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 L I E> R.ARY 
 
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 \
 
 FOLLY MORRISON 
 
 a fiohti 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK BARRETT. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 ^ttiiislurs in ©riiitars to ^tv ^tajest^ the Quern. 
 1881. 
 
 lAll Rights Reserved. '\
 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. T. 
 
 ^ 
 
 I. THE PARENTS OF FOLLY - - - . 1 
 IL FOOD AND CLOTHES. — THREE-HALFPENCE 
 
 A DAY - - - - - - 16 
 
 III. JOHN MORRISON BECOMES A THIEF - - 25 
 
 IV. THE DEGRADATION OF JOHN MORRISON - 36 
 V. JOHN MORRISON STEALS A DEAD HARE - 51 
 
 VL THE BIRTH OF FOLLY- - - - - 66 
 VII. A HANDFUL OF CHIPS DROPPED INTO THE 
 
 OCEAN -----. 77 
 
 viiL folly's first conquest - - - - 89 
 
 IX. THE TWIG IS BENT - - - - - 99 
 
 X. THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN - - - 112 
 
 \ XI. FOLLY OBTAINS AN ENGAGEMENT - - 131 
 
 XIL THE DIARY OF A WEEK - - - - 144 
 
 XIIL A ROCKET ASCENDS 157 
 
 XIV. THE VICAR OF ST. BARNABAS - - - 171 
 XV. 'THE BETTER THE DAY THE BETTER THE 
 
 DEED' 183
 
 iv Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVI. ROLAND a\t:ling 193 
 
 XVII. MADGE AND HER VISITORS - - - 207 
 XVIII. AT STARTING - - - - - - 221 
 
 XTX. THE BATTLE IS TO THE STRONG - - 232 
 
 XX. SIR ANDREW FORMS AN INDLXTIOX FROM 
 
 A SIMPLE ARGL^^IENT - - - - 245 
 
 XXI. THE VICAR COUNSELS A SON TO DISOBEY 
 
 HIS FATHER . - - _ - 256 
 
 XXII. FOLLY ACCEPTS AN ENGAGEMENT AT THE 
 
 LEVITY .----- 265 
 
 XXIII. ROLAND AVELING IS VIRTUOUS - - - 279 
 
 XXIV. ROLAND AVELING SEES FOLLY FOR THE 
 
 FIRST TIME 289
 
 rOLLY MORRISON 
 
 BOOK 1. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE PARENTS OF FOLLY. 
 
 OHX MORRISOX was bom in 
 this Christian country the year of 
 grace 1816. Had he been born 
 1816 vears before the liofht of 
 Christianity first fell upon the earth his tem- 
 poral condition and prospects could have 
 been no worse. 
 
 He was born in a workhouse ; and, accord- 
 ing to the general order of things, he was to 
 work hard sonae fifty or sixty years for the 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 Folly Morrison. 
 
 benefit of his more fortunate fellow-creatures, 
 and then, when he could serve them no 
 Ion O'er, return to the workhouse, there to die 
 and for ever after be forgotten. 
 
 From this thraldom the State gave him 
 one means of escape ; he could, w^hen he 
 attained to his full muscular development, go 
 out of the country as a soldier, to be shot for 
 the glory of those who reap. 
 
 This alternative, with ail its advantages, 
 was offered him in the year 1850 by a very 
 civil recruiting-sergeant, whom he met in the 
 town of Guildford, whither he had gone to 
 sell a load of hay for his master ; but as John 
 Morrison at that time had a wife and children 
 to keep from the workhouse, and was tenderh^ 
 disposed towards them, he was compelled to 
 decline the tempting proposal, and so lost 
 the very best chance of happiness he ever 
 had. It was not for him to shorten his 
 troubles by twenty years. 
 
 He was a sharp, quick lad, well recom- 
 mended by the master, and so before he had 
 learnt to write he was taken from the work- 
 house by farmer Marsh, one of the guardians, 
 who undertook to clothe, feed, shelter, edu- 
 cate, and, lastly, work him. 
 
 It was a good bargain for Master Marsh.
 
 ' The Parents of Folly. 3 
 
 John was fed upon bread and water chiefly ; 
 a Httle cheese and boiled pork-fat were his 
 luxuries. He was clothed in the discarded 
 garments of the farmer's son, sheltered in a 
 hay-loft, educated in scaring crows, cleaning 
 horses, and tending cows, and finally set to 
 do any job that his strength and intelligence 
 were equal to. 
 
 At fifteen he did the work of any one 
 country labourer, and that is about six times 
 as much as any London workman will permit 
 himself to do. 
 
 Until ]ie was sixteen he never got a penny, 
 except for killing rats in his spare time ; then 
 he became an independent farm labourer at 
 ten shillings a week, working from sunrise to 
 sunset in the summer, and from five o'clock 
 in the morning until eight in the evening 
 during the dark months. He was such an 
 admirable servant that Mr. Marsh gave him 
 employment all the year round, so John was 
 not compelled to spend Christmas with his 
 less favoured fellow- workmen in the union 
 poor-house. 
 
 He was a dextrous, steady, quick labourer 
 — the very best on the farm. He could turn 
 his hand to anything, from tarring the out- 
 side of a barn to threshing^ out its contents. 
 
 1—2
 
 Folly Morrison. 
 
 He would have excelled at whatever he gave 
 his undivided attention to, and in a city- 
 might have risen to be a builder, architect, 
 engineer — anything where a clear brain and a 
 sure hand avail. 
 
 At eighteen a neighbouring farmer offered 
 him thirteen shillings a week for the same 
 services he had been rendering farmer Marsh 
 for ten. 
 
 John Morrison put the case before his 
 master. 
 
 ' Why, surely you won't leave me, John, 
 after I've been so good to you, will you V 
 exclaimed farmer Marsh, in an injured tone. 
 ' I don't Avant to be ungrateful. I'd be 
 content to Avork with one master all my life ; 
 but then a young fellow must look arter his- 
 self while he can,' replied John. 
 
 'Well, I shall give you thirteen ; but you 
 must do your best to earn it,' said his master. 
 John took the increased wages, and, in 
 gratitude, worked harder than ever, so that 
 even farmer Marsh considered he did not lose 
 much by the extravagant advance. When 
 the neighbouring farmer, who was at open 
 enmity with farmer Marsh, offered John an 
 advance of another shilling upon the terms 
 previously offered, he declined, and said
 
 Ihe Parents of Folly. 
 
 nothing of the matter to his master, feehng, 
 without exactly knowing why, that he was in 
 some inevitable manner under a debt of 
 gratitude to him. Farmer Marsh came to 
 know of the offer indirectly, and, taking 
 John's silence to imply a secret intention to 
 accept it, he was uneasy. He could not 
 afford to part with John ; at the same time 
 he did not see how he could afford to keep 
 him if this bidding of the opposition was to 
 continue. 
 
 * That's the Avorst of these young fellows/ 
 he said to his wife ; ^ there's no managing of 
 'em while they are single. I wish he would 
 marry and have children ; it would be much 
 better for himself and everybody else.' 
 
 (^ Everybody else' was himself, of course.) 
 
 ' You're too lenient/ replied Mrs. Marsh. 
 ' If you worked him a little closer he wouldn't 
 have time to go gossiping about and getting 
 discontented. It's just the same with the 
 gels. If you give 'em a day to run home 
 and see their friends, they reward you for it 
 the next morning by giving you notice to 
 leave.' 
 
 ' It's not in my nature to be a hard master. 
 I'd much rather see that lad married and 
 settled down with a wife and family, so as he
 
 Folly Morrison. 
 
 couldn't leave, than let him go to that Evans 
 for the sake of another shilling a week.' 
 
 The farmer was inconsequent, but he spoke 
 honestly the feelings of his heart. 
 
 ' I've seen him hanging about the dairy a 
 good deal lately,' said Mrs. Marsh ; ' and I've 
 had to scold Joan a dozen times this week for 
 staring out of the kitchen window.' 
 
 * Well, don't scold her any more, my dear. 
 Let the gel look out of the window a bit, and 
 I'll set John to mending them pigsties up, so 
 as he shall be about the house, like.' 
 
 ^ Bless your heart, that won't make any 
 difference. The best way to make pigeons 
 want to pair is to keep 'em apart.' 
 
 * Women folk know more about that sort 
 of thing than we,' answered farmer Marsh, 
 laughing. ' I don't care how it's managed, so 
 long as you bring 'em together somehow. 
 All I know is that there'll be no keeping that 
 young fellow in his place unless Jie's tied so 
 as he can't move.' 
 
 Farmer Marsh did not see any duties out- 
 side those of farming well and observmg the 
 laws of his country. Perhaps there is not a 
 farmer in England at the present day who 
 would regard his servant's interest equally 
 with his own— who would put him in the way
 
 The Parents of FoUij. 
 
 of becoLiiiiig sornethiag better than a good 
 servant. Marsh thought he was doing a good 
 thing for John Morrison in keeping him from 
 roving about the country, and saw nothing 
 debasing^ to human kind in treatino^ it hke 
 poultry. The" moral responsibilities of keep- 
 ing servants did not trouble him in the least. 
 All that concerned him was the payment of 
 wages at the end of the week, and the rent 
 and tithes when they became due. The 
 tithes were heavy enough, in all conscience, 
 and if John Morrison's moral welfare was 
 neglected the parson was to blame, argued 
 Marsh. 
 
 So John was set the next day to mend 
 ' them pigsties,' and Joan looked frequently 
 from the kitchen window. 
 
 Joan was a Devonshire girl, buxom and 
 strong, with dark hair and dark eyes, and the 
 bright red blood showing through the creamy 
 yellow skin of her cheeks ; John was an 
 equally good specimen of a Surrey man, long- 
 limbed, broad-chested, and fair. The affinity 
 of these two was in accordance with the prin- 
 ciples of natural selection. 
 
 Nature never hurries ; she accomplishes 
 her ends by slow means. 'Them pigsties' 
 were finished before John and Joan had ex-
 
 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 chanofed half-a-dozen remarks, and for some 
 time after the expression of their feehngs 
 was restricted to side glances and broad 
 smiles. But one could foresee the end by 
 the pains Joan took to make John jealous, 
 and his readiness to take offence. 
 
 She had several admirers, and among them 
 was James Ledger, a man whom John 
 Morrison cordiall}^ hated and despised. 
 Ledger was a mean, pitiful rat of a man, 
 who had served as a tio^er to Sir Andrew 
 Aveling, when the baronet was a young buck 
 associating with the Jerry Hawthornes of his 
 day, and had been appointed gamekeeper 
 when Sir Andrew married, because he had 
 not the necessary dimensions for a footman, 
 and was no longer wanted to swing behind a 
 tilbury. For this office he was admirably 
 fitted. No ferret ever unearthed a wretched 
 rabbit with more address than he discovered 
 a poacher, and brought his iniquities to light. 
 He knew all the bad characters of the neioii- 
 bourhood, and betrayed them readily. It 
 was not his way to confront a depredator, 
 take his gun away, and turn him off the 
 estate; he couldn't do that. His method 
 was to creep upon the offenders, note who 
 they were, and then quietly withdraw un-
 
 The Parents of Folly. 9 
 
 seen^ to send a constable to them the next 
 day, and ' bench them ' at once. 
 
 As farmer Marsh was Sir Andrew's tenant, 
 and the baronet reserved his shooting rights, 
 the keeper was frequently at Mayford farm, 
 and more frequently about the house than 
 was necessary, generally contriving to brmg 
 a pair of rabbits for the farmer about five 
 minutes after he and his wife had jogged off 
 to market in the pony-cart. There he would 
 stand at the side-door gossiping with the 
 girls until John Morrison came striding up, 
 looking as black as a thunder-cloud ; then 
 he would skip off with the nimbleness of a 
 tailor. 
 
 * I wonder you haven't better sense than 
 to talk wi' a fool like that !' said John one 
 day to Joan, who to vex him had lingered at 
 the door, and was following the little keeper 
 with her eyes as he skipped across the field. 
 
 ' They're not all wise as keeps their mouths 
 shet,' retorted she ; ^ an' it's better listening 
 to fools as can talk pleasant than to them as 
 can only speak when they've got some'at to 
 find fault wi'.' 
 
 John did not reply to this sarcasm. He 
 knew his own conversational shortcominors, 
 and was willing to admit them ; but besides
 
 10 Foil I J Morrison. 
 
 this, he could think of nothing to reply on 
 the spot, although a very biting answer 
 occurred to him about two hours after. 
 
 Long before then he had forgiven her. 
 
 ^ It's only natural she should like to hear 
 what's going on up at the hall, and as for 
 that little cur Ledger, she cant care for him,' 
 thought John. 
 
 As usual in these cases, it was the aggressor 
 who felt the aggrieved party, and Joan re- 
 sented John's jealousy almost as much as she 
 would have resented his indifference. She 
 gave her smiles to the man she did not care 
 for, and her frowns to him she really loved. 
 This caprice of love was understood by Mrs. 
 Marsh, but it provoked her husband pro- 
 digiously, 
 
 ' The gel's a forrard hussey, and John's a 
 fool to take it as he do. It will serve her 
 right if he takes and marries another gel out 
 of spite.' 
 
 ' Leave them alone, my dear ; it will all 
 come right presently. You men don't under- 
 stand these matters,' replied Mrs. Marsh. 
 
 ' It's a new sort of love-making, as I don't 
 want to understand no more than these new- 
 fangled steam-engines and gas-lights, and 
 things that are turning the old world upside
 
 The Parents of Folhj. 11 
 
 down. All I know is, I wouldn't a stood no 
 such nonsense.' 
 
 Despite Mrs. Marsh's prognostication that 
 all would come right, all seemed to be going 
 quite wrong. John grew gloomier, and Joan 
 more exasperating every day. She encouraged 
 James Ledo'er to such an 'extent that the 
 little man believed she loved him and would 
 be his wife for the asking. It was something 
 to have a big sweetheart like Joan, and cut 
 out a rival like John Morrison, w^ho was 
 acknowledged to be the best-looking fellow 
 and the handiest about those parts, and he 
 did not conceal his triumph. ^ 
 
 The slightest scraps of gossip get circulated 
 widely in the country, where there is little 
 news to talk about, and John was twitted 
 from all sides about his ill-fortune in having 
 such a man as little Jim Ledger for a rival. 
 He bore that, but when he caught the keeper 
 presenting a bunch of flowers to Joan, with 
 all the airs of a fine gentleman, his power of 
 endurance gave way, and, taking his rival by 
 the collar, he led him down to the horse-pond 
 and ducked him in like a sheep. 
 
 ' Now you can go and tell your friends 
 what John Morrison's given you,' said he, 
 setting the gasping keeper on his feet ; ' and
 
 12 FoUu Morrison. 
 
 if you come here with any of your flunkey 
 graces again, I'll give you something more to 
 hragf about.' 
 
 Ledger sneaked away, muttering threats 
 of A^engeance, which were not idle, coming 
 from his heart. 
 
 John turned towards the house, where 
 Joan was standing a spectator of her ad- 
 mirer's discomfiture, with his bunch of flower.s 
 in her hand. She was not afraid of John 
 Morrison, and stood her ground bravely as he 
 came up to her. 
 
 * Joan,' said he, ^give me they flowers.' 
 
 ^ Not I,' she replied, clapping the casus heUi 
 behind her. 
 
 ' Then throw 'em away.' 
 
 ' Nor that neither. I ain't afeeard. You 
 can't throw me in the horse- pond.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't care for ye well enough to 
 trouble myself, if I could,' he answered. 
 Then he caught hold of her emjity hand, and 
 said, ' Now look here, lass ; you have flunkey 
 chap's love in one hand and mine in t'other — 
 drop which you will, and so be it.' 
 
 ' Why, if you think a shapely Devonshire 
 lass is to be coarted and won in that fashion, 
 I'll drop yours quick enough, and you may 
 take it to a wench that's less particular.'
 
 The Parents of Folly. 13 
 
 And with that Joan flung his hand aside, 
 and walked into her dairy with the* carriage 
 of a queen, leaving John to walk oft' and try 
 to forget her. 
 
 It was a hard job to forget her, but John 
 kept resolutely away from her, and wouldn't 
 go near the house. But he kept his eye on 
 the approaches. 
 
 It gratified him to see that his warning 
 was taken by the keeper. James Ledger 
 avoided Mayford as the rat does the trap 
 that has taken his tail off. 
 
 Joan was left with never a lover now ; but 
 that she didn't mind — for the first day. If 
 John had been within a couple of hundred 
 3^ards he would have heard her singing. 
 
 It was on the third day after the quarrel 
 that farmer Marsh, coming to John Morrison, 
 who was billino^ a hazel hedoje, said : 
 
 ' What 'a been doing to Joan, lad T 
 
 ' I, master ? Nowt.' 
 
 'Then don't 'e do it again, lad, or you'll 
 break the gel's heart.' 
 
 ' I'll pitch that whipper-snapper into t' 
 horse-pond again, if he comes dancing about 
 here like a merry-andrew, wi' his flowers and 
 his flunkey manners.' 
 
 ' I don't mind 'e pitching Ledger into
 
 14 Folly Morribon. 
 
 pond, thof he be landlord's keeper ; but 'tain't 
 that iijDsets the gel. Why don't 'e take and 
 many the wench, lad ? She's anigh broken- 
 hearted (and serve her right for playing fast 
 and loose, say I) ; but the wife says she can't 
 have her crying about the house all day.' 
 
 ' What ! crying ?' exclaimed John. 
 
 ' Aye ; and wife says she must pack her 
 off if she won't stop it. Why, she's done 
 nowt but cry ever sin' yesterday marning. 
 Go to her, lad.' 
 
 John did not want bidding. He threw 
 down his bill, and ran off to the house as 
 hard as he could go, Avith pity and love and 
 remorse seething together in his heart. 
 
 Joan was feeding the geese, with such a 
 face as James Ledofer would not have recoo-- 
 nised at another time. Her eyes were puffed, 
 her nose swollen and red. She did not hear 
 John coming over the turf. In one hand she 
 held a pan of wet barley meal, with the other 
 she cast it out to the geese, occasionally taking 
 up a corner of her apron with her wet finger 
 and thumb to staunch her tears. Every- 
 thing that Joan did she went through with 
 thoroughly — crying included. 
 
 ' My poor lass ! — I never thought to ha' 
 grieved thee so ; and if I'd known you loved
 
 The Parents of Folly. 15 
 
 me, I'd never been harsh with 'e/ cried John, 
 coming to her side. 
 
 Down went the pan and the spoon, and 
 Joan, flinging her arms round John's neck, 
 hugged him to her bosom, and kissed him, 
 crying copiously all the while. 
 
 ' I've been to blame, John. I were a fool, 
 I were, to give a word or a look to that 
 mincing little fool, while there was a great, 
 strong man a-loving me treuly. An' I ha' 
 repented, John ; an' if you'd only looked in 
 the pig's trow yesterday you'd ha' seen they 
 dratted flowers, ye would; an' you know I 
 love you, John.' 
 
 'Why, then, we'll be married, lass, 
 Michaelmas fair-day next, and you shall 
 never shed another tear so long as you live 
 if I can help it.' 
 
 And on Michaelmas Day they were 
 married, and spent their honeymoon seeing 
 the sights at Cat'en Hill Fair, and in the 
 evening they went to their new home in 
 Sandy Lane. 
 
 Thus, after two months of not very cheer- 
 ful romance, John Morrison came to the 
 realities of life.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FOOD AND CLOTHES. — THREE-HALFPENCE A DAY. 
 
 AYFORD is four miles from Guild- 
 ford, and thirty by the road from 
 London. It stands on the outskirts 
 of the common which stretches from 
 Reading to London, and is no more than a 
 pleasant walk from Hyde Park Corner, yet 
 virtually it was as far removed from civilisation 
 as if it had stood on the outskirts of Sahara. 
 All that the inhabitants of Sandy Lane 
 ever saw of civilisation was an occasional 
 highwayman on his way to Bagshot, for as 
 late as 1840 travellers were not safe there ; or 
 a pair of prize-fighters from London, who 
 came thither with their train of o-entlemen 
 and blackguards to fight their battles out 
 undisturbed.
 
 Three-halfpence a Dajj. 17 
 
 Parsons came from the universities to 
 preach a doctrine which none understood ; 
 gentlemen came to hunt and enjoy them- 
 selves ; but nobody came with the view of 
 making the peasants happier or better. 
 
 They were left to themselves more com- 
 j^letely than if they had been Africans. 
 
 They could speak, and in that they were 
 superior to the rabbits ; but the advantage 
 lay with the rabbits as far as happiness was 
 concerned. And these people lived just out- 
 side the greatest city in the world, and this 
 was the condition of things when John 
 Morrison took his wife home and prepared to 
 face the realities of life. 
 
 John was then in his twentieth year, 
 vigorous and cheerful, and he found a married 
 life not half such a serious business as old 
 people considered it. He and Joan lived 
 very comfortably on thirteen shillings a week. 
 It was almost as comfortable when his first 
 child was born, and only became pal|)ably 
 different when the third had to be provided 
 for. After that the work seemed harder and 
 the comfort less. Every additional mouth 
 made his share of the loaf smaller, and he 
 found it impossible to work without exhaus- 
 tion with insufficient in his stomach. The 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 Folly Morrison. 
 
 problem ever present in his mind was, How 
 are we to live ? And this difficulty became 
 greater every year, as his family increased. 
 
 The children were all healthy and hardy 
 as the offspring of such parents would be ; 
 and in 1853, there were eleven of them to 
 provide for out of thirteen shillings a w^eek. 
 
 The rent of the cottage in Sandy Lane 
 was half-a- crown a week ; and when that w^as 
 taken off, farmer Marsh gave John Morrison 
 eleven shillings and sixpence. This eleven 
 shillings and sixpence was to feed and clothe 
 thirteen human beings for seven days, making 
 the share of each member of the family a 
 fraction over three-halfpence per day. A 
 pig could not be kept in wash and litter for 
 the price ; an ordinary hen costs more. Only 
 human ingenuity could keep body and soul 
 together on such a pittance. 
 
 John Morrison grew dull and old, poor 
 Joan lean and careworn, in this struggle for 
 life. John's hair was streaked with grey at 
 thirty-three ; Joan looked fifty. John could 
 not have told you how the cravings of his 
 growing youngsters w-ere appeased. His 
 duty was to w^ork hard and give his w4fe the 
 money to spend as only she could spend it. 
 Meat the mother and children never ate ;
 
 Three-halfpence a Day. 19 
 
 about two ounces of pork-fat and a loaf were 
 given to John to work his fifteen or eighteen 
 hours a clay upon. Bread soaked in hot 
 water with boiled vegetables were the chief 
 subsistence of the rest. 
 
 Things could not be worse, though the 
 family should still increase, for Jack, the eldest 
 boy, could already use the clappers, and in 
 another year Tom, the second son, would be 
 able to mind cows, and so by degrees the elder 
 ones might be got out to work and make 
 room for the vounofer. 
 
 Once a week Joan locked up her children 
 and trudged off to Guildford for the week's 
 supply of provisions : in the fog of autumn 
 or the cutting east winds of spring, in the 
 stifling heat of summer or the piercing cold 
 of winter, it was all the same, the woman 
 could be seen bent beneath the weioiit of 
 two heavy baskets toiling along the weary 
 road. 
 
 Sometimes she was lucky enough to get a 
 commission from a farmer's wife to brino- a 
 joint of meat or a parcel of groceries from 
 the town ; then Joan carried three baskets. 
 It made her stagger a little going up the hills, 
 that extra twelve or thirteen pounds weight, 
 but she was glad to carry the load for a bunch 
 
 2—2
 
 20 Folly Morrison. 
 
 of carrots or turnips, or perhaps a few old rags 
 of clothes to cut up and make into coverings 
 for her children's backs. 
 
 What we call amusements, entertainments, 
 and the like were unknown to John and his 
 wife — they did not get even relaxation. 
 
 They had neither feast-days nor holidays. 
 
 Their one source of supreme gratification 
 was that they had strength to work and keep 
 out of the workhouse. 
 
 Neither husband nor wife could read, and 
 their children were as ignorant as savages. 
 The nearest school was four miles distant. 
 
 Religion was but a name to them. They 
 had a vague fear of the hereafter as a state 
 even more terrible than their present con- 
 dition, of a God that would plunge them in 
 eternal torment for their misfortunes and 
 ignorance. What could they know of.Divine 
 love in their j)erpetual struggle with adversity? 
 The rector of the parish thought he had dis- 
 charged his duty to them sufficiently in return 
 for his wages of two thousand a year, with a 
 rectory and glebe lands, by sending his curate 
 now and then to ask them questions which 
 they could not answer, and to warn them 
 against heresy. They never went to church, 
 because that church was not for them.
 
 T]iree-lmlfpe)ice a Day. 21 
 
 It is ludicrous to think what would have 
 happened if those gaunt parents had walked 
 into the ornamental church with their eleven 
 rao-o'ed and barefooted children behind them 
 — ludicrous and pathetic too. Would the 
 rector have brought them a loaf and bid 
 them warm themselves at the stove ? or 
 would he have instructed the pew-opener to 
 turn them out or to huddle them away out of 
 sight in a corner of the cold stony aisle ? 
 
 It would be wrong to say that these people 
 had no hope^ for that sentiment is co-existent 
 with fear ; and as the dread of going into the 
 workhouse was ever before them, it may be 
 said that they were never without hope — of 
 staying out of it. That encouraged them to 
 be frugal and industrious. 
 
 Master Marsh was quite right in his calcu- 
 lations. John Morrison was secure enough 
 now. He was not likely to relinquish a good 
 place for one only possibly better. He could 
 not afford to risk the probability of being dis- 
 charged by a new master when the harvesting 
 was over. He was no longer a young man 
 unfettered^ who could walk up to London 
 and support himself for a week or two with- 
 out work while he was finding a good situ- 
 ation. A couple of days without work now
 
 22 Folly Mcrrison 
 
 would oblige him to take his wife and family 
 to the poorhouse for food and shelter. 
 
 Farmer Marsh was satisfied with John 
 Morrison, and used to point him out as an 
 example of the contented and useful servant 
 an English peasant could be under a con- 
 siderate master. 
 
 Useful he certainly was ; but contented ? 
 --No. 
 
 It would seem that he had sufficient to 
 think about in doing his daily work, with- 
 out troublinof his head about such abstractions 
 as justice and injustice, right and wrong, or in 
 trying to solve the question, ' What do I live 
 for V Nevertheless these matters did greatly 
 perplex him. 
 
 He kept his opinions to himself, for the 
 constant practice of economy — of doing 
 nothing which was not advantageous — 
 governed even his tongue. Why should he 
 talk of his troubles ? What good would it 
 do him or his to tell that he was ill- satisfied 
 with the dispensations of Providence ? 
 
 Nevertheless his feelings found expression 
 and were made known, astonishino: farmer 
 Marsh as greatly as an eruption of Primrose 
 Hill would surprise the dwellers in its 
 vicinity.
 
 Three-halfpence a Day. 23 
 
 One day John Morrison said to farmer 
 Marsh, as they were looking at the ravages 
 made on the standing corn by the hedge- 
 birds : 
 
 ' A lad might earn a shilling a week by 
 scarirg of the birds ; and my Jack is a 
 smarty kind o' lad, can holler louder an a 
 man, and have been learning to use t' clap- 
 pers these three weeks/ 
 
 ' Let him come in, and we will see what 
 we can do wi' him, John. So you have a 
 son old enough to work V 
 
 ^ The gel's a year older.' 
 
 ^ xA.h, Qfels are more awkward to do wi', but 
 in a couple o' 3^ears she may go out and do a 
 bit scullery-work. Bless me, how the time 
 goes ! Why, how long have you been on the 
 farm, John V 
 
 ' Nigh on five-and-twenty year, master.* 
 
 ' Five-and-twenty year !' echoed farmer 
 Marsh, his bosom swelling with the thought 
 of his own benevolence in keeping a servant 
 so long. His feelings were almost paternal to- 
 wards John Morrison. ' Five-and-twenty year ! 
 It must be a satisfaction, like, to you, John, to 
 think you've kept a place winter and summer 
 all they years, and that your son's like to do 
 the same, eh ? Why don't you answer,
 
 24 FoJJij Morrison. 
 
 man? What makes ye look so do\Yii i' 
 mouth V 
 
 ^ It must be t' satisfaction of it, master ; 
 looking back upon the past and thinking as 
 the future of that there poor little chap is to 
 be no better. Here will he stand, a growed 
 man, and ask the question that I ask myself 
 now — What wrong did I do that my father 
 should treat me worse than a pup or a kit ? 
 Why did he serve me less merciful than 
 them 1 Why did he not tie a stone about 
 my neck, and fling me in a pond before I 
 could suffer, when he saw there were too 
 many of us in the world, and that I was not 
 wanted V
 
 
 r 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 JOHN MORRISON BECOMES A THIEF. 
 
 July 
 
 AEMER MAESH was not certain 
 whether to regard John Morrison 
 as a lunatic or a Eaclical. 
 
 It was quite possible that the 
 sun had softened his brain — it was 
 
 equally possible that he had been listening to 
 the inflammatory eloquence of those unprin- 
 cipled agitators who go up and down in the 
 land, sendinof the farmer's best men to the 
 colonies and raising the price of labour. 
 
 Under either condition he was greatly to 
 be pitied, and his symptoms could be regarded 
 only with the most serious apprehensions. 
 
 John Morrison was included in the long 
 list of complaints which farmer Marsh had 
 to lay before his landlord in extenuation of
 
 26 . Folly Morrison. 
 
 deficient dressing, imperfect draining, etc., 
 and as Sir Andrew Aveling was walking over 
 Mayford farm to see how the game promised, 
 his tenant said : 
 
 'The men are just as contrary as the 
 weather, Sir Andrew. They're just like the 
 roots and the stock and market prices — they 
 ain't what they used to be — nothing like. 
 Why, look at that man there, sir — John 
 Morrison— a man that my father took on the 
 farm when he didn't hardly know the dif- 
 ference 'twixt a plough and a harrow — a man 
 as I've kept in constant work by the 3^ear, 
 and never stopped so much as a week in the 
 severest weather — a man as I've give thirteen 
 shilling a week to ever since he was nineteen 
 y'r old — well, he's discontented. Talks about 
 farm labourers being wus off 'an pups and 
 kits, because they're allowed to live when 
 they're not wanted. Talks about men being 
 bound to treat their fellow- creatures as well 
 as they treat themselves, or else to destroy 
 them.' 
 
 ' Ah, this arises from teaching them to 
 read and ' 
 
 ' But he can't read a word.' 
 
 ' More shame for him — he ought to, that's 
 all I can say. I've heard of this John Mor-
 
 John Morrison becomes a Thief. 27 
 
 rison from my keeper Ledger, and, according 
 to all accounts, he's a very dangerous sort of 
 fellow. I advise you to keep a sharp eye on 
 him. Marsh. Do you give him any rabbits V 
 
 ' No, sir; no.' 
 
 ' Then I warrant he takes 'em. Have him 
 up before the bench if you. catch him at it, 
 and I promise you he shall suffer for it. 
 These radical ideas are gaining ground, and 
 must be repressed by the firm hand of justice, 
 or ground will presently be worth not a 
 pound an acre. He looks a heavy, plotting 
 kind of man. Keep your eye on him. Marsh, 
 and I'll just speak to my man Ledger about 
 him.' 
 
 * He's not dishonest, Sir Andrew — only his 
 opinions are wrong.' 
 
 ' What a confounded inconsistent fellow 
 you are, Marsh ! With one breath you 
 accuse the man, with the next you excuse 
 him. Do you think it's possible for a man's 
 principles and practices to be at variance ? 
 Nonsense ! If his opinions are bad, his 
 actions must be dishonest too. That's 
 logic' 
 
 It was not for the farmer to arofue the 
 matter with his landlord — a baronet and a 
 justice of the peace — so Marsh said no more
 
 28 Folly Morrison. 
 
 about Morrison, and only hoped the man 
 would keep out of Ledger's way. 
 
 James Ledger watched John Morrison 
 with the patient vigilance of a cat. 
 
 He had a long-standing grudge to gratify 
 and a master to please. 
 
 During the harvesting John had so much 
 work to do that there was no scope for malice 
 to invent a charo-e asfainst him. He and his 
 little Jack walked to work at four in the 
 morninof and left it at nine at nig^ht. 
 
 When the harvest was carried there was 
 no more work for the boy, and John walked 
 to and from the farm alone. 
 
 Ledger became hopeful. 
 
 November came in wet and cold ; John's 
 clothes at night-time were damp through, 
 and had to be dried after he was in bed. 
 Fuel was scarce — the load of faggots which 
 farmer Marsh usually gave his man at the 
 beginning of the winter had not yet been 
 sent — he was short of wood himself, havino- 
 put off wood-cutting in order to get the 
 ground worked before the frost bound the 
 earth. 
 
 * Ye must brino- a mite o' wood home wi'
 
 John Morrison hccoracs a Thief. 29 
 
 yon, John, if you can, for the turfs won't 
 last by 'emselves,' said Joan. 
 
 John asked his master for permission to 
 take home a faggot. 
 
 ' I can^t spare ne'er a one from the stack, 
 but you may take a bit if you see it lying 
 about,' answered Marsh. 
 
 John managed to find a few sticks, and 
 with these trudg^ed homewards in the even- 
 ing. 
 
 Part of Sandy Lane runs alongside Ave- 
 lina Park. The fence there had been out of 
 repair for years, and in one place the posts 
 had rotted, and a yard or so of the paling- 
 had fallen down in the wide ditch. 
 
 Coming to this point John stopped. In 
 the dim light he could just see the dark wood 
 lying among the brake. There was enough 
 rotting there to keep the fire going for a 
 week. Why should it lie there useless ? He 
 set one foot in the ditch and found a loose 
 batten or two. He added them to his load, 
 and carried them home. 
 
 'Aye, that's good!' said Joan. 'Bring 
 the like to-morrow, lad, and we'll bide through 
 Sunday.' 
 
 The next night John got into the ditch 
 and felt about. There was not much besides
 
 30 Folly Morrison. 
 
 the main piece, but he collected what frag- 
 ments there were, and carried home about as 
 much as, chopped up, w^ould fill a bushel 
 basket. ' It's no one's propert}^ laying there 
 in the open ditch, and it's o' no value to Sir 
 Andrew,' thought John. 
 
 About two hours after he had come home, 
 as he was sitting by the fire with his baby on 
 his knee — they were never without a baby in 
 that house — the door opened and Graves the 
 constable walked in, followed by the sinister 
 little kee23er. 
 
 ' Halloa ! John Morrison ; you've been 
 doing what you oughtn't to, eh V said Graves, 
 cheerfully. 
 
 ' What do you mean. Master Graves V 
 
 ' Why, you've got a bit o' wood on your fire 
 there as don't belong to you, that's all/ 
 
 ^ And there's another bit up in the corner,' 
 
 piped out James Ledger, whose sharp eye 
 
 had detected the property. 
 
 ^ That — that's only waste — it's of no value 
 —it's ' 
 
 John Morrison could hardly speak, and his 
 arm that held the baby trembled violently. 
 
 * Well, anyway you must come along o' me. 
 I dare say Sir Andrew won't be hard on you 
 Avhen he finds it's only a bit o' stuff like
 
 John Morrison becomes a Thief. 31 
 
 that ; but I must do my duty, so come 
 along.' 
 
 ^ Joan,' said John, rising and speaking 
 huskily, * run down, my good lass, and tell 
 Master Marsh what has happened, and — here 
 — take t' baby.' 
 
 Fortunately for John Morrison, Justice was 
 dozing when he was brought to Aveling Hall. 
 Sir Andrew had dined heavily, and with a 
 bottle of port at his elbow, was gently snoring 
 in the lounge-chair before the library fire. 
 No one dared to wake him for such a triflino* 
 matter as that in which a mere farm-labourer 
 was concerned, and so John was taken into 
 the servants' hall to await the awakino- of 
 Justice. He sat there, silent and listless, his 
 elbows resting on his knees, his fingers knit, 
 his head bent, while the servants induloed 
 their curiosity, and his captors told of his 
 offence, and ventured conjectures on the 
 punishment awaiting him. He took no notice 
 of those about him or their remarks ; he was 
 dead to everything but one question. ' If so 
 be I am sent to gaol, what '11 become of the 
 young 'nes and the wife, and how'll she fare 
 with the little 'ne that's to be born come 
 January V 
 
 Meanwhile, Joan, with her shawl wrapped
 
 32 Folly MorriRon, 
 
 loosely about her head, ran without stopping 
 to May ford Farm, and got there while lights 
 still glimmered in the lower windows. 
 
 It was nine o'clock nearly, and farmer 
 Marsh had yawned thrice. Mrs. Marsh was 
 preparing the chamber candle. 
 
 Panting for breath, and with hysterical 
 utterance, Joan told her tale, and implored 
 the farmer to save her John from being carried 
 to prison. 
 
 Marsh, as he listened, thought, first, ' I'm 
 not going out this time o' night, when I ought 
 to be in bed, to irritate my landlord for 
 nothing at all.' Then, ' Who's to carry that 
 load o' barley I promised to send to Guild- 
 ford o' Monday if John's locked up in prison?' 
 After that, ' It will never do to lose John, 
 while there's that biirley to clear.' And 
 lastly, ' I'll go and see what can be done, for 
 John's salco. I should have to go all the way 
 to Guildford if the case is sent before the 
 bench.' 
 
 So, grumbling in a loud voice, he put on 
 his thick coat, and bidding Joan go home and 
 look after her children, he went across the 
 meadows to Aveling Hall. 
 
 Joan went by the road, and sat do^vn in 
 the fog by the lodge-gate, waiting, with a
 
 John Morrison hecoraes a Thief, 33 
 
 terrible anxiety at lier heart, for tlie sound of 
 footsteps to come down the broad walk. 
 
 And while she sat there with a tumult of 
 emotion in her heart, while the wet mist was 
 soddening her rags of clothes so that they 
 hung in heavy, clammy folds about her 
 wretched limbs, while the fog was laying the 
 seeds of disease in her lungs, and the cold 
 w^as numbing her feet and hands, Justice still 
 dozed before the warm fire. 
 
 How long did she sit there ? She knew^ 
 not. There was no sound to mark the pass- 
 ing hours. All was still as death. It 
 seemed to her that the night must have gone 
 and morning be at hand. She rose from her 
 seat and crept along by the lodge-gates, try- 
 ing to pierce the darkness with her eyes, and 
 see if any light glimmered in the hall. 
 Darkness only less profound than the silence 
 prevailed. Standing in the middle of the 
 road, a sense of unreality possessed her mind. 
 She could see nothing, hear nothing, feel 
 nothing. It was as if she stood in an infinite 
 void. Only when she moved and passed her 
 hands along the gates was this impression re- 
 moved. 
 
 Suddenly, with startling distinctness, the 
 great clock of the hall began to strike. 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 84 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 She counted the strokes. ' One, two, three, 
 four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.' Had 
 she waited there, then, barely an hour 1 
 
 She sat doAvn on the wet bank, rocking 
 herself from side to side, but still with her 
 senses alert. 
 
 The awful silence was unbroken until 
 eleven struck ; and then the stillness came 
 agfain. 
 
 A sound as light as the dropping of a leaf 
 fell upon her ear, and she started to her feet, 
 holding her breath to listen. A distant door 
 had opened. Voices she heard and recog- 
 nised, farmer Marsh's and constable Graves's. 
 She could hear them talking, but why could 
 she not hear her husband ? A door shut. 
 Footsteps on the wet gravel drew nearer. 
 Farmer Marsh again s})oke, and Graves an- 
 swered. Was John confined in the hall ? 
 
 She fancied she heard more than the foot- 
 steps of two men coming nearer, nearer. But 
 if John were there, why did he not join in the 
 conversation that Marsh and Graves kept 
 up? 
 
 They were quite close now ; a step or two 
 would bring them to her. She sank down, 
 powerless with apprehension. 
 
 The lodge-gate swung. back, the lodge-door
 
 John Morrison becomes a Thief. 35 
 
 opened, and a stream of light came from 
 within. 
 
 A voice in the dark road shrieked out 
 ' John !' and was succeeded by a cadence of 
 sobs. 
 
 ' That's t' wife, lad ; go and see to her,' 
 said Graves. 
 
 John Morrison ran into the road, and 
 where the sobbing came from he found his 
 wife, sodden and cold, kneeling in the road. 
 
 * What, my wench ! Rise up. I'm not to 
 go to gaol, after all' 
 
 ' Ah, mercy, mercy ! I am thankful to 
 my God. Let me feel thy dear face, so. 
 Tell me again, lad, thou art free.' 
 
 ' Aye, free. But they tell me I'm no 
 Ion O'er an honest man.' 
 
 3—2
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE DEGRADATION OF JOHN MORRISON. 
 
 IR ANDREW 
 
 unjust to John 
 cbargin^^ him. 
 He felt that 
 
 AVELING 
 
 Morrison 
 
 in 
 
 was 
 clis- 
 
 the 
 
 and 
 In 
 
 better 
 Idncler course was to send him to prison, 
 his opinion, dishonesty was an original sin, 
 and the heritage of the poor — a disease not 
 to be prevented, scarcely to be cured, and to 
 be checked only by punishment. 
 
 He was perfectly certain that John 
 Morrison would have to go to gaol sooner or 
 later. His conscience whispered that he 
 ouQ^ht to be benched at once. He felt a 
 generous compunction in letting him off. 
 
 But a man's natural disposition will assert 
 itself, and Sir Andrew was by nature lenient
 
 The Degradation of John Morrison. 37 
 
 and yielding to the wishes of others. He 
 L'stened to the argument of his tenant, 
 farmer Marsh, who pointed out not only his 
 own inconvenience in iosino- a o^ood servant, 
 but the burden which would be imposed 
 upon the parish if John Morrison's wife and 
 eleven children had him to support them no 
 longer, and so he allowed his better judgment 
 to be overruled. 
 
 Nevertheless, he did his best to make the 
 laws of his country respected, to turn John 
 Morrison back by force of argument into the 
 path of virtue which he had forsaken — in 
 other words, to render him happy. 
 
 In dismissing the miserable, bewildered 
 offender, he used all his eloquence to make 
 him understand that justice is not a merciful, 
 impartial arbitrator, but a vindictive avenger, 
 who carries a sword for no idle pur- 
 pose. 
 
 He succeeded in impressing upon the mind 
 of John Morrison the fact that he was no 
 lono'er an honest man, and had for ever 
 forfeited his claim to the sympathy of decent 
 people — that he must henceforth take an 
 inferior place among his toiling fellow^s, and 
 lower his eyes to the earth before good men 
 and women, and that he owed his freedom
 
 Folly Morrison. 
 
 from a severer punishment to an undue in- 
 dulgence. 
 
 His condemnation received additional 
 weight coming from the Ups of Sir Andrew, 
 for the baronet bore an unim peached character 
 for hberahty and kindhness. All over the 
 county he was held up as the type of a good 
 old-fashioned English gentleman, whose only 
 fiU't was a somewhat hasty temper. 
 
 John Morrison had himself received soup 
 and blankets from the hall the preceding 
 winter. Looking at him with his stout 
 personable figure, his smooth feminine hands, 
 his soft grey hair, and his florid fair face, 
 with its blue sleepy eyes, it was impossible 
 to believe him guilty of cruelty. Looking 
 at the library in which he sat, with its rows 
 upon rows of large, solemn, ponderous books, 
 its desks and writing paraphernalia, it could 
 not be doubted that he was wise. It was 
 not for John Morrison to know that the 
 books had never been read, and were there 
 merely as an ornamental but necessary adjunct 
 to the shelves. 
 
 Most of us can cover our nakedness with 
 some more or less radiant tissue. One has 
 his wit, another his learning, a third his 
 money, and so on. John Morrison had his
 
 The Degradation of John Morrison. 39 
 
 honesty, which is indeed a poor rag in popu- 
 lar opinion when compared with others. It 
 was his boast that throughout his hardships 
 he had preserved an unblemished char-acter. 
 
 ' I've worked man and boy five-and-twenty 
 year an' more in one place, and never had 
 nothin' agen me,' he used to say. This he could 
 say no more. His one thin rag was torn off, 
 and he was turned out in the world for the 
 verv bewars to scorn. 
 
 Had the word ' thief been branded on his 
 brow, he could not have felt himself more 
 abased. 
 
 He walked home with his wife's hand in 
 his, too eno^rossed with his own misfortune to 
 notice her wretchedness. 
 
 The next day being Sunday he had ample 
 time for reflection. He ate his meals in 
 silence, and between whiles sat in an apa- 
 thetic state, with his elbows on his knees, 
 and his body bent forward, taking no notice 
 of his children, and answering Joan in mono- 
 syllables when she spoke to him. 
 
 In the evening, when the children were in 
 bed, the wife pulled a chair beside her hus- 
 band's, and said, laying her hand on his arm : 
 
 ' Cease frettin' thyself, John ; things be 
 not so bad as they might have been.'
 
 40 Folly Morri 
 
 ison. 
 
 ' They couldn't be much worse, wife. 
 What's to come of the children when it's 
 known their father's a thief? Who'll take 
 'em to service now^ V 
 
 ' But thou'rt no thief, lad, or thou't be not 
 here now.' 
 
 ' Sir Andrew to'd me 1 was, afore Master 
 Graves, and that Jim Ledger heered him. 
 And d'ye think he'll not tell the tidings to 
 all the folks around ? 'Tis so he'll pay off the 
 old score he has agen me, for taking you 
 away from him in the old days, Joan. Aye, 
 wife, I did ye a bad turn then, for all I loved 
 ve so well.' 
 
 ' Talk not like that, lad. Ye know as well 
 as I that I'd rather have ye, just as poor and 
 unfortunate as thee be, than a rat of a man 
 like him. Thou art a man, John. And 
 don't be thinking folks who know you, and 
 him, too, Avill believe his lies agen thee.' 
 
 ' They're not lies. I am a thief 
 
 ' What, for takin' a handful o' rubbish out 
 u' a ditch — a thief? Nay, lad, nay.' 
 
 'You don't understand the ways of this 
 country, wife. Maybe it's different in Devon- 
 shire, where you come from. Maybe there's 
 no gentlefolks there, and you're welcome to 
 take up a bit o' rubbish another don't want
 
 The Degradation of John Morrison. 41 
 
 and throws aside to rot in the ditch. It 
 makes a power o' difference where people's 
 got plenty of money.' 
 
 ' Can tell me, John, why it's wrong to take 
 a thing that's o' no value to nobody V 
 
 ' That I can't, lass. It ain't for us to know 
 the why and the wherefore of gentlefolks' 
 law. It's their business to make the laws,, 
 and ours to suffer by 'em.' 
 
 ' Well, we must make the best of it. We 
 cannot get away, and we must just bide here 
 till we can't work no more, and our time 
 comes to 2:0 to the union and die. So let us 
 think o' the matter no more.' 
 
 ' How^ can I help thinkin' of it, when 
 every one I meet will look at me as they 
 didn't used to look V 
 
 '^Look at nobody, then, John, till thou come 
 home to thy child'en and thy wife : thou'lt 
 find no difference in the looks of our eyes, 
 save there be more love for thee than ever in 
 thy Joan's.' 
 
 Thus Joan comforted her John, as only a 
 wife can comfort her husband. But though 
 she balmed his late wounds, she could not 
 make him invulnerable to further attacks. 
 
 In the morning he received a ' good talk- 
 ing to ' from farmer Marsh, who counselled
 
 42 Folly Morrison, 
 
 him not only to be more honest for the 
 future, but also to be a ' httle less indepen- 
 dent like/ and not cany his head so high. 
 
 ' Why don't ye shake hands and be friends 
 with Ledger ? You ^YOuldn't lia' got into 
 this mess if you'd been on good terms with 
 him,' said he. 
 
 ' If he be paid to do this kind o' work, he 
 must do it same as other servants/ replied 
 John. 
 
 ' Xonsense ! you talk like a fool, John. 
 D'ye think he'd took any notice of you lift- 
 ing a bit of wood if he hadn't bore you a 
 oTudcre for lauohins: and sneering at him, let 
 alone taking his sweetheart away and pitch- 
 ing of him into the horse-pond years gone 
 by ? Xo ; it don't do for people that's got to 
 earn their living to be independent. I have 
 to humble myself to the baronet, and you 
 must just bend your back to his keeper. And 
 you do it, too, my lad, or, mark me, it'll be 
 the worse for you before long.' 
 
 John Morrison did not reply. He was 
 asking himself this question, 'Am I degraded 
 to the state of a miserable cur, that, for very 
 fear, I must curry favour with the man I 
 most despise V 
 
 Mrs. Marsh also spoke her mind when
 
 The Degradation of John JJorrlsou. 43 
 
 John took the morning's milk into the dairy, 
 addressing him in strong, sharp terms before 
 the kitchen wench and dairy-maid, in order 
 that they might share equally with him the 
 benefit of her moral admonitions. 
 
 His fellow-labourers said nothing, but their 
 silence was worse than speech to Jolni Mor- 
 rison. He fancied that everyone must know 
 •of his diso^race, and reofard him as he had 
 been told to consider himself He slunk out 
 of the way of his fellows,, and, having to cart 
 n load of hay, did double duty rather than 
 have a boy to help him. 
 
 Going home at night he saw a man coming 
 towards him. He bent his head and quick- 
 ened his pace. Poor wretch! he had no need 
 of Joan's suofo'estion that he should look into 
 no eyes but hers and his children's ; his own 
 shame prevented him from looking into others'. 
 Yet^ though he kej^t his eyes upon the path, 
 he felt that he was beino^ looked at; and when 
 the passing stranger, in country fashion, bade 
 him ' Good-nicrht ' he had not strenoth to 
 answer. 
 
 Dav after dav he suffered from this sense 
 of humiliation, until, like a beaten mule, he 
 was toughened, and grew accustomed to blows. 
 
 Finding it impossible to retrieve his lost
 
 44 Folly Morrison. 
 
 position, he tried to reconcile himself to his- 
 present condition by comparing it with 
 that of others who had fallen still 
 lower. 
 
 Thus in his mind he associated himself 
 with vagabonds, and, by insensible degrees^ 
 came to consider himself as one of them. 
 
 He grew callous, and suffered less. But 
 the heart that is hardened by pain cannot 
 respond to sensations of pleasure. 
 
 He was perpetually dull and heavy, occa- 
 sionally sullen and morose. 
 
 Trifles irritated him at times, and he did 
 not attempt to check his anger. 
 
 He met Ledger frequent]}^, but without 
 making any propitiatory advances. He passed 
 by him in silence ; but his mood was defiant 
 rather than independent. 
 
 One night they met unexpectedly close by 
 a sand-pit in Sandy Lane. 
 
 The keeper was alone. 
 
 John Morrison could have wruno^ his neck 
 and thrown him in the flooded pit easily. 
 
 ^ Good-evening, John,' whined the keeper, 
 stopping. ' I haven't had a chance of speak- 
 ing to you lately, and I have wanted to let 
 you know how sorry I was to inform against 
 you about '
 
 The Dt^cjradatiou of John Morrison, 45 
 
 * You're paid to do dirty work — do it/ 
 answered John Morrison, interrupting the 
 httle man in his speech, and leaving him 
 abruptly. 
 
 'And I will/ said Ledger- to himself. 
 
 The year drew towards its close. Christmas 
 was at hand. 
 
 One night Joan said : 
 
 ' Christmas is nigh, my man, and we must 
 have a bit o' meat food, wi' a pudden for the 
 children.' 
 
 ' Where be they to come from ? We're 
 like to get nothing i' the way of gifts from 
 anyone this winter,' responded the husband, 
 gloomily. 
 
 'We can do wi'out charity, John. See, 
 here's a matter o' nio^h on three shillino-s I 
 ha' scraped together unbeknown to thee/ and 
 Joan laid the well-saved silver and pence out 
 before John, who looked at it with his dull 
 ■eyes in silence. 
 
 •' Come, John, brighten up and be th}^ old 
 self again. Think o' thy children sleepin' in 
 there, and mind how glad 'twill make 'em to 
 feast. Put t' money in thy pocket, and a' 
 Saturday we'll walk together to Guildford 
 and settle how to sj^end it.' 
 
 John looked up from the money to his
 
 4G Folly Morrison. 
 
 wife's thin face, then back to the money, 
 which he ^^icked up slowly and silently. 
 
 ' T has been happy work saving it, puttin^ 
 by a penny now and tw^opence then, and 
 'twill be still gladder work spending of it wi'' 
 thee, my man.' 
 
 John took the money up and looked again 
 in Joan's face, which was sunny with pleasure. 
 A tear came in his eye, and when he spoke it 
 Avas in a husky, yet a gentle tone. 
 
 - ' You be the best wife i' the world, Joan ;; 
 and I am but a coward and all full o' shame 
 to think how I brood glum and sowr wi' only 
 my own misfortunes, while you keep a good 
 heart and a cheery smile for others, having 
 to bear your own ill luck and mine as welk 
 Gi' me a kiss, wufe dear — so, so ; don't you 
 cry now when w^e're all our old selves agen 
 like ; dry 3^our poor eyes with my neckercher 
 here — that's it, my good gal ; aye, and on 
 Saturday we'll go together and buy the bit 
 food for child'en, so w^e will' 
 
 The next day John heard that there was 
 bread and a blanket to be had for the askinsf 
 by any respectable person Avho went uj) to 
 Aveling Hall. 
 
 * Respectable person 1' thought John; ' then
 
 The Degradation of John Morrison. 47 
 
 they're not for the likes o' me. Would they 
 give them to Joan, I wonder ? Better to go 
 wi'out 'em than be refused. 'Twould break 
 t' poor woman's heart if they said, '' You can't 
 have 'em because your husband's a thief." 
 'T wouldn't make any odds to me to be 
 denied, and I'll try, be there chance or none.' 
 
 After his work was done he trudged off to 
 the hall, with little hope of success, but a 
 dogged carelessness as to what ignominy 
 might be thrown upon himself 
 
 * 'Twould be a rare good job to save the 
 wife's money ; she'll want it sure enough 
 when the little 'ne comes,' thought he. 
 
 The lodge-keeper looked at John Morrison 
 in amaze when he stated the object of his 
 visit, and exclaimed : 
 
 ' What, you, John Morrison ! a blanket 
 and bread for you V 
 
 ' Yes, me. Don't 'e think I want it wi' a 
 wife and eleven child'en, and another comin' 
 wi' new year V 
 
 ' Well, you can go up and try — you know 
 the way to the servants' hall/ said the lodge- 
 keeper, with a grin. He came out to look at 
 the labourer trudging up towards the house, 
 and murmured, ' Well, there's imperdence for 
 you !'
 
 48 Folhf Morrison. 
 
 In the servants' liall were ^yaiting lialf-a- 
 clozen poor folks, and behind the long oak 
 dming-table, piled with blankets and loaves, 
 stood the housekeeper. 
 
 The entrance of John Morrison created 
 quite a small sensation among the group. 
 His audacity obtained for him the immediate 
 attention of the housekeeper. 
 
 ' And Avhat do you want, my good man ?' 
 asked she. 
 
 'Blanket and a loaf, please 'm,' answered 
 
 John. 
 
 * For yourself?' 
 
 ' Xo, for my wife and young 'nes.' 
 
 ' I must ask before I give you anything. 
 Mr. Barrows.' 
 
 Mr. Barrows, the butler, drew near, seeming 
 no less surprised than others. The house- 
 keeper spoke to him in a low tone, and he 
 went off rehictantly, scratching his ear. 
 Evidently he did not care to mediate between 
 John Morrison and the baronet. 
 
 ' Tell Sir Andrew I don't ask his charity 
 for myself; called out John to the retiring 
 butler. ' It's for my eleven innocent children 
 and my wife, whose time's nigh at hand, that 
 I come here a-begging.' 
 
 Mr. Barrows paused to hear this instruction
 
 The Degradation of John Morrison. 49 
 
 Avithout turning, and then went on his way, 
 still scratching his ear. 
 
 Enterino' the dining-room, where Sir 
 Andrew sat at dinner with his son, Barrows 
 said : 
 
 ' If you please, Sir Andrew, here's that 
 John Morrison in the hall askino^ for blankets 
 and bread.' 
 
 ' What ! the man who was broui-'ht before 
 me for stealing wood V 
 
 ' Yes, Sir Andrew, the verv same : talkino^ 
 in a hiorh voice there, as if the thino;s belonofed 
 to him. I should have told the fellow to go 
 about his business at once, but Mrs. Childs, 
 the housekeeper, sir, she said I'd better ask 
 you.' 
 
 ' Tell him,' exclaimed the baronet, indig- 
 nantly, ^tell him — he is an insolent, presump- 
 tuous — ' The baronet paused, remembering 
 his dignity, and continued, ' Merely say that 
 there is nothino- here for him.' 
 
 * Yes, sir.' Barrows departed. 
 
 Sir Andrew was a widower, with one son. 
 The boy was the delight of his father. The 
 little fellow was then about ten years old, a 
 bright, pretty boy, with the soft hair, fair 
 skin, and blue eyes of his father. 
 
 ' Why is John Morrison not to have a 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 Folly Morrison. 
 
 blanket, papa ? Isn't he poor enough V he 
 asked. 
 
 ' He is poor enough. Yes, my boy.' 
 
 ' Then doesn't he feel the cold like other 
 poor men V 
 
 'Yes, Roland, yes. He feels the cold, 
 doubtless ; but, you see, this John Morrison 
 is not a good man.' 
 
 ' It must be very wretched not to be a 
 good man. I'm sorry for poor John Morrison, 
 joapa.'
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 JOHN MORRISON STEALS A DEAD HARE. 
 
 ^OHN MORRISON took his refusal 
 ^^V in the same apathetic manner that 
 he had made his request. He 
 turned from the table without a 
 word, and plodded heavily down the path to 
 the lodge, as if he were conducting a part of 
 his day's labour, and had no sentiment either 
 of joy or sorrow. 
 
 The moon was up, and its light, only par- 
 tially obscured by the watery clouds, revealed 
 objects in the road Avith tolerable clear- 
 ness. 
 
 As John, nearing his home, entered Sandy 
 Lane, his eyes, still bent upon the ground, 
 caught sight of a hare lying across the path. 
 It was dead. The autumn had been wet, 
 
 4—2
 
 52 Folly Morrison. 
 
 and many hares had died of the ^ rot/ It 
 was reasonable to suppose that this had fallen 
 bv the same disease. 
 
 John picked it up and felt over its body. 
 He could find no sign of shot wounds. 
 
 A hare found under such conditions was 
 worthless. Nobody would have dreamed of 
 eating it, except the father of a starving 
 family. 
 
 The thought came to John's mind at once 
 that here was food for his young ones, which 
 would enable him to save the few shillings 
 Joan had saved for a more pressing emergency. 
 What if it had died ? Its flesh boiled with a 
 few pot-herbs would be savoury and eatable, 
 and a stay to the cravings of nature. Neces- 
 sity is not nice in its choices. 
 
 John determined to take the thinor home. 
 At that moment it occurred to him that to 
 take a dead hare from the public road might 
 be as dishonest as taking a handful of rotten 
 wood. 
 
 He hesitated, more than half-minded to 
 fling his late acquisition into the adjoining 
 copse. Then he thought of his children and 
 his wife. 
 
 After all, the hare was worthless, and it 
 might not be dishonest to take it. Conscience
 
 John Morrison Steals a Dead Hare. 53 
 
 told him he had no right to anything in the 
 world but fourteen shilhnofs a week. 
 
 The hare slipped from his hands and fell at 
 his feet, but he still stood there with tempta- 
 tion. 
 
 ' Suppose it be dishonest,' he argued, * what 
 then ? I am a thief. Shall I not thieve '? 
 Nothinof can make me honest. No one will 
 treat me as an honest man. Can any theft 
 make me more than a thief? What does it 
 matter so that I am not discovered V 
 
 He looked around him. Not a twice in the 
 adjoining copse stirred ; the dead brake lay 
 motionless. He listened. Not a whispering 
 breeze nor a distant step broke the silence. 
 
 He stooped down, picked up the hare, and 
 walked on with it, a strange excitement in 
 his breast, an odd sinmno' in his head. It 
 was the first truly dishonest act of his life — 
 the result of being treated as a thief 
 
 He had not walked a dozen yards when his 
 apprehensive ear caught the sound of a shrill 
 whistle a.nd breaking underwood in the copse. 
 He stopped, his heart beating quickly. He 
 was not mistaken, the snapping of dead 
 wood was distinct, unguarded, and close at 
 hand. 
 
 John Morrison's home was not more than.
 
 5 4 Folly Morrison. 
 
 five or six hundred yards distant, and his first 
 impulse on hearing the sound was to drop the 
 hare and take to his heels ; but the reflection 
 that he might be pursued and overtaken 
 within Joan's hearing checked him. More- 
 over, it was contrary to his natural disposition 
 to take a cowardly course. 
 
 He grasped the hare tighter and vraited. 
 His suspense w\as momentary. A few rapid 
 steps, and then George Lough^ Sir Andrew's 
 under-keei^er, leapt from tlic copse over the 
 brake and stood before John Morrison ; a 
 second after James Ledger rose from the fern- 
 covered ditch in the rear and joined his com- 
 panion. 
 
 ^ Halloa, John Morrison ! what have you 
 got now ?' he asked. 
 
 ' A dead hare. I picked it up in the path 
 there, and you know it.' 
 
 * It's my duty to find out these things, as 
 you said the other day, and I must do it,' said 
 Ledger, getting^behind the elbow of George 
 Lough, a big fearless man, who had been a 
 poacher in his boyhood and lived all his hfe 
 in the woods. 
 
 ' You needn't fear me, Jim Ledger,' said 
 John, with a grating laugh ; * I shan't beat 
 you, though ye be a cur. Come, tell us what
 
 John Morrison Steals a Dead Hare, bb 
 
 ye want, George Lough, like a man ; be it 
 the hare or me V 
 
 ' Both/ piped out the Httle keeper. ^ Bring 
 him along^ to the hall, Louo^h.' 
 
 ^ Hands off, lad !' said John, as Lough 
 drew nearer. ' I'll make no trouble. Will 
 ye go in front or behind. Ledger V 
 
 Ledger walked behind, despite the sarcasm, 
 and Lough at the right hand of John Morri- 
 son, who carried the hare unconsciously. 
 
 ' I'm glad 'twas no nearer home/ thought 
 he, * or the wife would have heard the voices 
 and been alarmed about nothing at all. Sir 
 Andrew can do nothing to me but call me 
 hard names, and I am past caring for such. 
 Hard words break no bones. The hare's just 
 as I found it — no better and no worse, and a 
 man can't be punished for lifting a thing up 
 to see what it is. He'll see as it was a rotten 
 one, and no use to nobody. The worst he 
 can do is to throw a power of long words at 
 me, caution me, and threaten me ; that won't 
 harm me.' 
 
 He was no longer excited. His mind 
 settled down into its sullen, sluggish state, 
 and he prepared himself to meet the baronet 
 with calm indifference to all he could 
 say.
 
 56 Folly Morrison, 
 
 Once more he walked up the drive, aud 
 entered the servants' hall with the same 
 heavy, measured tread as before, and with no 
 more concern in his face. 
 
 The lodge-keeper and his wife, the house- 
 keeper and Mr. Barrows, were yet talking of 
 John Morrison's audacity when this fresh 
 instance of his rash darinof was brouofht to 
 astound them. Not less astonished was Sir 
 Andrew when the butler informed him that 
 ' that John Morrison' w^as in the hall again, 
 having been taken by the keepers in the act 
 of stealing a hare. 
 
 Sir Andrew, having finished his dinner, 
 ordered the poacher to be brought before him 
 at once in the library. 
 
 Thither John was led, with the hare in one 
 hand, his hat in the other. The servants, 
 clustered at an angle of the stairs, tittered at 
 this odd combination of simplicity and guilt, 
 and followed him with their eyes until the 
 library door closed upon him. 
 
 ' So you are here again, John Morrison V 
 said the baronet. ' It is exactly as I ex- 
 pected. I did wrong in not benching you for 
 your first offence. Come nearer to the light 
 and let me look at you, rascal. What is tliat 
 you carry in your hand ?'
 
 John Morrison Steals a Dead Hare, 57 
 
 ^ A dead hare/ answered John, holding it 
 up to be seen. 
 
 * Took him with it in his hand just as he is 
 now/ said Ledger. 
 
 ' Well, what is your defence V, asked Sir 
 Andrew, addressing John and raising his 
 voice as if the culprit were deaf. 
 
 ' Defence V echoed John, vaguely. 
 
 ' Yes. What have you to say for yourself?' 
 
 * I han't nothing to say.' 
 
 ' This affected simplicity will not deceive 
 me. Come, what have you to say about the 
 hare V 
 
 ' There he is just as I picked him up/ and 
 as he spoke John laid the hare on the table. 
 
 ' You wish me to believe that you did not 
 steal it, eh V 
 
 ' Steal it ? What's gone ? There's the 
 hare as I picked it up. If I take up this 
 candlestick — so, and lay it down again — so, I 
 han't stole it, have I V 
 
 *■ Do not speak to me in that tone, fellow ! 
 I see your drift. You are not so much a fool 
 as a rogue. But your cunning will not avail 
 here. You haven't farmer Marsh to deal 
 with.' 
 
 * I don't know anything about drifts. I 
 picked up that dead hare on the road. There
 
 Folly Morrison. 
 
 it lies, no better, no wus ; and if it belongs to 
 you, 3'ou can keep it/ 
 
 * Your insolence shall be punished when 
 you are before the magistrates/ 
 
 ' Before the magistrates ? You can't bench 
 me for picking up a dead hare/ 
 
 ' Silence 1' cried the enraged baronet, 
 stamping his foot. * Now, Ledger, let me 
 hear wdiat you have to say. In the first 
 j)lace, how long have you suspected this John 
 Morrison of poaching V 
 
 ' Off and on, about two years,' answered 
 the keej)er. 
 
 ' That's a lie, Jim Ledger !' cried Morrison, 
 aroused from his sullen mood by wdiat seemed 
 to him a vindictive falsehood. He turned 
 upon Ledger fiercely, causing the little villain 
 to retire hastily. 
 
 ' Silence !' exclaimed Sir Andrew again, 
 striking the table with his fist. ' If you do 
 not behave yourself, you shall not have the 
 chance of exculpating yourself ; I will commit 
 you at once.' 
 
 John Morrison looked at Sir Andrew in 
 perplexity. Was it possible that the baronet 
 had the power to send him to gaol for giving 
 the lie to a liar ? he asked himself. The pos- 
 sibility w^as evident, and cowed him at once.
 
 John Morrison Steals a Dead Hare. 59 
 
 The baronet turned again to Ledger. 
 
 ' You have suspected him for two years. 
 Go on/ 
 
 'Since he took the wood/ said Ledger, 
 ' I've kept a close eye on him^ as you told 
 me to, Sir Andrew.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I'm seldom wu'ong in my judgment. 
 I knew we should find he was not content 
 Avith one theft. Go on.' 
 
 ' This afternoon me and George Lough, 
 going along by the side of Sandy Lane copse, 
 came upon a hare hid under the bracken by 
 the side of the road. Suspecting it was 
 hidden there to be fetched away when the 
 night came, we sat doAvn and watched.' 
 
 ' Y^ou and Lough together V 
 
 ' No, sir ; I sent Lough on a dozen yards 
 or so farther along the road in case the 
 poacher should try to escape.' 
 
 ' I see. Yes.' ' 
 
 ' We waited there until about three- 
 quarters of an hour ago,' continued Ledger, 
 adroitly slipping on the safe side of George 
 Lough and keeping one eye upon Morrison, 
 ' w^hen up came this man, John Morrison, 
 treading along the turf. He stops, looks 
 about to see that no one is near, then slips 
 his hand in the brake and pulls out the hare.'
 
 CO FolJ^j Morrison, 
 
 John Morrison started, and, looking at his 
 accuser, his bottom jaw fell. He was com- 
 pletely bewildered by the false charge. 
 
 Ledger, edging still a step nearer to the 
 baronet and away from John, continued : 
 
 * No sooner had he gfot it than he went off 
 at a smart pace in the direction of his home. 
 I whistled to George Lough, who jumped 
 over the ditch — he being hid in the copse — 
 and stopped him till I came up. We took 
 him with the hare in his hand as we brought 
 him here, Sir Andrew, and that is all' 
 
 ' You have done your duty admirably, 
 Ledger, and the whole management of this 
 affair reflects great credit upon you. It shall 
 not be forgotten. Now, Morrison, have you 
 anything to urge in your defence V 
 
 ' May I speak V asked John, in a faltering 
 voice. 
 
 ^ You may, if you do not abuse your privi- 
 lege. What have you to say V 
 
 ' I say that Jim Ledger is a liar, and all 
 he has said a wicked, false lie. I did not 
 walk along the turf I did not slip my hand 
 in the brake. For why ? The hare lay there 
 in the middle o' the road. I picked him up 
 as he lay there, and, feeling of him all over, 
 found he was a dead 'ne.'
 
 John Morrison Steals a Dead Hare. QV 
 
 ^ Dead one ? What do you mean ?' asked 
 Sir Andrew. 
 
 * A hare as had died o' the rot, and not 
 been killed.' 
 
 Ledger gave a short derisive laugh, and 
 pinched the hare's skin. 
 
 * Is that the case ? Did the hare die 
 naturally, Ledger V 
 
 * Not he, sir. I never see a hare in finer 
 condition. 'Sides, Sir Andrew, here's the 
 mark of the wire on him — collared, as we call 
 it. See, sir. And you can tell by the fall 
 of his head that his neck's been broke with 
 the side of the hand in the or'nary way.' 
 
 John Morrison trembled — a sign of his 
 guilt to Sir Andrew^ who was watching him. 
 
 ' Have you anything more to say V the 
 baronet asTved, severely. 
 
 'Why, Sir Andrew, you can't believe I 
 snared the hare and killed it, when n ot much 
 more 'an an hour ago I was up here begging 
 for a loaf and a blanket V 
 
 ' Ah, that's a clumsy artifice. I see now 
 the reason of your making tbat impudent 
 request. It was to enable you to get up an 
 alihi. That is your line of defence, is it V 
 
 ' I swear it is true that I picked up that 
 hare in the middle of the road, and, believing
 
 62 Follij Morrison. 
 
 it to be a dead 'ne, tliongiit I might take it 
 home to feed my poor children on since you 
 wouldn't give us a loaf.' 
 
 ^ Again a very clumsy subterfuge. Then 
 you admit taking the hare with you V 
 
 ' Yes, that be true.' 
 
 ' That is quite sufficient. I Avill write to 
 Major Ewens. He will commit you at once. 
 Ledger, get the spring cart. You and Lough 
 shall take this man to Major Ewens, get the 
 order, and go on to Guildford at once.' 
 
 T'he baronet took up a pen, and, as he com- 
 menced writing, said to John Morrison : 
 
 ' On Saturday you will be brought before 
 the bench, and I advise you to relinquish 
 your ill-constructed plan of defence. It will 
 only cause 3^ou to be sent to the assizes for 
 trial. Better plead guilty at once, and go 
 to gaol for three months.' 
 
 ' Go to gaol — three months !' exclaimed 
 Morrison, catching at the table for sujDport. 
 
 ^ You may think yourself fortunate if you 
 get off with that.' 
 
 ' But I declare I am innocent of wicked 
 intent. I do swear it. Send for master 
 Marsh. He will tell you that I never 
 took ' 
 
 * Your master shall not get you off this
 
 John Morrison Steals a Dead Hare. 63 
 
 time/ said the baronet, still writing. ' I 
 yielded to his wishes before unwisely. You 
 must go to gaol.' 
 
 John could find no words to speak. He 
 waited, with a tumult of feelings working in 
 his breast, as Sir Andrew finished writing the 
 order. Ledger had gone to order the cart, 
 and now returned. 
 
 ' Here is the letter,' said the baronet, turn- 
 ing the paper over and smoothing it on the 
 blotting-paper. ^ Take him.' 
 
 Lough stepped forward. 
 
 Kealising his peril, John snatched his arm 
 from the keeper's hand, and with a wild, in- 
 articulate cry, threw himself on his knees at 
 the baronet's feet. 
 
 ' Oh, Sir Andrew, mercy — mercy on me 1' 
 he cried. ' I am innocent. I declare I am. 
 But I will not contradict you if only 3^ou 
 will be merciful. Think of it — I have a 
 family of little children, and a poor wife 
 whose time is close at hand. Think of it — 
 it is Christmas-tide ; fancy the misery you 
 will bring on them by sending me away — 
 fancy how you may gladden their wretched 
 hearts by sparing me !' 
 
 The baronet, impulsively harsh, impulsively 
 lenient, looked down on this ragged, cla}^-
 
 64 Folly Morrison. 
 
 begrimed, piteous object at his feet, and was 
 melted to compassion. 
 
 ' Come on, none o' that — it won't do,' put 
 in Ledger. ' Fetch him up, Lough. Don't 
 you see he's annoying Sir Andrew V 
 
 ' Have mercy on me, Sir Andrew !' implored 
 John, half sobbing as he thought of Joan and 
 his ragged brood at home. * I will work for 
 you, body and soul, day and night, till T can 
 work no more, if only you will pity me. Throw 
 that letter in the fire. Why will you believe 
 Ledger, and not me ? He owes me a spite, 
 and lias invented this story to ruin me and 
 kill the poor woman who wouldn't have liini 
 for her husband.' 
 
 ' You Avill get no compassion from me by 
 vilifying a man who has ever served me faith- 
 fully and well.' 
 
 * I tell you he is a liar !' cried Morrison, 
 who every moment was losing the ground he 
 had gained, and ruining his only hope. 
 
 ' Take him away, Lough. It is cruel to 
 be weak at such a moment. You must go 
 to prison.' 
 
 ' You will not send me away '? Good God ! 
 what will become of my wife and children 1 
 They have not a penny in the world.' 
 
 ' They shall be cared for, and are likely to
 
 John Morrison Steals a Dead Hare. Q^ 
 
 be better off parted from such a man as you. 
 You are not a fit example for children to 
 have before them.' 
 
 ' Mercy !' screamed Morrison, struggling 
 with the keepers as they laid hands on 
 him. 
 
 He had no chance with Lough — a young, 
 well-fed, strong-bodied man — and, still crying 
 for pity, he was carried from the room. 
 
 VOL. r.
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF FOLLY. 
 
 HEN one J. P. writes to another, 
 saying, ' I send you for committal 
 a poacher, taken red-handed by my 
 keepers,' common courtesy obhges 
 the second J. P. to comply without hesitation, 
 unless there exists a personal animosity be- 
 tween the two gentlemen, when, indeed, the 
 case may be different. 
 
 Major Ewens was on the best terms of 
 friendship with his neighbour Sir Andrew 
 Aveling, so he wrote the required order, after 
 putting one or two brief and formal questions 
 to the accusing keepers and the accused 
 poacher. And John Morrison was carried 
 over to Guildford, there to be kept in custody 
 for five dayKS, that he might be brought be-
 
 The Birth of Folly, 67 
 
 fore the bench of magistrates, who would 
 then determine what further punishment he 
 should receive. 
 
 Meanwhile Joan, expecting her husband's 
 return, OTew anxious as the evenino' went on. 
 Several times she went to the door and 
 looked out. He had said nothins" of his 
 intention to go and beg at the hall, and she 
 knew nothing to account for his protracted 
 absence. At length a woman, carrying bread 
 and blankets, who had just come from Ave- 
 ling Hall, brought her the news that John 
 Morrison had been sent away in a cart with 
 James Ledg^er and Georo^e Lougfh for stealinsr 
 a hare. 
 
 * And where ha' they took my man ?' asked 
 Joan, a pathetic tremor in her voice. 
 
 ' They told me he wur going to Guildford.' 
 
 ' But t' don't think they'll keep 'im there V 
 
 ' Aye, till the bench sits next week.' 
 
 ' What ! for nothin' at all ?' 
 
 ^ He's stole a hare, I tell ye.' 
 
 ' I don't believe it, woman ; do ye ?' ex- 
 claimed Joan, fiercely. ' I don't think that 
 my John 'd take anything Avilful like that 
 didn't belong to him.' 
 
 ^ Nay, to be sure,' answered the woman, in 
 a conciliatory tone. ' But, you see, magis- 
 
 5—2
 
 68 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 trates. don't think nothing about the wilful- 
 ness of the thing. What are ye going to do, 
 my dear ?' she added, as Joan, having looked 
 into the next apartment, locked the door, and 
 took down her shawl and bonnet from the 
 nail on which they hung. 
 
 * Going to help my man, for certain !' 
 
 ^ What, at this time o' night — all that way 
 • — and you in your condition V 
 
 ' 'Tain't me that's to be thought on now — 
 'tis my John. Come, nei'bour, theren't no 
 time to lose. Thank ye for bringing me the 
 tidings, bad though they be.' 
 
 With these words Joan accompanied her 
 visitor to the door, which she locked, and 
 then started on her journey. 
 
 Farmer Marsh had helped her before, and 
 with the hope that he would be good to her 
 now, she went over to May ford, though it 
 was far out of her line of route to Guild- 
 ford. 
 
 Marsh listened with knitted brows to the 
 brief statement of his servant's new misfor- 
 tune, turned his back to the fire, and thrust 
 his hands in his breeches-pocket. The move- 
 ment was sufficiently indicative of his deter- 
 mination to sta}^ by his hearth. 
 
 ' No, Joan ; I can do nothing for him/ said
 
 The Birth of Follij. 69 
 
 lie. ' John's a fool, who can't keep himself 
 out of trouble, and won't be guided. I bade 
 him square it up with Ledger, and told him how 
 it would be if he didn't. He was obstinate, 
 and now he must abide by the consequences. 
 I can't run against my landlord : he's a man 
 that likes to have his own way. I've got a 
 family of my own, and mustn't risk being 
 turned out of my farm by helping a man that 
 my landlord don't like. John must go before 
 the bench ; 'twill make him more careful in 
 the future. And look here, Joan, my good 
 woman, I don't want to be hard with you, 
 and I shan't worry you for rent while you're 
 in trouble, but I advise vou to seek out some 
 other place for your John to get into when he 
 comes from prison, for it won't do for me to 
 take him back here.' 
 
 Joan, picturing her husband alone in dis- 
 tress, did not wait to parley further with her 
 old master. She left him standino- before the 
 blazing kitchen fire, and went out into the 
 night without a word. 
 
 Before she had got over a mile of her 
 journey she felt so weak that she had to 
 rest herself a while upon a bank. She was 
 impatient of delay, and started on again in a 
 few minutes. Her knees trembled under her,
 
 70 Folly Morrison. 
 
 and she staggered ascending the hilL On the 
 brow of the hill she was forced to stop again, 
 but her mind was restless still. It vexed her 
 that she was weak and incapable of this easy 
 task. Hundreds of times she had walked to 
 Guildford and back again laden with heavy- 
 parcels, feeling no fatigue scarcely except 
 towards the end of the journey, and now 
 when she most needed strength it was denied 
 her. 
 
 It seemed as if Providence were against 
 her John and her, and a bitter feeling of 
 resentment frenzied her soul as she thought 
 of the bitter hardships of their life, their long 
 term of patient endurance, and her present 
 impotency. 
 
 ' What have we done that we should be 
 made to suffer thus V she asked ; and, look- 
 ing up at the cold sky with its watery veil of 
 cloud, she doubted if a merciful God yet 
 reigned in heaven. 
 
 Expecting no help from above, she listened 
 for the sound of cart-wheels. A carter mio^ht 
 pit}^ her, though Heaven denied. But the 
 night was still and soundless. She rose and 
 walked, determined to rest no more until the 
 town was reached. For another mile she 
 staggered along, blindly at times, her eyes
 
 The Birth of FolJij. 71 
 
 closed with pain, but indomitable in her per- 
 severance. Then, with a great sigh, she sank 
 upon a heap of stones by the side of the 
 common. She fell into a kind of sleep for a 
 few seconds, from which she awoke with a 
 vague belief that she had slept hours, and, 
 rising all bewildered and giddy, tottered on- 
 wards a few yards, not knowing whither, but 
 keeping to the road. She looked about her 
 stupidly, saw a familiar object before her on 
 her left hand which should have been on her 
 right, and went on, striving to explain the 
 mystery. 
 
 Suddenly it occurred to her that she had 
 been retracing her steps, and was walking 
 from Guildford instead of towards it. 
 
 Then she threw herself upon the earth, 
 grinding her teeth, and tearing up hand- 
 fuls of the tough heather in futile 
 rage. 
 
 As she lay there a spasm of pain shot 
 through her ; it was followed by the drowsy 
 half-consciousness of exhaustion. Her ideas 
 became confused, a numbness seized her 
 senses, she forgot everything. 
 
 At midnight a waggoner, coming from 
 Guildford, and on his way to Chertsey, dis- 
 covered Joan lying across the path, her hands
 
 72 Folly Morrison. 
 
 stretched before her among the heather, her 
 feet in the road. 
 
 Had he been a London carman, he would 
 have thought her dead drunk, and left her 
 there to recover when she mis^ht : but this 
 man had seen less of drunkenness than of 
 privation, and, with the assistance of his boy, 
 contrived to lift the unconscious woman into 
 the empty waggon. 
 
 In Chertsey he knocked up the porter of 
 the workhouse, and explained matters. 
 
 The porter grumbled and demurred. 
 
 'Come, man/ said the waofo-oner, ^ don't 
 make a trouble of what can't be helped. 
 You must take in the woman ; and bein' it's 
 Christmas morning, and the poor soul's in a 
 bad way and like to be a mother, you may 
 as well do your duty cheerful and kindly.' 
 
 With assistance the porter carried Joan 
 into the house, and gave her into the hands 
 of the matron, a motherly body, who, seeing 
 the poor creature's condition, did all she 
 could for her relief 
 
 Towards daybreak Joan gave birth to a 
 child, and gained a faint degree of conscious- 
 ness. She recollected John and her children, 
 and knew that she was helpless and in a 
 strange place.
 
 Tlie Birth of Folly. 73 
 
 She began to cry childishly. 
 
 ' Don't 'e cry, my good woman,' said the 
 matron, patting her shoulder. * 'Tis all 
 over, and the child is a rare peart little 
 thing.' 
 
 * John, my poor John. !' 
 
 'Aye, John, he's a good man, and your 
 husband lawful, as I see by the ring on your 
 finger.' 
 
 * John, my man — let me go to him.' 
 
 ' Nay, lie still, a good soul. You must 
 not move ; you cannot.' 
 
 ' My childer all locked up and alone there. 
 My poor John, let me go to him — I'll be 
 stronof — 'tis not more than four mile to walk 
 now,' whimpered Joan. 
 
 * Why, we'll send for him directly, and you 
 shall all spend Christmas together happy.' 
 
 ' All together — John and the childer and 
 all ! — all here around me — all their sweet 
 faces !' exclaimed Joan incredulously, yet 
 wdth a tender accent of hope. 
 
 ' Aye, aye, aye ! The porter shall go. 
 'Tis six striking now, harkey !' 
 
 * Six, and Christmas morning V 
 
 * Aye, don't ye hear the clock, and all the 
 church bells ringing so cheerful T 
 
 ' I doan know the bells ; I can't hear
 
 74 Folly Morrison. 
 
 nothin' but my dear childer crying for me to 
 come and let them from their room.' 
 
 ^ Nay, 'tis your babe here is crying for ye 
 — see !' 
 
 ' But my John and my other childer !' 
 
 ' Why, ye shall have all presently.' 
 
 Joan lay silently collecting her thoughts a 
 moment, then she threw out her arms, 
 crying : 
 
 ' Oh, no, no, no ! I shall never see 'em 
 again — never, never ! My John lies in 
 prison, and my childer starve in the cot, and 
 I am here — no more a wife and mother to 
 love and care for 'em, and cuddle 'em in mv 
 arms.' 
 
 She sank back in a passionate fit of weep- 
 ing. 
 
 The matron looked at the nurse holding 
 the baby, and shook her head significantly ; 
 then she sat down on the side of the bed 
 with a sigh, and patted Joan's shoulder again, 
 as a mother pats her infant to sleep. 
 
 The sobs abated, and, after a silence, Joan 
 asked : 
 
 ' Where am I V 
 
 ' In Chertsey, dear.' 
 
 ' God help me !' 
 
 ' God will ; 'tis His day of pity. Needs
 
 Tlie Birth of Folly. 75 
 
 He must pity all who suffer at this time, for 
 memory of His Son/ 
 
 ' And my John and the little 'nes— will He 
 comfort they V 
 
 ^ Aye, aye, to be sure.' 
 
 ' My man alone ! my little 'nes all crying 
 for me, and wondering why they be locked 
 up wi'out food or comfort — oh, isn't it sorrow- 
 ful to think on !' 
 
 'For certain sure. But they shall be 
 helped ; I'll see to 'em myself when you are 
 strong enough to tell us all about 'em. But 
 restey quiet now, there's a good woman.' 
 
 ' And you'll tell John the moment ye see 
 him how his Joan tried her most to come to 
 him ; and ye'll tell the childer that they shall 
 ha' a big pudden wi' plums and curran's and 
 things in soon's ever mammy gets a bit 
 strong ?' 
 
 'That I will.' 
 
 Joan sighed, and a faint smile relaxed her 
 pinched cheeks. 
 
 ' Gi' me my w^ee child,' she said, pre- 
 sently. 
 
 ' There it is ; and a fine little girl it be, 
 too, and like you as may be, even to the little 
 mole in the corner of the eye, lookey.' 
 
 The mother took her child, and, forgetting
 
 76 FgUh Morrison. 
 
 all but her maternity for the moment, grew 
 ineffably sweet to look upon. 
 
 ' John wished it to be called Florence if it 
 were born a girl,' said she, looking up from 
 the mite at her bosom. 
 
 ' Florence — 'tis a sweet name !' said the 
 matron. 
 
 * Florence — my poor man — my John !' 
 murmured Joan, faintly, as she closed her 
 eyes. 
 
 She never opened them again, for God did 
 pity her.
 
 Mj2j% 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 A HANDFUL OF CHIPS DROPPED INTO THE OCEAN. 
 
 MORRISON in Guildford 
 lock-up awaiting his trial for steal- 
 ing a dead hare ; eleven of his 
 children without fire, food, or friends 
 in a cottage near Woking; Joan Morrison 
 lying stark dead in the parish mortuary of 
 Chertsey ; her newly-born infant in the 
 workhouse hard by crying lustily over the 
 first troubles of her existence — this was the 
 position of these dramatis 'personce at that 
 time of general feasting and merriment the 
 morning of Christmas Day, 1853. 
 
 Towards noon the famished children in 
 Sandy Lane, getting no response from father 
 or mother to their piteous cries, were prompted 
 by necessity to act for themselves. The two
 
 78 Folly Morris 
 
 son. 
 
 eldest girls (twins) got through the window 
 of the room in which they were confined — it 
 was upon the ground-floor — and lifted out 
 the younger ones. Then these eleven hapless 
 youngsters, ragged and half clad, their noses 
 purple with cold, their unwashed cheeks 
 besmirched with tears, went in a body over the 
 frozen fields to Mayford, seeking their father. 
 
 Farmer Marsh received them charitably, 
 and with all the kindness his rough, brusque 
 nature could exhibit. He set them round 
 the great fire burning on the kitchen hearth, 
 before which the goose was cooking, and 
 gave them bread and cheese and ale ; then 
 he sent them off in a tumbrel, well filled with 
 straw litter, under the charge of his carter, 
 to Guildford workhouse. 
 
 With this act of benevolence farmer Marsh 
 leaves these pages : neither he nor these 
 children have any further history here. 
 
 The following week John Morrison was 
 brouofht before the bench of mag^istrates. In 
 the interval he had learnt that his wife had 
 deserted her children, and was nowhere to 
 be found, and that his children had been sent 
 to the workhouse. His inability to seek 
 Joan, whom he knew nothing but accident 
 or death could separate from her brood,
 
 A Handful of Chips. 79 
 
 maddened him. He was not in his sound 
 senses Avhen he was brought before the 
 magistrates, and persisted in declaring that 
 Sir Andrew AveUng and his keeper had 
 conspired to ruin him. His violence in 
 protesting his innocence was attributed to 
 artifice rather than a consciousness of inno- 
 cence, and his offence obtained no extenuation 
 from the generous appeal of the offended 
 baronet. Sir Andrew's weak and lenient 
 character was well known ; and his friends 
 the magistrates, in his defence and their own, 
 determined to put a summary check upon the 
 violence and depredations of John Morrison. 
 All they would do in the w^ay of mercy was 
 to give him the option of going for trial to 
 the assizes or receiving an immediate sentence. 
 
 Naturally enough, John Morrison chose to 
 know his fate at once. Thereupon he was 
 sentenced to three months' imprisonment, and 
 complimented on his good fortune in getting 
 off so lightly. 
 
 In gaol he made the acquaintance of a man 
 w^ho had been there before. This new friend 
 gave him some good Avorldly advice which 
 sank deep into his receptive mind. * Look 
 after yourself was the motto he was told to 
 keep constantly before him.
 
 80 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' Since the parish is so fond of your brats, 
 let them keep 'em till you want 'em/ said 
 this new friend ; ' and if you must find your 
 wife, go about it with a clean pair of heels. 
 You won't travel far with a dozen children 
 tied to 'em !' 
 
 John Morrison came out of gaol an altered 
 man, but still cherishing an affection for his 
 lost Joan. Wherever he fancied he micyht 
 hear of her he asked for nev/s, despite the 
 short answers and rude rebuffs he got from 
 those he had once known as his equals. He 
 learnt that on Christmas Eve Joan had left 
 her cottao^e with the determination of croinQr 
 to him in Guildford, and that early the 
 followhig morning a carter had picked up a 
 dying woman and carried her away. More 
 than this he was unable to discover, and so, 
 when further search was hopeless, he walked 
 away from that part of the country and 
 entered London. 
 
 In the Brompton Koad he came to a mews. 
 A w^aggon loaded with hay stood there. 
 Beside the carter stood the stable-keeper, 
 with his hands in his breeches-pockets and a 
 straw in his mouth. He was disinclined for 
 work, and the carter wanted assistance to 
 unload the hay. Seeing John Morrison with
 
 A Handful of Chips. 81 
 
 care and anxiety written on his face he hailed 
 him. 
 
 ' Here, you — want a job V 
 
 'Aye, master.' 
 
 ' Then just lend a hand with this hay.' 
 
 The energy with which John Morrison set 
 to work, and his dexterity in moving the hay, 
 won the admiration of the lazy man, chewing 
 his straw and turning over the silver in his 
 pocket. 
 
 ' You seem a smart sort of a hand,' said he, 
 looking at John as he put on his jacket and 
 wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 
 ' Out of work V 
 
 ' Yes, master. Just walked up from away 
 there in Surrey. Times are hard.' 
 
 ' Understand horses V 
 
 ' Aye, I've had to do wi' 'em every day o' 
 my life since I wur a little chap no higher 
 'an so.' 
 
 ' Cut chaff r 
 
 ' Ten truss a day wi' a single cutter.' 
 
 ' Make yourself useful — clean up — do what 
 you're told — no grumbling V 
 
 ^ I can turn my hand to a'most everything, 
 and so's I get my wages paid I must do my 
 work and be pleasant.' 
 
 ' What wages do you want V 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 FoUy Mot 
 
 nson. 
 
 * I have been a-o-ettin' a matter of fourteen 
 shillings, but ' 
 
 ' Want to better yourself I know. "Well, 
 I like the look of you, so I'll give you sixteen 
 and try you. I don't want to know why you 
 left your last berth, and if I did I bet you 
 wouldn't tell me. You can begin now ; but 
 mark me, if I catch you pilfering at the oats, 
 or getting drunk when there's a job on, off 
 you go at a moment's notice. That's my 
 form.' 
 
 John Morrison would have accepted service 
 at half the wages offered, for he had now no 
 one but himself to provide for, and the gene- 
 rosity of his new employer surprised him as 
 much as his warning with regard to honesty 
 and sobriety. He had never tasted the liquor 
 he could get drunk upon. 
 
 He began work at once and earned his 
 money easily — too easily, for the day's labours 
 were ended early and spare time hung heavily 
 upon him. He could not read, and for men 
 of his kind there are no amusements. What 
 could he do in his leisure hours but think of 
 his poor Joan and his lost children ? To do 
 some extra job, such as scouring bright a 
 rusty horse-bit, repairing a manger, or the 
 like, was a pleasure to him — it occupied his
 
 A Handful of Chips. 83 
 
 thoughts ; but when his stables were all 
 clean, and no work of any kind presented 
 itself, he would sit on a truss of straw or a 
 corn-bin in the dark, thinking of the hard 
 times that were past, yet wishing them back 
 for the sake of seeing the faces he had tried 
 to make haj^py. It was a melancholy business 
 working for himself alone, fair as it had ap- 
 peared set forth by his gaol friend. He was 
 not conditioned to enjoy a selfish existence. 
 He yearned after his youngsters, but the fear 
 of being imprisoned for not taking them out 
 of the workhouse when he left gaol deterred 
 him from fetching them a\yay. He knew his 
 amenities in this resj)ect. 
 
 His habit of sitting alone in the dark when 
 he could find no work to do was discovered 
 by his fellow- workers in the yard, and they 
 set him down for a dull^ unsociable clod. 
 None of them liked him — he worked too 
 well. 
 
 They told the ^ governor,' and he, mindful 
 of his oats, dropped into the stable one night 
 w^hen it was all dark and quiet, and by the 
 light of the lantern he carried perceived John 
 Morrison sitting on a truss of clover. 
 
 * Halloa, my man, what are you doing 
 here V he asked. 
 
 6—2
 
 84 Folly Morrison. 
 
 '• Waiting till it be time to gi' the nags 
 their supper, and go to bed, master.' 
 
 ^ But why are you sitting here in the dark ?' 
 
 ' I got nothin' to do and nowheres else to 
 go till bed-time : as for the dark, that's nowt 
 to me. It's all one when you've only got to 
 think.' 
 
 ' Think ! What have you to think about 1' 
 
 * On'y troubles, master ; on'y troubles.' 
 ' Why, what troubles can you have ?' 
 
 'No worse 'an other people's, maybe, but 
 they're more 'an enough for me. I ha' lost 
 my wife, and my little 'nes, and my home 
 and all. All's gone, and there's nowt left of 
 'em to me but the mem'ry,' answered John ; 
 and re23eated in a lower voice, as if to him- 
 self, 'Wife and home and little 'nes — all 
 gone !' 
 
 The stable-keeper was a vulgar ]]ian — a 
 horsey, knowing man, of crooked dealings 
 and slight credit ; but he had a wdfe and 
 children of his own that he liked better than 
 his horses or his bull pup, and a fellow-feeling 
 made his heart turn kindly towards his lonely 
 stable-help sitting there alone in the dark 
 dwelling with the shadows of a happier time. 
 
 * Here, you come along o' me, Jack,' said 
 he, blowing out the light. 'This isn't the
 
 A Handful of Chips. 85 
 
 place for a sorrowful man. We shall have 
 yoLi hanging yourself or something. Be a 
 man, and forget your troubles ; don't nuss 
 'em up like a woman. Come along o' me.' 
 
 John Morrison obeyed instinctively, and 
 followed his master, who trotted off across 
 the stable-yard with that jerky movement 
 habitual to men who tread cobble-stones 
 frequently. 
 
 Up the mews, along the Brompton Bead, 
 and down a turning" that owed its illumination 
 to a flaring gin-shop at the end, w^ent master 
 and man. The door of the house swung open 
 freely to the stable-keeper's hand, as though 
 it were used to his touch. From the bar a 
 side-door opened into a tap-room, where there 
 w^as a bright fire burning and plenty of com- 
 pany seated about. They entered. 
 
 ' Bring two hot gins and a screw of tobacco,' 
 said the stable-keeper to the potman. Then 
 he nodded to the assembled company, took 
 up a couple of clay pipes, and, giving one to 
 John Morrison, sat down with the other 
 beside a jolly- looking old man with a mulberry 
 nose, who greeted him with a respectful yet 
 friendly touch of the hat. 
 
 ' Come to spend a hour with us, gov'nor V 
 asked the cheerful man.
 
 86 Folly JSJorrison. 
 
 ' Can't stay long to-night, Charley ; but 
 I've brought my man, Jack, here — as good a 
 fellow as any that ever worked for me, but a 
 bit low in spirits. Now I want you to take 
 him in hand and cheer him up a bit,' answered 
 the stable-keeper, adding in a lower tone, 
 ' I'll make it all right. Lost his missus — 
 stranger here — make him comfortable — I'll 
 put it all right with you.' 
 
 The old fellow nodded and winked, looking 
 at John Morrison, who was handling his pipe 
 sheepishly. 
 
 The grog came, and with it the tobacco. 
 
 ' Fill your pipe. Jack,' said the master. 
 
 The man obeyed. 
 
 ' Now drink that noggin, and when you've 
 done that you'll take another with old 
 Charley.' 
 
 ' That's all right,' said old Charley. ' You 
 leave us together ; me and him's going to be 
 reg'lar pals, and have a good night of it.' 
 
 ^ ^ ^M? 5;? ^ 
 
 In this way John Morrison was taken from 
 his sorrow and weaned — upon gin-and-water. 
 
 In the public-house he found what he could 
 find nowhere else in London — comfort and 
 fbrgetfulness in his spare time ; and now that 
 this source of consolation was opened to him
 
 A Handful of Chips. 87 
 
 he turned eagerly to it whenever his own 
 misfortunes depressed him. The tap-room 
 became his home, and the company in it took 
 the place of wife and children. To solace 
 himself there was the most rational thing he 
 could do in the absence of any healthier or 
 better means of relief ; and so he, with many 
 thousands of the neglected and uncared-for, 
 floated into the vortex, to be hurried along 
 and whirled down with ever- in creasing swift- 
 ness and sureness to destruction. 
 
 Who is to blame ? We are not uncharitable. 
 We pay our church-rates, and subscribe to 
 charities and missions that these souls may 
 be saved ; but our paid moralist stands on 
 the safe ground afar off, issuing warnings in 
 a feeble voice which is not heard. His hand 
 is delicate, and his arm as weak as his head : 
 altogether he is not the man to fling out a 
 rough rope and drag up strugglers from a 
 vortex. Our money is ill-spent, and in part- 
 ing with it foolishly we are fools, for which 
 we alone are to blame. 
 
 We leave John Morrison just within the 
 influence of this huge whirlpool. We shall 
 see him again when he is further down. 
 
 Chertsev troubled itself but little about
 
 88 Folly Morrison. 
 
 Joan Morrison. Her name was not known ; 
 the porter who took her in failed to take the 
 address of the carter who brouo;;ht her to the 
 house ; the surrounding parishes repudiated 
 her, and it was deemed cheaper to bury her 
 and forget her than to go to the expense of 
 inquiry, which might, after all, lead only to 
 profitless litigation. So there in Chertsey 
 Joan was buried. 
 
 Her child was reared under the charge of 
 the matron, and from her received the name 
 her mother had desired her to have — 
 Florence. 
 
 For a workhouse-born child this gentle 
 name was as inappropriate as might w^ell be, 
 and it chano-ed in obedience to that law of 
 ' fitness ' which governs nomenclature, first 
 to its diminutive Florry, and then, by an 
 easy transition, to Folly. This name slipped 
 easily over the tongue, and was retained ; 
 and certainly it must be admitted that a 
 more suitable one could not have been de- 
 vised for the child w^hose very existence was 
 a sarcasm upon the utilitarian sj^irit of the 
 workhouse in which she lived. 
 
 Thus this family was broken up and scattered 
 like a handful of chips dropped into the ocean.
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 FOLLY S FIRST CONQUEST. 
 
 N 1856 there lived at Cliertsey a 
 retired dancer and his wife, named 
 Fernandez. 
 
 Tom Fernandez and Marie la 
 Rose danced harlequin and columbine at 
 Drury Lane in the palmy days of panto- 
 mime, when Jo Grimaldi was clown there. 
 La Kose was a good little woman as well as 
 a good dancer ; and at the end of one panto- 
 mime season Tom Fernandez married her, 
 having the great Jo Grimaldi for his best 
 man, an honour which he talked of to his 
 dying day. 
 
 Harlequin and columbine were as happy 
 married as they had been single ; but con- 
 tentment, which makes a man stout, and is
 
 90 Folly Morrison. 
 
 seemly enough in an alderman, is a serious 
 disadvantage to a harlequin. Every year 
 Tom found it more difficult to slip his bat 
 under his belt, and it became evident that 
 before long he would get a word of advice 
 from the gallery which would necessitate a 
 farewell performance. 
 
 Fernandez had always been a lucky man, 
 and just at that time, when his corpulence 
 was endangering his popularity as a dancer, 
 he was prompted to risk a few pounds in a 
 foreign lottery, and had the good fortune to 
 win the first prize of £5,000. Having in- 
 vested the money, he had the good sense to 
 retire with his wife to the suburban cottage 
 where he now lived, upon the interest of his 
 capital, with such little additions as he made 
 by arranging ballets occasionally. 
 
 They had no children, which was a matter 
 of great regret to Tom, w^ho, like most 
 comedians, was devotedly fond of children. 
 To supply their place, he kept a j^erfect 
 menao'erie of domestic and other animals. 
 They, however, failed to supply the want of 
 his fatherly heart ; and whenever he could 
 get a child to come and spend the day in his 
 house he did, exerting himself to the utmost 
 to make the little one happy.
 
 Folly s First Conquest. 91 
 
 The most frequent of these httle visitors 
 was Tom's niece, a child whom he hked 
 simply because she was a child, and from no 
 feeling of kindred. There was no sympathy 
 between the brothers, and their wives hated 
 each other cordially. The ladies were jealous 
 of each other, one being a mother, the other 
 wife to an independent and retired harlequin. 
 
 Instigated by their wives, the brothers 
 would have quarrelled undoubtedly, but for 
 Tom's^fear of losing his niece and his brother's 
 dread of losing the inheritance of Tom's 
 money. However, the wives at length met, 
 and such a quarrel ensued between them that 
 their husbands could no longer remain 
 neutral : their mutual forbearance gave way, 
 and the}^ parted each with an assertion of 
 his independence. After that Tom could no 
 longer invite his niece. 
 
 Having deprived her husband of a plea- 
 sure, Marie felt bound to offer a substitute, 
 especially as he showed signs of a desire to 
 extend the olive-branch to his brother ; and 
 it was she who first proposed that they should 
 adopt a child as their own, a scheme which 
 recommended itself to her as a means of 
 blighting her sister-in-law's prospects Avith 
 regard to the inheritance of Tom's money.
 
 92 Folly Morrison. 
 
 Tom made no objection to the proposal : 
 it was more than agreeable to him. The 
 only difficulty he suggested was that of 
 finding a suitable child. 
 
 ' We should be able to find one in the — 
 the workhouse/ said Marie, with some hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 Her husband made a wry face at the name 
 of the institution. 
 
 ' I do not mean a ofrown child,' said his 
 wife, ' but a little thing that has no parents, 
 and is too young to have learnt anything un- 
 pleasant from the people there ; a nice little 
 creature that you might bring up in your 
 own way, as if it were your own child.' 
 
 ' That would be pleasant enough ; but are 
 we Hively to find such a child V 
 
 * We can but try. If we fail it's no matter. 
 I know the matron there, and if I recollect 
 rightly she said something about having just 
 such a child asw^e are speaking about.' 
 
 * Well, we can but try, as you say. But 
 we'll have a good talk over it first, for it's 
 rather a responsible affair taking a child for 
 good and all, and Sam will be awfully put 
 out. However, we'll talk about it.' 
 
 Mrs. Fernandez wanted nothing better ; 
 for what woman would despair when the
 
 Folhjs First Conquest. ^93 
 
 object she wishes to obtain depends upon her 
 abihty to talk her husband into compHance ? 
 
 The folio wino' afternoon Mr. Fernandez 
 and his wife called upon Mrs. Barlow, the 
 matron of the workhouse, and were shown 
 into her private apartment. A little child 
 with a golden head stood against the wall, 
 gravely tracing out the pattern on the paper 
 with a soft pink finger. 
 
 Hearing voices behind her, as Marie went 
 through the ceremony of introducing her 
 husband to the matron, the child turned her 
 head and looked with her large, widely- 
 opened dark eyes at the strangers, her little 
 mouth open, and her finger raised as she had 
 taken it from the wall. Turning her body to 
 face the new object of interest, her feet 
 slipped and she fell. Sitting where she had 
 fallen, her astonishment melted into mirth, 
 and with a little crow she cried : 
 
 ' Folly fall down.' 
 
 ' Yes, Folly fell down. Did Folly hurt 
 herself V said the matron. 
 
 ' No, Folly not hurt self Folly all lite. 
 Folly dit up adain now.' Therewith Folly 
 turned herself over on all fours and raised 
 herself to her feet. ' 'Ere, Folly all lite,' 
 she cried, laughing. Then, looking at the
 
 94 Folly Morrison. 
 
 strangers, she suddenly became aware of the 
 gravity of the occasion, staring at the stout 
 gentleman in solemn wonder, and raising her 
 fino-er to the little round bud of her mouth in 
 grave silence. 
 
 It was not less amusing to look at Mr. 
 Fernandez, who was returning the child's 
 gaze with equal intensity. 
 
 ' Will you take a seat, sir V asked the 
 matron. 
 
 Tom did not answer. He was introducing 
 himself to Folly now with * nods and becks 
 and wreathed smiles,' which led to his cross- 
 ing the room and going down on his knees to 
 shake hands with her. 
 
 ' My husband is so fond of children,' ex- 
 claimed Marie, in extenuation of Tom's pro- 
 ceedings ; and then she opened the subject 
 on which they had come to consult Mrs. 
 Barlow. 
 
 Meanwhile Tom and Folly were getting 
 on capitally together, making a pie in the 
 new Sunday hat which Marie had induced 
 her husband to wear for the occasion. A tin 
 rattle, a wooden horse, a wet mug, and a 
 doll that had suffered amputation and bled 
 sawdust copiously, were all stuffed into the 
 ele<^ant beaver and patted down with Folly's
 
 FoJhjs First Conquest. 95 
 
 fat little hand. When nothing^ more could 
 be crammed in everything was turned out, 
 and the hat beino- turned on one side formed 
 an admirable stable for the horse, where, 
 according to Folly's notion of propriety, the 
 noble animal was put to bed on some saw- 
 dust, covered over with a handkerchief, and 
 provided with the tin rattle, ' tase he wakes 
 up and wants tumting to pay wiv.' After 
 that the hat was turned up to serve for a car- 
 riage, and the limp doll, with the horse for a 
 companion, and the rattle, mug, and other 
 travelling requisites at its side, was taken for 
 a ride round the leo^s of the table. It was 
 delightful fun. There never was such a 
 useful hat as that, and never, when these 
 games were concluded, a more disreputable 
 one to look at. 
 
 By that time Mrs. Fernandez had de- 
 scribed to her friend in a confidential under- 
 tone all the particulars of her quarrel with 
 Mrs. Sam Fernandez, and her reasons for 
 wishing her husband to adopt a child. 
 
 ' Why, bless me !' said the matron, * there's 
 the very child you want — Folly, the healthiest, 
 best little thing that ever lived.' 
 
 ' You don't mean to say I can have this 
 little dear V said Mrs. Fernandez, in surprise.
 
 96 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' Why, to be sure, I shall be sorry to part 
 with her, but it is for her good, as she's just 
 of an age to take notice, and the other 
 children she would be associated with could 
 do her no good. I've had her under my 
 care from the very day she was born, three 
 years this next Christmas, and I assure you 
 her mother seemed a wholesome clean 
 woman, with a proper ring on her finger 
 worn quite thin. The mother died on the 
 day Folly was born/ 
 
 Tom had taken a seat like a rational being, 
 and listened eagerly to this history, keeping 
 his eyes the time on Folly, who, seated upon 
 his knee, had returned to her serious mood, 
 and was going over the buttons on his capa- 
 cious waistcoat with her finger solemnly. 
 
 * I never dreamt I could have such a sweet 
 httle child as that. I thought it was your 
 own, ma'am,' said he. 
 
 The matron was pleased with the compli- 
 ment, and assured him that there would be 
 no difficulty in adopting the little girl. Then 
 she explained the forms that would have to 
 be used, and told at great length all she knew ' 
 about Folly. 
 
 Folly's finger wearied in its travels. She 
 rested her round cheek aofainst the soft seal-
 
 Folly s First Conquest. 97 
 
 skin of Tom Fernandez's waistcoat, and her 
 mouth opened in a long yawn. 
 
 She took her fingers from the buttons, and, 
 doubhng her fist, rubbed it into her eyes 
 viciously. Then with another yawn she re- 
 turned to the buttons, as if going over them 
 again was a serious duty that must not be 
 neoflected. 
 
 The dark long lashes of her eyes fell lower 
 upon her creamy skin, her hand lost its 
 power and slid down into her lap, the closed 
 lips parted, just showing her small white 
 teeth. She nestled down closer in the soft 
 waistcoat. Her hair, cut short, according to 
 the workhouse regulations, spread around her 
 head in soft golden-red curls like a glory. 
 Her breath came and went at longer inter- 
 vals. Folly slept. 
 
 ^ Hush !' whispered the old pantomimist, 
 raisinof the finofer of his disenofagfed hand, 
 while with the other he clasped the little one 
 closer to his kind heart, and gently like a 
 woman. 
 
 Then the three looked down in silent ad- 
 miration on the beautiful picture presented 
 by this sleeping child. 
 
 A beautiful picture, indeed, for a silly old 
 man and a couple of women to dote on — a 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 Folly Morrison. 
 
 charming toy to amuse them. But is that 
 all ? Shall she be no more than a toy, to be 
 loved while her beauty lasts, cherished while 
 she can amuse, to be cast aside as worthless 
 when the bright cheek fades and the merry 
 spirit grows dull ? 
 
 If so, nature has but poorly compensated 
 her for poverty and helplessness by giving 
 her health and beauty, and would have dealt 
 more kindly by her in being less generous. 
 It were better for Folly to die young, or grow 
 up with a homely face, than to live and 
 perish a toy. 
 
 A sleeping child — a cloudlet in the morn- 
 ing sky, flushed with the tenderest morning 
 tints, are they not alike ? Both freshly 
 sprung from the bosom of nature. Who can 
 look at either without thinking of its destiny? 
 
 The cloud grows, collecting fire or dew, 
 and anon it bursts upon the world, blasting 
 mankind in its fierce irruption, or it falls in 
 Sfentle showers, refreshino- and invio^oratingf 
 the earth — God's instrument of love or 
 wrath. 
 
 And Folly ?
 
 CHxlPTER IX. 
 
 THE TWIG IS BENT. 
 
 'OM FERNANDEZ obtained per- 
 mission to adopt Folly as his child 
 with but little opposition from the 
 board of guardians. One overseer 
 only — deacon of a Dissenting chapel, and 
 grocer^ — objected, basing his protest on the 
 ground that Mr. Fernandez had been a play- 
 actor, and was, therefore, an improper person 
 to be entrusted with the bringing up of a 
 child. But this objection was ably met by 
 another overseer, also a guardian, and one 
 having the advantage of knowing Mr. Fer- 
 nandez as a ready-money customer, who 
 argued, first, that Mr. Fernandez was not a 
 legitimate play-actor, but a harlequin ; and, 
 secondly, that though he had once been a har-
 
 100 Folly Morrison. 
 
 lequin, he must clearly have been a very bad 
 harlequin to have retired from his profession 
 so early, and consequently he could claim to 
 be considered a respectable member of society. 
 He concluded by asking the board to look at 
 the applicant, and doubt, if they could, his 
 entire fitness to undertake the responsibilities 
 of a father. 
 
 Certainly Tom's appearance justified all 
 that could be said against him as a dancer, 
 or urged in his favour as a benevolent and 
 sober man. The portly, respectably dressed 
 old gentleman might have been an alderman 
 if looks were the only necessary qualification 
 for that hio^h office. 
 
 So the requisite forms were filled up and 
 signed, and Folly was handed over to the 
 harlequin. 
 
 Folly's life in her new home was one of 
 perpetual indulgence. The old dancer wor- 
 shi23ped her, and, watching her inclinations, 
 gratified her wishes, when it was possible, 
 before they were expressed. She did no 
 WTono* thino' that he could not excuse ; he 
 never rebuked her, and would permit no one 
 else to do so. People — his wife included — 
 said he spoilt the child ; but he could see no 
 foundation for this accusation^ since she was
 
 The Twig is Bent. 101 
 
 all he wished her to be. She was beautiful, 
 and loved him intensely. What more could 
 he desire ? 
 
 He dressed her like a little princess, and 
 took her about to be admired. It was im- 
 possible to see and not admire her — a hand- 
 some, long-limbed, fearless child, dressed with 
 all the taste her foster-mother — originally a 
 Parisian modiste — could bestow on her. It 
 was impossible also for parents of plainer 
 children to see her without detecting her 
 faults, and thanking Providence that their 
 offspring were not so self-willed, so vain, so 
 impudent as she. 
 
 The old man never attempted to conceal 
 his admiration from the child ; on the con- 
 trary, he taught her to believe herself a 
 prodigy. Folly was an apt pupil. 
 
 He encouraged her with praise in every 
 attempt she made to fascinate — for in her 
 eighth year the child was a perfect coquette 
 — and flattered her when she succeeded. 
 
 The result of this corruptive training may 
 be imagined. Folly grew up self-willed, indo- 
 lent, affected, and preposterously vain. Her 
 intense love of admiration, fostered by the 
 flattery of her weak-headed old guardian, 
 made her entirely different to other children
 
 102 Folly Morrison, 
 
 of her age. Their j)ractices she purposely 
 avoided, and in that way endeavoured, to 
 make herself consj^icuous successfully. She 
 would have nothing to do with dolls after she 
 came to the discreet age of six ; she took no 
 notice of toys ; and even sweetmeats she 
 pretended to dislike. To be sent into a 
 nursery to play w^ith children was the 
 greatest punishment that could be inflicted 
 on her ; and while they would be romping 
 about half mad with excitement, she would 
 sit as prim as a governess, thinking the most 
 spiteful things to say if she should be asked 
 to join in the sport. But to go among strange 
 * grown-up ' people, to deport herself with all 
 the assurance of an accomplished flirt, to 
 exercise her powers of fascination, to say 
 a smart thing while other children were 
 sitting mumchance in a corner with their 
 fingers in their mouths, that was her delight. 
 The only adult occupation she could not 
 bring herself to like was reading. She had 
 a heathenish liatred of letters, which not 
 even her desire to be a lady could overcome. 
 There was no school board in those days, and 
 in the whole seven years of her residence 
 with her foster-father she never learnt to 
 shape a pothook or a hanger. Old Tom was
 
 The Tivig is Bent 103 
 
 an easy-going mentor at all times ; but when 
 a tear sparkled on the long lash of his little 
 darlino' after she had thrice mistaken the 
 letter B for its neighbour C, to his great 
 amusement, he took her in his arms and 
 pitched the book into the lire, crying : 
 
 ' There goes the nasty old book, my pretty, 
 and you shall be troubled never again with 
 the stupid letters. Don't you cry, ducky. It 
 was unkind of me to laugh, but I never 
 meant to hurt my little Folly. We won't 
 have any more books till you're quite a big 
 girl — plenty of time, plenty of time — -and 
 not then if you don't choose to learn, pretty. 
 I don't see what's the use of so much learn- 
 ing, except you've got a speaking part : I 
 never wanted it in my life. I can sign my 
 name, and that's just enough for clever 
 people like you and me. Let stupid people 
 learn to spell : we can read without books, 
 and know quite as much as is good for us, 
 hey, Folly '? Now let us go and look after 
 the young rabbits.' 
 
 Folly could dance like a sylph. Long 
 before she attempted to read the alphabet 
 she had learnt to pirouette. Dancing, espe- 
 cially such dancing as the old harlequin and 
 columbine taught, was an exercise for which
 
 104 Folly Morrison, 
 
 the child was exceptionally well qualified, for 
 in addition to her desire to do what other 
 children could not do and to excite admira- 
 tion, she had excellent lungs and the nimblest 
 pair of legs. 
 
 Very soon after leaving the workhouse she 
 had been taken to the theatre, where she was 
 merely bewildered by the exhibition she was 
 then unable to understand ; but the old 
 dancer took her ao-ain and ao-ain, watchino^ 
 Avith delight her growing taste for that pro- 
 fession which an old actor never ceases to 
 love. In time the stage became Folly's fairy- 
 land^ and in her imagination the brightest, 
 hapj)iest being on earth was the beautifully 
 dressed danseuse, who lived in coloured lio-ht 
 amidst enchanting scenery, and whose move- 
 ments elicited the admiration and applause of 
 the assembled spectators. That was a crea- 
 ture to emulate, and her condition worthy to 
 be aspired to. The possibility of becoming 
 herself a public dancer was an idea which in- 
 toxicated the child, and she gave heart and 
 soul to accomplishing the feats she saw per- 
 formed by the coryphees. She succeeded in 
 a way that surprised even those who knew 
 her strong imitative faculty and powers of 
 observation. After seeing an extravaganza
 
 The Tivicj is Bent 105 
 
 or pantomime, she would the next day go 
 through the whole performance of the actress 
 she had most admired, mimicking every ges- 
 ture and movement faultlessly. 
 
 The old dancers were delighted, and taught 
 her all she had not acquired intuitively. Old 
 Tom arranged and invented burlettas for her 
 to dance in Avith him, and his wife made 
 costumes for her to wear. Almost any day 
 the old fellow might be seen in his shirt- 
 sleeves — for he exerted himself prodigiously, 
 and that was the style of costume he pre- 
 ferred — whistling^ or humminof dance tunes 
 and capering about grotesquely enough, while 
 Folly, like a natural sylph, moved lightly and 
 gracefully as a gazelle around him. 
 
 But she was not satisfied unless she had 
 an audience to dance to, and if Marie was 
 engaged in household affairs she would have 
 half-a-dozen pets from the menagerie in the 
 back garden penned up under chairs along 
 one side of the room — rabbits, guinea-pigs, 
 squirrels, the jackdaw, a cat, a dog^ anything 
 would do to smile at and play to. She 
 would play until old Tom was fairly ex- 
 hausted ; then she would dance alone. She 
 never tired. Solitude was not painful to her 
 as to other children ; rather she liked beina;
 
 106 Folly Morrison. 
 
 alone at times. Then she would have the 
 mirror from the dressing-table on the floor, 
 setting it so that she could see herself, and 
 having adorned herself with any old coloured 
 ribbons or bits of finery she could get at, she 
 would invent fresh effects, smilino^ at herself 
 the while with the utmost satisfaction. 
 
 Showy, precocious children are seldom 
 agreeable. Those who knev/ Folly super- 
 ficially thought they knew the best part 
 of her, and wished to know no more ; but 
 they were wrong. To know her thoroughly 
 was to love her entirely. It w^as easy to for- 
 give her faults, knowing the sweet disposition 
 that underlay them. Her virtues were in- 
 bred, her vices merely the result of the pecu- 
 liar influences to wdiich she was exj)osed. It 
 may seem out of place to speak here of these 
 matters, but indeed the vices and virtues of 
 a child are as plain to see as those marks on 
 the sapling by which a gardener knows 
 whether the tree will be worthless or good. 
 
 Vain, impudent, self-w^illed, contemptuous 
 as Folly was, she had by no means an un- 
 amiable disposition ; on the contrary, her 
 heart was excessively tender and warm. But 
 hers was an essentially responsive nature. 
 She did not love spontaneously. She did
 
 The Twig is Bent, 107 
 
 not attach herself impulsively to people — 
 forminof and breaking: attachments in a chilcl- 
 like manner ; but those she knew and trusted 
 she loved with a deep, clinging affection. 
 
 No one on earth was more dear to her than 
 her foster-father ; in her eyes he was perfect ; 
 nothing he said or did was wrong ; she never 
 opposed his Welshes in the slightest particular. 
 Next to him she loved her foster-mother ; for 
 Marie was only less kind and indulgent to 
 the child than her husband. It was impos- 
 sible for her to love Folly as he did, for she 
 was more matter-of-fact and perhaps wiser 
 than he ; and besides that, she could not at 
 times entirely repress a feeling of jealousy 
 towards the child, not her own, upon whom 
 her husband bestowed, as it seemed, all his 
 affection. 
 
 An old woman and a lame child were 
 Folly's next favourites ; after them came her 
 cats and kittens, puppies, rabbits, and the 
 rest of the live stock which old Tom kept in 
 the house and outbuildings. 
 
 For nine years Folly lived in almost un- 
 interrupted happiness, petted, praised, and 
 cherished with even more than parental 
 fondness; and then, in 1865, the calamity 
 occurred which deprived her of home and
 
 108 Follij 2Iorrison. 
 
 friends, and drove her out to seek subsistence 
 by her own unaided eftbrts. 
 
 Tom Fernandez was superstitious. Ever 
 since he had been in possession of money to 
 dispose of he had entertained the strange 
 presentiment that he should never hve to 
 make a will. Influenced by this idea, he put 
 off the duty from time to time with a vague 
 notion that while he refrained from doino- 
 it his life was safe. The only person to 
 whom he confessed his apprehension was 
 Marie, who, equally superstitious with him- 
 self, dreaded the undertaking as much as 
 he. 
 
 However, the fact that if he died intestate 
 Folly would be un23rovided for at length 
 overcame Tom's scruples — as the fear of a 
 greater evil makes one accept the less ; and 
 his wife, calling to mind the equally cogent 
 consideration that if Tom died without a will 
 the larger part of his money would be claimed 
 by his brother Sam (thereby benefiting indi- 
 rectly Sam's wife, whom Marie had never 
 ceased to hate), was induced, after a little 
 struggle with her feelings, to acquiesce in her 
 husband's proposal. 
 
 Tom determined to execute his desisrn on 
 the first day of the new 3'ear, and wrote to a
 
 The Twig is Bent. 109 
 
 solicitor in London making an appointment 
 for that day. 
 
 He had never before been to town Avithout 
 taking Folly ; but not even her desire would 
 induce him to take her on this day. The 
 nearer the time approached the more posi- 
 tively he felt that his presentiment was to be 
 fulfilled. The same reason which actuated 
 him in refusing to take Folly determined 
 Marie on accompanying her husband. 
 
 ' Whatever comes to my Tom shall come 
 to me/ said the good wife. 
 
 He nursed Folly all the time he was 
 having breakfast. When he bade her good- 
 bye his voice was tremulous and his cheek 
 pale — he came back to the gate to give her 
 another kiss. All this Folly remembered in 
 later times, though it did not affect her then. 
 She w^as singing at the top of her voice 
 five minutes after he left her to join 
 Marie. 
 
 She never saw him again. 
 
 About midday the station-master called. 
 The maid-servant opened the door. Folly, 
 in a short muslin dress, with a tinsel crown 
 on her head, was peeping down over the stair 
 balusters.
 
 110 Follij Morrison. 
 
 * Is Mr. Fernandez at home V asked the 
 station-master. 
 
 ' No, sh" : him and missus is g^one to 
 London,' answered the servant. 
 
 * Did they go by the 9.40 train V 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ^ Ah, I was afraid so. I thought T saw 
 them.' He paused, considering. Folly, 
 listening, felt her heart beat quickly, she 
 scarcely knew why. Presently the station- 
 master said : 
 
 * Is any relative of Mr. Fernandez living 
 in this house V 
 
 ' Only the young lady, sir. Miss Folly.' 
 
 ' No gentleman — no grown-up person ?' 
 
 ' No, sir.' 
 
 ' Can you tell me where I can find some 
 one of that kind, for I suppose he has rela- 
 tives T 
 
 ^ No, sir : preaps Miss Folly can.' 
 
 ^ Miss Folly? That is the young child 
 ■with the beautiful face V 
 
 ^Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' Ah, she must not know. The fact is ' — 
 here the station-master dropped his voice — 
 ' the fact is, there has been an accident on the 
 hne.' 
 
 ' An accident V screamed Folly, flying
 
 Tlie Twig is Bent 111 
 
 down the stairs in her bits of finery ; ' an 
 accident ? Oh, where is papa ? I must go 
 to him, Papa, papa !' 
 
 ' My dear child, don't be alarmed. He 
 may be quite well and safe, only some are 
 killed — that is, injured — and it is quite pos- 
 sible he escaped.' 
 
 ' Wherever he is I must go to him !' cried 
 the child, starting forward. 
 
 The station-master took her arm, holding 
 her while he tried to assure her of her foster- 
 father's safety ; but Folly was half frantic. 
 
 * Let me go, — I must find him. I know 
 the station. I will run along the line. Oh, 
 do let me go ! Do, do take me to him !' she 
 cried, sobbing convulsively, and shivering as 
 thouo^h in an ao^ue. 
 
 ' Put on your hat, my dear child, and be a 
 calm, reasonable little girl, and you shall 
 come with me, and we will bring papa home 
 quite safe.' 
 
 But the old dancer and his little Folly were 
 never more to meet, for he, with his wife, lay 
 under a carriage, crushed almost beyond re- 
 cognition.
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN. 
 
 ^jvC^cT is Boxing Night, December 2 Gth, 
 18G8, half-past six in the evening. 
 The approaches to The Garden 
 Theatre are blocked with cabs and 
 carriages, with here a coal-van and there a 
 brewer's dray. The police, not yet accus- 
 tomed to the increased traffic, feel it incum- 
 bent on them to regulate it in some sort by 
 backing everything drawn by a horse, franti- 
 cally. The carman of the coal-van, after 
 waiting patiently in the middle of the road 
 half an hour, loses his equanimity, and tries 
 to turn round — nothing in the shape of a cab 
 can hurt his vehicle. He succeeds in getting 
 fairly across the road, and then gives up the 
 attempt in despair. The police back the dray
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 113 
 
 until it is safely locked in the wheels of a 
 brougham and two hansoms, and leave it so. 
 The drayman goes to sleep. Passengers, 
 anxious to get on, scream at the drivers, who 
 are too deeply engaged in cursing each other 
 to take any notice of these feeble and useless 
 remonstrp.nces. Ladies cry with terror as the 
 back panels crash against the pole of the 
 brougham behind them. The hoarse cries 
 of raven-throated men with playbills, and the 
 shrill nasal call of Irish girls with oranges, 
 are added to the confusion of tonoTies. The 
 whole melee is lit up by the light of the bril- 
 liant gas jets forming the legend which runs 
 alono^ the facade of the theatre, ' Jack and 
 THE Beanstalk.' 
 
 In the piazza the throng about the pit 
 entrance is still pushing, struggling, and 
 screaming. Through the open doors the 
 foot-passengers throng into the vestibule. 
 Every now and then a vehicle, more fortunate 
 than the rest, comes up rattling over the 
 stones to the doors, and stops ; the window is 
 let down with a rattle and a bang, the door 
 jerked open, and the youngsters allowed to 
 escape from the prison in which for the last 
 half-hour they have endured the misery of 
 expecting to arrive too late for the panto- 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 Folly Morrison. 
 
 mime ; then the door is banged to, and the 
 carriage crawls off while another dashes up. 
 
 The excitement here is not less than that 
 in the open streets. Even the officials about 
 the place have lost their heads. They hurry 
 about purposelessly, they give contradictory 
 directions to the inquiring public, and find 
 fault angrily with everyone. It is a very 
 bad quarter of an hour. 
 
 In this unlucky time Folly came into the 
 street. 
 
 For five minutes she stood looking vaguely 
 at the gas illumination from the opposite side 
 of the way. 
 
 It was nearly three years since she had 
 been in such a crowd — the first time in her 
 life she had ever been in it alone. She was 
 bewildered. 
 
 But for the pressing necessity that beset 
 her she would have crept away to some 
 quiet place where she might collect her 
 thoughts and grow calm. 
 
 A boy stood near her with his hands in his 
 pockets and a basket on his head, surveying 
 the confusion with the calmness of an old 
 general in a battle. 
 
 ' Is that a theatre V asked Folly, approach- 
 ing him.
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 115 
 
 ' A tlie-a-tre ! I should think so — that's 
 The Garden. 'Mack an' a Beanstalk." Can't 
 you read V 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' Well, that's what's on, an' I on'y wish I 
 was up in the gallery. 'Arry Payne's clown. 
 You come 'long o' me, and I'll show you the 
 door what he goes in at' 
 
 With these words the boy took the basket 
 from his head, and going at the pack of car- 
 riages, began to worm his way through the 
 complicated mass with the ease of a snake 
 p'oinof throuo^h a thicket. 
 
 Folly followed, and in some manner got 
 across the road, by which time her guide had 
 forgotten all about her, and was standing, with 
 his hands in his pockets and his basket on 
 his head, watching the muffled artists as they 
 entered the mysterious, fascinating stage- 
 door. 
 
 Folly did not need him ; business, not 
 pleasure, occupied her thoughts. Following 
 the stream of people, she came into the 
 piazza. 
 
 A queer, strange figure she presented in 
 contrast with other children there. A 
 childish woman, or an overgrown child, this 
 girl of fifteen, dressed in a faded, thin print 
 
 8 — 2
 
 116 Folly Morrison. 
 
 dress, starched and ironed into stiff, rigid 
 folds, that came down not so low but that 
 her black cotton stockings might be seen 
 above the broken side-spring boots upon her 
 feet ; her shoulders covered with an absurdly 
 small jacket that disj^layed plenty of stift- 
 starched print sleeve. She wore a pair of 
 cotton gloves, and on her head a small straw 
 hat with a feather in it. ^ 
 
 Seeing the beautifully - dressed children 
 descending^ from the carriao^es to enter the 
 vestibule, she hesitated. A girl of about her 
 own age passed in a slight but beautiful 
 lace mantilla, which she. wore tight to her 
 shoulders. Folly drew her own wretched 
 little cloak close across her chest to be in 
 the fashion. The act was an index to her 
 character. 
 
 What passed through the cliild's mind at 
 that moment ? Was it a sorrowful remem- 
 brance of the time when she had been as 
 well dressed, as kindly cared for, as the hap- 
 -piest child she saw now ? No ! It was a 
 wild, exultant feeling of superiority to all 
 about her — a mad, defiant idea that she 
 would, in spite of everyone, realise her 
 dreams. She would admire — envy none. She 
 had come here to London to be admired and
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 117 
 
 envied ; and these people, so anxious to see 
 the most beautiful spectacle the stage pre- 
 sented, should one day block the streets with 
 their carriaofes, and struofale for admission to 
 the theatre in eagferness to see her. 
 
 The immediate question to be solved was, 
 to whom should she apply for an engagement ? 
 As she stood in the footway looking through 
 the doors for one whom she might address on 
 the important subject, she got hustled and 
 pushed about by the people entering the 
 theatre, and her odd little hat with its 
 feather Avas tilted first over her eyes, theii. 
 over one ear, then over the other ; it was 
 most annoying at this time, when she wished 
 to look her best. A policeman caught sight 
 of her arrano^inof her hat and standins^ in the 
 way of better-dressed people. He came up 
 briskl}^, and, taking her by the shoulder, 
 pushed her along, saying : 
 
 ' Now then, what's your game here ? Out 
 you go !' 
 
 Before Folly could utter a word of remon- 
 strance she found herself out of the piazza 
 and among the hurrying cabs. 
 
 She waited some time, frightened and per- 
 plexed, until the excitement outside subsided, 
 and the dreaded policeman disappeared; then
 
 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 she crossed over to tlie piazza again and 
 looked into the vestibule. A fine gentleman 
 with a long moustache and evening dress was 
 talking with the old man who sat in the pay- 
 place, looking up through the pigeon-hole. It 
 seemed to her that he might be the manager. 
 The policeman was still distant. Presently 
 the gentleman moved from the pay-place and 
 stood before the lire with his hands behind 
 him. 
 
 With a thumping heart Folly pushed open 
 the door, and then with a quick, nervous step 
 approached the gentleman. 
 
 ' If you please, sir, are you the master of 
 this theatre V she asked. 
 
 The gentleman, who was acting manager, 
 and entertained a high opinion of his own 
 importance, nodded assent. 
 
 ' If you please, sir, I want to dance in your 
 theatre.' 
 
 The naivete of the child was so amusing, 
 and her face so pretty, that the acting manager 
 felt inclined to enter into the subject ; but, 
 raising his eyes at that moment to a mirror 
 opposite, he caught sight of his own faultless 
 figure in juxtaposition with a girl in broken 
 boots, a starched cotton frock, and a little hat 
 with a feather stickinir out of it like a leafless
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 119 
 
 j^lant in a flower-pot, and was immediately 
 struck with the incongruity of the spectacle 
 thus presented to the public. 
 
 ' This is not the place to apply at. Go to 
 the stage-door ; you must not come in here, 
 you know,' said he, hurriedly. 
 
 'Which is the stage-door, if you please, 
 sir V 
 
 ^ Outside — round the corner.' 
 
 The acting-manager moved away in alarm, 
 as he looked again at the picture in the 
 mirror. 
 
 Folly, after some inquiries, found the stage- 
 door ; with less ease she found some one to 
 attend her, and then she was told not to come 
 bothering at such a time as that. 
 
 * When shall I come, if you please ?' asked 
 Folly. 
 
 ^ Why, it's not much good your coming at 
 all,' answered the stage-doorkeeper, testily. 
 
 He had been arranging some letters in the 
 rack, and had given Folly scarcely a glance ; 
 but now, the job being finished, he looked up 
 and surveyed her with growing interest. Her 
 beauty, even in the odd, mean dress she wore, 
 was quite striking and exceptional. The 
 dark, large eyes, with the little mole at the 
 angle of the right, the pretty mouth and nose.
 
 120 Folly Morrison. 
 
 the cream-coloured skin, the long tliroat, the 
 pose of the short body and long linibs^ struck 
 the professional eye of the man. 
 
 ^ You can call if you like to-morrow morn- 
 ing,' said he, in a more amiable tone, ' about 
 eleven.' Then, as hope scintillated in Folly's 
 eyes, and, animating her face, made it ten 
 times more attractive than before, he added, 
 ' If you have nothing to do, you can wait 
 here till the opening is over, and see the 
 ballet-master as he comes out.' 
 
 ' I will wait, if you please. I have nothing 
 else to do.' 
 
 ' Then come in here and sit down by my 
 fire out of the way.' 
 
 Folly took a seat by the fire, close to the 
 wall, to be out of sight. She could just hear the 
 distant voices from the stage, with occasional 
 strains of music. The stage-doorkeeper had 
 plenty to do ; people were constantly arriving ; 
 the door kept squeaking as it opened and 
 banging as it closed for best part of an hour, 
 and the man had something to say to every- 
 one that passed. Then the carpenters, wiping 
 the perspiration from their faces with the 
 sleeves of their white jackets, trooped out to 
 get beer, and ran in again in a hurry for the 
 next scene. There was continual bustle. A
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 121 
 
 woman in a brown water23roof, with a woollen 
 shawl wrapped round her throat and the 
 lower part of her face, looked in the porter's 
 room, and, after a few words, passed through 
 the door to the flight of stone steps leading 
 up to the dressing-room. 
 
 ' That's Mademoiselle Duprez,' said the 
 stage-doorkeeper. 
 
 * Who's Mademoiselle Duprez V asked 
 Folly. 
 
 ' Columbine. Don't you know anything 
 about the theatre V 
 
 ' I haven't seen one for years — not since I 
 was quite a little child.' 
 
 ' Don't know anything about the stage — 
 haven't been on before '? Then how do you 
 expect to get an engagement V said the door- 
 keeper, in alarm. 
 
 ^ I can dance.' 
 
 ' Jigs and things — street organs, hey V 
 
 ' No, ballets. I can dance well. My 
 father — my foster-father — was a regular stage- 
 dancer, and tauoiit me — tauo'ht me beauti- 
 fully.' 
 
 Folly sighed, and looked steadfastly in the 
 lire. 
 
 ' Hum little cure !' thought the doorkeeper, 
 looking at her nodding plume. ' You can
 
 122 Folhf Moi 
 
 '/ lYiorrison. 
 
 take off your hat — that feather of yourn's 
 
 Q-one wronof.- 
 
 Folly took off her hat, and set the tree- 
 like feather straight and in its place. The 
 light fell upon her head, making rich sunny 
 tints on its waving tresses. Her hair had 
 grown darker during the last few years, 
 though it was still lighter than her eyebrows 
 and eyelashes — they were black — and was 
 screwed up in a tight knot behind. 
 
 * You've got a fine head of hair/ said the 
 doorkeeper. 
 
 ' I can sit on it when it's down.' 
 
 ' So your foster-father was a pro., was he V 
 
 * He was a dancer, and my foster-mother 
 was a columbine, like the lady Avho passed 
 just now.' 
 
 ' What was her name V 
 
 'Mrs. Fernandez.' 
 
 ' What, old Tom Fernandez's wife ?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' What — them as was killed in the accident 
 at Wey bridge ?' 
 
 Folly answered with a silent nod, and 
 turned her eyes to the fire again, twisting her 
 fingers painfully. 
 
 The doorkeeper looked at her with interest. 
 He divined from her manner that the subject
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 123 
 
 was painfal, and was silent. The door creaked 
 and banged less frequently now, so he brought 
 a chair to the fire and sat down near Folly. 
 
 ' You and me"s old friends — what do you 
 think of that ? You must be the very little 
 girl I see when I went home with Tom one 
 day. He hadn't no other little girl, had he V 
 
 Folly shook her head. 
 
 ' I see you dance then, and told old Tom 
 he ought to put you on the boards, but he 
 was always against putting kids on too young. 
 Well, this is strange ! But how is it you've 
 only got that dress on, and them old boots ? 
 Tom said he should leave you all his money.' 
 
 ' His brother had it, I believe.' 
 
 ' What, Sam V 
 
 Folly nodded. 
 
 ' Ah, Sam wasn't half such a man as Tom 
 — a stupid sort of fellow, as let himself be 
 ruled by his wife.' 
 
 Folly lifted her head at the mention of the 
 wife ; her little nose grew white, her lips thin, 
 her eyes fierce with anger, and she said : 
 
 ' His wife is — is — she's a devil !' 
 
 The doorkeeper chuckled. He liked Folly's 
 spirit. 
 
 ' She is a beast !' said Folly, fiercely, her 
 flesh quivering with rage.
 
 124 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 ' I say, you've learnt some nice language 
 somewhere.' 
 
 ^ I can't help it. Don't let's talk about her 1' 
 
 * Ah, well, I dare say she deserves wus 
 language than you know. I'll lay a quid she 
 collared old Tom's money, and destroyed his 
 will or something.' 
 
 ^ Yes — yes. Oh, if I could punish her I' 
 
 ' What would you do to her X 
 
 "' I would take all that she loves from her. 
 I would make her my servant, and never 
 suffer her to do what she likes. I would 
 starve her. I would dress her in rags, so that 
 people should laugh at her when she went 
 out. I would make her obey ugly, spiteful 
 children — I would make her work — I would 
 torture her in every way I could imagine.' 
 
 ' That's how she's served you, I expect ?' 
 
 ' Yes, yes — for months and months — years. 
 She told the gentleman from London who 
 was going to make my father's will that she 
 would make me her daughter and be good to 
 me ; and that is how she served me.' 
 
 The doorkeeper swore a good round oath at 
 Mrs. Sam Fernandez. Folly looked at him 
 gratefully. 
 
 ' And w4ien you couldn't stand it any 
 longer, you ran away, I suppose ?' said he.
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 125 
 
 ' Yes ; I would have run away long ago, 
 but I had no money. Sometimes her husband 
 would give me a penny, telling me not to 
 say anything about it, and them were good 
 times for me. I hid the pennies under a 
 stone in the yard for fear she should find 
 them — see, here they are.' 
 
 She brought from her pocket an old doll's 
 frock sewn up to make a bag, and poured the 
 pence into her lap — about thirty in all, which 
 she patted and stroked affectionately. 
 
 ' Bless my soul ! So when you had saved 
 these you cut it V 
 
 ' I sat up one night to iron this frock — it is 
 my best. The gloves I got out of the dust- 
 bin and washed. That feather I stole. Then 
 when they all went out to a party this after- 
 noon I ran away.' 
 
 ^ I'd have set fire to the house before I 
 started,' said the doorkeeper. 
 
 ' I— I ' Folly hesitated. 
 
 ' What did you do V 
 
 ' I made the poker red-hot and poked it 
 rio"ht throuo'h her likeness that she was so 
 proud of.' 
 
 ' Good gal,' said the doorkeeper, patting 
 her back. 
 
 Folly caught his hand, and pressing it be- 
 tween hers, said :
 
 126 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 ' I like you. I'll be kind to you if I grow 
 rich.' Then suddenly she asked : ' Have you 
 got a wife V 
 
 ' Yes, and kids as big as you.' 
 
 Folly sighed. ' I would have gone home 
 and mended your stockings and things for 
 you if you hadn't had anyone to do them.' 
 
 * You're a good gal, that's what you are. 
 How old are you V 
 
 ' Fifteen.' 
 
 * You're tall, too. If it wasn't for your 
 short dress I should have thought you were 
 seventeen.' 
 
 ^ I grew very much when I had the fever.' 
 ' Have you been ill V 
 
 * I had brain-fever, and was ill a long while 
 after — after ^//a^. When I heard he — he was 
 very likely killed, I couldn't eat and I 
 couldn't sleep, and at L^.st one day I tumbled 
 down gi^ldy like, and never knew anything 
 more for ever so long ; and when I woke up 
 I was in a strange place, and they had sold 
 my rabbits, and my guineapigs, and my birds ; 
 all were gone, even my little kittens, and there 
 was nothing of my old home left. My dresses 
 were given to that woman's children. They 
 would not let me dance, and I could not sing. 
 Oh, it was dreadful ! And every night.
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 127 
 
 night after night, I dreamt that my dear 
 father was back with me dancinof our old 
 dances, and for happiness I could not help 
 crying. That woke me, and then I cried for 
 misery. Even when I was awake I could see 
 my dear old father, with his kind face, looking 
 at me. and ' 
 
 She paused — looked down at the fire, looked 
 up at the doorkeeper — then fell stroking the 
 old feather in her hat idly, turning her eyes 
 aside. Finally she dropped her hat, and, 
 burying her face in her hands, burst into 
 tears. The doorkeeper said nothing, but 
 fidgeted on his chair, and gladly got up to go 
 to the door when it creaked open. 
 
 It was some time before he came back, for 
 he found business to do outside. When he 
 returned he found FoJly calm again, with her 
 hat in her lap, her fingers knitted over her 
 knee, and her eyes upon the fire. Her 
 grief was past and they chatted discursively, 
 until at length the doorkeeper, coming from 
 a consultation with the fireman, said : 
 
 ' The transformation is on, and the ballet- 
 master will soon be out.' 
 
 Folly got up, smoothed back her hair, 
 arranged the folds of her dress, put on her 
 old gloves, and assumed an air of cheerfulness.
 
 128 Follij Morrison. 
 
 * That's the style. Senor Esperenza hkes 
 bright faces/ said the doorkeeper, encourag- 
 ingly. 
 
 Folly took the hint. 
 
 And now for half an hour or more there 
 was ceaseless banging of the door, with gasps 
 of pantomime music on each occasion, mingled 
 Avith the faint sounds of laughter and applause 
 from the house, as the actors and girls engaged 
 in the opening came from their dressing-rooms 
 to leave the theatre, some laughing, others 
 humming tunes, and all cheerful. The panto- 
 mime had gone well, was the answer to all 
 the doorkeeper's questions. 
 
 At length, a short, ugly little foreigner, in 
 a fur coat, Ccime out. 
 
 The doorkeeper darted at him, and put 
 the same question to him he had put to the 
 girls — how had the pantomime gone ? 
 
 Senor Esperenza shrugged his shoulders. 
 It had gone well — * all right ' ; but what could 
 you expect with a ballet of English girls — 
 pretty in face, hwt, Cardmlja! stupid and heavy 
 as your ' plom-puddings ' ? The doorkeeper 
 agreed, sympathised, commiserated, and then 
 entered upon the subject he had taken up. 
 
 After a brief conversation, Senor Esperanza 
 entered the room with the door-keeper.
 
 The Rising of the Curtain. 129 
 
 Folly rose and met the ballet-master's 
 scrutinising glance boldly. 
 
 Senor Esperenza made her a most courteous 
 bow. It was just the bow old Tom used to 
 make to her ; and she responded with the 
 courtsey he had taught her to make. Senor 
 Esperenza opened his eyes in astonishment, 
 and then surveyed Folly from head to foot. 
 
 ^ Quel bonheur !' he murmured. ' Quelle 
 chance I Voici le genre qui me convient !' 
 
 * J'en ressens la plus grande satisfaction, 
 m'sieur/ replied Folly, her old assurance 
 returning with this expression of approval. 
 
 Though the girl could neither read nor 
 write, she could speak indifferent good French 
 glibly enough. She had learnt it readily from 
 her mother as an accomplishment wdiich other 
 children did not attempt. 
 
 The ballet-master was delighted not less 
 with her bold manner and the brilliant im- 
 pudence of her face as she spoke than with 
 her knowdedo-e of a lanoaiao^e which, thouQ^h 
 not his own, he had spoken during the best 
 part of his life in the .Opera-House at Paris. 
 
 ^ Ah, if I had only had you when rehearsals 
 began, I might have made a success with my 
 ballets r said he. 
 
 ' It was my misfortune,' answered Follj^. 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' Nevertheless, we shall see v/hat may be 
 done now, mademoiselle. You will come to 
 me to-morrow morning here, at half-past ten. 
 You will not fail?' 
 
 Folly promised, and with a repetition of 
 the formalities with which they had met 
 they separated. 
 
 As he was leaving the room, he stopped 
 suddenly and turned round, as if to reassure 
 himself in some particular. He measured 
 the girl through his narrowed eyes, nodding 
 his head in slow approval. Then he left the 
 room wdth a quick step, his w^eazen face 
 wrinkled into a smile. 
 
 He had seen hundreds of girls in Folly's 
 
 •position ; he had introduced many to the 
 
 stage who now held high positions as dancers, 
 
 but never in his long experience had he seen 
 
 one whose appearance had promised so well. 
 
 The door-keejDer, who had witnessed this 
 scene and listened to Folly's French in as- 
 tonishment, overtook Sefior Esperenza at the 
 outer door. 
 
 ' Do 3'ou think you can make anything of 
 the child V he asked. 
 
 ' Child ! — she is a woman !' replied the 
 ballet-master, with energy. ' She shall be the 
 queen of the stage if we can keep her on it. 
 There is the only difficulty : she is too pretty/
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 FOLLY OBTAINS AN ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 
 1 
 
 HE theatre is in obscurity. Boxes 
 and stalls are draped in dingy 
 cloths. A faint ray of daylight 
 struggles through the skylight at 
 the back of the gallery. One or two gas jets 
 burn dimly in the corridor behind the first 
 circle. In the pit an old woman is groping 
 under the seats for playbills and orange-peel, 
 while another knocks about with a broom 
 sweeping the floor. 
 
 The curtain and drop-scene are up, and 
 present the scaffolding of an elaborate / set ' 
 and part of the transformation scene. A 
 row of gaslights, set on a standard in the 
 form of the letter T, fixed in the centre of 
 the stao'e near the 'float,' sheds a flaming^ 
 
 9—2
 
 132 Folly Morrison. 
 
 light which fails to extend to the remoter 
 parts of the stage. Near it stands a table 
 and three chairs — a little further off a piano. 
 
 One or t\YO lights in the flies and wings 
 show the carpenters moving about in a dusty 
 fog — the ]3hantoms of a transformation. 
 
 Near the gaslight stands a large man in a 
 long light ulster; he is the lessee, and is 
 talking to Sefior Esperenza, whose figure in 
 contrast looks more than ever diminished 
 and shrunken — an effect which is heioiitened 
 by his cringing attitude. Folly, standing 
 close by in her starched j^ni^t frock, looks a 
 head taller. 
 
 The lessee is in ill humour. He holds in 
 his hands a bundle of newsjoapers, whose 
 theatrical notices are less favourable in 
 speaking of The Garden than of The Lane. 
 Especially they praise The Lane ballet and 
 the dancing of Mademoiselle Davoni, whereas 
 the ballet at the Garden is mentioned only 
 as presenting a grand spectacle. 
 
 This was the chill, depressing, spiritless 
 reality to which Folly was brought from her 
 dream of glittering sjDlendour and warm 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 She had gone home with the door-keeper 
 and shared a bed with one of his children,
 
 Folly Obtains an Engagement. 133 
 
 but for any sleep or material rest she got she 
 might have wandered about the streets with 
 her fancies. All nig^ht she thought of the 
 encouragement she had received from the 
 ballet-master, and allowed imao-i nation to 
 take the wildest flio^hts into the future. She 
 pictured her triumph in the forthcoming 
 interview in all the rainbow tints of a young 
 and lively fancy. It did not occur to her 
 that the theatre might be otherwise than as 
 she had always seen it — tilled with people, 
 glowing with warm light, glittering with 
 tinselled scenery, and girls in dainty dresses. 
 They would give her a suitable dress, the 
 little old gentleman would smile and tell her 
 to go on to the stage and dance, and as the 
 band struck up she would bound on and 
 pirouette down to the footlights, thrilling the 
 audience with delighted admiration ! Carried 
 away by the excitement of these anticipations, 
 she found her limbs at times striving to ac- 
 company her wild dream in involuntary 
 motion. 
 
 Her little bed-fellow must have slept 
 soundly or suffered considerably from her 
 restlessness. 
 
 Between the vision and reality was as vast 
 a difference as imaofination could find.
 
 134 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ^ Three j^apers mention Davoni/ said the 
 manager, gloomily. ' Why is she not dancing 
 in our show ?' 
 
 ' Davoni — Cdsjnta ! She's forty. She 
 danced in the ballet of the opera at Paris — 
 it is twenty-five years ago. Davoni — a has .'' 
 rej)lied Esperenza. ' Sir, we shall find a 
 young dancer that will make Davoni to hide 
 herself.' 
 
 ' Where V 
 
 ' Here — or you shall call me stupid fools 1' 
 The ballet-master drew back, and extended 
 his hand towards Foll3^ 
 
 ' That child !' exclaimed the lessee, with a 
 short, contemptuous laugh, turning as if he 
 was about to walk away. 
 
 ' Well, if you will not be convinced ' 
 
 Esperenza concluded the sentence with a 
 shrug. 
 
 'Let's see what she can do, then/ retorted 
 the lessee, crossing to the table, on v/hich he 
 seated himself and opened a newspaper care- 
 lessly. 
 
 Esperenza looked at Folly for a moment 
 in doubt. It was too much to ask a girl to 
 show her abilities as a dancer in such boots 
 and such a dress. She must fail, and dis- 
 credit his assertion.
 
 Folly Ohtains an Engagement. 135 
 
 Another child in Folly's position would 
 have lost any courage she had at a proposal 
 under such circumstances — would have de- 
 clined it certainly, possibly with tears. That 
 was just enough to make Folly attempt it. 
 Her pride was stung by the lessee's con- 
 temptuous expression, and, besides that, she 
 was animated by a feeling of generosity 
 towards Esperenza. 
 
 As he looked at her the blood mounted to 
 her cheeks, her eyes flashed, and she nodded 
 eagerly to him. 
 
 ' Will you try to dance in that dress V 
 'Yes ; but I should like music' 
 ' I will play myself What will you dance ? 
 It is impossible to expect you to succeed in 
 any great attempt. Try something simple,' 
 he added, in an undertone, speaking in French, 
 '■ Do you know a gavotte V 
 
 ' Yes. But I would like something livelier 
 — anything.' 
 
 She walked beside Esperenza to the piano 
 with a light, springing step, and shaking her 
 arms as if she were loosening her joints for 
 the attempt. The lessee looked up Avith 
 interest and laid down his paper. 
 
 Esperenza was far more nervous than the 
 girl. He played a well-knowai ballet tune.
 
 13G Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' Will that do ?' he asked. 
 
 'Yes, yes — that will do/ she answered. 
 Her heart began to throb violently, and her 
 voice sounded strange to her own ears. 
 
 ' Tell me when you are ready.' 
 
 ' I will clap my hands.' 
 
 She looked with a quick, comprehensive 
 glance round the stage, measuring it for her 
 A'/ork. Then she glanced at the lessee, who 
 had left the table and seated himself in a 
 chair, fixing his eyes attentively upon her. 
 In the pit she discovered an old woman, 
 leaning on Iier broom, and another beside 
 her ; she saw their eyes. They were audience 
 enough — better than the rabbits and kittens 
 she had once been content with. 
 
 Esperenza, noticing her as she looked about 
 her, trembled. Almost he hoped she was 
 about to decline the attempt. Then, as she 
 turned, her eyes flashing with excitement, 
 his confidence was restored. He smiled and 
 nodded encouragingly, his fingers resting on 
 the keys of the piano. 
 
 He had taken off his coat, and laid the lono^ 
 scarlet silk handkerchief Ironi his throat on the 
 piano. The bright colour caught Folly's eye, 
 
 'Will you lend me that?' she asked, quickly, 
 laying her hand on it.
 
 Folhj Oc'^ains an Engagement. 137 
 
 ' Yes, yes. Shall I begin V 
 
 * No, wait till I clap.' 
 
 She snatched up the scarlet silk, and light 
 as a faiiy ran away with it to the upper end 
 of the stage. Stepping aside among the 
 wings, she flung her hat upon the ground, 
 and, tearing off her hateful dress, stood in 
 her bodice and petticoat; in a moment she 
 tied the silk handkerchief round her waist ; 
 then she clapped her hands. 
 
 Esperenza played the conventional chords 
 with which a danseuse makes her entrance, 
 and Folly from the obscurity came down to 
 the lioiit, timino^ her descent with the music 
 as exactly as if she had measured the distance 
 in a dozen rehearsals. 
 
 The white bodice and petticoat, with the 
 scarlet scarf, was a not unpicturesque dress, 
 and displayed her bertutifully proportioned 
 arms and graceful throat to advantage. The 
 change had been made in a minute. 
 
 Esperenza took his hands from the piano in 
 astonishment ; the lessee opened his mouth 
 in surprise. 
 
 In the pause Folly, stationed in a graceful 
 pose, waited for the music to recommence, and 
 smiled witchingly into the empty house. For 
 her it was not empty : her imagination filled
 
 138 Folly Morrison. 
 
 the seats with admiring sj)ectators. As the 
 interval extended beyond the proper length, 
 she rose from her stooping position, and, turn« 
 ing with anger upon Esperenza, stamped her 
 foot imj^atiently. 
 
 He recommenced, and away the girl 
 bounded, her arms extended, as though she 
 were swimming through space, and her legs 
 moving as though they had no weight to 
 carry. Standing in the light, the lessee lost 
 sight of her in a minute as she o^vrated into 
 the darkness ; the next minute she rea2:>peared 
 twirling down the opposite side of the stage. 
 Esperenza could see nothing ; his wdiole 
 attention was given to keeping good time for 
 his 'protdcjce. The lessee passed him going to 
 the wings to get a clearer view of the dancer, 
 and exclaimed, with quick excitement, * By 
 George ! what a girl !' The old ballet-master 
 grew warm. 
 
 ' Quick !' called Folly. 
 
 Perspiration came upon Esperenza*s fore- 
 head as he obeyed. 
 
 ^ Quicker !' she cried, whirling past him. 
 
 His fingers and arms ached^he missed a 
 note, stumbled in trying to pick it up — then 
 stopped, fairly exhausted. 
 
 ' Bravo, bravo !' exclaimed the lessee. The
 
 Folly Obtains an Engagement. 13D 
 
 two old women in the pit clapped their 
 hands. 
 
 ' You have spoilt my finale,' said Folly, 
 coming down to the piano, and addressing 
 Esperenza in a tone of mdignation. She 
 looked like an injured queen, her dark brows 
 knitted and her eyes flashing. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle, I — I — ' stammered the 
 ballet-master, awed by her anger. 
 
 Folly turned away, walked under the gas- 
 lio^ht, and holding^ it with one hand kicked 
 the standard petulantly. She pouted and 
 held down her head — the very picture of a 
 disappointed child. 
 
 By accident or design her hair had fallen 
 down, and the soft, rich mass thrown back from 
 one shoulder fell over the other and formed a 
 background to the delicate profile of her face, 
 presented to the two gentlemen at the piano. 
 
 Lessee and ballet-master looked at her, 
 then at each other. 
 
 ' Well ?' asked Esperenza, triumphantly. 
 
 ' You're right. She's a prodigy. Pity you 
 didn't find her before, though. What are her 
 terms V 
 
 * I haven't asked.' 
 
 Folly getting cooler and her excitement 
 abating, she recollected her position — realised
 
 140 FoUij Morrison. 
 
 that she was no lontrer a child danchio- with 
 her foster-father, and so felt rather ashamed 
 of her childish behaviour as the men came 
 towards her. 
 
 * Accept my apologies for failing to play 
 equally well with your dancing. It was an 
 impossibility,' said Esperenza, bowing. 
 
 Folly blushed and returned his salute. 
 
 * May I ask what terms you require/ asked 
 the lessee. 
 
 ' 1 want enough for board and lodging and 
 clothes.' 
 
 The cautious lessee, hearing this, and re- 
 membering the starched print dress, asked if 
 she would accept three guineas a week. 
 
 ' Yes, that will do,' said Folly, who thought 
 there must certainly be enough pennies in 
 three guineas to meet her requirements. 
 
 ' The treasurer shall make out an agreement 
 for you to sign.' 
 
 ' I can't write.' 
 
 The announcement did not surprise the 
 lessee ; good dancing and good education were 
 not to be expected in combination. 
 
 ' Your mark will do. You may consider 
 yourself enoao-ed for six wrecks certain ; we 
 can make a fresh arrangement at the end of 
 that time. What is your name ?'
 
 Folly Obtains an Engagement. 141 
 
 ^ Folly.' 
 
 * Ah, good r exclaimed Esperenza. * La 
 Folie — a capital name — and with a dress after 
 the design of M. Gravin ' 
 
 ' No, no ; we have had enough French ; 
 the public is getting tired of them. We will 
 show what our own country can produce. 
 Folly is a good name enough, and we will 
 write to Alfred Thompson or another of our 
 own artists for a dress. It shall be put in 
 hand at once. You can make your arrange- 
 ments, Esperenza, so that we may announce 
 our new dancer for Saturday next — evening 
 show. That gives us six days ; will that do V 
 
 * Yes, if the dress is finished.' 
 
 ' I will see to that myself If you want 
 any new properties let me know.' 
 
 As this conversation proceeded Folly 
 trembled in ever}^ fibre of her body. The 
 realisation of her fondest hopes was at hand. 
 It seemed strangely incongruous to hear the 
 details discussed in such cold, matter-of-fact 
 terms, when her own mind was transported 
 with such delirious antioip?ttions. 
 
 Esperenza saw her trembling, and said 
 kindl}^, but with the utmost deference : 
 
 ^ You are cold, ma'm.selle. Will you resume 
 your dress V
 
 142 Folly Morrison. 
 
 Folly walked up the stage, the men follow- 
 ing her with their eyes. She was a subject 
 for a painter — the tall, lithe girl with long 
 and beautifully rounded arms and legs, bare 
 shoulders and clustering hair, untying the 
 scarlet silk handkerchief from her waist as 
 she went lightly along. She returned with 
 her hair screwed up, the little hat perched on 
 the top, and her dress sticking out in angular 
 points, showing nothing of her limbs but their 
 extremicies ; her hands red, her feet in broken 
 boots. She looked now a coffee-shop drudge ; 
 the picturesqueness was gone. 
 
 The lessee repented having offered her so 
 much. 
 
 She caiTied the silk wrap in her hand. 
 
 * Thank you for lending me your handker- 
 chief,' she said, offering it to Esperenza. 
 
 * Will you do me the honour to accept it, 
 ma'mselle V 
 
 Folly's eyes beamed with gratitude ; she 
 :.ied it round her throat. 
 
 Generosity is infectious. The lessee put 
 lis hand in his pocket and pulled out a hand- 
 ful of gold. 
 
 ' Would you like a week's salary in ad- 
 vance V he asked. 
 
 ' Thank you — I have not much money,' she
 
 Folly Obtains an Engagement, 143 
 
 answered, and took the gold gratefully 
 enough ; but to her it had not . the value of 
 the silk handkerchief — that was something 
 for all to see and admire. 
 
 As she left the theatre with the stage- 
 doorkeeper she called his attention to it. 
 
 * Yes ; but have you got an engagement V 
 he asked. 
 
 ' For six weeks.' 
 
 ^ At how much V 
 
 ' Three guineas.' 
 
 ' Three guineas ! Why, that's twice what 
 I get. Three guineas !' 
 
 ' Yes ; and here's a week's wages in ad- 
 vance. How many pennies is it V 
 
 ' Oh, gracious me, I don't know I A whole 
 bagful ; more than you could carry, I should 
 think. Why, you'll be quite a lady.' 
 
 That prospect was pleasant to Folly.
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 THE DIARY OF A WEEK. 
 
 HESE transactions took jDlace on 
 the 27tli, Sunday. The business 
 at the theatre detained those 
 concerned until half -past one. 
 Folly accepted the doorkeeper's invitation 
 to go home ^vith him ; but, holding her 
 newly-acquired fortune in her hands, she 
 alread}^ meditated independence. She set 
 herself to arrange what was to be done with 
 her money. 
 
 ' How much does it cost a girl to live 
 for a week in London V she asked. 
 
 'Oh, a o'al could live handsome on a 
 pound/ answered the doorkeeper. 
 
 ' What, one of these V She held up a
 
 The Diary of a Week. 145 
 
 ' Yes, hand some.' 
 
 Folly thought for a time, and did a sum in 
 mental arithmetic. If she kept one sovereign 
 for herself, how many should she have left ? 
 Two. These were susceptible of equal division 
 between her two friends. The ballet-master 
 was a gentleman, and evidently liked fine 
 things, so she would simply buy him the most 
 beautiful handkerchief she could get for a 
 pound ; but it was harder to decide what she 
 could give the doorkeeper, who wore nothing 
 but a spotted cotton necktie. It was just 
 possible he would prefer money to fine things 
 to wear, for he had never given a second 
 glance at her scarlet wrap, and had talked of 
 nothing else but her good fortune in getting 
 such a high salary. Before offering him any- 
 thing, however, she determined to make her- 
 self sure on this point, in order that one 
 should be as fairly considered as the other. 
 
 * Which do you like best T she asked ; 
 ^ beautiful clothes or money ?' 
 
 ^ Money,' answered he, without a moment's 
 hesitation. 
 
 ' Then, will you take this as a present from 
 me T She held the sovereign out to him, 
 with the pleasant expectation of seeing him 
 look happy. 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 FoJhj Morrison. 
 
 The man opened his eyes and mouth in 
 astonishment, and looked at her as if he was 
 at a loss to understand what she meant. 
 
 * I want you to take this. I like you. You 
 have been \erj kind to me.' 
 
 ' Take that — from you ! No, that I 
 wont.' 
 
 ^ Do. I shall be very sorry if you don't. 
 I want to give it to you.' 
 
 Folly grew very red. 
 
 ' No^ thank you. I'm not going to take 
 3^our mono}''. Keep it yourself.' 
 
 'No, that I won't,' said Folly, stopping 
 short. ' If it isn't good enough for 3'ou, it 
 isn't good enough for me.' And with that 
 she stepped to the parapet of the bridge 
 they were crossing and flimg the sovereign 
 into the Thames. 
 
 ' Cxreat heavens ! what have you done V 
 exclaimed the doorkeeper, rushing to the side 
 and looking over, as if he expected to see the 
 lost money. 
 
 He got no answer from Folly, who walked 
 on in sullen silence. Nor was it until he had 
 explained his generous reasons for refusing 
 her present that she would speak at all. 
 Before they reached Hercules Buildings, 
 where the doorkeeper lived, they were good
 
 The Diary of a Week 147 
 
 friends again ; but he was the only one who 
 thought ruefully of the sovereign lying in the 
 river mud under Waterloo Bridge. 
 
 On Monday, going to rehearsal, Folly 
 begged the doorkeeper to show her a good 
 shop for silk handkerchiefs. He took her 
 to Piccadilly Circus, where she walked boldly 
 into Swan and Edgar's. 
 
 ' What do you want here V asked a sho^D- 
 walker, arresting her close by the entrance. 
 
 ^ I want the finest silk handkerchief you 
 can give me for that/ she answered, offering 
 a sovereign. 
 
 The shopwalker stared at her, examined 
 the coin critically, and led her with doubt- 
 ful steps to a remote part of the shop. After 
 a little hesitating conference behind the coun- 
 ter, the shopman displayed the best he had 
 for Folly to choose from. It pleased her to 
 find that they were even better than the one 
 she wore. Having chosen the most charming 
 one she could see, it was put in a box for her, 
 and she rejoined her companion outside. 
 
 The digression made them five minutes late 
 at the theatre. Seiior Esperenza was already 
 waiting there, and growing anxious with the 
 delay. Folly presented the box timidly. 
 
 10—2
 
 148 FoJhj Morrison. 
 
 He was surprised at the generosity of his 
 "proterjee, and accepted the gift with a thousand 
 expressions of pleasure. Folly was elated 
 with joy. 
 
 Then they went to work. There was much 
 to be done. Esperenza had been up all night 
 composing a ballet, which necessitated a re- 
 arrangement of the performance, the compo- 
 sition of music, and a hundred other troubles. 
 Looking at Folly in her strange trim, it 
 seemed preposterous that such a creature as 
 she should revolutionise the company, and 
 give every one extra w^ork and fresh re- 
 hearsals. 
 
 From the chef cVorcJiestre to the call-boy, 
 everyone concerned did his or her best to 
 make the girl know what trouble she was 
 giving. They could have chosen no better 
 method of delighting her. They showed her 
 her own importance. 
 
 When the stage was cleared to prepare for 
 the morning performance, and the stage- 
 manager announced that there would be a 
 rehearsal of the new ballet every morning for 
 the rest of the week, there was loud grum- 
 bling, and the "premiere danseuse declared she 
 would resign. 
 
 ' As you please/ said Esperenza, with
 
 The Diarij of a Week. 149 
 
 a shrug. ^ We must try to do without 
 you.' 
 
 The danseuse knitted her eyebrows and 
 looked at Folly as if she intended to annihi- 
 late her. Folly met her glance undaunted, 
 and with the most impudent smile at her 
 command stared at her until she withdrew 
 from the stage. 
 
 Her insouciance increased with the diffi- 
 culties opposed to her. Her self-esteem was 
 established and not to be shaken. 
 
 ^ When she pauses to pick up the flow^er/ 
 said Esperenza, explaining his scheme of the 
 ballet to the chef cVorchestrey 'there should 
 be a leetle slow music' 
 
 * I know ; a movement something like this 
 — eh V returned the composer, running his 
 fingers over the keys of the piano. 
 
 * The movement's all right, but the tune's 
 horrid,' said Foil}''. 
 
 The c/icy* glared at her, and then said, sar- 
 castically : 
 
 ^ Perhaps you can suggest a better V 
 
 ^ Of course I can, although it's not my 
 trade,' said she ; and then, before all the 
 assembled artists, she hummed an air which 
 she considered better. 
 
 Folly was here called away to the manager's
 
 150 Follij Morrison. 
 
 room, where the artist was waiting to see her 
 with a view to sketching a suitable dress. 
 She stood to him in the impromptu costume 
 in which she had danced the day before. 
 
 ^ By Jove, what a glorious figure I' said he 
 to the lessee, in a low voice. 
 
 Folly's sharp ears caught the words, and 
 the unction permeated to her soul. 
 
 ' In what character does the young lady 
 dance? asked the artist, as he hastily sketched 
 the outline of Folly's figure. 
 
 ' Her name is Folly, and she danced like 
 one possessed : that is your cue for a dress. 
 Her dance is independent of the opening, and 
 incidental.' 
 
 ' A " Folly " dress, then, would be suit- 
 able : parti-coloured pale blue and white 
 satin, trimmed with silver grelots ; silk tights, 
 also parti-coloured — by the w^ay, is she to be 
 a male or female " Folly"?' 
 
 ' Female. I want her to appear what she 
 is — a beautiful young girl, with impudence, 
 vivacity, and lots of life and go.' 
 
 Folly heard the artist's description of her 
 dress — the mention of satin and silk and 
 silver bells — with twinkling eyes, and listened 
 to the lessee's description of her character 
 with not less of interest. Her key to success
 
 The Diary of a Week 151 
 
 and popularity was to be beautifii] and young, 
 impudent and lively. 
 
 ' I understand,' said the artist ; ^ skirts 
 rather long than short, with plenty of soft 
 white frill ; and shoes — can you dance with 
 heels V 
 
 ' I can dance with anything ; I danced in 
 these.' Folly showed her old boots. The 
 Qfentlemen lauoiiecl. 
 
 ' Then, shoes with a little heel — so ; and a 
 grelot instead of a buckle. But these white 
 frills vvill necessitate another colour with the 
 pale blue, to contrast.' 
 
 ' I saw a lovely white silk just shot with 
 pink — the palest salmon,' suggested the 
 lessee. 
 
 ' That would do. Then, a little Phrygian 
 cap, with two long, narrow feeders, parti- 
 coloured, to correspond with the dress. How 
 about the hair V 
 
 ' Oh, it's lovely hair — natural wave and 
 curl, is it not, my child V 
 
 Follyunfastened and let it fall inatwinkling. 
 
 ^ I would gather it in loosely at the back 
 of the neck, have it clasped with a little paste 
 diamond brooch, and allowed to fall in its 
 own natural curls. There, that is a rough 
 idea of the costume.'
 
 152 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ^ Very fetching,' said the lessee, looking at 
 it. 
 
 ' May I see it, if you please ?' said Folly, 
 unable to repress her curiosity. She could 
 hardly bring herself to part with the sketch ; 
 her head was fairly turned. 
 
 Standing by Esperenza's side, she watched 
 the morning performance through, and ex- 
 pressed her profound contempt for the dancing 
 of the ijremiere danseiise. That lady, under 
 the critical eye of the child in the print dress, 
 exerted herself to the utmost, and, in at- 
 tempting a difficult pas, nearly came to grief. 
 Folly laughed ; and the Frenchwoman, 
 coming off the stage in a towering passion, 
 declared she would not dance again. 
 
 In the evening Folly went to The Lane 
 and saw the dancing of Davoni, and j^rolited 
 by the lesson. Returning with the door- 
 keeper to his rooms in Hercules Buildings, 
 she would not go to bed until she had exe- 
 cuted Davoni's best effects, with improve- 
 ments of her own. Her audience was sleej^y 
 and lethargic — a disposition which prevented 
 an open rupture at that time, despite the 
 unpleasant things that Folly said, and which 
 at an earlier hour would have undoubtedly 
 enlivened the proceedings.
 
 The Diarij of a Week 153 
 
 On Tuesday Folly was measured for her 
 costume, and went through a long rehearsal, 
 trying the patience of all concerned by her 
 perpetual objections. 
 
 On Wednesday there Avas only a short re- 
 hearsal, concluding with remonstrances from 
 the chefcVorchestre, from the acting manager, 
 and even from Esperenza, in consequence of 
 Folly's * obstructiveness.' General predic- 
 tions were made that the ballet would never 
 be arranged in time for representation on 
 Saturday. 
 
 Thursday was a delightful day. The 
 printer brought a proof-poster, which Espe- 
 renza got hold of and displayed to Folly. 
 
 ^ There ! what do you think of that V he 
 asked. 
 
 ' Tremendous big letters — what are they 
 all about V returned Folly. 
 
 ' Ah ! you can't read. See — this top line 
 — " The Garden Pantomime. Jack and the 
 Beanstalk." ' 
 
 ' But the big letters ?' 
 
 ' - Folly !" ' 
 
 Folly felt a thrill as if cold water were 
 bemg poured down her back. 
 
 ' My name ! And the little words under- 
 neath V
 
 154 FoJhj Morri>ion. 
 
 ' " Folly, the new danseusc. Debut, Satur- 
 day, January 3." ' 
 
 The rehearsal went well after that, and 
 took shape quickly. Folly w^as most amiable, 
 and w^on the affections of all the men she had 
 enraged the day before. The women she 
 took no notice of; they hated her more than 
 ever. 
 
 On Friday, going to the theatre, she saw 
 the posters announcing her debut displayed 
 on the hoardings. She stopped before each 
 one, looking up at the great letters with 
 intense delight, and then at the people around, 
 wishing they could know that she was the 
 danseuse referred to. ' They w^ill all know 
 me soon/ she thought. 
 
 The costumiere brought the dress, all 
 glittering with silver grclots. Her head grew 
 giddy as she looked at herself in a cheval- 
 
 glass. 
 
 ' I will dance in it this rehearsal,' she said. 
 
 * The body wants taking in a little here,' 
 uro'ed the dressmaker. 
 
 ^ Do it after rehearsal, there's a darling 1' 
 pleaded Folly, looking with her most bewitch- 
 ing smile at the costumiere. The woman, 
 uninfluenced by any jealous feeling, and 
 fascinated by the girl's beauty and sweet
 
 The Diary of a Week lo5 
 
 smile, consented to defer the alterations, and 
 Folly ran down to the stage in her new dress, 
 the costumier e following. 
 
 The men and women were standing about 
 in groups talking ; the rehearsal w^as waiting 
 for the girl. 
 
 To enter with a simper and a blush, and 
 stand awkwardly to receive admiration, was 
 not in Folly's disposition. Going up to the 
 top of the stage by the wings unseen, she 
 cried, ' Here I am !' and then, with a clear, 
 ringing laugh, she pirouetted swiftly down to 
 the light. 
 
 Every eye was attracted. Astonishment 
 was succeeded by admiration, which the men 
 openly and loudly expressed, and even the 
 women echoed. 
 
 ' Are you doubtful of her success now V 
 asked Esperenza of the lessee, who had been 
 depressed by the rumours of ^ obstructive- 
 ness ' and evil prognostications which had 
 reached his ears. 
 
 ' No ; that w^ill do. And that is how she 
 should enter — with those words and with that 
 manner. Can you do that. Folly V 
 
 ' To be sure I can,' answered the girl. 
 
 And on Saturday she came upon the scene 
 with the self-same cry and ringing laughter.
 
 loG Folly Morrison. 
 
 taking the audience by surprise, and infecting 
 them with her own wild sj)irit of gaiety and 
 dehght, which never flagged for an instant 
 from her first step upon the stage till the 
 moment when she unwillingly withdrew.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A ROCKET ASCENDS. 
 
 ^;OLLY'S success was complete. Her 
 dream was realised. If she felt 
 disappointment it was because she 
 
 She would 
 durino' the 
 
 had not enough to do. 
 the stage 
 
 have liked to be on 
 
 whole performance — harlequinade included. 
 
 The lessee himself was waiting at the 
 wing with a shawl to wrap round her shoul- 
 ders when she came off from acknowledsfinQ: 
 the ajDplause of the audience. 
 
 ' Are you pleased V she asked, looking up 
 into his face. 
 
 ^ I am delighted ! — astonished ! — charmed !' 
 
 ' Where is my friend, M'sieur Esperenza ? 
 Is he satisfied V 
 
 ' He disappeared five minutes ago.'
 
 158 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' That was unkind.' 
 ' ' Hush ! They have stopped the perform- 
 ance ; they are calling for you again. You 
 must go on !' 
 
 The applause, which had not ceased, swelled 
 to such proportions that the orchestra stopped, 
 and the c/k?/' looked into the wing for instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 ' Yes, you must go on again !' said the 
 lessee, removing the shawl from Folly's 
 shoulders. 
 
 ' May I dance again V 
 
 '■ No, no ! — by no means ! You mustn't 
 make yourself cheap. Let the audience 
 come again if they wish to see you dance. 
 Now run on, my dear.' 
 
 Folly ran on with an unconventional step 
 that showed the eagerness with which she 
 accepted the applause, and with her pretty 
 arms stretched out as though she would have 
 embraced those who honoured her. 
 
 ' Bravo ! Hole salero ! a la muchacha — 
 a la saliente vailarina !' cried an excited, 
 wrinkled old man in an upper box, and down 
 at the girl's feet he flung an immense bouquet. 
 
 Folly picked up the jardinet, and, raising 
 her eyes, recognised her friend and bene- 
 factor, Esperenza. She made him the deepest
 
 A RocJcet Ascends. 159 
 
 curtsey, and, getting off the stage, buried her 
 face in the flowers and burst into tears. 
 
 Tiie lessee hurried her away to his room, 
 and there she was still sobbing hysterically 
 when Esj)erenza tapped at the door. 
 
 Know^ing who knocked, the lessee, w^ho 
 had seen only the excitement of old artists, 
 and was at a loss to understand Folly's tears, 
 called out : 
 
 ' Come in ; come in. Here,'' what's the 
 matter with the little girl ? She has been 
 crying as if her heart would break ever since 
 she came off with your bouquet, and I can't 
 get a word of explanation from her.' 
 
 ' Ah, it requires no explanation !' said the 
 old ballet-master, nodding his head and 
 smiling. ^ A great dancer must weep or go 
 mad with the first success. I was quite mad 
 for two weeks — quite mad !' 
 
 ' And you are all quite satisfied .with me V 
 cried Folly. 
 
 ' Have I not told you so V replied Espe- 
 renza gently, just touching the bouquet. 
 
 ^ Yes, yes. You would not have given me 
 the bouquet if the people had not made me 
 come on twice. How beautifully you showed 
 me your admiration. It was that made me 
 cry. But what a httle fool I am !'
 
 IGO Folhj Morrison. 
 
 Then Folly burst into a long, hysterical 
 laugh, more painful to hear than her sobs. 
 
 Esperenza brought forth from one pocket a 
 scent-bottle and from another a box of bon- 
 bons, and presented them gravely. 
 
 MeanAvhile, the lessee, having withdrawn 
 to the adjoining apartment, was executing 
 his own characteristically English views of 
 gratitude and sympathy. ' Banks,' said he 
 to his man, ' champagne and glasses — next 
 room.' Then he sat down at the table, drew 
 the writing materials together, and began to 
 write. He had finished by the time Banks 
 returned from carrying tlie wine into the 
 other room. 
 
 ' Take this letter down to the staofe-door, 
 to be given to the young lady when she 
 leaves.' 
 
 As he spoke the lessee addressed the enve- 
 lope, blotted it, and rose from his chair. 
 
 Returning to Folly he found her calmer, 
 and eating bonbons witli avidity. 
 
 The cork popped, frightening the girl, for 
 she had never heard the sound before. Out 
 bubbled the sparkling Avine, and Folly drank 
 champagne for the first time. 
 
 As if she had not had sufificient excite-
 
 A Rochet Ascends. 161 
 
 ment ! Poor child, there was none to pity 
 her, nobody to protect her from this cruel 
 kindness ! 
 
 Taking off her silk and satin, her silver 
 and glistening paste, with a sigh she resumed 
 her black cotton stockings, her broken boots, 
 her print calico dress, now limp and dirty 
 w^ith a week's exposure to London fogs, and 
 her child's hat. 
 
 The doorkeeper handed her a letter. 
 
 ' What does it say outside T she asked. 
 
 ' '' Miss— Folly," ' said the doorkeeper. 
 
 She looked at it attentively. It was 
 becoming important that she should know 
 the look of her own name. Then she opened 
 it with considerable curiosity. 
 
 It contained a long slip of paper with 
 something written on a pink surface, folded 
 in a double sheet of paper, on which was 
 just a line of writing. Folly turned them 
 this way and that, looked in the envelope to 
 see if there was anything else ; then, appeal- 
 ing to her friend the doorkeeper for explana- 
 tion, said : 
 
 * What's it all about, do you know V 
 
 The doorkeeper, who, seeing the pink and 
 white slip, was as curious about it as she, 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 Folly Morrison. 
 
 drew near to make the investigation readily 
 enough. 
 
 * Why, bless me, it's a cheque ! and ' 
 
 ' What's a cheque '?' 
 
 * A cheque ? Why, a cheque's — a cheque's 
 worth a lot of money ; and this is for five- 
 and -twenty pounds. It's a present from the 
 lessee. It's written on this paper, see — ''The 
 lessee begs Folly to accept the enclosed 
 cheque as a slight recognition of her valuable 
 services." There !' 
 
 ' A nice letter, isn't it ?' said Folly, smiling. 
 
 ' Yes, but look at the cheque ; that's nicer 
 still; 
 
 ' Why, who will give me anything for 
 that V asked Folly, looking incredulously at 
 the cheque. 
 
 ' I wdll, as soon as we get home. I'll give 
 you five-and-twenty pounds for it.' 
 
 ' Thank you !' 
 
 Folly put the letter in her pocket, but the 
 bouquet she carried in her hand, causing no 
 little astonishment among the late people they 
 met on their way to Lambeth. 
 
 The doorkeeper's wife kept the joint savings 
 in an old stocking, and from this hoard 
 change for the cheque was laid out before 
 Folly.
 
 A Rocket Ascends. 163 
 
 Some time after, when the woman was 
 alone, Folly said to her : 
 
 ' Your husband is very kind and very good ; 
 but he's very stupid. He likes money better 
 than anything, but he won't take it when he 
 is asked to.' 
 
 * Why, that is stupid, to be sure,' answered 
 the wife, who did not participate in her 
 husband's delicacy. 
 
 Folly put her hand in her pocket, and 
 taking out about four-fifths of her gold, said: 
 
 ' Will you put this in the bag with the 
 other money, and don't say anything about if?' 
 
 ' But, my dear !' said the woman, gasping 
 for breath as she looked at the sum offered, 
 ' my dear, we've not done enough to deserve 
 all that r 
 
 ' He has. If it had not been for him I 
 shouldn't have got those beautiful flowers. 
 I might not have been engaged at all. Now, 
 don't you be stupid.' 
 
 The argument was conclusive. The door- 
 keeper's w^ife checked her propensity to be 
 stupid, and took the money, and, indeed, 
 brought all her wisdom to bear upon the 
 doorkeeper when he, on hearing of Folly's 
 generosity, expressed his determination to 
 restore at least some of the money. She 
 
 11—2
 
 164 FoU'i Morrison. 
 
 prevailed over his intention with difficulty ; 
 nevertheless she did prevail ; as what wife, 
 not absolutely dumb, woidd not ? 
 
 In the evening she went out and found the 
 dressmaker, whose private address she had 
 obtained, and gave her the rest of her money 
 excepting a few shillings which remained of 
 the sovereign she had reserved to herself the 
 previous week. Then she was hapj^y. 
 
 The next evening, when she was about to 
 leave the theatre, she encountered the lessee, 
 who was talking on the staircase with a noble 
 patron of the drama. 
 
 ' Follv,' said he, ' how is it vou still wear 
 that horrid dress of yours ? ^Vhy don't you 
 buy yourself something better V 
 
 ' I have no money,' repHed Folly, blushing. 
 
 ' But vou received mv letter V 
 
 «/ »/ 
 
 'With the twenty-five pounds — yes. I 
 spent that on Sunday.' 
 
 The lessee held his breath ; the nobleman 
 burst into loud lauofhter. 
 
 Folly frowned. 
 
 ' What's the use of money if you don't 
 sjoend it V she asked. 
 
 ' Well, you know how to,' said the lessee. 
 
 'Yes, thank you,' retorted Folly, throwing 
 up her head.
 
 A Rochet Ascends, 165 
 
 The nobleman was highly delighted. He 
 took out his card-case. 
 
 ^ Do you know a respectable shop where 
 you could buy a dress V he asked. 
 
 ' Yes ; there is a very respectable shop in 
 Piccadilly Circus.' 
 
 ' To be sure. There is Swan and Edgar's, 
 if I am not mistaken.' 
 
 ' That is the place. I bought a very good 
 hankerchief there for a pound.' 
 
 Again a burst of laughter offended Folly's 
 ears. 
 
 'Go to that respectable shop again to- 
 morrow afternoon, Folly. Give them this 
 card, and choose a pretty dress. I'll pay for 
 it.' 
 
 The nobleman offered his card. Folly, 
 putting her hands behind her, said : 
 
 ' Thank you. I'd rather wear my old frock 
 than accept a better from one who comes here 
 to laugh at me.' 
 
 With the most dignified bow she was about 
 to withdraw, when the nobleman, putting his 
 hand on her shoulder, said : 
 
 '' We are very rude to laugh so, aren't we '? 
 Well, we are only men. You must forgive 
 us. I lauo'hed because — because I couldn't 
 help it, not from any wish to offend. On the
 
 166 Folly Morrison. 
 
 contrary, I came beliind here on purpose to 
 make your acquaintance, and tell you how 
 charmed I have been with your exquisite 
 performance, which I saw for the first time 
 this eveninof-.' 
 
 Folly's countenance brightened into a 
 smile. 
 
 ' And now,' he continued, offering his card 
 again, ^ may I ask you to make use of my 
 card and select a couple of dresses more 
 becoming to you than the one you wear V 
 
 After that Folly did not hesitate ; she 
 accepted the card in her sweetest manner — a 
 manner which would have made a plain girl 
 fascinating. 
 
 ' Here's another cheque — how much is that 
 worth V she asked, handing the card to the 
 doorkeeper. 
 
 He explained how it must be used. 
 
 The next morning Folly sought her new 
 friend the dressmaker, and together they went 
 in the afternoon to Swan and Edgar s, where 
 she selected two dresses, which were in ac- 
 cordance with their joint idea of the beautiful. 
 
 They were costly. ^ What does that matter?' 
 asked Folly, when the dressmaker pointed 
 out the fact as an objection. ^ The dresses 
 please me — that is everything : it doesn't
 
 A Rocket Ascends. 167 
 
 matter whether they are cheap or dear. 
 How silly some people are about accepting 
 presents. If you set your mind upon giving 
 some one a present, and some one would not 
 accept it, would you not feel disappointed V 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Well, and would it not be ungrateful of 
 some one to disappoint you after you had 
 done all in your power to be nice and kind to 
 her V 
 
 ' Why, looking at it that way, so it would/ 
 said the dressmaker. So the dresses were 
 taken awav, and doubtless the nobleman 
 opened his eyes over the bill. 
 
 Folly fell in love with the dressmaker — 
 the only woman she ever could be amiable 
 with — and came to an arrangement with her 
 by which they should live together in the 
 same house. By this means she could watch 
 the making of the dresses and assist. 
 
 To harmonise with her dress, boots, gloves, 
 a hat, and other affairs had to be bought, 
 and, as she had no money of her own, she 
 was compelled to borrow. 
 
 She was in debt about fifteen pounds when 
 she at length discarded her old dress and 
 walked out in the new; but then she looked 
 like a young duchess, and people turnod round
 
 168 Folly Morrison. 
 
 to admire her, so the obligation weighed bat 
 lightly on her mind. 
 
 It was not long before she paid oiF the loan 
 with interest, for the lessee doubled her salary 
 as her reputation increased and the receipts 
 went up. It was to her he owed his success 
 that season. 
 
 Her little sitting-room was never without 
 a bouquet — sometimes it contained two or 
 three. They were lightly valued, and w4ien 
 faded ^vere thrown away without a thought. 
 Thanks to her friend the dressmaker she soon 
 learnt that they were not her fiiends who 
 cast them at her feet. 
 
 * They are cheap and selfish compliments/ 
 said her friend. The man who pays his ill- 
 spared half-a-crowm and applauds you from a 
 corner of the pit is the better friend. Nine 
 out of ten of the men who throw a guinea 
 bouquet do so to be stared at by the house 
 and talked about in their clubs ; as for the 
 tenth, he's worse than the other nine put to- 
 gether. You'll find them out soon.' 
 
 There was one bouquet w^hich Folly never 
 parted with ; it was the jardinet thrown to 
 her by Esperenza. She kept it with the 
 lessee's letter. 
 
 Folly never forgot a friend. Lightly as
 
 A Rocket Ascends. 169 
 
 she valued money or its equivalents, the 
 generosity of the giver, if it was sincere and 
 unselfish, was registered in her heart as a 
 debt to be repaid whenever opportunity oc- 
 curred. 
 
 If she remembered her friends she did not 
 forget her enemies. The first poster announc- 
 ing her appearance that she could obtain she 
 sent by post, in an official-looking envelope, 
 unstamped, to Mrs. Sam Fernandez. Her 
 old clothes she also sent to the same lady by 
 carrier, with a polite note, which she induced 
 her friend to write for her, explaining that 
 she sent the rags back with the /lope that 
 Mrs. Sam would one day be thankful for them. 
 
 Folly had now arrived at an age when her 
 character w^as determined and beyond radical 
 alteration. Less than a palmist's skill is 
 necessary to predict her future. 
 
 As we leave her now we shall find her 
 presently. She is started in her brilliant up- 
 w^ard course, like some cunningly devised and 
 brilliant pyrotechnic. We avert our eyes for 
 a moment, to return and find her still rising 
 higher and yet higher above the heads of the 
 wondering and admiring crowd. Anon the 
 zenith is reached, and then comes a glittering
 
 170 Folly Morrison, 
 
 coruscation, at which spectators exclaim in 
 astonishment, as though the event were un- 
 anticipated. 
 
 After the brilUant close who will care for 
 the empty shell, or even think where it may 
 fall !
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 THE VICAR OF ST. BARNABAS. 
 
 '-^1 IHE parish of Tangley comprises about 
 sixty square miles of common land, 
 six cultivated farms, Aveling Hall, 
 with its surrounding acres of park 
 and pasture, and the irregular row of houses 
 composing the village of Tangley. Its popu- 
 lation consists of not more than one hundred 
 and fifty souls, the servants at the Hall in- 
 cluded, and to supply their wants there is 
 one general shop, one public -house, and one 
 church. 
 
 The church, standing a little back from the 
 highway, is en face with the public -ho use ; 
 the village tails off down the road in the direc- 
 tion of Chertsey. From a balloon, or from 
 a moral point of view, it would seem that the
 
 172 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 head of the village was vastly out of propor- 
 tion with the body it had to feed, somewhat 
 like a ' loggerhead ' or tadpole in its earliest 
 stage of development. 
 
 Tangley itself and the surrounding country 
 is as pretty a part of Surrey as there is. Stand- 
 ing in the churchyard of St. Barnabas — the 
 church is situated on the hill — and looking 
 over the village one sees an undulating plain 
 stretching far away, until in this hazy autumn 
 afternoon it is liard to say where the earth 
 ends and tlie sky begins in the blue distance. 
 TJie foreground is purple with heather. Turn- 
 ing round, one looks down upon the grand 
 oaks of Aveling Park, and catches a glimpse 
 of the lake formed there by the meandering 
 Bray. A stack of twisted Elizabethan red 
 brick chimneys indicates the position of the 
 Hall ; the thin streams of greyish-blue smoke 
 rising perpendicularly in the still air are con- 
 spicuous by contrast with the dark foliage of 
 the oaks beyond. On the southern boundary 
 of the park the squalid huts of Sandy Lane 
 may just be seen, and beyond them the even 
 fields of red-brown corn belonging to the farm 
 at May ford; but these are not part of Tangley 
 parish. 
 
 Tangley Vicarage cannot be seen from the
 
 The Vicar of St. Barnabas. 173 
 
 road ; it lies beyond the church across the 
 glebe nestled in the side of the hill — a quaint 
 old house, with a dozen spare rooms that are 
 never used, overgrown with clematis and 
 jasmine of ancient growth, brightened up by 
 a profusely flowering Gloire de Dijon of more 
 recent planting. It is surrounded by a wilder- 
 ness of a garden, with quaint box-edged walks 
 and eccentric beds of free-growing annuals, 
 which make no pretence to order or regularity 
 in their arrangement. The gardener has 
 clearly a preference for scarlet gladiolus 
 and pink hollyhocks over other flowers. 
 Before the house is a smooth lawn, with an 
 apple-tree in the centre — gone out of the 
 perpendicular with its weight of fruit, ap- 
 parently — and guarded by four grim old 
 arbor vitse, which stand at each corner like 
 sentinels. 
 
 The vicarage, with its garden, its orchard, 
 its piggery, stables, and cow-lewen, its glebe 
 land, and its common rights, is given to the 
 vicar, with tithes to the annual amount of 
 £500, in return for his ministration to the 
 spiritual requirements of Tangley. 
 
 Tangley is not exacting in this respect. If 
 Boniface, at the Lion, had not had more to 
 do than the vicar of the church opposite, he
 
 174 Folly Morrison. 
 
 would have to shut up his shop and go else- 
 where for his living. 
 
 There were scarcely any poor in the parish, 
 and the most pious farmer did not care to go 
 more than once a week to church. Sir Andrew 
 Aveling himself, though most exemplary in 
 observing the ceremonies of the church, did 
 not attend oftener than once on the Sunday. 
 The baronet was not in need of reforma- 
 tion, so what necessity was there for him to 
 go to church more frequently ? He went in 
 the morning to hear a good sermon; he stayed 
 at home in the evening to eat a good dinner. 
 Nevertheless there were two services at St. 
 Barnabas's every Sunday, and Sir Andrew 
 sent as many servants as could be spared from 
 the Hall to represent him. They sat under the 
 organ-loft, and formed no inconsiderable part 
 of the conofreofation. Sir Andrew's pew was 
 a square, roomy apartment, with high, com- 
 fortable backs to the seats nearer the pulpit. 
 
 In the morning the vicar preached a sermon 
 for Sir Andrew which no one quite under- 
 stood ; in the evening he preached a sermon 
 for the servants which went home to their 
 understandino^s. 
 
 It will be seen that the vicar received his 
 living from the baronet.
 
 The Vicar of St. Barnabas. 175 
 
 Besides these services, in which he was 
 assisted by a curate, a clerk, and a pew-opener, 
 the vicar had Httle else to do. 
 
 It was for him to rest six days and work 
 on the seventh. One may say he was well 
 paid for his services. 
 
 With these facts before him, the reader 
 may easily picture the vicar a slavish, servile 
 old man, wdth just enough stupidity to save 
 him from being a hypocrite, and just enough 
 cunning to save him from being a fool ; with 
 more difficulty he may imagine the man hold- 
 ing such a post to be young, intelligent, and 
 honest in principle. Yet this was the character 
 of Richard Vane, Vicar of St. Barnabas, 
 Tangley. 
 
 At Oxford he had saved the life of Boland, 
 Sir Andrew Aveling's only son, when that 
 young man, with characteristic rashness, under- 
 took to row round the osiers by Burley Mill, 
 and was within an ace of beino^ drawn under the 
 mill-wheel, and subsequently he had rescued 
 him from many scrapes into which his head- 
 long and impetuous temperament hurried him. 
 In grateful recognition of these offices the 
 baronet offered Kichard Vane, who had just 
 passed through his ordination, the living of 
 St. Barnabas, which was then vacant by the
 
 176 Folly Morrison, 
 
 death of the Venerable Joshua Sloofo. Kichard 
 Vane accepted the benefice without hesitation, 
 and wrote at once to his sister Margaret — 
 then holding a situation as governess at a 
 school in London — to come and share his 
 good fortune. 
 
 On this Sunday afternoon in August, 1869, 
 the brother and sister are under the apple- 
 tree on the lawn — Richard stretched out on 
 the grass with his hands clasped under the 
 back of his head, looking up through the 
 foliaofe : Maro-aret seated in an American 
 chair, with one of George Ehot's novels in 
 her lap. The vicar wears a light alpaca jacket, 
 and his clerical waistcoat is unbuttoned. His 
 sister is dressed in a costume of ecru French 
 pique, trimmed with white lace and pale blue ; 
 dainty plaited lace frills are about her throat 
 and wrists. She is swinging one foot list- 
 lessly — for she has reached a somewhat dry 
 part of the novel — and a little neat blue shoe 
 peeps in and out the kilted margin of her 
 under-skirt. 
 
 Those four old arbor vitre at the corners of 
 lawn have seen many generations of vicars 
 and vicar's sisters on that lawn ; but a vicar 
 unbuttoned, and without a black cloth coat 
 on his back, and a vicar s sister with heels to
 
 Tlie Vicar of St. Barnabas. 177 
 
 her shoes and a flower m her hair — never. 
 Anythmg less Sunday-Hke than their be- 
 haviour, more unsacerdotal than their appear- 
 ance, they cannot have seen since they were 
 planted. 
 
 Beyond the privet-hedge that forms the 
 boundary of the flower-garden a maid in a 
 spotless white muslin apron and cap is shaking 
 a tree for greengages. It is near tea-time, 
 and Mr. Vane likes fruit. As she stoops to 
 pick up the rich wasp-bitten fruit and put it 
 on the plate, a stone glances by. She looks 
 round in surprise, and seeing no one, fancies 
 she was mistaken, and returns to her occupa- 
 tion. Another stone flies through the air, 
 and this time strikes her on the back. There 
 could be no mistake about that ; it was a 
 palpable hit. Behind her is the holly hedge 
 dividing the garden from the paddock. The 
 stone must have come from thence. Was it 
 the cow-boy or — sweet thought I — the young 
 man from the general shop who took this 
 means of attracting her attention ? 
 
 Looking towards the hedge, with cheeks 
 even redder than the sun has painted them, 
 she hears a low whistle. Her heart throbs, 
 and she looks round cautiously, standing on 
 tip-toe to look over the privet-hedge. Miss. 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 FoUjj Morrison. 
 
 Yane is still reading, and there is no sign of 
 master. 
 
 * Pst ! Jenny !' whispers a voice from be- 
 yond the holly. 
 
 Jenny hums an old hymn, and strolls down 
 towards the hedge. 
 
 ' Here ! Jenny! ' 
 
 The voice is not the cow-boy's, nor the 
 dulcet expression of the grocer's assistant. 
 Whose can it be ? Still humming, she peeps 
 this way and that through the hedge, until at 
 length she catches sight of a face. 
 
 * Oh, Mr. Roland !' she exclaims under her 
 breath. Next dearest to a lover in a maid's 
 heart is the visitor who never forgets to give 
 her half a-crown when he leaves the house. 
 Seeing Mr. Holand Aveling, she has agree- 
 able visions of new ribbons. 
 
 ' Is your mistress alone V asks the gentle- 
 man, in a whisper. 
 
 'No — master's with her; they're on the 
 lawn now, and agoin' to have tea as soon as I 
 take in the gages,' answers Jenny, whispering, 
 after another peep on tip-toe at the lady on 
 the lawn. 
 
 ' Ah !• — I don't want him to know that I'm 
 here.' 
 
 Jenny has a soul for intrigue, and hums 
 * Abide with Me ' alarmingly loud.
 
 The Vicar of St. Barnabas, 179 
 
 ' Give your mistress this without Mr. 
 Vane's knowledge/ says Koland, tearing a 
 leaf from his pocket-book, doubling it up, and 
 thrusting his hand, regardless of the speared 
 leaves^ through the holly-hedge. 
 
 Jenny takes the paper — it is very light — 
 in silence. 
 
 ^And — wait, Jenny' — the hand is with- 
 drawn, there is a pleasant chinking sound, 
 a.nd it reappears with a half-crown — ^ take 
 this. You know what to do with that.' 
 
 Jenny's face brightens and she says, 'Oh, 
 thank you, sir !' softly, with a well-feigned 
 accent of astonishment, bending her knees 
 suddenly and recovering her position with a 
 jerk. Then she returns to the greengage 
 tree, singing ; 
 
 ' I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless. 
 Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness.' 
 
 Presently she goes into the house with the 
 fruit. 
 
 ' Be quick with tea ; it grows late,' says 
 Miss Vane, without taking her eyes from the 
 book, as Jenny passes. 
 
 Richard Vane is seated with his back 
 ao^ainst the tree, writino^ notes on an old en- 
 velope, and using his Church-service as a 
 
 12—2
 
 180 Folly Morrison. 
 
 desk. He is preparing his sermon for the 
 evening, and has got his inspiration from the 
 green leaves and the bhie sky beyond. No 
 wonder the simple folks like his evening 
 homilies. 
 
 The cheerful sound of rattling cups and 
 saucers comes throusfh the French windows 
 that lead into the great room of the vicarage. 
 These windows are an improvement upon the 
 long narrow casements which previously 
 existed, and, besides affording facility for 
 eo^ress and in^^ress, sfive the room lio^ht and 
 air, and a j^leasant view of the garden ; they 
 were suggested by Miss Vane. 
 
 ' If you please, miss, will you give me the 
 key of the tea-caddy V says Jenny, demurely. 
 
 ' It is in the caddy.' 
 
 ' Xo, indeed, miss,' answers Jenny, with- 
 out a blush. 
 
 ' That is strange — I thought I left it there. 
 I will come and see.' 
 
 Miss Vane lays down her book and enters 
 the house by the window — Jenny following 
 Avith the face of a saint. 
 
 When they are in the room and beyond 
 the observation of Mr. Vane — a desired end, 
 for which Jenny, it is needless to say, pur- 
 posely removed the key from the caddy — the
 
 The Vicar of St. Barnabas, 181 
 
 maid says, handing the folded leaflet : ^ If you 
 please, miss, Mr. Aveling gave me this for 
 you, miss.' 
 
 ' Mr. Aveling — when did you see him V 
 * Just now, miss, in the meadow, t'other 
 side the holly -hedge, please, miss.' 
 
 Miss Vane flushes crimson with anger and 
 shame ; nevertheless, the offender is half 
 forgiven as she takes his note ; his off'ence 
 forgiven when, being alone, she opens it 
 and reads the hurried lines : 
 
 'My darling Madge, — I am in great 
 trouble. I want to see you alone. For 
 Heaven's sake don't tell Dick. Ever your 
 own 
 
 * Roland.' 
 
 It is no unusual occurrence for Roland to 
 be in trouble — he hardly waited to get out 
 of one scrape before he engaged in another, 
 and frequently had to extricate himself from 
 two or three at one time. But what trouble 
 can it be that he wishes to conceal from his 
 friend Richard, to whom he has hitherto 
 applied first for help ? This conjecture agi- 
 tates Margaret Vane ; at the same time it 
 gratifies her gentle heart to think that he 
 should come to her for sympathy when he
 
 1S2 FoJlij 2Iorrison. 
 
 dare not o-o elsewhere. That is as it should 
 be. A man should lay his ^Yhole heart before 
 the woman he loves. 
 
 The look of tender pity and gentle devo- 
 tion in her face, as, standing in the shade, 
 she smooths his little note between her hand, 
 would be a pleasant study for an artist — or 
 her lover. 
 
 From this absent state she is recalled to 
 her present position by the shuffling steps of 
 Jenny coming along the passage with an 
 over-burdened tray, and her brother's voice 
 from the lawn : 
 
 ' Is tea ready yet, Madge ?'
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ^THE BETTER THE DAY THE BETTER THE DEED.' 
 
 ICK dear, I must ask you to let ine 
 stav at home this eveningf ' said 
 Margaret, pouring out the tea. 
 ' I thought you Hked my even- 
 ing sermons.' 
 
 *So I do, much better than those you 
 preach in the morning — they come from your 
 head, the others from your heart ; that is why 
 I prefer them, I suppose." 
 
 ' That's a poor comphment to my head, 
 Madge.' 
 
 ^ Or a fine one to your heart — hey V 
 
 * Thank you. You let me off kindly ; yet 
 
 I dare say the other view of the case is more 
 
 correct. These discourses that I take six 
 
 days to write, and then find unfinished, may
 
 184 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 be inferior to tlie sermon I can compose by 
 looking at the branch of an apple-tree for 
 half an hour, and deliver with no other help 
 than a few notes on an old envelope. That 
 disposes of fifteen years' hard study at a 
 breath.' 
 
 Kichard Yane stirred his tea thoughtfully, 
 and for a few minutes was lost in reverie ; 
 then with a sio^h he shook ojff the mood which 
 evidently pained him, and said, in a bright, 
 cheerful voice : 
 
 ^ Well, Madge, so you won't go to church 
 to-night, hey \ Why ? Feel lazy ? Or is 
 it that you want to get through your novel 
 to-night in order that you may begin next 
 week well with a fresh one ?' 
 
 * No. I will tell you my reason if you 
 wish it ; but ' 
 
 The brother checked her with a graceful 
 movement of the hands and head, and turned 
 the subject immediately, with the finished 
 ease and courtesy of a man that has lived in 
 good society and profited by its best lessons. 
 
 Margaret, who had bent over her tea-cuj) 
 as she spoke, feeling that her cheeks were 
 betraying her thoughts — they had a pro- 
 voking trick of blushing against her inclina- 
 tions, looked up at him timidly. He was
 
 ' The Better the Day the Better the Deed' 185 
 
 speaking upon some subject^ she hardly knew 
 what^ for looking into his sweet, frank eyes, 
 she could only think what a dear, beautiful 
 man this brother was. The blush left her 
 face, a soft, affectionate light suffused her 
 eyes, a smile curled her lips, and swelled 
 the curve of her fresh young cheek. 
 
 The flow of Kichard's discourse stopped 
 abruptly, and he said, laughing : 
 
 ' You are not listening to what I say. I 
 can see that by your expression. What are 
 you thinking about, Madge ? Your thoughts 
 are far away.' 
 
 * Not very. I was thinking what a beau- 
 tiful face you have.' 
 
 Richard laughed heartily. As a boy he 
 had been ' chaffed ' and caricatured for his 
 gaunt, ungainly figure, his ill-proportioned 
 features, and the colour of his skin. His 
 appearance had not improved with age, for 
 Xature, who scattered a few hairs on his face, 
 had plucked out thrice the number from his 
 head, leaving him, as he said, too much hair 
 for a cherub and not enough for a j)atriarch. 
 
 ' Let me see myself as others see me,' said 
 he, rising to look in the mirror. ' Yes, 
 Madge, you're right ; I grow handsome. 
 Methinks I am marvellous hairy about the
 
 18G Folly Morrison. 
 
 face, and my curls must absolutely be cut. 
 Lilies and not mushrooms underlie my skin, 
 and my nose ' 
 
 ' You shan't find fault with that ; it's a 
 capital, manly, firm nose ; and your mouth is 
 as pretty as a woman's. But it's your eyes 
 that make your face so beautiful. They are 
 so earnest and sincere and thoughtful, and 
 yet so kind and gentle.' 
 
 As she spoke, Margaret, as if by an un- 
 controllable impulse, rose from her seat, went 
 to her brother's chair, and twining her arm 
 about his neck, kissed him, and laid her 
 cheek beside his. 
 
 There was little likeness between the 
 brother and sister, except that her eyes were 
 like his ; for she was ten years younger than 
 he, with a complexion like the inner petals of 
 a pink rose, and features as childlike and 
 feminine as his were the reverse. Contrast 
 exaggerated the characteristics of each, in- 
 creasing the beauty of one and the plainness 
 of the other. 
 
 * If you please, miss, may I go to church 
 this evening V asked Jenny, coming to the 
 door. This was a hint the artless maid never 
 failed to give when the hour arrived for her 
 to remove the tea-things.
 
 'Tlie Better the Day the Better theDeecV 187 
 
 Miss Vane assented, and the vicar, taking 
 the signal, hastily finished his tea, and then 
 ran upstairs to change his coat. Presently 
 he reappeared in the conventional habit of a 
 vicar ; but even in the canonical hat and 
 black cloth coat, and with his waistcoat pro- 
 perly buttoned, he failed to look like other 
 parsons. 
 
 He slipped the old letter wath the headings 
 of his sermon in his Church-service, dropped 
 them into his tail-pocket, and, putting his 
 arm round Margaret's waist, led her towards 
 the gate 023ening on to the church meadow. 
 On the w^ay he paused to pull up a weed that 
 had spruDg up among the flowers. Would 
 any other vicar at such a time have given his 
 thoughts to such a trivial matter ? Yet 
 there was a significance in it — this pulling 
 up of an ill weed the moment it met his 
 eye. 
 
 Parting with his sister, he gave her a 
 hearty kiss, and then started off to his busi- 
 ness with the air of a man walking out with 
 a pleasurable object before him, which again 
 w^as a peculiarity in a man holding his ghostly 
 office. 
 
 Crossing the stile that cuts the church 
 meadow, he surprised a couple of urchins in
 
 188 Folly Morrison. 
 
 the heinous act of picking blackberries on a 
 Sunday. 
 
 Seeing 'parson,' the youngsters bolted, 
 leaving their hook hanging in the brambles. 
 They had a good start, and effected a safe 
 retreat to the stony fastness of the graveyard. 
 
 The Kev. Kichard Vane, chuckling, pos- 
 sessed himself of the blackberry hook, walked 
 to the little turnstile in the churchyard, and 
 stayed there, keeping his eyes open. Pre- 
 sently he caught sight of something like the 
 ragged end of a door- mat advancing cautiously 
 beyond the edge of a distant tombstone, then 
 a very narrow strip of forehead, and after 
 that two twinkling eyes. The vicar held up 
 his finger and beckoned. The reprobate was 
 caught. Getting up off" his hands and knees 
 he stood for a moment irresolute, and then 
 advanced sheepishly, with his cap in his 
 hand. 
 
 ' Here's your hook ; you left it in the 
 hedge.' 
 
 ' It's Billy Ives's hook,' said the boy, 
 putting his hand behind him as if he ex- 
 pected to be punished with it in the customary 
 way. 
 
 ' Where is Billy Ives V 
 
 ' Behind t'other sto-an, over the-ar.'
 
 'The Better the Day the Better the Deed: 189 
 
 Billy Ives, thus denounced, rose from the 
 grave, looking as pale as his freckles and 
 tanned skin would permit^ and came down to 
 the turnstile at the vicar's beck. 
 
 'Billy Ives, here's your hook. What's 
 that sticking out of your pocket ?' 
 
 ' Hymn book.' 
 
 'Your mother told you to go to church, 
 heyr 
 
 'Yas.' 
 
 * And you'd rather not.' 
 
 ' Went this miirning.' 
 
 ^ And you want to go blackberrying now ? 
 Very well, go — the pair of you. But tell 
 the truth about it when you get home, boys. 
 Now, then, off you go ; it will be too dark in 
 an hour.' 
 
 The boys scampered off, and the vicar 
 made his way into the church. This little 
 episode had delayed him, so he began the 
 service without putting on his gown. When 
 the time came he went up into the pulpit 
 and preached his simple sermon, touching 
 the hearts of all who heard him, filling them 
 with a happiness as calm and beautiful as the 
 still twilight of that autumn evening. 
 
 Jenny had preceded her master to church :
 
 190 Folly Morrison. 
 
 and Marofaret beinsf alone, could ofive her 
 thoughts exclusively to Roland. 
 
 She took the crumpled note from her 
 pocket and read it again. ' My darling 
 Madge !' With a quick blush she snatched 
 the paper from before her eyes, squeezing it 
 up in her hand. It was the first time she 
 had ever seen her name in conjunction with 
 that pretty term of endearment ; she had 
 heard it whispered for the first time only two 
 days previousl}^ ' My darling Madge !' she 
 repeated, in a low voice, to herself 
 
 Smiling, she opened the paper again to read. 
 
 * I am in great trouble.' The smile left 
 her cheek. 
 
 ' Poor fellow 1' she murmured, with a sigh. 
 ' What misfortune has overtaken him T 
 
 (Asa rule Roland did not wait for mis- 
 fortunes to overtake him — he went out to 
 meet them.) 
 
 ' I want to see you alone.' The smile 
 returned to her face as she thought liow 
 deli^fhtful it would be to console him and 
 alleviate his distress. 
 
 * For Heaven's sake don't tell Dick.' That 
 made her 2:rave acyain. * It must be some- 
 thing serious indeed that he could not tell 
 her brother.'
 
 ' The Better the Day the Better the Deed 191 
 
 ' Ever your own Roland.' Again she 
 smiled. So long as he was ever her Roland, 
 and nothing could separate them, the trouble 
 could not be very great — certainly not one 
 that time and her loving kindness might not 
 obliterate from his memory. ' Still he must 
 be unhappy now, poor fellow,' she thought 
 sadly, putting the letter carefully in her 
 purse. Then, remembering that he would 
 soon be with her, the hiconstant light shone 
 once more in her April eyes. She looked 
 round at the front gate with a flutter at her 
 heart, and then — ran upstairs to smooth her 
 hair and put on her prettier earrings. 
 
 Quick as expectancy made her, these slight 
 alterations were scarcely effected before her 
 ear caught the sound of the latch choking in 
 the garden-gate. 
 
 As she hastened downstairs her apprehen- 
 sion pictured the lover she was about to meet 
 haggard and pale with anxiety, with wild 
 excitement in his eye, and a disordered dress. 
 In the place of this dramatic figure she found 
 Mr. Roland Aveling standing on the lawn 
 by the open window in delicate gloves, fault- 
 less fitting garments, and the happiest ex- 
 pression on his handsome face that one could 
 wish to see there. There was a little wildness
 
 192 Folly Morrison. 
 
 in his eyes, to be sure, as he caught hold of 
 her hands and looked eagerly into her face, 
 but it was by no means the wildness of despair 
 or an expression to command commiseration. 
 In a word, he looked the handsomest, most 
 impudent, happiest young scamp in Christen- 
 dom.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ROLAND AVELING. 
 
 AD her lover appeared, as Margaret 
 expected to find him, wobegone, 
 she would have thrown herself into 
 his arms without reserve, thinkino- 
 only of him^ and adopting that readiest and 
 sweetest feminine means of alleviating his 
 distress ; seeing him bright, smiling, happy, 
 her generous impulse received a check ; she 
 thought of herself, and advanced coyly. 
 
 ' My darling Madge, one would think we 
 were still on a footing of formal friendship. 
 Come, I must teach you how lovers should 
 meet ; it is so — and thus.' 
 
 He threw his hat on the grass as he spoke, 
 encircled her with his arms, pressed her to 
 his heart, and kissed her blushing cheeks. 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 Folly Morrison. 
 
 'But, Roland -' 
 
 ' Not a word for two long moments, and 
 then less solemnly sweet.' 
 
 Margaret struggled faintly, and succeeded 
 in releasinof all but her hands : these Roland 
 ■would not part with. She looked down at 
 the grass — she turned her face away, looking 
 over the beds of tancrled flowers : she could 
 not look in his face. His eyes w^ere fixed on 
 her, and she, blushing because she blushed, 
 dared not meet them. 
 
 ' My lovely little Madge, if you knew how 
 those blushes become you, they would not be 
 mingled with vexation. You are the picture 
 of Daphne, so timid and coy. I believe you 
 would run away from me, as she did from 
 Apollo, if — if — if 3^ou did not love me a little 
 bit. There, I leave hold of vour hands : I 
 give you the chance of flying, and — lo ! you 
 stay. Oh, darling, either I must be much 
 handsomer than Apollo or. you ten thousand 
 times sweeter than Daphne.' 
 
 She turned a furtive glance to his face, 
 smiling an acknowledgment of her love ; then, 
 remembering the note in her pocket, grew 
 suddenly grave. 
 
 *Now tell me what is your trouble,' she 
 said.
 
 Roland Aveling. 195 
 
 ^ You ask me to do an impossibility. I 
 will do anything else you may command.' 
 
 ^ Oh, why not, Roland V 
 
 ' Why, you dear little goose, I have no 
 trouble when I am with you/ 
 
 * But your note this afternoon V 
 
 ' Ah, then I was in trouble, to be sure, for 
 we were apart.' 
 
 ' Was it easier to bear that trouble than to 
 obviate it by the very simple means of coming 
 into the garden in your ordinary way V 
 
 ' Come, Madge, don't look so serious, or 
 3^ou will make me believe that you are sorry 
 that I have no deeper occasion for your 
 sympathy. Must I break my arm or have 
 some dreadful mishap to be happy ?' 
 
 * That depends on whether you value your 
 own happiness more than mine.' 
 
 Margaret seated herself quietly, with a 
 thoughtful face. 
 
 ' I do verily believe you are vexed because 
 I am not seriously unhappy,' said Koland 
 uneasily, as he sat on the grass by the side 
 of Margaret's chair. ^ I am perplexed. Girls 
 do not readily understand practical jokes.' 
 
 ' It seems to me the thoughtless cruelty of 
 a boy to impose upon confiding love and 
 
 inflict unnecessary alarm. It may be wit ' 
 
 13—2
 
 196 Folly Morrison, 
 
 ' It is poor wit, and a bad joke, indeed, 
 and if I have pained you, Madge, believe me 
 I am very sorry for the past, and will try to 
 behave more reasonably in the future.' 
 
 Margaret turned in her chair, and a smile 
 of quick and full forgiveness lit up her eyes 
 as she looked down at her lover. He took 
 her hand and pressed his lips to it gratefully. 
 
 Then they sat silent a while, their souls 
 harmonising with the stillness of the evening. 
 The frailest campanula hung motionless on 
 its slender stem, the leaves of the trees did 
 not stir. Up in the blue sky a couple of 
 rooks, flapping their heavy wings, flew over 
 the garden, gravely cawing. The house- 
 martins twitted about their nests, carrying 
 flies to their second brood peeping from the 
 nests beneath the eaves of the old house. In 
 such a moment the heart is touched, and 
 prompts the mind to be ingenuous and true. 
 
 Margaret felt the influence, and pressed 
 gently the hand that held hers. Eoland, 
 also, touched with the spirit of that holy 
 calm, became pensive. 
 
 ' I want to tell you all about it, Madge,' 
 said he quietly, his voice, usually quick, now 
 slow, and his manner a little embarrassed, 
 * for, after all, a little difliculty underlies the
 
 Roland Aveling. 197 
 
 main motive which brought me to see you. 
 I hardly recognised it as a fact until now. I 
 forgot all about it in the dehght of first seeing 
 you. I have been bothered ever since 
 Friday.' 
 
 ' You did not tell me then.' 
 
 ' The anxiety did not arise till later. 
 Yesterday I departed from home, so you see 
 I had not the opportunity. I have been 
 staying with the Rodneys — my mother's 
 family, you know ; awfully precise, uncom- 
 fortable people, the men prigs, the girls 
 prudes. You can fancy how dejected and 
 miserable I felt in their society after having 
 yours, and remembering the happiness of 
 Friday. Well", when they all assembled at 
 the breakfast-table this morning, with not a 
 smile nor a bit of brio^ht colour amonofst 
 them, I felt that Sunday with them would 
 be my death, especially as on this day they 
 have cold two o'clock dinner, and lock up the 
 library to keep it holy. '^What on earth 
 shall I do with myself r' thought I. ''Go 
 and see your dear little sweetheart," answered 
 my good genius. Acting on this happy 
 suggestion, I got my lunch at twelve, started 
 off to the station before my fond relations 
 had returned from church, caught the 1.15
 
 198 Folly Morrison. 
 
 train to London, and came on here as quick 
 as the train would bringf me.' 
 
 ' But your anxiety, Koland V 
 
 ' Well, that had been on my mind all the 
 while, aggravating and worrying me just like a 
 bad tooth, that will only cease gnawing at your 
 nerves when you go to your dentist and have 
 it out. If it had not been for that, the prudes 
 and the prigs would only have been material 
 for a day's amusement ; or I could have en- 
 joyed the solitude of a wood with my pipe 
 and sweet thoughts of you ; or I could have 
 written two long letters to you, all about 
 nothing, instead of one.' 
 
 ' Then you wrote to me, dear V The last 
 word slipped out of Madge's fnouth involun- 
 tarily, as a drop that overflows from the full 
 heart of a dew-steeped flower. 
 
 ' Say that one little word again, darling, 
 and I'll write you a thousand letters.' 
 
 Margaret put up her hands to her face, that 
 he should not read there what she refused to 
 let her tongue repeat — an acknowledgment of 
 love. 
 
 ' Well, Madge, I will say it for you — dear, 
 dear Madge. There ! And now I will re- 
 turn to my confession. As I said, I believe 
 it was the fact that I had something on my
 
 Roland Aveling. 199 
 
 nnnd which you should know that prompted 
 me — in the guise of a selfish desire to feast 
 my eyes upon you — to come here and seek 
 you. I did not intend to say a word about it^ 
 for I thought the difficulty might be over- 
 come without your knowing.' 
 
 ' If it concerns me I ougfht to know.' 
 
 ' So I feel now, and should have felt at first 
 if I had been a strong, firm fellow like your 
 brother. Oh, Madge, I wish I had more 
 decision of character. To play cricket, to 
 row, to sit on a horse and tear away over 
 anything I get a horse to take — that's all 
 easy enough to me, and not a chance escapes 
 me ; but to see the way out of complicated 
 circumstances, or to do exactly what I ought 
 to do in a critical situation of a novel cha- 
 racter, there, I'm nothing better than a boy. 
 I'm not a bit older in such matters as those 
 than when I left Eton.' 
 
 ' You will grow older, and, perhaps, wiser; 
 but there are few conditions that call for much 
 strategy if one always does what one's con- 
 science dictates.' 
 
 * But I'm such a beggar for doing the other 
 thing,' said Eoland, with the most serious 
 face. ^ If conscience says, '' Koley, my boy, if 
 you put your nag at that hedge you'll stand a
 
 200 lolly Mcrrison. 
 
 good chance of going to kingdom come on the 
 other side; don't do it," I should just go at 
 that hedge right off/ 
 
 Margaret smiled. Women like audacity in 
 men — until they suffer by it. 
 
 * Some people would call that courage/ said 
 she. 
 
 ' Very \Yell, Madge, we'll call it courage 
 too, and you may reckon me the most valiant 
 man in the world at o^ettino- into a muddle.' 
 
 ' You have not told me of your difficulty 
 yet.' 
 
 * We shall come to that quite soon enough. 
 Well, having settled that I would say nothing 
 about my bother to you, I thought I could 
 just have a couple of hours here during the 
 time of service, and then bolt back to my 
 anxious friends at Cambridofe.' 
 
 ' Without sceino' Richard V MadQ:e looked 
 grave. 
 
 ' Well, you see, if I had wanted to see him 
 I shouldn't have been scoutino^ about with 
 the cows in the meadow this afternoon/ 
 
 * But why did you not wish him to see 
 you V 
 
 ' Because I'm such a soft-headed muff, that 
 w^hen old Dick looks at me straisfht in the 
 face with his clear eyes, I'm bound to blab all
 
 Roland Aveling. 201 
 
 my fine secrets at once. It was so at college : 
 if I got dr — got poorly over night, at the 
 very first sight of him the next morning I 
 was bound to let it all out. You have some- 
 thing of the same power ; I declare 1 had no 
 intention of telling you.' 
 
 ' It seems as if you have preserved your 
 intention, despite my influence.' 
 
 ' I am coming to the secret now. After 
 leaving you on Friday evening I went home 
 and found my father alone. He was in high 
 spirits over the result of the recent election, 
 so I took the opportunity, as we were smoking 
 quietly in the library, to tell him what a dear 
 little girl you are. He was not surprised, 
 for I had said as much a hundred times 
 before. You know I loved you long before 
 I dreamt of making you my wife. He treated 
 the matter in his usual light, careless way, so 
 to make my feeling more definitely under- 
 stood, I said, '•' The fact is, sir, I am over 
 head and ears in love with Madge Yane." 
 In a moment he grew quite serious, and re- 
 plied, ^*' Don't go any further than that, 
 Holey ; I trust your good sense will prevent 
 your committing yourself to any avowal which 
 may lead Miss Vane to suppose you have 
 serious intentions." '' Serious intentions 1"
 
 202 Folly Morrison. 
 
 said I ; '' can anything be more serious than 
 loving a girl with your whole soul — and, 
 loving in that manner, can an honourable 
 gentleman entertain any intention less serious 
 than that of making the woman his wife ?" 
 The old gentleman turned as grey as the ash 
 
 of his cigar, I assure you, and then ' 
 
 Roland paused, knitting his brows, and, with 
 a sigh, added : ' I will not repeat what he 
 said, Madge dear : I love my father too well 
 to expose his faults, but the gist of the matter 
 is this — he objects to our maniage.' 
 
 Mcxrgaret listened in perfect calmness, but 
 her cheek was pale. 
 
 * You were so certain of his consent that 1 
 believed you had told him previously of 3^our 
 intention,' she said. 
 
 'In justice to you I should have done so, 
 doubtless. I had no reason to expect any 
 objection from him ; he encouraged my visits 
 here rather than dissuaded me from them. 
 What could I expect but his approval ? My 
 proposal was not premeditated — that is to 
 say, I did not come to you on Friday with 
 the deliberate intention of declaring my love ; 
 it was spontaneous, and came, like this ex- 
 planation, just because I could not help it.' 
 
 He paused, and Margaret was about to
 
 Roland Aveling. 203 
 
 speak, when he laid his hand upon her arm 
 and said, eagerly : 
 
 ^ Madge, I know what you were about to 
 say — that if I have committed the fault of 
 behaving inconsiderately, you will suffer by 
 it ; but that I will not hear from your lips. 
 No !' he cried, springing to his feet ; ' you 
 and I are virtually man and wife, and nothing 
 on earth shall separate us. I have kissed 
 you, and that is my bond. You must not 
 wrong me by thinking that I share my 
 father's views, or can regard them with any 
 feeling but abhorrence. Infirm and weak I 
 may be in many things, but in this matter, 
 where my heart and my conscience, my 
 honour, my manhood, my whole soul are in 
 unison, no inducement on earth can swerve 
 me from my determination.' 
 
 His fine face glowed with generous warmth, 
 and resolution gave to his expression just that 
 something which in other moments it lacked. 
 Margaret trembled a moment as she looked 
 at him, and then, with a little cry that seemed 
 borrowed from the mated swallows, she rose 
 quickly from her seat and gave herself to the 
 arms of her lover, clasping her hands behind 
 his neck.
 
 204 Folly Morrison. 
 
 * But what are we to do V she, murmuring, 
 asked presently. 
 
 ' Oh, it will come all right at last, Madge 
 love. The old boy will yield when he finds 
 he cannot conquer. I know how to manage 
 him. It's no good spurring a vicious horse ; 
 just let him go his own w^ilful way till he's 
 tired, and then use the rein gently — that's 
 the phm. The beggar thinks he's got it all 
 his own way, and when he feels the bit at the 
 sides of his mouth flatters himself he's pulling 
 the rein out of your hand, while all the time 
 you're guiding the beast just where you'd have 
 him go — dash him I' 
 
 ' Oh, lloland, you are speaking of your 
 father !' 
 
 * But I was thinking of tlie horse, Mado^e.' 
 ^ Have you begun this treatment ? Does 
 
 Sir Andrew beheve that you agree with 
 him V 
 
 ' Yes ; that's the fun of it. Of course on 
 Friday niglit 1 was not cool, and w^e had a 
 regular row ; but on Saturday morning I 
 apologised for losing my temper over-night, 
 and, beo-o'inor he w^ould refer no more to the 
 subject, stated my intention of visiting the 
 Kodneys. That put him right off the scent. 
 He took it that 1 had fallen in wdth his views,
 
 Roland Aveling. 205 
 
 became most affectionate, and when we parted 
 pressed a piece of paper into my hand that 
 will pay off all my bills and leave me cash in 
 hand besides. And all the while he deceives 
 himself with the pleasant idea that he's a 
 clever old dad who has got the better of his 
 son. Isn't that a bit of fun, Madge V 
 
 Again Margaret was silent and pensive. 
 Her sense of humour was blunted by deeper 
 considerations, and the point of this joke was 
 painful rather than ticklish to her sensi- 
 bilities. 
 
 In her present position Roland could see 
 only her brow and white nose ; the grave 
 anxiety of her eyes was lost. 
 
 * So you will see how necessary secrecy 
 was, and — Halloa, whose laugh was that V 
 
 A cheery, fat laugh certainly did reach 
 their ears at that moment, and was followed 
 at the next by the click of the latch in the 
 front gate. 
 
 The surprised lovers listened anxiously. 
 Every instant was a minute. 
 
 As the latch fell again, a voice w^as heard 
 saying : 
 
 * Probably she has gone to church with her 
 brother ; but the old garden is a pleasant 
 place to wait in.'
 
 206 Folly MGvrison. 
 
 ^ By George, the dad ! Not a word of me 
 for the love of love/ whisjoered Roland, as, 
 catching up his hat from the grass, he left 
 Margaret's side. Fortunately the visitors 
 stayed to admire the beautiful clematis on the 
 front of the house, or they would have caught 
 sight of Roland escaping by the little side 
 gate that opened upon the church meadow.
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 MADGE AND HER VISITORS. 
 
 OLAND was scarcely in the field 
 before he regretted leaving Mar- 
 garet. The unpleasant position in 
 which he had left her then for the 
 first time came to his consideration. 
 
 ' Poor little soul ! she'll be frightened out 
 of her wits ; and if the father suspects I have 
 been, and puts a direct question to her, how 
 will she answer ? She cannot tell a lie 
 and will not tell the truth. Hang it — that's 
 like me, to rush at a thing without thinking 
 whether it is right or wrong.' 
 
 He stopped irresolute, half minded to 
 return and face his father and meet the 
 worst consequences rather than expose Mar- 
 garet to an unpleasant interview in his
 
 203 Folly Morrison. 
 
 absence. He stepped back to the gate. It 
 was too late ; his father was ah^eady speak- 
 inpf to Maro^aret and introducinsr his friend. 
 To return now would be only to make 
 matters worse. Turning his back reluctantly 
 on the vicarage, he walked over the meadow 
 towards the church wdth the gloomy con- 
 sciousness that he had o.cted foolishly if not 
 pusillanimously. 
 
 It was a trying situation for Margaret. 
 Her apprehension of his being caught in the 
 act of escaping was not unmingled with a 
 feelinof of shame. She found it difficult to 
 compose herself and meet her visitors with a 
 natural appearance of tranquillity. Happily 
 for her, as has been said, they lingered on 
 their way before the clematis, and so gave 
 her a few moments to regain self-posses- 
 sion. 
 
 Sir Andrew's friend was a stranger to 
 Marcraret, and to this fact mig^ht be attri- 
 buted the slio-ht air of constraint which de- 
 tracted from the graceful ease with which 
 she usually greeted the baronet. 
 
 * We are happy in finding you at home, 
 my dear,' said Sir Andrew, in a parental 
 tone, taking Margaret's hand; then, laying 
 his hand on her shoulder in an aftectionate
 
 Madge and her Visitors. 209 
 
 way, he said, ' Allow me to introduce you to 
 Mr. Gamier. Garnier, Miss Vane — the 
 little lady Madge I have tried to paint on 
 your imagination. 
 
 * And failed to portray because you at- 
 tempted too much,' said Mr. Garnier, bowing 
 with as much formal courtesy as was ex- 
 pressed in his compliment. 
 
 A thin, tall man, dressed with the nicest 
 precision from the sole of his foot to the hair 
 of his head, was Mr. Amadis Garnier. 
 Moving with a quick, elastic step, he ap- 
 peared at six yards distance to be about 
 thirty-five years of age ; approaching within 
 that distance his age increased at the rate of 
 a year for each foot, until, standing beside 
 you, there could be no doubt that he had 
 passed his fiftieth year. His features were 
 fine, his eyes handsome, his expression 
 agreeable — his whole appearance pleasant, 
 but for the assumption of youthfulness, 
 which was so studiously cultivated in every 
 part. 
 
 ^ Mr. G arnier is an artist who has made 
 our old English domestic architecture his 
 study. I have brought him here to see the 
 vicarage, hoping that, with your permission, 
 he would sketch the old place for me.' 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 ' You have brought me where my iucHna- 
 tion will be to study the figure rather than 
 architecture/ said Mr. Garnier, fixing his 
 eyes on Margaret. 
 
 * If Miss Vane will suffer you to follow 
 that inclination I will gladly relinquish a 
 sketch of the vicarage for a portrait of the 
 vicar's sister,' said Sir Andrew. 
 
 Margaret responded to these compliments 
 with what skill she could command, but she 
 felt ill at ease. They seemed particularly 
 insincere, coming from Sir Andrew, after 
 what she had heard from his son. 
 
 Yet the baronet was not insincere. He 
 felt all the aifection he professed for Mar- 
 garet ; and, short of suffering her to become 
 his daughter, he was prepared to do anything 
 in his power for her happiness. Only this 
 very morning, when Mr. Garnier, in the 
 course of conversation, expressed his regret 
 that he was a bachelor, the kindly Sir 
 Andrew's thoughts turned at once to his 
 son's sweetheart, and he said, with his usual 
 impetuosity : 
 
 ' My dear Garnier, I know exactly the 
 girl you want and ought to marry. She 
 lives under our very eyes here. My vicar's 
 sister — a charming girl — a most charming
 
 Madge and her Visitors. 211 
 
 girl ! Young, beautiful, well educated, 
 simple, and — and unattached. You are not 
 without money. Thank Heaven you don't 
 depend on your profession (Mr. Garnier 
 bowed to conceal a wince as this careless 
 shot hit him), and the girl — well, I promise 
 you she shall not be without a handsome dot, 
 bless her. Yes, that's what you shall do. 
 You shall marry the girl. We'll go and see 
 her to-night. You can write and postpone 
 other engagements to-morrow, take up your 
 quarters here, and go down to the vicarage 
 day after day under the pretence of sketching, 
 fascinate the girl, and marry her in a couple 
 of months.' 
 
 It was in pursuance of this scheme that he 
 ordered dinner two hours earlier than usual, 
 and brought his friend to the vicarage, as we 
 have seen. He did not harbour a single ill 
 feeling towards the girl who had been the 
 cause of disagreement between him and his 
 son, but, indeed, loved her better than ever 
 since — well, since his reconciliation with 
 Koland. 
 
 It is not hard for a victor to be generous. 
 
 Sir Andrew exerted himself to be agree- 
 able, and did all he could to present his two 
 friends to each other in their most agreeable 
 
 U— 2
 
 212 Folly Morrison. 
 
 aspects. Nevertheless, they got on but 
 slowly. Margaret was cold and mechanical, 
 her thought being distracted with specula- 
 tions concerning her absent lover, and Mr. 
 Garnier had the tact to see that elaborate 
 compliments rather increased than lessened 
 the distance between them. Experience had 
 taught him to economise force. Unneces- 
 sary movement was a Avaste of tissue, and 
 tissue of all kinds is to be cherished when 
 one gets over one's fiftieth year. 
 
 There could be no greater contrast than 
 that between these two gentlemen — Sir 
 Andrew stout, floiid, hot, over-acting his 
 part as it appeared to Margaret in his effusive 
 geniality ; Mr. Amadis Garnier lean, pale, 
 cool, and winning his way by a subtle reti- 
 cence which best harmonised with Margaret's 
 mood. 
 
 The twilight had faded, but Margaret and 
 her visitors were sitting by the windows in 
 the open air when the vicar opened the side 
 gate. Margaret rose hastily at the sound, 
 her heart beating with the possibility of 
 seeing Roland enter. The soft light of the 
 rising moon enabled her to see that her 
 brother was alone. 
 
 Sir Andrew introduced Mr. Garnier to the
 
 Madge and her Visitors, 213 
 
 vicar, who, after a formal salute, turned to 
 his sister and said : 
 
 ' Come, Madge, light the lamp that we 
 may see each other, or Mr. Gamier and I 
 may meet again without recognition.' 
 
 When Margaret brought the lamp the 
 gentlemen were standing in the moonlight 
 by the window talking of architecture and 
 art. The vicar placed chairs for his visitors 
 and seated himself in a position to see Mr. 
 Garnier. He liked to make himself ac- 
 quainted with the men he was asked to 
 accept as friends. Looking at Mr. Garnier 
 he found a man whose character was not to 
 be gauged at a glance — a man whom it 
 would take some time to understand clearly. 
 He was not prejudiced by superficial appear- 
 ances, unless they indicated a radically moral 
 taint ; he found weaknesses in all men's 
 characters, and liked them none the less for 
 their infirmities ; he mistrusted those only 
 who had the art to conceal their failings. 
 Such men were treacherous in his eyes. He 
 was disposed to like Mr. Garnier for his un- 
 mistakable vanity, and because, despite his 
 foppery, he displayed a sound knowledge of 
 the subject on which he discoursed, and 
 evinced delicate and refined tastes by all he said.
 
 214 Follij Morrison. 
 
 ^ I am very glad to have made your 
 acquaintance,' he said, as they shook hands 
 in parting ; ^ as frequently as you can, come.' 
 
 Mr. Garnier responded, saying that he 
 should avail himself of the invitation the fol- 
 lowing day, and, taking the baronet's arm, 
 departed, leaving the vicar and his sister at 
 the front gate. 
 
 ' Well, my boy, what do you think of her?' 
 asked Sir Andrew, when they w^ere beyond 
 hearing. 
 
 ' I think her simply the most charming 
 young lady it has ever been my ha23piness 
 to be introduced to.' 
 
 ' Then you would like her for your wife ?' 
 
 * I can imagine no greater happiness ; 
 but ' 
 
 * But what, but what ? But ! How I 
 hate that word ! What is the objection V 
 
 ' I believe Miss Vane's affection is already 
 enorao^ed.' 
 
 * Why, to be sure she has had a little aff^iir, 
 and as it was only broken oft* yesterday, she 
 may hardly have had time to recover from it.' 
 
 * A little aftair'f Mr. Garnier repeated the 
 phrase interrog:ativelv. 
 
 ' A little love affair — a foolish girl and boy 
 attachment.'
 
 Madge and her Visitors. 215 
 
 * With whom, may I ask V 
 ' With, eh-^with Roland.' 
 
 ^ Roland — -your son— my friend !' 
 ' Yes. They have known each other for 
 some years, and entertained a kind of sneak- 
 ing regard for each other. While it was only 
 an amusement for my boy I did not mind, 
 but when he took a serious view of the mat- 
 ter, and actually talked about making the girl 
 his wife, I signified my emphatic disapproval; 
 and he, knowing my firm, indomitable temper, 
 broke off the connection at once, and is now 
 at Cambridge, with the family I wish him to 
 marry into.' 
 
 * You regard a marriage between your son 
 and Miss Vane as a mesallianceT 
 
 ' Of course. Why, the girl's brother is my 
 vicar — I gave him the living.' 
 
 Sir Andrew spoke of the vicar as a kind of 
 valet, and probably estimated him only a little 
 higfher because of his education. It was im- 
 possible for him to think any man his equal 
 wdio was not a baronet, a justice of the peace, 
 and an unshrinking Tory. It did not occur 
 to him that he was insulting Mr. Garnier by 
 arranpfinof a marriaofe for him, which he 
 deemed derogatory to his son. He was of 
 opinion that Mr. Garnier was a very good man,
 
 216 Folly Morrison. 
 
 sufficiently well connected to be entertained 
 as a visitor at the Hall, a man against whom 
 nothing ill could be said. His income Avas 
 not large, and he certainly did indulge in 
 practical art ; but then he did not paint to 
 earn money. It would be a good thing for 
 Margaret Vane to marry him — especially as 
 that would prevent any further nonsense with 
 Roland, and he would make it also a good 
 thing for Mr. Garnier to marry her by giving 
 her a handsome dot, as he had hinted — four 
 or perhaps five thousand pounds. 
 
 A sensible man will not resent a slap in the 
 face from an idiot — it is the not unnatural 
 consequence of associating with an idiot ; he 
 may only take as an offence that slap which 
 is administered with intent to offend. 
 
 Sir Andrew clearly did not wish to affront 
 Mr. Garnier, and that gentleman was far too 
 sensible to attempt to correct his friend's 
 error. 
 
 The vicar, taking his sister's hand, walked 
 from the gate thoughtful and silent. 
 
 Margaret had not a word. Where was 
 iloland ? had her brother met him ? Would 
 he be angry if she told her brother ? What 
 was she to do now ? These vexatious ques-
 
 Madge and her Visitors. 217 
 
 tions came to her mind as she walked down 
 the path by the side of the house which led 
 to the lawn front, casting furtive glances 
 towards the meadow-gate. At the angle 
 Hichard stopped, and in a tone of mock 
 reproof called out : 
 
 ' Sinner, stand forth !' 
 
 The gate opened, and Koland appeared. 
 
 * Madge dear,' said he, coming to her side 
 and taking the disengaged hand, ' T hope you 
 have not suffered by my thoughtlessness. It 
 did not strike me until I had left you, that 
 you were placed in an awkward situation ; 
 and when I would have returned to face my 
 father, as became a man, I found he was not 
 alone, and that I should increase the diffi- 
 culty by trying to remove it. You have for- 
 given me, dear V 
 
 A pressure of the hand was the intelligible 
 answer. 
 
 ' When will you learn to look before you 
 leap T asked Richard Vane. 
 
 ' When I have a wife to teach me,' an- 
 swered Roland. 
 
 The girl was laying the supper things. 
 They walked down the path — Roland having 
 tied his handkerchief over Margaret's head ; 
 and then he asked :
 
 218 Folly Morrison, 
 
 'Who was the man with my father? I 
 could not see him perfectly.' 
 
 'Mr. Gamier.' 
 
 ' Amadis ! he here ? Ah, you must know 
 him : one of the best of fellows, the most 
 delightful of companions, and a thorough 
 gentleman.' 
 
 *He seemed to me artificial,' said Maro^arefc. 
 
 * That is only his complexion. If he would 
 only keep his face clean when he has washed 
 it, and leave off those confounded stays, he 
 would be perfect. I should like to stick 
 Amadis on a desert island for a fortniL>-ht 
 without his precious dressing-case. At the 
 end of that time you'd find him as handsome 
 an old gentleman as you w^ould wish to see.' 
 
 ' I cannot understand how a man professing 
 to love nature can disfigure himself in that 
 manner/ said Margaret. 
 
 'An artist makes nature subservient to his 
 art,' said Kichard. ' Mr. Gamier, with an 
 artist's enthusiasm, makes an example of his 
 face, and shows the world a specimen of his 
 skill as a painter.' 
 
 ' You must know him better, Dick,' said 
 Koland. 
 
 ' It is probable I shall ; he is coming here 
 to sketch the house to-morrow.'
 
 Madge and her Visitors. 219 
 
 * Then he has come to the Hall to stay. I 
 hope he won't go before I return.' 
 
 ' 1 think he will stay until then/ observed 
 Kichard, dryly. 
 
 Margaret, noticing the tone, said timidly, 
 * You will return to Cambridge to-night, 
 Roland V 
 
 ' Oh, of course ; I have a return ticket, and 
 I took the precaution to ascertain what time 
 the last train left Woking for London.' 
 
 'That's like you, Roley — so thoughtful,' 
 said Richard, quietly. 
 
 ^ Well, I'm not always a fool,' protested 
 Roland. 
 
 ' No ; 3^ou took the trouble to find out what 
 time the train left for London^ without con- 
 sidering that you would arrive there about 
 an hour after the last train had left for Cam- 
 bridge. Roley will sleep in the spare-room, 
 Madge.' 
 
 Roland burst into a long, loud laugh at 
 his own expense, and then said : 
 
 'It would have served me right to let me 
 go on, and have the misery of a night's lodg- 
 ing in a London hotel. 
 
 ' I shouldn't have let you go even with that 
 inducement. You and I have a long talk 
 before us after supper, Roley.'
 
 •220 Folly Morrison. 
 
 Margaret pitied her lover, and gave his 
 hand another Uttle pinch, which this time im- 
 phed her sympathy. 
 
 At this moment the demure Jenny coming 
 down the path met them, with a bob to her 
 mistress and another to Mr. AveHng, as if 
 she had not gone through that ceremony 
 before, and said : 
 
 * If you please, miss, supper's on the table.'
 
 CHAPTER XYIIT. 
 
 AT STARTING. 
 
 HEN the supper things were re- 
 moved, and Margaret had gone to 
 her room, the vicar, in his morn- 
 ing jacket, pulled a chair to the 
 window, w^hich was still open ; drew up a 
 little table beside it, on which he set his 
 tobacco-jar, a couple of glasses, and the tob^^ 
 of ale that the girl had brought at the last 
 moment. 
 
 * Take that chair, Roley,' said Richard, 
 crossing to a cupboard. He brought out a 
 box of cigars and set them beside the tobacco- 
 jar, saying : 
 
 *You like luxuries — take a cigar. Your 
 father sent them to me.' 
 
 Roland opened the box and smelt the weeds 
 critically.
 
 222 Folly Morrison. 
 
 * They will do,' said he, approvingly. It 
 gratified him to find that Sir Andrew had 
 sent a box of his very best. After all he was 
 a generous old dad. 
 
 The vicar sat down and slowly filled his 
 pipe, looking with rapt delight upon the 
 tranquil garden, where his favourite holly- 
 hocks courted the muonlio-ht, and the lawn 
 was dappled with the shadow of the apple 
 bouoiis. 
 
 ' " The heavens declare the glory of God ; 
 and the firmament showeth His handiwork,"' 
 he murmured reverently. 
 
 Roland was about to light his cigar ; he 
 laid the match aside gently, and looked first 
 at the night, then at his companion. The 
 beauty of the night did not touch him, but 
 the sweet earnestness of this tobacco-smoking 
 vicar brought tears to his eyes and raised a 
 lump in his throat. Surely it was as a dis- 
 ciple looked at his Master. 
 
 A moment of entranced meditation, as he 
 pressed the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe, 
 was succeeded by a little sigh, and the 
 vicar, turning from his eupathism, lit his 
 pipe. 
 
 'Well, Ptoley, what are you going to do 
 next V he asked.
 
 At Starting. 223 
 
 Koland lit his cigfar, and blowing^ out the 
 light, said : 
 
 ^ I can't for the life of me tell. I wish you 
 would tell me what I ought to do. I'll do it, 
 believe me.' 
 
 ' Cannot you see that V 
 
 * No. I have two or three ideas, but which 
 to adopt I can't decide for fear of taking the 
 wrong one. It's like coming to cross-roads 
 when you've lost your way.' 
 
 Eichard Vane shook his head. 
 
 ' No, it is not,' said he. ' A man with a 
 definite idea of where he wants to go to 
 doesn't hesitate at a cross-road while there's 
 a sun over the horizon, or a star in the sky. 
 You're not an old woman — not even an infant 
 now. The only serious difficulty is, do you 
 clearly know where you want to go to V 
 
 ' How do you mean V 
 
 ' In plain words, have 3^ou made up your 
 mind clearly that you will marry my sister 
 or not V 
 
 ' Marry Madge ? Holy Moses I — beg you 
 pardon, old fellow — good gracious ! what a 
 question to ask ? Marry Madge ! w4iy of 
 course I will. Haven't I said so V 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Come, Dick, it's too bad to ask such a
 
 224 Folly Morrison. 
 
 thinsr as that. You mio^ht as Avell have said, 
 '' Roland Av(3hng, are you an idiot, a fool, a 
 scoundrel, a — " Oh, Dick, have I ever done 
 anything, said at any time a word, that 
 might lead you to doubt my earnestness in 
 loving Madge ?' 
 
 ' I don't doubt your love for her. What I 
 asked was whether you had clearly made up 
 your mind that you would marry her V 
 
 ' I can answer that plainly enough. Yes, 
 I have.' 
 
 ' Then Avhy do you stop in perplexity, 
 making a pitiful cry about cross-roads, as if 
 you took me for a perambulating finger-post, 
 and expected I should carry you home V 
 
 ^ Don't worry that confounded metaphor 
 to bits. I wish I hadn't made it.' 
 
 ^ People who make metaphors must stand 
 by them. We will not drop it yet awhile. 
 You know the right path as well as I know 
 you, and you ought to know that you will 
 never marry my sister by taking the wrong 
 one. If you think she may be reached by 
 a sly, roundabout, crooked, easy way, you are 
 mistaken. You must woo Madge openly, as 
 you would a princess. She is indulgent — 
 considerate of the fact that you are only a 
 man — bat she is also proud, and if she finds
 
 At Starting. 225 
 
 you are not even a man, or manly, she will 
 refuse to be your wife ; and for that matter I 
 also am not without pride.' 
 
 ' What a stupid beggar I am ! Why, I've 
 felt this all along, only I never thought it.' 
 
 Bichard smiled. 
 
 'A nice yet definite distinction, Roley. 
 Go on,' said he. 
 
 ' I felt it was mean and cowardly — I felt 
 ashamed. Oh, Dick, I beg your pardon, old 
 fellow. And Madge, too. I did not realise 
 the affront I was putting on her. Yes, of 
 course there is but one way of winning her, 
 or indeed any girl that is worth having.' 
 He paused a moment, and then added, in an 
 altered tone — ' But then what about the 
 governor V 
 
 ' Ah, what of him V 
 
 ' I thought I explained before. He wishes 
 me to marry some one with a title, you know, 
 and does not exactly like Madge.' 
 
 ' Well, you don't want him to marry her V 
 
 ^No, but I have no independent income, 
 and if he chose to cut off my supplies how 
 could I expect Madge to marry me V 
 
 ^ She has promised to marry you, tacitly if 
 not actually, and she will marry you, and 
 not your paternal allowance.' 
 
 VOL. f. 15
 
 226 FoUy Morrison. 
 
 ' But we must live on something more 
 substantial tlian air, and unless we emigrate 
 to Central Africa our clothes won't last us 
 for ever. You see I am absolutely without 
 any independent resource for money/ 
 
 'You have hands and a head — save the 
 mark ! You can work, and so can Margaret, 
 if it comes to a pinch. I have no doubt that 
 she has weighed all such fearful contingencies 
 since she promised to marry you ; and yet 
 w^hen she bade you good-night in the passage 
 a little while ao^o I observed no sound simii- 
 ficant of regret.' 
 
 'Dear little soul — not she.' 
 
 * She could teach ao-ain.' 
 
 ' She never shall. Jupiter ! Do you 
 think, Dick, I would permit that V 
 
 ' Why not ? It is a woman's natural voca- 
 tion. She teaches well.' 
 
 ' And what should I be doing all the while ? 
 Minding house and making puddings ?' 
 
 ' That dej)ends on your abilities. You 
 could do something, and ought to do it. 
 Nature did not intend one man to live on 
 the toil of another.' 
 
 Bichard Vane did not hear Boland's reply. 
 The question which had often occurred to
 
 At Starting. 227 
 
 him returned now to his mind — ' Am I a 
 good servant ? What service am I rendering 
 for my wages V 
 
 That was a problem which he knew must 
 be solved before long. 
 
 Shaking off these oppressive personal con- 
 siderations with a sigh, he turned to Roland 
 and gave attention to his immediate concerns. 
 
 ' You have opened my eyes,' he was saying. 
 ^ I see clearly now what I should do. I must 
 work. By George, how I will w^ork ! You 
 know how I go at a thing when I once set 
 my mind to it. You know, Dick, how I 
 worked for my degree. It was a deuce of a 
 bother to get me to begin^ but I did stick to 
 it then, didn't I V 
 
 ' Yes, you worked well. You accomplished 
 more in two months than I could achieve in 
 a year. It never rains but it pours with 
 you. Unfortunately your deluge doesn't 
 come until the earth is cracking for a drop 
 of moisture. You would find it easier to 
 work steadily.' 
 
 ^ Don't talk of working easily ! When 
 there's a race to win, you must bend your 
 back and strain every muscle — put your 
 whole soul into it, and swear you won't be 
 beaten.' 
 
 15—2
 
 228 Folly Morrison, 
 
 * Yoii talk as if you had begun your race.' 
 ' So I have, Dick.' 
 
 The vicar puffed at his pipe in silence. 
 ' Don't damp a fellow,' said Roland, in a 
 tone of exj)Ostulation. ' I know what your 
 silence means. You are not so sure of me as 
 I am of myself; yet you must believe I have 
 good stuff in me, or you w^ould not have 
 stuck to me witli all my faults these eight 
 years, and suffered me to win the love of 
 your sister. Nay, Madge herself would 
 never have loved me if I was no better than 
 I seem.' 
 
 ' I won't flatter you, E-oley, you're vain 
 enough. Of course there is good in you ; 
 you misinterpreted my silence. The doubt 
 in my mind was whether you had in reality 
 begun the race you speak of. You will 
 sleep here to-night, that is settled ; and I 
 think I heard sometliing about getting up at 
 seven to-morrow mornino- to 2:0 for a walk 
 with Madge before breakfast. What will 
 you do after V 
 
 Roland took time to consider, and then 
 said : 
 
 ' I shall go to the Hall and have it out with 
 the governor. I will tell him that I have 
 asked Madge to be my wife^ and that nothing
 
 At Starting. 229 
 
 on earth shall prevent my marrying her. 
 Then he will cut up rough, and — I didn't 
 think of it before — won't that be very un- 
 pleasant for you V 
 
 ' In what way V 
 
 ^ Sir Andrew will include you in his 
 anger/ 
 
 'Probably. But that will make little 
 difference to me. I believe Sir Andrew 
 thinks that I must execute his wishes 
 because I owe ni}^ benefice to him, but he 
 must understand that I serve a higher 
 Master, and have to do what I think right ^ 
 not what he deems advisable. Never mind 
 me, I can fight my own battles — go on.' 
 
 ' Then if the worst comes to the worst, I 
 must bid him farewell' Roland paused, and 
 added in a voice of tender sorrow, ' That 
 would break the old dad's heart ; I am his 
 only son, and he is so fond of me, poor old 
 chap !' 
 
 ' Then depend upon it he will not break 
 his heart. When he finds that you are no 
 longer a child he will treat you as a man.' 
 
 * He shall find that I am firm now. I will 
 be pretty plain with him. He shan't know 
 that I care two straws for him. If he 
 chooses to accept Madge as my wife, and
 
 230 - Folly Morrison. 
 
 treats her with as much respect as she 
 deserves, I'll be as dutiful as you please ; 
 but otherwise I'll be deuced independent and 
 sharp with him.' 
 
 ' You must not forget that he is your 
 father.' 
 
 ' How can I ? Hasn't he always been 
 kind and indulg^ent and lovinj^ to me ? You 
 can't tell how I love the old fellow with all 
 his faults. I know he is exacting, hectoring, 
 arrogant, and all that ; but under that big 
 waistcoat of his there is the softest, warmest 
 heart beating with generous love. I could 
 never think unkindly of him, however unjust 
 he is to me ; hut he ahant know it' 
 
 ' Well, well, Koley, we shall see.' 
 
 The vicar smiled to think of this soft- 
 hearted, simple Koland concealing his feel- 
 ings, even from the shortsighted observation 
 of Sir Andrew. 
 
 ' Anyhow^,' continued Roland, after think- 
 ing over the stern things he might sa}^, 
 * anyhow, he shall know^ the truth.' 
 
 'Ah, now you are beginning in earnest. 
 That is the way, and the only way to succeed. 
 Keep to that, be true to others and true to 
 yourself, and you shall win your wife and not 
 want happiness, Holey.'
 
 At Starting, 231 
 
 As he spoke the vicar stretched out his 
 hand and laid it affectionately on his friend's 
 shoulder. 
 
 Then the two men sat and smoked in 
 silence with full hearts.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE BATTLE IS TO THE STRONG. 
 
 IR ANDREW Avas writing 
 
 the 
 
 ^X JLxv .rv^M>'rir.>\ Avas writing m 
 ^"^ library on Monday mornino- when 
 Roland entered the apartment. 
 ' Roland, my boy ! you here ? 
 The last person in the world I should have 
 expected to see, but none the less welcome 
 for all that,' said the baronet, laying down his 
 pen, and rising with an amiable smile on his 
 full, fair face. 
 
 ' I do not intrude, 1 hope, sir ?' answered 
 Roland, taking his father's extended hand 
 and pressing it. 
 
 The constraint he felt in approaching the 
 library was remoyed by the affectionate greet- 
 ing he receiyed. 
 
 ' Xot at all, my boy — a few letters that
 
 The Battle is to the Strong, • 233 
 
 may be written as well this afternoon as now. 
 I thought you were going to stay with the 
 Rodneys a week, at least. Nothing the 
 matter there to account for your return, I 
 trust V 
 
 ' Xothing the matter there, sir.' Roland 
 threw himself in a low lounge-chair opposite 
 his father, and, looking down as he collected 
 his thoughts, drew otf his gloves. Thouo^h 
 the vicarao'e was not a mile from the Hall, he 
 had gloved. His hands were as white and 
 carefully kept as his father's. 
 
 ' Had you been a quarter of an hour earlier 
 you would have met an old friend,' said Sir 
 Andrew. 
 
 ' Amadis ; I met him with Banks carrying 
 his painting traps.' 
 
 ' Surely he did not go round by the road ; 
 I told Banks to show him the path by the 
 fields.' 
 
 ' That was where I met him, sir. I was 
 cominof from the vicarao-e.' 
 
 Sir Andrew's countenance fell ; he looked at 
 his son uneasily. Boland threw his gloves 
 on the table, clasped his hands over his knee, 
 and, looking straight in his father's face, 
 said : 
 
 * I have come to talk to you upon a serious
 
 234 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 subject, if you can spare the time to listen to 
 me.' 
 
 * We shall not be interrupted here, my boy, 
 and anything which concerns 3^ou is of the 
 first imjDortance to me ; you know that.' 
 
 The baronet's voice was so kind and gentle 
 that Roland was reluctant to proceed, know- 
 ing the pain he should inflict. He had made 
 up his mind to subdue his tender inclinations, 
 however, so, screwing up his courage, he said 
 in a tone as formal as he could command : 
 
 * I am afraid that I misguided you the 
 other morning, by allowing you to retain an 
 erroneous impression you had received from 
 what I said as to my intentions regarding 
 Miss Yane.' 
 
 ' You gave me to understand you had 
 broken oft' your connection with her, or, at 
 least, intended doing so.' 
 
 ' I did very svrong, sir ; I behaved un- 
 worthily to myself and to Miss Yane in 
 deceiving you with that idea. I am very 
 sorry, sir.' 
 
 * Yery sorry ! Bless me ! what do you 
 mean V 
 
 ' I am sorry that I led you to imagine I 
 had broken oft* my engagement with Miss 
 Yane. That was not the fact. I have not
 
 The Battle is to the Strong. 235 
 
 asked Miss Yane to release me, and I have 
 no intention of doing so.' 
 
 Sir Andrew fell back in his chair mute 
 with astonishment at his son's audacity. 
 Roland, feeling that he must persevere in the 
 firm attitude he had adopted, crossed his 
 arms and knitted his brows defiantly. 
 
 ^ Don't look at me in that manner, sir,' 
 cried Sir Andrew. ' Hang it, do you know 
 whom you are speaking to V 
 
 * I am aware of the submission I owe you 
 as my father ; but in a matter of this kind, 
 where my feelings and conscience are con- 
 cerned, you must allow me to be independent.' 
 
 ' I will allow nothing of the kind. Feel- 
 ings and conscience, indeed ! What pretence 
 can a man make to those virtues who has the 
 audacity to scowl at his father in that manner, 
 and talk to him as you do to me V 
 
 ' I do not wish to affront you,' said Koland, 
 relaxing. ' You know I love you too well 
 for that, dad. I should like to obey you in 
 all things.' 
 
 ' Now you talk rationally, floland, and I 
 can listen to you with pleasure, for you know, 
 my dear boy, that nothing pleases me so well 
 as to gratify your wishes when they coincide 
 with mine. Give me your hand. There,
 
 236 Folly Morrison. 
 
 there, we will forget the past. Now tell me 
 what all this rubbish about conscience and 
 feeling means !' 
 
 * Well, dad, I wished to say, as delicately 
 as I could, you know, that I shall always be 
 glad to do as you wish, except where my 
 conscience is concerned ; but that having 
 asked Miss Yane to be my wife, I feel bound 
 to abide by the consequences, and that I 
 intend to marry her, whether you like it or 
 not.' 
 
 ' Then, my dear boy, allow me to tell you, 
 with equal delicac}^ that I will permit you to 
 do nothing of the kind, confound you ! What, 
 ask me to consent to your marrying my own 
 vicar's sister ! Why, you will desire me to 
 marry my gardener's daughter next.' 
 
 ^ I shall be very sorry if you do marry the 
 gardener's daughter, but I shall not expect 
 you to be guided by my opinion in that 
 matter. I feel sure you would not ask my 
 consent, and I do not ask yours. I simply 
 tell you that T intend to marry Miss Yane.' 
 
 ' And I simply tell 3^ou you shall do nothing 
 of the kind. Marry a girl who has been 
 earning her living as a common governess- - 
 the sister of a man I put in the vicarage 
 just because he was kind to my son and saved
 
 The Battle is to the Strong, 237 
 
 his life ! You wouldn't have me regret that, 
 Role}^, would you V 
 
 ' Oh, father, how can you ask such a ques- 
 tion ? Haven't you shown me over and over 
 again how fond you are of me ?' 
 
 ' Then why will you make me lose my 
 temper and forget what a good son you are V 
 
 ^ It is because I wish to be a good son that 
 you lose your temper. You would not have 
 me dishonourable — a liar V 
 
 ' Of course not.' 
 
 * Well, I have promised to marry Margaret, 
 and I must keep my word.' 
 
 * A promise of that kind, made in a moment 
 of excitement, is not binding. We can take 
 means to break off an engagement without 
 being dishonourable, and, indeed, without 
 injuring the lady.' 
 
 ' Can you show me how that could be 
 done V 
 
 * Certainly. Now, suppose I were to settle, 
 say, five or six thousand pounds on the girl, 
 and found a man who would make her his 
 Avife — what then V 
 
 ^ What then, sir !' cried Roland, in a fury. 
 ' Why, Margaret would throw your money in 
 your face, and I would thrash the man within 
 an inch of his life.'
 
 2:i8 Folly Morrison. 
 
 Sir Andrew stroked his shaven chin, and 
 thou.i^ht it would be well to say no more re- 
 specting his scheme to make Amadis Gamier 
 happy. 
 
 ' No,' continued Eoland. ' If I had made 
 no promise, and if I could go fi'om my inten- 
 tions witliout injury to Miss Yane, I would 
 not relinquish my purpose of making her my 
 wife. I love !Madge sincerely, with my whole 
 heart and soul, and if all the fathers in the 
 universe opposed me I would marry her. I 
 consider myself very fortunate in possessing 
 the affection of such a lady, and honoured by 
 her accepting mine. My only hesitation in 
 asking her to be my wife was that she was 
 too good for me. I'm a fool in a general ^vay, 
 but I consider I have given one evidence of 
 good sense, and that was in rightly appre- 
 ciatinor the value of Maroraret Yane. I will 
 beg you, sir, to speak more respectfully- of her 
 in future. And, now we are upon the sub- 
 ject,' continued Eoland, warming to his work, 
 ' allow me to make a few remarks about my 
 friend Richard Yane, and disabuse your mind 
 of some extraordinary illusions undor which 
 it seems to exist. Richard Yane is not 
 your vicar, and the vicarage is not your 
 vicarage. You did no more tlian you were
 
 The Battle is to the Strong. 239 
 
 compelled to do in giving the living to Mr. 
 Yane.' 
 
 ' What do you mean V 
 
 ' I mean that you are bound to fill the 
 benefice, to give it to the very best minister 
 of religion you can find, and that you did no 
 more than your duty in mvino^ it to Ptichard 
 Vane. He is the very best man you know, 
 or that anyone else knows.' 
 
 ^ Do voti know that tou are utterins: 
 opinions of a most radical and revolutionary 
 kind V 
 
 ' Wait a bit ; I've not done yet. I sa}^ 
 vou are bound to oive the livingr not to the 
 man who will serve 3'ou, but the man who 
 will serve Heaven ; and that if you gave it to 
 Hichard Vane as a mere recompense for his 
 services, you took a cheap, an ungenerous, 
 and an unjust method of quitting yourself of 
 your obligations.' 
 
 * This is insufferable !' 
 
 ' Stop a moment. I will have it all out 
 now I am at it. If you think Ptichard Vane 
 and his sister, who have more claim to nobility 
 than many with h^editary titles, if you think 
 they are to be humiliated and treated as your 
 servants, as pavment in full for Dick's havings 
 saved vour son's life, vou show how little
 
 2-40 Folly Morrkon. 
 
 value you set upon that son. And I tell you 
 this, sir, that had I known he was to be 
 treated so ungenerously, and exposed to such 
 humiliation for drao^o^inor me out of the mill- 
 stream as I w^as going under the floats, I 
 would have begged him with my last cry to 
 let me go.' 
 
 ^ And forgotten your poor old father, 
 Roley ! The poor old dad, sitting alone in 
 the library here, thinking of his boy and 
 building up hopes for his future. Oh, never 
 mind him ; he's an old man who has had his 
 day and can live on the memories of his 
 happiness. He can eat and sleep, that's 
 enough for an old man : and he must forget 
 his hopes and his golden-headed youngster. 
 Were these your thoughts ?' 
 
 ^ No, by George, no ! If it hadn't been for 
 you even Dick couldn't have saved me, for 
 just as I had given everything up for lost, 
 and the water came singing into my ears, I 
 seemed to see all the scenes of my life, and 
 last of all I saw you with your fingers in 
 your waistcoat-pocket fetching out a tip, just 
 as you appeared the very last time you came 
 to see us ; then I thought of you, and put 
 out all my strength to get up to the top and 
 make another struggle for it, and, as a result,
 
 The Battle is to the Stroncj. 241 
 
 old Dick grabbed me with a hook and landed 
 me/ 
 
 ' Thank God ! and that all came about 
 through your fear of losing me, Roley V 
 
 'Yes, that's the truth. Though Dick, 
 when I told him of seeing you fumbling in 
 your pocket for the gold, declared it was the 
 fear of losing another tip that gave me 
 courage.' 
 
 The baronet began to laugh ; then, suddenly 
 checking himself, said : 
 
 ' But, my boy, why do you accuse me of 
 meanness ? Have I ever been wilfully un- 
 generous to anyone ? What hard things you 
 say to me.' 
 
 * Why, indeed, father, I acknowledge I was 
 bitter and unjust, for I know you would not 
 be ungenerous, except by thoughtlessness. 
 But I can't bear to hear anything said against 
 anyone I like. I should have been just as 
 severe with Dick if he had said anything 
 against you, though he's too thoughtful and 
 just ever to do that.' 
 
 ' He's a right-down good fellow, and his 
 sermons are so clever that it's as much as I 
 can do to keep my eyes open after the first 
 five minutes. I must be more considerate 
 there. I admit I have not regarded the 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 Folly Morrison. 
 
 living in the light you see it with. I must 
 read, up about it. Some of these radical 
 notions have a substratum of justice in them. 
 Yes, I'll look it up — perhaps Coke has some- 
 thing on the subject. But you don't seriously 
 intend to marry his sister, eh ? You said 
 you were engaged only to frighten me, now.' 
 
 ^ Indeed, sir, I engaged myself on Friday.' 
 
 ' You never said anything about it, although 
 you did lose your temper.' 
 
 ' I didn't wdsh to — to tell you all at once.' 
 
 ' And then on Saturday you w^ent away, 
 begging my pardon for wdiat you^had said 
 overnight, and leading me to conclude you 
 had given up the idea. What was that for V 
 
 ' I thought if I let you have your own way 
 at first, you would let me have mine after.' 
 
 ' Don't you know me better than that, 
 Roley 1 When I once say a thing, don't I 
 stick to it through thick and thin V 
 
 Ivoland pulled his moustache, and looked 
 kindly at his father. 
 
 * So you thought,' continued the baronet, in 
 high good humour, ^ you thought you could 
 wheedle your old dad, hey ? But you see it 
 wasn't to be done. I soon found you out.' 
 
 * You seem to have got to the bottom of it, 
 indeed, sir.'
 
 The Battle is to the Strong. 243 
 
 ' But what made you alter your tactics V 
 ' The vicar. He roade me see that I was 
 doing a mean and unhandsome thing to carry, 
 on a clandestine affair, and that it was just as 
 bad to deceive you as to deceive anyone 
 else.' 
 
 ' Why^ so it was ; and I have a mind to 
 resent it, too. But, come, it w^as honourable 
 of Vane.' 
 
 ' How else could you expect him to act V 
 ^ He is a gentleman, that's certain. But 
 his sister — you can't deny she w^as a gover- 
 ness.' 
 
 * So much the more is she to be esteemed.* 
 ' That's another of those confounded radical 
 notions. Be careful, Bole}^' 
 
 'Well, sir, if you had refused your consent, 
 and cut me off with a shilling, or any absurd 
 proceeding of that kind, I should have had to 
 take a common situation as railway porter, or 
 a cabdriver, or something of that sort, while 
 Madge was teaching in a school, and I ask 
 you which would have been most respected 
 then. Sir Andrew Aveling s son or his wife V 
 ^ That will do, Boland ; you frighten me.' 
 ' May I ask when I may have the honour 
 of presenting Madge to you, sir V 
 
 Sir Andrew's face for a moment expressed 
 
 16—2 
 
 r
 
 244 Folly Morrison. 
 
 a feeble attempt to resume the offensive, his 
 brows contracting and the corners of his 
 mouth going down ; then the hps gave way, 
 the brows expanded, the eyes softened, and 
 he held out his hand to Roland. 
 
 ' Whenever you please, hang you ! I throw 
 up the sponge/
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SIR ANDREW FORMS AN INDUCTION FROM A 
 SIMPLE ARGUMENT. 
 
 IR ANDREW AVELING had 
 
 never entertained a violent passion 
 for any woman. He had squan- 
 dered his affections in a prodigal 
 fashion among many in the gay days of his 
 youth, and when the time came for him to 
 ranger himself, he married a w^oman of high 
 position — the Rodneys had an earl in their 
 family — as much from a sense of duty as 
 from inclination. 
 
 He could understand Roland's infatuation 
 for Margaret, but not his desire to marry her. 
 From his point of view the young man was 
 throwing away the best opportunity for 
 securing a durable happiness and providing a
 
 24G Folly Morrison. 
 
 substantial satisfaction for the latter part of 
 his life. Sir Andrew's passions were entirely 
 of his youth ; they abated at the age of 
 thirty and gave place to ambition. He looked 
 back on his youth as a season of folly ; he 
 regarded his maturity as a season of ripe 
 content. To him it appeared that Roland 
 must experience the same change, and would 
 find himself destitute of the means of gratify- 
 ing his higher aspirations. His wife could 
 add no lustre to his fortunes — nay, she w^ould 
 retard his advancement ; for how could he 
 hold a place among the county gentry when 
 it became known that he had married a 
 governess ? 
 
 He felt, therefore, that ho had been cul- 
 pably unwise in giving way to his son's 
 inclinations, and regretted what he could 
 regard only as an act of paternal weakness. 
 
 He received Margaret graciously, and was 
 studiously courteous to her brother — partly 
 in compliance with his son's wishes, partly by 
 reason of the juster and more generous feel- 
 inofs Roland's arofument had excited in him, 
 but mainly because he felt bound, in outward 
 forms at least, to accede an equality to the 
 family which was to be united with his own. 
 Nevertheless, he maintained the opinion that
 
 Sir Andrew Forms an Induction. '2i7 
 
 Koland was making a deplorable mistake, and 
 in his heart dreaded the union which seemed 
 inevitable. 
 
 But hope accompanies fear, and Sir 
 Andrew, though anticipating ill, was not 
 actually despondent. Roland might change 
 his mind, however constant Margaret should 
 be. 
 
 He stipulated for a long engagement. 
 Addressing himself to the vicar, when they 
 were alone one day, he said : 
 
 ' They are both very young, and it seems 
 to me of the utmost importance that we 
 should not marry them in a hurry. The 
 evils of hasty marriages come before our 
 eyes every day.' 
 
 * People who marry recklessly before they 
 know their own minds or each other's temjoers 
 are very likely to find their expectations at 
 fault, and the probability is on the side of 
 their being disappointed,' replied Richard 
 Yane. 
 
 * Exactly so. I am glad to find our opinions 
 agree on this subject. Now, to me, marriage 
 of this kind seems exactly like — let me see 
 now, what is it like — it is comparable to — 
 w^ell, what do you think it is like, Mr. Yane V 
 
 ' Like any other results of thoughtlessness
 
 248 Folly Morrison. 
 
 — a child catching: at a brig^ht flower and 
 o^atherino: a nettle.' 
 
 ^Admirable! a very just comparison. 
 Then you agree with me that a long engage 
 ment is necessary V 
 
 ^ Yes. Young people should not marry 
 before they know each other and themselves 
 as well as Margaret and Koland do.' 
 
 ' But they have not been engaged ten 
 days.' 
 
 ' They have known each other almost as 
 many years.' 
 
 ' You surely do not think they ought to 
 marry immediately V 
 
 ^ That is for their own decision. I am 
 inclined to think they wish to be married at 
 once, or they would not desire to be married 
 at all.' 
 
 ^ But should they not be induced to submit 
 to advice in this matter ? They cannot look 
 at the matter impartially, as we do.' 
 
 ^ That is hardly to be expected.' The vicar 
 repressed an inclination to smile. ' But if 
 they would take m}^ advice they would marry 
 at once.' 
 
 ^ And if they would take mine,' returned 
 the baronet, hotly, ' they would do no such 
 thing, my dear sir. Sir Andrew left Richard
 
 Sir Andrew Forms an Induction. 249 
 
 Vane with the impression that he was ob- 
 structive. 
 
 He got on much better with Amadis 
 Garnier, when he spoke to him upon the 
 subject. 
 
 ' Garnier/ said he, ^ I ask your opinion, as 
 a man of the world. What do you think 
 about early marriages V 
 
 ' They are very natural.' 
 
 'But do you believe they are politic — 
 wise V 
 
 ' I did not marry young, and see, I am 
 now a miserable old bachelor.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, you're as young as any of 
 them, and no more miserable than I am. I 
 want you to be serious.' 
 
 Mr. Garnier made a gesture of attention, 
 and the baronet continued : 
 
 ' Here is my son, Roland, as I have told 
 you, about to marry Miss Vane. He worked 
 upon my feelings, and extorted my sanction. 
 Y'ou know my objections with respect to the 
 affair. However, I have given my consent, 
 and the young people will be married, unless 
 one or both chancre their mind. But what I 
 ask, and I think I am not unreasonable in 
 my demands, is that they shall have a good 
 long engagement, in order that they may
 
 250 Folly Morrison. 
 
 change their minds if they like. Now, ^yhat 
 do you say to that V 
 
 ^ It certainly would be far happier foi^ them 
 to alter their views before marriao^e than 
 after it.' 
 
 ' Far better, of course it would. My dear 
 Garnier, you speak like a man of sense.' 
 
 * Very few men and women go through 
 life with a sinole love affair — I have had 
 dozens.' 
 
 * So have I — hundreds.' 
 
 * And it is flir better for their happiness to 
 get all that kind of thing over before mar- 
 riaofe.' 
 
 * Exactly. Upon my word, I never knew 
 that you were such a deep thinker. You 
 charm me. Pray continue.' 
 
 Sir Andrew knitted his brows and listened 
 as if to the most abtruse reasoninof, while 
 Mr. Garnier, twisting his moustache, raising 
 his eyebrows, and speaking with grave sen- 
 tentiousness, continued : 
 
 ' Married ladies who form stronof attach- 
 ments with individuals of the other sex. run 
 a great risk of incurring the displeasure of 
 their husbands.' 
 
 * Several cases of the kind have come 
 under my own notice.'
 
 Sir Andrew Forms an Induction. 251 
 
 * And, on the other hand, married men 
 cannot transfer theh^ affections from their 
 wives without hazarding pubhc scandal, or 
 involving themselves in verj^ serious difficul- 
 ties/ 
 
 'It is true, every word!' cried the baronet, 
 slapping his knee. ' You ought to be in 
 Parliament, Garnier. You remind me of 
 Lord Claypole— do you know him V 
 
 ^ I have not that honour.' 
 
 ^ A wonderful orator. I shall never forget 
 his speech when he sentenced a drunken 
 tinker to six da3^s' imprisonment. Excuse 
 this digression; you were saying ' 
 
 ' I was about to point out that, while 
 married people must confine themselves to 
 monogamous attachments ' 
 
 ' Monogamous attachments — exactly ; I 
 follow you.' 
 
 ^ Bachelors and spinsters are trammelled by 
 no such stringent considerations.' 
 
 * Stringent considerations — precisely.' 
 
 * So that if your son, before the appointed 
 time of his union, were to see any lady 
 having greater charms for him than those 
 possessed by Miss Vane, he might relinquish 
 his present purpose without causing her more 
 than temporary suffering — a suffering Avhich
 
 252 Folly Morrison, 
 
 she would forget when she received atten- 
 tions from another lover.' 
 
 ^ One moment ; let me see how that follows. 
 Yes, I have it. Proceed.' 
 
 ' The natural tendency of the female mind 
 is to profit by experience. A young lady, 
 having lost her first lover by delay, would be 
 inclined to make sure of the second by an 
 immediate marriao-e.' 
 
 * I comprehend. But stick to my son and 
 Miss Vane ; your generalities carry me a 
 little out of my depth.' 
 
 ' Up to this point the argument has been 
 in favour of long engagements, but I am 
 thinking now of an accompanying disad- 
 vantaofe.' 
 
 ' State it, Garnier, state it ; we will look 
 at the question fairly from both sides. Out 
 with your disadvantage, which I warrant is 
 not worth the hearing ; we mustn't be j)i'e- 
 judiced either one way or the other.' 
 
 ' If,' pursued Mr. Garnier, with the same 
 air of profundity, ' if, in the course of a long 
 engagement, accident called my friend Roland 
 from this neighbourhood, and in his absence 
 Miss Vane, from motives of pique or what 
 not, were to accept another lover, it would be 
 a very shocking blow for him.'
 
 Sir Andrew Forms an Induction. 253 
 
 ^ If you have no more serious objection 
 than that, I don't care how many you bring 
 forward. In fact, I should like to hear 
 them.' 
 
 ' 1 can think of nothing more terrible.' 
 
 ' Well, return to the other side of the sub- 
 ject then, for you show far greater sense as 
 an advocate for lono^ eno^ao-ements than in 
 opposing them.' 
 
 ' To the graver objection I will add only 
 one of a shght nature.' 
 
 * Let us hear it, my friend.' 
 
 * I consider long engagements as unneces- 
 sary to tradespeople, shopkeepers, and men of 
 business, whose occupations protect them 
 from those temptations to which married 
 men of a higher rank are exposed.' 
 
 ' What the deuce has that got to do with 
 Holand V thought Sir Andrew, emptying 
 his glass impatiently. ^He is not a shop- 
 keeper.' 
 
 ' Long engagements,' continued Mr. Gar- 
 nier, without noticing the baronet's impatience, 
 ' I say, long engagements are likewise un- 
 necessary even to gentlemen who intend to 
 live a secluded country life — whose circle of 
 friends do not extend beyond their parish — 
 who go to London once or twice a year, who
 
 254 Folly Morrison. 
 
 do not care for variety, but prefer the hum- 
 drum e very-day domestic pleasures to all the 
 intoxicating pleasures society can offer.' 
 
 ' Pish ! As if my son is likely to be such 
 a heavy clown as that,' was the mental 
 observation of Sir Andrew, as he filled his 
 empty glass. 
 
 To a man of this kind a lons^ eno^ao^ement 
 is unnecessary. He can marry without hesi- 
 tation. His married life will be but the 
 dragging finale of a dull tune. It is also 
 an unnecessary formality on the part of 
 young people if the man has successfully 
 resisted the fascinating allurements held out 
 to a wealthy and handsome visitor to the 
 metropolis, for if he overcomes that tempta- 
 tion he can overcome any that may afterwards 
 be offered him ; his strength will ensure his 
 felicity in any state he chooses to enter. I 
 really do not think I have anything further 
 to advance either for or ag^ainst lonor enofagre- 
 ments, Sir Andrew.' 
 
 Sir Andrew did not reply. They were 
 sitting over the dessert. As Mr. Gamier 
 came to his peroration an idea came to the 
 baronet's mind. He w^as in the act of lifting 
 the full glass to his lips at the moment ; he 
 checked his hand midway, and set the glass
 
 Sir Andrew Forms an Induction. 255 
 
 down untasted, closing his eyes in cogita- 
 tion. 
 
 He opened them and looked at his friend 
 — Mr. Garnier was cracking a nut, with no 
 more expression in his face than the occupa- 
 tion called for — he closed them again with 
 something of a contemptuous smile about 
 his shaven lips. 
 
 * A clever talker, but I was mistaken in 
 thinking him profound,' he said to himself. 
 * Shallow — very shallow. Couldn't see the 
 induction of his own argument. Couldn't 
 see that the very arguments be brought up 
 against a long engagement were special in- 
 ducements to me for insisting on such an 
 arrangement between Koland and Miss Yane. 
 No inductive power whatever — but a good 
 talker/
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 THE VICAR COUNSELS A SOX TO DISOBEY HIS 
 FATHER. 
 
 F Mr. Gamier talked like a fool to 
 Sir Andrew, he spoke like a gentle- 
 man, an artist, and a man of sense 
 to his friends at the vicarage. He 
 made himself ' all things to all men,' sinking 
 his own individuality and assimilating his 
 own views with those of the people he con- 
 versed with. He talked equally well upon 
 hunting and boating with Roland, upon 
 polemics with the vicar, upon botany with 
 Margaret— being grave, gay, lively, or severe 
 as circumstances directed. To know him was 
 to like him. Margaret, overcoming the pre- 
 judice she had taken against him at their 
 first meeting, took pleasure in watching him
 
 The Vicar Counsels Disobedience. 257 
 
 at his work, and entered freely into the dis- 
 cussions which he adroitly provoked. He 
 took a paternal interest in the lovers that set 
 Madge at ease, and prevented anything like 
 jealousy on the part of Koland. 
 
 He painted well, and made a charming 
 little picture of the old house. 
 
 Margaret, who loved her home with a 
 woman's fondness, yearned for the painting, 
 and liked her future father-in-law less than 
 ever because he was to have what otherwise 
 miofht have been 2fiven to her. 
 
 ^ I break one commandment every time I 
 look at the picture,' said she to the artist one 
 day, * and I would break a second to have it 
 if I were not so afraid of Sir Andrew.' 
 
 ' I hope one day to paint a home that will 
 be even dearer to you than this,' he replied. 
 
 He said nothing of his intention to gratify 
 her wish ; but in his spare time at the Hall 
 painted a replica of the picture, had it framed 
 in London, and, on the last of his visits to 
 the vicarage, presented it to Margaret, with 
 a graceful little speech that doubled the value 
 of the gift. 
 
 His departure was the cause of regret on 
 both sides. Mr. Gamier, however, had en- 
 gagements in London which could not be 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 2 58 Folly Movrkon. 
 
 neglected, but he promised, as soon as they 
 were discharged, to return to Tangley and be 
 the vicar's guest. The little party separated 
 at the garden-gate of the vicarage, Richard 
 Vane with his hands in his pockets and a pipe 
 in his mouth, Margaret and Koland side by 
 side, following ^Mr. Garnier with their eyes 
 until, at the angle of the lane, he raised the 
 rose Madofe had ofiven him, bowed, and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 ' Dear old fellow, I would have kissed him 
 but for his paint,' said Margaret, as they 
 slowly walked away from the gate. 
 
 Koland looked gloomy. 
 
 'You are not jealous, are you?' asked Mar- 
 garet, with mock concern. 
 
 ' Jealous of old Amadis?' answered Roland, 
 with a laugh. ' Othello could not be jealous 
 of him. Nevertheless,' he added, lapsing 
 into his sombre mood, ' I envy him. It seems 
 to me that artists are the happiest dogs under 
 the sun — everyone likes them.' 
 
 ' Any man who does his work thoroughly 
 and well is liked,' said the vicar. ' You ouo-ht 
 to know that and be thankful.' 
 
 He walked on in front. 
 
 * What does Dick mean V asked Margaret, 
 whispering.
 
 Hie Vicar Counsels Disobedience. 259 
 
 ^ He means that by loving you with my 
 whole soul I have secured your affection, 
 Madge, and that is worth more than all the 
 admiration of the whole world, dear. And 
 I was ungrateful to forget it for a moment. 
 But, oh, my darling, if I want to be more 
 clever, more admirable in every way, it is that 
 I may be worthier of yon.' 
 
 ' I do not wish you to alter, dear,' answered 
 Margaret, slipping her hand under his arm. 
 
 One morning, about a week after Mr. 
 Garnier's departure, Roland walked into 
 Richard Vane's study, where he was hard at 
 work upon his Sunday morning discourse. 
 
 ' Ha, old boy ! you're the very man I want 
 to see,' said he, clapping the vicar on the 
 shoulder and throwinof down his hat. 
 
 ^ And you're the very man I don't want to 
 see,' replied the vicar. ' How do you suppose 
 I can work with you here ? Where's Mar- 
 garet V 
 
 ' Out on some domestic business, and, to tell 
 you the truth, I'm glad of it.' 
 
 ' And, to tell you the truth, I'm not. I 
 shall lock my door when Madge goes out.' 
 
 ■ You'd open it at any moment if you 
 thought I wanted to come in.' 
 
 17—2
 
 260 Folhf Morrison. 
 
 ' But, Roley, you see, I'm at work,' re- 
 monstrated the vicar. ^ Go and find Madge, 
 and come to me this evening.' 
 
 * I should give her my first attention with- 
 out asking, if my affairs were not pressing. 
 I have something important to tell you. You 
 must give me your attention. Tt concerns 
 Madge and me.' 
 
 The vicar pushed back his chair, looking at 
 his watch ruefully. 
 
 ^ It is no trifling matter," Dick, I assure 
 you. I had a long talk with the governor 
 last night.' 
 
 Roland did not speak in his usual careless 
 way ; this his friend noticed, and became 
 earnest at once. 
 
 ' Well, Roley, what have you been talking 
 about V 
 
 ' First of money, Dick. I pointed out to 
 the old gentleman that I should like some 
 . more definite arranofement than has hitherto 
 existed with respect to an income. I told 
 him I wished to feel more independent, and 
 that I could only do so by having a good 
 lump sum in the bank to j)ull ^t when I felt 
 so disposed, without asking his permission or 
 anyone else's.' 
 
 ' A delicate way of putting it, Holey.'
 
 The Vicar Counsels Disobedience. 2G1 
 
 ' Oh yes, I was careful in wording it that 
 way not to oiFend the governor at first start- 
 ing off/ 
 
 ' Did you succeed V 
 
 ' Well, he didn't seem quite to like the idea 
 at first, and said he thought I had no reason 
 to doubt his liberality, and all that, which 
 was just enough for an argument on his sidef 
 but when I said that I could not be content 
 with any other arrangement, and must have 
 the money anyway, the soundness of the 
 reasoning told, and he gave way. Well, when 
 he yielded, I couldn't help feeling grateful to 
 the old fellow, and I told him so ; that touched 
 his heart, and when he spoke of the time when 
 I should have all he had, with no one to 
 oppose my wishes, the pair of us were as 
 chokey as a couple of girls, I assure you. Then 
 what did the old trump do but, wiping his 
 eyes with one hand, he pulled open the drawer 
 in his desk and took out his cheque-book 
 with the other, saying, "Eoley, my dear boy, 
 the broker sold out my East Indians yester- 
 day, and there's thirty thousand lying in the 
 bank to be invested ; here's a cheque for the 
 amount — do what you please with it, and God 
 bless you 1" ' 
 
 * You accepted it j'
 
 262 Folly Mo 
 
 rrison. 
 
 ' Of course I did. You don't think I would in- 
 sult my own father by refusing it ! Well, having 
 settled that business, I went on to speak about 
 my marriage. I told him that having care- 
 fully considered his wish that there should be 
 a long engagement, I had come to the conclu- 
 sion that I would be married without any 
 delay.' 
 
 ' And I dare say for all your consideration 
 Sir Andrew objected to the conclusion.' 
 
 ' If you'll beUeve me he did. Off he went 
 at a tangent, declaring I shouldn't marry until 
 he chose, and a lot of rubbish of that kind. 
 He vowed I should not marry for six years, 
 and I — trying to argue the matter out ration- 
 ally — swore I would go to church in six days 
 if it pleased me.' 
 
 *It is always advisable to speak dispas- 
 sionately.' 
 
 ' That's what I thouoiit when I o-ave him 
 to understand I would permit no sort of inter- 
 ference in a matter Avhich was essentially per- 
 sonal to myself. However, he happened to 
 say that he did not know why he should be 
 so solicitous in my behalf when I was so 
 anxious to cut the tie of affection which bound 
 us together, and that knocked me over at 
 once. I thought of his kindness, you know,
 
 The Vicar Counsels Disobedience. 263 
 
 and it appeared to me that I was acting like 
 a selfish brute to forget his love.' 
 
 ' Finally, what decision did you come to V 
 
 * Oh, he wouldn't be behind me in generosity 
 when he saw me yielding, and promised to 
 agree to our marriage earl}^ in the summer.' 
 
 ' That is the time we considered advisable.' 
 
 ' Just so ; but he insisted that I should 
 spend six months of the interval in London.' 
 
 ' In London ! why in London V asked the 
 vicar, iu an anxious tone. 
 
 ' He thinks it will prepare me for certain 
 offices which he would like me to fill when I 
 become a country gentleman. He wants me 
 to attend debates ' 
 
 ^ The session is nearly over.' 
 
 ' But there are the law courts, and — and — 
 but that is not his main object. I discovered 
 his real motive in wishing me to spend this 
 time in London.' 
 
 ' And what is it V 
 
 ' He wishes me to see life, to move freely 
 among the society people, and — and — well, 
 Dick, in a word, he wishes to put a crucial 
 test to my character.' 
 
 ^ By exposing you, with thirty thousand 
 pounds in your hand, to temptation — is 
 that it V
 
 264 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ^ Yes, Dick, that is it. His argument is 
 logical enough : I should prove my fitness to 
 live as a good husband to Madge by resisting 
 temptations before I marry her.' 
 
 ' Kubbish, Roland ! What arOTment can 
 justify your exposing yourself to temptations 
 either before or after marriage ? And are 
 you less likely to withstand the attacks of 
 inclination when 3' ou are fortified with a sense 
 of duty and love towards a w^ife than in your 
 present free and careless condition V 
 
 * I am not free ; I am not careless. I love 
 and reverence Madge as sincerely now as I 
 can when she is my wife/ cried Roland, start- 
 ing to his feet and speaking with vehemence. 
 
 ' Well said, Tloland ; spoken like a man, 
 and like yourself. Nevertheless, I tell you 
 it is idle and wrong to court danger. Which 
 of us is not in peril ? Who can w^alk with 
 the certainty that he shall not stumble ? Not 
 I, nor you. I must in this counsel you to dis- 
 obedience. Refuse your father's condition.' 
 
 * I cannot, Dick ; I have accepted it.'
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 FOLLY ACCEPTS AN ENGAGEMENT AT THE LEVITY. 
 
 ^HE success of the pantomime season 
 at the Garden was due to the at- 
 traction of the new danseiisc, Folly, 
 a fact which Signer Esperenza 
 would not permit the lessee to overlook. He 
 hinted boldly that a suitable acknowledgment 
 should be made. 
 
 The lessee could afford to be generous : 
 the difference between failure and success in 
 a theatrical speculation is a small fortune. 
 
 He accepted Esperenza's suggestion with- 
 out reluctance. 
 
 ' What shall it be V he asked. ' The little 
 minx is fond of dress, and never has a penny 
 in her pocket. Better give her a purse with 
 forty or fifty pounds in it, eh V
 
 266 Folly Morrison. 
 
 Esperenza shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' She would value a brooch worth fivepence 
 more highly. What is fifty pounds to her ? 
 She would give it away and forget all about 
 it. I have seen her give her week's salary to 
 a crying child. She does not know the value 
 of money, or care for it. She is not a common 
 girl.' 
 
 * By George ! she is not. I never knew 
 such a quaint little devil. Well, we will 
 think it over,' 
 
 The result of thinkino^ it over was that he 
 bought a watch and chain to present to Folly, 
 taking Esperenza with him to buy it. This 
 was wise ; Esperenza knew the girl's cha- 
 racter and what would please her. The lessee 
 would have bought an everlasting English 
 lever ; Esperenza set the more expensive 
 watch aside, and chose a light French article, 
 with all the jewels on the outside. It was 
 charming to the eye, but the watchmaker 
 would not warrant it for more than a year. 
 When the case was presented to Folly and 
 she opened it, her eyes took the light of the 
 diamonds in which her name was set upon the 
 back. 
 
 * I will never part with it — not even when 
 I'm dead,' she said ; and added, in a lower
 
 Folly Accepts cm Engagement. 267 
 
 tone, ' if anyone loves me well enough to 
 bury it with my body.' 
 
 What thought could have flashed upon the 
 young girl's mind at that moment of supreme 
 satisfaction ? Had she already learnt that 
 beauties outlive their charms and friends 
 together ? 
 
 On the same day she received her week's 
 salar}^ It was just suflicient to enable her to 
 redeem her best dress from the pawnbroker's, 
 and pay what she owed her friend Miss Clip 
 the dressmaker for the past week's board and 
 lodging. 
 
 How she was to meet the expenses of the 
 next week did not trouble her. 
 
 She had now no engagement. That dis- 
 tressed her only because she would not have 
 the pleasure of being admired and receiving 
 applause. 
 
 On Sunday she walked in the Park with 
 Miss Clip. Beyond what she wore she had 
 nothing in the world. Miss Clip, with a nice 
 little sum in the bank, looked like her servant. 
 Folly did not forget that youth was an ad- 
 vantage to her, and she increased the natural 
 youthfulness of her appearance by her style 
 of dress. Her costume was short enough for 
 a girl two years younger than she. Her
 
 268 Folly Morrison. 
 
 beauty was striking even in plain dress, and 
 people stopped to turn round and look after 
 her. As may be imagined, she consulted her 
 jewelled watch very frequently in that walk. 
 She got through Sunday pretty well. 
 
 Miss Clip had inserted an advertisement in 
 the Era stating that Folly was at liberty to 
 accept an engagement, and the first j^ost on 
 Monday morning brought a letter from a 
 manager offering her a part in a burlesque 
 about to be produced, and stating terms which 
 were less than she had received at the 
 Garden. 
 
 Miss Clip read the letter, and then 
 said : 
 
 * Well, my dear, will you go and see the 
 manager V 
 
 * It isn't likely that I shall take less than I 
 have been getting,' Folly replied; 'and I 
 think it's rather like impudence to offer me 
 less.' 
 
 * The manager is not supposed to know 
 what you have been receiving. Your salary 
 during the last weeks was high.' 
 
 * You don't think I got more than I de- 
 served, do you V 
 
 ' Oh, of course not, dear. But you had 
 better see the manaofer and tell him what
 
 Folly Accepts an Engagement. 269 
 
 terms you require. It seems to me an ex- 
 cellent opening. The tlieatre is a good 
 one.' 
 
 ^ I will see it before I say anything. We 
 will go there to-night.' 
 
 In the evening they went to the theatre. 
 Folly was disgusted ; the house Avas nofc a 
 quarter the size of the Garden. 
 
 ^ It is an insult,' said she, ' to offer me less 
 money to dance in a little back parlour of a 
 theatre like that.' 
 
 ' But, my dear, I assure you it is considered 
 one of the best houses.' 
 
 ^ That is not my opinion. Half a dozen 
 jDoky little boxes, a dress circle, a gallery, and 
 no pit. I don't dance to such a miserable 
 little audience as that. You can write to the 
 manager. I'll tell you what to say — ^^ Folly 
 declines to dance at your theatre, and I should 
 be sorry to take your ^yq guineas a week 
 from one who may be more in need of it 
 than she is," and I'll sign my name at the 
 bottom.' 
 
 This feat of penmanship Folly had acquired, 
 and the flourish at the end of the ' y' was in 
 itself a study. 
 
 ' Five guineas a week is a good salary,' 
 urged Miss Clip.
 
 270 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' I'd rather dance at the Garden for nothinof. 
 What is money to me ? It's the audience I 
 dance for.' 
 
 * But how will you do without money V 
 
 ' I shan't want my dress till next Sunday. 
 I can put that away as I did last week. But 
 if I had to lie in bed all day for want of it I 
 wouldn't accept five guineas to dance in a 
 rabbit-hutch.' 
 
 Miss Clip saw it was useless to argue, and 
 returned an answer to the manager declining 
 his terms, though not in the words prescribed 
 by Folly. 
 
 On Tuesday Folly was Avretched. Excite- 
 ment was the food of her life, and slie was 
 starving^. 
 
 ' I shall go somewhere to-night,' she said, 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 ' You have no money, dear,' argued her 
 friend. 
 
 ' That doesn't matter. You can come with 
 me and lend me some. I shall cry if I stop 
 indoors much long^er.' 
 
 Miss Clip had an entree to the Oxbridge 
 Music-hall, and thither she took Folly — the 
 audience applauded enthusiastically. In one 
 corner of the adjoining refreshment saloon 
 w^as a stall on which the portraits of the
 
 Folly Accepts an Engagement. 271 
 
 artistes were displayed for sale. Folly itched 
 to see her own likeness there. 
 
 The singino: on the stage amused her, but 
 the ballet, headed by a fat Frenchwoman, 
 excited her supreme contempt. 
 
 ^ Who is the manager here V she asked of 
 Miss Clip. 
 
 ' Mr. Mannins^. There he is, standino^ over 
 there in a light coat.' 
 
 Folly looked across thefauteuils ard recog- 
 nised Mr. Manning. He was with several 
 other gentlemen sta.ring at her. Folly was 
 accustomed to being stared at. She met the 
 manager's eye boldly, and held up her finger. 
 
 ^ What are you doing V asked Miss Clip, 
 nervously. 
 
 ^ I want to speak to him,' answered Folly. 
 
 The manager made his Avay down the row, 
 and, coming to Folly's side, said : 
 
 ' I think I have the honour to address ' 
 
 ' My name's Folly,' said the young dans- 
 euse, helping him out of his awkward position ; 
 ' Folly, of the Garden.' 
 
 ^ Everyone has heard of you,' said the 
 manager, smiling blandly, ' and a very few in 
 London have failed to see you, I should think. 
 I had that pleasure, and shall not forget 
 it/
 
 272 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ^ Thank you,' answered Folly, with a grate- 
 ful smile. ' You are manager here, I think?' 
 
 ' Yes. I hope you like the entertainments 
 
 ' All but the ballet— that's awful.' 
 
 ' All dancing must ajDpear bad to one who 
 dances so well. There are not two Folly s." 
 
 * That's a nice compliment,' said Folly, 
 better pleased than ever. Then she added, 
 sharply, * I'll dance for you if you like.' 
 
 The manager opened his eyes in astonish- 
 ment, and, having to say something, began : 
 
 ' I should be most happy, but, as you may 
 suppose, I am not so rich as the lessee of the 
 Garden.' 
 
 ' That will be all right. I don't want more 
 than you can afford. Esperenza has no 
 engagement at present : he can arrange the 
 ballet ; and my friend here, Miss Clip, can 
 make the dresses.' Folly never forgot her 
 friends. 
 
 ' I will give the subject my immediate 
 attention,' Mr. Manning replied, ^ and 1 will 
 write to you directly I have concluded 
 whether it is possible for me to accept your 
 generous proposal.' 
 
 The result of this strange interview was 
 that, after many interviews and considerable 
 correspondence, Folly signed an agreement to
 
 Folly Accepts cm Engagement. 273 
 
 dance at the music-hall for six months, the 
 ballet to be arranged by Signor Esperenza 
 and costumes by Miss Clip. 
 
 Once more the young girl saw her name 
 in great letters on the hoardings, with a 
 lithograph in flaring colours representing her 
 in the new character. 
 
 The same good fortune she had brought to 
 the lessee of the Garden she carried with 
 her to the music-hall. Her success was com- 
 plete. Before the close of the first month 
 Mr. Manning offered to double her salary if 
 she would extend her engagement to twelve 
 months ; but this offer she declined at the 
 earnest entreaty of Esperenza. He had 
 opposed her accepting the shorter term when 
 she first told him of her intention. 
 
 * This engagement will be a good thing — a 
 great good thing for me,' he said. ' I am 
 growing old and poor, but I would renounce 
 it willingly to keep you on the decent boards 
 of a theatre. It is only fit for strolling 
 mountebanks to dance where men smoke and 
 drink. You are an artist.' 
 
 It is unnecessary to follow Folly's career 
 at the music-halj. She disliked it because 
 Esperenza condemned it. 
 
 The old man was her guardian angel. He 
 
 VOL. I.. 18
 
 274 Folly Morri 
 
 son. 
 
 continually fostered her self-esteem, and made 
 the vanity which would have ruined another 
 girl her safeguard. Vices were repugnant to 
 her, not from any moral sentiment, but merely 
 because they were practised by the mean, 
 sordid, or unscrupulous people she despised. 
 He did also the very best thing that can be done 
 for a young actress — he showed her behind 
 the scenes. He stripped things of their false 
 appearances and displayed them as they are. 
 Men and women were to him machines with 
 passions for springs, and he impressed this 
 idea sbrongly on Folly's mind. Probably not 
 one woman in a hundred knew the realities of 
 life, the moral anatomy of men and women, 
 as this child came to understand them under 
 the tuition of Esperenza. He made no re- 
 servations in his talk : he called things by 
 their right names, and concealed nothing. 
 Subjects which would have shocked ordinary 
 people out of their senses she heard without 
 a blush. She literally did not understand 
 the meaning of shame — how should she ? If 
 the conversation that she constantly heard 
 w^as not modest, it had at least this advantage 
 — it did not pretend to be. 
 
 At that time John Barrington w^as the
 
 Folly Accepts an Engagement, 275 
 
 manager of the Levity Theatre — a man who 
 never let shp an opportunity of adding at- 
 traction to his programme. He saw Folly, 
 and w^rote to her immediately, asking if she 
 were disengaged and would accept an en- 
 gagement with him. 
 
 Before replying Folly went to a matinee at 
 the Levity. She was favourably impressed 
 by the lines of carriages along the Strand 
 waiting to approach the doors of the theatre. 
 The admirable arrangements within the house, 
 and the air of refinement in all its appoint- 
 ments, pleased her taste, now revolting 
 against the vulgarity of the music-hall. She 
 liked the size of the house, and the orderly 
 yet appreciative character of the audience. 
 The beautiful scenery, the rich dresses, the 
 tasteful grouping upon the stage, excited her 
 ambition to be the central figure there. 
 
 Before the conclusion of the performance 
 she left her stall, and, with her customary 
 impetuosity, found out the manager, and 
 came to an understanding with him at once. 
 
 Mr. Barrington was a shrewd man. He 
 saw that Folly was capable of something 
 better than dancing in ballet. After his 
 interview with her he took his dramatic 
 author into consultation. 
 
 18—2
 
 276 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' I want you to think of something for this 
 new girl of mine. She's too good for ballet ; 
 besides, ballet's going out. Taglioni wouldn't 
 pay now. The public want something more 
 original, and they must have it.' 
 
 * What can she do V 
 
 ^ Sing — and sing as well as she dances. 
 She rattled off a little French song as an 
 example that fairly astonished me.' 
 
 ' There's that new thing at the Folies 
 Dramatiques, "La Friande Chiffonniere.'" 
 
 * No : I am for somethino^ orioinal. The 
 newspapers are constantly accusing us of 
 neglecting British talent, and talking about 
 the decay of the drama. I'll prove that they 
 are in the wrong, and produce a good sterling 
 burlesque. You shall write me one of the 
 classical sort, like that "' Sisyphus " of yours. 
 Something fetching, with plenty of popular 
 tunes, a couple of good low comedy parts for 
 the men, and a leading role for this new girl. 
 What could you do with Medea V 
 
 * Bob Brough used that.' 
 
 * Ah, but we shouldn't treat it in that way. 
 People wouldn't understand his wit — it would 
 go right over the heads of the stalls. His 
 style won't do now. We don't want poetry. 
 However, if you don't like Medea, what
 
 Folly Accepts an Engageme.Jit, 277 
 
 do you say to Andromeda ? That has not 
 been treated.' 
 
 'Andromeda? Yes ; but she is a simple, 
 tender girl.' 
 
 * Just the thing : reverse her character — 
 that's the secret of burlesque. Why, bless 
 me ! I know more of your business than you 
 do. Make the girl a rackety young baggage, 
 continually getting her father into scrapes by 
 her persistence in dancing contrary to the 
 laws of Ethiopia. Everyone is infected with 
 the fashion set by the princess, and at 
 length, to put an end to the nuisance, 
 Andromeda is to be chained up to the rock 
 as the only means of keeping her still. You 
 can get some good comic business out of the 
 anxiety of the parents respecting the sea 
 monster, you know. Then we could get a 
 fetching set — sun rising over the sea, rocks, 
 and Andromeda chained in the centre, lime- 
 light on her, and pretty music — display her 
 beauty. That'll fetch the town, I'll warrant.' 
 
 ' Not a bad idea.' 
 
 - Very well ; go and work it out, and let 
 me have a rough sketch as soon as you can.' 
 
 The idea was carried out with speed ; and, 
 after hearing the work read, her part was 
 handed to Folly for study.
 
 278 Folly Morrison. 
 
 Folly, with a new world to conquer, set 
 herself to the task with all the energy of her 
 enthusiastic and vigorous nature. She learnt 
 her part by repeating it after Esperenza. She 
 was perfect at her first rehearsal, and exceeded 
 the most sanguine expectations of those who 
 knew her best. It seemed as if she were 
 animated by some madness of the blood, so 
 exuberant were her spirits, so agile and swift 
 her movements. Indeed, she went to such 
 audacious lengths that Mr. Earrington, fear- 
 ful how his audience might take it, begged 
 her to be more moderate. 
 
 * Why X asked Folly. * Do you want the 
 audience to go to sleep V 
 
 ' No : but we mustn't frighten them out of 
 the house.' 
 
 ' I will play the part as it should be played, 
 or not at all.' Folly's look as she spoke be- 
 tokened her readiness to throw up the part if 
 she were opposed. Mr. Earrington felt 
 nervous. 
 
 ' Well, be careful, that's all, for my sake/ 
 said he. 
 
 ' I shall be careful, for my own,' responded 
 Folly, hastily turning on her heel, with an 
 impudent laugh.
 
 CHAPTEK XXIII. 
 
 ROLAND AYELING IS VIRTUOUS. 
 
 OLAXD sat in his chambers at 
 Kensington writing. The letter 
 under his hand was to Madge. An 
 observer with less sagacity than 
 Lavater could tell that by the tender expres- 
 sion on his face, reflected from the paper 
 beneath. 
 
 He told her no news. A mere chronicle 
 of his comiDgs and goings were too material 
 for his purpose. He repeated only in round- 
 about terms the three ^vords he had wdiispered 
 in her ear a score of times — words which she 
 could hear as many thousand times and never 
 think them old or needless. ' I love you !' 
 was the subject of his letter — the beginning, 
 the middle, and the end of it. Only a lover's
 
 280 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ingenuity could have made so much of so 
 little — could have put a simple sentiment in 
 so many words. 
 
 Lovers' letters are tedious or ridiculous to 
 all save lovers, as sacred things are to the 
 heartless or profane. His shall not be re- 
 peated here. Let it pass. It was a good 
 letter, that blessed him that sent and her 
 that took it — the sweet, earnest effusion of a 
 soul filled with love. He sighed when he 
 came to the end, broke some myrtle leaves 
 from a bouquet in a glass before him, placed 
 them between the folded pages, enclosed the 
 letter in an addressed envelope, and then sat 
 musing for half an hour with the packet in 
 his hand. 
 
 At the end of that time he aroused himself 
 from his reverie, laying the letter upon the 
 table, and then set about writing another in 
 a quite different spirit. First he whistled a 
 tune, then he lit a pipe, and, with a cheerful 
 smile, dashed his pen in the ink and began : — 
 
 * Grandison Chambers, Kensington, 
 
 August, 1869. 
 
 * My dear Parson, — You will be astonished 
 to find that, amidst the distractions of life in 
 London, I can think of my sober old chum
 
 Roland Aveling is Virtuous. 281 
 
 in the country, and, still more, to discover 
 that my object in writing is, not to desire 
 your assistance in helping me out of the 
 difficulties in which you might reasonably 
 suppose I had by this time involved myself, 
 but to assure you that my physical and moral 
 health is untainted by the vitiating atmo- 
 sphere of this terrible city. For six days I 
 have been exposed to the fiery furnace, and 
 on this, the seventh, I can proudly boast that 
 I am still whole and not a hair the worse. 
 To tell you the truth, old boy, the temptation 
 which besets me most sorely is the impulse to 
 break the agreement with my father, and 
 take the next train that will carry me to 
 Tangley. 
 
 ^ I can understand the safeguard weak 
 people have in religion, for I am in love, and 
 love is my religion, and with that in my 
 heart it is impossible for me to do anything 
 which seems to militate against it. I refused 
 to take a place in a break with a lot of good 
 fellows — amongst them Stephens of Baliol, 
 Draper of Christ's, and Burgoyne, who was 
 our stroke in '59 — who went yesterday to 
 Croydon. Of course there was nothing 
 wrong in going to Croydon, but somehow I 
 thought of Madge and you in the quiet old
 
 282 Folly Morrison. 
 
 vicarage, and the very idea of a race was re- 
 pugnant to me. If these feehngs operate so 
 powerfully in trifling circumstances, how 
 effective would they not be in more serious 
 situations I My father and you were both 
 wrong — he in supposing I should find here a 
 test of my moral strength, you in fearing 
 that I should succumb beneath it. Neither 
 of you reckoned that I went to the ordeal 
 under the protecting charm of a sweet girl's 
 love.' 
 
 Roland rested from his labours to relight 
 his pipe, which had gone out. He was in a 
 humour to put a favourable construction 
 upon everything. It pleased him to see that 
 he had forgotten to puff at his pipe in writ- 
 ing of his love for Madge. He looked at his 
 composition with satisfaction, convinced that 
 when the vicar read it he would no longer 
 entertain idle fears in his behalf; then re- 
 commenced : 
 
 * You have no idea how dull and vapid all 
 the amusements of the town are to me. I 
 have lost my relish for them entirely. You 
 remember how the theatres and spectacles 
 used to intoxicate me when we came here at 
 boat-race time : they have now no effect on
 
 Roland Aveling is Virtuov.s. 283 
 
 me whatever. My days are too long-. 1 
 get sleepy at ten, go to bed at eleven, and 
 seldom rise before mid-day. I am reading 
 Buckle, and intend to go in for Harrison, 
 Matthew Arnold, and Huxley. The trashy 
 novels of those wretched women Avho ape the 
 vices of men are revolting to me, and I can 
 only find pleasure in good stiff writing. I 
 have spent three afternoons in the British 
 Museum, and two in examining the collection 
 of the Geological Society, but as I said 
 before, the amusements of London fail to 
 exercise any fascination over me. I have 
 not been inside a theatre ; it is a form of 
 entertainment for which I have now no relish. 
 You must agree with me that you have little 
 to fear for my safety here. The only enjoyable 
 evening I have had was on Wednesday, 
 when I dined with Garnier (who begged me 
 to remember him in writing to you) at his 
 club, the Olympus, where I met several old 
 friends, and made the acquaintance of some 
 exceedingly pleasant fellows, who have pro- 
 mised to look me up.' 
 
 With a few more pages of such material 
 as this Boland completed his letter to the 
 vicar ; after which the rigid moralist, to com-
 
 284 Folly Morrison. 
 
 pensate for so much relaxation, threw himself 
 on a couch and * went in ' for Buckle with 
 determination. He read a page and a half, 
 then the book, being heavy, slid from his 
 hands, and his eyes, being heavy also, closed, 
 and he slept. 
 
 No one came to disturb his slumbers, and 
 he slumbered peacefully for best part of an 
 hour. He woke with a shiver ; he took up 
 Buckle and shuddered again. To shake off 
 the depression of his spirits, he went to the 
 window and looked out. Rain was falling ; 
 the leaden clouds overhead were only less 
 cheerless than the empty wet street below. 
 He felt more than ever that the gay London 
 life had no charms for him. 
 
 ' Not five o'clock yet,' he murmured, pull- 
 ing out his watch. ' What the deuce shall I 
 do ? Somehow I don't feel like readinc^ 
 Buckle, and the British Museum's closed — 
 it's a national disgrace to close that place so 
 early. I can t go to bed yet— what on earth 
 shall I do for the next ^\e or six hours ? I 
 shall go mad ; well, that will be pleasant as 
 a variation from this condition of things. 
 Five o'clock — what the dickens shall I do ? 
 I must have another turn at Buckle.' 
 
 Pushing his fingers through his hair and
 
 Roland Aveling is Virtuous. 285 
 
 yawning violently, he turned once more to 
 Buckle's massive tome. 
 
 * This man knew too much,' he thought, 
 turning to the last page to see the number of 
 it. ' If he had written a small volume it 
 would have been much better. Fool to write 
 himself out as he did I Halloa ! what's 
 that ?' 
 
 He threw down the book, and rushed to 
 the window in great excitement as the sound 
 of a double knock reached his ear. Looking 
 down, with his forehead pressed against the 
 glass, he saw a blank doorstep below ; press- 
 ing the back of his head against the shutter 
 and the side of his nose against the window, 
 he discovered a visitor waiting on the step 
 next door but one. 
 
 ' Light overcoat, umbrella,' said he, with 
 much interest. ^ I don't know the man's 
 figure ; surely it can't be a visitor for me 
 gone next door but one by mistake. 
 
 Despite the improbability of the conjec- 
 ture, he felt disappointed when the man in 
 the light coat disappeared and he heard the 
 door close behind him. 
 
 The pendule on the mantelj^iece struck 
 five^ 
 
 'What is the use of a timepiece if it
 
 286 Folly Morrison. 
 
 doesn't strike right V thought he, dragging 
 out his watch petulantly to see how much 
 too slow the offending clock was. The time 
 by both was the same. 
 
 ^ I'll have that thing taken away/ said he, 
 ' I hate clocks that strike. Only five o'clock. 
 Where did I put Buckle V 
 
 Looking round for the book he perceived 
 the two letters on the table. He seized them 
 joyfully and caught up his hat. 
 
 ' What a thouofhtless fellow I am ! A 
 little later and they would have been too late 
 for the post.' 
 
 He rushed to the pillar-box in the adjoin- 
 ing square, and returned with a dull step to 
 the inevitable Buckle. That great man was 
 never perhaps regarded with such unmerited 
 dislike as then. He admitted himself re- 
 luctantly to the house, without noticing the 
 hansom standing before the door, and as he 
 dragged upstairs reflected on the delusiveness 
 of hope and the insincerity of friends. 
 
 ^ Those fellows promised to look me up ; 
 and here have I been expecting them all day, 
 and not one comes near me.' 
 
 At his apartments he kicked the door open 
 without taking his hands from his trousers 
 pocket, and confronted Mr. Gamier.
 
 Roland Aveling is Virtuous. 287 
 
 ' My dear Roland, you are surprised to see 
 me— pardon my intruding upon your chamber 
 in your absence — the attendant below said 
 you were at home.' 
 
 ' Believe me, my dear fellow, I would not 
 have forgiven her had she been more careful 
 to tell the truth. I wouldn't have had you 
 go away for the world. I am delighted to 
 see you.' 
 
 * I believe you. You have certainly the 
 most expressive of faces; you cannot imagine 
 the chanofe it has underofone in two minutes.' 
 
 ^ I was a little dull.' 
 
 ' And no wonder, mewed up in solitude 
 here. Your father asked me to look after 
 you, and I should fail in my respect to his 
 commands if I suffered you to bury yourself 
 in this fashion. What are your engagements ? 
 Where do you dine V 
 
 ' I have ordered a chop to be brought to 
 me at six.' 
 
 * You must order your chef to put the joint 
 back for your breakfast. You dine with me 
 to-nio4it.' 
 
 ^ But — but I'm going in for Buckle,' said 
 Boland, offering a feeble show of resistance. 
 
 ' You'll '' go in " for dinner at the Criterion, 
 and ^^ go in " for a theatre after.'
 
 288 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' I don't care for theatres.' 
 
 ' You can take Buckle to read there, if 
 you don't care for the performance. One 
 thing is certain, I cannot allow you to read 
 him here. I have a hansom waiting below. 
 Have you any alteration to make in your 
 dress V 
 
 ' You are in war-paint.* 
 
 ' Yes, but it isn't necessary if you prefer 
 morning dress.' 
 
 ' I think I prefer the other. It is so much 
 easier — and — and if we are to go to a theatre.' 
 
 * You have brought yourself to accept that 
 infliction, eh ? Well, dress away, old fellow.* 
 
 Roland went into the adjoining room and 
 got out his evening dress — the very sight of 
 the white tie excited pleasant ideas. Some- 
 thing of his old enthusiasm came back as he 
 hurried over his toilette, and he kept up a 
 brisk conversation with his friend in the 
 next room. When all was complete, he came 
 out radiant, with his hat under his arm and 
 a pair of light gloves in his hand. 
 
 * Now then, Amadis, let us be off; I'm 
 ready,' he cried. 
 
 ' Will you take Buckle V asked Gamier, 
 
 slyly- 
 
 * Oh, hang Buckle ! Come on.'
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 ROLAND AVE LING SEES FOLLY FOR THE FIRST 
 TIME. 
 
 S the two men sat over their wine 
 smoking, Garnier took up a paper. 
 * Where shall we go V he asked, 
 turning the paper to get at the 
 theatrical announcements. 
 
 * Anywhere.' 
 
 * Polytechnic, Exeter Hall — either of those 
 suit you V 
 
 ' Try another joke ; it can't be worse.' 
 
 ' Ha, here's the thing, '' Levity, first night 
 
 of ' Andromeda.' Folly, as Andromeda. 
 
 First appearance." By George, w^e must go 
 
 there. Have you seen Folly V 
 ' Folly ? No ; who is he V 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 Folly Morrison. 
 
 ' He is simply the most astonishing young 
 girl you ever saw in your life. She played 
 in the pantomime of the Garden last Christ- 
 mas, and since then has been throwing her 
 pearls before a music - hall audience. I 
 thouofht she wouldn't stay there lono^. Bar- 
 rinofton's a clever fellow — doesn't let talent 
 escape him.' 
 
 ' I admire talent.' 
 
 ' And you'll admire her face, too — the 
 loveliest little girl.' 
 
 Ptoland did not respond ; he thought of 
 another lovely face, and his heart carried 
 him away to the quiet vicarage at Tangley. 
 
 ' Why are you suddenly grave, Roland V 
 
 ^ Nothing. What is to be heard at Exeter 
 Hall V 
 
 Garnier, looking at Roland, was silent a 
 moment, then he said in his kind, low, pa- 
 ternal tone : 
 
 * My dear boy, I can trace your thoughts. 
 I know your hesitation, and admire you for 
 it. I know the secret of your dulness, the 
 motive that prompts you to seek seclusion 
 and comfort from Buckle. You think it dis- 
 loyal to one far away to be happy absent 
 from her. But is it not a false sentiment 
 with which you delude yourself? Would she
 
 Roland Sees Folly for the First Time. 291 
 
 be more happy, knowing you were less ? 
 That is not in her generous nature. You do 
 yourself and her injury forcing your in- 
 clinations thus. In deceiving yourself you 
 deceive her. Deception, believe me, is the 
 root of all evil. If you prefer '^ Israel in 
 Egypt" to " Andromeda" at the Levity, let 
 us go to Exeter Hall by all means, but do 
 not think that iofnorinof cakes and ale will 
 make you more virtuous. There, my lecture 
 is over.' 
 
 'Thank you, Garnier ; thank you very 
 much, old fellow. You show me what I 
 failed to realise. I will be honest. We will 
 go and see '' Andromeda," and we will enjoy 
 it, too,' answered Roland briskly, and with 
 a grateful feeling at his heart to the man 
 who had shown him his error. 
 
 The wine finished, they lit fresh cigars, 
 sent for a hansom, and reached the theatre 
 just at the conclusion of the operetta with 
 which the entertainment began, and in time 
 to get a couple of stalls in the fifth row. By 
 the time the overture commenced there w^as 
 not a seat unoccupied. 
 
 The overture came to an end, and the 
 leader, hciton in hand, looked to the prompt 
 side for the signal to commence the ch'orus 
 
 19—2
 
 292 Folhj Morrison. 
 
 with which the curtain was to rise. A move- 
 ment of the curtain showed the stage-manager 
 shaking his head. The leader sat down. Evi- 
 dently there was a hitch somewhere. Tlie 
 audience began to demonstrate impatience in 
 the usual noisy manner. Still the curtain did 
 not rise. The stamping of feet and thumping 
 of umbrellas increased, and the gallery added 
 hisses to the noise. 
 
 '' The curtain must go up, or we shall be 
 damned to a certainty," said Mr. Barrington, 
 catching the ominous sounds from the front. 
 ' Orchestra, Brooks, begin. Where's Miss 
 Stuart ? She will have to read the part if 
 the little wretch isn't here in time. You 
 must spin out your comic business, Yates, 
 and gag. I am not surprised that the girl 
 has served us in this way. I expected as 
 much from her temper over the dress.' 
 
 Folly had not arrived. 
 
 During the past few weeks she had given 
 Mr. Barrington cause to regret that he had 
 ever seen her. Scarcely a rehearsal passed 
 without her opposing her own judgment to 
 that of the author, the stage -manager, the 
 chef cVorchestre, or some one engaged in the 
 performance, and with such indomitable stub- 
 bornness as to enforce compliance with her
 
 Roland Sees Folly for the First Time. 293 
 
 views. At the last rehearsal she refused to 
 wear the dress provided for her first entrance 
 — a classical toga and robes of white cash- 
 mere, trimmed with gold. 
 
 * Do you think I will make my first appear- 
 ance at this theatre in a sheet like that V she 
 asked indignantly. 
 
 ' It is the dress designed for the purpose. 
 There is no time to alter it. You must wear 
 it,' answered the stage - manager, viciously 
 scowling at her. 
 
 * Ah, we shall see about that,' was all she 
 said in reply. 
 
 She sulked through the rehearsal, and 
 made no answer wdien Mr. Barrington cau- 
 tioned her not to be late. The curtain rose, 
 and the burlesque began. 
 
 Folly was not in her dressing-room at the 
 moment she should have been on the staofe. 
 Yates was getting nervous over his comic busi- 
 ness, which fell flat ; the audience never once 
 smiled at his gag. The procession of virgins 
 stood ready at the wings, with Miss Stuart 
 at their head, in Folly's rejected dress, with 
 the book in her hand ; and Mr. Barrington 
 was just preparing to go on to the stage and 
 apologise for the absence of Folly, when a 
 dozen voices behind him suddenly exclaimed,
 
 294 . Folhj Morrison. 
 
 ' Here she is !' 
 
 ' We're waiting for you,' hissed the manager, 
 looking as if he would like to strike the of- 
 fending actress. 
 
 * No, you're not,' answered Folly. ' Yates 
 hasn't given the cue to the band yet.' 
 
 ' How can he ? — he's waiting for you No 
 words. I command you to dress at once. 
 Miss Stuart ' 
 
 Folly, turning, caught sight of Miss Stuart 
 in her dress, and burst into a peal of laughter 
 that was heard in the remotest part of the 
 house. Before the echo died she threw oft' 
 the hooded cloak that enveloped her from 
 head to foot, and, with a signal to the 
 orchestra, skipped on to the stage with her 
 virgins at her heels. 
 
 'Good heavens! how is she dressed?' 
 cried the author and Mr. Barrington in a 
 breath. 
 
 In place of the costume which Andromeda 
 might have been supposed to wear on such 
 an occasion, Folly appeared in a dress suit- 
 able to a young lady of fifteen in a ball-room 
 at the present time. It was of white satin, 
 shot with a tint of roses, fitting without a 
 crease to her round, graceful figure, and 
 descending almost to her ankles. Kid gloves
 
 Roland Sees Folly for the First Time, 295 
 
 of the same delica.te colour came half way 
 up her arms, which were bare from the 
 shoulder. French shoes and gold clocked 
 stockings, with an abundance of white lace 
 frilling, made up a costume that set chron- 
 ology and stage propriety completely at 
 defiance. It was in keeping with nothing but 
 Folly and her independent, daring spirit. 
 
 She did not give the spectators time to 
 think of anachronisms ; she carried them 
 along with her in a headlong, impetuous 
 rush of gaiety and life that would not admit 
 of thought or reflection. She astonished the 
 audience, and even those who had acted with 
 her in rehearsal, so that in watching her they 
 at times forgot their parts. The weakest joke 
 in that feeble piece came from her lips 
 sparkling. Her audacity, her beauty, the 
 grace of her movements, the charm of her 
 voice, all told upon the audience with an 
 intoxicating effect. Even those whom she 
 had lately angered could not but admire and 
 forgive the bewitching girl. Nothing tired 
 her. She was not still for a moment, except 
 in the scene where she was chained to the 
 rock. Then, knowing that her success 
 depended on the simple eflfect of her 
 beauty, she posed herself for effect, so that
 
 296 Folly Morrison. 
 
 Ovid's line was realised by her uncon- 
 sciously : 
 
 ' Marmoreum ratus esset opus !' 
 
 That idea struck Roland as he gazed at 
 Ihe wonderful stillness and beauty of the girl 
 standinof in the brilliant lio'ht. 
 
 A munnur of deliofht arose among the 
 spectators, and gradually swelled into a great 
 wave of applause, that roiled to the feet of 
 the young actress, which Folly, moving from 
 her pose, acknowledged with a couple of 
 nods, her head on one side and an arch smile 
 on her face. 
 
 * Oh, what an exquisite little beauty !' 
 murmured Holand, lending his hands and 
 voice to swell the meed of approbation. 
 
 END OF VOL. r. 
 
 iULLING AND S0X3, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD. 
 
 R. T. T.