LIE) RA R.Y OF THE U N IVLR51TY Of ILLI N015 823 C 5792c V. I CRUEL FORTUNE VOL. I CEUEL FOETUNE BY ELLEN C. CLAYTON AUTHOR OF QUEENS OF SONG," "NOTABLE WOMEN," '' MISS MILLY MOSS' ETC IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. I LONDON JOHN MAXWELL AND COMPANY 122, FLEET STREET MDCCCLXV lAU rights reserved] 8^^ V.2 v; THIS STORY IS DEDICATED TO SADIE AS A TOKEN OP LOVE CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAP. PAGH I. THE BEGINNING OF THE END 1 II. FARLEY SUSTAINS A MISFORTUNE , ; . . . 10 III. Raymond's home 22 IV. GUY atherley 35 V. LADY BOUNTIFUL, EN AMATEUR 62 VL VAL WANDERS INTO FAIRYLAND 81 VIL LADY CHARRTNGTON MAKES A PROPOSITION . 100 VIII. LUCY GIVES HER OPINION 110 IX. POOR LITTLE VAL 117 X. POETRY AND PROSE 131 XI. "TWIST YE, TWINE YE, EVEN SO" .... 139 XII. LINKS 149 XIIL " TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL !" . . 158 XIV. SIX YEARS 165 \ni C02sTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XV. SUDDEN CHANGE 180 XVI. ROSE ATHERLEY 192 XVII. VAL TRIES TO LEARN HER OWN HISTORY . .221 XVIII. VAL FANCIES SHE DISCOVERS A CLUE . . .239 XIX. ANN heath's COTTAGE 256 XX. LADY CHARRINGTON TAKES A DRIVE . . .268 XXL THE LETTER WRITTEN BY "ANGELA" . . . 282 XXII. CAPTAIN VERNER '. . . .296 ^ CRUEL FORTUNE CHAPTER I. THE BEGINNING OF THE END. A SELECT circle of admirers had collected in tlie summer twilight to listen to the harp and cornet players who had stopped before the " Crown," opposite Aldridge's, in St. Martin's Lane. There was a choice assemblage of little boys and little girls ; one long scraggy maid of fourteen, carrying an infinitesimal baby ; a very short boy staggering under the weight of a fat infant ; a brewer's drayman, lounging against the wall; a butcher boy, a loitering police- man, a printer's devil, one or two tattered women, with two or three nondescripts — who had gathered to hearken to the then popular strains of "The Ivy Green" and "Woodman, Spare that Tree." The harpist was the more remarkable man of the two performers. He was tall, about VOL. I. 1 2 CRUEL FORTUNE. five- and- thirty years of age, with a noble, well- marked face, though all fire seemed quenched by the iron pressure of poverty, drudgery, and constant hardship. His hands were delicate in form, yet much injured by exposure to all kinds of weather. His dress was shabby in the extreme. An old brown coat hung loosely round his spare figure, while a battered hat shaded his careworn features ; his boots were large, ill-shaped, and unpolished, and there was a forlorn seediness about his entire ap- pearance which betrayed the utmost poverty. Yet there was a certain grace pervading every gesture and action, which betokened the in- fluence of now bygone " better days." The cornet-player was a man of a totally different aspect, in every respect the opposite to his comrade. He was short and thick-set, he had a jaunty, half- tipsy air, and a vulgar, defiant manner. He had an indescribably un- pleasant way of swaggering, laughing coarsel}', bandying low jokes with the crowd, and in his slightest movements jarred on the nerves. In point of dress he had the advantage of his friend ; though a slovenly dirtiness was, to a great extent, the distinguishing feature of his toilette. CRUEL FORTUNE. S At the conclusion of the third air — '' The Light of Other Days" — the cornet-player shook the mouthpiece of his instrument ve- hemently; then drawing from his pocket a disreputable blue bird's-eye handkerchief, therewith mped the beads of moisture from his forehead^ and mopped his throat and neck. "By Jove!" said he, mth a grimace and a long-drawn grunt, "by jingo, but this day has been a stinger. 0, Lord, but I'm hot ! 'Pon my soul, I'm as thirsty as if I'd swal- lowed a lime-kiln ; I'm bio wed if I aren't as dry as the Epsom Road of a Derby Day, or the pick and choice of old Thingembob's jokes. I can't stand this any longer, Raymond. By George, I'm hanged if I can or do either, by jingo !" With these words, he darted into the "Crown," and disappeared. The harpist re- mained outside, twanging the strings or play- ing chords. That portion of the crowd which consisted of persons who had anything to do, went on, while the little boys and the idle girls, and one or two lazy women, stayed for the second part of the programme. As the harpist was going through his solo performance, a carriage came dashing at a 1—2 4 CRUEL FORTUNE. headlong pace down the street. The horses had become unmanageable from sudden fright, and the coachman was in vain essaying to rein them in or make them obey his hand, for he had entirely lost his control. As the vehicle came flying along, a shrill scream rang out. It was uttered by a woman, who waved her arms with an aspect of the wildest terror. Raymond, as his companion had called him, looked up, and following the glance of her distended eyes, beheld a chubby urchin of three or four years running distract- edly^ in the middle of the street. The coach- man was unaware of the proximity of the child, and even had he known of the danger, he would have been unable to check the horses. The harpist, without a moment's hesitation, sprang forward. It was a perilous attempt, for the animals were rearinc: and pluno-ino: fear- fully. The occupant of the carriage stretched his head from the window, but he was inca- pable of rescuing either himself or others. Raymond darted on the child, and seized it with a firm grasp; but just as he was reco- vering his balance, one of the horses plunged forward. Quick as lightning, Raymond caught CRUEL FORTUNE. 5 the rein, and pushed the creature back; then, with a bound, he gained the pavement, and placed the child in the arms of its mother. The whole scene passed in an instant, yet every one felt as if it had taken an hour. The poor mother clasped her boy to her breast with an incoherent outburst of grate- ful thanks to the brave man who had rescued him; then, with a few indistinct muttered words of blessing, she disappeared. The horses, probably thinking it would not be worth while to continue playing pranks when there was no longer any chance of in- juring anybody, suddenly calmed. As they quieted, Eaymond grew pale as death, reeled, and fell into the arms of a policeman, who had been watching the scene. A crowd gathered magically; reinforcements running up from Long Acre, Little St. Andrew Street, Cran- bourn Street, and the various abutting regions. In a moment, all was confusion. The cornet-player emerged from the public- house as his companion fell. " Hilloa, hilloa ! what's the row, my covey?" he exclaimed, pushing towards his friend and elbowing the bystanders aside. The gentleman who was in the carriage, 6 CRUEL FORTUNE. seeing the man fall, opened the door and sprang out. He was a tall, handsome man of about sixty — the beau-ideal of an English nobleman — with the lofty, gracious bearing of one of gentle birth and breeding. "Is he much hurt?" he asked, making his way through the knot of idlers and curious gazers, every one yielding instinctively to his commanding step. " I don't know, sir, I'm sure," answered the policeman, on whose knee the head of the in- sensible man lay. "He looks like it, though, uncommon, I must say." " He must be taken to the hospital, for he looks as if he were dying," said the gentle- man. " A cab ! There is none in sight, and ten minutes' delay may be worth as much as the man's life. What is to be done?" "Well, sure enough, he does seem badly hurt," observed the policeman. "He must be taken to St. George's. Don't you be uneasy, sir ; bless you, these things happen every day a'most — so much the worse, to be sure. He doesn't seem inclined to hopen his heyes — that's what I look to, you see. Stand off, some of you. Do you want to smother the man : CRUEL FORTUNE. 7 " Brandy — that's the thing," interposed the cornet-player, with the air of a man who knows what he is talking about. "Why, there ain't nothing like brandy, by jingo !" The gentleman hastily gave him a shilling, and he darted once more into the " Crown," re- appearing in a second with a glass of brandy, and followed by the landlord and several persons. The cornet-player knelt down, and opening his comrade's mouth, poured some drops of the liquid between his lips. In a few moments the eyelids of the harpist unclosed. He stared vacantly around him; then, raising himself on his elbow, he seemed to be endeavouring to recollect what had happened. " Well, how are you, old chap? How do you feel, eh?'' demanded the cornet-player, affec- tionately. " Yes — I remember, Farley — I wrenched my arm. Let me get up," muttered Eaymond. The policeman assisted him to rise. The gentleman anxiously inquired how he felt. Raymond assured him that he did not experience any ill effects from the accident. " I think I got a turn at the danger to the child," added he. " I feel all right now." 8 CRUEL FORTUNE. *' I am afraid you have been hurt," said the gentleman, watching his unsteady movements. " I ought to make you some recompense for your bravery, especially as I was, however innocently, the cause of the mishap, and as I in all probability owe my safety to you." He drew out his pocket-book and opened it, but glancing at Raymond, he saw an expres- sion on the face of the poor street musician that made him hastily open the compartment which, instead of gold or notes, contained merely his cards of address. " If you find that your arm has been in- jured even temporarily, — if you are disabled from work, you will apply to me, and I will not fail to help you. I am going to Scotland now, but I shall hear of your application, if you require my assistance," he said, giving him a card. Eaymond took it, and bowed his head in token of gratitude. He glanced at the inscrip- tion on the card, which was " The Earl of Charrington, — Carlton-house Terrace." Then Lord Charrington stepped into his carriage and was whirled away. The crowd, however, was not so eager to depart. The little group of idlers felt more CRUEL FORTUNE. 9 indignant than otherwise when they observed the two musicians prepare to move on, and fancied they were being defrauded of the best portion of the evening's entertainment. " Oh, I'm all right," said the harpist, some- what impatiently, in answer to the irritating inquiries which besieged him. " Come, Farley, let's be moving." He nodded to the policeman, and to those of the loiterers who had helped him ; then took up his harp, and walked away, accompanied by the cornet-player. '^ My arm certainly feels stiff," he remarked, as they walked up Bloomsbury- street, " but it doesn't pain much, luckily." " You may well say luckily," answered Farley. " I say, I hope it will be all right in a day or two. 'Twould be a deuce of a job, you know, if you were knocked up and couldn't play — uncommon hockerd — both for you and for me — but especially for you, you know." Raymond shuddered, and hurriedly changed the subject. They went on their accustomed round without recurring to his accident, and it was, as usual, late at night when the pair turned their steps towards their respective domiciles — one to the Blackfriars-road, the other to Drury-lane. 10 CHAPTER II. FARLEY SUSTAINS A MISFORTUNE. Farley, the cornet-player, was walking along Holborn, alone, and with a somewhat discon- solate air, his hands in his pockets, and without his favourite instrument. He was stepping briskly across a turning, when a man abruptly ran against him. " Hallo ! where the dickens are you driving? Oh ! it's you, is it ?" he exclaimed, having pre- pared to heartily abuse the incautious pedes- trian, but being disarmed on recognising an old friend. " Why the deuce couldn't you send word you was coming, and not go and pitch me into the middle of next week in this style? What are you up to this fine morning, eh? No good, ril be bound. What's your little game? Give us your fist, old boy! I'm uncommon glad to see you, tliough you CKUEL FORTUNE. 11 did nearly knock the wind out of me, l)y jingo !" " What are you after?" demanded the other, accej^ting the proffered hand, with a friendly air. ^' Where are you off to now? I thought you were gener'ly attending business about this time?" '^ Bother it, yes," responded Farley, in a vexed tone. '^ Why, the fact of the matter is — but, blow it, 'tis a long story, and it's dry work talking. Have a drain ?" '' Well, I don't mind if I do," answered his friend. He was a tall, seedy-looking indivi- dual, with bushy red whiskers, and a lurking, suspicious glance, as if he feared in each lamp- post an officer of some kind or another. At the same time, he evidently desired to assume what he considered to be a military air and manner, for he swaggered defiantly, cocked his hat over his eye, and switched about him with a little cane, as if to delude the passers- by into the idea that he forgot for the moment that it was not a sword. Farley pushed open the door of the "Goat and Compasses" and went in, followed by his friend. ''Well, what's it to be, old boy?" he asked, carelessly. 12 CRUEL FORTUNE. " Well, I don't think we can do better than a drain of Old Tom," was the answer. " Carry, my hangel ! a quartern of Old Tom and two glasses," said Farley, in a jaunty yet insinuating tone to the barmaid, as he threw the necessary funds on the shining lead surface of the bar. The Hebe of the " Goat and Compasses" was a very smart young party, with exceedingly black eyes and wonderfully red lips. At the moment when Farley and his friend entered, she was eno^a^^ed in a most interestino^ flirta- tion with two dissipated-looking, elaborately dressed young fellows — probably law-students from Gray's Inn — who were lounging over a mid-day libation of bitter ale. She was evi- dently greatly chagrined on being thus cava- lierly addressed by the vulgar man in the shabby suit, but she did not betray her vexa- tion, merely placing the required glasses before him, and resuming her animated conversation as if nothing had occurred to interrupt it. "A friend of yours, Carry?" inquired the younger " swell," confidentially, as he knocked the ash off his cisrar. "The idea!" Carry tossed her head, and with a disdainful glance turned her back on CRUEL FORTUNE. 13 the two objectionable customers at the lower end of the bar. " Don't be ridiculous," she said, with a little short dry laugh, as if the joke had been a very pungent one. ''Well, you were going to tell me?" said Farley's friend, settling himself comfortably in a corner, on an empty barrel. " To be sure — of course. You want to know why I'm strolling about for my own private diversion on this particular occasion, instead of going to my office like any other gent, and reading over my morning's correspondience ? Keckonin I'm 'avin' an 'olliday, eh? But you're clean out, and no mistake — never was further from the real truth of the case in your life before, though you're a smart chap, generally speakin'. The fact is, Braxford, the firm of Farley, Raymond, and Co. — there isn't any Co., you understand, but that makes no difference, and it sounds better — the firm has dissolved for the present, and my partner has been obliged to retire for a time into the seclu- sion of private life.'' "Into private life!" echoed Braxford, in a significant tone, and with a peculiar flash of the eye. " Then you mean he has to " "Lord bless you, is it Raymond? Is it 14 CRUEL FORTUNE. that proud chap? He that is such a stuck-up fellow, and goes on as if he was the heir to a title and ten thousand a year, only kep out by the right owner — he never puts himself in the way of being County-Courted, not he — always does everything on the square — is as ignerrant as a three-year-old of the meaning of a judg- ment summons. But, mind 3^ou, I don't say so to disparage him — not I, by George ! I like him. He's a jolly good fellow, with no hum- bug about him — gold all through, as sure as my name's Tom Farley. He certainly isn't one to stand a drain, or that sort of thing; and he very often turns up his nose at a joke, if it touches on anything he don't choose to have laughed at, and looks as solemn as a judge if one hints at going on the booze once in a way, or so on ; but what the dickens, a man can't be everything, barrin' he was a chammylion ; and then he's married, poor devil, you know — and of course a fellow must keep himself quiet when he's got a family, and give up all his larks — of course, it's to be ex- pected. However, where was I? Oh, yes — to be brief, as the swell in the play says — Ray- mond, poor fellow, has met with a accident, which lays him up." CRUEL FORTUNE. 15 "How Avas that?" inquired Braxford, ob- serving that he paused. " Well, the long and the short of it is, that, some six weeks ago — let's see, this is " '^ August — the fourth." ^' Ah, yes, to be sure — -just six weeks ago, we was playin' in St. Martin's-lane, just out- side the ' Crown' — you know that public, they keep stunning good brandy there — but that's by the way. However, we was playin' there, when a coach comes dashing along, like I don't know what, and nearly demolishes a child. Eaymond, who is gener'ly so quiet, you know — I should never have dreamt of his tearin' about him in such a style — what must Kaymond do, by jingo, but make a rush at the two infuriated quadrupeds, and stop them." " Rather a dangerous experiment," observed Braxford, sipping from his glass. '' Rather. I was in the public at the mo- ment, looking after my own affairs, as an honest-minded Christian might, and which is nothing to nobody. When I came out, what should I see but Raymond lying as flat as a flounder, as dead as a fluke, and as white — ay — ay, as white as anything, in the arms of a crusher. You may just imagine my feelins 16 CRUEL FORTUNE. at that critical moment. His face was as white — as anything you like, and it was only after nearly soaking him in brandy that we could get him to so much as open his eyes. I really thought it was all over with him. I think I may fairly say that I brought him through." " Then/' remarked his friend, " he had been run over, I suppose?" "No, no," answered Farley, "he strained his arm some way, I don't know how; he didn't feel it much at first, for a week or so, but after a while his arm grew so stiff he couldn't carry his harp, or even pull the strings with his left hand. I don't know whether I mentioned it was his left arm that he hurt ? Poor devil, it's a terrible alFair for him, for he has a lot of young 'uns, which is a lamentable thing under the present circum- stances, or, for the matter of that," he added, with a philosophical air, " under any circum- stances ! And then to be reglarly knocked up like this. Hang it, it's hard lines for a fellow, I'm blowed if it isn't." " Then how does he manage to carry on?" asked Braxford. " 0, goodness only knows ! He writes most CRUEL FORTUNE. 17 beautifully, and that has stood his friend to a certain extent in this unfortunate concatenation of affairs, for Thingemy and What's-a-name, inEegent-street, who used to give him odd jobs now and again, have helped him a little. They gave him some music to copy for military bands and such like, and they sent him for a little w^hile to the British Museum to ^vrite out old chants and things from the manuscripts there, for Lord Somebody, who's making a collection of some old rubbish or other. I believe they knew him when he was a swell — for I really do believe myself he was a swell at some time or other. But, by Jove, w^hen one has a family to support, odd jobs are very little use, and it's no joke to make a Saturday. What's a few shillins when one has a parcel of babbies squalling for grub, and not so much as a loaf of bread in the cupboard ? 'Pon my life, now, it does make a man feel like I don't know what." " Truly," reflectively observed Braxford, who had finished his glass, " I'm sorry for hhn. I didn't know much of him, to be sure ; but, from what I have seen, he seems a well- enough sort of fellow. I suppose he has come down on you, though, for a trifle to help him over this little difficulty ?" VOL. I. 2 18 CRUEL FORTUNE. Farley hastily swallowed the last contents of his glass, and then coughed violently, to smother an embarrassment which he could not hide. " What the deuce ! " he then said ; " how is a fellow to lend what he hasn't got, I should like to know ? To take nothing from nothing is a problem that even the wise men out of the East couldn't be expected to solve, letting alone that other cove that used to do the riddles and questions one finds in the 'rithmetic books." " That's true enough," responded Braxford, in a philosophical tone. '^ It isn't so jolly easy to find the needful for one's self,", added Farley, " particlarly when one has an old woman of one's own to keep ; and as for giving another chap a leg, when he's got a lot of children, and a wife into the bargain — well, I'm uncommon sorry for him, and all that ; but it's morally impossible. What can I do ? I have been to see him only once, too, I'm ashamed to say ; but what's a fellow to do ? Now% I put it to you, as a reasonable man, who knows something of the ways of the world, where is the good of going to see a poor devil, and being made to feel miserable, when you can't do nothing for him, and particlarly when one hasn't much time, beino:, as I might CRUEL FORTUNE. 19 say, a business man, with affairs to attend to ? You know it isn't easy to manage all this, by Jupiter! Now, is it ?" He spoke as if vehemently defending himself from some unjust charge or accusation. " But," inquired Braxford, who was prepar- ing to depart, and had commenced elaborately polishing his elbow on the lead-covered bar, "what will he do if he doesn't get over this little— this little difficulty ?" "0, it isn't so serious as to keep him from business for more than a few weeks at most. The only thing is that, perhaps, he and all his young 'uns may be starved to death before he can go out again ; for people can't very well do without eating for seven or eight weeks, you know. I really must go in a day or two to see how he is getting on. I pity him from my soul, I'm sure ; but pity's rather thin fare to hungry folks, by George ! " " Then how have you been getting on with- out him?" '' Deuced badly, I can tell you, and no mis- take — and that's what has brought me out this morning. I took up with a young chap named Colton — the biggest blackguard you ever came across in your life," answered Farley, in a tone 2—2 20 CRUEL FORTUNE. of mingled vexation and disgust. "I really couldn't stand him more than a week or so — though, for the matter of that, he couldn't me either, and only saved me the trouble of kicking up a shindy with him by giving me the sack, as I might say. So I'm now going to look after another fellow — a sort of a fiddler, who, I'm told, is a steady-going man, with no non- sense about him. I can't abide your low drunken humbugs, that can't see a public but theymustbe rushing in, and think of nothingbut lush, lush, lush the live-long day, and are never anything but half muzzy. It does aggravate me to that extent, you've no idea. Now that's what I liked about Raymond. Ah, he ivas a chap! Well, you're off?" " Going my way ?" demanded his friend, as they prepared to leave. " How the dickens can I tell which way you are going? City-ways or west- wards ?'' 'Tm going towards the New Road," an- swered Braxford, with a significant wink and a dry laugh. "Just going on a little law business — not on my own account, you under- stand, but for somebody who would be just as much obliged to me for letting it alone. It is CRUEL FORTUNE. 21 a neat alFair, and has cost me a good deal of trouble." "But these things had best be kept dark, sometimes," said Farley, with a slight answer- ing laugh, seeing he hesitated. '' It's best not to be too inquisitive on these occasions. I hope you'll find the gent at home, ready to receive the invitation of his sovereign, like a loyal subject. I'm going in the other direction. Good-bye !" " Well, good-bye," responded Braxford, offering a large hand encased in a still larger Berlin glove of dubious hue. " See you some time during the week. The old lady, your maternal parient, is all right, I suppose ?" '' Blooming, thank you," replied Farley. " And the missus — well, I hope ?" " First rate," said Braxford, w^ith a good-bye nod. And they parted, each going his way. 22 CHAPTER III. kaymond's home. It was a raAV, cold, disagreeable August morn- ing, very unlike the generality of August mornings. The sky was overcast with dark gray uncompromising clouds, with a ray or two penetrating, like a sly smile, here and there. There was a heaviness over the atmosphere, a mist hanging over everything, as if it were October or November. Everybody seemed ill-humoured, and either trotted along, looking neither to the right nor to the left, or stepped briskly, affecting a gaiety they were very far from feeling. Turning down a dull, old, shabby-looking street, which diverges from the Blackfriars Road, we find ourselves opposite to a queer, dirty, tumble-down house. It has an aspect the reverse of inviting. It speaks of miserable CRUEL FORTUNE. 23 dinners, of blighted hopes, of decayed fortunes, and bHnks with a bleared and languid rather than a despairing gaze at the wall facing it, which has a remarkably ugly physiognomy, all broken out into an irregular, poverty- stricken eruption of yellowish bills and posters. The windows are grimy, for there is apparently no object in cleaning what is neither looked at nor through, for as no stranger ever passes down the street, of course there is nobody either to stare or be stared at. There are children playing, though they create none of that uproar of noisy mirth ordi- narily noticeable in a group of little ones at play. Stumbling upstairs, on pausing at the top, the way is barred by a singularly dingy door, behind which voices may be heard, neither sweet nor pleasant in their tones. A female is speaking in a querulous, vexed accent above the rest. ''Don't keep plaguing me. My goodness^ can't you keep quiet for once in your lives ? I never get a moment's peace with the pack of you — troublesome brats that you are. Go and play." A whimpering responds to this latter in- 24 CRUEL FORTUNE. junction. Then a pretty childish voice says pitifully — "But we are so hungry, mother dear." " Well, if your father brings home anything, you shall have some dinner. And if he doesn't, you must go without, that's all — there," an- swers the female, crossly. " We had no dinner yesterday," says a boy, in an under-tone. " Don't bother me. You worry my life out, you plaguy set, and I so ill. Here's a piece of bread to divide. Go and play." And the door oj)ening, four or five little children are huddled out and down stairs. Taking the opportunity of entering, we behold a poor, shabby room, with a square deal table before the window, a few broken chairs, a bit of tattered carpet on the floor, and a harp standing in one corner. The mother of the starving little family is sitting in a chair, her head leaning on her left hand, which is supported by the elbow resting on the table. Her figure is thin, her face hag- gard, her dress tasteless and wretched and slatternly. The expression of her visage is repellant in the extreme. Talk of old age lining the face with wrinkles, or sorrow de- CRUEL FORTUNE. 25 stroying beauty and freshness. I will back, a thousand to one, ill-temper agamst either, for domg the work of both in half the time. Age will often give a majesty, a grace which sometimes amply atones for the loss of youth, sorrow may lend a dignity which will forbid criticism on its otherwise fatal eifects; but Ill-Temper, ye gods ! what havoc, what ^vrinkles, what scars — ineffaceable, irremedia- ble — not to be subdued by any amount of Kalydor or Circassian cream — does it nojb plough! How it runs telegraphic lines of crossness between the forehead and nose ! How it drags down the corners of the pret- tiest mouth, and takes the light from the most lustrous eyes! Verily, it is the evil genius which transforms the finest young prince into a Beast, and converts the loveliest belle into a Troutilla. This woman, who is in reality about thirty, but who looks ten years older, remains for a long time in the attitude of lazy discontent into which she had dropped on huddhng the children out of the room. She was ill and cross, and determined to conceal neither ail- ment. Yet she had been once pretty, coquet- tish, wheedling, with eyes like twin stars, a 26 CRUEL FORTUNE. voice like music, and a hand and arm which a duchess or a painter's model might have envied. Raising her eyes, which had been bent on the ground, she looked out of the window, and up at the patch of dingy sky above, which seemed gathering its strength for a down-pour of rain which should last the whole day and night. " Just fifteen years," she muttered, savagely, ''just fifteen years to-day since our marriage. A pretty anniversary ! Cursed be the hour when I took him instead of his brother Guy ! But how was I to know that he was such a poor spiritless creature ? And to think that I might have had my carriage and servants, and a grand house, instead of being buried here, dying inch by inch of hunger, married to a fool who can't get bread for himself, much less for me. I hate him. And then to think of that day when I was taking in that score which he got to copy — and for which he was paid six shillings, forsooth ! — when I was going into the shop, being hustled aside by his wife, in her silks and laces, and her servant opening the door of her carriage, with its luxurious pink silk squabs and lolling little dog, which probably eats more in a day than I or my CRUEL FORTUNE. 27 children get in a week. What a proud detest- able woman ! I loathed her from that moment. And that insolent music-seller, all smiles to her — of course; all impertinence to me — of course. 0, of course. For was not I a poor famished-looking, shabbily-dressed creature, whose husband was existing on what was almost charity, while she was puffed up with eating, and pleasure, and pride? Suppose he does bring home anything to-day — what then ? Why, she would throw the sum to a dealer in flowers for a bouquet to carry to a concert, and think nothing of it. Why am I picked out to be so Avretched, so forlorn, so cast out from all hope, while others flaunt gaily and insolently past me, and triumph, it may be, in my misery ? Oh, what a life, what a life !" She struck her hands violently together, and pressed them closely, while an expression of mingled rage, sickness, hatred, and despair crossed her face. Incipient fever seemed coursing through her veins. At length she laid her arms across the table, and leaned her head on them. For some time she remained thus; then the door opened softly, and a man appeared on 28 CRUEL FORTUNE. the threshold. It was Raymond, the street harpist. He stopped on seeing the attitude of his wife, and then stole towards her with sedulous caution. On reaching her, he peered gently down, to ascertain if she was asleep. ''Well?" she said, turning round her face with that abruptness which startles us so much Avhen we imagine that a person is sleeping. " My poor darling !" said the harpist. He drew over one of the ricketty chairs, and sitting down beside her, attempted to take her hand. " Unsuccessful again, I suppose?" resumed his wife, lifting her arms heavily from the table. A look of deprecation was the response, as if poor Raymond dared not venture to speak; but his apparent emotion only seemed to inspire his wife with rage. " Always, always, always," she cried, raising her arras above her head, and clasping her hands as if she wanted to drive the nails into the flesh. " No matter. It will not take much longer for us to starve, and then we shall be gone. 0, what a life of wretchedness ! 0, what despair: 0, what slow-consuming CRUEL FORTUNE. 29 agony and madness ! Day after day " She began walking to and fro, in an unsteady, irritating way. Eaymond rose, and going towards lier, tried to take lier in his arms and press her to his heart. " My poor darling!" he said. "Let me go," she exclaimed, shaking him off enragedly. " What is the use of nonsense like that ? It's all very well to look sorry and uncomfortable. Of course I know you are very sorry and uncomfortable ; it's not very likely you'd be glad. But what good does your being sorry do, when you can't g^i work to do, and when your hand is still too weak to play? Let me alone. I am very well as I am. I am hungry, sick, and ^vretched. I am dying, so no matter. You will not have me much longer to keep you in a worry. So much the better for you. 0, how I wisii " She paused abruptly, as if frightened at what she was about to say. Her husband sat down on the chair from which he had risen, and leaning his head on his open hands, seemed to reflect. For seve- ral minutes a deathly silence reigned in the sordid chamber, and then the noise of patter- ing feet was heard. The door was burst open 30 CRUEL FORTUNE. in the abrupt, unceremonious fashion peculiar to children who are not taught anything in particular ; and the troop which had been dis- missed half-an-hour previously, came in tum- bling and scrambling. "May we have our dinner now, mother?" demanded the leader, a bright, strong-looking boy of eleven. His mother turned away, and the children began attacking their father, who had raised his head on hearing their approach. ^' Hush, poor papa is ill," said one little girl, who could never learn to say ''father," having heen used to the more genteel appellation of "papa" before they came to live in this squalid neighbourhood. " His poor head feels so hot — 0, so hot !" she added, putting her arms round his neck, and passing her small, dewy fingers over his temples. She was about eight years old — fair, round, in spite of the hunger from which she had suffered during the last few weeks, and had long, tangled, curly, silken locks floating over her shoulders, and large lustrous black eyes, — the kind of eyes which, as unsophisticated people say, " almost make you cry to look at them" — dark, profound, expressive orbs. She CRUEL FORTUNE. 31 was her father's pet, and her sympathy seemed to touch hhn nearly. " You want your dinner, my lamb, my poor little Val," he said, squeezing her in his arms, and gazing fixedly into her fathomless eyes — and the tone of his voice was ineffably sad. Val shook her head, but she did not like to utter an untruth. She scorned "telling stories," because she thought it was cowardly, and because she knew her papa held in supreme contempt people who did not tell the truth. She loved her papa, but she did not care much about her mother, who did not mind so much adhering strictly and sternly to facts, and who was capricious, unjust, and passionate. " You would be glad if some good fairy- came and spread meat and potatoes on the table for us, wouldn't you, Yal my own, my darling, my pretty one?" continued her father, as if trying to make her confess she was hungry. Yal smiled, and displayed a few snow-white teeth and the sproutings of others. But she would not speak, only looking at her father, on whose knee she was perched. " Shall papa go and buy some dinner?" said the poor harpist, with a faint attempt at a 32 CRUEL FORTUNE. sickly smile, as he stroked the soft, peach-like cheek of little Yal. The bewildered child looked at him incredu- lously. She thought at first he was " making fun," but his aspect was so perfectly grave, not to say mournful, that the idea was in- admissible. She could only stare at him in perplexity, therefore, and wonder. The other children crowded round listening in silent amazement to this unexpected jocula- rity, marvelling what possessed their father, usually so serious and loving. But his wife, now sitting again in her discontented attitude, could not find patience to listen. " What absurditv are you talking; to the child?" she demanded, angrily. " What is the use of tormenting her? I daresay she is un- happy enough without being joked in that ridiculous, cold-hearted manner. I haven't common j^atience with you, and I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself." "Say, Val, shall papa go?" said Raymond, without heeding his wife. " Say, my darling, my pet, my owii, my lamb — shall I ?" He pressed her in his arms ver}^ tightly, and did not remove his eves from her innocent ft/ face. CRUEL FORTUNE. 3 o " Say, say quickly, shall papa go and a$k some good fairy to give poor hungry Yal, and her brothers and sisters and poor mamma — who is so ill — to give them all some dinner? I shall say little Val told me to come." Val, who was naturally a gay, jest-loving child, though usually rather grave in her out- ward demeanour, nodded, as if it was a funny game they were playing. '' No, no, say 'Go, papa;' nodding won't do. The fairies might not understand that," said her father, who had some hidden motive for wishing to be sent forth by the voice of his child. " Say, ' Go !' " " But I want you to stay here," said little Yal, who did not seem to appreciate the joke in its proper sense, or to be altogether with- out misgivings as to the reality of the fairean existence. *' You are so often at home noii\ and you used never to stay at home. It is so nice. I don't want you to go. I'd rather have you than dinner," added the unconscious little hypocrite. " Besides, there are no fairies." '' Hold your tongue, George," querulously put in the mother of the little family. " You make my head worse with the noise. I am scarcely able to hold myself up, I am so ill, — VOL. I. 3 34 CRUEL FORTUNE. and then to have this jabbering going on, without end or aim! It is selfish — utterly selfish." " You are only joking, father," said Charley, the eldest boy, looking wistfully at him. " You don't mean really that you could get dinner, do you, father ? you are only saying that to amuse Yal?" His father looked at him sadly. " I can and I will bring you home some food," he said, rising. He pressed Yal pas- sionately to his heart, put her down, and then kissed his other two girls, Nancy and Amy, and his two boys. He snatched up his hat, and was going towards the door when his wife's voice arrested him. " Pray, on what fool's errand are you bent now?" she sneered. " To get food for you and my children," he answered. And, without further remark, going up to her, he took her in his arms, spite of her resistance, and kissed her pale lips. In a moment after, he was gone. 35 CHAPTER IV. GUY ATHERLEY. A FINE, penetrating rain had begun to fall, not violently or heartily, but in a cold, cruel way, giving a thorough drenching. Only those who had urgent business to transact were out, and they wore a crabbed, buttoned-up asj^ect, defying you to extract a kind word from them. Everybody seemed in a combination to torment everybody else. Carts, waggons, and carriages got into inextricable confusion at crowded crossings, just for the purpose of malignantly keeping fuming groups of wet passengers waiting for a chance of rushing across; drenched curs ran between the legs of unhappy stout old gentlemen, when it would have been quite as convenient for them to go on one side; rapidly-gyrating wheels whirled, splashing mud over shabby garments 3—2 36 CRUEL FORTUNE. which could but ill bear additional brushing; umbrellas caught in other umbrellas, and brought cataracts of rain down on hats and bonnets belonging to parties who seemed already quite uncomfortable enough. It was as dark and as foggy as a day late in No- vember, and exercised the most depressing influence on all who ventured out, and even on those who remained at home. Among the latter were the members of a family, sitting at lunch in the back drawing- room of one of the houses in a street off Cavendish-square. The head of the family was a man of some forty years of age — a man who might have been called handsome but for the unpleasant expression of his face. A phy- siognomist might reasonably have arrived at a conclusion that he did not belong to the class who " do spend their days in doing goodly things." He was one of those persons who never seem to look direct at anything, and whose eyes resemble a stagnant pool, casting back no reflection. But if he appeared to see less than others, he amply made up for this peculiarity by seeming to hear more than ordinary people. He never spoke except in short dry sentences, never had, most probably, CRUEL FORTUNE. 6i a confidential conversation with anybody — one of that order of persons who, as well as others can judge, never love honestly and warmly, but seek a wife with the attention one would bestow on looking for an upper servant, or with the view of borrowing a sum of money without incurring the disadvantage of being obliged to return it; the mere fact of consenting to lose their liberty by assuming matrimonial shackles being, in their eyes, suf- ficient recompense for everything. The second personage in this establish- ment — for she was undoubtedly second, despite certain bold efi'orts for a change of dynasty — was Mrs. Atherley, consort of Mr. Atherley, a large, stately, insolent-looking woman. She had a fair share of beauty, set ofi* to the highest advantage by an expensive morning dress, which, at the same time, be- trayed at once extravagance and a disposition to venture a step too near to the edge of the precipice overhanging vulgarity. She was one of those people who never commit any original or spontaneous remark, lest they should afterwards be discovered to have been in error ; and who check any outburst of feel- ing or of thought with an icy " Of course — of 38 CRUEL FORTUNE. course," uttered in that tone which makes the unfortunate recipient of the rebuke feel as though a cup of cold water had been dashed in their face — one of those people who, speak to them on what subject you will, invariably gaze at you with a steady glance, which seems to betoken that they are either wondering how you can talk such rubbish, or how much you paid a yard for the stuff of which your dress is made. The third individual was a still, prim lady, sister to Mrs. Atherley. Thin, stern, imper- turbable, disagreeable, Miss Agnes Cloudesley met the popular idea of an " old maid" com- pletely. She was sharp in speech, she was fond of argument and of nothing else. An impertinent nephew, who had been disap- pointed in his expectations by her sinking her fortune in an annuity, had once said of her that she was " like a quiver full of arrows — not Cupid's arrows, certainly — and a stray quiver, too, for she had never had a beau attached;" the meaning of which absurd observation no- body ever succeeded in conjecturing. She always appeared to imagine that human beings were created for the sole purpose of rendering her life miserable ; and might reasonably have CRUEL FORTUNE. 39 been likened to a modern edition of Egypt, "with a locust-plague of troubles. There was no misfortune which she had not experienced. If you casually mentioned some mishap which had occurred to anybody, it immediately proved a key to unlock a whole Pandora's-box of histories — not historiettes — of mishaps of the like nature, but each much more severe, which had befallen herself. No one was grateful to her for the numerous successive benefits con- ferred by her on them ; no one gave her any credit for the exemplary meekness with which she bore the oppressive burden of her cares and woes. Such a character, to my mind, is almost worse than one really bad. For whereas the latter is ashamed, and tries to conceal little defects of disposition, the former brings forth a mos- quito-army of grievances to attack you, re- iterating that you must be a hard-hearted wretch, or you would pity and console, while to attempt to offer pity or consolation is to give them the greatest insult they can receive. It appears such a doubly ridiculous idea to consider that they can ever be consoled, when their anguish is past healing. Her dearest wish, however, was to impress on everybody who had the ill-luck to come within her range. 40 CRUEL FORTUNE. that some secret of the heart, some romantic contretemps, had been the real cause of her never having been married, and to convey the notion that she was as susceptible and ill-used as she was lovely. The fourth, last, and decidedly least person in this little domestic group, was a girl of about fifteen or sixteen, pretty, though yet unfinished — " like the young moon ^^n^th a ragged edge, still in her imperfection beautiful ;" but so fragile, so delicate in her beauty, that she re- minded one of the porcelain-tower in Ander- sen's story, which was exquisite to the eye, but so brittle, a touch would have shattered it. It seemed scarcely credible that the child of so hard a pair should be so gentle, so soft, so timid, as this little Floretta appeared to be — a rose surrounded by thorns. Her blue eyes, her fair skin, her pale golden locks, smoothed back from a low, unruffled forehead, all gave an aspect which bespoke for her love and tenderness, even before you knew whether she deserved it. She had a younger sister, a contrast to her in every respect, who was staying with an aunt in Italy. The party had concluded the daily ceremony of lunching, and were apparently meditating CRUEL FORTUNE. 41 the necessity of separating. Mr. Atherley rose, and taking a letter from his breast-pocket, walked over to the fireplace, where a small fire had been kindled in consequence of the dampness of the atmosphere. He was seem- ingly absorbed in the contents of the paper which he held, when Mrs. Atherley said, in a tone which his practised ear warned him por- tended something, — " I believe, my dear, that your benefit is to take place this day week?" Mr. Atherley, who had raised his eyes when she began, bent his head in the affirmative. " Then, as Floretta and I shall be present, of course I shall want some money, my dear. None of my dresses are fit to be seen ; and more especially, Mr. A., as my sister Julia and her husband are coming up on Wednesday, I would wish to be rather more particular than usual." Mrs. Atherley, by the way, generally was so very particular in her attire, that it was difficult to imagme how she could con- trive to appear smarter than was customary with her. " In fact," she added, " I would not, for any consideration whatever, be seen shabbily dressed; and you know how remark- ing Julia is." 42 CRUEL FORTUNE. Perceiving the presage of a storm, Floretta rose and vanished from the room, bitter ex- perience having taught her, that though her parents loved her in a strange, fitful way, their hard, coarse natures would not spare her the unutterable agony of witnessing any dis- pute between them. "How is it that you require money?" de- manded Mr. Atherley, with a frown. " Did you not have a very large sum only ten days since, when you were preparing for Mrs. Algernon's soiree r MrSc Atherley darted at him a glance of fire. '' I tell you I want it," she said, simply. "And I tell you, ma'am, that you can't have it," answered her husband, returning to his letter. She walked up to him, snatched the paper from his hand, crushed it, and flung it at his feet in a transport of rage. " Can't have it, indeed !" she exclaimed, in a tone of suppressed fury. " Oh ! truly, I rather like that! It amuses me! Come, I want twenty pounds — give me twenty pounds directly ! 1 ,know you have more than that in your pocket-book." CRUEL FORTUNE. 43 He looked her full in the face, with his cold, icy, gray eyes. She returned the gaze steadily. They looked like two prize-fighters measuring each other's strength. Miss Cloudesley sat tranquilly at the table, slicing a piece of bread into infinitesimal morsels with a knife. A full minute elapsed, and then Mr. Atherley put his hand into his breast-pocket, and drew from thence a small pocket-book. Opening this, he produced four bank-notes, which he held silently towards his wife. " Ah ! that's a good soul," said she, taking them, and, after hastily glancing at the figures, placing the precious scraps of j)aper in her pocket. '' Now you shall see how I will re- ward you by my appearance on Thursday next. You know, you foolish man, that you are as proud of your spouse's beauty as she is herself, and that is saying a good deal. By- bye till dinner-time." With which farewell she vanished, smiling and gracious once more. As she was leaving the room, there might have been seen advancing up the street, drenched, miserable, hungry, and forlorn, his clothes soddened with the rain, his boots like wet rags on his feet, his battered hat soaked, — in 44 CRUEL FORTUNE. an utterly wretched condition, in fact, there was to be seen coming towards the house poor Raymond, the harpist. His i'ace was ghastly pale ; his eyes glittered as if he were fever- stricken; his hands were thrust into his pockets and clenched tightly. He walked steadily and firmly, however, and mth an air of fixed determination as if resolved not to turn back, when he would much have preferred 2:oin2f direct to Westminster Bridsre and thence straight into the water beneath. On reaching the door he paused. ]\Irs. Atherley was then sailing majestically up- stairs with her four five-pound notes in her pocket. Poor Raymond, who, with less than a twentieth of that sum would have been raised to the summit of felicity, hesitated for more than a minute ; then, with a sudden summon- ing up of courage, he seized the handle of the bell and rang a peal which startled Mrs. Part- ridge, the cook; Joseph Jones, the footman; Aim Grey, the maid ; and Watkins, the page, or " boy in buttons" — startled them all to such an extent that they simultaneously started : the first in her kitchen, the second in the pantry, the third in the front top-room, and the last on the stairs leading from the drawing-room CRUEL FORTUNE. 45 to the hall. As Watkins was a few steps from the door, not many seconds elapsed before he flung it open. On the threshold, to his utter indignation and disgust, stood a shabby, miser- able, wet object, looking neither like a tramp nor a begging-letter impostor, but suspiciously like a compound of both. " Well, upon my word !" exclaimed the boy, viewing this person in astonishment not un- mingied with doubts regarding the safety of the coats, hats, and umbrellas deposited in the hall. "Well, I never did! Xot to-day, thank you," he added, thinking that perhaps the party wanted to sell boxes of lucifer-matches on the " reduced gentleman " sj^stem. And he w^as about to shut the door Avith as violent a slam as he dared, considering that Miss Agnes Cloudesley was suifering from a nervous attack, and might hear the echo. But as he was turning the door on its oily hinges, what was his consternation when the extra- ordinary object before him exclaimed in a loud tone, and with a manner which would have been haughty, had he been well dressed — " Stop ! Is your master at home?" The page turned pale. " He is a robber, or perhaps a lunatic," he muttered. " You can't 46 CRUEL FORTUNE. see him," he said, aloud, and holding the door over as far as he could, while he expected to behold the objectionable individual put his foot forward to prevent its being shut, after the manner of aggressive tramps. ''I must see him," answered the harpist, coolly. " You carUt^'' rejoined the page, who wished that some of the older servants would come, yet valiantly determined not to be routed. " I tell yer, you can't. Now where's the good of goin' on like this?" " Go upstairs and tell your master, Mr. Atherley, that a person whom he knows — tell him that Mr. George, whom he saw last in tlie Cloisters^ wants to see him — must see him," said the unwelcome visitor. He spoke in such a tone of authority that the unlucky page wavered, feeling perfectly convinced that the ragged "objek" must be a robber, but also convinced that he might pos- sibly incur some unpleasantness by not carry- ins: his messao;e. How was he to know who his master might be acquainted with? "Wait a minute," he said. He shut the door, leaving the harpist in the rain, and went upstairs. CRUEL FORTUNE. 47 "If you please, sir," he nervously said, opening the door of the room where stood Mr. Atherley, who was now pondering alone over his letter, " if you please, there is a man as says he must see you — must^ he says." "A man?" repeated Mr. Atherley, ''what kind of man?" "A poor, shabby, dirty man, sir; looks like a tramp, just like, and yet speaks so grand- like." " Indeed," said his master, "indeed! What does he want ? " '' He says that — you go upstairs, he says, like this — flinging up his head, so — ^you go and tell Mr. Atherley, sir, that Mr. George, who belongs to the Cloisters, 7nust see him," said Watkins. "Insolent ! " exclaimed Mr. Atherley. " Clois- ters ! what cloisters ? " " I d'know, I'm sure, sir. Only the cloisters at th' Abbey, that I'm aware of; leastways, unless it might be the sign of a public." " Cloisters ! " again exclaimed Mr. Atherley, turning fiercely — " cloisters ! What name did you say?" " George, sir," almost whimpered Watkins, who felt terrified at the manner of the gene- 48 CRUEL FORTUNE. rally calm " guv'nor," and who suddenly be- came possessed with the consciousness that all the blame would be laid on his shoulders if anything unpleasant happened. " George ! what does A^want?" muttered Mr. Atherley, between his teeth, in an under- tone, and with an oath. " "Where is he ? " he added, trying to subdue his rage. "Oh, I shut the door on him, sir, if you please, you may depend," said Watkins, trem- bling with terrors which grew more and more undefined every moment. " Tell him that I will see him," said Mr. Atherley, in his usual cold placid tone, as he »sat down near one of the windoAvs. He took from his pocket a strip of paper, on which was printed the programme of a musical entertain- ment to be given the next week at the Hay- market Theatre, and buried himself in its contents. Watkins hurried downstairs and re-oj^ened the door. Of course, wdien the guv'nor him- self directed that the disreputable stranger should be admitted, the responsibility was taken off Watkins' shoulders. When he threw open the door, the " objek " was still standing where he had stationed himself, on the steps. CRUEL FORTUNE. 49 '^ Master will see you," said Watkins, with an air in which was painfully mingled an eifort at civility and a sense of unutterable disgust at the poverty-stricken "objek." ^'Wipe your feet on the mat, please/' Eaymond did not answer, but followed the boy up the richly-carpeted staircase, and waited while the drawing-room door was being thrown open and his name announced as ''Mr. George." Then he walked in, and Watkins flew to'^the kitchen to relate the "most exterordnary okirense which had tranzpired." The harpist stood irresolute for a moment when the door was closed. He took off his hat and held it in his chilled hands, then put it on again nervously, grew white and red, and then leaned on the back of a chair for support, as if he were fainting, while Mr. Atherley read the second half of his strip of paper, folded it up and replaced it in his pocket without appearing to notice the pre- sence of his strange visitor. Then he looked at him, but did not offer to speak. At length Raymond, after gasping for breath, advanced a few steps, and stood opposite to Mr. Atherley — stood humbly, entreatingly. " Guy," he said, speaking as a man might VOL. I. 4 50 CRUEL FORTUNE. be supposed to speak when rapidly drowning. He tried to go on, but liis voice failed him, and died away in a kind of rattling groan. " Well?" said Mr. Atberley, in a cold, clear, frosty tone. "It is sixteen years since we last met," said Kaymond. " I know it," responded the other, icily. "I come — I want — how shall I — oh, Guy, my brother, — oh, Guy, Guy, — my wife and children are dying for want of food ! I cannot get them bread, I cannot get work — I am un- able to save them from impending starvation. My children have not tasted more than a few slices of dry bread yesterday or to-day, and to-morrow — and I know not for how long — I shall not have even bread to give them. Help me, Guy, for the sake of our dead mother, for the sake of the old days when we went fishing and racing and birds'-nesting in the old place at home" — he hurried on almost incoherently, as if dreading to hear the icy reply that was coming — "for the sake of the memory of tbe hopes which we used to confide to eacli other in the moonlight, for the sake of our happy, loving childhood. Help me, Guy, — you know my pride — you know what CRUEL FORTUNE. 51 torture it is to me to ask you for assistance, how it galls me to ask — to ask " The unfortunate man's voice trembled, and became extinguished in a rush of unshed tears. " Of course; I don't doubt it. Lazy people who can't provide for themselves always say it galls their pride to ask other people for money. I suppose it is the proper thing to be done. Everybody can get work if they choose to look for it," was the response to the appeal. ''' What can I say to move you?" exclaimed George, in a tone of agony. ''Guy, my wife — you and I were once rivals" — a flash of electric, baleful light was emitted from the eyes of Atherley — " we both loved Lucy. I gained her heart, and you vowed revenge. I know it, for you told me so that night, sixteen years ago, when you parted from me with curses on your tongue and in your heart, in the cloisters of the old Abbey. But, though you said all your love for Lucy was turned to hatred, and that you would gladly see her dying of want, you cannot surely have forgotten the old affection you once bore towards her. Guy, she is now dying of slow-consuming disease, 4— UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY 52 CRUEL FORTUNE. brought on by a life of privation, of sorrow, of anguish." " I am glad to hear it," rejoined his brother, in a quiet tone, as if congratulating him on a fortunate event — " exceedingly glad." " You do not mean what you say," hastily replied George, whose fingers t^visted and worked round each other. " If you were to see her — so wan — so thin — so haggard. All her smiles and dimples gone, — her very voice has lost its music. The bright hopes of her youth have died out, and left ashes which choke her. She has now nothing to look for- ward to but — the workhouse." *' Ah," said the rich man, the favoured com- poser, the sought-after, caressed instructor of the divine art, who could command his own terms — "Yes. Few people realise the desires of their youth. Hope," he added, senten- tiously, "is very free with her promissory notes ; but, alas ! most frequently they are dishonoured. It is a wonder that the firm has not ceased to exist long ago; but the world is very trusting, let folks say what they will." ''I do not ask for mvself," said Geors^e Atherley; "I care not what becomes of me, CRUEL FORTUNE. 53 but can I see those whom I love, who depend on me for life — can I see day after day pass, and see those beloved ones pining for want of food— for the commonest necessaries of exist- ence? Give me — give me even a few pence, to drive away the demon of Hunger till I can again work. For the sake of Lucy — give me what I ask." '' For her sake I — will not," frigidly re- sponded his brother, rising. " I cannot say, hear me for the sake of my children, — you know nothing of them. I have implored you in the name of our mother, who, dying, pressed you to her heart, and left me to your brotherly care, — I have implored you in the name of the woman you loved, — I now ask you, will you give me food for the sake of that pitying One who said blessed be the man who gave even a cuj) of cold water in His holy name?'^ He bent forward, with outstretched hands, as if he would have knelt. His lips quivered, and the beseeching glance which he turned on his brother might have melted a heart less adamantine — less steeled to suffering. Mr. Atherley stood silently with his back to the fire. He put his right hand into his 54 CRUEL FORTUNE. trousers pocket, and shook something which jingled. "Pray, how much would relieve you?" he demanded. " Bless you, Guy, — bless you — my kind, dear brother. You owe me curses, — you give me blessings. You restore my children, who but for you must either have pined away for want of food, or have disgraced our father's m.emory by being thrown on public bounty." And the poor fellow fairly burst into tears, and sank into a chair, sobbing for joy. ''How much did you say?" asked his brother, as if he had not caught his words, — thinking, at the same time, " What a maudlin fool he is!" " Give me ten shillings. That will keep us for a few days — till my hand is right again," cried George, wiping away his tears of grati- tude Avith his trembling fingers. " Ten shillings," slowly repeated Guy Atherley, taking his hand from his pocket, and smiling. " If ten farthings would set you in affluence, I would pitch the coppers into the Thames, and you might go after them if you liked. So, brother George, Mister Ne'er-do-weel, as I have a very particular ap- CRUEL FORTUNE. 55 pointment to keep, I must conclude tlic con- ference, which I hope will not be resumed till doomsday." He rang the bell without looking at the petitioner, who, having risen, was standing with a face which, though he scarcely credited what he heard this time, was as white as a sheet. In a moment, the footman — for Wat- kins declined further interference — opened the drawing-room door. " Show this person to the street-door, and, if he ever comes again, I am not at home ; and if he persists in annoying you by any im- portunity, give him in charge," said Mr. Atherley, sternly, yet with a visible effort. George staggered after the man who pre- ceded him downstairs. He was too much stunned to testify any strong emotion till he got out of the house, and down a quiet by- street. Then he leaned a^-ainst a hoarding; before some half-built houses, and yielded to a wild passion of grief — the grief of a deeply- sensitive man who sees only death or the work- house before the wife and children he would give his heart's blood to save from care or unhappiness. He did not know what to do ; every door seemed closed against him. The 56 CRUEL FORTUNE. good-natured music-publisher, who, knowing him to be a reduced gentleman, had exerted himself to obtain for him scores to copy for the new opera which was being printed, and to arrange in parts for choruses and bands, who had kindly advanced him money even when he had not work for him — good Mr. Octave had found nothing for him to do for some weeks. His hand was disabled for more vigorous work than writing, and he could not get that to do. No friend could he ask to help him, for he had kept as much aloof as possible from the low comrades wdiich his avocation as a street harpist would have led him into asso- ciation with, his pride being as stubborn as his sense of honour was strict. The only one "svith whom he was intimate was Farley, the man who played the cornet on their rounds ; but he did not think for an instant of apply- ing to him, for poor Farley drank away his earnings as fast as they were made, and was supported by a mother who took in washing. Yet, unfortunately enougli, poor Farley was indebted to him about eighteen shillings. His frenzy of grief having subsided, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and began to wander in any direction, it mattered not CRUEL FORTUNE. 57 whither. He dared not return to his little Yal, to his poor Lucy, whom he loved as fer- vently as she hated him, and to all the unfor- tunate little starvelings awaiting him. He walked slowly until he reached the Strand, and listlessly loitered on. The rain was be- ginning