lying opposite to the left, 
 behind a couple of acres of meadow. 
 
 " Oh, that is Mrs. Selfe's. She is a very 
 queer old lady. She has two pretty 
 daughters, but she treats them so badly 
 they won't live with her. So there she is in 
 that big house all by herself. She has got 
 a different religion from us, but she comes 
 to church sometimes, and always sits down 
 at the parts about Jesus Christ and the 
 Holy Ghost. She never spends any money 
 in the neighbourhood, or does anything for 
 anybody ; so the sooner she goes the better. 
 Her daughters come to visit Mrs. Manly 
 Frowde, and the old lady don't like to have
 
 24 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 her own flesh and blood so near her ; so 
 they say she's gomg, and that will be 
 another house to let, which perhaps might 
 suit you, sir," said Miss Tattleton, turning 
 to Harry Rivers. 
 
 '' But I shouldn't know what to do with 
 such a big house all to myself," said 
 Harry. 
 
 " Oh ! you could easily find some one to 
 share it with you. There are a great many 
 young ladies in these parts wanting 'hus- 
 bands. Why, Mr. Urgent, the Vicar of 
 Battlefield, has eight grown-up daughters, 
 and only one is married. She has just mar- 
 ried her fiither's curate ; you might choose 
 anyone of the other seven." 
 
 '' Perhaps you'll choose for me," replied 
 Harry. 
 
 " They're all such beauties that if I was 
 a gentleman I should not know which to 
 choose," said Miss Tattleton.
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 25 
 
 "" And who is your clergyman here?" said 
 Frank Forncett. 
 
 " Mr. Bonfellow, sir, and a downright 
 good fellow he is. People do complain of 
 him sometimes, but they are never satisfied. 
 They say he takes too many holidays, and 
 then the old men and women have to die 
 without him, which they don't think right ; 
 and they say he gives to people who want, 
 whatever they are, whether they are chapel 
 people, or drunkards, or anything else bad ; 
 and he will even help a woman in distress 
 who has got a baby without first getting a 
 husband, and there are plenty of that sort 
 about here." 
 
 *' Shocking," said Frank Forncett; "you 
 wouldn't help such a creature, would you ?" 
 
 " Of course not," said Miss Tattleton, 
 with mock gravity. Though Miss Tattleton 
 has been known to nurse a man in delirium 
 tremens, when his wife and all his friends
 
 26 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 were frightened to go near him ; and she 
 never flinches when she is asked to go and 
 sit up with a fever or small-pox patient. 
 She does not deny help to the worst of 
 characters, and would assist her greatest 
 enemy if he were in distress. To the wo- 
 man with a baby and without a husband 
 she would no doubt give a severe scolding 
 — and some clothes for the baby. 
 
 " Do you know if Mr. Bonfellow is re- 
 lated to Sir Richard Bonfellow ? " said 
 Frank. 
 
 '' Yes, sir; he is his youngest son." 
 
 " Ah ! I know the old gentleman," said 
 Frank, turning to Harry, ^' and a grand old 
 boy he is !" 
 
 '^ Well, madam," said Frank, who treated 
 all women respectfully, " I will take my 
 postage stamps and depart. Perhaps I shall 
 have the pleasure of seeing you again some 
 day."
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 27 
 
 " I hope so, sir," she replied, and she 
 bowed them out. 
 
 " What nice fellows !" she said to her 
 niece, Susan, who had been upstairs putting 
 on her afternoon gown, but had been down 
 for the last five minutes watching them 
 through the little parlour window that 
 looked into the shop. 
 
 *' What a swell the young one looked ! 
 The old one looks more like Mr. Frowde's 
 sort, in his shabby old coat," said Susan. 
 
 '^ Yes, but do you know," said her aunt, 
 *' that I believe the old one means to go and 
 look at old Wemys's house, and I shouldn't 
 be surprised if he took it ; for he said he 
 might have the pleasure of seeing me again, 
 and he seems to know old Dick's father." 
 
 Old Dick was Miss Tattleton's way of 
 speaking of the Rev. Richard Bonfellow. 
 She had such nicknames for most of her 
 neighbours.
 
 28 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 " T shouldn't have thought he was much, 
 from his clothes, aunt." 
 
 '' I didn't at first, but I could soon see 
 he was a real gentleman," said Miss Tattle- 
 ton, who fancied she was clever at discern- 
 ing true gentlefolk, though if she had been 
 questioned she would hardly have been able 
 to say what her standard of gentility was. 
 Most people of her class, and also a much 
 higher class, fix it a carriage and pair of 
 horses. The pair is necessary — one horse 
 would not do. A pony-chaise or a gig may 
 mean respectability, but a true gentleman 
 or lady must have a pair of horses. Now 
 Miss Tattleton was somewhat of a Radical 
 in this matter : she would pay deference to 
 anyone who arrived at her shop in a car- 
 riage-and-pair, but she would express her 
 free opinion of them all the same. " Mean 
 wretches !" she exclaimed of one family, as 
 they went from her shop; "they try to
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 29 
 
 beat everybody down, and get everything 
 as cheap as they can, and begrudge their 
 servants a bit of extra tea and sugar, and 
 all to keep a pair of horses in front of them. 
 I don't call them real gentlefolks." 
 
 A customer came into the shop. She 
 was a flighty-looking young person from the 
 village inn. Miss Tattleton knew that this 
 3^oung woman never came into her shop 
 except as an excuse for asking questions, so 
 she fancied — and rightly — that the t"wo 
 strangers who had just left were the objects 
 of curiosity. 
 
 '^ I want an 'air-net and a yard of elastic," 
 said the young person, simperingly. '' What 
 lovely weather, Miss Tattleton. I have 
 just been for a little walk, and I met two 
 gentlemen going into Wemys's house. I 
 suppose they are friends of Mr. Wemys. 
 They had lunch at our house." 
 
 The truth was that Mrs. Bisfsins had told
 
 30 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 her daughter to walk up the road and 
 watch where the two gentlemen went when 
 they left Miss Tattleton's. 
 
 Miss Tattleton was shrewd enough to 
 guess this, and knew that the young woman 
 wanted to know all about them. 
 
 " No, they're no friends of his. They've 
 been sent down here by the Government to 
 inquire about the water. So they came to 
 me first to know what I had to say, and 
 now they have gone to Mr. Wemys." 
 
 "But mamma said they were quite 
 strangers, and knew nothing about anyone 
 in the place, and hardly knew the name of 
 the place." 
 
 "Of course not," said Miss Tattleton, 
 ''because they've never been here before; 
 but I daresay they'll come again, and you'd 
 better tell your mother's man to look out, 
 for they'll be down upon him." 
 
 The young woman tossed her head proud-
 
 THE COPSE HILL SHOP. 31 
 
 ly, and quickly retreated, making up her 
 mind not to visit Miss Tattleton again in a 
 hurry. Which resolution she would no 
 doubt keep till curiosity should overcome 
 pride. 
 
 '' I've settled her for a time," said Miss 
 Tattleton, as she wiped her spectacles, pre- 
 paratory to settling down to her accounts. 
 
 The fact was that Biornrins, who would at 
 any time cut off his nose to spite his face, 
 had, at some trouble to himself, diverted 
 the course of a brook which from time im- 
 memorial had supplied water to various 
 houses in the village. It was Miss Tattle- 
 ton's sole water-supply; and after passing 
 through her garden, it ran into Mr. Wem3^s's 
 grounds, and formed a dip for the use of his 
 gardener. Miss Tattleton offended Biggins 
 by pointing out to the sanitary inspector 
 some nuisance on his premises : he, in re- 
 venge, caused holes to be due: in the chalk
 
 32 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 to let the rivulet off, so that no water passed 
 beyond his own farm, and many families 
 were inconvenienced. Mr. Wemys, who 
 was especially annoyed, took action in the 
 matter, but through the unsatisfactory state 
 of the law obtained no redress. Biggins 
 lost about fifty pounds over the litigation, 
 and would probably in time have been 
 brought to his senses, but Mr. Wemys, having 
 decided to leave the neighbourhood, took 
 no more trouble about it.
 
 33 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE HOUSE TO LET. 
 
 Love you the man, with fine loquacious vein, 
 Who pours small beer of talk as if 'twere dry cham- 
 pagne? 
 
 SHE'S an odd character," said Frank 
 Forncett, as he and Harry Eivers 
 walked across the green from the village 
 shop. At this moment a tall man passed 
 through the gate of Mr. Manly Frowdes 
 house, and lounged up the road reading a 
 book. He wore an old velvet coat and a 
 white waistcoat, and a battered straw hat 
 with a red ribbon round it. The book he 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 was reading seemed centuries old, with its 
 yellow pages, and oak cover, and antique 
 clasps. Tlie little green opposite the village 
 shop forms a triangle, and as Frank and 
 Harry reached a corner of it they came close 
 to the stranger. He had just closed his 
 book, and seemed to be repeating something 
 from it to himself, quite unconscious that 
 anyone was near him. 
 
 '' This is Manly Frowde, I am sure," said 
 Frank. " Let us pay reverence to genius." 
 Whereupon the two gentlemen saluted him. 
 Manly Frowde, suddenly seeing the salute, 
 awkwardly touched the battered brim of his 
 weather-beaten straw hat. 
 
 " Are you seriously going to inquire about 
 the house?" said Harry, as Frank showed 
 signs of walking up to Mr. Wemys's gate. 
 
 "Yes, I am ; I like the look of the place. 
 It looks quaint and original, and there is 
 some character to study here. If the house
 
 THE HOUSE TO LET. 35 
 
 is neither too big nor too small, I have an 
 impulse to take it." 
 
 "You want to turn hermit, do you, after 
 seeing everything? Be on your guard. 
 Hermits have been tempted in the loneliest 
 deserts." 
 
 " It will be a new sensation to be tempted 
 in a rustic corner like this. We have seen 
 no daucfhters of Circe either at the villagje 
 inn or the village shop, have we?" 
 
 ''Faith, I should think not," laughed 
 Rivers. 
 
 Mr. Wemys was a portly gentleman, who 
 received them with an air of pomposity. 
 He was one of those who put on a grand 
 dignified manner to hide some defect. 
 Such men are afraid to speak in a friendly 
 way to people of a lower class in case their 
 position should be mistaken. If a labourer 
 ventured to remark to Mr. Wemys that it 
 was a fine day, he would reply as if he 
 
 d2
 
 36 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 patronized both the man and the weather. 
 
 "Ah," thought Frank Forncett, "I can 
 see this man is a downright good fellow at 
 heart, and I know what little defect he 
 would hide by his manner. But he might 
 be easy with me. Perhaps I can make him 
 so before I have done with him." 
 
 After they had seen the house, which was 
 a tolerably good one, with four or five acres 
 of land attached to it, and had received all 
 necessary information, Frank asked a few 
 questions about the neighbourhood. 
 
 " Are you far from a station ?" said 
 Frank. 
 
 " Three and a half miles from the nearest, 
 but that is a small one called Two Bridges, 
 and we find Medenhithe, which is five miles 
 away, the most convenient," said Mr. 
 Wemys. 
 
 " Ah," exclaimed Frank, " we have just 
 walked from there."
 
 THE HOUSE TO LET. 37 
 
 ""Walked?" said Mr. Werays in astonish- 
 ment. " You must be very tired and 
 hungry? Pray let me offer you some- 
 thing." 
 
 '' Thank you, you are very kind ; but a 
 dozen miles is scarcely anything to me, and 
 we orot some bread and cheese at the inn. 
 We intend making a tramp through the 
 country, and took the train from town to 
 Medenhithe this morning. We were so 
 much struck with the view from the knoll, 
 and the pretty appearance of the village, 
 that we halted, and going to the village 
 shop for postage-stamps and gossip, we 
 heard that you wished to let your house. I 
 have for some time been looking for a 
 house that should be quite in the country, 
 and yet not too far from London, and not 
 near a railway ; and I think this will exactly 
 suit me. I should therefore like to take it 
 at once to prevent anyone else from having
 
 38 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 it ; and if you will be kind enough to take 
 my address, for I have not a card with me, 
 we can afterwards settle all other matters." 
 
 Mr. Wemys was delighted to get the 
 house off his hands so easily, for he had a 
 long lease, and paid a fancy rent, and found 
 it difficult to induce anyone to take it. 
 When the matter was quite settled, the 
 hospitable Mr. Wemys said : 
 
 '' May I not persuade you to discontinue 
 your perambulations for to-day, and to 
 stay and dine with us ? We dine at six." 
 
 " Thank you, I think we'd better tramp 
 on." 
 
 ''No, no ; let me find your young friend 
 and talk to him, and then I am sure you 
 will stay." 
 
 The " young friend " had, while looking 
 over the stables, made acquaintance with 
 young Wemys, a lively boy of twenty, who 
 was waitinf]^ for his commission, and had to
 
 THE HOUSE TO LET. 39 
 
 wait some time, as his name appeared a 
 very long way down on the list at the ex- 
 amination. For all that, he was cut out for 
 a soldier — had a manly look, plenty of 
 energy, a sound constitution, and just the 
 proper amount of pugnacity. His algebra 
 might be shaky, but his nerves were not ; 
 and if he was dubious about the legs of that 
 confounded isosceles triangle in the Pons 
 Asinorum, he could use his own on a long 
 tramp. He will probably make as good 
 a figure as men much higher up the 
 list. They were looking at some valuable 
 little dogs that young Wemys was rear- 
 ing, when Frank and Mr. "Wemys joined 
 them. 
 
 Harry Rivers was quite willing to stay to 
 dine. " But we've no clothes with us," he 
 said, " except some trifles in our knapsacks. 
 Our clean linen is ordered to be left in 
 readiness for us at certain inns where we
 
 40 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 have arranged to stop, and we hope not to 
 put on a dress-coat for a month." 
 
 " Oh, never mind that," said young 
 Wemys. " Look here, father," he said, 
 turning to him, '' you and I will dine as we 
 are to keep these gentlemen company, and 
 Ma and the girls will have to forgive us." 
 
 Mr. Wemys liked the dignity of the 
 family kept up by everyone appearing 
 dressed for dinner, and young Wemys, who 
 was always a gentleman in any coat, used 
 often to appear in morning dress. The old 
 gentleman would put on his most dignified 
 manner and inquire the reason, but his son 
 would say, "Late this evening, sir — watch 
 slow — very sorry — shan't occur again." 
 
 So it was arranged that they should stay 
 to dine. 
 
 "I think, Mr. Wemys, we will sleep at 
 the inn to-night, and start on our walk soon 
 after daybreak to-morrow. Will you let
 
 THE HOUSE TO LET. 41 
 
 your servant engage some bed-rooms for 
 us?" 
 
 '' I can hardly recommend you to go to 
 the Pleiades, for Biggins, the landlord, is a 
 most turbulent fellow and a great promoter 
 of discord in the parish. Will you allow 
 me to accommodate you ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. You are very good, but 
 I could not trouble you so far. I should 
 like to go on very early in the morning, 
 and would not take the liberty of disturbing 
 your household. Is there another inn with- 
 in reasonable distance ?" 
 
 '' There is one a few yards from my gate, 
 which our friends have sometimes used 
 when the house is full. If they can accom- 
 modate you, I think you might be comfort- 
 able," said Mr. Wemys. 
 
 ''Thank you," said Frank; ''that will 
 suit us. You have no lack of inns." 
 
 " Unfortunately, we have thirteen public-
 
 42 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 houses in the district for a population of 850. 
 So you may well understand that we are 
 not free from drunkenness in these parts, 
 though the peasantry generally are exceed- 
 ingly well behaved on the whole — very 
 well behaved " — said Mr. Wemys, relapsing 
 into his patronising tone when he thought 
 of ''the lower orders." ^' The shopkeeper 
 is, I think, a little given to gossip and mis- 
 chief-making, but an excellent woman in 
 her position — rather a rough tongue some- 
 times, and requires to be kept in her place 
 — apt to forget when she is speaking to her 
 superiors," he said loftily ; ^' it is that man 
 Biggins who demoralizes the villagers. He 
 encourages poachers and low characters, 
 and anyone who has lost his place from dis- 
 honesty. I don't like to see a gentleman's 
 servant hanging about at the Pleiades. I 
 know he is doing no good there." 
 
 " Your parson is Mr. Bonfellow, I hear,"
 
 THE HOUSE TO LET. 43 
 
 said Frank. " I know something of his 
 family." 
 
 "" Estimable vouncj man," said Mr. Wemvs, 
 "though sometimes a little lax in Church 
 
 o 
 
 matters. A little more ritual would please 
 me." 
 
 " And you have Mr. Manly Frowde 
 here ?" said Frank. 
 
 ''Yes," said Mr. Wemys; " do you know 
 im f 
 
 *' Only his works," said Frank. 
 
 " I have a speaking acquaintance with 
 him, but we don't visit," said Wemys, in a 
 tone which clearly meant that Manly Frowde 
 was somewhat beneath his notice. " He's 
 a clever writer," he continued patronisingly. 
 
 '' Are vou much troubled with morning: 
 callers and dinner invitations?" asked Forn- 
 cett. 
 
 '^ No," said Wemvs, who wished he had 
 been more troubled in this wav. " I do
 
 44 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 not find ray neighbours very sociable ; in 
 fact, the clulness of the place makes me 
 leave it. I do not care for society myself, 
 but my young daughters must go out a 
 little." 
 
 " The dulness will exactly suit me," said 
 Frank. Frank Forncett could easily see 
 why Mr. Wemys was not likely to be much 
 visited. 
 
 There is no need to describe the dinner, 
 which was well served and gaily eaten. 
 Mrs. Wemys was a pleasant hostess, and the 
 three young ladies agreeable enough, though 
 they did not wound Harry Eivers's suscepti- 
 ble heart. He thought little Kitty lively 
 and pretty, but then she was only a child. 
 They took leave early, and smoked a cigar 
 with Wemys the younger, as he guided them 
 to the Red House, a quiet, well- conducted 
 inn, where they slept right soundly. 
 
 They were off again next morning at a
 
 THE HOUSE TO LET. 45 
 
 very early hour, meaning that night to 
 sleep at the town where King Alfred was 
 born, and to climb the White Horse Hill 
 the day after ; a good pull, w^ith plenty of 
 hill and dale, but they did not tire, being 
 sound of wind and limb, and loving a long 
 tramp in the open air. With the exception 
 of some chops at East Ilsley (where mutton 
 ought to be good considering its great sheep- 
 fairs), they took nothing save the casual 
 glass of ale till they reached the Bear, at 
 Wantage. 
 
 " What a glorious day we have had !" 
 said Harry Elvers, throwing himself into a 
 chair, evidently built for the biggest farmer 
 in the county. *' What's to be had, waiter ?" 
 
 " Steak and stout,*' said the functionary 
 promptly. 
 
 " Hurrah !" exclaimed the exuberant 
 Harry; "no oysters, of course? We're 
 twenty thousand miles from anywhere. I
 
 46 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 say, Frank, has it occurred to you that 
 you'll get nothing fit to eat at Copse Hill ? 
 The old boy's mutton-cutlets yesterday were 
 mere fibre." 
 
 " I shall get everything from London," 
 said Forncett ; '^ Ralph does all that for me. 
 I take no trouble." 
 
 " He's an invaluable fellow." 
 
 " Ay, he is. He's a clear brain and a 
 active body, and the stillest tongue I ever 
 knew." 
 
 Forncett went to bed that night well 
 satisfied with what he had done so prompt- 
 ly. Always had he been given to neglecting 
 the saying, that ''second thoughts are best;" 
 but for that propensity he might not at 
 this moment have been a bachelor. He 
 slept soundly after his long tramp; no 
 vision of the night came to tell him that he 
 had taken a step which would change the 
 whole current of his life : no such present!-
 
 THE HOUSE TO LET. 47 
 
 ment reached him. The two pedestrians 
 breakfasted together in the gayest humour, 
 and tramped off early at five miles an hour in 
 search of the Blowing Stone and the White 
 Horse of Alfred.
 
 48 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE NEW COMER. 
 
 Always a flutter of petticoats, always a whirlwind of 
 chat, 
 When a newcomer arrives in a village marvellous 
 slow : 
 Tradesman hopes he has means, and may turn out a 
 thundering flat ; 
 Damsel hopes he has means, and may be a possible 
 beau. 
 
 Cynicus de Re Rustica. 
 
 II IR. WEMYS wished to leave The 
 -*-*-'- Bhxhes as soon as possible, having 
 heard of a house near town that would just 
 suit him, while Frank Forncett was anxious 
 to get into his new house. Therefore, about 
 the middle of November several large vans
 
 THE NEW COMER. 49 
 
 arrived at The Birches, and the goods were 
 moved in under the superintendence of 
 Ralph. 
 
 This was quite a sensation for the village, 
 a nine days' wonder, at least. 
 
 '^ Who is tlie new comer?" was every- 
 one's question. Mrs. Biggins oracularly re- 
 marked in the bar of the Pleiades that 
 " whoever he was, he was no gentleman, as 
 you might see by his dress." 
 
 ^'Any horses and carriages?" asked a 
 gentleman's coachman. 
 
 *^ He won't have no horses and carriages,'* 
 said Biggins, in a sneering tone; "he is 
 something the same sort as that there fellow 
 over there." (This was Biggins's usual way 
 of mentioning Manly Frowde.) "He's a 
 seedy chap, he is, and not worth much, I 
 guess." 
 
 Biggins was a carrier as well as a publican 
 and farmer, and kept large furniture vans, to 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 which he gave names, One was the '^ Gari- 
 baldi," the name being painted in large 
 yellow letters on a red ground on the side 
 of the van. Biggins had an idea somewhere 
 in his stolid old head that Garibaldi was a 
 great man, though if you had asked him 
 what he knew about him, he would have 
 been puzzled to say. 
 
 " What's old Garry doing now ?" he would 
 often say to anyone who he thought read 
 the papers and knew what was going on in 
 the world. 
 
 But he has lately found another hero in 
 the Tichborne claimant, and relates with 
 pride how he has been considered by some 
 people to be like " that unhappy nobleman 
 in Dartmoor." If he should set up a new 
 furniture van he will no doubt name it after 
 his new hero. He seems to have a misty 
 notion that when '^old Garry" comes over 
 here, everything will be made right, and
 
 THE NEW COMER. 51 
 
 Eoger will get his own again. Now, if 
 Ralph had employed Biggins to bring the 
 furniture and had not objected to paying 
 what Biggins would call " handsome and 
 like a real gentleman," Frank Forncett 
 would have been heralded by a flourish of 
 trumpets from the frequenters of the Pleiades 
 at least. 
 
 '* They say there's not much to be ex- 
 pected from the new gentleman," said one 
 of the good wives of the village, at Miss 
 Tattleton's, as she was carefully laying out 
 her small weekly allowance, on a Saturday 
 afternoon, in provisions for the following 
 week. 
 
 '' Who told you so?" said Miss Tattleton, 
 rather sharply, weighing out a quarter of a 
 pound of tea, which was supposed to be 
 sufficient to serve a family of six for a week. 
 
 *' My husband says as how he heard Mrs. 
 Biggins say so." 
 
 E 2 
 
 UNlVERSITir OF IIUNOIS
 
 52 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 **And what does she know about it?" 
 said Miss Tattleton. " You wait till you 
 see," she said, with a significant nod, and she 
 pushed the tea tightly down in the paper as 
 she packed it to make room for an extra 
 handful, which she put in before tying it up, 
 and handed it with a look as much as to 
 say, " I speak sharp, but I give you an ounce 
 of tea to make up." 
 
 This was her usual way of treating poor 
 customers, and may perhaps account for 
 the fact that she has not yet made her 
 fortune. 
 
 Among the many inquiries at Miss Tattle- 
 ton's about the new comer, was Mrs. Love- 
 lace, who liked a bit of gossip dearly. She 
 had been a very handsome woman, and was 
 trying to grow old gracefully, as Madame de 
 Stael puts it, but did not succeed. She 
 came mincing into the shop, dressed in a 
 style that would have been delightful in a
 
 THE NEW COMER. 53 
 
 girl of eighteen, but which scarcely suited 
 her maturity. 
 
 ''Well, Miss Tattleton," she said, "1 hear 
 that somebody has taken Mr. Wemys's house. 
 I hope he is some one on whom county 
 families can call ; so many doubtful charac- 
 ters come into this neighbourhood, and 
 Captain Lovelace, as you know, is very 
 particular." 
 
 ''Yes, ma'am, we know the Captain is 
 quite right to be particular. I think the 
 gentleman who is coming to The Birches is 
 very pleasant, but not quite the sort that 
 you and the Captain would like. He is, 1 
 think, more like my neighbour opposite," 
 said Miss Tattleton, pointing to Mr. Manly 
 Frowde's house. 
 
 " Oh ! do you think he is only an author?" 
 said Mrs. Lovelace, looking very much dis- 
 appointed. " That would be a great loss to 
 county society ; we don't want any more of
 
 54 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 those troublesome authors about. We have 
 been hoping we should get a nice family 
 here." 
 
 *' I wouldn't say he was an author," said 
 Miss Tattleton ; " though I have heard that 
 there are large chestfuls of books come 
 down with the luggage." 
 
 " I can't think why these authors dress so 
 badly," said Mrs. Lovelace, "unless it is that 
 they are so very poor. What a guy that 
 poor Mrs. Manly Frowde makes of herself. 
 I really quite pity the poor creature, though 
 I don't suppose she knows how bad she 
 looks." 
 
 "At any rate, she always looks happy, 
 and I am sure you and the Captain set a 
 good example in dressing," said Miss Tattle- 
 ton, looking admiringly at Mrs. Lovelace's 
 rich dress ; '^ and we can't all be good- 
 looking," she said archly. 
 
 Mrs. Lovelace tossed her head coquettish-
 
 THE NEW COMER. 55 
 
 1}^ delighted with the compliment, and for- 
 getting that the pretty little coquettish 
 movements, which are so sweet in a girl, are 
 contemptible in an elderly woman. She 
 was one of those weak women who are 
 completely conquered by a little flattery. 
 
 It is a brave sight to see an old man or 
 woman bearing the weight of age cheerfully. 
 Old age is too often made ugly. Young 
 people, instead of reverencing their elders, 
 laugh at them, or are frightened of them ; 
 and how common it is to hear young people 
 say that they hope they may never grow 
 old ! But when, as sometimes happens, the 
 experience of age is combined with the 
 freshness of youth, it is a glorious sight, 
 enough to make one wish to grow old. 
 
 Unfortunately, some people try to keep 
 the freshness of youth by painting and 
 adorning the body instead of adorning the 
 mind, and such can only be melancholy
 
 56 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 objects. The true way to render age vigor- 
 ous is to prolong the youth of the mind. 
 
 By the end of November The Birches 
 was in perfect order, ready for its new 
 master. The indefatigable Ralph had en- 
 gaged a couple of maid servants and a 
 groom, who were all paid very high wages, 
 on the understanding that they would be 
 dismissed at a moment's notice, and forfeit 
 a month's wages, if they were known to 
 gossip of their master's affairs. It had been 
 impossible to get any information from 
 Ealph, but it was quite expected that the 
 other servants would talk. When it was 
 found that they were silent, the verdict in 
 the village was that the new gentleman was 
 somebody mysterious, Biggins suggesting that 
 he had no doubt done something he was 
 ashamed of, or he wouldn't keep his affairs 
 so dark. 
 
 " And I don't think much of that precious
 
 THE NEW COMEE. 57 
 
 man of his," said Biggins, " a ordering every- 
 body about as if his master was a lord, and 
 never giving a civil word to anybody. If 
 he and his master thinks they're going to 
 keep their affairs to themselves they're a 
 precious lot mistaken, for the old cat over 
 there '11 soon find out all about 'em, and if 
 she don't, I will, blessed if I don't ;" and he 
 brought down his hand with a mighty thump 
 on the table. Biggins's oaths — and he used 
 one on almost every occasion — need not be 
 repeated. They were rather monotonous, 
 consisting chiefly of a sanguinary adjective 
 and a condemnatory allusion to the eyes. 
 
 It is calculated that a first-class English 
 orator will use about ten thousand words, and 
 an English peasant three hundred. Compul- 
 sory education being unheard of at Copse 
 Hill, the vocabulary of the labourers is re- 
 presented by about three hundred words. 
 So the oaths are necessarily not much
 
 58 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 varied, and Biggins's fine monotony is closely 
 imitated by his admirers, who are numerous. 
 The boy of ten, who hears the huge land- 
 lord's sonorous execration, passes it on an 
 hour or two later to his comrade of eight. 
 Miss Tattleton's admirably ironical laudation 
 of the villae^e showed verv much what it 
 was not. This is the sort of thing you find 
 in the country where the parson is powerless 
 for good, where the education is inferior, 
 where country gentlemen neglect their duty 
 to their dependents. 
 
 Before Frank Forncett comes to the vil- 
 lage which is athirst for the mysterious 
 stranger, the hero of this story must appear, 
 else the reader may take the new tenant of 
 The Birches for the hero, which he is not 
 by any means. He may play Mercutio to 
 the hero's Romeo, or Horatio to his Hamlet, 
 who knows? One thing is certain, that 
 had not Frank Forncett taken with such
 
 THE NEW COMER. 59 
 
 fatality of promptitude Wemys's house, he 
 would never have had revealed to him the 
 great mistake of his earlier life — would 
 never have come face to face with his boyish 
 self, and wondered what a fool he had 
 been. We never know what trivial inci- 
 dent may change for us the aspect of the 
 world.
 
 60 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE HERO AT HOME. 
 
 I want a hero — an uncommon want. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 TTIHE parish of Asliton Minima, in the 
 -*- county of Oakshire, had, at the census 
 of 1871, twelve inhabitants. At the census 
 of 1861, it possessed thirteen inhabitants. 
 The wife of the keeper of the turnpike-gate 
 died somewhere between those two dates, 
 and nothing had occurred to increase the 
 population. The parish is a sinecure rec- 
 tory, without a church ; and the only houses 
 beside that at the toll-bar are the rectory, 
 which contained seven inhabitants, and a
 
 THE HERO AT HOME. 61 
 
 small public-house, the Waggon and Horses, 
 which contained four. Yet is it a large 
 parish as to acreage ; but landowners and 
 farmers live beyond its boundaries, for it is 
 almost all heath and moorland, good for 
 the partridge, and not altogether bad for the 
 sheep. 
 
 The Reverend Marston Sebright, sinecure 
 Rector of Ashton Minima, was a man doubly, 
 perhaps trebly, disappointed. His father 
 was that famous Bishop Sebright who in- 
 vented a new reading of the damnatory 
 clauses of the Creed erroneously ascribed to 
 Athanasius. Marston Sebright, his only 
 son, who took high honours at the univer- 
 sity, and might have risen to the highest 
 rank in the ecclesiastical hierarchy, had un- 
 happily a constitutional affliction which in- 
 capacitated him — he had a chronic asthma, 
 which compelled him to speak in a whisper. 
 Such being the case, he could never hope ta
 
 62 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 wear lawn sleeves in the House of Lords, a 
 position which episcopal fatherhood and re- 
 markable talent might well have attain- 
 ed for him. A sinecure rectory suited 
 him well : he married, had one son, and 
 devoted himself to editing classical authors. 
 He felt within him the power to teach 
 Christianity to the people with no common 
 influence, but physical inability rendered 
 that power useless. 
 
 His second disappointment was in his 
 wife, one of the most charming creatures 
 in the world, who made him thoroughly 
 comfortable, and who distinctly declined to 
 be discontented, or to sympathize with his 
 discontent. Marston Sebright was intensely 
 ambitious, and saw all the higher levels of 
 ambition placed beyond his reach ! His 
 wife had no ambition, and wanted him to 
 be happy with her in their strangely solitary 
 Lome. He could not ; he felt like a caged
 
 THE HERO AT HOME. 63 
 
 eagle. He longed to find utterance for his 
 ideas in the oratorio form. He would 
 wander over the moorland for hours trying 
 to articulate aloud, and his voice would be 
 merely a whisper. 
 
 Marston Sebright's third disappointment 
 was his son — our hero. Jack Sebright (no- 
 body had ever been known to call him 
 John) was simply the happiest young fellow 
 on this earth's surface. He had never had 
 a headache or a toothache ; he possessed a 
 strength of the Hercules type ; at the same 
 time, without being a genius, or even 
 a clever fellow, he managed to graduate 
 in honours at Cambridge, after being 
 captain of the boats at Eton. He got 
 among the wranglers, not by real mathe- 
 matical science, but by the physical strength 
 which enabled him to cram anything. It 
 was memory, the physical faculty, that set 
 him above many men of greater intellectual
 
 64 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 power than himself. If we look at our 
 statesmen, we find that brain can only come 
 to the front when there is backbone to help 
 it. The power which made Jack Sebright 
 seventh wrangler made him the fastest 
 round-hand bowler of his time. He dis- 
 missed mathematics from his memory when 
 he left college. He did not dismiss cricket. 
 Now the Eeverend Marston Sebright 
 wanted this boy, the great Bishop Sebright's 
 grandson, endowed with physical powers 
 which he, unhappily, had missed, to enter 
 the Church and keep up the hereditary 
 ecclesiastical renown. The youngster did 
 not seem to see it. His kind mother, a 
 quiet creature, whose sole desire was to 
 make father and son happy, did what she 
 could to persuade him. That rebellious 
 backbone of his militated against it; he'd 
 have liked to be a soldier or a sailor rather 
 — perhaps even a tinker or a tailor. He
 
 THE HERO AT HOME. 65 
 
 had doubts — real honest conscientious 
 doubts — of his fitness to undertake a cure 
 of souls. Many people do undertake it 
 with far less fitness than Jack Sebright. 
 
 His father sent him abroad to have a 
 look at the world when he found him in 
 this impracticable mood. Marston Sebright 
 had great faith in the influence of time and 
 change. He remembered how fiercely he 
 had rebelled against his own great disap- 
 pointment, and now he was content, though 
 perhaps not quite happy, when the great 
 critical journals told him he was the best 
 classical scholar in England. That had not 
 been his ambition — he had longed to be a 
 great preacher. Vain to murmur : each 
 soldier of God must take his allotted place 
 in the great army. 
 
 Jack Sebright obeyed his father's behest, 
 and zig-zagged through Europe. Travel 
 suited that untirable backbone of his. He 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 was quite ready to scale the Andes, or row 
 round the world in a canoe. His hidden 
 power wanted development, and he had 
 not yet decided in what way it should be 
 exercised. His father thought he would 
 make a capital parson, but this is a world in 
 which people are extremely inclined to 
 differ from their fathers — and to be very 
 savage when their sons differ from them. 
 
 After wandering in many directions, he 
 came to Venice. It was evening on the 
 Piazza di S. Marco. The mighty tower 
 which maddened the author of The Stones 
 of Venice threw its long shapely shadow 
 across the noble square. Jack Sebright 
 heard an English voice asking some casual 
 question. He saw in the moonlight a tall 
 broad-shouldered fellow, who was manifest- 
 ly English. With the natural freemasonry 
 of Englishmen he addressed him, and in a 
 few minutes the}^ were sitting together on
 
 THE HERO AT HOME. 67 
 
 chairs in the moonlight, while an active 
 waiter brought refreshment, and they 
 watched some girls dancing in the distance. 
 
 " A magic scene this," said Manly Frowde, 
 for it was he whom Sebright had accosted. 
 *' My wife and I must be off to-morrow, for 
 there is work awaitinsj me in Enorland. You 
 take your time, I suppose ?'' 
 
 " I came to-day, and want to see this 
 wonderful city." 
 
 " You are right. Here is Antonio Quadri's 
 guide-book, which I have done with. It 
 was published in 1827, but is curiously 
 faithful to the old churches and palaces — so 
 little are they changed. But there's a magic 
 of poetry about Venice : you might meet 
 Shylock on the Rialto, and think of little 
 locked-up Jessica, resolved to run away. 
 Then there's Schiller's seer of ghosts, and 
 Voltaire's dinner of the six dethroned kings. 
 And can't you imagine Byron and Shelley 
 
 f2
 
 68 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 fluttering pieces of paper from their window 
 for the innumerable pigeons to fly after? 
 Poets are such fools, 3^ou see, and Shelley- 
 has been known to turn a five-pound note 
 into a paper boat and float it away upon a 
 pond." 
 
 " I should like to meet you when I get 
 back to England," said Sebright, with no 
 ver}^ definite connexion. 
 
 '' Easy enough," replied the other ; " IVe 
 a little place at Copse Hill in Oakshire, a 
 few miles from Two Bridges, and my wife 
 is always pleased to receive a visitor who 
 isn't a prig." 
 
 '' I hope I'm not that," said Sebright, 
 laughing in a tone that startled the piazza. 
 '^I'm so glad to hear you live near ray 
 father's place. It's Ashton Minima ; he's 
 parson there, without a church ; and he 
 wants me to be parson too, and I don't half 
 like it."
 
 THE HERO AT HOME. 69 
 
 '' A sinecure rector}^," said Frowde. " You 
 are about a dozen miles from me. Can you 
 find your way over ?" 
 
 " I've been there before. There's no 
 mistaking the two clumps of trees at the 
 top of the beautiful hill, or the stolid stout 
 landlord at the bottom. I'll come over, if 
 I may." 
 
 " Better come now and ask my wife," 
 said Frowde. " She likes enthusiastic young 
 fellows, and perhaps she can give you better 
 advice than I can about entering the Church. 
 My opinion is that the men who have con- 
 scientious scruples against taking orders are 
 the very men who should do it and be of 
 use. I have rather a weakness for a fellow 
 with a conscience. The sort of parson I 
 detest is the man who stands by his office, 
 does innumerable silly things, and says they 
 must be right, because he was divinely or- 
 dained."
 
 70 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 Jack Sebright went riglit willingly to 
 Frowde's hotel, and was introduced to Mrs. 
 Frowde ; — a lady made of flesh and blood, 
 with a soft white style of dress in lace and 
 frill that suited her Persephone form, with 
 sunlit brown hair leaving with a perfect 
 curve the broad forehead that indicates 
 power and love. She saw through this 
 young fellow at once, and liked him ; and 
 not long was it before, over a light Vene- 
 tian supper, they were frankly discussing 
 this boy's prospects. 
 
 ^' You see," he said ruefully, but with a 
 glass of light wine ready to wash down his 
 trouble, "my father says that because his 
 father was a bishop, I ought to be. Now 
 do you agree with that ?" 
 
 "It maybe logical," said Frowde, "but 
 it does not seem to work. One of my 
 grandfathers was a schoolmaster and the
 
 THE HERO AT HOME. 71 
 
 Other a soldier; and I am neither, but a 
 poor scribbler." 
 
 " I wish I could write," said Sebright. 
 
 "Try," said Frowde. '' It is not, except 
 in accidental cases, a lucrative occupation, 
 but I suppose it is the most gratifying to the 
 human mind. 1 write for filthy lucre, 
 though I would write willingly for fame, if 
 in these days fame could be obtained by the 
 eagle's flisfht — straight sunward. It cannot : 
 and the only man who in these times can 
 live by writing is the man who does not 
 care what he writes, or the man who has 
 money enough to pay for the issue of his 
 work." 
 
 " I should like to break through the vile 
 system," said Sebright, broadening his stal- 
 wart shoulders. 
 
 "Come and see us when you return," 
 said Mrs. Frowde, smiling at his fine boyish
 
 72 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 enthusiasm. '^ We'll talk over parsons and 
 publishers after dinner. We can give you 
 a bed in a homely way." 
 
 " I'd sleep on the roof rather than not 
 come," said Jack Sebright.
 
 73 
 
 CHAPTEH VI. 
 
 THE HEROINE BY THE SEA. 
 
 Alouette. — I like the sea, Prince. 
 Rafael. — Yes, the flying yacht, you know. 
 
 With topmost royals, making timber perilous, 
 And a gay wind to race with ! 
 Alouette. — Ah, but plunge in it ! 
 
 Down in the depths cool your hot eyes 
 
 with emerald 
 Wave made for mermaids ! Fathom the 
 
 abysses where 
 Strange creatures dwell — a world un- 
 known, unknowable — 
 Perhaps a race more great than men can 
 
 ever be ! 
 
 The Comedy of Dreams. 
 
 ^'II/TR., MES., AND MISS TEMPLE." 
 
 -*-*-^ Thus ran the announcement in the 
 
 Visitor's Guide to the pleasant South Devon
 
 74 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 village of Dawlish — beautiful still, though 
 the inexorable Brunei spoilt it by running 
 the railway right across the estuary of its 
 delightful little river, which sparkles be- 
 tween green lawns to the sea. He could 
 not spoil the crescent of sand, the tall red 
 cliffs, the silver-sounding midnight moaning 
 sea. The stern old King of Ocean, whom 
 Homer has named the Shaker of Earth, 
 seems calmer along that sinuous sweep of 
 Devon. He seldom rages into hurricane. 
 He comes whispering musically up the 
 shore, and kisses the dainty feet of pretty 
 girls. 
 
 This is a very pretty girl who trips dainti- 
 ly along the sands right early in the autumn 
 morning. She is going to the machines. 
 She is in the most delicate costume for a 
 bather; her amber hair is loose over her 
 shoulders ; her eyes are almost too demurely 
 hidden by dark-lashed lids. She sees no
 
 THE HEROINE BY THE SEA. 75 
 
 one as she hurries across to her bathing- 
 machine, dressed in a style that seems rather 
 to suit Trouville or Deauville than quiet 
 little Dawlish. Old Captain Radmore, who 
 always turns out in the morning to look at 
 vessels in the offing, but whose glass some- 
 times sweeps the sands when there are 
 women about, has on this occasion his at- 
 tention divided. He sees a mighty monster 
 of the deep steaming down Channel, and 
 says to himself, 
 
 "That's the Thunderholi. She'll go down,, 
 with all on board, and then perhaps they'll 
 hang the Lords of the Admiralty." 
 
 Yet he also sees this pretty coquette trip- 
 ping down to the sea, and soliloquizes thus : 
 
 " By Jove ! a new arrival. A tidy saucy 
 little craft. Wonder who she is." 
 
 He watched her through his glass. Just 
 before she reached the little row of bathing- 
 machines, a tall gentleman passed her pretty
 
 76 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 close. Each gave a perceptible start, but no 
 greeting occurred between them. 
 
 The Captain shut his telescope with a 
 snap. 
 
 "Some romance there," he thought. "I 
 should like to find it out." 
 
 energetic fellow-creature, were it not 
 better to create a romance of thy own than 
 to espy and eavesdrop some other human 
 being's romance ? Romance is a good thing ; 
 would there were more of it in the world. 
 It is the middle space between high poetry 
 and dull prose. Fev/ men can be poets, 
 fewer women ; but all men or women who 
 are not governed by evil influences — by 
 fashion or fanaticism, by vanity, the love of 
 slander, and other meannesses of the lower 
 intellect — can enter and enjoy the glorious 
 demesnes of romance, so exquisitely de- 
 scribed by Coleridge in his Garden of 
 Boccaccio : —
 
 THE HEROINE BY THE SEA. 77 
 
 I wander througli the Eden of tliy hand, 
 
 Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 
 
 See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 
 
 And mth that serviceable nymph I stoop 
 
 The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 
 
 1 see no longer ! I myseK am there. 
 
 Sit on the gromid-sward, and the banquet share. 
 
 That banquet is open to all who ask for the 
 key of the garden. But who asks ? Most 
 men pass contemptuously by, on their way 
 to one of the many temples of Mammon. 
 
 Captain Radmore speculated, of course 
 wide of the mark. The vacraries of a big; 
 ironclad, built to reach the bottom of the 
 sea, were more in his way than those of a 
 young lady with hair of the latest dye, and 
 a costume for the seaside fresh from Paris. 
 As to that young lady, she w^ent on to her 
 morning bath, looking neither to the right 
 nor the left, and assuming a delightful un- 
 consciousness. 
 
 Not so the gentleman she had met, and
 
 78 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 who had recognized her. A shudder passed 
 through him. A tall calm quiet man, whose 
 talk was brief but choice, who had seen 
 many lands and many events, who held that 
 difficulties w^ere made to be overcome, and 
 troubles made to be forgotten. An ex- 
 cellent creed : but why should a forgotten 
 trouble turn up here at quiet red-sanded 
 Dawlish, with a new colour in her hair but 
 the same wicked look in her eyes ? He felt 
 it hard upon him. He walked rapidly home to 
 his lodgings, which were in a large house 
 facing the sea, close to the red cliff which 
 shuts out the pretty village from all things 
 else save illimitable water. 
 
 Ascending to the first floor, he met a lady, 
 tall and nobly developed, with much dark 
 hair and very soft grey eyes, and kissed her 
 lips. 
 
 '' "Where is the child?" he asked. 
 
 " Gone for a bath. You don't look well.
 
 THE HEROINE BY THE SEA. 79 
 
 William. Take a glass of hock before you 
 breakfast." 
 
 "Thanks, Leonora," he said. "Where is 
 Kate gone to bathe ? Away to the left ?" 
 
 He took a field-glass, and looked along 
 the line of ugly machines that defaced the 
 full curve of the little bay. 
 
 "To the left, I think she goes ; but why 
 do you ask ?" 
 
 " Well, I have just met Flora." 
 
 " Again ?" 
 
 "Yes, she seems to haunt us. I don't 
 want to curtail my darling's liberty, but I 
 dread what harm might be done if Flora 
 met her." 
 
 "She has too much sense," said Leonora 
 decisively. "She knows the truth both 
 from you and me, and she is a girl of very 
 clear intellect. I don't fear her, William ; 
 you need not." 
 
 " Kate is not easily shaken in her con-
 
 80 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 victions," answered Mr. Temple; "but you 
 must remember how curiously plausible and 
 persuasive Flora is. Her way of following 
 us is significant of some ridiculous purpose ; 
 we saw her in Paris, we saw her at Brighton, 
 we saw her in such an out-of-the-way place 
 as Clevedon. Now, I don't believe she can 
 do any harm, but I hate annoyance ; and I 
 wish we could find a house inland that 
 would suit us. Flora would not follow us 
 into a quiet village. She must have her 
 amusement. She is a mere butterfly, that 
 has singed her wings. I am simply sorry 
 for her ; I do the best I can for her ; but I 
 am not able to bear these constant persecu- 
 tions. We must go elsewhere. I wish we 
 could find the sort of place we want." 
 
 ''Oh, so do II" said the lady. "Kate 
 might find it dull ; but, if you take her to 
 town now and then, and give her a course 
 of opera and theatre, youll keep her brain
 
 THE HEROINE BY THE SEA. 81 
 
 alive. I am proud of Kate. She enjoys 
 life wisely. She is very inquisitive and very 
 speculative, and enthusiastic when she finds 
 sure around for enthusiasm." 
 
 " Your character is laconic. Pray explain, 
 Leonora." 
 
 '*Well, I'll put a special question. Sup- 
 pose she met Flora ? She would try to find 
 out all about her. On what little she could 
 gain from her conversation she would base 
 her own opinion. Then she would, w^ith 
 that suppressed enthusiasm of hers, love or 
 hate her intenselv." 
 
 "And which do you think ?" 
 
 "Hate." 
 
 " Horrible thought !" said Temple, press- 
 ing his hands to his forehead. 
 
 "Yes, dear William," said Leonora ; "but 
 Avould not love be far more horrible ?" 
 
 At this moment the waiter entered with 
 letters. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 "Now, perhaps," said the lady, "we 
 shall find your house-agent has heard of 
 some place to suit us. Shall I look through 
 the letters ?" 
 
 "Do, darling," he said. "That meeting 
 with Flora has disgusted me. You under- 
 stand my feelings; no one else does." 
 
 She kissed him on the forehead as he lay 
 back in his chair, saying, 
 
 "It would be strange indeed if I did not 
 understand them. We have suffered alike ; 
 but we have our love left, an undying love." 
 
 " We have, indeed," he said. " And we 
 have our dear Kate to bring forward quiet- 
 ly, and to save lier, if we can, from the 
 troubles we have endured." 
 
 She opened several letters, none of which 
 seemed of much consequence. At last she 
 came upon one from the house-agent, who 
 informed them that he thought he had 
 found exactly the thing they wanted — large
 
 THE HEROINE BY THE SEA. 83 
 
 rooms, tea acres of ground, three and a 
 half miles from the station of Two Bridges, 
 which is merely a small one with few trains 
 in the day ; situated in a small village, and 
 some distance from the road ; the neigh- 
 bourhood very quiet. 
 
 "That sounds well," said Mr. Temple; 
 ^'but we have looked at so many, and been 
 disappointed. Where is it ?" 
 
 " The house is called Winterslow, and is 
 in the village of Copse Hill, in Oakshire." 
 
 " Well, we had better look at it, Leo- 
 nora ; for we must make some effort to 
 avoid these disagreeable meetings. I wish 
 it were further from a station ; but it is 
 conveniently near London. I know some- 
 thing of the neighbourhood, though I do 
 not remember that I was ever in Copse 
 Hill. I suppose it cannot be far from the 
 Thames, and that would suit Kate and the 
 dogs. Let us, at any rate, leave here to- 
 
 g2
 
 84 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 day or to-morrow, and go to town; and 
 then we can run down and look at the 
 place." 
 
 " I shall be delighted," said Leonora, " to 
 get to some quiet nook where I can forget 
 my trouble ; and I long to begin again ray 
 favourite occupation of gardening. But I 
 am afraid it will be a dull life for poor 
 Kate." 
 
 ^' Nonsense, Leonora ; I'll take care that 
 neither you nor Kate shall be dull." 
 
 " Was I ever dull with you, William ?" 
 she said, taking both his hands in hers. 
 
 "I hope not," he said, with a loving 
 smile. " You are the bravest woman in the 
 world, my Leonora." 
 
 At this moment in comes, or rather 
 rushes, Kate Temple. She is sea-drenched. 
 A gay girl of eighteen, not quite so tall as 
 Leonora, she is far more excitable. She 
 cries out —
 
 THE HEROINE BY THE SEA. 85 
 
 "Oh, papa, mamma! I have had quite 
 an adventure. When I came out of the 
 machine a lady spoke to me. So lovely, 
 with long yellow hair, eyes blue as sapphires, 
 and such a pretty pleasing soft way. I 
 should not call her honest, I think," said 
 the outspoken girl. 
 
 Mr. Temple shuddered. Those words, 
 too true, were terrible to him from those 
 lips. 
 
 " And what did she say ?" asked Leo- 
 nora. 
 
 " She talked as if she w^ere mad," replied 
 Kate Temple. " I think she must be mad, 
 mamma. She said first, ' Are you Miss 
 Temple ?' and of course I said I was. Then 
 she said that I should be sure to come to a 
 bad end, for the Temples always did." 
 
 Mr. Temple laughed at his pretty daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 " Some half-crazed creature, Kate, de-
 
 86 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 peud on it. You won't be troubled with 
 her again, for I think of going to London 
 to-morrow, and I have just heard of a house 
 in the country which may perhaps suit us. 
 We have been wandering so long that a 
 httle quietude will be pleasant." 
 
 " It will indeed, papa," said Kate, always 
 ready for a new movement. 
 
 So telegrams were sent to hotels, and 
 luggage packed rapidly, for when Mr. 
 Temple decided to move his servants had 
 to move also. The quietest man in Europe, 
 he always had his way in such matters. 
 Pretty Kate was dehghted at the move, but 
 she came down rather out of form to catch 
 the early train. She had dreamt a strange 
 dream of the lady she saw on Dawlish 
 sands : and there was in her mind a troub- 
 ling thought — " Can it be ? But no : it 
 could not, for she looked so very young."
 
 87 
 
 CHAPTER YU. 
 
 A SINGED BUTTERFLY. 
 Qeol pela ^coovre^. — Odyssei/, v. 122. 
 
 rriHE gods of old Greece were neither 
 -■- raoral nor immoral, but profoundly 
 indifferent to ethical questions. This, 
 doubtless, was the natural tendency of the 
 Greek mind in its earlier state. The 
 Heroic Age, as described by Homer, is one 
 in which no idea of the Ten Commandments 
 ever entered into the mind of man, still 
 less into the mind of any divinity. The 
 schoolboy — if there be such a phenomenon 
 who studies his Lemprifere or Smith intelli-
 
 88 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 gently, must be ratlier amazed at the say- 
 ings and doings of certain gods and heroes, 
 goddesses and heroines. There is not an 
 immaculate character in the whole my- 
 thology. Yet the work of Greece in the 
 world Avas a work unparalleled, and its 
 poetic creations were without the faintest 
 rivalry till one William Shakespeare arose. 
 " The gods live at their ease." says 
 Calypso, in the Odyssey ; " and there are 
 men, and indeed women, who, though not 
 god-like in much else, have that touch of 
 Greek divinity. Such a man is Arundel 
 Lifton, who is just now lounging along the 
 West Pier at Brighton. Straight as an 
 arrow, dressed to perfection, with hair and 
 moustache untouched by the hand of time, 
 no one would guess him to be half-a-century 
 old. He carefully forgets it himself. He 
 is in the prime of life, and why should he 
 count vears? Born to a vast fortune in
 
 A SINGED BUTTEllFLY. 89 
 
 Cornisli mines, educated at Eton and Christ- 
 church, left by the early death of his father 
 to do just as he pleased, he had lived a life of 
 calculative voluptuousness. He believed in 
 one god — and that god was himself. He 
 resolved to have as much pleasure as possi- 
 ble, with as little pain. He never drank or 
 smoked to excess ; he never sat up im- 
 moderately late ; he never gambled or 
 betted ; and — which amazed his acquaint- 
 ances (he had no friends) more than anything 
 — he never travelled by rail. He had tried it 
 once, and it had bored him and fretted him, 
 and next day he read of an awful railway 
 accident : so he kept to the road thereafter. 
 There was never the slightest need for him 
 to be in a hurry ; he was accustomed to send 
 horses forward on any long journey. " You 
 can stop where you like in your own 
 carriage," he used to say ; "in a train you 
 are at the mercy of a sooty engine-driver.
 
 90 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 I have one principle throughout life — and 
 that is, to be my own master." 
 
 He carried out this principle to the ut- 
 most. He married, in the bloom of her 
 delicious youth, one of the sweetest girls in 
 the world, and then deserted her in a way 
 most shamefuh He was quite ready to 
 make her a large allowance : she, being a 
 lady pure and simple, declined to accept a 
 farthing from him, and lived on her own 
 small fortune. Happily, they had no child. 
 Then he took his own way. He liked 
 adventure that was spiced by wickedness. 
 He paid like a prince for his amusements. 
 Hitherto, princely payment had, strange to 
 say, taken him safely through his cool evil 
 career ; he had not met anyone with hot 
 blood, or cudgel or rapier, to punish him 
 as he deserved. He had a charmed luck, 
 probably. 
 
 We first behold him on the West Pier.
 
 A SINGED BUTTERFLY. 91 
 
 He has been a day or two at the Old Ship 
 Hotel, which comfortable hostelry has long 
 been used to his habits, and where certain 
 quiet rooms are always reserved for him. 
 Arundel Lifton likes ^not to be disturbed. 
 He hates a scene above all things. He does 
 not like the patrician pretentiousness of the 
 Bedford, or the noisy splendour of the 
 Grand. He is (and it is one of his few 
 good points) as keen a judge of wine as any 
 man in Europe. Wisely said the Arab 
 sage, "To choose thy caravanserai, taste its 
 forbidden liquor." 
 
 Arundel Lifton dined in his private room 
 that nis^ht on mutton and ejame, with a 
 bottle of choice Lafitte. He was an epicure 
 on principle, and studied the composition of 
 every meal he ate. To-night there is a ball 
 at the Grand Hotel, and he thinks he will 
 look in. Those hotel balls are rather an 
 American idea, but they seem to go well in
 
 92 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 Brighton — where indeed most things do go 
 well. So Mr. Lifton, an hour or so after 
 dinner, dressed indolently. He never em- 
 ployed a valet. " Such a bore to tell the 
 fellow what to do — less trouble to do it 
 yourself:" thus said Mr. Lifton. He slow- 
 ly got himself into evening dress by his bed- 
 room fire, and then said to himself, 
 
 " By Jove ! What an exertion ! I think 
 I may allow myself a glass of Chartreuse." 
 
 A brouorham was waitino^. He was at the 
 Grand Hotel in two minutes. It was now 
 about eleven. He entered without much 
 expectation of amusement, but found a gay 
 and vivid scene. The hall and corridors 
 were steeped in light. Doubtless tlie com- 
 pany was mixed (for Brighton is the modern 
 Corinth), but the dress-coats and the toilettes 
 were superb, and what more can you want ? 
 Homer mentions a people who cared for 
 very little except ^^achting, banqueting,
 
 A SINGED BUTTERFLY. 93 
 
 music, dances, clean linen, baths, and beds. 
 Whoso doubts this statement, let him read 
 the eighth book of the Odyssey. Humanity 
 changes little. 
 
 Arundel Lifton, the most distinguished 
 man there, with an air of mystery about 
 him, an air of haughtiness, leans against a 
 column and looks round. The M.C. of the 
 night proposes introduction to a partner, 
 but he declines in so quietly lofty a way 
 that the M.C. thinks him a royal personage 
 incognito. As a fact, he is faultless. He 
 has so graceful a figure that any tailor would 
 gladly dress him for nothing. But Arundel 
 Lifton laughs at tailors, invents his own 
 coats, and pays ready money. He does not 
 aim to set the fashion, like Brummel, George 
 IV., and Count D'Orsay : for he is a hand- 
 some man of sufficient inches and of stal- 
 wart chest, and to follow his method of 
 dress the puny striplings of fashion would 
 have to grow.
 
 94 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 He looked on philosophically. Presently 
 he caught a glimpse of a lady in a waltz. 
 She had amber hair; she was dressed so 
 that the light fabric showed the beauty of 
 her shoulders, the soft curve of her breasts ; 
 she was deliciously piquant and pretty. She 
 looked a girl — she had looked a girl a few 
 weeks ago at Dawlish ; but she was quite as 
 capable of maintaining the appearance of 
 youth as Arundel Lifton himself. 
 
 " Flora, by Jove !" he said to himself. 
 *' I caught her eye. What's the best thing? 
 By Jove ! I'll go and talk to her. We 
 can't have a row in a ball-room." 
 
 So he took the bull by the horns, and 
 walked up to her, somewhat to her sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " You look charming to-night, Flora," he 
 said. 
 
 " I feel miserable." 
 
 *' There is no need. Come, let me take
 
 A SINGED BUTTERFLY. 95 
 
 you to have some supper ; the fowls will be 
 all drumsticks if we don't make haste. These 
 Brighton folk, and especially the American 
 visitors, have an infinite affection for liver 
 wings." 
 
 ''I wish I could cry a little," she said, 
 ^' and nobody saw me. Oh ! how I wish I 
 could pray ! You have made me wicked, 
 Arundel : you will have to bear some of my 
 punishment." 
 
 " You silly cliild ! Come along, and 
 we'll get ^some lobster salad and Chablis. 
 The beggars generally keep something for 
 me in these places, because I always give 
 them something." 
 
 *'How much you think about money, 
 Arundel!" 
 
 " Of course I do. It's the lucifer match 
 of the fire of life. It has bought me many 
 things. It bought you, you hussy." 
 
 It was hard for Flora to restrain tears at
 
 96 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 such insult, but the public were around her, 
 and she kept calm. 
 
 '^ Arundel," she said, in a low whisper, 
 '' if you must speak to me like this, we had 
 better not meet again. You have caused 
 me unendurable misery, and now you treat 
 me in this scandalous way. I could have 
 forgiven you if you had been a gentleman, 
 Arundel. Good nisrht." 
 
 She flung away hotly, and left Mr. Lifton 
 to his own reflections, which were quite 
 untroubled.
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 MRS. SELFE AT WINTERSLOW. 
 
 After her health we asked, 
 
 Our care and regard to evince : 
 We have made the very same speeches 
 
 To many an old cat since. 
 
 Heine (IMrs. Browning's translation). 
 
 TT was some two or three weeks after Mr. 
 -*~ Forncett's first visit tc Copse Hill with 
 his friend, Harry Rivers, that Mr. Temple 
 arrived with his daus^hter at Medenhithe 
 station, whence they drove to Winterslow. 
 Here they were most courteously received 
 by Mrs. Selfe — a handsome, sweet-looking 
 old lady, with a peculiar softness about her. 
 She had a quantity of very white hair, a 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 soft, pale complexion, and a sweet low voice; 
 these, with her pretty dress of grey silk and 
 white lace, made such a picture that Kate 
 felt quite enthusiastic. 
 
 Mr. Temple found, after a little conversa- 
 tion, that Mrs. Selfe was inclined to change 
 her mind, and did not wish to let her house 
 — at least, for that winter. She was profuse 
 in apologies for having given him so much 
 trouble, but she had only made her de- 
 cision on the previous day. 
 
 *'This is a pretty neighbourhood," said 
 Mr. Temple, "and I am sorry, for my own 
 sake, that you have decided not to leave. 
 Do you know if there is any other house to 
 let?" 
 
 " The opposite neighbour is going away ; 
 but I understand that his house has just been 
 taken by a bachelor. I forget the gentle- 
 man's name." 
 
 If the gentleman's name had been men-
 
 MRS. SELFE AT WINTERSLOW. 99 
 
 tioned, it would no doubt have prevented 
 the Temples from wishing to live at Copse 
 Hill. 
 
 " Well, if you should again change your 
 mind — and you know we allow ladies to do 
 so as often as they like — you will perhaps 
 be kind enough to let me know through 
 your agents, and give me the first chance," 
 said Mr. Temple, who had set his heart on 
 the place, as it exactly suited him. 
 
 ''Certainly," said Mrs. Selfe ; ''you may 
 depend on me. And now let me offer you 
 a little luncheon after your journey," she 
 said, in the sweetest manner. 
 
 Mr. Temple looked at his daughter, and 
 saw that it would please her, so accepted 
 Mrs. Selfe's hospitality. 
 
 Mrs. Selfe was an intellectual woman, in 
 one sense of the word. She liked " plain 
 living and high thinking." Her "living" 
 was plain enough ; but whether her " think- 
 
 h2
 
 1 00 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 ing " had much height or depth is doubtful. 
 However, she despised so gross and sensual 
 a thing as feeding, and would have preferred 
 to live in a world where it was not neces- 
 sary. There was one weakness she acknow- 
 ledged — she liked fruit ; but she considered 
 that taste as no more sensual than liking 
 flowers for their sweet smell or pretty look. 
 
 It is rather difficult to draw a line in 
 these matters. If one person has no taste 
 for food, is he to condemn another who has ? 
 And if one person finds that it suits his 
 constitution to be a teetotaller, is he to con- 
 demn another who finds that a glass of wine 
 suits him ? 
 
 Mrs. Selfe was a teetotaller, and almost a 
 vegetarian, and she looked down with con- 
 tempt on people who required more food 
 than herself. Therefore the lunch offered 
 to Mr. Temple and his daughter was some- 
 what frugal ; indeed, Kate, with her healthy
 
 MRS. SELFE AT WINTERSLOW. 101 
 
 appetite, and after a five miles drive on a 
 fresh October morning, with the west wind 
 in her face, could have eaten everything on 
 the table. 
 
 Mrs. Selfe was a democrat and Unitarian, 
 and dabbled in a little science and free- 
 thinking ; so the conversation at lunch took 
 a scientific turn, and Kate wondered why 
 such a sweet-looking old lady should care 
 to use such lonof words and talk so learned- 
 ly. Then Garibaldi was mentioned, for his 
 portrait hung on the wall ; and it was dis- 
 covered that Mrs. Selfe was an enthusiastic 
 disciple of Garibaldi, though she did not 
 seem to understand much about the free- 
 dom of Italy — but her son had been killed 
 in fighting under Garibaldi. 
 
 " Oh, how sad 1" exclaimed Kate ; " and 
 have you any more children ?'' 
 
 "Two others," she said, as if unwilling to 
 answer.
 
 102 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 "And are they girls, or boys?" said 
 Kate, without noticing the old lady's con- 
 fusion. 
 
 " I have two daughters," she said, rather 
 stiffly. 
 
 " Kate, dear," said Mr. Temple, seeing 
 there was something that annoyed Mrs. 
 Selfe in this question, " won't you eat one 
 of those beautiful apples ? Does your or- 
 chard produce these ?" he said, turning to 
 Mrs. Selfe to prevent Kate from continuing 
 her catechism. 
 
 '' Yes," she answered ; " I have some 
 very fine sorts, and a great many more than 
 I can consume or want for my friends. I 
 am obliged to sell some." 
 
 After lunch they went to see a vine in 
 the greenhouse which Mrs. Selfe had grown 
 from a cutting taken from Garibaldi's vine 
 in Caprera, the bunches of which she distri- 
 buted among her friends as something 
 sacred.
 
 MRS. SELFE AT WINTERSLOW. 103 
 
 They then took their leave, with a re- 
 newed promise that Mr. Temple should be 
 informed if Mrs. Selfe should again change 
 her mind. 
 
 " Oh, papa !" said Kate, when they were 
 alone, " what a charming old lady ! But, 
 do you know, she reminds me of a beautiful 
 big white cat ; and when she talks in that 
 soft voice it is just like a cat purring. When 
 I first saw her I felt just as if 1 had seen a 
 beautiful cat that I wanted to stroke. And 
 I really think, papa, she is like a cat in 
 another way, for I can fancy that if you 
 stroked her the wrong way she would ruffle 
 up her fur, and stick up her back, and dart 
 fire from her eyes and hiss at you." 
 
 " I think, Kate, you were very nearly 
 rubbing her back the wrong way when you 
 were so inquisitive about her children." 
 
 " Oh, yes, papa ! Did you notice how 
 stiff she was ? Oh ! I did so loner to know
 
 104 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 about her daughters. I am sure there is 
 something mysterious." 
 
 As these daughters will appear in our 
 history, we will for the present leave Kate 
 and her father, and give some little history 
 of Mrs. Selfe and her family, for which 
 purpose we will commence a new chapter.
 
 105 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 
 
 " In reality, tlioiigli, she liated her own sou : of 
 which, however monstrous it appears, I am assured 
 she is not a singular instance." — Fielding. 
 
 nnHE motto of this chapter is taken from 
 -■- Tom Jones^ and applies excellent well 
 to Mrs. Selfe, inasmuch as she hated her own 
 daughters — at least it is to be presumed so 
 from her treatment of them. Having been 
 left a widow with a comfortable fortune while 
 the girls were young, she brought them up 
 according to her own fancy, and exercised 
 the greatest tyranny over them. Her son, 
 who was some years older than his sisters,
 
 106 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 disliking the restraint of home, so soon as 
 he could realise the legacy left him by his 
 father, went to Australia. Then his mother 
 found out that she loved him, and would 
 have given anything to bring him back ; but 
 it was too late. He came back, only to go 
 away again after any wild adventure. He 
 was eventually killed while fighting with 
 Garibaldi, and was then canonised by his 
 mother. 
 
 The daughters, Diana and Claudia, unfor- 
 tunately could not run away, though they 
 often longed to do so. They were jealously 
 guarded from companions of their own age ; 
 with what object it is difficult to under- 
 stand. But, as they grew up, they made 
 friends with some of their mother's visitors, 
 and enlisted their sympathies. Then Mrs. 
 Selfe would leave her house and go into a 
 new neighbourhood. She had tried three 
 different neighbourhoods in this way, when
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 107 
 
 she finally settled at Copse Hill, thinking, 
 no doubt, that in such a dull place Diana 
 and Claudia would have little chance of 
 making acquaintances. One indulgence she 
 allowed them — namely, riding. This they 
 owed to their father, who had always wished 
 that they should be good riders, and had 
 taught them himself. When they came 
 to Copse Hill they were informed that they 
 could no longer have the use of the horses 
 and groom. 
 
 Mrs. Selfe and the Frowdes soon formed 
 a pleasant neighbourly acquaintance. Books 
 and papers were exchanged, as were also 
 gardening and knitting experiences, between 
 Mrs. Selfe and Mrs. Frowde. Diana and 
 Claudia were away when this acquaintance 
 commenced, and when they came home 
 Mrs. Frowde observed that Mrs. Selfe was 
 unwilling that they should see her when she 
 called. Also Mrs. Selfe seemed uncomfort-
 
 108 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 able when in their presence. One day, out 
 walking, Claudia met the Frowdes, and 
 said : 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Frowde, do please lend me 
 some books. I am so dull at home, for my 
 sister is away, and the house is so silent. 
 The only cheerful sound I ever hear is Mr. 
 Frowde's laugh from your garden." 
 
 "We've plenty of books," said Mrs. 
 Frowde, "" come and choose for yourself, 
 and pray do come in whenever you like." 
 
 This led to many visits from Diana and 
 Claudia, and also to an entire breaking off 
 of the acquaintance between the Frowdes 
 and Mrs. Selfe. 
 
 Mrs. Selfe seems to find it impossible to 
 be friendly with anyone who likes her 
 daughters. 
 
 Diana and Claudia found their visits to 
 the Cottage so pleasant that they spent a 
 great deal of time there. Their mother,
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 109 
 
 annoyed at seeing them happy, forbade 
 them ever to visit the Frowdes again. They 
 respectfully declined to obey this order, as 
 they were old enough to choose their own 
 friends. Then they should be turned out of 
 their home, their mother said. They reminded 
 her that she was bound to provide for them 
 by their father's will, but, on suitable provi- 
 sion being made, they were quite ready to 
 leave home if their mother wished it. She 
 was not inclined to make any provision, but 
 intimated that at a convenient opportunity 
 she should shut her doors against them, and 
 give orders that they were not to be let into 
 the house. They were then unable to go 
 out together even in the garden, as one was 
 always obliged to stay in to open the door 
 to the other. So they took exercise by 
 turns, and went to church by turns, and 
 visited the Cottage bv turns. Meanwhile 
 they consulted a lawyer, and begged him to
 
 110 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 consult with the family lawyer to see if Mrs. 
 Selfe could not be persuaded to act reason- 
 ably. 
 
 Mrs. Selfe, seeing how determined her 
 daughters were, took occasion to say to 
 Claudia, who she knew was the most timid, 
 that she need not fancy that by one of them 
 staying in the house they could not be 
 turned out, for if necessary she would use 
 force and send for a policeman. Poor 
 gentle Claudia, who had no knowledge of 
 law, pictured herself being forcibly turned 
 out by a policeman, and was in terror till 
 her sister came home. After this. Manly 
 Frowde lent them a big hand-bell, which 
 was to be run^ out of window in case of 
 emergency, and he would go to the rescue. 
 No emergency arose, though there was a 
 false alarm. Early one morning Mrs. 
 Frowde heard a bell. Her husband had 
 just finished his bath.
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. Ill 
 
 "Rush, Manly, rush," she said; '' f^et 
 some clothes on, and go as quick as possible ; 
 there's no knowing what distress those poor 
 girls are in." 
 
 Mr. Frowde put on a few things and 
 went to the top of the lane, where he could 
 see the windows of the sirls' rooms : but 
 there were only a couple of maid-servants 
 making the beds, and looking astonished to 
 see Mr. Frowde in such an odd costume, 
 earnestly staring up at the house. It was dis- 
 covered that the bell belonged to a gang of 
 travelling workmen who were breakfasting: 
 at the Pleiades. 
 
 Mrs. Selfe evidently found her daughters 
 too much for her at this period. Their 
 merry voices were a constant annoyance to 
 her. As she had entirely given up talking 
 herself, except in ordering servants, it was 
 a little annoying to hear her daughters talk- 
 ing and laughing with one another. So she
 
 112 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 invited to her house a lady whom she had 
 described to Mrs. Frowde in their days of 
 intimacy as a " very dear old friend." This 
 dear old friend was a Mrs. Naylor, a little 
 fat old woman of about sixty. She was what 
 is called a well-informed woman — painfully 
 well-informed — and was supposed to be 
 very learned in chemistry. Indeed, she had 
 written a book on chemistry, but has not yet 
 found an appreciative publisher. Mr. Nay- 
 lor was heard of, but never seen. He was 
 in fact a male Mrs. Harris. His wife's allu- 
 sions to him were perhaps not quite so fre- 
 quent as were Sairey Gamp's to Mrs. Harris, 
 but he was dragged in at convenient periods, 
 as, for instance, when Mrs. Naylor was lec- 
 turing Claudia on the importance of obedi- 
 ence to her mother, even if her demands 
 were unreasonable. She said that she had 
 always done what Mr. Naylor bid her, 
 although it might not have been pleasant to
 
 MATEKNAL AFFECTION. 113 
 
 her. Considering the light in which she re- 
 garded her husband, perhaps it was hardly a 
 compliment to her friend Mrs. Selfe to com- 
 pare the two cases, for she evidently looked, 
 upon Mr. Naylor as a poor ignorant fellow^ 
 who was not fit for a companion to such a 
 well-informed person as herself. No doubt 
 Naylor was a jolly fellow, who, so far 
 from asking obedience from his wife, was 
 only too glad to be left alone. Probably 
 he enjoyed his glass of port when he was 
 beyond his wife's control. Mrs. Naylor 
 sometimes alludes to a " babe " she once 
 had (baby is too common-place a word for 
 her), but this babe, fortunately for itself, 
 did not live, or, to use Mrs. Naylor s own 
 words, *' It passed away from life when 
 about ten months old." No other babe 
 seems to have been born ; and really, when 
 we consider Mrs. Naylor's extraordinary 
 fund of information, it is astonishing she 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 could do anything so ordinary as produce a 
 babe. Mr. Naylor's occupation is never dis- 
 closed, but from an anecdote of Mrs. Naylor's, 
 he seems to be something in the travelling 
 line. For she relates that once having ap- 
 pointed to meet her husband at an inn in a 
 country town, where he would stay in the 
 midst of his travels, she arrived at the inn 
 before her husband, and asked to be shown 
 into his room. The people of the inn did 
 not believe she was his wife, and refused to 
 admit her, so she had to wait outside till he 
 came. Now whether Mrs. Naylor relates 
 this to show that people at inns are not al- 
 ways courteous, or whether she thought she 
 was so good-looking that she might be 
 mistaken for a mistress, it is impossible to 
 say. It would require a great stretch of 
 imagination to suppose that she had ever 
 been anything but ugly. It is curious that 
 a woman of Mrs. Selfe's understanding
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 115 
 
 chose such extraordinary friends. But the 
 reason is evident : Mrs. Naylor is a toady, 
 and Mrs. Selfe likes a toady. Mrs. Naylor 
 will agree with Mrs. Selfe in everything. 
 She did not even speak to Diana and Claudia 
 in their mother's presence, because she 
 knew it would please Mrs. Selfe ; but when 
 she found them alone she would enter into 
 conversation, and if Mrs. Selfe entered the 
 room she would suddenly stop and look 
 guilty. And when at dinner she was asked 
 to have a glass of wine, she would cry out, 
 " Oh, plenty !" before her glass was half 
 filled, because she knew that Mrs. Selfe 
 was a rigid water-drinker. And now that 
 Mrs. Selfe had a companion with her, the 
 girls could not always get the best of it in 
 the matter of talking. For if their voices 
 were heard above Mrs. Naylor's they were 
 begged to be silent, and allow others to 
 talk. They ought to have considered it a 
 
 i2
 
 116 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 privilege to listen to the conversation of 
 their mother and Mrs. Naylor. And that 
 our readers may not miss that privilege, we 
 will here give a specimen of it. 
 
 Mrs. Naylor : " Have you ever remark- 
 ed the beautiful harmony of form and 
 colour in a blade of grass ? I assure you 
 that, without going deeply into the study of 
 botany, you would find a knowledge of the 
 various idiosyncrasies of our most ordinary 
 plants a very interesting pursuit. For 
 example," here she places the first and 
 second fingers of each hand together to 
 emphasize the words, *' take the common 
 groundsel — to the eye of the casual observer 
 it is a mere weed ; but viewed under the 
 magnifying powers of the microscope, its 
 beauty of formation is really almost startling. 
 How much this proves the wise supervision 
 of a beneficent Providence even in the 
 minutest of His creations !" At this point
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 117 
 
 the girls gave a sigh of relief, as if the 
 prolixity of the sentence and the length of 
 the words had taken away their breath. 
 But they are the politest of ladies, as every- 
 one knows who has made their acquaint- 
 ance, so they listened for their mother's 
 reply. 
 
 " A h !" said Mrs. Selfe, with a drawn 
 
 breath something between a sigh and a 
 groan, like a converted Methodist, "it does 
 indeed ! And how the progress of civilisa- 
 tion enables us more and more to discover 
 this !" 
 
 Mrs. Naylor, profoundedly impressed with 
 this truth, replies : "Assuredly so. This is in- 
 deed the age of discovery. What marvellous 
 strides have been taken lately in the science 
 of chemistry. Have you ever given your 
 attention to the fusion of metals, and the 
 influence of aluminum or lime-light on the 
 ordinary oyster-shell ? It is, I assure you,
 
 118 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 a most interesting experiment, and the 
 effect is really dazzling. A dear friend of 
 mine, now passed from this life, a man of 
 fine culture and poetic temperament, who 
 gave much attention to this science, describ- 
 ing to me his feelings on first witnessing 
 this experiment, assured me that he was 
 positively affected by the dazzling nature of 
 the light — in his own words, it was like a 
 glimpse of Heaven." 
 
 The two girls, finding their politeness 
 stretched to the utmost in listening to Mrs. 
 Naylor, began to wish she had also ^' passed 
 away from this life," like her dear friend. 
 They endeavoured to turn the subject, and 
 that they might still keep the conversation 
 Tip to the intellects of the two learned 
 ladies, they thought they would be safe in 
 mentioning authors. But, unluckily, having 
 mentioned Manly Frowde, they brought 
 from Mrs. Naylor the remark that he was
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 119 
 
 too " latitudinarian," and that " latitudi- 
 narianisiu is not genius." Eight syllables 
 was too much for them, so they gave up al- 
 together and left their mother and Mrs. 
 Naylor to converse alone. 
 
 The siege lasted about three months, and 
 then Mrs. Selfe, being anxious to get rid of 
 her daughters, and finding that they had 
 friends who would not allow them to be 
 ill-treated, gave way to the proposal of the 
 family solicitor that a suitable provision 
 should be made for them, and that they 
 should make their home where they pleased. 
 Most mothers will say that such a woman as 
 Mrs. Selfe does not exist, or that her daugh- 
 ters must be very bad indeed, and deserved 
 such treatment. All who know Diana and 
 Claudia are charmed with them. They 
 are as intellectual as they are beautiful, and 
 their severe life has made them full of 
 tenderness and kindness. They are de-
 
 120 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 lighted with their liberty, and liave taken 
 a little farmhouse in a midland county, 
 where they live together very happily. 
 They have visited Mr. Frowde several times, 
 though it was difficult to persuade Claudia 
 to come at first, as she suffered for months 
 after leaving her mother with a nervous affec- 
 tion. We must not omit to mention that 
 when they took leave of their mother they 
 went to shake hands with her, and said they 
 would come to her at any time she wished. 
 " Oh, you will ! will you ?" she said, and 
 these were her last words to them. No 
 kiss or kind wish. They never remember 
 being kissed by her in their lives.
 
 121 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BRIGHTON ROMANCE. 
 
 Some hearts are keen as diamond; 
 
 Some softer than the rose : 
 Ah ! if they meet together, 
 And part in stormy weather, 
 
 How fast the life-blood flows ! 
 
 THE amber-tressed, witch-eyed lady 
 whom we have called Flora was 
 known at the Grand Hotel as Mrs. Trevor. 
 AYhen she parted abruptly from Arundel 
 Lifton, she by no means uitended to de- 
 sert the ball. But his cynical cruelty 
 cowed her for the moment ; and she ran up 
 stairs to her own room, a sumptuous suite
 
 122 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 on the chief corridor — for Mrs. Trevor 
 chose to live like a princess. Her maid, 
 Estelle, had of course been watching the 
 dance from without, and followed her mis- 
 tress promptly. Mrs. Trevor was a creature 
 of caprice, and it was nothing unusual for 
 her to suddenly leave any place of enter- 
 tainment. Estelle, a black-haired, black- 
 eyed little French girl, sprightly though 
 ugly, knew all her moods, and was aston- 
 ished at nothing she did. 
 
 Flora threw herself into an easy-chair by 
 her dressing-room fire, and buried her 
 flushed face in her pretty plump hands, 
 from which she had torn the gloves as if 
 they fettered her. This man's contemptuous 
 coolness maddened her. She was powerless 
 against it. She, poor pretty little thing, 
 
 &? 
 
 had loved him, so far as there was room in 
 
 her small heart for love : she adored the
 
 BRIGHTON KOMANCE. 123 
 
 splendid style of the man, his lofty self- 
 possession, the lordly ease with which he 
 made his way through the world. He knew 
 no difficulty. As to her, he had touched 
 her lightly, and she fell into his hand like a 
 full-ripe peach. Then there came the 
 bitter-sweet delight of an unholy passion ; 
 then a cool dismissal, with most liberal 
 arrangements. His words were too true : 
 he had bought her, body and soul, and then 
 thrown her aside in his first mood of weari- 
 ness. She would have murdered him if she 
 could. 
 
 Presently she looked up, and caught a 
 glimpse of her maid reflected in the mirror 
 over the mantelpiece. 
 
 ''You are here, Estelle ?" she said; "I 
 came up because I was tired. I shall go 
 down again, presently." 
 
 " Oh, yes, let Madame descend. The
 
 124 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 room is not so crowded ; the hum -drum 
 people go away. Let me arrange Madame's 
 hair." 
 
 Deftly the girl replaced some wandering 
 tresses, and put fresh flowers from a bouquet 
 on the dressing-table, and cooled the heated 
 face and hands with some dainty essence, 
 and brought fresh gloves for those which 
 lay in fragments on the ground. Then from 
 a casket of gold-stoppered phials she took 
 one, and poured into a small glass an oily 
 green fluid, and offered it to Mrs. Trevor, 
 who drank, and was refreshed. 
 
 "You are a good girl, Estelle," she said ; 
 " I will buy you something pretty when we 
 drive out to-morrow." 
 
 " Thank you, Madame. But will you 
 not come down ? The gentlemen are all in 
 despair because the most ravishing lady of all 
 has left them." 
 
 Flora descended, lookincj radiant and feel-
 
 BRIGHTON ROMANCE. 125 
 
 ing defiant. She had plenty of dances. She 
 went in to supper with a youthful peer — so 
 youthful that he firmly believed she was as 
 young as himself, though she might almost 
 have been his mother. He was over head 
 and ears in love with her at once, and show- 
 ed it by blushing till he looked like a very 
 pink baby, and by getting her every incon- 
 gruous thing possible to eat and drink. She 
 was forced to laugh at last when she found 
 a plate before her containing lobster salad 
 and a Neapolitan ice. The young noble 
 was not at all disconcerted. 
 
 "Hem — you see — when a fellow's very 
 happy — don't you know ? — he's rather off 
 his head, you see. I put some beer into my 
 own champagne, just now, 'pon honour, and 
 it was all being so happy, don't you know ?" 
 
 '' If you have put any in mine I shall not 
 forgive you," said Mrs. Trevor. " Just taste 
 it, and tell me."
 
 126 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 He obeyed. 
 
 *' Oh, that is all right ! And now it has 
 passed from ray lips to yours. I kissed the 
 glass — I did indeed." 
 
 " I fear champagne and beer is rather an 
 intoxicating liquid," said Flora. '' Come, 
 shall we have one more waltz ?" 
 
 The boy was but too delighted. He 
 went home in a glamour of ecstasy, fancying 
 this beautiful creature loved him. She, who 
 had only been amusing herself, went wearily 
 to bed, being passively undressed by Estelle, 
 who managed her mistress to perfection. 
 Flora slept a dreamless, health-giving sleep, 
 notwithstanding her naughtiness — notwith- 
 standing that hysteric moment when Lifton's 
 contempt had driven her wild. Only a 
 small brain lived beneath those amber 
 tresses : only dull nerves worked through 
 the lovely contour of that plastic form. It 
 is the creature of small brain and dull nerve
 
 BRIGHTON ROMANCE. 127 
 
 who cannot help being wicked. However, 
 Flora slept ; and when she woke about 
 twelve o'clock Estelle was by her bedside 
 with chocolate, and dainty rashers, and toast 
 miraculously crisp and thin. In a vase on 
 the table stood a superb bouquet of hot- 
 house flowers. 
 
 " Whence are those ?" said Flora, sitting 
 up in bed with a white shawl over her 
 shoulders. 
 
 '' I know not, Madame. They came by 
 magic, I think." 
 
 As Estelle had received a sovereign to 
 place them there quietly, her truthfulness 
 may be estimated. 
 
 " Bring me the bouquet," said Mrs. Tre- 
 vor. She looked at it carefully, and saw 
 within its fragrant heart a something white. 
 An emerald ring was wrapped in a piece of 
 paper, whereon was written, in a somewhat 
 boyish hand —
 
 128 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 " Flowers — for the goddess Floral 
 " Can you guess who sent this, Estelle ?" 
 she said, trying the ring on her finger at 
 once. 
 
 " Madame, no. How should I ? Every- 
 one adores you." 
 
 Flora lay there dreaming, with an amused 
 smile. She was an indolent creature, and 
 liked to lie late in her delicate surroundings, 
 making day-dreams of delight. She had 
 been a constant reader of the flimsiest 
 French novels : she had intoxicated her 
 little brain with the absinthe-prompted sen- 
 suous love-l3^rics of Alfred de Musset and 
 Theophile Gautier. She dreamt of herself 
 as an odalisque, a bayadere — a Venetian 
 lady in her midnight gondola, bound on 
 some mysterious mission of love ; a wild 
 Indian nymph, with dusky limbs, swinging 
 in her hammock from a great tree above a 
 giant river, and waiting for her lover. Such
 
 BRIGHTON EOMANCE. 129 
 
 fancies, caught from the subtle song-music, 
 mere foam-froth of the brain, wherein the 
 French delight, were her morning enchant- 
 ment. She would lie with closed eyes, 
 fancying herself Murger's Musette, or De 
 Musset's Marquesa d'Amaeguai, or Gustave 
 Nadaud's fairy Ursula. 
 
 Estelle, a restless French girl, used to 
 wonder how her mistress, wildly eager in 
 pursuit of pleasure, could enjoy these inter- 
 vals of perfect indolence. Estelle had not 
 been fed on the erotic literature of her 
 country : she could read but little, and just 
 sign her name. She had been apprenticed 
 early to a Paris milliner, had shown such 
 skill and taste that her mistress was sorry 
 to part with her to a great lady who wanted 
 a clever attendant. She had, on the death 
 of her patroness, been engaged by Mrs. 
 Trevor, to whom she was a faithful and 
 attached servant. Yes, Estelle really liked 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 her mistress, who was prodigal and kindly, 
 and made the girl her companion. Estelle 
 waited on Flora with absolute devotion, 
 foreseeing all her fancies, and hastening to 
 gratify them. 
 
 The indolent creature stirred by-and-by, 
 threw off her reverie, stretched her plump 
 arms, and thought she would face the sun- 
 shine. So Estelle dressed her, almost as a 
 child is dressed, for she hated trouble, and 
 her maid knew just the style that suited 
 her, according to the weather and her com- 
 plexion. 
 
 " Estelle," she said, trifling with a luxuri- 
 ous breakfast, '' I want to drive before the 
 sun is gone. I hate chill," she added, with 
 a shudder. " You must come with me : 
 look your best. I think I told them two 
 o'clock ; it is past that, surely." 
 
 " I will inquire, Madame," she said, and 
 in a moment returned with, '' The carriage
 
 BRIGHTON ROMANCE. 131 
 
 waits." And very soon they were out be- 
 hind a pair of respectable horses (not exact- 
 ly matching the superb private teams that 
 crowd the King's Road), driving up and 
 down the most wonderful sea esplanade in 
 the world. Mrs. Trevor was buried in 
 white fur, for all the world like a strange 
 snowbird with an amber crest ; while Es- 
 telle, having the art of dress, contrived on 
 such occasions to make herself look much 
 more like a lady-companion than a lady's 
 maid. 
 
 Presently they passed a fine four-in-hand 
 — three chestnuts, and a bright bay as ofF- 
 wheeler. Flora, who, like Pope's politician, 
 "saw through all things with her half-closed 
 eyes," saw who was driving. It was Arun- 
 del Lifton. He did not even see her, nor 
 did Lord Arun, who was on the box with 
 him. That off-wheeler had never been in 
 a team before, and required Lifton's skill 
 
 k2
 
 132 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 and strength to manage. There were a 
 good many of Lifton's friends, male and 
 female, who would have rejoiced to hear 
 that bright bay had broken his neck. 
 
 This turn-out belongs to Lord Arun, an 
 enthusiastic young peer, whom his cousin 
 Arundel is driving fast to Avernus. Arun is 
 twenty-two, and has about twenty thousand 
 a year, and does not know how to spend it, 
 so it slips through his fingers like quicksilver. 
 Lifton's great mining royalties are rumoured 
 to bring him in three or four times that 
 amount ; but, though he spends money like 
 a prince, he calculates to the last sovereign. 
 He can tell at any moment, from a little 
 memorandum book in his breast-pocket, 
 what he is worth within a hundred or two ; 
 and it must be a complex question, for he 
 has been a great investor, and has probably 
 never spent half his income. He is a born 
 calculator, with a Babbage's machine instead
 
 BRIGHTON ROMANCE. 133 
 
 of a soul. Will he miscalculate for just 
 once? 
 
 Young Lord Arun, who likes to outdo 
 everybody in everything, has set up a 
 famous four-in-hand, but does not drive it 
 with perfect ease of mind. On the box be- 
 side his cousin he is quite easy, for he be- 
 lieves Lifton infallible. And Lifton can do 
 most things. But the groom had remon- 
 strated against putting in that bay mare, a 
 new purchase, to drive along the King's 
 Road. Lifton said calmly, 
 
 "Do as you are told, man. Give her 
 room if she wants to kick. Put ' Short 
 Tommy ' inside." 
 
 Reader, can you place yourself in the 
 position of a bay mare that, for the first 
 time in her life, though heretofore she has 
 known harness, finds herself with three 
 others before a vaster machine than she 
 has ever drawn, or helped to draw, trotting
 
 134 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 along that thoroughfare of multitudes. 
 Never has she seen such sights ; never has 
 ihoivj: touched her on the flank with such 
 decisive sharpness; never has silver bugle 
 sounded behind her. If that mare's nerves 
 are upset, who can blame her ? 
 
 Upset they certainly were. As they re- 
 turned eastward, just by the West Pier, her 
 skittishness grew worse and worse. 
 
 *^ You'll never get her home," said Arun. 
 
 " Pooh !" 
 
 He had time to say no more, when a 
 stupid flyman drew round from where he 
 had been setting some one down right across 
 the near leader. The fellow was not blind, 
 only stupid with long years of adulterated 
 beer. His wretched horse w^ent down, and 
 both shafts were broken. Lifton's off leader 
 was an old hand, and tried to obey the 
 rein ; but the mare was frightened into 
 madness, and kicked fiercely, and in pulling
 
 BRIGHTON ROMANCE. 135 
 
 the coach across the road it took off the 
 wheel of poor Flora's carriage, as she was 
 returning from her drive. There was a 
 regular spill. Lord Arun, seeing who it 
 was, heedless of his own affairs, scrambled 
 down to help the ladies. Lifton took it all 
 in at a glance, and at once meditated mis- 
 chief. But he was looking to the horses. 
 The mare lay on her side, moving convul- 
 sively. The three chestnuts were still, 
 though shuddering with excitement. 
 
 ^'Her back's broken, I fear, Tyrrel," he 
 said to the head groom. '' She would have 
 jumped right over that carriage if I hadn't 
 struck her on the ears." 
 
 " You are quite right, sir. And my lord 
 gave three hundred for her." 
 
 Lifton laughed. He knew the value of 
 money well enough, but it always amused 
 him to hear people lament the loss of it. He 
 called to a sergeant of police who stood near.
 
 136 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 " Sergeant," he said, "I must shoot this 
 mare. Keep the people quiet." 
 
 There came a pistol shot, and the poor 
 creature's career was ended. 
 
 ^' I never saw such a gentleman," said 
 Tyrrel to one of his mates. "In course it 
 was the right thing to do, for the poor mare 
 was in miser}^ and couldn't live ; but I 
 shouldn't have had pluck enough to do 
 it." 
 
 Leaving whomsoever it might concern to 
 clear away the wreck, Arundel Lifton walk- 
 ed to his hotel, and sat down to muse. The 
 idea of Arun's beinsj taken in Flora's net 
 delighted him. He wished neither of them 
 any harm, but he had a heartless pleasure 
 in seeing other people go wrong. His con- 
 tempt for mankind was so great that you 
 might imagine his race had been crossed by 
 a fiend. He laughed heartily over the 
 thoudit of Arun and Flora makins: fools of
 
 BRIGHTON ROMANCE. 137 
 
 one another. Both born to be fools, their 
 meeting was a caustic comedy from the 
 point of view of Mephistopheles. 
 
 '' I'll leave them alone," he thought. 
 "She'll say nothing to him about me, for 
 fear of what might come out. She'll pre- 
 tend not to know me, I expect. Oh, what 
 a game she'll play with that poor boy, un- 
 less I interfere ! He'll come and ask mv 
 advice : the man who asks for advice writes 
 himself down an ass at once. He'll describe 
 her as a pure simple creature — so sweet, so 
 confiding, so intellectual ! I can see exactly 
 what Flora would seem to that boy. But, 
 by Jove ! the time goes on. I must write 
 some letters." 
 
 He sat down and wrote about a dozen 
 brief letters of business to various agents, in 
 some of them enclosing cheques in others 
 requiring remittances. Never a day passed 
 but Arundel Lifton was in communication
 
 138 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 with the people he employed. Ringing for 
 a waiter, he said, 
 
 " Send those letters to be registered, and 
 bring me the receipts. I shall dine here 
 alone to-night, at eight — fish and cutlets, 
 and a bottle of Lafitte. If anyone inquires 
 for me, I am not in the hotel, remember." 
 
 Then he went into a maze of complex 
 calculations, which seemed to interest him 
 strangely. He wrote a minute hand, and 
 the figures ran beneath his pen with the 
 • swiftness of Atalanta. Had not the deep 
 misfortune happened to him to be prodigi- 
 ously rich, he would probably have been 
 senior wrangler. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lord Arun and Mrs. Trevor 
 — but really this demands a new chapter.
 
 139 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A FLUENT WOOER. 
 
 Little it matters how love's tale is told, 
 
 If comes therewith a radiant shower of gold. 
 
 TTILORA was not hurt a bit, nor indeed 
 -*- was she frightened ; but the incident 
 was too striking a one for her to miss an 
 opportunity. She fainted— that is to say, 
 she sank languidly into Estelle's arms, with 
 eyelids drooping, and had to be carefully 
 carried upstairs into the hotel. A whole 
 bevy of Brighton cavaliers attended her : 
 foremost among them was young Lord Arun, 
 who had fallen madly in love with her the 
 night before, and had sent her a gage cT amour
 
 140 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 in the morning, and who now felt disposed 
 to tear his hair because Ms four-in-hand had 
 done this harm. There was a real sensa- 
 tion throughout the Grand Hotel, and all 
 over Brighton, so soon as the news was 
 known. Flora had been the belle of the 
 balls — the despair of the men, and the envy 
 of the women ; and, by the time the dwellers 
 in mansions at Kemp Town and Hove heard 
 the story, of course it was stated that 
 her injuries were so serious she could not 
 live. But when Estelle had brought her to 
 her room, and administered a glass of that 
 mysterious cordial, she opened her eyes and 
 sank back in her chair, and said, 
 
 " Oh, dear me, how dreadful it was !" 
 As a fact, Estelle was more frightened 
 than her mistress ; and she was also a little 
 hurt, for the edge of a wheel had bruised her 
 shoulder ; but the brave girl said nothing, 
 and tended her mistress faithfully.
 
 A FLUENT WOOEK. 141 
 
 Presently came a knock at the door, and 
 a card was brought — Lord Arun's, of course. 
 On it was pencilled, " May I see you ? I 
 am so anxious." Flora smiled, but did not 
 blush or tremble : this boy's fancy amused 
 her, but she had known a fierier if less noble 
 love. She said : 
 
 " He may come, Estelle. Do I look very 
 bad?" 
 
 " Madame looks charming," was the reply ; 
 and Lord Arun was admitted, and Estelle 
 was glad to go to her room and bathe her 
 hurt shoulder with warm water. 
 
 When Arun entered. Flora looked up at 
 him with a lovely languor. She was no 
 longer the gay bright rose of the dance : it 
 was 
 
 *' As if a flower should close and be a bud again." 
 
 There was dew in her eyes, a tremor on her 
 lips, and a pained tone in her voice. This
 
 142 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 little born actress knew that for the moment 
 she was the heroine of Brighton, and en- 
 joyed the situation. She had been calmly 
 studying how one of her French models 
 would have acted at such a time. 
 
 '' Ton my life, Mrs. Trevor, don't you 
 know ?" said Lord Arun, " I'm mad my 
 horses should have done such a thing. Are 
 you dreadfully hurt? You always look 
 lovely, you see, but it's so deceitful." 
 
 ^'I am only a little shaken, my lord — 
 mentally rather than physically. The shock 
 was sudden ; but I am quite well, I assure 
 
 vou." 
 
 " By Jove ! you know, it was awful. And 
 I was so happy last night — never so happy, 
 I declare — and now, 'pon honour, I'm the 
 unhappiest man in Brighton, except the man 
 that takes people's names down as the}^ go 
 into a ball." 
 
 Flora laughed at the comparison. Lord
 
 A FLUENT WOOER. 143 
 
 Arun had evidently pitied the gentleman 
 told off for that duty, unaware that nothing 
 would induce him to emulate those whom 
 he had to note down. 
 
 ''There is no need for you to be un- 
 happy," she said, softly smiling like Lalage ; 
 " I am well, though tired. And I have 
 some one to thank for this beautiful emerald 
 ring, which I found in the heart of a bou- 
 quet of flowers. I wonder how these came 
 into my room." 
 
 ' ' When a fellow's happy, you know, and 
 he knows why, he wants to make the per- 
 son he knows why — no, I don't mean^ that 
 — I mean he wants to make somebody 
 know it. Now, don't you see? I was 
 happy, Mrs. Trevor, and I knew why : so I 
 went to Bright's — he's got some good things 
 — do you like the emerald, though? It 
 looks jolly, on your finger." 
 
 She turned it round.
 
 144 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 " I wish it were a magic ring," she said. 
 "A rinsf that would make vou invisible; 
 then you could go and find out everybody's 
 secrets. A ring that would make every- 
 body tell you truth : Oh, I should like 
 that ! A ring that would make people love 
 you " 
 
 " That," interrupted Lord Arun, " don't 
 you see? Mrs. Trevor, is just what you 
 don't want. I believe you've got such a 
 ring." 
 
 "Lord Arun," she said, "you are both 
 witty and polite. You are generous too ; 
 and I will keep your lovely emerald — as 
 green as the shallow sea. But please don't 
 give me anything more : people are so cen- 
 sorious. I'm obliged to be terribly careful, 
 they iviJl talk, and I have no father or 
 brothers to protect me." 
 
 "Who'd dare to say a word, I want to 
 know, against you? Might I, with your
 
 A FLUENT WOOER. 145 
 
 permission, wring his confounded neck ? 
 B}'' Jove, you see, the world's full of scamps, 
 male and female, and 3^ou never know, you 
 know, who anybody is ; but the scamp that 
 would say a word against you, you see, must 
 be about as bad a fellow as the fat man that 
 called himself Tichborne. I don't like fat 
 men, you know : do you ?" 
 
 " I have not considered that subject," said 
 Flora, with a light laugh ; "but I think not. 
 Fat men don't walk well or ride well. 
 They haven't breath enough to talk. Their 
 souls have more than they can do to keep 
 their bodies alive. Let me see, though ! I 
 have heard there is one thing they can do : 
 they can swim." 
 
 " Porpoises !" ejaculated Lord Aran. 
 " But about those scamps — you see I'm a 
 very good hand with a horsewhip, 'pon 
 honour ; and if there's anybody has said an 
 impertinent word about you, give me his 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 name and address, and by the lord he shall 
 have it." 
 
 " Oh ! Lord Arun, I did not mean that," 
 she said, liking the young man's enthusiasm. 
 " I mean that there are people who will 
 talk about a solitary woman like myself, 
 and that therefore you must not come and 
 see me too often." 
 
 " I won't — no really, I won't — shall we 
 say twice a-day ? I could bring you some 
 fruit in the morning and some flowers in 
 the evening, don't you know ?" 
 
 She clapped her hands merrily. 
 
 " How delightful you are !" she said. 
 *' Twice a day ! Why if you were to come 
 but once a week all Brighton would chatter 
 about us, and either say we were no better 
 than we should be, or else that we w^ere en- 
 gaged." 
 
 ''I don't want to be any better than I 
 should be, you know, and you couldn't if
 
 A FLUENT WOOER. 147 
 
 you tried. And if Brighton likes to say 
 we're engaged, by Jove ! don't you see ? let 
 the rascals tell truth for once." 
 
 l2
 
 148 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FAU8T AND MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 He is the devil, not of superstition, but of knowledge. 
 
 Carlyle. 
 
 T" ORD ARUN called on his cousin be- 
 -*^ tween eleven and twelve on the day 
 after the crash. Lifton, in dressing-gown 
 and slippers, with his untasted breakfast on 
 the table, was smoking cigarettes and look- 
 ing intensely bored. Lifton was always 
 bored unless he was doing some sort of mis- 
 chief Lord Arun's arrival woke him up, 
 and he said, gaily, 
 ' ^'Ah, Val, how are you? You are a
 
 FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES. 149 
 
 youth of enterprise. What do you think of 
 the pretty widow? Have you come to 
 breakfast?" 
 
 " By Jove !" said Arun, " Did I breakfast 
 before I came out ? Yes ; I had some 
 prawns and a pint of hock. No : that was 
 yesterday. Positively, Arundel, I don't 
 think I have breakfasted." 
 
 '^ The boy's in love," said Lifton, with a 
 smile. " Come, eat some breakfast, and let 
 me hear your adventures." 
 
 He lifted a cover, but everything was 
 cold. So he rang, and said to the waiter, 
 
 " Bring something hot. I forgot about 
 breakfast. Be quick." 
 
 "I don't think I'm hungry," said Arun. 
 
 '' Nonsense. Lovers always are. There 
 is no business in life that requires more nutri- 
 ment. You may make a speech fasting, or 
 fight a duel, or play roulette, or ride a steeple- 
 chase; but never make love to a woman
 
 150 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 without a rumpsteak and a bottle of Bur- 
 gundy first." 
 
 A second breakfast arrived. Arun found 
 he was immensely hungry. Lifton's flag- 
 ging appetite was revived by his cousin's 
 arrival in an amorous state. 
 
 " I must drink her health in champagne 
 this instant !" cried Arun, and rang the 
 bell. ''You never saw her equal. She's 
 as innocent as — as Devonshire cream, and 
 her lips, you know, are rosebuds and all 
 that, — and as to her e3^es, by Jove, sir ! 
 they gave me a pain just here," pointing to 
 where he supposed his heart to be. 
 
 '' Champagne is good for that malady," 
 said Lifton. " And so you think her per- 
 fect ? I knew you would." 
 
 '^Why, you don't know her, you know, 
 do you?" 
 
 '' Know her ? I know all women to be 
 very much alike when they get hold of a
 
 FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES. 151 
 
 young fellow like you, alwnys looking at 
 them through a rose-coloured glass. Come, 
 we'll drink her health." 
 
 Arun tossed off the champagne, and re- 
 filled his glass, Lifton watching him with a 
 contemptuous smile. The part of Mephis- 
 topheles (hater of light) had been played 
 full many a time, but never more consum- 
 mately than by Arundel Lifton. 
 
 *' She really is a widow ?" he said, inter- 
 rogatively, sipping his wine with delibera- 
 tion. 
 
 *' Oh, yes. Sad story, you know — didn't 
 tell me, too heart-rendins:. Married bv force 
 to some old miser, who f)lagued her to 
 death, by Jove ! always jealous, you know — 
 died suddenly of losing sixpence, and left 
 all his money to charities — luckily forgot 
 to sign his will." 
 
 Here Arun paused to take breath, and 
 his cousin said :
 
 152 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 '' If she didn't tell you this rubbish, how 
 the deuce do you know it ?" 
 
 " Read it in her e3^es, you know. She's 
 transparent, like — well, like a tank in the 
 Aquarium." 
 
 " Bad comparison," said Lifton ; " you 
 can't look into those tanks without seeing 
 something fishy." 
 
 " You may chaff. You don't know- 
 Flora — she's as pure as — this wine, and as 
 delicate as — as — a cisfar ash." 
 
 '^ That simile deserves a cigarette, and 
 these are real Russians. I am glad you 
 came in with your story, Yal ; I was most 
 awfully bored. Is the wind in the east?" 
 
 '* Didn't notice, 'pon honour. East is 
 your right hand, isn't it ? Yes, then it is 
 in the east — blows straight from the Bed- 
 ford, you know." 
 
 " Ah, I daresay it's all right. You have 
 woke me up, Val. You are the most
 
 FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES. 153 
 
 interesting fellow I know, now that you're 
 in love. It's wonderful how it improves a 
 young man. I've never been able to fall 
 in love myself: no heart, perhaps. I 
 never met but one woman worth a man's 
 resard, and I made her hate me." 
 
 A gloom fell for a moment on the coun- 
 tenance of this man, which never at any 
 time looked cheerful. If Arundel Lifton 
 could not love, he could hate ; and a keen 
 observer would have been horrified by the 
 dark revenge that suddenly convulsed his 
 features. Arun, at no time observant, was 
 full of his passionate fancy for Flora. The 
 champagne quickened his grotesque flow of 
 eloquence. 
 
 "You must come and see her, by Jove, 
 Arundel. What's that story — didn't we 
 read it at Harrow? — of a judgment of 
 beauty, you know, at Paris, about three 
 goddesses ? Never saw a goddess — gone
 
 154 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 out of fashion, haven't they ? like big lizards 
 and giants — but I'll back Flora against any 
 of them." 
 
 Herewith he drank another bumper of 
 champagne, and looked as triumphant as 
 Apollo when he started in vain pursuit of 
 Daphne, a story well told by Ovid and 
 Matthew Prior. Then he said : 
 
 '' Good-bye. Where do you dine ? I'm 
 off to see Flora." 
 
 " What a charming young fool he is !" 
 said Lifton to himself, turning round to the 
 fire, and taking another cigarette. Lifton 
 possessed in perfection Talleyrand's two 
 requisites to happiness — a hard heart and a 
 strong stomach : but he had occasional 
 fits of intolerable eiinui. When in this case, 
 wine was no stimulant — tobacco, or even 
 opium, no sedative : all he could do was to 
 endure to the end. It was not remorse, for 
 he had none ; nor dyspepsia, for his diges-
 
 FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES. 155 
 
 tion would have suited a cassowary : it was 
 more like the evil spirit which came upon 
 Kinoj Saul, and filled him Vv^ith a horror 
 devoid of form or meaning — a vague, un- 
 fathomable depression, with no definite 
 cause. Arundel Lifton looked moodily at 
 the fire, smoking cigarettes without tasting 
 them, drank several glasses of Chartreuse, 
 yet felt no addition of warmth and vigour. 
 
 "I wish something would happen," he 
 soliloquized. ^'Life is too easy, and I am 
 getting bored." 
 
 There are men who are formed for a 
 tempestuous life. It is just imaginable that 
 in certain circumstances Arundel Lifton 
 might have achieved a kind of gloomy great- 
 ness. Had he liyed in time of revolution, 
 his ambitious spirit might have caused him 
 to grasp power with a resolute hand — to 
 become a dictator or an emperor. He had 
 no conscience, yet a clear judgment; no
 
 156 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 affection, but the ^vildest momentary passion ; 
 no knowledge of the meaning of love, but 
 the faculty of hottest hate. Only a few 
 persons, however, did he deem worthy of 
 hatred : for the mass of mankind he had a 
 cool cynical scorn. Could Lord Arun, who, 
 though flighty and thoughtless, was a really 
 good-hearted fellow, have seen his cousin 
 as he really was, he would have shrunk 
 from him with horror. But Lifton had a 
 curious fascination about him. Arun was 
 one of many who admired him because they 
 found him incomprehensible. When a man 
 has a handsome figure, dresses to perfection, 
 is brilliant in society, spends money lavishly, 
 knows all the ways of the world, his ac- 
 quaintances seldom inquire too curiously 
 into his moral character. Lifton was known 
 to have done one or two things that might 
 possibly shock the clerical mind, but which 
 in very high society were voted venial.
 
 FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES. 157 
 
 "Well," he thought, '^'11 take a stroll, 
 and see if this Brighton wind will blow 
 away the blue devils. Yal is playing his 
 little comedy, I suppose : poor boy ! the 
 denouement will be amusing — to me at any 
 rate. How far shall I let him go ? Would 
 that trivial thing like to be Lady Arun ? 
 Xo ; she shall not have that pleasure." 
 
 He strolled out on the Cliff. A real 
 Brighton breeze was blowinof, rufflins; the 
 sea, driving the white sails, making the 
 ladies' faces ruddv. and mvino; to their 
 dresses a bewitching disorder. It did not 
 blow away Lifton's blue devils.
 
 158 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 
 
 The mesmerizer snow. 
 
 Browning. 
 
 THEY all lay late in bed that morning. 
 Certes, they had sat up into the short 
 hours, chatting over many things, making 
 verses for the huge folio lettered " Copse 
 Hill Rhymes," which lay on one of the 
 bookshelves ; talking much nonsense and no 
 scandal, and enjoying "the sweet o' the 
 night." But they had to turn in at last : 
 only the master of the house, when every- 
 body else had sleep upon the eyelids, dream- 
 less and calm, took pen in hand and worked
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 159 
 
 away for an hour or two. '' One hour after 
 midnight is worth two before," he was wont 
 to say : and on that principle he acted. 
 
 However, he was up at nine, for it was 
 Sunday morning, on which day, for some 
 mysterious reason, the post at Copse Hill 
 goes out at half-past ten. By this wise 
 arrangement the letter carrier is effectually 
 prevented from going to morning service; 
 so indeed is Mr. Frowde, who, having per- 
 haps a dozen letters to write by 10.30, can 
 hardly breakfast and reach the church by 
 eleven. As the letters are simply carried 
 to Two Bridges, about three miles away, 
 and remain there till nine in the evening, 
 this regulation savours not much of the 
 wisdom of Solomon. 
 
 As we have said, they lay late, with a 
 depth of sleep under them — the hypnotism 
 of heaven. When at last they lazily went 
 to their windows, and drew the curtains,
 
 160 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 and looked out upon the lawn, behold ! it 
 was white with snow, and snow still fell in 
 thick heavy flakes, and all the evergreens 
 were loaded. There was a simultaneous 
 shiver, and everybody rang for warm baths 
 at once. 
 
 Who were these Sunday sleepers who 
 listened, let us hope regretfully, to the 
 church bell, mufHed by the snow? The 
 hosts are Mr. Frowde and his wife ; the 
 guests are Diana and Claudia Selfe, and 
 Frowde's cousin, Henry Branscombe — like 
 him in many tilings, except that he is not so 
 big, wears spectacles, and makes money in 
 a much easier and faster way than by writ- 
 ing books. It is almost twelve w^hen these 
 lazy people come down to their matutinal 
 meal. 
 
 Diana and Claudia, dressed in perfect 
 taste, are warming their white fingers 
 before the book-room fire, quite ready for
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 161 
 
 the meal — half breakfast, half lunch — which 
 is just now ready for them. 
 
 "What time did you go to bed, Manly?" 
 said his cousin. " You don't look much the 
 worse for late hours." 
 
 "I did not notice," he said ; *'I think it 
 was about four. Come, Harry, wake up, 
 and give the ladies some devilled turkey. 
 I've a rio;ht to be lazv, for I've written a 
 dozen letters this morning." 
 
 "Do you like snow, Diana?" said Mrs. 
 Frowde. 
 
 " Not in the hunting season," she replied. 
 " I like the sleepy feeling it gives one." 
 
 " Oh, so do I," said Claudia; "but isn't 
 thaw hateful? I call it mean for that beauti- 
 ful white snow, that makes Mr. Frowde's 
 white pigeons look dirty, to melt away into 
 a nasty filthy slush." 
 
 " By Jove, Claudia, you remind me that 
 my pigeons have had no breakfast. These 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 letters early in the morning are an offence 
 against civilization." 
 
 Opening a French window, he threw 
 handfuls of peas to the beautiful white 
 birds, who came with alacrity and then 
 fluttered away to drink upon a stone vase 
 of water close at hand. White as they 
 were, the snow made them anything but 
 white ; but a pair of black carriers and a 
 splendid cock blackbird, that came close up 
 to the window in search of food, were 
 deeper than the hue of ebony. 
 
 " Look at that dear bird," said Claudia. 
 "Shall I give him some crumbs, Mr. 
 Frowde ?" 
 
 "You're a black ouzel yourself, Claudia, 
 so it's only right you should help your 
 kin." 
 
 '' I suppose that's a compliment," she said, 
 tossing out some crumbs, which soon at- 
 tracted not only the blackbird, but his mate
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 163 
 
 also, and a hundred or so of sparrows, and 
 two cock robins who immediately engaged 
 in mortal combat, and a missel-thrush, and 
 two or three greenfinches. Meanwhile an 
 atom of a titmouse was clinging with his 
 claws to a bit of meat, suspended by twine 
 to an ash bough near, and pecking away 
 with great satisfaction. 
 
 "I like birds," said Frowde. ''What 
 life they give to the world !" 
 
 '' What is 'your favourite bird ?" asked 
 Diana. ''Being a poet, the nightingale, I 
 suppose." 
 
 "No," interposed Claudia; "the eagle, 
 which soars with undazzled eyes towards 
 the sun at noonday." 
 
 *' You have been reading Milton's prose 
 works, Claudia. I should think the favourite 
 bird with you two girls is the lark." 
 
 "It certainly is," said Diana, gravely. 
 " Our life at Millbrook maybe thus defined : 
 
 M 2
 
 164 TPIE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 we rise with the lark, we work and amuse 
 ourselves all day, and are as merry as larks 
 the whole time, and we very often get a 
 lark in the evening." 
 
 " Rather different from your previous 
 life," said Mrs. Frowde. '' What a treat to 
 be free ! I wonder how, with such a child- 
 hood of tyranny, you are so full of energetic 
 life. It would have made some people 
 stupid for ever." 
 
 "There were two of us, you see," said 
 Claudia; "and we kept up each other's 
 spirits. I don't care to remember it. It is 
 a luxury to be free at any rate, as you 
 say ; and we contrive to live a tolerably 
 happy life." 
 
 "An ideal life, in my judgment," said 
 Frowde ; *^you have no troubles, except when 
 your pony or your maidservant gets too 
 frisky. You have heaps of pleasant friends 
 without any ostentation — people who like
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 165 
 
 you for your own sakes. You have a guide, 
 philosopher, and friend in that dear old 
 ac^ricultural gentleman who rides straiQ;ht 
 across country. When you find the winter 
 evenings slow, you can write a sensation 
 story, and illustrate it yourselves, or make 
 double acrostics, or learn Latin for the sake 
 of writing it on post-cards." 
 
 " That last is an excellent idea," said 
 Claudia. " Give us a Gradus ad Parnassuin 
 — is that right ? — and we'll do it. I be- 
 lieve that writing post-cards in an unknown 
 tongue would make a great many village 
 postmistresses go raving mad. We'll take 
 to Latin, Diana." 
 
 The snow fell fast. They could hardly 
 see the people returning from church. Mr. 
 Bonfellow had preached a short sermon — a 
 ^vise custom of his : the two or three country 
 squires were driving home to lunch; the 
 commonalty were trudging through the
 
 166 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 heavy snow to their dinners of pork and 
 bacon. 
 
 '* Not many people in church this morn- 
 ing," said Frowde. " Hallo ! Harry, what 
 are you doing ?" 
 
 '' Making [myself useful," he said. He 
 had stretched himself on the hearthrug, a 
 favourite position with him, and was care- 
 fully placing chestnuts on the bars of the 
 grate to roast. Suddenly one of them 
 burst, and the fine flour came all over his 
 face, making him look like a miller. 
 
 He jumped up as if he had been shot, and 
 everybody laughed. 
 
 " That's a chestnut wasted," he said, '' and 
 no doubt the best of the lot — the fairest of 
 the flock, in fact. If the particles could be 
 carefully collected from my face with a 
 spoon I think perhaps they might be 
 utilized."
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 167 
 
 Saying which, he went sadly upstairs to 
 regain his ordinary appearance. 
 
 " Now," said Claudia, '^ let's eat all the 
 rest of the chestnuts while he's away." 
 
 The malicious suggestion was accepted at 
 once. He looked, on his return, with 
 horror at the empty bars. 
 
 " At one fell swoop !" he exclaimed, and 
 went into the dining-room to get more nuts. 
 
 Snow is a pleasant and picturesque thing 
 to watch ; but when you are kept indoors 
 by it on Sunday in the country it grows 
 monotonous. The ladies must not use their 
 fingers, and ladies hate sitting still without 
 using their fingers. The men may smoke 
 if they like ; but neither Frowde or Brans- 
 combe liked. 
 
 Perhaps the greatest difficulty is to know 
 how to amuse children on Sundays. Dolls 
 and dolls'-houses, carts and horses, puzzles
 
 168 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 and games, and all the fascinations of the 
 nursery, must be gathered up on Saturday 
 night and put into a cupboard out of sight. 
 Dolly may perhaps be most fondly loved 
 and admired, be carefully undressed and put 
 to bed, and as carefully dressed in the morn- 
 ing, six days out of the seven ; but on the 
 seventh day she is concealed in a dark cup- 
 board, where her poor little mistress goes 
 occasionally to take furtive looks to see if 
 she is all right. Some parents manage to 
 quiet their consciences by letting their 
 children have a Noah's ark. It is Scriptural 
 they say. Also a puzzle of the map of 
 Palestine is allowed ; no other part of the 
 world would be considered orthodox. Our 
 friends were discussing Sunday recreations 
 when Harry Branscombe suggested that 
 chess might be proper if the pieces had 
 Scriptural names, but the ladies voted him 
 irreverent.
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 169 
 
 The afternoon passed pleasantly enough. 
 They turned over various books, read 
 snatches of verse, criticized the critics, 
 finally had some tea. Just as it was brought 
 in, all the dogs in the place barked furiously, 
 and they saw at the front gate a man on 
 horseback. He rode deliberately towards 
 the front door. Diana and Claudia watched 
 him with all their eyes. He was a good 
 man on a good horse — that they could see, 
 being pretty keen judges of both horses and 
 men. 
 
 "Who's this comes riding o'er the snow?" 
 said Frowde to Diana. "I must g:o and 
 
 see." 
 
 There was expectation among the ladies 
 while the new-comer got rid of his riding- 
 coat, while his horse was taken to a stable. 
 He entered : everyone liked his looks : after 
 a sharp ride he was glad of a cup of warm 
 tea with some whisky therein. When he
 
 170 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 began to thaw he also began to explain him- 
 self. 
 
 '• You haven't introduced me, Mr. 
 Frowde," he said. 
 
 ^' By Jove, no more I have !" This was 
 a constant faihng of his, for which his wife 
 was always scolding him. '* Mr. Sebright," 
 he went on ; ''met him at Venice — Mr. 
 Sebright, Miss Selfe — &c., &c., &c." 
 
 " You're a nice fellow at an introduction," 
 said Mrs. Frowde. "These two young 
 ladies, Mr. Sebriglit, are the Misses Selfe, 
 great friends of ours ; and this is our cousin, 
 Mr. Branscombe — and we are all delighted 
 to see you, for your own sake, and because 
 anybody would be welcome in such weather. 
 Now let me order something to eat. You 
 must be hungry after your ride." 
 
 " Thank you, just a biscuit or sandwich," 
 •said Sebright. 
 
 *' And I am sure you will stay to dinner,
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 171 
 
 and remain the night with us," said Mrs. 
 Frowde. 
 
 Sebright did not object. When the order 
 had been given, he turned to his hostess and 
 said: 
 
 " My father and mother were called away 
 the day before yesterday to my grandfather's 
 brother, up near York, who is immensely 
 old, and supposed to be dying. My mother 
 is his only niece, and I suppose he'll leave 
 her a lot of money. Well, they went. I 
 was left alone, with exactly nine people 
 within three miles, and three of the nine as 
 deaf as a post. Well, I got through yester- 
 day with a long ride, and dined alone with- 
 out knowing what I ate, and went to bed 
 early. But before I went I thought of you, 
 Mr.Frowde,and Iremembered Mrs.Frowde's 
 kind invitation ; so I gave my man orders for 
 my horse to be ready to-day at twelve, for 
 I was determined to come, whatever the
 
 172 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 weather might be. I had quite forgotten it 
 was Sunday. I hope you don't think I am 
 very wicked, Mrs. Frowde." 
 
 ''Very shocking, indeed," said Mrs. 
 Frowde in fun, '' but you can receive abso- 
 lution from our good parson, Mr. Bonfellow, 
 for he is coming to lunch with us to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 '' Have you yet made up your mind about 
 taking orders ?" said Manly Frowde. 
 
 " No, though my father still urges me," 
 he replied. 
 
 " I suppose you spend Christmas with 
 your family," said Mrs. Frowde. 
 
 " It seems very probable that my family 
 will be represented entirely by myself, and 
 that I shall dine in solitary state, with 
 a turkey and plum-pudding all to my- 
 self." 
 
 " Oh, you cannot possibly do that," said 
 Mrs. Frowde, " I must insist on your stay-
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE KILL. 173 
 
 ing with us, if you do not miud our humble 
 entertainment." 
 
 "Thanks, you are too kind," said Jack 
 Sebright. "The fact is the mater always 
 likes me to be at home at Christmas time, 
 and we generally have a maiden aunt and 
 a couple of cousins of the old-young lady 
 style to stay with us ; but I heard from my 
 father this morning that the old gentleman 
 is much w^orse, and they are not at all sure 
 of being home by Christmas day ; so they 
 have put off my aunt and cousins. I can't 
 say I'm sorry, for the three ladies think it 
 necessary to lecture me on my undutiful 
 conduct to my father in not taking orders." 
 
 "Then you will dine with us, Mr. Se- 
 bright, won't you?" said Mrs. Frowde. 
 
 " I fear that I shall be an intruder in a 
 family gathering." 
 
 " We can hardly be called a family 
 gathering," said Manly Frowde, " which is
 
 174 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 perhaps all the better, as there is no fear 
 of lecturing or qaarrelling." 
 
 "I must go home to-morrow afternoon," 
 said Jack Sebright, " and wait for news on 
 Christmas morning. If I find my father 
 and mother are not coming home on that day, 
 I will, with your permission, Mrs. Frowde, 
 come over to dine with you." 
 
 At this moment Diana and Claudia went 
 into the garden to find leaves and berries 
 to wear in their hair at dinner. Harry 
 Branscombe followed them. 
 
 Mr. Frowde's garden is separated from 
 Winterslow by a lane. At the top of this 
 lane is the entrance-gate to Winterslow; 
 and nearly opposite is a small private gate 
 into Mr. Frowde's garden, but so overhung 
 with foliage that it is scarcely visible. It is 
 seldom used, as there is no thoroughfare in 
 the lane, and would only be of service if a 
 friendly neighbour were living at Winter-
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 175 
 
 slow, as it makes a short cut between the 
 houses. Claudia and Diana were near this 
 gate, trying to get some ivy that had been 
 protected from the snow, when Harry 
 Branscombe shouted — 
 
 " Diana ! Claudia ! Look what lovely 
 red berries there are in your mamma's 
 hedge. Shall I go and steal some ?" 
 
 " Oh ! do," said Diana and Claudia both 
 at once ; and they rushed through the 
 wicket-gate after Harry, and almost ran 
 against their mother. Mrs. Selfe was com- 
 ing home from afternoon church, and in 
 walking up the lane had been keeping close 
 to Mr. Frowde's palings, as there was a 
 little path which had been kept free from 
 the snow by the palings and trees above. 
 
 " Good gracious, Di !" said Claudia when 
 they had retreated, "what will she say? 
 She must have heard our conversation all 
 the time. And oh, Mr. Branscombe ! she
 
 176 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 will think us so wicked for allowing you to 
 call us by our Christian names. Oh, I 
 shan't dare to go out again while we are 
 here." 
 
 '' What nonsense !" said Diana ; '' it is no 
 good to fret ourselves about her : it won't 
 do any good. We have had misery enough, 
 and now we must make the best of things 
 and be happy. I shall not let her spoil my 
 enjoyment." 
 
 There was a general good-fellowship 
 amongst all the people who met at Mr. 
 Frowde's house, and a preference for Chris- 
 tian names which would be considered very 
 wrong by people who find it necessary to be 
 ruled by fashion and ceremony. '' Familiar- 
 ity breeds contempt " applies only to people 
 who cannot afford to be familiar. 
 
 What were Mrs. Selfe's feelings when she 
 suddenly saw her daughters ? It is im- 
 possible to say. That calm pale face shows
 
 CHRISTMAS AT COPSE HILL. 177 
 
 no sign of emotion. It is horrible to imagine 
 that a mother can hate her own children — 
 and only children. Some warm-hearted 
 mothers will say that it is impossible. They 
 will say that Mrs. Selfe must have loved her 
 children, and that they did not understand 
 her. It may be so ; but the children cer- 
 tainly did not realize her love. 
 
 Mrs. Selfe dined in her usual solitary way 
 that evenincr. 
 
 " Missis looks duller than usual," said the 
 servant in waiting, to the cook. *' I sup- 
 pose it's because the young ladies are next 
 door." 
 
 " Poor dear young ladies I" said the cook. 
 *^ I wish it could all be made right, and they 
 could come home again, for I am sure they 
 mean no harm. But I daresay they are 
 happier away. It is a dull house for them, 
 with never any company, and no good 
 dinners to send up." 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Selfe posted a letter to 
 her house-agent, in which she told him that 
 she had quite decided to let her house, and 
 begged that Mr. Temple might be informed 
 of her decision as soon as possible.
 
 179 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE VICAK. 
 
 The Oldest Inhabitant : 
 He has a natural Christianity 
 Born with him ; no deep theologian he, 
 With explanations of the original text, 
 To make the old women stare ; nor yet a fancy 
 For chirping boys with nightgo^Tis o'er their jackets, 
 And lighted candles, stinking incense, mummery 
 The girls delight in. No ; he's kind to the poor. 
 And doesn't ask them prying insolent questions. 
 
 The Traveller : 
 
 He's a good fellow. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 npHE next morning Frowde was busy, 
 **- having work to get oif by the post, 
 and well aware that he should find little 
 time between luncheon and dinner, with 
 
 n2
 
 180 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 guests in the house. And, as Mrs. Frowde 
 was engaged in those mysterious affairs of 
 state which on Monday mornings seem to 
 occupy married ladies who are their own 
 housekeepers, the other four were left to 
 entertain each other. The snow had ceased : 
 the sky was full of light, and cloudless ; it 
 was still freezing, and the pigeons, after 
 vainly pecking at the thick ice in their 
 drinking-vase, were scattered over the 
 lawn, refreshing themselves with snow- 
 crystals. The elastic air trembled with 
 life. 
 
 "Can't we take a walk?" said Claudia. 
 " There are two good hours to luncheon. I 
 know the neighbourhood well, and can take 
 you a pleasant tramp." 
 
 " You were lost in the woods once, you 
 know, Claudia," said her sister. 
 
 " Well, we're not going into the woods 
 to-day. Come, get ready, all of you. An
 
 THE VICAR. 181 
 
 hour out and an hour home will be eight 
 miles." 
 
 "Good walking for ladies," said Sebright. 
 
 Yet they did it, meeting a keen east wind 
 as they went, but religiously keeping to 
 time and distance before turning. Sebright 
 soon became a favourite. He was as full 
 of fun as any boy. They ran races, and he 
 showed himself as much swifter of foot than 
 the ladies as they than Branscombe. He 
 could not see a gate without vaulting it, nor 
 an old woman without inquiring about her 
 family, as if he had known her for ages, 
 and giving her a shilling as a Christmas- 
 box. They came to a long shallow pool, 
 where the boys had made a capital slide, 
 and were '' flying the garter" with a crowd 
 of little girls looking on. He tossed a 
 pocketful of coppers on the ice, and soon 
 the youngsters were tumbling over one 
 another in a most amusing scramble. Then
 
 182 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 he went down the long shde himself in a 
 masterly manner ; whereupon Branscombe, 
 not to be outdone, though he had never 
 been on the ice in his life, tried to follow 
 him, and sat down ignominiously, amid a 
 scream of laughter from the children. 
 
 " Now, young ladies," cried Sebright, 
 " come and slide ! You've done it hundreds 
 of times, I know." 
 
 Diana and Claudia liad done it hundreds 
 of times, and they could not resist the 
 temptation now ; and, faith, it was a pretty 
 sight to see the two trim-ankled lasses flying 
 along the ice, putting Branscombe, whose 
 intractable feet would not keep together, to 
 utter shame, and responding thoroughly to 
 Sebright's school-boy exclamation, 
 
 " Keep the pot boiling 1" 
 
 " What would mamma have said if she 
 had passed ?" said Claudia to her sister. 
 
 Oddly enough, the old lady had driven
 
 THE VICAR. 1 8S 
 
 past, and recognised her daughters ; but 
 they, breathlessly intent on keeping up the 
 steam, were happily ignorant of it. 
 
 " Feel sore, Mr. Branscombe ?" quoth 
 Sebright, as they strode along, whereat the 
 ladies laughed. 
 
 *' Not a bit. I only came down five 
 times. I believe with practice I should 
 slide better than you do.' 
 
 Whereat the ladies laughed again. 
 
 The merry party came in warm and 
 cheerful, hungry and thirsty, with reddened 
 skins and tingling pulses. Fight King Win- 
 ter while ye are young, and you will not 
 dread him in age. The constitutions of 
 men and women of a strong race like the 
 English are capable of almost anything : but 
 too often they are seriously injured in youth 
 by mismanagement ; and the present mania 
 for rapid, and, in some cases, excessive 
 education, seems likely to increase their in-
 
 184 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 jury. It was a saying of the Duke of Wel- 
 lington's that a man might be educated 
 beyond his mind. Physical education should 
 be the first thing. Many of our ablest men 
 have died before their time because their 
 precocity was encouraged in boyhood to the 
 detriment of their bodily health. Jack 
 Sebright was an admirable specimen of the 
 opposite system. The Eev. Marston Se- 
 bright saw that his boy was not brilliant ; 
 but he saw that he had sound sense, and 
 that completeness of corporal form which is 
 given to one man in a thousand — more 
 likely one in a myriad. From his childhood 
 young Sebright was encouraged in all manly 
 exercises : he rode a wild little Exmoor 
 pony at five ; he swam by instinct when 
 they put him in the sea ; he boxed, fenced, 
 boated, with a natural aptitude. Then his 
 father beoran cautiouslv with a little Latin 
 and Greek and mathematics, and Jack went
 
 THE VICAR. 18 
 
 
 
 at it as he would have gone at a ride across 
 country. His memory, which really is a 
 physical faculty, retained everything : his 
 understanding, or .apprehensive power, was 
 as clear in reference to what he had to learn 
 as it was with regard to his physical pur- 
 suits ; but his reasoning faculty moved 
 slowly, and his imagination slowlier still. 
 
 " Never mind," said the Rector, talking 
 over these things to his wife; "he'll mend 
 by-and-by. He'll have to reason when he 
 begins theology, and when he gets among 
 the girls his imagination will be stimulated." 
 
 " Oh, Marston, what an odd idea !" said 
 the lady. 
 
 '' Which of the two, dear ?" 
 
 She put down her knitting to reflect. 
 
 ''Well, I meant about the girls," she said. 
 " But the other seems quite as odd, for I 
 never could see any reason in what they 
 call theology."
 
 186 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 The Rector laughed. 
 
 *' There is a great deal, I assure you ; but 
 it is much tangled by unreasoning people. 
 Jack shall go at logic before he begins the- 
 ology. As for the imagination, why, it 
 would have no work to do if the world had 
 no women in it." 
 
 Jack Sebright had by this time gone 
 through his logical course, and was per- 
 plexed by his course theological. But his 
 imagination still slept. He thought Diana 
 and Claudia, for instance, jolly girls, capital 
 comrades, full of fun and wisdom ; he was 
 particularly fond of ladies' society, and had 
 a natural chivalry beneath his strong animal 
 spirits. 
 
 The Vicar was in Frowde's book-room by 
 the time the ladies were ready, and greeted 
 his ex-parishioners with much friendship, 
 and was introduced to Sebright. 
 
 " I have heard of your father often," he
 
 THE VICAR. 187 
 
 said, '' but we do not happen to have met." 
 
 " He stays ver}^ much at home," said 
 Jack. " Being unable to do any work in 
 the Church, he is rather disappointed : but 
 he wants me to make up for it, and become 
 a bishop, like my grandfather." 
 
 "And why not?" said Mr. Bonfellow. 
 
 But at this moment luncheon was an- 
 nounced — in a larger room than you would 
 have suspected the cottage to possess, the 
 design of the hostess. 
 
 '^ You must have found your walk cold," 
 said the Vicar to Claudia. 
 
 " Not at all. We defied the east wind. 
 We ran races. We enjoyed a slide. I am 
 as warm as a baked apple !" 
 
 "Who was the best slider?" asked Mrs. 
 Frowde. 
 
 " Mr. Branscombe," said Diana gravely ; 
 " and the best runner too. Wasn't he, Mr. 
 Sebright ?"
 
 188 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 *' Indeed he was." 
 
 " Harry, I'm proud of you," said Frovvde. 
 
 .Harry only laughed. If he could not 
 
 slide, he could do certain things of more 
 
 value to himself and the world than sliding. 
 
 "The Wemyses have left, have they not, 
 Mr. Bonfellow?" said Claudia. '' Who lives 
 there now ?" 
 
 '' A new parishioner of mine, of whom I 
 know nothing except that he is a thorough 
 gentleman, and has the house full of books." 
 
 '' A bachelor ?" asked Diana. 
 
 "Good-looking?" asked Claudia. 
 
 *' Natural questions from ladies," said 
 Frowde. 
 
 " I presume he is a bachelor or widower," 
 said the Yicar, " since I saw no signs of a 
 lady. I think he is more in your line than 
 mine, Mr. Frowde, for he is full of pleasant 
 but erudite talk, which I cannot always 
 follow."
 
 THE VICAR. 189 
 
 " If he is old enougli to be a widower," 
 remarked Diana, ^'I shall take no interest in 
 him." 
 
 "Don't decide in a hurry, Miss Selfe," 
 replied the Vicar. " He's a man in his 
 prime, and a very fine-looking man too. 
 My notion that he might be a widower was 
 because it seemed unlikely that a man of 
 his style should have reached his prime 
 without marrying. But I am really no 
 judge of character, I have seen so little of 
 human life as yet. I gathered that he had 
 been a great traveller and a great reader, 
 and I really think, Mr. Frowde, you and 
 he would suit each other." 
 
 " Has he many visitors ?" asked Mrs. 
 Frowde. 
 
 "Does he keep a carriage and pair? you 
 should ask, child," said Frowde. " If he 
 does, though he has got his money by fraud 
 and expends it v/ith meanness, all the car-
 
 190 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 riage-and-pair people in the neighbourhood 
 will call on him. I'll Avager 3^ou a pair of 
 gloves against a cigar that nobody but the 
 Vicar and the grand old General has called 
 on him." 
 
 "Not mamma?" said Claudia. ** She 
 likes anything new." 
 
 " Your mamma keeps a carriage and pair. 
 So does the General — two or three, I 
 believe; but he belongs to an age of 
 chivalry, not to these times of meagre 
 ostentation. Should I win my wager, Mr. 
 Bonfellow?" 
 
 ^' I think you would," he replied. 
 
 " There's a saying of Savage Landor's," 
 said Frowde, " that those who visit can 
 neither do much nor anything well. I act 
 on this principle, and very likel}/ Mr. Forn- 
 cett does the same." 
 
 " I have never read Landor," said the 
 Vicar : '' who was he ?"
 
 THE VICAR. 191 
 
 "The most distinQ;uislied man that was 
 ever educated at Rugby." 
 
 '' What an unfair reply !" said Mrs. 
 Frowde ; "he was a great poet, famous 
 long before Byron, and was at Rugby long 
 before Arnold was master." 
 
 " Did he keep a carriage and pair?" asked 
 Diana. 
 
 " That seems a very important question 
 about here," said Jack Sebright. " I have 
 kept a carriage and pair — that is to say, a 
 tandem cart — and should have been sent 
 down in consequence, if my grandfather 
 hadn't been a bishop. After that, who 
 would not adhere to the Established 
 Church ?" 
 
 Dried fruit of winter had followed lun- 
 cheon, with cio^arettes for the gentlemen. 
 
 " You have not decided whether you will 
 take orders ?" said the Vicar cheerfully. 
 
 " I am sure you would preach well," in-
 
 192 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 terrupted Claudia, "and not be too long." 
 " I fear I should be a regular duffer, Miss 
 Selfe. Well, Mr. Bonfellow, there are two 
 strong reasons why T cannot make up my 
 mind to be what my father and mother earn- 
 estly wish. I do not think I am fit to stand 
 up in the pulpit to teach people older and 
 wiser than myself I am not thinking of the 
 gentry. I could be satirical on their vices 
 and follies, male and female : but when I 
 looked down to the back benches of the 
 church, and saw faces wrinkled wdth trou- 
 ble, and limbs weakened by the toil of half- 
 a-century, and eyes longing for a vision of 
 heaven to console them for the long weary 
 misery of earth, I should break down, Mr. 
 Bonfellow, I know I should. What am I 
 to teach such people ? They are nearer 
 God than I am. What could a mere boy 
 like me say at the death-bed of an old man 
 or woman who had known seventy years of
 
 THE VICAR. 193 
 
 hard work, and hard living, yet been true 
 to the Christian faith all through ? I dread 
 the idea." 
 
 Yet the Rev. Marston Sebright thought 
 his son had no imagination. 
 
 " Go on," said Frowde, seeing that he 
 had grown quieter after a few puffs at his 
 cigarette. " What is your other difficulty ?" 
 
 ''Creed," he replied. "What is truth? 
 What am I to believe and teach, amid this 
 conflict of creeds? Are certain genu- 
 flexions and gesticulations necessary to 
 salvation? Whom am I to follow, amid 
 the innumerable teachers and squabblers of 
 the time ?" 
 
 " Christ," said the Vicar quietly. " Study 
 the Gospels, and leave all other theology 
 alone." 
 
 " Perfect advice," said Frowde. " De- 
 pend upon it, Sebright, that your very 
 scruples form a guide for you. The young 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 fellow who takes holy orders without 
 thought of these things proves his own un- 
 fitness. Give no more study to tlie Thirty- 
 nine Articles ; take Mr. Bonfellow's counsel, 
 and read the Gospels — 'without the commen- 
 tators, who give you comparisons and dis- 
 crepancies which are utterly valueless. 
 Leave Paul alone for the present. If you 
 want Christianity reconciled to the present 
 time, read Coleridg;e's Church and State, 
 I have a copy to lend you, but you don't 
 want it yet." 
 
 *' Meanwhile, wall you lend it me?" said 
 the Vicar. "I am sorry to say I have not 
 read it." 
 
 ** It is at your service. As to your other 
 diflSculty, my dear boy, I think Mv. Bon- 
 fellow will say that to see it is to conquer it. 
 By no means dart satire at the front seats 
 — at the wealthy squire whose cottages are 
 pigstyes, — at the young hunting-man who
 
 THE VICAK. 195 
 
 would fain look younger, and who ogles the 
 girls and wears a flower in the button-hole 
 o£ the coat for which Poole is yet unpaid. The 
 time may come for this. Preach first of all 
 the gospel of great joy : speak to those who 
 have endured toil and trouble of the ex- 
 ceeding great reward. I have no patience 
 with satirical or damnatory or casuistical 
 preachers, when the earth is full of the 
 goodness of God as the waters cover the 
 sea. There, that's my lecture ; and the 
 ladies are 'dratting' me, if you know what 
 that means." 
 
 "It is rather a Ions; storv," said Mrs. 
 Frowde ; "but if you come over on Christ- 
 mas Day, Mr. Sebright, there must be no 
 theology." 
 
 "I should think not," said Branscombe. 
 " Theology at Christmas ! No. Roast beef, 
 plum pudding, mince pies, devilled turkey, 
 
 o2
 
 196 THE VILLxVGE COMEDY. 
 
 punch, snapdragon, forfeits, mistletoe, and 
 Sir Roger de Coverley." 
 
 *'Yes," said Diana; "and if you're a 
 good boy, Mr. Branscombe, when you wake 
 up with the grandfather of headaches on 
 Wednesday morning, I'll administer the best 
 of all possible cures." 
 
 As Jack Sebright rode homewards over 
 the snow — a loner ride and a bitter one — he 
 pondered much on the conversation that 
 has been recorded.
 
 197 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 FID us ACHATES. 
 
 Where will you lincl an honest serving man, 
 Staunch as Euma^us to the Ithacan ? 
 Foolish indeed the master who relies 
 On the new race of sluggards and of spies. 
 
 WHEX Mr. Forncett at length took pos- 
 session of his new residence, he found 
 everything exactly as he liked it. Ralph knew 
 his idiosyncrasy, and had indeed come to 
 like very much what his master liked — 
 even to books. Xot that he read such 
 books as pleased Mr. Forncett : he loved 
 travel-books, especially if full of adventure, 
 impossible or otherwise. He liked Gulliver,
 
 198 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 and Crusoe, and even Munchausen ; but 
 perhaps his chief favourite was an English 
 version of that father of historic romance, 
 Herodotus. Indeed, he had read prose 
 translations of Homer, and believed in all 
 the wonders of the Odyssey. But modern 
 books of travel also delighted him, and when 
 Mr. Forncett bought new ones, they were 
 always passed on to Ealph. 
 
 The Birches had been built by an architect 
 (if that is the proper word) with rather 
 queer ideas ; the rooms were for the most 
 part good, and all lofty, but some of them 
 had no raison cTetre. For example, on the 
 left hand of the front door was a small 
 room, which was dignified with the name of 
 a breakfast-parlour. That room cost Ealph 
 half-an-hour's reflection. 
 
 "Breakfast-parlour, eh?" he soliloquised. 
 ''The master wouldn't like that, I fancy. 
 Why, he wouldn't have room to stretch liis
 
 FIDUS ACHATES. 199 
 
 legs, much less to walk up and down now 
 and then, talking to himself, or to me, or to 
 Foxy." Foxy was an amiable but gallant 
 bulldog who never took notice of anybody 
 but his master and Ralph, and the expression 
 of whose eyes were so menacing that no 
 boy had ever had pluck enough to throw a 
 stone at him. "No," continued Ralph, 
 "that won't do ; but the little hole will do 
 well enough for my traps, and the window 
 looks right up the path to the gate, so I can 
 be ready for tramps." 
 
 It was one of the inconveniences of The 
 Birches that there was no entrance for 
 tradesmen ; so that everybody had to pass 
 the front door with their goods : this was 
 among the minor annoyances which decided 
 Mr. Wemys to leave. When elegantly- 
 dressed ladies are being handed into a hand- 
 some carriage, a butcher's boy carrying a 
 tray rather spoils the scene. It is odd how
 
 200 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 often country builders make this and 
 similar mistakes in really good houses. 
 
 So Ralph took possession of what had 
 been called the breakfast-room, and filled it 
 with the things he liked to have always 
 at hand. It was a heterogeneous assort- 
 ment, not easily described ; for in his 
 wanderings with Mr. Forncett he had been 
 accustomed to consider many implements 
 indispensable which could scarcely be of 
 much service in quiet Oakshire. Those 
 workmanlike corkscrews have seen service 
 in many lands, and will be useful in this 
 still retreat, where wine and ale are not 
 wholly forsworn ; but those revolvers and 
 derringers, with the brightest barrels in the 
 world, are now on the retired list. A dagger 
 of Toledo, " the ice-brook's temper," rests 
 close to a many-bladed clasp-knife by 
 Rodgers ; a collection of tomahawks and 
 boomerangs is in close proximity with
 
 FIDUS ACHATES. 201 
 
 cricket-bats and boxing-gloves. Ralph 
 looks round on these and a hundred other 
 things with great satisfaction : they all have 
 their history, and he wishes he could write 
 it down. 
 
 "What a book it would make!" he 
 thinks. " I wish I could write like Captain 
 Gulliver. It seems easy enough, when you 
 read it : but only try. I wonder if that 
 book-writer they say lives opposite, could 
 put me up to the trick. Wouldn't it be 
 rare fun on winter evenins^s?" 
 
 It was breakfast-time at The Birches, one 
 fine frosty morning in January. Forncett 
 stood with his back to a blazing fire, look- 
 ing through a bookseller's catalogue, the only 
 missive brought him by the post. Ralph 
 had deposited a cover on the "footman" in 
 front of the fire, and placed a coffee-pot in 
 the neighbourhood of his master's seat at 
 table. Between master and servant there
 
 202 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 was an obvious likeness, such as may often 
 be seen in people who have been close 
 comrades for a long time. Ralph was half- 
 an-inch shorter than his master, and about 
 five or six 3^ears older ; both had brown 
 hair and blue eyes — 'those pellucid eyes 
 which owe their strange brightness to tem- 
 perate living and much exercise in the open 
 air. These two men had lived for many 
 years a life of easy activity, and were con- 
 sequently in first-class form. Either would 
 have started at once for a forty- mile walk, 
 and reached the end of it without weariness 
 and with a noble appetite. Both were 
 tough as steel, and liked muscular exertion 
 for its own sake. Mr. Forncett liked men- 
 tal exertion also, though he wisely re- 
 frained from giving the world the fruits of 
 it. 
 
 *' I shall ride somewhere this morning, 
 Kalph," said Mr. Forncett, looking up from
 
 FIDUS ACHATES. 203 
 
 his broiled game. " Gruoi hasn't had much 
 exercise of late." 
 
 Now Grum was the cob, a most impor- 
 tant member of the household. He was an 
 Irish horse, of wonderful strength and 
 cleverness ; a rather dark chestnut, with a 
 small Y/hite star on his forehead — a capital 
 weight-carrier, with a fine stride and game 
 to run up a stone wall. 
 
 Mr. Forncett rode Grum to the top of 
 Copse Hill, and looked around him. How 
 many a time, he thought, in his days of far 
 travel, had he ascended some such hill, and 
 seen beneath him the wildest scenery. An 
 unexpected lake, a ruined city, with idols 
 of a forgotten faith and inscriptions of an 
 undecipherable language, a forest of enor- 
 mous trees, a fissure m the earth of immeas- 
 urable depth, a camp of some wild people 
 — such sights as these he had come upon 
 suddenly. Now, riding to the summit of
 
 204 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 a hill, he saw the comfortable warmth and 
 wealth of well-taxecl, well-policed England 
 around him. Here a great castle ; there the 
 grand stand of a race-course ; at other points 
 a military college, a lunatic asylum, the vast 
 mansions of a duke, an ambassador, a news- 
 paper proprietor ; — on all hands towers and 
 spires of village churches, centres of Chris- 
 tian love ; woods alive with pheasants, long 
 stretches of well-cultivated land, a railway 
 to the south, alive with screaming trains. 
 A kind of restraint seemed to surround him : 
 he longed for a hundred leagues of prairie. 
 He took the best substitute to be found — a 
 canter on the common land which runs 
 parallel with the high road for a mile or 
 two eastward. It was the road to Med- 
 enhythe, which as yet he had not ex- 
 plored. When it opened out into a wide 
 heath, with avenues and clumps of trees, 
 which he saw would look beautiful in sum-
 
 FIDUS ACHATES. 205 
 
 luer, he turned northward, and e^ave Grum 
 his head, and galloped till he came to a 
 quaint village close to the river — a village 
 dear to boating-men and brethren of the 
 angle, whose snug inns were ruled by friend- 
 ly landladies, with wonderful recipes for 
 dressinsr eels, and for makins^ the most 
 nutritious of pies. At one of these, whose 
 sign came from the Apocrypha, being indeed 
 Tobit's Dog, Mr. Forncett stayed to refresh 
 himself and Grum, being chiefly inclined 
 thereto by a desire to see what manner of 
 people he liad chanced upon. By the aid 
 of one of the landlady's famous pies and 
 some good bitter ale, he made a hearty 
 lunch, and was surprised at its cheapness. 
 Then he rode home again, resolved that on 
 the coming of summer he would have a 
 boat on the river. 
 
 In this way, riding or walking, did Mr. 
 Forncett spend most of the fine days ; and
 
 206 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 luckily it was a fine keen season — weather 
 dear to men with strength enough to enjoy 
 it. If it rained, he settled down among his 
 books, and pursued various out-of-the-way 
 studies which were his fancy. He was, in 
 his way, a contented man : yet those studies 
 of his were very much in the line of Byron's 
 well-known requirement — something rough 
 to break the mind on. Y/'hen Frank Forn- 
 cett, years before, turned his face westward, 
 and made in time the circuit of the world, 
 he was haunted, whether in crowded city 
 or on solitary mountain, by one beautiful 
 sad face. It haunted him still. Not Care, 
 but ruined Love, sat behind the headlong 
 horseman, pursued the solitary walker, 
 dwelt in the library of the untiring student. 
 Time had mellowed the vision, investing it 
 with a soft and subdued melancholy; but 
 it held its own against all beauty of flesh,
 
 FIDUS ACHATES. 207 
 
 all wonder of wit, all glory of apparel ; and 
 Frank Forncett, for the sake of one woman 
 who never could be his, treated all other 
 women with a distant courtesy. 
 
 Just now, however, it becomes our duty 
 to introduce him to a lady. Diana Selfe had 
 strolled out one afternoon with Mr. Frowde 
 to meet the postman, who brought that im- 
 perious necessity for a publicist, the Times 
 newspaper. Mr. Forncett was at his gate, 
 with similar intent. A sli^jht altercation 
 between the dogs led to the exchange of 
 a few words, which gradually ripened into a 
 brief conversation. 
 
 " I did not call on you, Mr. Forncett, ac- 
 cording to country etiquette," said Frowde ; 
 " first because I am nobody ; next, because 
 I have no time to call on anybody. At the 
 same tiune, I am always glad when anybody 
 in a neighbourly way will call on me,
 
 208 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 especially if they won't grumble when I am 
 too busy to speak. I am a slave of the 
 pen." 
 
 ^' A despotic master/' said Forncett. " If 
 I may look in now and then on you and 
 Mrs. Frowde, I shall be glad. My only 
 visitor just now is the Vicar, whom I like 
 very much, and who comes from a good 
 stock : but clergymen are almost as difficult 
 to talk to as ladies — you are afraid of hurt- 
 ing their feelings." 
 
 ''How ungallant, Mr. Forncett!" said 
 Diana. '' But if you can't talk to ladies 
 there must be something intensely wrong 
 about you — radically wrong." 
 
 At that moment the lord of the manor 
 drove by a well-appointed four-in-hand, 
 with his wife on the box, and powdered 
 footmen statuesque behind. 
 
 "That's Sir Herbert West," said Frowde,
 
 FIDUS ACHATES. 209 
 
 "a landlord of the right sort, and a most 
 courteous neighbour." 
 
 *'I can't see a four-in-hand without a 
 shudder," said Diana; "there was such a 
 crash with one right under our windows 
 when 1 was in Brighton before Christmas. 
 I hardly knew what happened : it seemed 
 as if everybody would be killed, and the road 
 was so crowded. Nobody was much hurt, 
 I believe, but the driver shot one of the 
 horses that was dreadfully injured. I never 
 felt so faint." 
 
 "Whose drag was it?" said Frowde. 
 
 "Let me see. Lord Arun's, I think I 
 heard. But he was not driving; it was a 
 Mr. Lifton — Arundel Lifton. I think he is 
 a member of Parliament." 
 
 " He is," said Frowde. " Good morning, 
 Mr. Forncett. I must studv the Times. I 
 hope you will walk across the road when 
 you are in the humour." 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 " Arundel Lifton," said Forncett to him- 
 self, with a darkened face, as he walked 
 down his path. '* Why did not that fiend 
 break his neck, and meet his proper punish- 
 ment?" 
 
 Ralph, who opened the door when he 
 saw his master coming, perceived that some 
 bitter thought was troubling him. But it 
 was a secret anguish, far beyond the ken of 
 fidus Achates,
 
 211 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE TEMPLES. 
 
 In emerald meadows, slowly- winding streams; 
 Calm villages where peasants dwell at peace 
 
 Around their ancient church, 
 
 The quiet heart delights. 
 But rosy mountain-peaks that pierce the sky, 
 And cataracts shattered into diamond mist, 
 
 And wild wind-tortured woods, 
 
 Solace a passionate grief. 
 
 ]\ TR. TEMPLE was in the habit of mak- 
 -l-*-A- ing up his mind with promptitude ; 
 and. when he learnt from his agent that 
 Mrs. Selfe had altered her determination, he 
 gave instructions that the house should at 
 once be secured. The departure of the old 
 
 p2
 
 212 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 lady caused no particular blank at Copse 
 Hill, where she had no intimacies. Her 
 heart was with Garibaldi and Colenso and 
 Voysey, and other notorieties of this irregular 
 sort, to whom, sitting like a sagacious ghost 
 at the writing-table in her wide ba}^ window, 
 she addressed long letters of advice and con- 
 solation. To the world around her she was 
 something impalpable, intangible — a wraith 
 rather than a woman — bloodless as Ana- 
 creon's tettix. She walked — especially in 
 uncomfortable weather ; she drove ; she ex- 
 changed formal calls with a few of her 
 duller neighbours ; she read the Daily News 
 and the Inquirer, When she vanished from 
 the scene, the villagers thought no more of 
 it than the melting of a snow-drift. She 
 faded away for the present to Cheltenham, 
 where a great Unitarian logician disproved 
 the divinity of Christ every Sunday to large 
 congregations. One such disproof might be
 
 THE TEMPLES. 213 
 
 deemed enough, but N'on credo is as pertin- 
 acious as Credo ; and even the believers in 
 Nihilism can be enthusiasts. 
 
 Late in the evening of a February day the 
 Temple family reached their house. Every- 
 thing was in order, for Mr. Temple had em- 
 ployed first-rate tradespeople, and had sent 
 forward two servants, Belgians, a man and 
 his wife, to arrange the rooms as he liked 
 them. The ladies were tired, and went to 
 bed early. Mr. Temple sat up, alternately 
 reading and thinking, till his neglected fire 
 warned him to go also. He was wondering 
 whether this last step could be made per- 
 manent. In his time he had seen many 
 troubles, scarcely caused by himself — or, if 
 in any degree so caused, entirely through 
 his spirit of self-sacrifice. Mr. Temple was 
 a stoic : he looked upon himself as a link in 
 the infinite chain of humanity ; he thought 
 of himself, not as William Temple, individual
 
 214 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 and independent, but as a husband, a father, 
 a member of the State, a member of the 
 Church. It was curious that he did not 
 force this view on others : this was due to 
 his belief that few men, and probably no 
 women, are capable of accepting it. Of no 
 man that ever lived could it be more truly 
 said that " the heart knoweth its own bitter- 
 ness." He would have scorned to mention 
 the deepest imaginable trouble to his dearest 
 friend. He might have taken for motto, 
 
 '' Si fractus illabatur orbis, 
 
 ImpavicTiim ferient ruinae." 
 
 This stoic had many friends, though 
 strange events had urged him to a quiet 
 life, and he saw them seldom. Once he had 
 been a keen politician, and if he had pur- 
 sued this career, would certainly have been 
 a Minister. Even now, men of the highest 
 political standing kept him acquainted with 
 that inner current of aifairs which does not
 
 THE TEMPLES. 215 
 
 appear in the journals, and asked his opinion 
 on questions of a difficult character. He 
 never wrote a line for the press ; but his 
 suggestions, passed by the Secretary of State 
 through his secretary's secretary to an able 
 editor, often appeared in the epic grandeur 
 of leader type, and prepared honourable 
 members for what they might expect from 
 the Ministry in the course of that night's 
 proceedings. No member of his family 
 guessed at this. He possessed in perfection 
 veracity and secrecy. 
 
 When he came down to breakfast next 
 morning he found Kate ready for him, with 
 bright eyes, and rosy cheeks, and rather 
 dishevelled tresses. 
 
 "This is a charming place, papa," she 
 said. " I have had Jack out for a scamper 
 through the meadow and orchard, and very 
 nearly got thrown, he is so fresh. I am 
 sure there must be delightful rambles
 
 216 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 through those woods in the summer. I am 
 afraid mamma does not like it so well : she 
 sa3^s the scenery is too tame, and there 
 are too many houses in the neighbour- 
 hood." 
 
 At this moment entered the lady just 
 named, and, with a smile of melancholy 
 sweetness, took her place at the table. A 
 woman more nobly beautiful than Leonora 
 it would be hard to find. Superb masses of 
 hair as dark as midnight were wound around 
 a stately and statuesque head ; her counten- 
 ance was of the purest Greek type. The 
 natural expression of her countenance was 
 serious and serene : but there was in her 
 dark eyes a dreamy wistfulness which spoke 
 of suffering. 
 
 "Do you think you shall like this, Leo- 
 nora ?" said Mr. Temple. "It is very 
 quiet." 
 
 "I could have wished a lonelier place.
 
 THE TEMPLES. 217 
 
 And the grounds in front are so open to the 
 road. Is it not a pity ?" 
 
 "Yes," he replied. "The old lady, our 
 predecessor here, was rather a leveller, I 
 am told. She cut down the hedge in front, 
 which was several feet hisfher. There were 
 some fine old hawthorns in the meadow, 
 but she disestablished them with great energy. 
 However, I shall soon change the aspect of 
 affairs. There is a first-class nursery about 
 eight miles away : I shall ride over this 
 morning and see what the man can do with 
 laurels and hollies. If it does not freeze 
 again just yet, we may shut ourselves in this 
 spring. As to the meadow, I shall throw 
 it into the lawn, and sprinkle it with orna- 
 mental shrubs; and in another year the 
 place will look quite different." 
 
 " May I ride with you, papa ?" asked 
 Kate.
 
 218 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 " Can you spare her, Leonora ?" said 
 Mr. Temple. 
 
 " Oh ! yes. I want her to have plenty of 
 exercise. She is just at the age when she 
 ought to be physically active. Girls in their 
 teens often take to broodinc^ and dreamincr 
 if they live an indoor life." 
 
 "I don't mean to brood and dream, 
 mamma. When I go to bed at night I 
 dream of the morning, and when I say my 
 prayers I pray for a fine day. I hope it's 
 not wrong. The Church prays for fine 
 weather." 
 
 " Go and get ready, child, and talk no 
 more nonsense," said Mr. Temple. 
 
 Kate hurried off, and Mr. Temple said to 
 Leonora, 
 
 ''I do hope you will like this place, my 
 darling. I shall not cultivate the neighbours, 
 and they will not trouble us. If you do 
 not like it, we will go elsewhere."
 
 THE TEMPLES. 2 1 9 
 
 "No, William — no indeed. I want to 
 stay here always. I am tired of wandering. 
 If you like it, I am sure I shall." 
 
 "You will like it very much better when 
 I have altered it a little. I will change it 
 as if I had a magic wand. That pond shall 
 be cleaned out, and lined with granite, and 
 we'll have a fountain, and white water-lilies, 
 and gold-fish, and Muscovy ducks. It will 
 amuse you to superintend the alterations." 
 
 "I shall hate to go so near the road, 
 William." 
 
 " Nonsense, dearest. There is nobody in 
 this quiet corner for you to dread. Be 
 brave, and forget these fancies." 
 
 " I will try, dear William." 
 
 "That's right. Now mind you eat a 
 good lunch, and take a glass or two of wine. 
 You need it, really." 
 
 Mr. Temple and his daughter rode away 
 in the same direction as Mr. Forncett, as
 
 220 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 already described ; but instead of riding off 
 at a tangent across the heath, as he did, 
 they held straight on through a turnpike 
 gate kept by a clever bird-fancier, passed in 
 due time through narrow-streeted Meden- 
 hythe, crossed the river, wliere lay a flotilla 
 of steam-launches, and a few miles further 
 on reached the gardens of which they v/ere 
 in search — gardens not surpassed in England 
 for skilful and liberal management. Mr. 
 Temple soon found all that he wanted, and 
 arranged that the very next day the work 
 should be commenced — always provided a 
 hard frost did not set in. 
 
 " You must be famished, Kate," said her 
 father, as he put her in the saddle. " Can 
 you last till we get back to the river? 
 There is a comfortable inn there, and we'll 
 have some lunch." 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right, papa. I was so hungry 
 with my ride that I ate half a fowl and such
 
 THE TEMPLES. 221 
 
 a lot of bacou at breakfast. Poor Lisette, 
 wlio lives on chocolate, looked quite aston- 
 ished." 
 
 Lisette was a French maid who attended 
 on the ladies, and waited at table at break- 
 fast. 
 
 The father and daughter cantered to the 
 riverside inn, where they found eatable 
 cutlets and tolerable wine. Places of very 
 fashionable resort are a good deal spoilt by 
 the miscellaneous character of their custom- 
 ers : nine out of ten are no judges of what 
 is good, and accept without question any- 
 thing that is expensive. The tenth, who is 
 a judge, simply decides that he will not go 
 there again. When Shenstone sang and Dr. 
 Johnson perorated in praise of inns they 
 had not been demoralized by railways : 
 adulteration had not become a fine art. 
 You could not oret an elegant dinner at the 
 old-fashioned English inn, but you could get
 
 222 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 a thoroughly nutritious one. Where is the 
 modern hotel which will condescend to give 
 you either the one or the other ? Yet it is 
 quite easy to combine both. 
 
 Shrubs and workmen reached Winterslow 
 in good time next day ; and, under Mr. 
 Temple's active directions, there were soon 
 signs of metamorphosis. The village woke 
 up when it beheld the new family in posses- 
 sion, and a regular revolution in progress. 
 The village inn and the village shop were 
 both in a state of excitement. Miss Tattle- 
 ton almost lost her character for omniscience, 
 because she only knew that the name of the 
 new-comers was Temple, and had heard 
 from the boy (hired in the neighbourhood) 
 that all the servants were foreigners, except 
 Clope, the coachman, who never spoke ex- 
 cept to swear at the aforesaid boy. Inquisi- 
 tiveness grew furious, and when the village 
 magnates gathered that evening in the bar
 
 THE TEMPLES. 223 
 
 of the inn to achieve happy stupidity by 
 much beer and tobacco, the huge landlord 
 canae down upon the table with a blow of 
 his fist, and expressed his opinion (not with- 
 out an oath) that people who kept foreigneer- 
 ing servants were no better than they should 
 be. No one contradicted Sir Oracle.
 
 224 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 PUBLIC OPINION. 
 
 I am Sir Oracle ; 
 And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark. 
 
 " TTALF-A-POUND o' 'bacca and a 
 
 -*"■- penny stamp, please." 
 
 " Why, what can you want all that 'bacca 
 for, John ?" said Miss Tattleton to her cus- 
 tomer, who was the lad engaged to help 
 the coachman at Winterslow ; '' surely you 
 ain't going to begin smoking, like some of 
 the bad boys of the village ?" 
 
 "Be'unt for me: for Mr. Clope," said 
 John, who had a very small vocabulary.
 
 PUBLIC OPINION. 225 
 
 '' And does Mr. Clope smoke ?" 
 
 "I never sees him," said John. 
 
 '' And how do you like your new place, 
 John?" 
 
 John's answer to this was a grin of satis- 
 faction. 
 
 "Well, do you like these?" said Miss 
 Tattleton, giving him two big brown lumps 
 of sweetstuff known as " brandy-balls," and 
 which must have had a flavour of tobacco 
 about them, as Miss Tattleton had just pre- 
 viously lifted her hand from the tobacco 
 jar. 
 
 " Rather," said John ; and he quickly 
 stuffed one into his mouth. 
 
 To suck a brandy-ball being to John the 
 height of happiness, he of course favourably 
 regarded the giver of the sweetmeat, and 
 answered her questions to the best of his 
 ability, but felt a little puzzled to know why 
 Miss Tattleton suddenly took so much in- 
 
 voi.. I. Q
 
 226 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 terest in him, when she had known him 
 ever since he was born and had not often 
 spoken to him. 
 
 " How do you get on with the servants, 
 John?" 
 
 *' I don't miderstand they." 
 
 *' Can't they talk Enghsh?" said Miss 
 Tattleton. 
 
 ''I dunno : they jabbers away so fast I 
 can't tell a word they say ; and Mr. Clope, 
 he don't know neither," answered John, 
 who thought he would |do his best in the 
 way of a reply. 
 
 " And how do you like the master ?" 
 
 " I loikes him." 
 
 "And the missus?" 
 
 " I ain't seen her." 
 
 "And the young lady ?" 
 
 " She gave me a big bit of cake." 
 
 Notwithstanding John's anxiety to make 
 himself agreeable in view of future brandy-
 
 PUBLIC OPINION. 227 
 
 balls, Miss Tattleton was no wiser at the end 
 of the conversation. 
 
 But she thought something might be done 
 with Clope if he could be persuaded to 
 come to the shop ; so she sent a message by 
 John that she hoped the tobacco would suit 
 Mr. Clope, and that she had sent the best 
 she had. 
 
 John walked out of the shop, and was 
 crossing the green to go up the lane to 
 Winterslow, when he was accosted by Clope. 
 
 " Now, then, you young imp, how much 
 longer are you going to be ? If this is the 
 way you do messages you ain't worth much. 
 What's kept you so long ?" 
 
 John had put the other ball into his 
 mouth as he left the shop, and was now 
 perplexed by four different sensations. There 
 was the pleasure of having a brandy-ball to 
 suck ; but then how could he speak with 
 such an angular sweetmeat in his mouth ? 
 
 q2
 
 228 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 and what excuse could he make ? and 
 wouldn't his master be displeased with 
 him? — for he looked upon Clope as his 
 master. 
 
 '^ Please, sir," he said, the brandy-ball 
 sticking out in his cheek, "she — she — 
 she " 
 
 " Oh, pray don't scold the poor boy I" 
 said Miss Tattleton, in her sweetest manner. 
 She had seen what was going on, and 
 thought this a good opportunity of making 
 Clope's acquaintance. " Pray don't scold 
 him, Mr. Clope, it was my fault he was not 
 quicker. I was telling him I hoped he was 
 a good boy, and did what you told him, 
 and what a lucky boy he is to have such a 
 good place. You see, I have known him 
 since he was born, and knew his mother 
 when she was a little girl. I'm quite an old 
 woman, you know." 
 
 "Don't you tell me that," said Clope,
 
 PUBLIC OPINION. 229 
 
 quite taken by her manner, " you haven't 
 seen the other side of forty yet." 
 
 "Ah! haven't I?" she replied; "and 
 something more too. I've seen a good 
 many come and go in that house," pointing 
 to Winterslow, " but I hope we shan't lose 
 you very soon. We want smart young fel- 
 lows to brighten up the place a bit, and give 
 us a little custom." 
 
 Now Miss Tattleton's pleasant manner, 
 mixed up with a little flattery, so far over- 
 came Clope that he made a few visits to her 
 shop, the result of which was that Miss 
 Tattleton learned that Mr. Temple was a 
 quiet gentleman, who was very particular 
 that everything should be well done ; that 
 Mrs. Temple seldom came out, and never 
 went beyond the garden ; that Clope 
 thought she must be a second wife, as she 
 looked too young to be Miss Temple's 
 mother ; and that Miss Temple was a very
 
 230 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 nice young lady, and always spoke kindly 
 to the servants. 
 
 Clope, on his part, learned a good deal 
 concerning certain of the inhabitants of the 
 village, but the knowledge was not of much 
 use to him, as he scarcely knew anyone by 
 sight. He also found the people at the 
 Pleiades very civil to him, and eager to 
 make his acquaintance. One evening he 
 went in for a glass of beer, when Biggins, in 
 a heavy, good-natured manner, said — 
 
 *' Well, coachman, glad to see you. Come 
 in and sit down a bit, and let me treat you 
 to a pint for a beginning ; we always likes 
 to give a welcome to strangers." 
 
 " Thank you," said Clope, and he sat 
 down in the bar and looked round to see 
 who were his companions. 
 
 *' And how do you like these parts, coach- 
 man?" said Biggins. 
 
 '^ It looks pretty fair. I shall know
 
 PUBLIC OPINION. 231 
 
 better when I've tried," answered Clope. 
 
 " Well, here's your good health," said a 
 little sharp man, who was also a coachman, 
 and spoke in a rapid way, with a strong 
 Irish accent. " I hope you'll find your 
 jjlace as good as I find mine. I've got a 
 downright good master, who keeps a hunter 
 for me to ride, and lets me do pretty much 
 as I like. I found the missis rather a tough 
 'un at first, but I soon came over her ; and 
 if I don't turn them out as neat as any 
 gentleman and lady in the county, my 
 name's not Paddy O'Bryan." 
 
 " Yes, you're in good luck ; you know 
 which side your bread is buttered. But I 
 wonder you don't frighten them, driving 
 that brougham at such a pace," said Biggins. 
 "Now, coachman," he said, "take another 
 pint ; it's the first night, and I never charge 
 anything first nights. Perhaps you'll be able 
 to do me a good turn some time or other.
 
 232 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 I'm a carrier, you know, and bring everything 
 right down from London up to your gate — 
 not like those confounded railways, that 
 leave you to send miles to a station. Come, 
 take another glass." 
 
 "Thank you," said Clope, -who thought 
 Biggins a jolly good-natured fellow. '' I'll 
 give you a turn when I have the chance." 
 
 "What I says," said Biggins, "is, let us 
 live and let live. Bless you, I'm willing to 
 serve my neighbours and not make no 
 enemies ; but that there fellow over there " 
 (and Biggins swore his usual oath) " must 
 go a-interfering with everyone. Why, I 
 believe if he knew I boudit a bird or two 
 
 o 
 
 from some poor fellow who had picked 'em 
 up when they've been knocked over by the 
 telegraph t wires, he'd have me took up for 
 encouraging poaching. Poaching, indeed ! 
 what right has Sir Herbert AVest or any 
 other man to prevent a poor man from
 
 PUBLIC OPINION. 233 
 
 picking up a bird that has been killed by 
 the telegrapht? Or, for the matter of that, 
 why shouldn't a poor man knock down a 
 bird or a hare when he sees one in front 
 of him ? D— — n the game laws, says I ; 
 we want old Garry over here to alter all 
 that/' 
 
 '• I never saw such a crop of turmuts in 
 all my life, only the rabbits got in among 
 'em," said an old man huddled up in the 
 corner, and who was rather thick in his 
 speech ; but nobody took any notice of his 
 remark. 
 
 " I don't think Garibaldi could do much 
 with the game laws," said an intelligent- 
 looking young man, who had ambitions 
 that the village could not gratify, and came 
 to the Pleiades for chang;e of scene. 
 
 "The question of the game laws is a diffi- 
 cult one," said a middle-aged man, who 
 wore a wisr of a colour too dark for his
 
 234 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 complexion, and who spoke in a dignified 
 and dogmatic manner, as though in the 
 habit of laying down the law. He had 
 altogether the air of being superior to his 
 company, and preferred to drink from a 
 glass instead of a mug. ''There is a great 
 deal to be said on both sides." 
 
 '' If you'd seen that field of turmuts 
 before they rabbits got in/' said the old 
 man, taking advantage of a pause. 
 
 " Well, you see," said a big old farmer 
 who had a touch of humour in him, disre- 
 garding the talker on turmuts, ''if the game 
 wasn't preserved there'd be none to knock 
 down." 
 
 " Right you are there," said Biggins. 
 
 " I must say I like a rabbit — especially 
 when it don't cost anything," said Paddy. 
 
 " And a hare's better still," said the intel- 
 ligent young man. 
 
 " Rabbits are verv well when thev don't
 
 P UBLIC OPIXION. 235 
 
 eat up all your turmuts. If you'd seen 
 they turmuts," said the old man. 
 
 ^' You'd better bring us a sample," said 
 Biggins, at which there was a roar of 
 lauo-hter. But the old man shook his head 
 with melancholy wisdom, saying once 
 again — 
 
 '' You never seen such turmuts, till they 
 darned rabbits got at 'em." 
 
 Presently some of the company rose to 
 go, Clope being amongst them. The burly 
 Boniface was very friendly indeed, and 
 seemed loth to let him go. 
 
 •' All the best company comes here, 
 coachman," he said. "We're a regular club 
 of good fellows every night. Why, there's 
 your butler, Paddy, — if he isn't a gentle- 
 man I don't know one ; and there's Squire 
 x\shley's footman, he looks in every morn- 
 ing reofular." 
 
 Thus talking. Biggins showed Clope the
 
 236 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 way to the door, giving him a friendly 
 nudge at parting, and a pressing invitation 
 to come ac^ain soon. But when he returned 
 to his bar, and sat down with heavy em- 
 phasis, he grunted out an oath and said — 
 
 "I don't think that fellow's good for 
 much, Paddy. A nice lot we're getting 
 about here. Look at that servant of Forn- 
 cett's, he don't condescend to enter a public, 
 and yet his master can't afford to keep a 
 carriage. The gentry haven't got any 
 money now-a-days, or if they have, they're 
 afraid to spend it. Now, if old Garry was 
 to come over here, we should get our farms 
 without paying any rent, and them lazy 
 baronets and lords would have to work for 
 their living." 
 
 A scientific student of enthusiasm might 
 find much matter for thought in the in- 
 fluence which Garibaldi has had on people 
 totally different from each other. Here,
 
 PUBLIC OPINION. 237 
 
 with but one house between them, were 
 that refined iincl thoughtful ladj, Mrs. Selfe, 
 and this heavy illiterate landlord, both 
 holding a strange irrational faith in the 
 Italian adventurer. The lady corresponded 
 with his admirers, grew the grapes of 
 Caprera, had on her ^vall his portrait, with 
 the ridiculous motto, immortalized by Mar- 
 tinus Scriblerus, 
 
 "None but himself can be liis parallel." 
 
 She had dreams, doubtless, of a universal 
 republic and a Unitarian Church — of mon- 
 archy and superstition wholl}^ abolished, of 
 a quiet, well-ordered, temperate, drab- 
 coloured community : and all through Gari- 
 baldi. But the stout landlord, who had 
 inscribed the hero's name in large letters 
 on his favourite furniture-van, dreamt of 
 quite other things. His millennium included 
 the abolition of rent, taxes, policemen, and
 
 238 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 the game laws — a jolly time, when poach- 
 ing should be legal, and public-houses al- 
 ways open. How the triumph of Garibaldi 
 could produce two such very different re- 
 sults the lady and the landlord may settle 
 between them. 
 
 *' I don't think much of the new people 
 we're c^ettin^ about here," said Bigmns, still 
 somewhat irate with Clope, who had not 
 responded to his cordiality with any effusion, 
 being, in fact, one of those people who pru- 
 dently doubt too gushing a civility. 
 "They're a queer lot, all of them, Paddy, 
 and as stingy as the devil. I don't believe 
 there's a gentleman about here as bu^^s as 
 much good beef and mutton as I do." 
 
 " You want a lot," said the lithe Irish- 
 man, who was about a third of the massive 
 landlord's weight. "There's no keeping up 
 a fine figure like yours on bacon. I should 
 say, now, you were heavier than Sir Roger."
 
 PUBLIC opixiox. 239 
 
 This was adroit flattery, thou2[li it 
 might not appear so to everyone. Strange 
 to say, after Garibaldi, Biggins most re- 
 vered the "unhappy nobleman" in Dart- 
 moor : it was a proud recollection that he 
 had once been mistaken for him ; and 
 Paddy's last remark resulted in his getting 
 a final drop of brandy and water without 
 the ceremony of payment.
 
 240 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 The very first 
 
 Lip that has slaked its thirst 
 At virgin spring 
 
 As yet unruffled by the wild bird's wing, 
 The very first 
 
 Bold mariner who burst 
 With shallop free 
 
 Into a magic solitary sea. 
 
 T T was a breezy March day. The fast-bud- 
 -■■- ding trees were tossed by an awakening 
 wind. Thrush on tree-summit found it hard 
 to cling and sing, but conquered the difficulty, 
 being strengthened by the ecstasy of vernal 
 love. White violets were covering the banks,
 
 FIRST LOVE. 241 
 
 and in the meadows grew innumerable 
 daffodils, 
 
 " That come before the swallows dare, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty." 
 
 On this joyous restless day, Jack Sebright, 
 feeling as restless as the mad March wind, 
 rode over to call on Frowde. As he came 
 along the primrose-yellowed lanes, he sang 
 and shouted. He was in exuberant spirits. 
 He had a presentiment of some happy event. 
 It was one of Frowde's idle mornings, as he 
 knew ; and he anticipated a pleasant gossip 
 about things in general and his own uncertain 
 career in particular. He liked to imagine 
 for himself every kind of career that is open 
 to an English gentleman ; and there was no 
 one of them which he did not feel disposed 
 to pursue rather than that clerical career on 
 which the Rev. Marston Sebright had set his 
 heart for him. 
 
 When he reached Copse Hill he found 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 the Vicar at Frowde's cottage. He came 
 with news that his parishioners, for their own 
 sakes, were sorry to hear. A living a few 
 miles away had been olfered him, and he 
 liad decided to accept it. The parish was 
 ancient, with a noble church and venerable 
 traditions — the income better, the parsonage 
 larger, which to a clergyman with a growing 
 family is matter of moment. Everybody in 
 Copse Hill was glad for Mr. Bonfellow's 
 sake ; and it was pleasant to know that he 
 would still be a near neighbour. 
 
 ^' What a pity you had not made up your 
 mind before now, Mr. Sebright, and taken 
 holy orders ! You might have succeeded 
 me, perhaps — and it would have been a good 
 beginning, as you like the place so well. 
 Moreover, you might have persuaded Mr. 
 Frowde to come to church oftener. I cannot 
 get him to come, though I have often tried. 
 He says the church is too hot in summer and
 
 FIRST LOVE. 243 
 
 too cold ill winter. There is an old Act of 
 Parliament, which I believe has never been 
 repealed, w^hich imposes a fine for non-attend- 
 ance at church. Don't you think you deserve 
 to be fined?*' said Mr. Bonfellow, turning 
 to Manly Frowde. 
 
 ^' I would pay the fine right willingly if I 
 were a landed proprietor, or millionnaire, or 
 railway director, or capitalist in any shape. 
 It is the duty of such people to go to church 
 regularly. But you see my brain is m\' 
 capital, and I am compelled to work on 
 Sundays as well as weekdays, and an hour 
 in an ill-ventilated church would spoil at 
 least one day's work for me. But your 
 conscience may be clear on the matter, Mr. 
 Bonfellow : you have done your duty in ex- 
 horting me. Perhaps your successor may- 
 be more successful." 
 
 " I am sure I hope he may," said Mr. 
 Bonfellow, in a serious kindly way. 
 
 R 2
 
 244 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 " Do you yet know your successor ?" 
 asked Manly Frowde. 
 
 " Yes, I believe a Mr. Voyd has had the 
 offer. I am not very intimate with him, 
 though he is a curate in the adjoining parish ; 
 but he is said to be an orthodox and energetic 
 Churchman. He comes very highly recom- 
 mended by the bishop of the diocese in 
 which he had a previous cure." 
 
 " Is his name Vypar Voyd ?" asked Se- 
 bright. 
 
 *' Yes," replied the Vicar. " He is at 
 present a curate of Mr. Urgent's at Battle- 
 field, one of whose daughters he married." 
 
 "I knew him slightly at Oxford," said 
 Sebright. " He was older than I, but we 
 had some common friends. I should think 
 he would make an admirable clergyman." 
 
 " So everyone says," remarked the Vicar, 
 *' and I am glad to have your independent
 
 FIRST LOVE. 245 
 
 testimony. I hope Mr. Voycl will make up 
 for my shortcoming." 
 
 *' Don't be unnecessarily humble," said 
 Frowde. " If your successor surpasses 
 you, he won't make us forget you. You 
 were never meant for the Church, in my 
 opinion, but you do the work better than 
 some of the predestined parsons who w^ere 
 cradled in surplices." 
 
 "' I don't quite know what I was intended 
 for," said the Vicar, with a good-humoured 
 laugh, " but I think I was put into the 
 Church because I am the fool of the family." 
 
 " Nine men out of ten get into the wrong 
 place," said Frowde. ''The thing is to 
 stick to your work, whether you like it or 
 not. At the outset of life, if we have free 
 choice, we have not the knowledge to 
 choose aright. Here is Sebright ; his father 
 wants him to take orders, and I believe he 
 will make a capital clergyman. A clergy-
 
 246 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 man wants an unshakeable faith in God, 
 and wide sympathy with humanity. My 
 friend Jack has both, or I'm much mis- 
 taken." 
 
 The Vicar, who was carrying the news of 
 his departure to his parishioners, soon took 
 leave, and Frowde and Sebright started for 
 a strolL 
 
 " It is astonishing how I vacillate," said 
 Sebright. " It is a great thing to be a good 
 clergyman, of course, but there are so many 
 things for which I fancy myself fitter : a 
 soldier, for instance, or a sailor." 
 
 " You're too old for the navy, my friend, 
 and neither service is worth anything unless 
 there is war. You were not made to wear 
 a red coat and gold epaulettes." 
 
 *' Was I meant for a black coat and an 
 M.B. waistcoat?" 
 
 ''That remains to be seen. At any rate, 
 in the Church you will see active service. I
 
 FIRST LOVE. 247 
 
 don't think you would do for a doctor or 
 a barrister : your character is too simple for 
 success in a subtle profession. You could 
 not humbug a hypochondriacal patient, or 
 plead with passionate earnestness for a 
 client whom you knew to be guilty. Now 
 simple honesty, which is a disadvantage in 
 many professions and trades, is of real value 
 to a clergyman. I don't say it will make 
 you a bishop." 
 
 "Me a bishop!" interrupted Sebright, 
 with a mighty laugh. '' Jack Sebright in 
 lawn sleeves and a silk apron ! Nolo ejns* 
 cojjarij thank you, Frowde." 
 
 As they talked, they had been slowly- 
 ascending Copse Hill, where the path was 
 narrow and steep. Just at this moment 
 they encountered Kate Temple on her pony, 
 picking her way downward. Her bright 
 hair was blown loosely over her blue 
 riding habit ; her eyes were full of life and
 
 248 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 laughter ; she was as gay and joyous as the 
 coming spring. Frowde and Sebright both 
 turned round when she had passed — possi- 
 bly to enjoy the pretty bird's eye view of 
 the village below. 
 
 " A pretty little girl, that," said Frowde, 
 when she had reached the road. " She is 
 the daughter of a Mr. Teraple, who, you 
 know, has just taken that ugly bay-window- 
 ed house where Mrs. Selfe lived. Don't you 
 think her rather pretty, Jack ?" 
 
 "She's not very little," said Jack, evading 
 the question. 
 
 " Well, I mean she's a mere child — some 
 seventeen or eighteen years old, I should 
 think. She cannot be very old, for her 
 mother, whom I often see in the garden 
 from my bed-room window, does not look 
 more than thirty. I should have supposed 
 she was a step-mother, but that I see a 
 decided likeness. She is a glorious-looking 
 creature."
 
 FIRST LOVE. 249 
 
 " Isn't she ?" said Jack, abstractedly. 
 
 ''The mother I mean," said Manly 
 Frowde. 
 
 "Ye — es," muttered Jack, in some con- 
 fusion. 
 
 That day as Jack rode home through the 
 Oakshire lanes he felt uneasy, and could not 
 quite tell what was the matter. He slash- 
 ed fretfully with his riding-whip at the 
 young green shoots of hawthorn in the 
 hed2:es, and muttered a sood deal to him- 
 self. His brown mare Bessie once or twice 
 looked round to see what was the matter, 
 when her master made a more than usually 
 vigorous dash at a hawthorn twig. At last 
 she seemed to catch her master's spirit, and 
 became restive too. 
 
 "Now, then, Bessie, old girl, steady, 
 steady," he said. " Wonder what her name 
 is?" he muttered. "Be steady, I tell you," 
 he said aloud to Bessie.
 
 250 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 Whether Bessie had caught her master's 
 fit of restlessness, or whether she fimcied he 
 was not paying her so much attention as 
 usual, and that she would devise some means 
 to attract his notice, it is impossible to say. 
 She had made several mild remonstrances at 
 first by turning her head round to see what 
 was the matter ; and at last she became 
 so troublesome that Jack determined to take 
 the nonsense out of her. So he put her at 
 the first practicable fence, and went home 
 across country. He took the nonsense out 
 of his mare, but he did not succeed with 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Sebright, who was always cheerful, 
 was very inquisitive that evening about 
 Jack's friends at Copse Hill, and Jack was 
 in no mood for answering questions. 
 
 " Don't you think, my dear," she said, 
 "that as I am within driving distance, I 
 ought to go and call on your friends, as you
 
 FIRST LOVE. 251 
 
 have received such hospitality from them ? 
 If we put the horses up at Copse Hill for a 
 rest and a feed, we could manage it very 
 well, though the journey there and back 
 would be rather lon^r for them." Mrs. 
 
 o 
 
 Sebright was always over-careful with her 
 cattle. 
 
 "The horses wouldn't hurt," said Jack, 
 impatiently ; " but you know I have told 
 you several times that Mr. Frowde does not 
 care for ceremony, and he never calls any- 
 where. I am sure he'd be delighted to see 
 you if you happened to be passing that 
 way." 
 
 " A little observance of ceremony is neces- 
 sary sometimes," said Mrs. Sebright, rather 
 chidingly — meaning, no doubt, that Jack at 
 that moment was not very ceremonious in 
 his tone to her. 
 
 " Eh ? what ? ceremony ? marriage cere- 
 mony?" said Mr. Sebright, opening his eyes,
 
 252 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 after his after-dinner nap. He always tried 
 to persuade himself that he did not go to 
 sleep after dinner, but simply closed his 
 eyes to rest them. He would generally 
 catch up the end of a sentence as he woke, 
 to show that he had been listening. 
 
 " Are you talking of the marriage cere- 
 mony, Jack ?" he said ; " why, it's no good 
 for you to tliink of a wife till you've found 
 something to do." 
 
 " No, father," said Jack, laughing, though 
 marriage seemed certainly the best form of 
 ceremony to Jack at that moment; "no, I 
 was saying that Mr. Frowde won't mind your 
 not calling on him, as he doesn't stand on 
 ceremony." 
 
 '' Oh, ah !" said Mr. Sebright, " Frowde, 
 ah ! clever man ! should like to meet him 
 some day. Good scholar ! done a great 
 deal for the Church in his time." 
 
 " Why, father, Mr. Bonfellow, the vicar
 
 FIRST LOVE.. 253 
 
 of Copse Hill, was saying he never could 
 get him to go to church." 
 
 " Very likely, my boy, very likely : these 
 men are often odd in their habits. But I 
 should like to see him, for all that." 
 
 When Jack went to bed that night he 
 could not sleep — a most unusual thing 
 for him. He tossed about, and threw off 
 some of the bed-clothes, declaring they had 
 made his bed warmer than usual ; then he 
 walked up and down the room ; then he 
 tried to read. He felt so feverish that he 
 dipped his head in cold water : then he took 
 a saline draudnt. 
 
 o 
 
 But there is one fever which cold water 
 and saline draughts will not cure : and Jack 
 was now realizinoj this — the Fever of Love.
 
 254 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 JEST OR EARNEST ? 
 
 False words in jest are spoken, 
 And hearts are thereby broken : 
 Ah me ! it is a token 
 
 That Love hath bitter times ! 
 Ay, but pure Love's strong splendour, 
 Its utter soul- surrender, 
 Eyes true 'neath eyelids tender, 
 
 Shall live in loyal rhymes. 
 
 TTALENTINE LORD ARUN maintained 
 ' his pursuit of Flora Trevor with gal- 
 lant pertinacity. He did not know what to 
 make of the dainty coquette, whose nature 
 was as changeable as an April day. Arun 
 liad never learned to make up his mind
 
 JEST OR EARNEST. 255 
 
 about anything. His intellect was discon- 
 tinuous, and moved by impulse : for this 
 reason all attempts to give him an educa- 
 tion up to the average had wholly failed. 
 His tutors, though baffled, could never lose 
 temper with him, his natural good-humour 
 beini]!; inexhaustible. He was the first to 
 laugh at his own incapacit3^ He could not 
 spell. He could not add up a column of 
 figures accurately. He never travelled 
 much beyond the verb Amo in Latin. 
 French he liked, and read Paul de Kock 
 and Alfred de Musset: moreover, in English 
 literature he read comedies of the Caroline 
 school, Ether ege and Farquhar and Wy- 
 ch.erley ; also he read Don Juan. And 
 though his talk was disconnected, he wrote 
 a pleasant letter — misspelt and almost illeg- 
 ible, yet with a vein of humorous gossip. 
 Indeed, though his mere acquaintance would 
 not have believed it, a few of his friends
 
 256 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 were aware that he had a knack at rhyme, 
 and could hit off an epigram or any such 
 trivial matter with happy effect. Arundel 
 Lifton was in the habit of advising him to 
 marry a clever woman, and get her to 
 educate him. Yal, who preferred pretty 
 women to clever ones, showed no sign of 
 taking this advice. 
 
 The game of caprice and coquetry was 
 pleasantly enough played between Lord 
 Arun and the fair Flora for a month or two 
 at Brighton. Lifton was an apparently dis- 
 interested spectator. He chaffed his cousin 
 mildly when they came together, and rallied 
 him on taking so long a time to win a 
 widow. Lideed, Flora was, in Lord Arun's 
 own opinion, rather difficult. She would 
 be all sweetness at night — all indifference 
 in the morning. Sometimes he seemed to 
 look through her blue eyes into her very 
 heart ; sometimes her reckless manner ap-
 
 JEST OR EARNEST. 257 
 
 peared to show that in moulding her fairy 
 form the heart had been omitted. Did she 
 know anything about it herself? It was 
 doubtful. 
 
 On a windy March morning, with occa- 
 sional bursts of rain from the east, Mrs. 
 Trevor, in a waterproof wrapper, was stand- 
 ing at the seaward end of the West Pier. 
 She looked out at the wild waste of shudder- 
 ing sea, over which the lights and shadows 
 chased each other in swift career. She was 
 the only person on the pier. Very few in- 
 deed were on the unparalleled promenade 
 of our English Baiae ; for when rainy squalls 
 from the east come down upon Brighton no 
 umbrella will last an instant, and you are 
 wet through almost before you know it is 
 raining. Flora looked over the sea — a little 
 sadly. Her gay and reckless temper was 
 not long to be subdued : but if your brain 
 is as light as a dove's feather, and the blood 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 in your heart as effervescent as champagne, 
 you must needs be serious now and then. 
 Yes, Flora was serious. She thought to 
 herself, 
 
 '' We have been playing fast and loose, 
 and now it is over. We have been flirting 
 gaily under the eyes of that fiend, Arundel. 
 He means me mischief, I know. He would 
 like me to bring Valentine to the point, and 
 accept him, and then crush me. I will not 
 be crushed, strong and cruel as he is. No ; 
 I will tell Valentine to leave me." 
 
 '' I must. If he knew all he would scorn 
 me. It is hard, hard, hard ! T think I 
 love him as well as ever I could love any 
 ■man. Shame that it was — to marry me 
 when I was a baby to that cold austere 
 -man, who has spoilt my life ! Oh ! if I had 
 inown anyone like Valentine then! And 
 yet he thought he did his duty by me.
 
 JEST OR EARNEST. 259 
 
 Duty ! I hate the word. However, I must 
 do mine — and here comes Yal." 
 
 She had heard Lord Arun's quickly ap- 
 proaching step. He came quite gaily 
 through wind and rain, defiant of both in 
 his blue pilot-coat with yacht-club buttons. 
 He held out his hand to her gaily, and 
 and said — 
 
 " Capital weather, Flora, eh ? Fools 
 stay indoors by the fire, and wait for the 
 wind to stop. You're — by Jove, you know 
 — just like a — what is it ? — mermaid ? — no, 
 they're half fishes, ain't they ?" 
 
 " A charming compliment, Val," she said, 
 " I'm not a mermaid, sir. Well, have you 
 and your black-looking cousin decided when 
 you go to London ?" 
 
 "Yes — have we? — oh, yes, we drive up 
 to-morrow. Arundel hates railways — he's 
 got so many shares. Yes — by Jove — to- 
 morrow — unless " 
 
 s2
 
 260 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 "Unless what?" she said, laughing. 
 
 " Oil, you know, Flora. Don't you see, 
 when a fellow — you know the sort I mean 
 — has a lot to say and it breaks into bits 
 like thin ice when you're skating, you know 
 — any other fellow, lady I mean — might help 
 him out, by Jove." 
 
 '' Out of the water when the ice breaks, 
 you mean ? Well, Yal, you've broken the 
 ice. I'll be frank with you : I am not good 
 enough for you." 
 
 " Oh ! I say — by Jove !" he interposed. 
 
 "True," she said, with a pretty little sigh. 
 '^ I don't say I'm very wicked, but I'm not 
 good enough to be Lady Arun." 
 
 " Confound it, now !" 
 
 " Confound it, by all means. I don't say 
 I never shall be good enough. If I am, 
 I'll tell you so frankly. Come, Val, don't 
 be cut up. We've had a happy time : don't 
 let us end it miserably. You go to London,
 
 JEST OR EARNEST. 261 
 
 and make speeches in the House of Lords." 
 " Hang the House of Lords ! I should 
 make a speech like — like a dying rushlight. 
 Twon't do, Flora. I should say— ' Well, 
 my lords, look here, you know — it mayn't 
 be the question before the House, but I'm 
 in love, don't you see — and the lady won't 
 have me, and won't say why — so I vote 
 she's committed for contempt of court, and 
 I'm committed alonof with her.' " 
 
 o 
 
 Flora laughed gaily. 
 
 '' I shall read that speech in the Galignani, 
 no doubt, and there will be an article in 
 the Dehats on it, to show that English wit 
 is inferior to French." 
 
 '^ Galignani T he said. 
 
 "Yes, I am going to Paris for a week too. 
 Don't look pathetic : I won't forget you. 
 We will be good friends, whatever happens : 
 perhaps we may be better friends some day. 
 But we must wait, Val. And remember
 
 262 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 how young you are : you may see somebody 
 delightfully beautiful, of your own rank, 
 that will make you forget poor little me." 
 
 " Never !" he said, squeezing her little 
 rosy leaflet of a hand, and looking earnestly 
 into those capricious eyes. 
 
 '' Oh ! I know you are as true as steel," 
 she said. " If we are meant to meet again, 
 the way will be cleared. Now let us part. 
 Shall I write to you from Paris ?" 
 
 " Oh, by Jove, yes ! — please, Flora. Arun 
 House, Park Lane, don't you know ? Too 
 big a place, by Jove! for a bachelor. 
 There's Arundel — a dozen times as rich as I 
 — lives in a cosy corner in the Albany — snug 
 as a squirrel in an old rotten tree. Wish 
 he'd change." 
 
 Lord Arun and Mrs. Trevor walked to 
 the gates of the pier together, and there 
 parted. Neither was quite satisfied. Flora 
 — but for one imminent, perhaps inevitable,
 
 JEST OR EARNEST. 263 
 
 danger — might at once be Lady Arun. She 
 liked both Arun and his title. As to him, 
 he was very decidedly in love, but had not 
 resolve enough to break down all barriers, 
 and force the lady to a confession. He saw 
 in Flora a creature very different from what 
 she really was, and he, of course, believed 
 in the perfect innocence and purity of his 
 own creation. 
 
 In the course of the day he sought 
 Lifton, to arrange about the journey to 
 London. 
 
 Arundel Lifton was in one of his least 
 amiable moods* He had been watching the 
 flirtation between Lord Arun and Mrs. 
 Trevor, and thought it went on too slowly. 
 There was a point at which he meant to 
 intervene — not precisely like the Queen's 
 Proctor — and that point they seemed to 
 take a long time to reach. He felt himself 
 in the position of a man who waits for the
 
 264 TPIE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 denouement of a comedy which declines to 
 arrive. 
 
 "Yes," he said, in reply to Lord Arun's 
 inquiry ; '^ I have ordered horses on. We'll 
 drive four-in-hand all the way. I'm tired 
 of Brighton, Val, but I hate the idea of 
 London. Of course, you'd never tire of 
 Brighton, with that little widow here. Have 
 you made up your mind about her?" 
 
 '' She's going to Paris," said Lord Arun. 
 
 " And a very good place for her," quoth 
 Lifton. " She's quite the Palais Royal style. 
 Do you like her very much, Yal ?" 
 
 " I — 'pon honour, you kno.w — never saw 
 an3^body I could like half — pooh ! a thou- 
 sandth as much." 
 
 "Val," said Lifton, "although you're a 
 peer of the realm, you're a young muff. 
 Be logical. Mrs. Trevor is — heaven knows 
 whom. She confesses herself a widow. 
 She is some years older than you. She
 
 JEST OR ExVRNEST. 265 
 
 wanders from place to place without any 
 definite abode. Why can't you think of 
 Sarum's daughter? She'll be a peeress in 
 her own right, and have all the Sarum 
 estates, and she's very pretty and very 
 clever. I believe she likes you a little. 
 Don't let that flirting little widow entrap you 
 into something foolish." 
 
 " She's — by Jove ! — the best little woman 
 in the world !" said Arun vehemently. 
 
 "All right, my dear boy," said Lifton. 
 "You will know women better when you 
 are a few years older. Whether you will 
 be glad to haye obtained that knowledge I 
 cannot say. I have not been much delight- 
 ed at what I have learnt." 
 
 "Oh, that be hanged!" exclaimed Arun. 
 " By Jove, you know, a world without wo- 
 men wouldn't do. It would be like — like 
 a cigar-case without weeds, don't you see ? 
 And as to widows — I say, Arundel, couldn't
 
 266 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 we have au Act to make their first marriage 
 null and void, don't they call it ?" 
 
 " I should think the death of the husband 
 sufficed for that," said Lifton. '' Come, 
 Arun, forget your widow. Let her go to 
 Paris first, and the mischief afterwards. 
 What can it matter? There are both 
 widows and maidens ready to snap at your 
 coronet, with its appendages of coin. For- 
 get your Flora." 
 
 "Never!" said Arun, "never!" — which 
 is exactly what Arundel Lifton wanted him 
 to say.
 
 267 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 forncett's den. 
 
 O that I had the wings of a dove ! 
 
 David, Rex. 
 
 Give me again my hollow tree, 
 A crust of bread, and liberty ! 
 
 Pope, Poeta. 
 
 AN has many affinities with the world, 
 which was', created to give him en- 
 joyment and suffering, to give him the de- 
 velopment designed to result in completion 
 elsewhere. The world is full of life and 
 meanino- : not a flower or insect but has its 
 special service to render to the Lord of 
 Earth, the creature made in the Creator's 
 
 M
 
 268 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 image, the lieir of a universe. The infinite 
 possibihty of sin, which causes the weak to 
 shudder at the imaginable degradation of 
 the race, is more than balanced by an in- 
 finite possibility of virtue. More than 
 balanced, we maintain — since strength is 
 greater than weakness, as God is greater 
 than Satan : and one Carlyle or Ruskin 
 rescues humanity from the shame of having 
 produced a hundred Napoleons or Ortons. 
 One ruddy rose, compensates a thousand 
 weeds : one dog, all friendliness and daring, 
 makes you pardon efts and frogs and slugs 
 for existing. May not the race of man be 
 similarly estimated ? 
 
 Most of us have felt the royal poet's de- 
 sire to take swift wings and fiy to some in- 
 accessible solitude, nearer to the Deity — far 
 beyond the reach of the crowd's turmoil. 
 As the carrier pigeons career around the gables 
 of this cottage, as the tumblers rise into ether
 
 FOPtXCETT's DEX. 269 
 
 for the sake of suddenly dropping into the 
 depth, who would not be emulous of them ? 
 But the agile and unprisonable spirit of man 
 can climb the silver stair of air to divine 
 heisfhts, where wins^s could not float. Hence, 
 when the babble of life is most childish, the 
 imagination can seek a quiet home, irradi- 
 ated bv the central lisrht. 
 
 Alas ! one's imagination is not always in 
 good working order : then a man may be 
 forgiven for desiring tangible wings — wings 
 strong enough to overcome the power of 
 gravitation, and to land one on some pure 
 peak untrodden except by voyaging angels. 
 On the other hand, there is sometimes a 
 just opposite desire — a longing to imitate 
 the squirrel with his store of nuts and 
 acorns in his hollow tree, to hibernate in a 
 library corner with store of books, and pens 
 and ink, and wine — there to ''chew the 
 cud of sweet and bitter fancies." A strange
 
 270 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 delight lurks in such a solitude. The 
 world's vain outcry is unheard. You read 
 no newspapers or maudlin magazines. 
 Ancient poetry and philosophy surround 
 you. If the world is inventing a new re- 
 ligion or making a new war it matters not 
 to you. The hours pass in reverie : essay 
 or poem may perchance grow slowly be- 
 neath your pen. In such solitude it is 
 easier than elsewhere to attack some philo- 
 sophic problem which baffled Pythagoras, 
 or to conjure bright-haired Apollo from his 
 home at Delos, and steal his music for some 
 lovely myth. Goddesses flutter through 
 the student's lonely chamber, and the odour 
 of immortal amaranth floats on the air. 
 
 Both these antagonist moods did Frank 
 Forncett love to gratify. He had wandered 
 far and wide; he thought that he should 
 wander no longer. When a wild mood 
 seized him, Ralph saddled Grum, and away
 
 FORNCETT S DEN. 271 
 
 he flew for a good gallop. This satisfied 
 him for awhile : now he could retreat to his 
 chimney-corner, read, and write margin- 
 notes in his favourite books— dream the 
 dreams of a man whose youth-vision of hfe 
 has departed long ago, fading like a rain- 
 bow into a watery sky. Frank Forncett, 
 having decided that he had no future, claim- 
 ed a right to use the present in his own way 
 for his own delight. 
 
 Although upon the high road, Forncett's 
 new demesne was snugly fenced. Ever- 
 greens grew thickly, screening him when he 
 chose to stroll along a path which ran round 
 his lawn. At the back also he was beyond 
 inquisitive eyesight : the gardens and green- 
 houses had a pleasant privacy, though you 
 could see from them across miles of meadow 
 and wheat-field. It was the very place 
 wherein a country mouse might vegetate. 
 Now Mr. Temple's place, just opposite,
 
 272 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 had been thrown more open to the road 
 than ever before by the destructive Mrs. 
 Selfe, and was noticeable by Forncett as he 
 strolled up and down, well screened by his 
 Portugal laurels. He saw its calm and 
 dignified master ride out in the forenoon, 
 sometimes with his daughter as companion. 
 He ^vatched Kate Temple, a pretty wilful 
 thing, flying about the garden, or riding her 
 pony in the orchard, or tripping across the 
 road to post letters at Miss Tattleton's. 
 Kate Temple was a pleasant study to Forn- 
 cett. The easy ways of an unconscious girl 
 have a magical charm. This child, with 
 heart untouched, with " life in every limb," 
 •with eyes like Sakhrat, that gives the sky 
 its colour (wondrous old myth !) was a 
 delight to look upon. In her, as Words- 
 worth wrote, Nature had trained a lady of 
 her ov^n. She was in all things simple as a 
 rivulet, natural as a sunbeam. Forncett,
 
 forncett's den. 273 
 
 who loved all beautiful beings, watched her 
 delightedly, himself unseen. 
 
 Of the third occupant of Winterslow his 
 glimpses were rare and remote. The tall 
 dark lady never left the grounds : she passed 
 swiftly from the front garden to the higher 
 grounds above, and w^as especially fond of a 
 little wood whence she could see for miles 
 across the country. Forncett, who loved the 
 study of mysteries, wondered why she thus 
 secluded herself: and his interest in the 
 question was intensified by the fact that her 
 figure and walk seemed to remind him of 
 some one — well, there is always some one to 
 every man. 
 
 Frank Forncett was a casuist. He had 
 decided that, as the screen of Portugal 
 laurels had been planted by some former 
 dweller in his house, he had a perfect right 
 to use it for watching the village. So he 
 looked at the passers-by with a clear con- 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 science. None of them interested him 
 enough to make him doubtful of the mor- 
 ality of his position. He liked to see Kate 
 cantering her pony; he liked to see the 
 farmers pass to market ; he liked all forms 
 of life on the highway. But, when he look- 
 ed at the elder lady of Winterslow, shyly 
 €rossing the garden to reach the upper 
 solitude she loved, there was something in 
 her walk that seemed familiar to him. A 
 good field-glass lay on his table : in a moment 
 he could tell whether she was, as he fancied 
 strangely, some one whom he knew, or ought 
 to know ; but he could not decide in his 
 mind that it was right to use that glass. 
 Had his naked eye told him who the lady 
 was, there would have been no harm ; but 
 to level a field glass at her, and bring her 
 simulacrum close to him, when she evidently 
 desired concealment, seemed to him dishon- 
 ourable. There was the glass on the table ;
 
 forncett's den. 275 
 
 there, gazing eastward on the reflection of 
 a superb sunset, stood the lady, at the 
 entrance to the wood. It was in his power 
 at once to solve the painful problem, to 
 ascertain whether she was in any way 
 known to him. But he decided that he 
 would not do it. 
 
 Men like Frank Forncett, lovers of travel 
 and of solitude, are always superstitious. All 
 men of genius are superstitious, in the true 
 meaning of that much-warped word. Forn- 
 cett had surely as good a right to a demon 
 as Socrates himself: and he began to be- 
 lieve that his demon had led him to Copse 
 Hill with intent to solve the mystery of his 
 life. That solution seemed to him imminent. 
 But he would not hurry it, even by lifting a 
 field-glass to his eye. He would not ask a 
 question. He would wait. When you 
 have got a downright perplexity, that has 
 lasted from youth upward, you are loth to 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 part with it. Your old enemy, by long 
 acquaintanceship, becomes a friend. A man 
 who has nursed a mystery or an agony for 
 a score of years feels that he would not be 
 the same man without it. The inference is 
 that such matters are best left alone. Take 
 the world easil3\ 
 
 Precisely. Frank Forncett had resolved 
 to take the world easily. Here he was, in 
 his hollow tree, with a fine store of books 
 to read and of wine to drink. What more 
 could he want ? Yet his favourite volumes 
 lay untouched, and his dinner was sometimes 
 unenjoyed, because he could not decide that 
 he had a right to point his field glass at a 
 certain lady who wandered in the opposite 
 grounds, and whose movements, as she 
 wandered, brought back to him strange 
 memories of a time of wild delight followed 
 by bitter regret.
 
 277 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 APRIL FOOLS. 
 
 Beauty grows lovelier and yoiitli more fliglity 
 Li April, month of flowers and Aphrodite. 
 
 TACK SEBRIGHT did not get over his 
 ^ sudden restlessness. He had now a dou- 
 ble difficulty in his life. Hitherto his mind 
 had been mucli perplexed by the problem, 
 of his career. Could he become a clergy- 
 man, uncertain as he felt of his own fitness, 
 unsettled as to his orthodoxy, and perceiv- 
 ing that many great lights of the Church 
 were decidedly dishonest ? This question 
 occupied him perpetually : for he had a
 
 278 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 loving wish to gratify his father, and he 
 sometimes fancied that his scruples must be 
 the result of wrongheadedness or stupidit}^ 
 Poor Jack ! As if this trouble were not 
 enough for him, he had felt something like 
 a sudden electric shock, which had made the 
 blood tingle in all his arteries — which had 
 made his nerves tremulous as an ^olian 
 harp wind-smitten. He could not understand 
 it. He had known heaps of girls — very 
 charming girls ; notably Diana and Claudia. 
 He delighted in their company, but it w^as 
 not a painful delight, a pleasure touched 
 with fear. Now, suddenly and strangely, 
 one glimpse of a girl who was probably 
 much like other mrls seemed to have stuns^ 
 him through. What could it mean ? 
 
 " Poison they said it was. I too have drunk of it, 
 This is the passionate poison of love," 
 
 says the pale Pachinitzka in one of Lord 
 Lytton's Servian songs. Jack Sebright had
 
 APRIL FOOLS. 279 
 
 DO kind adviser to explain this to him. 
 
 Those who know best the magical impulse 
 of love will see most clearly how Jack 
 Sebright, a pure and thoughtless young 
 fellow, might be stricken with the m^ady 
 without knowing quite what it meant. He 
 connected it with Kate Temple, of course ; 
 he could not well help that, for the perma- 
 nent notion in his head was a desire to see 
 her gay young beauty again. Xext morn- 
 ing, after breakfast, he wandered away upon 
 the moorland, gay with the yellow furze 
 which always blooms when kissing is in 
 season. He walked a mile or two into the 
 most solitary part; then, at a spot where 
 one silver-rinded birch huns; its leafless 
 boughs over a clear spring, he threw his 
 massive young limbs on the grass, and tried 
 hard to think out his position. 
 
 Had he been a poet, a philosopher, or a 
 man of the world, it is easy to see how the
 
 280 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 reverie would have ended : either would 
 have satisfied himself, with the help of a 
 lyric, "an apophthegm, or a cigar, that he 
 was worthy to win any lady in the world. 
 JacK, being neither of these, but only a 
 healthy boy, slow of growth, without ex- 
 perience and without conceit, was unable to 
 deal witli his difficulty in this prompt pleas- 
 ant way. Plays and romances were to him 
 mere rubbish, so that he had not discovered 
 the tremendous force of sexual magnetism. 
 He had not, to use Clough's phrase, " studied 
 the question of sex." He had regarded 
 girls as sisters and playmates — creatures to 
 be looked on with admiration and treated 
 tenderly. It was not so very long since he 
 had been skating with Diana and Claudia 
 in mere gaiety of heart ; and now just one 
 glimpse of a girl unknown to him had 
 awakened an unconquerable tumult in his 
 souk
 
 APRIL FOOLS. 281 
 
 There was music all around to calm his 
 perturbed spirit. A light wind rustled the 
 birch boughs. The slight overflow of the 
 spring tinkled over the stones in its runnel. 
 A lark showered down his sparkling silver 
 melody. A daring bullfinch, perched on 
 the very summit of a tall rose-brier amid 
 the furze, poured out his voluble flutings. 
 These things soothed the young fellow some- 
 what, and a pleasant vision came to him of 
 Kate Temple, as he had seen her but yes- 
 terday, a new Aphrodite, brighter and 
 daintier than the old — being born of the 
 air instead of the sea. His manhood stirred 
 within him ; he felt that there was a new 
 glory in life — an aim that made nobler 
 all other aims. He could not have put into 
 any words the thoughts which coursed 
 through him in that hour of solitude ; only 
 it seemed that the music of the lark and 
 bullfinch, tree and rivulet, blended into the
 
 282 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 song of a divine young voice — a voice he 
 had never heard. Was he right, I wonder ? 
 Was Kate Temple singing, hght of heart — 
 and had the magic music power to reach 
 his ear? 
 
 Any way, Jack Sebright picked himself 
 up like a giant refreshed, and strode away 
 across the heath singing — very much out of 
 tune — some college song about the univer- 
 sity boat-race, quite unsuitable to the fair 
 theme of his thought. But he felt he 
 must make a noise of some sort, and so he 
 startled the solitude with a p^an of victory 
 sung at *' wines" when the Dark Blue had 
 been foremost. 
 
 Well, the next day, which chanced to be 
 the first of April, our young friend thought 
 it would be good for his mare and himself 
 that he should have another ride. I fear he 
 made an April fool of his venerated mother 
 by saying that he had not quite decided 
 which way he should take.
 
 APKIL FOOLS. 283 
 
 '^ You should not call to see Mr. Frowde 
 too often," said Mrs. Seloright. "A gentle- 
 man so much engaged as he is cannot afford 
 to waste time upon idle visitors. And you 
 really should not miss your lunch so often, 
 my dear boy : you require nutritious and 
 regular food." 
 
 "I always can get bread and cheese and 
 ale at a wayside inn," replied Jack. 
 
 " But you said the ale about here was so 
 very bad," she remonstrated. " Hadn't you 
 better take some sandwiches and a flask of 
 sherry?" 
 
 On this precaution, indeed, Mrs. Sebright 
 insisted — having a deep conviction that Jack 
 was delicate, though he was sound as a roach 
 and hard as nails. After all, even the most 
 Herculean youngster that ever breathed 
 need not be ashamed of the coddling of a 
 too-apprehensive mother. Young fellows 
 who are apt to neglect their mothers should
 
 284 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 be set to read the immortal apotheosis of 
 motherhood in the Homeric Hymn to De- 
 ineter. 
 
 So Jack Sebright, armed with sandwich- 
 box and sherry-flask, armed also with the 
 magic power of a new-born love, started 
 forth on Bessie in gayer spirits than those of 
 yesterday. Although he professed un- 
 certainty as to his intentions, either Bessie 
 or he showed great decision of purpose, and 
 Copse Hill was reached by the shortest pos- 
 sible route. He apologized much to Frowde 
 for looking him up again so soon ; but the 
 fine weather had tempted him to ride, and 
 he thought the road to Copse Hill the 
 pleasantest in the neighbourhood. 
 
 ** Always glad to see you," said Frowde. 
 ''When I'm busy I shall say so, and you can 
 talk to the missus, if she isn't busy also, or 
 you can take a book, and stroll about the 
 lawn and read. As to what you say about
 
 APKIL FOOLS. 285 
 
 the road, there is this question : how far 
 does your idea of the beaut}^ of a road de- 
 pend on what you expect at the end of it ?" 
 
 " I expected some wise talk, and I have 
 got it already," quoth Jack, with unusual 
 readiness. 
 
 " Wise talk by itself is like the apples of 
 the Dead Sea," said the other. " And I 
 don't think you particularly want to be talk- 
 ed to just now. You want to think for 
 yourself, slowly. The soul should move 
 like a star, unhasting, unresting. Be in no 
 hurry with the problems of life, Sebright." 
 
 Jack hardly knew whether or not his 
 friendly adviser had found out the new 
 problem which perplexed him. There was 
 a tone in Frowde's voice which seemed 
 significant. After all, his friend perhaps 
 was only tliinking of Jack's difficulty about 
 his career. 
 
 He made no reply.
 
 286 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 *' Our gay friends Diana and Claudia are 
 coming for a week at Easter," resumed 
 Frowde. " You must ride over and help 
 us to entertain them. You, as a possible par- 
 son, doubtless know that Easter will be here 
 in ten or twelve days." 
 
 "I shall be delighted to come," said Jack. 
 ''The Miss Selfes are most charming young 
 ladies." 
 
 Frowde and his friend were at the 2;ate, 
 close to the high road. They looked round 
 at the sound of horses' hoofs. Mr. Temple 
 and his daughter rode by homewards, ex- 
 chan2;ino[ bows with Frowde : and Jack 
 Sebright caught one gay bright glance from 
 Kate, which, like a flash of lightning, shot 
 through his eyes to the inner citadel of his 
 soul. Some moments passed before he 
 could hear what Frowde was saying. 
 
 " You should have been here yesterday. 
 You missed a chance. I made acquaintance
 
 APRIL FOOLS. 287 
 
 "vvitli Mr. and Miss Temple. She is very 
 charming, though you did not seem to 
 think much of her when we saw her the 
 other day." 
 
 Jack inwardly execrated. 
 
 " She ran all over the lawn here, like the 
 pretty gay child she is, and sang scraps of 
 song as spontaneously as the skylark sings." 
 
 Jack thought of the raamc music on the 
 moor yesterday, and wondered whether it 
 could have been the remote echo of Kate 
 Temple's voice. 
 
 "I must start now," he said abruptly, 
 looking at his watch. '• I promised to be 
 home early." 
 
 '' Remember Easter," said Frowde. " You 
 must not disappoint Diana and Claudia. 
 And 1 daresay we shall see a good deal of 
 the Temples. But come over here when- 
 ever you have time." 
 
 Jack rode away, rapidly at first, but
 
 288 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 slowly enough when he got into the green 
 soft solitary lanes. The light of Kate 
 Temple's eyes had struck him like a sun- 
 shaft, and he was glad to dream of her 
 alone. 
 
 "Lucky for that boy," said Frowde to 
 his wife, as he entered his book-room and 
 sat down in the bay-window to work, " that 
 he has fallen in love. It will simplify his 
 previous difficulties." 
 
 " We must give him every chance at 
 Easter," she said. '' I like him." 
 
 This couple thought so much together 
 that they required few words. 
 
 Kate Temple had seen Jack Sebright 
 when that glance of hers caught him. Hard- 
 ly had she noted him when riding down 
 Copse Hill two days before. Now she had 
 a picture of him — strong, stalwart, fresh, 
 boyish, eager — the youthful making of a 
 knightly man. Kate had never thought
 
 APRIL FOOLS. 289 
 
 much about men, except lier father, wlioui 
 she idohsed ; she was too healthy to have a 
 pet parson ; she had been too wisely and 
 kindly taught by Mr. Temple to fall into 
 romantic silliness of any sort. When she 
 jumped frou] her pony at the hall door of 
 Winterslow she said, 
 
 "Papa, did you notice that young man 
 with Mr. Frowde at his gate ?" 
 
 " I just caught sight of him. A fine 
 young fellow, rather." 
 
 " I thought he looked so boyish and 
 simple for his age," said Kate; "very much 
 as if he had not made up his mind as to the 
 sort of world he had come into." 
 
 Mr. Temple laughed, as he often had to 
 laugh at Kate's ofF-hand judgment of people. 
 She was commonly right. That bright eye 
 of hers did her good service. 
 
 " We will talk him over by-and-by," he 
 said. " Find mamma. I want her to see 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 the new fountain play, that we may decide 
 about its heic^ht." 
 
 The beautiful dark-haired lover of silence 
 and solitude was dreauiing over one of 
 Shakespeare's saddest plays when Kate 
 summoned her with a loving kiss, lovingly 
 returned. She came out reluctantly. 
 
 " Leonora," said Mr. Temple, '^ come 
 down — the grass is not damp — and see the 
 fountain play. I want your idea as to the 
 height the water should go to look well 
 from the house, without injuring the lilies 
 or disturbing the gold-fish. You are so 
 good a judge of those things." 
 
 She came reluctantly, for she hated being 
 near the high-road, shrinking from the gaze 
 of strangers. She gave her advice, audit was 
 taken. Then, as soon as possible, she 
 walked away across the lawn, taking Kate's 
 hand in hers, and swinging it to and 
 fro.
 
 APRIL FOOLS. 291 
 
 "Mamma, you are better to-day," said 
 Kate. 
 
 ''I aai quietly happy, my child," she 
 rephed, and kissed her. 
 
 Frank Forncett, down behind that screen 
 of Portugal laurels, had been looking on all 
 this time. He had not previously been so 
 close to the lady who troubled him with the 
 ghost of a mysterious memory. Now an 
 idea occurred to him which seemed impossi- 
 ble. As she stood by tlie margin of that 
 pond, watching the fountain experiment 
 with half concealed indiiference — as she 
 took Kate's hand in hers, swinging it gaily 
 as they went briskly up the slope — as she 
 stooped to kiss her, like a goddess in the 
 movement — Forncett was more and more 
 convinced, more and more puzzled. 
 
 He walked out into the road. She had 
 gone. He strolled downward, and met 
 Frowde, with a huge bundle of letters,
 
 292 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 going to the post. The}^ exchanged a few 
 words, about nothing in particular. Then 
 Forncett said, 
 
 '' Our neighbours at that bay-windowed 
 house — do you know their names ?" 
 
 ''Temple," said Frowde. 
 
 " Temple ! Do you know what the family 
 is?" 
 
 "Mr., Mrs., and Miss Temple," said 
 Frowde, " and very nice people they seem 
 to be." 
 
 "And you are sure one of the ladies is 
 Mrs. Temple ?" 
 
 " I see no reason to doubt it," said 
 Frowde. ''Her daughter is a charmingly 
 fresh little girl. Forgive me — here is the 
 postman : and I have a lot of foreign stamps 
 to get." 
 
 Frank Forncett walked back to his own 
 house, and Ralph opened the door to him,
 
 APRIL FOOLS. 293 
 
 seeing him from that sanctum which com- 
 manded a view of the front gate. 
 
 '' Ralph," he said, '^ do you know any- 
 thing about those people at Winterslow ?" 
 
 "Name's Temple, your honour." 
 
 "Yes, so I hear. What's their relation? 
 Husband and wife, brother and sister, or 
 what ? Find that out for me, if you can." 
 
 " If I can !" quoth Ralph, disdainfully. 
 " I'll find out anything your honour wants, 
 if I've to climb Mont Blanc or go down 
 Vesuvius. I'll inquire at once." 
 
 And away went Ralph, whispering thus 
 to himself: 
 
 " Now what's the matter with the master ? 
 He never cared to know who's who before. 
 Please God he isn't in love with either of 
 them. I don't want a woman to manage. 
 He's trouble enough." 
 
 And Frank Forncett was saying to him-
 
 294 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 self: " It must be she. No other woman 
 ever had that walk of dignity and grace. 
 How is she here ? What means the adop- 
 tion of the name of Temple? Who is the 
 man? And is the girl her daughter? I 
 must know, for I'll swear she is Leonora."
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 SHOOLING. 
 
 Qui dies mensem Veneris marinje 
 Findit Aprilem. 
 
 "Tl ASTER fell about the Ides of April. 
 ■^-^ Diana and Claudia were to spend it 
 at Copse Hill, taking a pleasant round from 
 place to place, as they travelled. This 
 custom is known as " shooling " in the North 
 Country. The phrase is used by sailors for 
 getting into shallow water when the shore 
 slopes safely and by degrees. The sisters 
 did their shooling in a wise and enjoyable 
 way : their pony Rough took them very 
 comfortably from place to place in a vehicle
 
 296 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 "which may perhaps be described as a lady's 
 dog-cart. They were as independent in 
 their movements as Arundel Lifton in his 
 four-in-hand — possibly safer, though there 
 is a rumour that Claudia once let Rough 
 down when reading a letter of extreme in- 
 terest. From whom ? I wonder. 
 
 What a delicious April morning it was ! 
 Only a few white feathery clouds floated 
 above the round tower of Avonside Castle, 
 which rises in historic grandeur opposite the 
 quaint farm-cottage that has been nick- 
 named the Doll's House. All the rest of 
 the sky is blue, and a myriad martlets, 
 ''oiseaux de retour," are eddying high in 
 air. Diana and Claudia, agile and succinct, 
 with their pretty heads full of adventure 
 impossible, bade farewell to servitor and 
 servitress, and to Ror}^, the cleverest and 
 most amiable of collies, and o-ave Rou^jh 
 his head. That sagacious pony, who
 
 SHOOLIXG. 297 
 
 had heard the gay chatter and rippling 
 laughter of his young mistresses, knew well 
 that there was something up. He was not 
 going to the railway-station this time, he 
 knew. He shook his head wisely and trot- 
 ted merrilv, and made Ymht of the roads, 
 which were clogged with clay that a tropical 
 sun could scarcely dry. 
 
 As we watch these darinoj damsels start- 
 ing to '' shool," we cannot help wishing 
 them some lively adventures. Highwaymen 
 are extinct — so are knights errant ; so are 
 troubadours. Diana and Claudia both had 
 courage enoudi to dance a minuet w^ith 
 Claud du Val. That most chivalrous of 
 thieves lias been hanged long ago ; and, al- 
 though the Premier maintains that " adven- 
 tures are to the adventurous," we doubt 
 whether Don Quixote himself could find 
 much adventure on our well-policed English 
 roads. When it does come, it is of too 
 vulgar a sort to be pleasant.
 
 298 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 To walk through England is delightful : 
 the man who can take a month to do his 
 devious twenty miles a-day Avill get more 
 enjoyment than the traveller who rushes to 
 look for Prester John and the Troglodytes 
 during his brief holiday. Eagerness to 
 traverse great distances and see strange 
 places is a symptom of that anxiety to escape 
 from oneself — the inseparable companion 
 one most hates — which Lucretius describes. 
 The pessimist must, logically, hate himself, 
 and wish himself at — say Jericho : but no, 
 Jericho is the City of Flowers, and your 
 pessimist is a weed — mind and matter out 
 of their place. We, being optimist, believe 
 in ourself, and believe that there is no place 
 like England for travel. 
 
 From Doll's House to Copse Hill is 
 seventy miles, and Rough promised to do it 
 in three days. The first day was unevent- 
 ful. The weather was charming : they
 
 SHOOLING. 299- 
 
 found a tolerable village inn at nisjlit, with 
 the customary refreshment of eggs and 
 bacon ; and there were some ancient volumes 
 of novels in the rather stuffy parlour, with 
 which they read themselves into a somno- 
 lent state. Xow and then they burst into 
 laughter as some scene more tenderly or 
 terrifically ridiculous than usual turned up : 
 and then they commonly exchanged vol- 
 umes, and mixed their tales ; so that, as 
 Claudia remarked, it was sometimes im- 
 possible to know what finally happened. 
 Diana, who has a knack at epigram, pen- 
 cilled on a flyleaf — 
 
 " Thanks, volumes dear to servant girls, 
 To ease their brains and twist their curls. 
 You've given us an hour of laughter — 
 I hope no hideous dreams hereafter. 
 Of you we don't at all complain : 
 You sell small beer, and not champagne. 
 "When Ouida, wonder of her sex, 
 Declares her tap is Treble X — 
 When flighty Broughton, flavorous Braddon . . . '*
 
 300 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 At this moment, while Diana was de- 
 ciding whetlier gladden, sadden^ or madden^ 
 was the proper rhyme, in came the servant 
 with bed-room candles. Diana shut the 
 book suddenly, and made an awful smudge. 
 But her inestimable autograph poem, 
 though blurred and unfinished, remains ; 
 and many a wayfarer, solacing himself with 
 bread and cheese and beer and books at 
 the sisfn of the Ho^r and Nutcrackers, will 
 wish that he could see more of the works of 
 so charming a poetess. 
 
 To-morrow morning. Eggs and bacon 
 again. Such food becomes monotonous. 
 On, therefore — with certainty that, if it be 
 eggs and bacon all this day also, the next 
 will bring Copse Hill and rumpsteak, — 
 possibly oysters. The sisters pass through 
 the loveliest city in the world : even Rough 
 feels poetical as he sees the wondrous towers 
 and spires unparagoned, and climbs
 
 snooLiNG. 301 
 
 " The streamlike -svindiiigs of the glorious street." 
 
 But here they stay not. They have heard 
 of a fascinating wayside inn, four or live 
 miles on, which has a quaint, courteous 
 landlord, a comely and homely landlady, 
 and something to eat beyond the product of 
 the pullet and the pig. Onward they fare, 
 joyously and hungrily (let us not say 
 thirstily, lest we libel ladies), and are think- 
 ing how jolly it will be, when all at once 
 capricious April comes down with a sudden 
 windy deluge of rain that so astonishes 
 Eough as to make him pull up short. 
 
 " This is a judgment on you, Di," said 
 Claudia, "for writing rubbish in that poor 
 man's book. We can't stop there again." 
 
 *'We won't stop here, at any rate," said 
 Diana, flagellating Rough, who had made 
 up his mind that the flood had come a 
 second time, and that the best thing was to 
 stand still and bear it.
 
 302 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 The drenched damsels reached the Courte- 
 nay Arms at last ; — such a poetic hostelry ; 
 an active ostler of evident Irish descent, 
 who understood Rough's idiosyncrasy at a 
 glance ; a rudely landlord, who took a father- 
 ly interest in the young ladies, and brought 
 them at once into a room where a grand 
 fire was burning, as if expectant of two 
 girls who wanted to be dried ; best of all, 
 the kindliest and most humorous of land- 
 ladies, a little woman in old-fashioned 
 costume, who made them change their 
 clothes with a pleasant despotism, and ask- 
 ed them what the}^ would like for dinner. 
 
 "Anything but eggs and bacon," said 
 Claudia promptly. 
 
 " Eggs and bacon are very nice," said the 
 little old landkidy, " supposing the eggs to 
 be well-fed and fresh, and the bacon also 
 well-fed and toasted to a turn. But we can 
 give you something nicer than that. My
 
 SHOOLING. 303 
 
 master was thinking that a trout and a veal 
 cutlet or so and a couple of roast pigeons 
 might suit two young ladies on their travels ; 
 and I've got store of jelly and marmalade 
 and other nice things — my own making, 
 every one of them — that you'll like for 
 dessert." 
 
 " We're in clover," said Diana, when the 
 landlady had left. "We shall have to stop 
 here again. I only hope the}^ w^on't charge 
 us immense prices for this fairy-like dinner. 
 Only fancy, Claudia — trout ! after that ever- 
 lasting bacon and eggs." 
 
 "Yes; and marmalade! I do hope its 
 quince marmalade, made from their own 
 trees. It must be, for the old lady has 
 quite a fruity look about her. I declare I'm 
 very hungry." 
 
 The dinner did not disappoint them. 
 The trout was delicious ; the pigeons were 
 perfect ; the marmalade was quince of Ox-
 
 304 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 fordshire, not orange of Seville. They had 
 as handmaid a bright-eyed neat-handed 
 Phillis, who stared much at them when she 
 got an opportunity, without, as she imagined, 
 being found out. But there were a couple 
 of old mirrors in the room, and, as she knew 
 nothing about angles of incidence and re- 
 flection, they caught sight of her wide mouth 
 and perplexed eyes at intervals, and laughed 
 quietly. And when dessert was on the 
 table — delectable home-made cakes and 
 delicacies — the landlord appeared, and 
 hoped they had dined well, and asked if 
 they would like a glass of perry, made by a 
 brother of his in Herefordshire. 
 
 '' It isn't champagne, ladies, you know — 
 but I like it better ; and the young sparks 
 from college, they like it better ; and I don't 
 see why a good English pear shouldn't give 
 as fine a drink as a foreigneering grape." 
 
 With which prologue he opened the spark-
 
 SHOOLING. 305 
 
 ling fluid ; and Diana and Claudia enjoyed the 
 same beverage which delighted Coningsby 
 and Sidonia in merry Sherwood. Certes, 
 perry is a glorious drink, and I am surprised 
 that Englishmen, who will swallow hideous 
 nastiness because it is labelled champagne, 
 will not touch the wines made from native 
 fruits. Happy is that man who can enjoy 
 good cider. 
 
 The Courtenay Arms gave our shoolers a 
 cup of tea. Then, as they sat by the wel- 
 come fire, wondering what weather it would 
 be to-morrow, Claudia said, 
 
 ^' I am willing to bet there is not a novel 
 in this hostelry/' 
 
 *^ I should think not," replied Diana. " I 
 wonder what there is. Heighho ! I am too 
 lazy to look." 
 
 She leant back in her chair, her bright 
 hair rippling over fair shoulders, and looked 
 a picture of laziness. Dark-haired Claudia 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 was quite as bad. They did not hunt for 
 books that night. 
 
 The fire burned warm and red, enjoyable 
 in a damp midnight of April. Diana and 
 Claudia were in happy reverie, now and 
 then broken by a word or two of chat. At 
 length one said, 
 
 *' Let's go to bed." 
 
 And the other replied, 
 
 '^ Let's " 
 
 At that very rnoment they heard six 
 shots fired with the utmost rapidity. They 
 started up from their chairs. All the horrors 
 they had ever read in their youth of 
 dreadful murders in mysterious inns curdled 
 their young blood. They had not energy 
 enough to rush into each other's arms for 
 mutual protection. While undecided whether 
 to faint or ring the bell, the door opened, 
 and there entered a light young man in a 
 light overcoat, with a light and airy way 
 about him, the landlord following.
 
 SHOOLING. 307 
 
 " I have only just heard," the light young 
 man said, ''that I may have alarmed 
 you, ladies. I was surrounded by a gang of 
 tramps, who tried to rob me. I always carry 
 weapons, so I fired a revolver in the air, and 
 off they ran. I trust you were not much 
 startled." 
 
 " We were in search of adventures," said 
 Claudia. 
 
 ^' And I was in search of Balliol College, 
 where I am offered a philosophical bed," he 
 rejoined. ^' But this is too comfortable a 
 corner to quit — the translator of Plato shall 
 wait for me, and I'll sleep in mine host's 
 hay-loft if beds are scarce." 
 
 The girls were very happy to have so 
 jolly a comrade unexpectedly. The land- 
 lord found him a succulent supper, and he 
 drank the perry most joyously. 
 
 "I am an unfortunate man," he said, eat- 
 ing his impromptu supper as if he were not
 
 308 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 at all unfortunate ; " I can't go anywhere 
 without an adventure. From the very first 
 day of my existence, when my infant scream 
 caused the apprehension of a burglar, I 
 have had no day without an extraordinary 
 incident of some sort. Nobody but I, walk- 
 ing to Oxford to listen to metaphysics, 
 would have been driven by a gang of 
 tramps into happy converse with two charm- 
 ing ladies. This is a day to be marked with 
 white chalk." 
 
 " You always have adventures ?" said 
 Diana. 
 
 ''Always. Generally, good comes of 
 them. I have detected several scoundrels, 
 and made two or three people happy. I 
 fancy there is some electricity in me which 
 bring events to a point — crystalHzes them, 
 one may say. But how confoundedly I talk 
 about myself ! Do you ladies meet with no 
 adventures ?"
 
 SHOOLING. 309 
 
 ''Nothing worse than rain," said Diana. 
 " We are shooling : do 3^ou know what that 
 means ?" 
 
 "• Of course I do ; looking in upon your 
 friends as you zigzag through the world. 
 Awful fun. So you are doing it now? 
 Where next, if it is not wicked to ask ?" 
 
 '' Copse Hill—Mr. Frowde's," said Claudia. 
 
 " Frowde ! By Jove, is his place so 
 near ? I want to see him about a literary 
 matter. Are you going to spend Easter 
 there? Tell him I'll come in a day or two." 
 
 " Who shall we tell him will come," said 
 Diana. 
 
 " Oh ! I'm nobody. Tell him Tix will 
 come. You pass through Bix on your way. 
 ''Don't confuse them. You'll not mind 
 carrying a Bohemian message to the ex- 
 Kins^ of Bohemia?" 
 
 " I shall remember," said Claudia ; " Tix 
 will come. If Tix breaks his promise he
 
 310 THE VILLAGE COMEDY. 
 
 will forfeit all pretension to chivalry." 
 The light young patrician rose, and wish- 
 ed them good night, saying to Claudia with 
 a smile : 
 
 ''You can read character." 
 Next day was radiant. They saw nothing 
 of their overnight acquaintance. The land- 
 lord and lady of the Courtenay Arms started 
 them with great glee : all the idlers of the 
 villaj^^ecame to see them mount their do2j-cart. 
 A pleasant road, and, to the delight of 
 Rough, chiefly down hill. They passed 
 through a village with a famous church, 
 which was a city and the centre of a great 
 bishopric a thousand years ago ; they ate 
 mutton chops at an inn eight hundred feet 
 above the sea level, which is somethincj to 
 boast of when you are not near the Alps ; 
 they w^ent down hill, through avenues of fir, 
 till they reached the most ancient town in 
 the county, situated on a delightful reach of
 
 SHOOLING. 311 
 
 the Thames, and then it was but six miles 
 to Copse Hill. There they arrived, without 
 accident or adventure or sliower, just long 
 enough before dinner to put themselves in 
 perfect order. 
 
 *' There is no particular news," said Manly 
 Frowde, when they sat down to dinner, 
 " Your mamma has gone ; the new vicar 
 has arrived, and seems a very good fellow ; 
 Jack Sebright has not yet made up his mind 
 about anything ; the new people at your old 
 place are pleasantly mysterious." 
 
 ''And everybody still gossips," said Mrs. 
 Frowde. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON ; PRINTED BY DUNCAN ilACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
 
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