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 L162
 
 l^S^ 
 
 PUCK 
 
 VOL. T.
 
 / ' ' ' - 
 
 U . ^ '■ ■ ■ ■ 
 
 PUCK: 
 
 pis l^inssitubes. gib&ntlures, (Dbserbations, (fontlustons, 
 ^rieiibsbips, aitb ^bHosopbxcs. 
 
 EELATED BY HIMSELF, 
 
 AXD EDITED BY 
 
 OUIDA, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'STRATHMORE; 'ID ALIA/ 'TRICOTRIX. 
 • UNDER TWO FLAGS,' &c. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1870. 
 
 [T7j€ rigM of Translatwn t« reserved.]
 
 Je vous ai dit ce que j'ai vu. Si vous ne I'aimez pas, ne dites pas du 
 mal de moi. Blamez, plutot, votre monde dans lequel j'ai trouve 
 ces balourdises, ces friponneries, cette beaute qui escroque, ces 
 femmes qui devorent, cette passion qui ne cherche que du butin, 
 ces amours qui ne cbercbent que de I'argent.' 
 
 JOHK CHILDS AND SON, PEINTEES.
 
 
 I/. 1 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 g^ J^aitbful ifrieuiJ, anb a (gallant clcntUmaii, 
 SULLA FELIX.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION.— HIS FIRST PAPER 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. HIS FIRST MEMORY .. 
 
 II. UNDER THE ROSE-THOR>' 
 
 III. UNDER THE APPLE-TREE 
 
 IT. TRUST'S TALE 
 
 Y. AMBROSE OF THE FORGE 
 
 VI. THE SABBATH-BREAKER 
 
 VII. HIS FIRST BETRAYAL 
 
 VIII. IN THE MARKET-PLACE 
 
 IX. JACOBS' CHURCH 
 
 X. HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE 
 
 XL HE SEES SOCIETY 
 
 XII. AT THE CORONET THEATRE 
 
 XIII. BRONZE 
 
 XIV. SUNDAY MORNING 
 XV. HIS FIRST SEASON 
 
 PAG-E 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 ■15 
 
 48 
 
 ■jj 
 
 o-i 
 
 S8 
 
 HI 
 
 1.3.5 
 
 U7 
 
 176 
 
 20o 
 
 225 
 
 27-5 
 
 29o 
 
 515
 
 I crave the reader's consideration for many printers 
 errors which I ch'scover too late to correct; such as 
 'V/;7?7r" for "c//77r," '^no mansion" for ''■any mansion," 
 '■'■ Covefecrs'''' for ^'■coi'rffcrs,'" and many others which simi- 
 larly disfigure the text of "Puck." — Ed,
 
 PUCK. 
 
 IXTRODUCTIOX, 
 
 HIS FIRST PAPER. 
 
 AM only a dog. 
 
 I find in all autobiographies wMch. I have 
 
 ever heard read that it is considered polite 
 to commence with self-depreciation. But for all 
 that I do not consider myself the inferior of any 
 living creature : I never heard of any antobio- 
 graphist that did consider himself so. According to 
 their own account they are all ^incompris;' and I 
 suppose I was also ; for I was always held in con- 
 tempt as a ^ dumb brute. ^ Xobody, except that 
 wise woman^ Rosa Bonheur, ever discerned that
 
 2 PUCK. 
 
 animals only do not speak because they are en- 
 dowed with a discretion far and away over that of 
 blatant, bellowing, gossiping, garrulous Man. 
 
 ' Only a dog,^ indeed ! However, the phrase has 
 a pretty, modest, graceful look, so let it stand. 
 Men never are taken at their own valuation by 
 others ; and so I suppose dogs cannot expect to 
 be either. 
 
 ' Only a dog ! ^ Well, dogs cannot lie, or bribe, 
 or don a surplice, or pick a lock, or go bull-baiting 
 in share-markets, or preside as chairmen over public 
 companies ; we can only, if we are dishonest, run 
 off with a bone in a most open and foolish fashion, 
 and get instantly whipped for our pains. So that 
 there is one art, at least, in which men are decidedly 
 in advance of us ; and in deference to that super- 
 excellence in stealing I beg again to state, in my 
 humility, that I am Only a Dog. 
 
 Such a little dog too. I can go in a muff with 
 a scent-bottle, or in a coat-pocket with a meer- 
 schaum. I am very white, very woolly, very pretty 
 indeed; covered all over with snowy curls, and 
 having two bright black eyes and a black shiny tip 
 to my nose like patent leather. I have heard myself 
 declared a thousand times to be ^ thoro^-bred ; ' but
 
 HIS FIKST PAPER. 3 
 
 I really do not feel any more sure of my paternity 
 than tlie public can be of the authorship of a prince's 
 periods^ or a bishop^s charge. I have in my own 
 mind very patrician doubts as to my father; and 
 can, with truly aristocratic haziness, trace my an- 
 cestry up to an 0. 
 
 I have studied life, I assure you ; and widely 
 too, though I am only a tiny Maltese. I am called 
 Maltese, you know, though I never saw Malta, just 
 as your nobles are called Norman though they do 
 not own an acre of land in Xormandy. 
 
 I have studied life; we little cupids usually 
 belong to the fair sex ; and for a vantage-point 
 from which to survey all the tricks and trades, the 
 devilries and the frivolities, the sins and the shams, 
 the shifts and the scandals of this world of yours, 
 commend me to a cosy nook under a woman's laces ! 
 
 I remember once hearing a big Alp-dog and a 
 small King Charles disputing with one another as to 
 which knew best the world and all its wickedness. 
 Mont Blanc narrated most thrilling adventures 
 amongst the snows of his birthplace, told how he 
 had rescued travellers from midnight death, and dug 
 a child out of an icy grave, and guarded a lonely 
 old chateau through a whole dreary Swiss winter ;
 
 4 PUCK. 
 
 and wound up by declaring tliat lie must liave seen 
 the game of life best since lie liad once belonged to 
 poor Grammont Caderousse^ and now lived witli a 
 Guardsman who had rooms in Mount Street_, where 
 they played hazard till the dawn was up^ and told all 
 the naughtiest stories that were about on the town. 
 
 Little Charlie heard patiently, shivering at the 
 mention of snow ; then winked his brown eye, when 
 Mont Blanc talked of his Guardsman. 
 
 ^ My dear Alp/ said he, ' I see a trick more 
 than you for all that; for I live with the ladies. 
 As for your owner in Mount Street, — a fico for him ! 
 Why ! — I belong to the wortian that ruins him /' 
 
 The coterie of dogs that was listening declared 
 the little fellow had won. Mont Blanc lived in the 
 sphere of the tricked ; Charlie in the land of the 
 tricksters. Ice might be cold, but not so cold as 
 the souls of cocottes ; chicken-hazard might be peril- 
 ous, but not so perilous as the ways of cocodettes. 
 
 You must be spider or fly, as somebody says. 
 Now all my experience tells me that men are mostly 
 the big, good-natured, careless bluebottles, half 
 drunk with their honey of pleasure, and rushing 
 blindly into any web that dazzles them a little in the 
 sunshine; and women are the dainty, painted,
 
 HIS FIRST PAPER. 5 
 
 patient spiders that just sit and weave, and weave, 
 and weave, till — pong ! — Bluebottle is in head fore- 
 most, and is killed, and sucked dry, and eaten up 
 at leisure. 
 
 You men tliink women do not know mucli of 
 life. Pooli ! I, Puck, wlio liave dwelt for many of 
 my days on their boudoir cushions, and eaten of their 
 dainty little dinners, and been smuggled under 
 their robes even into opera, balls, and churches, 
 tell you that is an utter fallacy. They do not 
 choose you to know that they know it, very pro- 
 bably; but there is nothing that is hidden from 
 them, I promise you. 
 
 They were very good to me, on the whole 
 (except that they would generally overfeed me 
 one day, and forget to feed me at all the next), 
 and I do not want to speak against them ; but 
 if ever Metempsychosis whisk my little soul into 
 a man^s body, hang me if I will not steer clear of 
 my ladies ! — that^s all. 
 
 For viewing life, — all its cogs, and wheels, and 
 springs, — there is nothing so well as to be a lady's 
 pet dog. To see the pretty creatures quarrel with 
 their mirrors, and almost swear over their hair- 
 dressing, and get into a passion because the white
 
 6 PUCK. 
 
 powder insists on resting in little tell-tale patches^ 
 and sit pondering grimly for an liour over the 
 debateable question of more or less rouge ; and 
 then to trot down on the edge of their trailing 
 skirts, and go beside them as they sweep into the 
 drawing-room, radiant with smiles, and brilliant 
 for conquest, and hear them murmur prettiest 
 welcome to the rivals whom they could slaughter 
 were only their fan a dagger. Why ! there is no- 
 thing in the world beats that for a comedy ! 
 
 Ah ? — you scowl at this, and say, ' What a dis- 
 solute dog is this Puck ! — he has lived with Phryne, 
 and Lais, and all of them?' Not at all, my good 
 sir ; not a bit of it : I have had mistresses in all 
 classes of society; I have dwelt with peasants as 
 well as with peeresses ; and on my honour I have 
 belonged to young girls that rouged like any lorette, 
 and to matrons that intrigued like any courtesan, 
 and I have seen as genuine spurts of spiteful cha- 
 grin, or impulsive good nature, in the green-room 
 as in the school-room, and as matchless pieces of im- 
 pudent acting in the salon as on the stage. ' Souvent 
 femme varie ; ' — well ! I don't think it (though they 
 were always variable about my meals) ; I have 
 found female nature very much the same all the
 
 HIS FIRST PAPER. 7 
 
 world over. And a dog knows as a man cannot 
 know ; — wlien ^only a dog' is with, lier^ slie thMs she 
 is all alone, you see ! 
 
 You fear I am hlase and cynical ? Perhaps I 
 am. My curls fall oflf a good deal ; and I am forced 
 to have my food cut up in a mincing machine ; the 
 world naturally looks dark to us all when we come 
 to this. But I liave very often found living agree- 
 able enough, even tkough. I have lived sufficiently 
 long to realize what Brummel felt at Calais : and I 
 have met noble women witbout rouge, and witb trutb 
 on their tongues. I have ! And when I met them, 
 I admired tbem, I loved them, as your dogs (and 
 men) of tbe world always do, witb an astonisbed 
 reverential admiration that your country bumpkins, 
 your ungenerous youths, never feel. 
 
 AVe are ill appreciated, we cynics; on my bonour, 
 if cynicism be not tbe highest homage to Virtue 
 tbere is, I should like to know what Virtue wants ? 
 We sigh over her absence and we glorify ber perfec- 
 tions. But Virtue is always a trifle stuck-up, you 
 know, and she is very difficult to please. 
 
 She is always looking uneasily out of tbe ^tail of 
 ber eye' at ber opposition-leader Sin, and wondering 
 wby Sin dresses so well and drinks such very good
 
 8 PUCK. 
 
 wine. We ' cynics ^ tell her that under Sin's fine 
 clothes there is a breast cancer-eaten^ and at the 
 bottom of the wine there is a bitter dreg called 
 satiety ; but Virtue does not much heed that ; like 
 the woman she is, she only notes that Sin drives a 
 pair of ponies in the sunshine, while she herself is 
 often left to plod wearily through the everlasting 
 falling rain. So she dubs us ' cynics ' and leaves us 
 — who can wonder if we won't follow her through 
 the rain ? Sin smiles so merrily if she make us 
 pay toll at the end ; whereas Virtue — ah me ! 
 Virtue will find sach virtue in frowning ! 
 
 However, I fear I am getting a trifle too French- 
 Memoiresque, all epigram and no memoir. Living 
 so much in the cream of society I have got a good 
 deal of its froth. It is not wit, but it passes very 
 well for it — over a dinner-table. Put down in black 
 and white you may find it a trifle frivoloiJs. As for 
 printing wit, — even my wit, — you might just as well 
 talk of petrifying a vanille souffle. So I am afraid 
 even I may seem dull sometimes ; and I have as great 
 a horror of seeming stupid as of seeming edifying. 
 
 How I hate that last word ! It always brings 
 to my memory a gentle dean who preached most 
 divine platitudes, but invariably trod on my tail. I
 
 HIS FIKST PAPER. 9 
 
 recollect the reverend gentleman had a playful habit 
 too of pitching biscuits at me^ whicli^ when my 
 innocent mouth opened for them_, burnt it with a 
 horrid hidden dab of mustard. And he tricked an 
 old commissionaire too,, who once took me about^ 
 out of a shilling for a message. By the way^ com- 
 missionaires hate to do work for the cloth. ' Nobody 
 else cuts ^em down so close to a penny as them 
 parsons/ they will always tell you. "What we poor 
 dogs have lost by being shut out of church by the 
 beadles ! 
 
 But I am running out of my autobiographical 
 track again^ just as Montespan and Bussy Rabutin, 
 and all of them^ always do. I will try and hark 
 back again to my earliest reminiscences. They are 
 humble ones I must admit. The world always feels 
 a savage pleasure in tracing its Shakespeares into a 
 butcher^s shop, and its Yoltaires into an attorney's 
 office^ and its great men generally into paternal pig- 
 sties; it is a set-off to it for their disagreeable 
 superiority. So it will be at once familiar and 
 soothing to it to learn that I — the spoiled pet and 
 idol of its oligarchy — first consciously opened my 
 eyes in a cottage. You see I am as thoroughly 
 honest as Rousseau in his Confessions.
 
 10 PUCK. 
 
 Poor Jean Jacques ! he only got called a scoun- 
 drel for his pains. I wonder where the man is who, 
 telling the naked truth about himself, would not get 
 called so ? 
 
 Polite lies, polite lies ! They are the decorous 
 garment, and the fitting food, of the world. To be 
 in the fashion, I shall have to treat you to them be- 
 fore I have done. But at the present moment I feel 
 truthful. I am aware of the vulgarity of the admis- 
 sion ; but I make it, — I feel truthful. 
 
 So here is the account of my earliest home.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HIS FIRST MEMORY. 
 
 HE first tiling I distinctly remember, is 
 lying on some straw, in a wooden bed, and 
 hearing the sound of voices above. 
 * Do'ee tliink H ^11 live ? ' said one, tlie full gay 
 voice of a girl. 
 
 ^ It ^ull dew,* said tlie slow soft tones of a man. 
 ' Git a bit o' summat softer, lass ; tlie straw, it do 
 nasben of bim.' 
 
 The straw was truly nasbing of me, — Nortb- 
 Englisb for pricking and burting me ; and I took 
 a liking to tbe man for bis tbougbtfulness, accord- 
 ingly. Tbe summat softer came, in tbe sbape of an 
 old wool kercbief ; and be laid me gently on it, put
 
 12 PUCK. 
 
 me in the warmtli of tlie sun, and fed me with some 
 new milk. It was the man who did all this : the 
 girl stood looking on, amused. 
 
 ' How came ^ee to be gi^en him, Ben ? ' she 
 asked, with her hand on her side. 
 
 ' It seems as mother ^s dead,^ he responded ; my 
 mother he meant, I found afterwards. ^ And pups 
 was such a trouble like to kip i^ the quick, that 
 up a the Hall they^d no away wi^ ^em, and Jack he 
 was a goin' to put this little ^un i^ the water. It's the 
 last o' the litter. '' Gi' he to me, Jack,' says I ; 
 and he gi'ed him. '^ He's o' rare walue,'' says 
 Jack, " but he wunna live." " I dunno 'bout walue," 
 says I. '' He's no bigger than a kit ; but he 'ull ha' 
 a squeak for hfe anyhow wi' me." And I tuk him. 
 Poor beastie ! he's o' walue surely i' God's sight.' 
 
 The girl's eyes sparkled. 
 
 'M'appen we might sell him after a bit ? ' she 
 cried eagerly. 
 
 I shivered where I lay : already I was regarded as 
 a goods and chattel, purchasable, marketable, and 
 without a vote in the sale ! Mark you : it was a 
 woman first proposed my barter. It may have 
 coloured all my subsequent views of the sex ; I do 
 not deny it.
 
 HIS FIRST MEMORY. 13 
 
 ^ Nay/ said the man in his slow gentle voice. ' A 
 drop o^ milk ^s all he ^ull cost awhiles^ — we shanna 
 be hai'med i^ that, — and he^U grow to us, and we'll 
 grow to him belikes. Dogs are main and faithful. 
 Look at auld Trust. It 'ull be time eno' to talk o* 
 turnin' this'n out o' door when he have misbehave 
 hisself. I likes the looks on him.-' 
 
 '^ But Jack told ^ee he was worth summat?' 
 urged the girl impatiently. ' It was the old madam 
 brought them wee white dogs to the hall first o' all, 
 and they alius said as how those little uns 'ud fetch 
 their own weight i' gold.^ 
 
 The man shook his head a little sadly. 
 
 ' Ah, ye alius thinks too much o' gold, my lass,' 
 he said, with a soft reproach. 
 
 She laughed a little, fiercely. 
 
 ^ We ha' got so much, to be sure ! ' 
 
 ' We ha' got eno',' said he, with a patience very 
 gentle, and a little dogged. ' We ha' got bit and 
 drop, and hearth fire, and roof tree. We ha' got eno'.' 
 
 She gave a peevish, passionate twist to her 
 dress ; it was woollen, home-spun, and without 
 grace or beauty. 
 
 He saw the gesture, and rose from his knees 
 beside my bed.
 
 14 PUCK. 
 
 ' There was a dead woman found o' Moorside 
 yester-niglit/ lie said quietly. ^ And tlie bones were 
 thro' the skin ; she's been clammed along o' want 
 o' mill-work. You ha'n't got to ga ta mill,, lassie/ 
 
 The rebuke was a very gentle one ; but it dis- 
 pleased her. She stood silent, in a yellow breadth 
 of sunlight streaming in through the leaded lattice 
 of the long, lancet-shaped, creeper-shaded window. 
 
 She was very lovely, this girl, — strong, and 
 lithe, and tall, with a cloud of hair that would have 
 'glistened like bronze with a little care, and great 
 brown, sleepy eyes that yet could flash and glitter 
 curiously ; and a handsome, pouting, ruddy mouth. 
 
 She wore a russet- coloured skirt that reached 
 scarce below her knees, and a yellow kerchief over 
 her white full breast, and in her ears she had two 
 tawdry brass rings and drops, and a string of red 
 glass beads round her throat. She was quite 
 young, exuberant though her growth had been; 
 and the man, whilst he reproached her for her 
 discontent, looked at her as if she were the thing 
 he loved best under the sun. He himself was very 
 unlike her; he had a homely, gentle, thoughtful coun- 
 tenance, and rough-hewn features, and gray, patient 
 eyes ; on the whole there was a great resemblance
 
 HIS FIRST MEMORY. 15 
 
 between him and a shaggy sheep-dog that stood 
 on the threshold, a sheep-dog who became my 
 first friend, and who was the creature he had 
 referred to by the name of Trust. 
 
 ' Take care o' him, Trust,^ said the man, as he 
 left me, and went through the door, with his hoe 
 and his spade, out to his garden work in the still 
 evening time ; and Trust came slowly to my side, 
 and touched me good-humouredly with his great 
 red tongue, and stretched himself down beside my 
 box. Trust had a shrewd, kindly, black and white 
 face ; and I was glad to be in his charge instead of 
 that of the girl who had spoken of selling me. 
 
 She, indeed, never looked at me any more, but 
 betook herself to the window, where, by the sunset 
 light, she began twisting an old hat about, and 
 bedizening it with some shabby rose ribbons that 
 seemed to please her but little, to judge by the 
 dissatisfied, passionate way in which she pulled 
 them one from another, and stuck them here, and 
 twisted them there, and finally flung them all aside 
 in a tumbled heap. 
 
 When the twilight came, the soft, sudden, gray 
 twilight of a mild November's day, she still sat by 
 the lattice with her elbows on the little deal table,
 
 16 PUCK. 
 
 and lier hands twisted among lier hair, staring 
 vacantly out at the shadowy wood beyond, and 
 doing nothing at all. 
 
 The man came in again, bringing in with him 
 from his garden a sweet fresh scent of virgin 
 mould, and of damp moss, and of leaves and 
 grasses fragrant from late autumn-buds that blos- 
 somed amongst them. 
 
 The girl never stii'red. 
 
 ' Eh, Avice,^ he called cheerily to her. ' Ha' 
 ye no' a bit of supper for un, my lass ? I'm rare 
 and hungered; them clods is hard to turn, the 
 land's so drenched-like wi' the wet.' 
 
 He gave himself a shake just as sheep-dogs do, 
 and seemed to shake off him, as it were, fresh odours 
 of flower-roots and dewy earth. Avice rose without 
 alacrity, and took down a black pot from where it 
 swung by a hook and chain in the wide brick chim- 
 ney, and emptied its contents into a pan ; then set 
 the pan, with some flet milk and oat cake, on the 
 bench that served them as a table. 
 
 ' They 've took the smoke,' he murmured, as he 
 ate the burnt and blackened potatoes ; but he said 
 it patiently, and made his meal without further 
 lament; apparently used to the state of his kitchen.
 
 HIS FIRST MEMORY. 17 
 
 Avice ate her own supper without tendering him 
 any excuse for the mischance that had come to the 
 potatoes whilst she had been sorting her rose rib- 
 bons ; and indeed she had a little sweet cake for her 
 own eating, of which she did not offer him, nor 
 even myself, an atom. 
 
 'AH praises be to God as gi'es us our daily 
 bread/ said the man with sincere and grateful re- 
 verence, as he bent his fair curly head over the 
 remnants of the smoked potatoes. 
 
 ^ Daily bread/ muttered the handsome girl. ' It^s 
 main and fine what He do gie us, niver a bit o^ 
 wheat-loaf mayhap for weeks and weeks togither ! ' 
 But she muttered it under her breath, and she 
 did not dare let him hear it. I heard it; but then 
 dogs hear and see a great many things to which 
 men, in their arrogance and their stupidity, are deaf 
 and blind. 'W^here ever yet was the man who could 
 tell a thief by pure instinct ? — we smell dishonesty on 
 the air, but you only ask it to dinner, play cards 
 with it, appoint it executor in your will, trust in it as 
 your attorney, your priest, and your brother, and set 
 it in high places exultingly. 
 
 Even your clever men are such fools : — your 
 best worldly knowledge is only on the tip of your 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 PUCK. 
 
 tongue as parrots carry their jargon_, and your 
 Rocliefoucaulds writing their aphorisms make asses 
 of themselves over their Longuevilles. 
 
 But I am straying afield again. 
 
 I remind myself of what old Trust, when I came 
 to know him well, told me ; ' Sheep and men are very 
 much alike/ said Trust, who thought both very poor 
 creatures. 'Very much alike indeed. They go in 
 flocks; and can't give a reason why. They leave 
 their fleece on any bramble that is strong enough 
 to insist on fleecing them. They bleat loud at im- 
 agined evils_, while they tumble straight into real 
 dangers. And for going off" the line, there's nothing 
 like them. There may be pits, thorns, quagmires, 
 spring-guns, what not, the other side of the hedge, 
 but go ofi" the straight track they will ; — and no dog 
 can stop them. It's just the sheer love of stray- 
 ing. You may bark at them right and left ; go they 
 will, though they break their legs down a limekiln. 
 Oh, men and sheep are wonderfully similar; take 
 them all in all.' 
 
 This was a favourite saying of Trust's, and I 
 think he knew ; for he had been sheep-dog to se- 
 veral farms, and had seen a deal of mankind in the 
 little towns on the market-days, where the drovers
 
 HIS FIRST MEMORY. 19 
 
 taggled over their flocks,, and fouglit over tlieir 
 ale. Trust was now far on in years ; and his present 
 master kept kim only out of good-nature ; but he 
 was a valuable dog stilly so far as shrewdness and 
 faithfulness went. 
 
 "When the man and the girl had gone up the 
 little creaking dark stairway that evening, seeking 
 their beds like the fowls with nightfall. Trust told 
 me a little about them. 
 
 He had the garrulousness of old age. From a 
 sense of chivalry and loyalty he was cautious about 
 what he said about Avice ; but I saw that he did not 
 think very well of her. 
 
 ' She's a feckless thing/ he averred. ^Always 
 running her head on ribbons, and rings, and gay 
 I'ags, and such like, all out of her station. She's 
 a bit selfish too ; all young things are ; you are, I 
 don't doubt ? Only you can't get out of that bed 
 yet, to fight for yourself as it were. She is rare and 
 handsome ; she thinks too much of it ; she'll sit for 
 hours staring at her face in that little bit of broken 
 mirror ; and she is full of discontent : — but it will 
 pass by-and-by, perhaps, all that. She is so young 
 and so spoiled : she was the youngest of ten, and 
 Ben the oldest. All the others are dead, and the
 
 20 PUCK. 
 
 father and motlier as well, and tliese two are left 
 all alone. Ben don't tliink there^s her equal on all 
 the earth ; every little thing as he can scrape together 
 he saves for her. Why, I know — she doesn^t_, — 
 that he^s saved a matter of five silver pieces this year, 
 and put it in a hole under the old apple-tree ; and 
 he is trying hard to save a whole pound by Barnaby 
 Bright (midsummer- day, that's her birthday), that 
 he may buy her a gown she set her heart on, when 
 she saw it in the shop-window in Ashbourne this 
 Candlemas s. A great pink-coloured thing, very 
 ugly I thought, but she cried for it like a child, and 
 it vexed him sorely because he could nohow get it for 
 her ; he had only a few coppers by him. It is a very 
 difficult thing to lay money by in these times, you 
 see; quarry work brings ill pay; and the garden 
 don't do well because it is rocky and damp ; and the 
 fowls haven't laid all the winter, and it's trouble 
 enough to put by ten shillings a quarter for rent.' 
 
 And Trust shook his head like a dog on whom 
 the economies of the world weighed heavily. 
 
 ^ Does she earn nothing ? ' I asked — I was acute 
 for my age, even thus early. 
 
 ^ Lord bless you, no,' said Trust. *" Flinging a bit 
 to the poultry, or mixing a little meal and water for
 
 HIS FIRST MEMORY. 21 
 
 cakes is all that lass ever does_, from morn till night. 
 There is a deal for a woman to do_, let alone earning 
 money ; a woman that trims her place tidily and 
 looks after the live stock, and is handy at needle 
 and thread, can save a power of money. She don^t 
 need to go and earn it. But Avice, she just lets him 
 labonr for her in season and out of season, and does 
 nothing herself, and then turns round and mutters 
 at him because she can^t eat off silver, and be 
 shod in satin, and carry a train after her like the 
 peacocks ! There are lots of women like her ; lots, 
 my dear. You will be sure to come across them/ 
 
 Xow Trust had, of a surety, never in liis life 
 known any other women than drovers^ daughters 
 and shepherds' wives; but when I grew older, and 
 went into the world, I could nor help thinking that 
 those drovers' daughters and shepherds' wives must 
 have represented the female sex very completely 
 and very faithfully. 
 
 * Ben is good, is he not ? ' I asked a little 
 piteously ; for there is nothing that seems so dreary 
 to the young as doubting or condemning those to 
 whom they belong. 
 
 ' Good as gold,' said Trust emphatically. ' And 
 far better indeed ; for gold has done a swarm of
 
 22 PUCK. 
 
 harm in this world ; and Ben has done nothing but 
 good all the days of his life. He is the kind of man 
 that does good — to everybody except himself. I 
 have known him ever since he was a lad of four- 
 teen. His father was dead and his mother ailing ; 
 and Ben was about the farm where I lived^ and he had 
 the old woman and the babies all to keep as best he 
 could. My old master helped him a bit_, but it was 
 Ben alone that kept the mother and the children off 
 the parish. He was always a quiet^ cheery, still 
 sort of lad, but with a wonderful force of work in 
 him, and as strong as a young bull. He has always 
 had queer tender kind of thoughts too, about beasts 
 and birds and flowers and weeds, and all manner of 
 things that he sees. There is much more in Ben 
 than anybody thinks. When he^s been sitting on 
 the hill- side with me, all alone with the sheep, IVe 
 seen an odd, bright, wondering look come in his 
 eyes, just as if the bracken and the thyme had got 
 talking to him, and he was hearing beautiful stories 
 from them. He can^t write a word, you know, 
 and can only read just a little, spelling it out as 
 sheep hobble over a rutty road ; but I can^t help 
 thinking that Ben, if he only could express what he 
 feels, and say all that the water and trees and things
 
 HIS FIRST MEMORY. 23 
 
 tell him, would be wliat I once heard some artist - 
 men wlien they were at work painting on my moor- 
 side talk about for an hour and more — I think they 
 called it a poet. At least one of them read aloud, and 
 it was out of a book that they said was a poet^s^ 
 whilst the others were sketching ; and the sound of 
 what they did read was very like the look in Ben^s 
 eyes when he was alone on the hills_, gazing at the 
 clouds and the mists/ 
 
 I listened, much impressed^ but not at all un- 
 derstanding him. 
 
 ' You must have thought a great deal yourself ? ^ 
 I said timidly. He looked very thoughtful with his 
 old wrinkled and shaggy brows. 
 
 ^ Of course/ said Trust calmly. ' Dogs think a 
 great deal ; when people believe us asleejD, nine 
 times out of ten we are meditating. But men won^t 
 credit that, you see, because if ever they happen to 
 hit on a thought themselves, they rush and set it all 
 down in black and white, and cry out to all the 
 others what wonders they are. You must think, 
 among the hills and the dales ; they make you, 
 whether you like it or not. Even the sheep think, 
 I do believe, though they look so stupid. Every- 
 thing in creation thinks, that^s my idea. Look at a
 
 24 PUCK. 
 
 little beetle^ how clever it is^ how cunning in defence^ 
 how patient in labour^ how full of disquiet ; — but you 
 cannot understand^ you are only a nursling. Go to 
 sleep until daylight. Myself I never do more than 
 doze ; that comes of habit when I used to have my 
 sheepfolds to guard. Here there is nothing to take 
 care of, for there is nothing to steal, unless it be 
 those brass ear-rings of Avice's ! ' 
 
 With which smothered satire he stretched him- 
 self to enjoy that semi-slumber which the French 
 call ' entre chat et loup ; ' and I curled myself in 
 my box to pass my first night under the roof of 
 Reuben Dare.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 UKDEE THE EOSE-THOEN. 
 
 T was scarce daybreak wlien Trust Avent up 
 tlie steep ladder-like stairs^ and scratched 
 loudly at tlie door on tke top of tliem. 
 ^ I always wake tliem so/ he explained when 
 he descended ; and I saw afterwards that he never 
 was too soon or too late a single minute^ though 
 there was no village clock within hearings no clock 
 at all in the house_, and the sun at that time was 
 as irregular and as little to be depended on as the 
 sun usually is in the British Isles. ' Only a dog ! ' — 
 ah ! ' only a dog/ with no watch in his pocket, 
 will keep time with a punctuality that men seldom 
 attain, despite all their best chronometric aids !
 
 26 PUCK. 
 
 Soon^ a slow, heavy step sounded on tlie stair- 
 way, and Eeuben himself came down into the gloom; 
 patted Trust, spoke to me, and undid the single 
 shutter. There was not very much light even 
 then, it was a chilly morning; he went out to 
 a little shed, brought in an armful of peat and 
 brushwood^ made his own fire with a great deal of 
 labour, and got out his own breakfast. It was 
 only a draught of cider and a hunch of rye bread : 
 the diet on which most of your hard rural labour, 
 your sowing and reaping, your ploughing and hoe- 
 ing, your hedging and ditching, is done after all. 
 
 To Trust he gave more of the bread than he 
 ate himself; and for me he heated a bowl of flet- 
 milk ; talking to us both in his kindly and dreamy 
 fashion. 
 
 Later, he took down from the cupboard a single 
 little dainty white china cup, and a small black 
 china teapot ; and a very tiny white w^heat loaf, 
 and pat of SAveet amber-hued butter. He put 
 some tea in the pot, — weighing it as heedfully as 
 some men weigh gold, for it was terribly costly to 
 tinij — and left them all ready together, on the 
 table, under the lattice. 
 
 Then he waited a moment or two, listening for a
 
 UNDER THE ROSE-THORX. 27 
 
 step on tte stair : there was none, it was all silent 
 above. A shade of disappointment stole over Ms 
 face, but no anger; lie took his huge pickaxe and 
 other tools from their corner, put them over his 
 shoulder, and went out through the door, — lingering 
 a moment with a backward look up the stair. 
 
 Then he drew the door after him, and I heard 
 his steps growing fainter and fainter as they trod 
 down the moss : Trust had gone with him. 
 
 I was alone a long time; a very long time; so 
 long that I whimpered and cried, unheard, till I was 
 tired, and held my peace for want of breath. 
 When the sun was quite high, the girl Avice at 
 length appeared. 
 
 ' Be quiet, will 'ee, little wretch ! ' she cried to 
 me ; and went straightway to the table. Her eyes 
 glistened a little as she saw the butter and tea, 
 and she sat down and ate; never casting the 
 smallest morsel to me. 
 
 Beautiful she was by the morning light; with 
 her fair, rich colour, and her gleaming eyes, and 
 her crown of half bright, half dusky hair, like the 
 bronze in which there is much mixture of gold. But 
 I thought I never saw anything of so much greed, 
 or so intensely selfish. There was a vivid animal
 
 28 PUCK. 
 
 pleasure in tlie sight of what were dainties to lier 
 senses ; but there was no sort of gratitude or 
 feehng at the generous and thoughtful affection 
 which had been thus tender of her in her absence. 
 She ate all there was on the table, seeming to like to 
 draw the pleasure out to its longest span; when 
 ended_, she washed the things and set them away, and 
 did a little house- work, all in a very idle, slovenly 
 manner — like one whose heart was not at all in her 
 occupation. 
 
 Then she went and fed the poultry, calling them 
 round the door-sill. I could see them fight, and 
 peck, and beat each other over the disputed grain ; 
 and when one helpless little speckled hen, who 
 had scarcely a feather left in her body owing to 
 her merciless sisters' unremitting onslaughts, was 
 finally driven away from the mash-pan without 
 having tasted so much as a barleycorn, I heard 
 Avice laugh, — the first good-humoured and amused 
 laugh that I had heard from her hps. 
 
 To feed the martyred hen she made no attempt : 
 she left it to mope upon a rail. 
 
 When she came within, she drew her spinning- 
 wheel to her, and began that ancient, graceful, 
 classic work, old as the days of Troy. But she
 
 UNDER THE ROSE- THORN. 29 
 
 only tangled her yarn^ and spoiled lier web, and 
 at last she pushed the distaff impatiently from her^ 
 and took up her piece of mirror^ and fell to twining 
 her string of red beads in and out of iier hair^ and 
 knotting them round her arms^ and wreathing 
 them on her breast above her low-cut leathern 
 boddice. 
 
 This little cottage of Eeuben Dare^s was quite 
 alone^ in the heart of the Peak country _, on the 
 edge of a great wood, chiefly of pines, at the farther 
 extremity of which was the stone quarry where 
 he worked, fair weather and foul; whilst in his 
 leisure time he reared a few hardy flowers and 
 simple fruits in his damp, mossy garden to which 
 nothing but the indigenous ferns, and burdocks, 
 and coltsfoot, took really kindly. 
 
 At the back of the cottage rose a hill all grown 
 over with ash, and larch, and firs; whilst, beyond 
 that, there stretched the great dreary steppes of 
 moorland, with a Roman tumulus, or a Druidic rock- 
 ing-stone, alone breaking here and there the mono- 
 tony of their brown, level, sheep-cropped wastes. 
 Ashbourne was seven miles away, and the nearest 
 hamlet was three ; a scattered farm or two stood 
 on the moors, and the hall on the other side of
 
 30 PUCK. 
 
 the wood,, where my forefatliers liad been reared^ 
 was utterly deserted by its owners^ and left to the 
 care of three or four superannuated servants^ under 
 whose neglect my delicate^ high-born mother had 
 perished. 
 
 Reuben's cottage was pretty; a square stone 
 place with a pyramidal red roof, the whole en- 
 veloped in ivy and lichens, and the shade of spread- 
 ing yew boughs ; the same yews from which, 
 in Eobin Hood's days, the famous bov/men of 
 England had been served with their weapons. Al- 
 though it was midwinter, the cottage had a rosy 
 glory that depended on no season ; for it was 
 covered, from the lowest of its stones to the top of 
 its peaked roof, with a gigantic Rose-thorn. 
 
 ' Sure the noblest shrub as ever God have made,' 
 would Ben say, looking at its massive, cactus-like 
 branches, with their red, waxen, tender-coloured 
 berries. The cottage was very old, and the rose- 
 thorn was the growth of centuries. Men's hands 
 had never touched it. It had stretched where it 
 would, ungoverned, unhampered, unarrested. It 
 had a beautiful, dusky glow about it always, from 
 its peculiar thickness and its blended hues ; and in 
 the chilly weather the little robin red-breasts would
 
 UNDER THE ROSE-THORN. 31 
 
 come and flutter into it_, and screen themselves in 
 its shelter from tlie cold^ and make it rosier yet 
 with the brightness of their little ruddy throats. 
 
 ' Tha Christ-birds do alius seem safest like i^ 
 tha Christ-bush/ Ben would say, softly, breaking 
 off the larger half of his portion of oaten cake, to 
 crumble for the robins with the dawn. I never 
 knew what he meant ; though I saw he had some 
 soft, grave_, old-world story in his thoughts, that 
 made the rose-thorn and the red-breasts both sacred 
 to him. 
 
 Avice would only laugh ; and, if he went away to 
 work before the little birds had eaten all his gifts, 
 would drive her chickens under the great thorn-tree 
 to steal their oat crumbs from those shy, pretty, 
 russet songsters. 
 
 Midwinter, too, had other beauties in that se- 
 cluded place. At least I heard old Trust say so 
 many times; and it was true. 
 
 There were such grand tempestuous sunsets; 
 with one half the sky like a sheet of steel above 
 the brown round hills, and the other half all dusky 
 red and gold, behind the driving purple clouds. 
 There were such beautiful wondrous snow-storms, 
 that falling down past the great ivy-covered trunks
 
 oZ PUCK. 
 
 and the dense net-work of auburn-hued branches, 
 and drifting by the dim, soft, solemn shapes of the 
 hill- sides and the bleak shadows of the fir- woods, 
 mingled so strange a phantasy of dying colour and 
 made the earth seem dim, and sweet, and distant, 
 even as in a dream. 
 
 Then one could see so easily the coming and 
 the going, the joys and the terrors, the loves and 
 the strifes of the rooks, high above in the tallest 
 trees that stood on the highest crest of the 
 rocks. One could see the foxes^ earths under the 
 leafless brushwood, and the rabbits^ holes under 
 the withered bracken. The little ouzels, when 
 they found their shallow ponds and freshets frozen, 
 grew very tame and fluttered close to the garden 
 wall, in hope of catching a stray crumb from the 
 hens or a stray bone from the cat. 
 
 The cat herself, an unamiable creature when the 
 weather was warm, grew sociable and good-natured 
 when the snow drove her in- doors ; and she shared 
 with Trust and myself a place on the hearth-stone, 
 before the cheery brightly-burning fire of *" cobbles ' 
 that flamed up under the round swinging kettle, into 
 the wide black shaft of the old-fashioned chimney. 
 For if she spit or scratched, Trust drove her away
 
 UNDER THE ROSE-THORN. 33 
 
 from tlie fire ; and slie soon learned — wliat indeed is 
 the rule for us all, from cats to court-beauties, from 
 dogs to diplomatists — that the way to get the warmth 
 of the world (and to give a sly safe pat to your 
 neighbour) is to sheath all your claws under velvet 
 and to keep in an excellent temper. 
 
 All living things seemed to draw closer together 
 in the perils and privations of the winter, as you 
 men do in the frost of your frights or your sorrows. 
 In summer — as in prosperity — every one is for him- 
 self, and is heedless of others because he needs 
 nothing of them. 
 
 The cottage was very pretty at all seasons, as I 
 say, with its two long quaint windows, and its wide 
 door through which the sunshine seemed for ever 
 streaming, and a little brook singing close by, right 
 under the garden grasses. It was very pretty, 
 standing down as it did at the foot of the hill, with 
 the dense green of the wood all before it. But it was 
 very lonely, and no sound ever came to it save the 
 sound of the water freshets, and of the birds in the 
 branches, except when now and then the thunder of 
 some louder blast than common rolled faintly from 
 the distant quarry, followed by the rumbling echo 
 of the loosened falling stones.
 
 34 PUCK. 
 
 It was lonely^ certainly ; and dull^ to those for 
 wliom the brown silent moors liad no grandeur ; the 
 ceaseless song of the brook no music ; the old grey 
 hoary stones no story; the innumerable woodland 
 creatures, for ever astir under brake and brushwood, 
 no wonder and no interest. 
 
 And the girl Avice was one of these. The poetic 
 faculty, — as you call the insight and the sympathy 
 which feels a divinity in all created things and a joy 
 unutterable in the natural beauty of the earth_, — is 
 lacking in the generality of women, notwithstanding 
 their claims to the monopoly of emotion. If it be 
 not, how comes it that women have given you no 
 great poet since the days of Sappho ? 
 
 It is women's deficiency in intellect, you will ob- 
 serve : not a whit : — it is women's deficiency in 
 sympathy. 
 
 The greatness of a poet lies in the universality 
 of his sympathies. And women are not sympa- 
 thetic ; because they are intensely self-centred. 
 
 As Avice sat one day, when winter had grown 
 into earliest scoring, pulling her beads about, and 
 gazing at herself in her bit of glass as usual, there 
 came in sight in the distance, under the arching 
 boughs of the pines, a little old man with a pack on
 
 UNDER THE EOSE-THOEN. 35 
 
 his back. I found afterwards tliat lie was a pedlar 
 called Dick o^ tlia Wynnats (i. e. of tlie gates of tlie 
 wind)^ wlio journeyed about on foot witMn a radius 
 of twenty miles or so round Aslibourne_, and wlio 
 came tlirougli tkis wood to tlie Moor farms about 
 once in tliree months ; one of the very few new- 
 comers that ever disturbed the solitudes round 
 Eeuben^s cottage. 
 
 Avice^s eyes sparkled with eager delight as she 
 saw him approach ; and she darted through the open 
 door and down the glade to meet him with more 
 welcoming alacrity than I ever saw her display to 
 any living creature. 
 
 I knew nothing about lovers in those days^ 
 or I might have thought he had been one of hers^ 
 so gleefully did she greet him. But if I had 
 done so_, I should have been undeceived on his 
 entrance ; for an uglier little old fellow never 
 breathed ; and he was over seventy in age_, though 
 tough and hard as a bit of ash-stick. 
 
 '' What ha^ gotten tha morn^ Dick ? ^ asked 
 Avice eagerly ; longing for a sight of his pack. 
 
 ^ Eh ! ha^ gotten a power o^ things/ said Dick, 
 leisurely unstrapping it, and letting it down on 
 the brick floor. ^But m^appen ye ^ull gie me a
 
 86 PUCK. 
 
 drop of summat to wet my throstle wi^ first, 
 Avice ; canna_, my wencli ? ' 
 
 Avice, somewhat impatiently, brought him a 
 little jug full of cider. 
 
 ^Ben, he wunna ha' ought else to drink i' the 
 house than that pig's swill/ she said, with a sovereign 
 contempt for what she offered. 
 
 ' And hanna a mossel o' vittles wi' it ? ' asked 
 old Dick with insidious softness. 'I darena tak' 
 this stuff a' out eaten of a mossel ; it 'ud turn e' my 
 stomach, it would.' 
 
 I wished it might turn in his stomach, for I had 
 conceived a great dislike to him, and had a horrid 
 idea that he might take me away in his pack. 
 
 Avice however supplied him with the desired 
 ' mossel/ and he appeared to have disowned all idea 
 of danger in the cider, for he drained the jug to its 
 last drop. Meanwhile Avice, fallen on her knees, 
 was swiftly undoing the leathern straps of his port- 
 able warehouse and feasting her eyes on all its 
 wondrous treasures. 
 
 They consisted of glass beads, small mirrors, 
 rolls of ribbons, gaudy cotton handkerchiefs, many- 
 coloured woollen fabrics, penny illustrated peri- 
 odicals, and all things of the cheapest and of the
 
 UNDER THE ROSE-THORN. 37 
 
 finest that could allure tlie eyes of country maidens, 
 and the silver coins of their saving-boxes. But they 
 were a million-fold more attractive to Avice Dare 
 than the dainty robin^s-nest in the ivied wall, or the 
 delicate bells of the dew on the leaves, or the 
 marvellous sunset colours in the western skies, or 
 the exquisite heath on the broad brown fells, or any 
 one of the many beauteous things in her daily life 
 to which her sight was blind. 
 
 She lingered in rapture over every one of the 
 tawdry worthless pieces of apparelling-, and laid 
 each aside with a sigh of envious longing. 
 
 The pedlar let his goods work their own charm 
 whilst he enjoyed his ' mossel ; ' then he sang their 
 praises, and spread them out freshly before her. 
 
 ' Look ^ee, lass,' said he. ' Here be a many 
 things made right on to please ye. There bean't 
 such a lot as this'n anyw^here else our side o' tha 
 Peak. Bless ye ! afore Pve been half across moor- 
 side ITl ha' emptied my pack o' ^em all, down to the 
 littlest spool o^ cotton. But Fd rayther sell 'em to 
 you ; 'cause there bean't such a well-looking lass 
 as ye anywheres i tha country. Ye set tha clo'es 
 olf; that 'ee do. Now, what'll 'ee fit on tha 
 marn, Avice ? '
 
 38 PUCK. 
 
 Avice shook lier pretty curly head. 
 
 ^ I ha^n^t gotten no siller/ she said with sullen 
 sadness. ^ Tha ten pennies I got for tha eggs ye 
 had last time ye come -, I ha^n^t got no more ; not a 
 brass farden^ an^ ^twas iver so. Tha things is lovely; 
 but ye wunna let me hev ■'em on tick, as ^twere ? ' 
 
 To this hint old Dick gave a sturdy denial. 
 
 ' Canna_, my dearie ; canna, as ^twas iver so. I 
 gies allays ready money myself — allays, — and if I was 
 kep^ out o' it I should ha^ to go to workhus. Pd do 
 a deal for ye, — ye^re so pretty wi^ yer gowd hair, — 
 but I darena do that, let alone how wild Ben ■'ud be 
 wi' me : ye^s aware o^ that.' 
 
 ^ Ben's a gaby,' said Avice savagely; spreading 
 out before her longing eyes a shawl of bright scarlet 
 and orange, and then folding it around her lovingly. 
 ^ Lots o' folk go on tick ; and why na' we ? We'd 
 be sure to pay sometime ; — when the garden was 
 forrard, or the hins got well a laying. What's that 
 there blue ribbin ? that's beautiful.' 
 
 ^ An 'ud look beautiful in yer hair, my pretty,^ 
 said the subtle Dick, holding it up against the 
 light. ^ And then there's this red handkercher as 
 'ud go lovely over it ; there bean't a nicer sortment 
 than blue and red togither. That's a rare bargain
 
 UNDER THE EOSE-THORX. 39 
 
 toOj — that tliere lot o^ jewelry. I git it straight from 
 a born lady^ as liad come down i^ the worlds and 
 was obleeged to part wi^ it. Themes real jew^ls^ 
 they is ; and all dirt cheap. Ony five shillin^ for 
 the lot ; real dimonds ! fit for the Queen o^ England. 
 Vi hjj if ye hev them on at tha wakes i^ this sim- 
 mer-time there wnnna be a lass as \ill hold a candle 
 to ye_, and a' the lads ^ull be dazed-like wi' yer 
 glory. Pit ^em on^ my wench; pit ^em on^ even if ye 
 canna take ^em^ I long to sees ^em npo^ ye.^' 
 
 All this nttered in the soft sleepy '' tongue o^ the 
 Peak' that slurs over every harsh word_, and rolls 
 its phrases all one in another^ took its due effect up- 
 on Avice. Intensely ignorant^ and honestly believ- 
 ing in her simplicity that she saw real ' dimonds ' 
 before her_, she yielded to the temptation ; and 
 clasped the brazen bands, sparkling with their bits 
 of white glass, on her arms and about her throat ; 
 gazing at them and herself entranced. 
 
 Old Dick clapped his bony hands in admiring 
 ecstasy. 
 
 ^ Lord's sake ! ' he cried. *" Onylook at yersell ! 
 \Yhy ! lord-a-mercy, no queen could ekall ye ! ' 
 
 The old hypocrite was most likely half-sincere ; 
 Avice was a very pretty picture then. Her arms were
 
 40 PUCK. 
 
 too fair by nature to have ever become sun -browned, 
 and they were shaped to satisfy a sculptor; her 
 throat was long and slender, though it denoted phy- 
 sical strength ; and her neck, white as the driven 
 snow, was the full blue-veined bosom of a goddess. 
 Nor were these beauties much concealed by the low- 
 cut leathern boddice that enclosed them ; and as she 
 breathed, quickly and feverishly, with longing and 
 self-love, her eyes gleamed, her face flushed, and the 
 mock diamonds really lent to her a curious kind of 
 glittering transitory lustre. 
 
 ' Oh, if ony I had ^em ! ^ she cried, tossing her 
 arms above her head, and unconsciously giving 
 more beauty to her disclosed charms. ' Oh, if ony 
 I had ^em ! They^d look at nobody else at the 
 wakes ! ^ 
 
 The wakes are the rural feasts held over the 
 Peak country at every town and village on the anni- 
 versary of the building of its parish church. This 
 religious commemoration takes the form of feasting, 
 junketing, drinking, dancing, and eating very big, 
 thin, round sweet cakes ; and it was the only form of 
 public festivity that Avice had ever in her brief life 
 enjoyed. 
 
 To her the wakes seemed the pivot of the
 
 UNDER THE ROSE-THORX. 41 
 
 world ; and all the seasons rolled only to bring tlie 
 wakes round again to rejoice the souls of their wor- 
 shippers. 
 
 ' Ye must ha^ ^em^ my dearie/ murmured old Dick 
 beguilingly. ' Ye must^ somehow or ither. I 
 should na ha^ the heart to see ony body else a 
 sportin' of ^em now IVe once seed ^em on yer bonny 
 brist. Just ^ee think a bit, — ha' na ye got the littlest 
 hantle o^ siller ? ' 
 
 Avice glanced towards me ; and I trembled in 
 my box. 
 
 ^ There^s tha pup as Ben had gi^en he tin week 
 agone/ she said. ' They tell us as how ^tis a deal 
 o' walue. Would ^ee tak it, and sell it i^ the town?^ 
 
 ' Lawk a mussy no ! ^ cried Dick in horror. ^ I 
 canna abide dogs : niver could. There^s that Trust 
 o' yourn : allays a sniffin^ and mouthin^ at me_, if he 
 be by when I come. Think o^ some ither way, my 
 lass. Look ^ee ! — ye ha^ got dimonds as a princess 
 hersell ^ud be proud to weer. Ye^ll niver part wi^ 
 ^em, now ye ha' once pit ^em on, Avice ? ^ 
 
 Mephistophiles, of whom I have subsequently 
 heard much and often, was at his old work with 
 women in the person of the pedlar of the Peak. 
 Only here Mephistophiles thought the jewels enough
 
 42 PUCK. 
 
 without adding the temptation of passion^ and sub- 
 stituted Self-love for Love : — the first is the more 
 potent seducer of the two with the fair sex^ which 
 enrolls a hundred Avices to one Gretchen. 
 
 Dick o^ tha Wynnats knew well that^ having 
 once put the things on_, the girl would never bear to 
 let them go out of her sight again unpurchased. 
 
 Avice stood with them clasped about her neck 
 and armS;, ruffling her hair in her perplexity, and 
 with the great tears beginning to brim over in her 
 eyes because she saw no means whereby she could 
 make herself mistress of these splendid gems. 
 
 Suddenly she grew very pale ; the blood forsook 
 her cheeks and lips ; a sudden thought — ^hope and 
 fear both in one— seemed to leap into her eyes, 
 and burn the tears in them dry. 
 
 ^ Is it a matter o^ five shillin^ ? ^ she asked ; and 
 her voice was hoarse, and lower than usual, as she 
 spoke. 
 
 Five shillings were in Reuben^ s cottage, as five 
 thousand sovereigns are in the great world. 
 
 ^ Five shillin',^ averred the pedlar, * and I would 
 na sell ^em for that to ony else than ye, my dearie, — 
 real dimonds as they be, and wored by a great lady.' 
 
 ' Wait a bit,^ murmured Avice. ^ Now I think
 
 UNDER THE EOSE-THORN. 43 
 
 on it — m'appen I can do it. Just ^bide a bit^ -yivill 
 
 And still witli her face very pale^ and a stead- 
 fastj reckless, yet scared look upon it, slie went 
 out of tlie door, tlie sunlight catching the ' dimonds, ' 
 and playing on them, till the poor glass trumpery 
 flashed and glowed, as though it really were some 
 gem of Asia. 
 
 Where she went I did not see, she had closed 
 the door behind her. Old Dick tarried patiently, 
 putting the contents of his pack in order again, 
 and did not even look through the lattice. 
 
 Dick, I suppose, was a worldly-wise man; and 
 thought that so long as the money was forthcoming 
 for his merchandise, he had nothing to do with 
 whence it came. Pretty girls might not care that 
 he should know. 
 
 Presently Avice returned : her face was very 
 flushed now, and she spoke with eager, tremulous 
 excitement. 
 
 ' I ha' gotten it, Dick,' she cried. ' Here it be. 
 It's a swarm of siller, sure, to pay all at oust, — but 
 the jew'ls are worth it. Here ! — one, two, three, 
 four, flve. All good money. All good ! ' 
 
 The peculiar haste and excitement of her manner
 
 44 PUCK. 
 
 struck the slirewd old man, for he wrung and bit 
 every coin in succession with care, as though sus- 
 pecting bad money amongst them from the very 
 volubility of her asseverations. They were all good, 
 however ; and he put them by in a leather pouch, 
 chuckling contentedly as he did so. 
 
 ^ I knew ^ee got the money somewhere/ he 
 cried. ^ But ye wimmen allays want so much 
 pressin' and coaxin^ to make ^ee do what ye're 
 dyin' to do ! Sure, and ye have the bravest 
 dimonds i^ country-side, Avice. Nell at the Dell 
 Farm will be main and mad when I tells her. 
 She\s alius rare and jealous o^ ye, wench. M^appen 
 ye've got a coin or two more lay by, that ye could 
 gie us for this lot of blue ribbin V 
 
 * No ! I ha^nH got a penny ! ' said Avice, fiercely ; 
 covering her eyes with her hands to shut out the 
 sight of the coveted ribbon. Already her diamonds 
 scarcely contented her. 
 
 ''Well, well, don't ^ee fret. Ye got enow on 
 yer neck to make ^em all crazed like wi' jealousy,^ 
 said the benevolent Dick, in consolation. ^ And 
 look ^ee, I'll put in this lot of pictur papers, all for 
 good will, — they^ll wile ye a bit when ye^re dull. 
 They're all about lords and ladies ; uncommon
 
 UNDEE THE EOSE-THOEN. 45 
 
 pretty readin^ ; and a power o' murders in ^em, too. 
 Them quality seems alius a cuttin' each other-'s 
 throats^ if one may believe them there pennies/ 
 
 With which he deposited two or three of the 
 penny numbers of fiction on the little table^ and 
 regarded himself, it was evident,, as a person of 
 princely liberality. 
 
 ^ I hate readin^^ said Avice^ ungraciously^ look- 
 ing^ nevertheless^ at the illustrations. ' I dew spell 
 these here out sometimes^ ^cause I like to see how 
 folk live in great houses. How fine it must be to 
 hev gentry a killin^ theirselves for ye^ and a wearin^ 
 o' masks to trap ye, and a carryin' ye off to palaces 
 i^ the dead o^ the night. Do ^ee say as alFs true 
 what they tells ? ' 
 
 ' AlVs gospel truth i^ tha pennies/ said Dick, 
 promptly, forgetting his previous scepticism. ' It^s 
 all dukes what writes in them, and they must know 
 what they does theirselves.'' 
 
 ^And does they wear masks, and swords, and 
 drive in gowden chariots, and carry off live prin- 
 cesses?^ asked Avice, eagerly; the dullness of her 
 imagination stirred. 
 
 Dick scratched his head, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Well — I seed a duke in these parts onst, long
 
 46 PUCK. 
 
 ago/ lie said^ meditatively, '^and lie was a little, 
 old, rum-lookin^ chap, I thouglit, wi"* gray hair 
 and yaller gaiters. And lie rid a fat black cob, — 
 and lie said thank ^ee when I oped tha gate for ■'un. 
 And I could na see as he was anythink different 
 to Tim Eadly, the stockin^ -higgler, as was amazin^ 
 like him. But them pennies is gospel-true, lass : 
 niver ye go to doubt it. And now Pll bid ^ee 
 good day, my wench ; for I must get over Moor- 
 side afore the strike o^ twelve.^ 
 
 And throwing his pack over his shoulder, and 
 taking his staff, the old man left us, and went out 
 by the rear of the house, and began to climb the 
 steep wooded hill that rose between the cottage and 
 the moorlands that lay beyond. 
 
 Avice scarcely noticed his departure. She was 
 absorbed in thinking of the dukes, and in gazing 
 at her jewels, with her elbow resting on the table, 
 and her eyes fixed on the glass. Suddenly, how- 
 ever, she darted out and called to the pedlar, as 
 he slowly crept up the lower slope of the hill. I 
 could hear his voice reply from above, — 
 
 ' What is^t, lass ? Ha' ye found siller enow for 
 the blue ribbin ! ^ 
 
 ' No ! ^ she cried to him. ^ Ony — ony — I forgot
 
 UNDER THE EOSE-THORX. 47 
 
 to tell ^ee ; if ye see Ben any time donH 'ee say 
 notliin' to him o' the dimonds. Mind that ! ^ 
 
 '' 0^ course not/ he sung out in answer. ' "When- 
 iver does I say anythin^ ? ^ 
 
 ' Thank ^ee/ she called back. ' Ye knaw^ — he 
 dusna like my laying out o' money on rattletraps 
 and bits o' brass^ as he calls ^em.^ 
 
 ' Ben^s a fule/ retorted the old man^ from above^ 
 amongst the firs.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 UNDEE THE APPLE- TEEE. 
 
 HE came into the house again ; and ran to 
 her mirror at once : she was feverish and 
 little at ease_, it seemed,, but her ^ dimonds ^ 
 still afforded her rapturous delight. The gold was 
 so yellow, and the stones were so big ! 
 
 She seemed never to tire of clasping them on 
 and offj and changing their resting-place, and pic- 
 turing to herself, doubtless, the admiration she 
 would draw on her at the wakes, and the bitterness 
 of soul which she would cause to Nell o^ the Moor 
 Farm. Hour after hour she spent, gazing at these 
 things, and at herself in them, and thinking, idly 
 and purposelessly, yet with a curious mixture of
 
 UNDER THE APPLE-TREE. 49 
 
 anxiety and savagery, to judge by the shadows that 
 flitted one after another across her face ; the shadows 
 of desire and of dissatisfaction. 
 
 '^If I could ony be where them things be woreM 
 all day, and dukes be a swearin' o^ love till they 
 kills theirselves ! ^ she muttered, half aloud, over 
 her precious gems. 
 
 She had led the simplest and most innocent life 
 possible ; she had been no more touched by whispers 
 of evil than the little blue cuckoo's-eye flowering 
 without ; she had been brought up with the birds 
 and the beasts, the noble moors and the radiant 
 waters, and had had no more to acquaint her with 
 the guilt of the world than the young lambs at play 
 in the dales. But yet these longings were in her ; 
 these senses were inborn and importunate. 
 
 Vision she had not ; imagination she had not ; 
 ambition she knew nought of, and intelligence was 
 dead in her : but these she had, — vanity, and greed, 
 and sensuality. The true tempters of thousands of 
 women. 
 
 After a while she took her treasures up the 
 stairs, to hide them away, no doubt, in some box 
 in her bed-chamber, and there she remained till 
 the day had almost waned, when she came down
 
 50 PUCK. 
 
 again and put on the potatoes to boil. She threw 
 them into the pot with their skins scarcely washed ; 
 and sat down to peruse one of the ^ pennies;^ 
 reading it slowly and painfully, spelling each word 
 out, and tracing it with her forefinger. 
 
 She started a little as Trust entered with the 
 setting of the sun; and after him his master. Un- 
 gracious at all times to her brother, her manner 
 changed this evening ; she welcomed him with more 
 cordial warmth than usual, chattered with a flow of 
 words very rare with her, and busied herself in 
 getting his supper with much more willingness than 
 she had shown on any night previous. 
 
 Ben, himself, looked very pleased with the 
 alteration in her ; and responded to it with a 
 caressing tenderness that was infinitely gentle and 
 touching. 
 
 * rd a run o' luck to-day, my pretty,* he said, 
 sitting over his potatoes and oatmeal. ' There 
 was a lady as had lost her track i^ the big pine 
 wood, and I pit her right, and she gied me a shillin' 
 for H. And soon arter, whiles I was a workin', 
 there kem a man — a trampin', you know, as those 
 paintin' chaps and tha fellows as break up the 
 stones wi* a little hammer, allays do. They ses
 
 UNDER THE APPLE-TREE. 51 
 
 tliey ^s gennlemen ; but I niver believe as gennle- 
 men born ^ud go about wi' nasty oil pots, or bags 
 of bits o' gritstone. However, that^s neither here 
 nor there. This ^un_, he spoke uncommon kind ; 
 and I picked him out a atom of cawke, and a 
 mossel or two of Blue-John, as seemed to please 
 him, and he gi^ed me a shillin^ tew. So I was rare 
 i^ luck tha marn. And Trust, tew ; for he got a 
 lot of san'widges out o^ this here gennleman^s pack. 
 How^s ta pup ? He look rare an' brave. Eh, 
 my little 'un, ye'll pull through safe enow, won't 'ee? 
 'Tis a pretty crittur, sure.' 
 
 This was the first praise that I ever heard of 
 my beauty, which has all my life been remarkable : 
 it has been lauded by many lips, but by none more 
 honest and kindly than poor Ben's. 
 
 Avice received his news with unwonted sym- 
 pathy, and seemed to desire to atone for the general 
 badness of her careless cookery, by an assiduity that 
 should leave him nothing to desire in his present meal 
 and induce him to linger over it longer than usual. 
 In this, however, she failed ; he cared little what he 
 ate, and he had a design he was eager to execute. 
 
 The supper, and the thanksgiving for it, ended, 
 he rose and took his gardening tools.
 
 52 PUCK. 
 
 ^ Ye wunna go and garden tlia nighty Ben ? ^ 
 asked Avice, rapidly. ' Do ^ee look ! — tha sun^s 
 down/ 
 
 ^ There's a lot o' liglit_, lass ! ' lie laughed in 
 answer. ' I alius garden arter His down, or afore 
 ■'tis riz. Ye knows that well enow/ 
 
 ^ But it^s so cold, Ben, and so damp/ she urged, 
 with a curious feverishness. ' Ye'll get the rewmatiz, 
 sure as ye live, if ye garden this time o' night/ 
 
 He laughed aloud at this. 
 
 ' Why, Avice ! D'ee think Ts an old 'un of 
 sixty year ? D'ee iver know me ailin' of aught ? 
 Stay 'ee in if ye feel the damp ; but the weather's 
 no been bred yet as can daunt or damage o' me.* 
 
 And he went. 
 
 Trust whispered over my box : 
 
 ' He is going to bury that two shillings with 
 the rest, under the apple-tree. She does not dream 
 he has saved money there, you know.' 
 
 I said nothing. 
 
 ' And it's all for her,' added Trust. ' All for that 
 ugly red gown that she cried for last Candlemas.' 
 
 Avice stayed by the hearth, with her hands 
 clasped, and her head bent, and the ruddy light of 
 the cobble fire playing on her bowed head.
 
 UNDER THE APPLE-TREE. 53 
 
 A brief space later_, there came on the night 
 air a great crj_, — followed by a sudden silence. 
 Trust rushed headlong out; Avice remained un- 
 movable. 
 
 A little later her brother appeared on the 
 threshold; his face was very pale, and he looked 
 dazed and appalled. 
 
 ' Avice, there^s bin a thief here ! ^ he said, tremu- 
 lously, though his grave voice was very low. 
 
 ^ A thief ! ' she echoed, without lifting her head. 
 ' What ! Hev the fowls bin stole ? ' 
 
 ' No. They's in their coops,^ he answered, 
 with the tremor still in his voice. '' But there^s bin 
 somebody a robbin^ me, for all that ; a robbin^ you, 
 my little lass, a robbin^ you ! ' 
 
 'Me!^ 
 
 * Ah ! my dearee, ye didna know,^ said Ben 
 softly and sadly. ^ I was wrong, maybe, not to tell 
 ^ee ; ye^d ha^ been more heedful o^ tramps about. 
 But ye see, lassie, ye was so wishful for that gownd, 
 and I thoclit as how Pd surprise ye. And, d^ ye see, 
 I says to myself, says I, I'll pit every stiver I can 
 git in a hole under tha old apple-tree, and store it 
 up till Barnaby Bright, and thin tak her o^er to 
 Ashbourne, andgieher the thing she's a longin' for.
 
 54 PUCK. 
 
 That was wot I thoct^ ye see — and now it^s every 
 shillin^ gone ! The moss liev bin pulled up, and the 
 holers clean empty. As empty can be. If Pd ony 
 telled ye, my pretty ! — and now ye'llhave to wait for 
 yer gownd ! ^ 
 
 Avice stood, still unmoved ; waving to and fro 
 in the glow of the fire ; then at length she spoke, — 
 very huskily. 
 
 ' Lord, how good o^ ye, Ben ! Who can it be as 
 ha' took it ?— ' 
 
 He ruffled his fair hair in sorrowful perplexity. 
 
 ^ Some tramps a coorse, my dear. Didna' ye 
 hear any steps about ? ' 
 
 *■ Niver a one. But 'tis true I went up moorside 
 — just to look as whether the gorse 's in bloom, — it 
 might ha' bin done whiles I was there ? ' 
 
 *" I dessay, I dessay ! But who could tell as I'd 
 money there ? ' 
 
 ' They might ha' seed ye, o'er tha fence.' 
 
 ' Dick o' tha Wynnats han't been by, hev he ? 
 I'm allays mistrustful of th' old man.' 
 
 ^ I haint seed Dick, come Wednesday was a 
 month. It must ha' bin a tramp.' 
 
 'Tramps don't kim much o' these parts,' said Ben 
 with a sigh. ' It must sure hev bin one, though :
 
 UNDER THE APPLE-TREE. 55 
 
 they miglit look ower the fence as ye say. Pm ony 
 sorry for ye^ my lassie : it ^ud ha^ bin such a joy t^ ye 
 to ha' had that gownd ! ' 
 
 Avice went up to him^ and threw her white arms 
 round his neck, and kissed him. 
 
 *" Niver mind, Ben ! 1^11 think as how ye hev 
 gi^en it to me. That ^ull do jist as well/ 
 
 He returned her caresses fondly, stroking her 
 hair with a tender pitying touch. 
 
 ' Theer^s a brave wench ! ^Tis rare and good o' 
 ye to bear ^t so well, Avice. It dew cut a bit ; 
 ^cause, ye see, I was so set up like wi^ content, a 
 bringin^ them tew shillin^ home jist now ; and theyM 
 ha^ made siven, and ther^l ha^ bin but twice that 
 agin to git afore ta simmer-time for ye to ha' tha 
 gownd. And now 't 's all to begin o'er agin ; 
 and I canna surprise ye thin, 'cause I've telled ye 
 o' it now ' 
 
 His voice fell suddenly ; it was a blow to him to 
 have been robbed of this innocent kindly pleasure : 
 and five shillings are not made every day of a 
 quarry-man's life. 
 
 Avice kissed him yet again. 
 
 ^Xiver ye mind,' she murmured with a certain 
 emotion, trembling even in her hard changeless
 
 66 PUCK. 
 
 voice. ^ M^appen the lims will tak to layin' sune ; His 
 springtide ; and if they dew we^ll pit the money by 
 to make up this^n/ 
 
 ' That's a good lass/ he said tenderly. ^ But it 
 wunna be the same to me. The hins' money is 
 allays yourn my dear ; but wot I thot on was to gie 
 ye somethin' that ye suld niver dream was a' comin' ! 
 However — I'll try and make the pund up, wi'out 
 takin' from yer poultry-purse. Come out and look 
 at tha apple-tree ; ye'll see as how it must have been 
 thieved this day_, for theer's all the moss pulled-up 
 like, and the marks is as clear as spade could 
 mak 'em. No dew's fell since 'twas done. Well 
 — we'll leave them as did it wi' God : sure they 
 wunna be th' happier for 't.' 
 
 Ben lived between wood and moor, far from the 
 cities of men ; and he still held the golden belief 
 that stolen bread must be bitter in the unrighteous 
 mouth. 
 
 ^ Come and look, my dearie,' he urged again, and 
 Avice went.
 
 CHAPTER TV. 
 
 TRUST S TALE. 
 
 HAT niglit_, when all was still,, I told wliat I 
 had heard to Trust. 
 
 He orpowled so lonof and so loud that he 
 
 CD O 
 
 awoke Reuben^ who threw open the lattice^ and 
 called out aloud on the night- silence, that he had 
 a fowling-piece ready loaded for thieves. 
 
 *" There^s no thief save the one as he wears in 
 his heart/ muttered Trust. ' Ah ! it^s in times 
 like this that dogs wish they had human tongues ! ' 
 
 ^Why have we not ? ^ I asked him — I was a 
 young, wee thing, and I did not know. 
 
 ''Have you not heard ?■' said Trust. ^ To be 
 sure, you are still in the cradle. But it is a thing
 
 6S PUCK. 
 
 you ought to hear. So listen : I will tell you a 
 story. 
 
 * In the early youth of the world, in the time 
 when men were not weary with the endless roll of 
 the ages, as they are weary now, there reigned in the 
 east a king. All people dwelt then in the east ; the 
 west that is now so great, was only a vast dark 
 wilderness, where the lands were all locked in ice, 
 and there only lived the strange and nameless 
 things that we find to-day entombed in the stones 
 and the mines. The east had all the sunlight, and 
 all the glory, and all the races of men. Do I speak 
 too deep for your baby-age ? I tell this thing as 
 my fathers told it. 
 
 ^ Well — this king was victorious ; and young ; 
 and of beauty and stature exceeding. He had 
 great content in his life ; and his dominion was 
 the fairest of any that lay under the orient suns. 
 He had many ministers, and friends, and lovers ; 
 but the one of them all that he loved and trusted 
 the best was his dog, — the great Ilderim. In those 
 days, dogs were the comrades and the counsellors 
 of men ; men knew then how much wiser than they 
 were the dogs ; and sought to take profit of their 
 wisdom; and throughout the breadth of the land
 
 trust's tale. 59 
 
 all dogs were held, in higli honour. They were 
 guardians of gold, and took no bribes ; they were 
 warriors,, and asked no star or spoil; they were 
 public servants, and made no private purse; they 
 were counsellors of kings, and trafficked in no 
 nation^s liberties : — they were strangely unlike men 
 in all things. 
 
 'Now, Ilderim was the noblest of his race ; 
 black, lion- shaped, fleet as the deer, strong as the 
 bear, keen as the eagle, faithful as, — ah ! What 
 other thing is ever as faithful as a dog ? And 
 he was ever by the side of the king as trustiest 
 counsellor and truest friend. The king loved Ilderim 
 and Ilderim loved the king. Their hours were all 
 spent together ; together they chased the tiger and 
 elephant, together they warred with the savage 
 chiefs who ravaged the neighbouring countries, 
 together they roamed in the balmy rose gardens 
 and slept under the pleasant palm groves. 
 
 ' The services that Ilderim had done to the 
 monarch were as countless as the dates on the 
 trees; and when the heralds shouted forth the great 
 deeds of the great people of the nation, first of all 
 they proclaimed the acts and the prowess of Ilderim. 
 And seven times he had saved the life of the king :
 
 60 PUCK. 
 
 once from water, once from steel,, once from a 
 leopard, once from a poisoner, once from an earth- 
 quake, once from an armed foe at midnight. For 
 all these things the king felt that no gifts the dog 
 could ask would be too great to bestow ; but 
 Ilderim never asked aught. He wore a collar of 
 gold, indeed, because the ornament pleasured the 
 king ; but he made no account of the bauble, and 
 if ever he preferred a request for anything it was 
 never for himself, but only for some poor and 
 starving mongrel, whom he had met in the streets. 
 All his own race worshipped Ilderim ; and the 
 smallest and meanest dog amongst them had only 
 to tell his woes, and his wrongs, to the palace 
 favourite to have them aided and redressed at once. 
 ^ So Ilderim lived with the king a score years 
 and more ; and saved him from evil many a time. 
 Now at the end of that period the king took a new 
 wife to his harem ; and made her queen, and adored 
 her accordingly. She was young, and of exquisite 
 beauty, and she made a slave and a fool of her lord. 
 With her words she caressed Ilderim ; but he knew 
 well that she bore him no love ; and once when she 
 set food before him he smelt poison, and did not 
 eat thereof. But he knew that the king loved her,
 
 trust's tale. 61 
 
 and therefore he said nought of this wickedness ; 
 for Ilderim was wise, and knew well that a man 
 freshly in love is more blind than the bats at noon- 
 day. 
 
 '^In time it came to pass^ and this also full soon, 
 that palace and people all saw that the queen 
 was a wanton, and faithless. Her paramour was a 
 slave at her court. And all the nation knew their 
 king's dishonour; only he himself was still blind. 
 The people murmured, and mocked him, and all 
 the honour in which they held him ceased ; and his 
 very throne was in jeopardy because he was fooled 
 by a traitorous wife. And still his eyes did not 
 open ; still he swore by the pure faith of his queen. 
 
 ^ None dared to tell him of his own disgrace ; for 
 all said, whoever tells it will die. Then Ilderim 
 spake and said, ^' Tho' I die, yet will I tell him ; 
 for his shame will turn his people against him, and 
 they will arise and slay him, not choosing to have 
 a fool for their ruler.'' " He will kill even you/' 
 they urged to him. ''^Hold your peace, and let 
 the end come." Hderim made answer, '' Whoso 
 holds his peace when it is for his friend's welfare 
 that he speaks, is a coward. He shall no more be 
 the toy of a wanton."
 
 62 PUCK. 
 
 ^Then lie went straightway to tlie presence- 
 cliamber; and he spoke in the speech of men; 
 and he told his lord of that frail wife's dishonour, 
 and said, '' Arise ! cast her off and be strong as 
 thou ever hast been." But the king, mad with 
 rage, would not hearken ; he leapt down from his 
 ivory throne, and drew his dagger out from his 
 girdle, and thrust it into the heart of Ilderim. 
 ^' So serve I the foes of my angel ! " he cried; and 
 Ilderim fell at his feet. '' I forgive," he said 
 simply, — and died. 
 
 ^ Then when the king saw that indeed he had 
 slaughtered the noblest friend that he had upon 
 earth, he was as one distraught, and rent his robes, 
 and bewailed bitterly all the day through, and called 
 unceasingly on Ilderim^ s name. But Ilderim lay 
 dead in the audience -chamber ; and heard no more 
 the voice of his grief. 
 
 ^ And that night the king himself was slain by 
 his queen's paramour. 
 
 ^ So from that hour all Ilderim' s race declared 
 that never more would they utter the human 
 speech of men; since he had perished thus, through 
 man's blindness and woman's sin. The oath was 
 sworn by generation after generation, and graduallj
 
 trust's tale. 63 
 
 the knowledge of tliis tongue that never passed 
 their lips^ died out^ and has never been learned 
 again. "We still know the meaning of men when 
 they speak J but we never speak their phrases in 
 answer : since death by the hand of a fool and an 
 ingrate was the only recompense that fealty and 
 truth brought to the great Ilderim ; — or have 
 brought to his race to this day. For men are still 
 what they were in the days of that king; — and 
 dogs still are the same^ only now we are silent.'
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 AMBEOSE OF THE FORGE. 
 
 HE spring soon deepened into tliat lovely 
 flush of the early year which is beyond all 
 other seasons in sweetness and in hope. By 
 the time they allowed me to leave my bed and 
 patter about in the sunshine^ and wet my little 
 white feathered feet in the burn, it was quite mid- 
 spring; and infinitely beautiful in those north- 
 country woods. 
 
 A delicious living sunshine streamed all day 
 through the wide doorway. The rose-thorn on the 
 walls and roof was moved all day by the wings and 
 the songs of the nesting birds that made their 
 homes in it. Primroses bloomed in great tufts
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 60 
 
 under every mossgrown trunk^ and were followed 
 later on by ths wild blue liyacintlis and the lilies 
 of tlie valley. The tender green fronds of the ferns 
 uncurled to new life^ and the waters_, freshly snow- 
 fed, brimmed over in every rivulet^s channel, and 
 bubbled under every knot of dock leaves. 
 
 Now and then, when I have been nestled on a 
 satin robe at an opera supper, surfeited Tvath maca- 
 roons, almond wafers, and truffles, I have re- 
 membered that pleasant spring-time when I was so 
 well contented, playing with a fir-cone, rolling over 
 the kitten, leaving my coat on a wild briery bough, 
 and dappling my feet in the shallow freshets : — and 
 I have felt that I have never been so happy as in that 
 deep old pinewood in the Peak. 
 
 This was thoroughly irrational in me, of course. 
 The happiness of our very early years is quite uncon- 
 scious ; and derives its peace from that very uncon- 
 sciousness. If a child, or a puppy, knew he were 
 happy, he would be analytical ; and with the first 
 moment of self-analysis the first shadow of discom- 
 fort would fall. 
 
 When I had reached the years at which I ate my 
 truffles and macaroons, the pinewood would not 
 have contented me. 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 PUCK. 
 
 When you wonder wliy you have not tlie enjoy- 
 ment of childhood^ your wonder is very idle ; and 
 the answer is simple ; — you have not the sublime 
 supreme selfishness of childhood, which just enjoys, 
 and takes no sort of heed of any woes whatever 
 that go on around it. Childhood is an intense 
 egotist, but an egotist whom every one conspires 
 to gratify and caress, so that it need not take 
 heed for itself. If the world showed the same 
 complacent indulgence to the egotism of maturity, 
 the mature egotist would enjoy himself as much as 
 the new-born one. 
 
 I, being in the season of that serene infantine 
 indifference to any and every sorrow near me, 
 enjoyed myself in that little woodland cottage ; 
 happy, and taking no thought. 
 
 I grew extremely fond of Trust and of Reuben 
 Dare : Avice, and I, and the cat, never liked one an- 
 other. Ben always fed me before taking food himself; 
 kept me warm with moss and wool; lighted the 
 peat on purpose forme if I shivered; and was indeed 
 incessantly troubled for my wants, and good to 
 me. Avice only pulled my curls, or set the cat on 
 me, or threw things at me for teasing her. 
 
 On the whole that brilliant and acute social
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 67 
 
 pMlosoplierj Whyte Melville (wliom I am proud to 
 call my friend, for lie has a soul that appreciates 
 us) ; is very correct in his judgment when he 
 avers that men have much more genuine kind- 
 ness in them than women. There is a well-spring 
 of kindliness in the hearts of many men, to which 
 that of women is as a little shallow rivulet, noisy in- 
 deed, but of no depth or duration. 
 
 ' ! why did you beat him, Fred ! ^ cried a 
 Peeress I knew once, to her lord, referring to a 
 street-boy who had tried to steal his purse. ^ Poor 
 little thing ! so worn, so wretched ! And I dare 
 say no mother at home. You cannot think how 
 my heart bleeds for him ! ' 
 
 ' Gammon ! ' retorted his lordship. ^ I gave him 
 a thrashing because he deserved it.'' 
 
 The wife with tears in her pretty eyes got out of 
 her carriage at a great shop for French bonbons, and 
 over the sweetmeats forgot her street arab ; — then 
 and thenceforward. 
 
 My lord, — a crack shot at the pigeons, and a 
 gay man of the world, — drove down to a club where 
 he generally went for high gaming ; wrote a note 
 there, that set his people to trace the child home ; 
 paid twenty pounds a-year for him for seven years at a
 
 68 PUCK. 
 
 scliool, wliere they taught beggar boys trades ; and 
 was thanked a dozen seasons later for a kindness he 
 had utterly forgotten, by a steady and rising young 
 shipwright^ in whom he recognized with infinite 
 difficulty the little wretched thief he had succoured. 
 
 There is an illustration of men and women as I 
 have found them. 
 
 Women^s tears flow freely it is true ; but they 
 can so easily be diverted from their course by bon- 
 bons. 
 
 Men always say *" gammon ^ to sentiment ; but 
 while they say it^ they feel in their pockets, and 
 ponder what^s the best thing to do. 
 
 ' What sail we call ta pup, lassie ? ' Ben asked 
 one day, when I had grown to a tolerable size — 
 that is to say, about as big as a moderate rat, — and 
 when the sweet sunshine of young April was beam- 
 ino- through the woods, and the ground was lovely 
 with the ' rathe primrose,^ and the air radiant with 
 the yellow butterflies, that seemed as though they 
 were the primroses themselves which had taken wing 
 upon the balmy winds. 
 
 ' Cairt ? What's matter to cairt aught ? ' said 
 Avice sullenly. ^ A beast's a beast. Baptizin' of 
 ■'em is sich gammon '
 
 AMBKOSE OF THE FORGE. 69 
 
 ' Xay^ nay/ said Ben softly. ' ^Tis alius well to 
 know a crittur^ as ^ee do love, by some name of 
 liis^n as sounds liomelike and clieery on tlia ear. 
 I mind whin I was a lad, a keepin^ o^ Melcliisedec 
 Stone''s cows, tkere was three on ^em, and the dun 
 she was Bell, and the red ^un she was Cowslip, and 
 the black she was Meadow- Sweets. Well — thim 
 cows they knew their names like three childerj 
 and they^d come for ^em right across the lees ; and 
 one day whin I was na wi"" ^em, but had been give 
 holyday an' gone a bilberry huntin' up o' tha Tor 
 side, I clomb, an' clomb, an' clomb, till I was that 
 high I got dazed like, and lost my feetin' upo' tha 
 rocks, and came a' hustlin' down and snapped my 
 ankle, so I ne'er could move. Ye'll no mind o' tha 
 time ; ye was but a babe just bared. 
 
 ' It were very lonesome there, and it seemed to 
 me as it were hours that I had laid theer hitched 
 like among tha bracken, with a great white gleamin' 
 limestone a' above, and the water a purlin and a 
 moanin iver so far down below. I thought as how 
 night 'ud come, and nobody'd not niver know as 
 wheer I was ; and I couldna stir for the perishin' 
 anguish in my feet, and it were na good to holloa 
 out, for theer were naught i' sight save tha crows
 
 70 PUCK. 
 
 an^ daws a skirlin^ agen tlia Tor side. An^ sure my 
 heart it were fit to break, for I were but a lad_, and 
 mither and a^ lookit to me for bread, and I thought 
 as how Pd niver see home no more. 
 
 ^ Weel — after awhiles whin the sun were gettin' 
 very low, an^ tha mists was a' creepin^ up, I spied 
 a cow beneath, a grazin^ on a slip o' turf just atween 
 a rift i^ tha Tor. She were a goodish long way 
 below, but I knew her ; she were Cowslip. I dunno 
 why, but that sight o"* that crittur pit soul i^ me ; 
 and I shouted all I could — Cowslip, Cowslip, Cow- 
 slip ! It seemed as if tha poor beastie could ne^er 
 ha^ knowed me sae long, and leave me a^ alone theer 
 to dee. And she didna. 
 
 ^ Cowslip, when she beared her name, she left oflf 
 grazin' and listened ; I called agen and agen ; what 
 did she dew ? — she just kem a toilin up, an^ up, an^ 
 up ; — they is rare climbers our hill cattle, — she 
 slipt, and stumbled, and fell about sore ; but up an' 
 up she kem, and at last wi' a rare scramble and 
 hurtin o' herself badly wi' brambles she reached me, 
 and made sich a to-do o'er me, an' licked me with 
 her rough warm tongue, an' was as pleased an' 
 as pitiful as though I were her own bairn. Thin, — 
 like a Christian, — she set up a voice an' mourned;
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 71 
 
 mourned sae long and sae loud that they heered lier 
 down i^ the vale below. 
 
 ' To hear a cow mournin^ like that, they knew as 
 she were in trouble. Me they^d na ha^ lookit for 
 mebbe_, even an' they^d heered me; but Cowslip 
 were worth a deal. So they kem a searchin^ an^ 
 a seekin ^ ; an^ they could see her white and red body 
 though they could na see me ; and sae they lit on 
 me, and carried me down, an^ ^twere Cowslip as 
 saved my life. An^ iver after that I hev said His 
 alius well to name tha critturs anMove^em.'' 
 
 Avice said nothing ; she was plucking a dead 
 chicken for the market_, and tore the plumage off, 
 lazily yet savagely, with a curiously characteristic 
 turn of the hand. 
 
 ' What^l I call him ? ^ pursued Ben, watching 
 me where I played with the kitten. ^ For sure he's 
 just like them pucks an' pixies as they dew say still 
 live i' tha green wood, and as I were that longin' 
 ta see whin I were a boy, as I took ivery white 
 rabbit an' ivery flushed widgeon for 'em. I'll call 
 him arter 'em I think ; theer's no fear as they'll 
 be franzy,* think 'ee ? ' 
 
 ' It doan't matter an' they be,' muttered Avice, 
 
 * Angry, irritated.
 
 / '^ PUCK. 
 
 ^ Wlieer^s use i^ ^em ? They ne^er sliow na gowd, na 
 no treasure,, as they dew say as a^ fairies should; 
 IVe seed the rings where they dances^ myseF^ but 
 they^re a bad lot^ as lives for theerselves an' dunno 
 dew the least leetle o' good.' 
 
 Ben smiled a little dreamily. 
 
 ^ I dun' know why theer sud na be fairies^ for 
 sure theer's a many o' God's works as wonderful — 
 ony look at a little green beetle ! Weel — an' the 
 wee people'll na mind — we'll call ta pup Pixie or 
 Puck.' 
 
 ' Puck's the short 'un/ said Avice curtly, ' an' 
 Puck he's alius i' mischief they say, just like that 
 there vermin.' 
 
 ''Puck, thin/ consented her brother. *^ But as for 
 mischief, my lass, there canna be a more mischievous 
 bairn than ye were i' a' the Peak. It's no a fault i' 
 young things ; it's jist the new-born life as works i' 
 'em like sae much girdin' yeast ; and the more it dew 
 work, the better ale we gits, they say, i' arter times, 
 so it dunna dew to pit spike i' bunghole tew soon.' 
 
 Which was one of Ben's metaj^horical flights 
 which passed as high over Avice's head as the flight 
 of northward sweeping swallows that flew by in 
 the still April noon : and thus in the deep nest of
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 73 
 
 those old green pine woods I was named after tlie 
 cheery and tricksy sprite who dwelt once by the 
 hearths, as he dwells now in the hearts,, of the 
 people of Shakespeare^ s England. 
 
 As soon as he had named me he took me over^ one 
 Saturday afternoon^ across the wood^ to a little cot- 
 tage that stood near the quarry. It was a black- 
 smithes forge to which the cart-horses used at all 
 the little farms, round about upon the moorlands, 
 used to be taken when they wanted shoeing. 
 
 The work must have been of the scantiest ; for the 
 farms were widely scattered and for the most part 
 poor in cattle; but the big brawny smith looked 
 strong enough to shoe all the wild horses of the 
 prairies had they been brought to him. He was 
 leaning over the half-door of his forge as Ben drew 
 near; the ruddy glow of the fire behind him, and 
 before all the budding green woodland depth in 
 which his workshop was embowered. 
 
 ' Gie ye godden, Ambrose/ said Ben, with that 
 gentle archaism in greeting that lingers in the 
 pages of your old dramatists, and the mouths of your 
 north-country peasantry ; you never wish heaven^s 
 benison to your friends on night or morning now, 
 when you meet with them ; you only say ' how do
 
 74 PUCK. 
 
 you do ? ' how do you thrive — how do you prosper 
 — how do you employ yourself ? * 
 
 Oh terrible age of prose,, of hurry, of avarice, 
 and of officious occupation, which colours with its 
 spirit even your careless casual salutation ! 
 
 * Ye're rare and welcome, Ben,^ said the Samson 
 of the anvil, his broad face lighting up with a sunny 
 wistful smile. ' Be pickaxe snappit, mebbe ? ^ 
 
 ' Na,^ said Ben. ^ Wark^s na dune i' this^n 
 here smithy that snap i' a score o^ year. I kem to 
 ax if so be as ye^d the leelest mossel o^ mittal as 
 ud^ mak a ring fo^ tha pup^s throssle ? I knaw ye^ll 
 gie it an^ ye hev ? ^ 
 
 ' Sure un I will,^ said the good-natured smith, 
 whom I had seen once or twice down at our place. 
 ' Kem in whils I looks for him ; and tak a thoct o^ 
 brid and cheese. 1^11 be glad to hae a crack wi^ ye.' 
 
 ^ I'll set a bit,' answered Ben, seating himself as 
 he spoke on a seat in the porch through whose ivied 
 lattice-work the setting sun was streaming, while a 
 red and green woodpecker flashed by us in its 
 light. ^ But I'll na hev victuals na drink, thank 
 'ee. I arena' hungered na dry.' 
 
 * I think some one has said this before Puck :— or something to 
 the same effect at least.— Ed.
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 75 
 
 When 1 reached in after years the world of after- 
 noon teas,, of seltzers and sherries^ of flower fete 
 ices^ of ladies^ luncheons, of coffee and chasses, of 
 Siraudin^s bon-bons, and of Fortnum and Mason^s 
 hampers, I remembered this reason of his as one of 
 the most curious I had ever heard given ; — one 
 entirely unrecognizable in the land of his betters. 
 
 ' We^ll mak him a brave un/ pursued the black- 
 smith, catching me by the throat for measurement, 
 and setting to work at once on a little circlet of 
 white metal which I in my innocence thought was 
 silver. ^ Tha spring she be a comin^ on finely, 
 aren^t she, Ben ? Tha kirrant -bushes theer be all 
 set for fruit already, and tha old apple-trees be all 
 on the bloom. Mebbe y^U take a lettuce, and a bit 
 o^ cress like, ta Avice ? ^ 
 
 ' Thank ^ee kindly,^ said Ben, not noticing that 
 with the name there came a glow on his friend's 
 face that was not from the smithy-fire behind him. 
 ' Ye niver kem anigh us now — how be that ? ' 
 
 ^Weel,"* said Ambrose, striking so hard at the 
 little bit of metal that I thought he would shatter 
 it, ^ I were wishful to spik to ■'ee o' that, Ben. Ye 
 see — I'd come, and willin', ivery gloamin' an' that 
 w^as all ; but it wunna dew — it wunna dew — I canna
 
 76 PUCK. 
 
 fritten my heart out for tha wench ; it ^ull mek a 
 silly o^ me^ it will_, an^ so I stays awa^ like^ and m'ap- 
 pen His all I ken dew/ 
 
 Ben stared at hhn witli a stupid amazement^ a 
 wondering emotion in his own gray, thoughtful eyes. 
 
 ^ Lord^s sake ! ' he said slowly. '^I niver thoct o^ 
 naethin^ o^ that sort, old chap ! Sure an' I couldna 
 wish a better lot for tha little lass. Why sud it mek 
 a fool o^ ye ? ' — 
 
 ' Why it deiv/ muttered Ambrose, sturdily draw- 
 ing his hand across his heated forehead and then 
 hammering with redoubled force, ^ An that^s all 
 about it, Ben. A man^s sure a fule i' sitch things 
 as them. Look'ee — yestreen was a week tha wench 
 she were up a Good Rest farm — ye'll mind ? — a 
 junkettin^ a^ St Mark^s Eve. An I've iver been soft 
 on her — tho' I warnH free wi' yew as to't — and I got 
 a chance like, i' that big close o' theirs wheer tha 
 sickles * grow sae thick; and said a word or tew. I 
 hadna tha gift of the gab — them wenches they mak 
 yew sae silly — an sae I jist axed her to wed wi' me, 
 short like ; for I hae luved her, it seem ta me, iver 
 sin she were a little un i' tha cradle — ' 
 
 * Sycamores. The Derbyshire tongues have an Italian-like love 
 for easy and soft abbreviations.— Ed.
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 77 
 
 He stopped^ and his strong hearty voice had a 
 curious tremble in it^ as you will see in the big 
 sinewy frame of a bullock when they lead him out 
 to the slaughter. 
 
 ''And what did tha lass say tew 'ee V asked Ben 
 softly; the homely weather-beaten face of him grow- 
 ing infinitely tender and mournful Avith sympathy, 
 
 ^ She mocked o' me/ said Ambrose^ humbly. 
 ' Well — m^appen she were right. A big^ hulking, 
 black-visaged lout, like o' me, bean't unco fit ta 
 tak tha fanciful thocht of a friskin' bit o' beauty 
 like o' her.' 
 
 ^ She made a mock o' yew ! ' cried Ben, his calm 
 gentle face lighting up with wrath even against his 
 best beloved. 
 
 ' Na, na/ murmured the blacksmith hurriedly, 
 unwilling, it seemed, to stir feud betwixt Ben and 
 his one ewe-lamb even in the pain of his own 
 passions. ^ Ony as wimmin will, o' a man that canna 
 tak their fancies. She mint nought o^ malice i' 
 that j she laughed, but tew a bit o' a lass like her it 
 dew alius seem queer to see a big un like me 
 afeard o' her — ' 
 
 ' Yew ses as how she'd heer nought o't ? ' 
 
 Ben's face was very darkened and troubled, and
 
 78 PUCK. 
 
 from where lie sat in tlie ivied porcli his eyes turned 
 on to the face of his friend with a very pathetic, 
 wistful questioning. The giant Ambrose shook his 
 head : shaping and fashioning all the while my little 
 piece of metal. 
 
 'Nought o^t/ he said simply, while his rough 
 bronzed face grew a little white. ' DonH. ^ee go for 
 ta plague her for't, Ben. A lass canna luve ye an^ 
 she canna. Fd ha' done my best handiwork by her 
 — ye' re aware s o' that, — but Pm tew old, and tew 
 big, and tew gruesom, to pleasure a gay young 
 sparrahawk jest loose-like on tha wind.' 
 
 Ben sat silent awhile, ruffling his hair in sorrow- 
 ful perplexity ; though he had been used to speak 
 of the ' little lass ' being ' safe to wed,' it had 
 always, I think, been a very dim and distant possi- 
 bility to him, and Avice was still a child in his 
 sight. 
 
 ' I'm dumb-foundered/ he said slowly with a 
 sigh. ' Clean dumb-foundered. I niver drimt as 
 ye'd a' tlioct of tha wench — niver ! Lack-a-day ! 
 It dew seem queer — 'twarn't a day agone as 'twere 
 that she were a little, toddlin', bare-footed bairn, 
 alius at pranks and play ! ' 
 
 ' Na — that's trew,' assented Ambrose, who was
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 79 
 
 sometliing even older tlian liis friend. *" Danna be 
 fashed wi^ lier Ben^ for this^n ; slie canna git tha 
 better jist o^ wliiles o'' sJ her craze for fine claes an^ 
 gossips and rompin^ and si ch like. But she is a bonny 
 thing ; she^ll kem round sure enow — sure eno^y ! ' 
 
 But though he spoke generously _, he spoke 
 sadly ; and did not^ I fancy^ believe in his own 
 prophecy over-much. 
 
 ' It^s strange as she niver telled me/ murmured 
 Ben ; *" an^ ye an' me sich neighbours tew ! ' 
 
 ' M^appen she did na like ? ^ suggested the ten- 
 der-hearted smith. ' I looked but a poor fule tew 
 her^ ye know — ' 
 
 ' A^Tieerfor?^ said Ben suddenly and almost stern- 
 ly. ' "Wheerfor ? A honest maiden wouldna tell ye 
 that : if she med a mock o^ ye — ^ 
 
 The blacksmith rested his huge hammer on the 
 iron. 
 
 ^ She didna^ Ben/ he said gently^ telling 
 doubtless one of those falsehoods which here and 
 there are even nobler than truth. ' Don^t ^ee ofa for 
 ta think it. But I v:ere a fule, sure now_, to ga 
 dreamin^ that a rosy, buxom_, gay-hearted, lissom 
 young lass like that ^ud iver care to settle quiet-like 
 aside such a hearthstone as this^n, wi' nothin^ to
 
 80 PUCK. 
 
 tempt her o^ gowd_, o^ pleasurin^_, or o' fineries. Dunna 
 ye think more o^t, Ben — I onj telled ye ^cause I 
 thoct ye shonld know why I hanna kem o^ Moorside 
 o' late/ 
 
 'Ye^ve a rare good heart o^ yourn, Ambrose/ 
 said Ben, with all his own heart in his voice ; and 
 he stretched out his hand to his old friend^s grasp. 
 The other took it, and wrung it hard ; — and by 
 common consent there was silence between them on 
 this one subject then and thenceforward. 
 
 The smith pursued his work and finished_, in what 
 seemed to me an incredibly brief space, a little 
 dainty shining ring of metal, light as a bent stalk 
 of spear-grass, on whose circlet he had cut deftly 
 with a little tool my newly-bestowed name of Puck. 
 
 How could his great massive hands, used to deal 
 such ponderous blows, shape such a trifling toy as 
 this ? I cannot tell ; I only know that a man who 
 has the strength of the lion very often has also the 
 tender touch of the dove. 
 
 I fancy, too, that though he was perhaps uncon- 
 scious of it, the generosity moving in his heart made 
 this herculean blacksmith of the Peak more heedful 
 that he should pleasure his old friend now than he 
 had ever been at any other time.
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FOKGE. 81 
 
 They said no more words on the theme of his 
 rejected love ; only as Ben rose to go, with a brief 
 hearty phrase of thanks for the toy in which the 
 smith had so willingly humoured his fancy, Am- 
 brose pressed on him the lettuce and cress. Such 
 vegetables grew far better in the little garden of the 
 forge, which was sunny and of good soil, than they 
 did in ours, where the great rose-thorn took all 
 nourishment. 
 
 But Ben stayed his arm as he bent to cut them 
 from the ground. 
 
 ' Let be, Ambrose,^ he said firmly,' ye shanna gie 
 o' yer substance to a lass as dunna knaw the wuth 
 o^ yer heart.^ 
 
 And he was resolute to refuse them; it had gone 
 sore with him that the ' little lass ^ should have dealt 
 a stroke of pain to an honest soul, and should have 
 withheld a secret from himself. 
 
 Ambrose went with him a little way into the 
 wood, so far as he could without losing sight of his 
 cottage and forge. 
 
 ' Dunno ye fash her for^t/ were his last words 
 as they parted company under a great oak. ' She's 
 sae young and mirthfu', yer know; she dunna tell 
 tV harm that she dew.' 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 PUCK. 
 
 And then lie turned away and strode with long 
 strides to his lonely smithy^ where the red light was 
 streaming through its mass of twilit green, as an 
 owPs eyes glow, at even, through an ivy bush. 
 
 It was passing strange, I thought, that these two 
 grave strong men should be so gentle over a crea- 
 ture who never cared how she wounded, mocked, 
 flouted, or harmed either of them, to please her sport 
 or charm her vanity ! 
 
 When we reached home, the sun had set ; Avice 
 was nowhere to be seen ; the house door stood open, 
 and all was silent about the little place. 
 
 All day long the fowls kept it alive with sound 
 and movement ; for of all mercurial and- fussy things 
 there is nothing on the face of the earth to equal 
 cocks and hens. They have such an utterly exagger- 
 ated sense too of their own importance ; they make 
 such a clacking and clucking over every egg, such a 
 scratching and trumpeting over every morsel of 
 treasure- trove, and such a striding and stamping 
 over every bit of well-worn ground. On the whole, 
 I think poultry have more humanity in them than 
 any other race, footed or feathered ; and cocks cer- 
 tainly must have been the first creatures that ever 
 hit on the great art of advertising. Myself I always
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 83 
 
 fancy that tlie souls of tliis feathered tribe pass into 
 the bodies of journalists ; — but this may be a mere 
 baseless association of kindred ideas in my mind. 
 
 The cottage was deserted and silent ; the fowls 
 being at roost. Ben^ a little alarmed, strode a few 
 yards up the hill behind his house and shouted his 
 sister's name lustily. Ere long her voice came faintly 
 down from amongst the bracken and firs above. 
 ' Fm a-comin' ! I'm a-comin' ! ' 
 
 And in ten minutes or so she did come, rushing 
 hurriedly down the tangled slope ; her eyes were 
 very excited, and her face was very flushed, and her 
 dress was in a careless disarray. 
 
 ' Dinna ye hurry, lass,' cried Ben, kindly. ^ Why, 
 lawk-a-day ! — how mauled and muddled ye look. 
 A^^iat's a matter ? ' 
 
 *■ Naethin' ! ' said Avice, petti. shly, as she reached 
 the bottom in safety, and twisted her disordered 
 dress into some neater shape. '' But that beastly 
 bracken, it dew tear ye so ; an' tha blackberry 
 bushes is all prickles.' 
 
 ^ Why was 'ee awa' ? ' asked Ben, wonderingly 
 ' It's ta late ta leave tha place by itselL' 
 
 ' I was ony a gos.sipen a bit, wi' Xell o' Moor 
 
 ' 'Tain't so livelv a
 
 84 PUCK. 
 
 life, is tliis^n, that 'ee may na liae a bit o' a crack wi' 
 a neighbour in tha haverin/ 
 
 ' Na, ^tis a goodish bit dull, I know/ said Ben 
 with a sigh, content with her explanation, though I 
 knew by the growl which Trust gave, that he at least 
 did not believe in the truth of it ; and that he smelt 
 some male ^ gossiper ' afar on the evening air. 
 ' But, my lass, I want a word wi^ ye — why didna ye 
 tell me as Ambrose o^ tha Forge were wishful to 
 wed wi^ ye ? ^ 
 
 Avice coloured, perhaps at the simple directness 
 of the question. 
 
 ^Wheer was odds o' tellin^ ye?^ she muttered. ^ If 
 'ee wanna a gaby, he'd ha^ kepit his counsel him- 
 sell— ' 
 
 ' But look^ee here, lassie,^ said Ben very gravely. 
 *■ Ye might be right or na niver ta till me : I wunna 
 say which ; wimmin be alius queer ta tackle i' such 
 matters. But theer^s one thing ye're no right in — 
 an^ that be i' yer makin' game o^ him. Ye're pierced 
 him i' tha quick wi' yer feckless sayins. Ye mayna 
 hae mint harm, my dear ; Fm na wishfu^ to lay blame 
 ta ye ; but ye may be sure o' this, Avice, that tha 
 wench as do mak sport o^ a honest man 'ull surely 
 live ta be the sport o' rogues.'
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 85 
 
 A liot, dusky anger beamed over Avice^s bent 
 face as slie heard. 
 
 ' D^ye think/ she muttered in sullen wrath, 
 ' d'ye think as how cause Ambrose dunna please 
 me, theer wunna be a braver man than him whin 
 I want ta chuse ftV em ? ' 
 
 ' I dun^ know that/ said Ben very gravely. 
 ' Ye^re a poor wench, my bairn, wi^ a^ yer bonny 
 looks; an^ ye canna tak yer spouse a store o' grand- 
 dam^s siller, and a press -fu^ o^ home-spun linen, as 
 Nell o^ Moor Farm ■'ull do ; an' yeVe a^ the 
 wimmin^s bad word a'ready, my dearie, cause ye're 
 sae well-favoured, an' sae saucy, an' sae slow at 
 your chores an' yer distaff — ' 
 
 Avice burst into aloud passion of sobs and tears 
 as her manner was when argument told against 
 her. 
 
 ' Sae ye'd ha' me wed wi' tha fust lout as ax me, 
 jist ta be rid o' my keep, andta still tha old mithers' 
 blisterin^ tongues,' she cried furiously. ' Weel ! I 
 wunna thin. I'll na ga bury mysell i' that wretched 
 hole o' a smithy for ye na a' tha min o' Peak-side ! 
 I wunna ! I would na gie one straw ta wed, gif tha 
 brid- groom, could na set a gowd ring o' my finger, 
 an' a silken gownd o' my back, an' tak me to
 
 86 PUCK. 
 
 Lunnun for my moonin^ and spend his siller right 
 and left like a man ! Ambrose ! — he'll niver stir 
 out o' this here beast o' a wood a^ his days ; I^m as 
 weel wi^ ye as wi^ him.' 
 
 Ben stood with his head a little drooped upon 
 his breast; pale under his sunny warm bronze, and 
 hurt exceedingly by the bitter ingratitude of the 
 raging, selfish, unfeeling words. Yet they did not 
 break down the gentle patience of his temper, she 
 was ' the mither's bairn,' and so sacred to him. 
 
 'Ye're verra wrong; and ye know't, my lass,' 
 he said slowly and very gravely; ^ye know weel that 
 tha day as 'ud tak 'ee ta anither home 'ud be tha 
 sairest day i' a' my reckonin'; and ye know, tew, that 
 whin I wish ye to be wife t' Ambrose, 'tis 'cause 
 he's good, core through, an' 'ud hev care o' ye a' 
 yer days if tha stones fa' upo' me, as they may surely 
 dew ony hour o' my work i' tha quarry. Ye're 
 fractious and fancifu', and ye quarrel, as childer will, 
 wi' a' tha best friends ye hae gotten. Weel — ye 
 wunna see yer fault now ! Ye're a woman. But ony 
 tak heed, Avice, that the day dew niver dawn whin, 
 wi' yer beauty, an' yer fancies, and yer fearfu' craze 
 for riches, ye dunna wish an' wish, in vain, lassie, that 
 ye'd stayed safe i' my heart an' i' Ambrose's ! '
 
 AMBROSE OF THE FORGE. 87 
 
 And then_, as tliougli lie dared not trust liimself 
 to say more lest his voice should break down into a 
 woman\s weakness, Ben j^assed slowly witkin^ across 
 his tlireskold_, witli tke saddest shadow on his honest 
 face that I had ever seen there. 
 
 Their evening meal was eaten in total silence 
 that night ; but there was a deeper and a sweeter 
 tone than ever in the murmured words of thanks- 
 giving and prayer with which he commended his 
 little household to the care of God. 
 
 -^*%t^*>
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 
 
 jEN was infinitely kind to me. When I got 
 a little older, as the primroses were sup- 
 planted by the hyacinths, he used to take 
 me with him to the quarry, Trust carrying me in 
 his mouth if I tired. I think they both knew that, 
 when they were absent, Avice and the cat were too 
 much for me. 
 
 I grew to feel a great deal of respect and affec- 
 tion for Ben in those days by the quarry. To look 
 at him he was like any other labouring man, strong, 
 rough, with his back a little bent, and his hands all 
 over muscle from the daily use of the weighty pick- 
 axe. He was very quiet too, and some of his fellows
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 89 
 
 called him stupid. But he was not that, he had a 
 quaint gentle wisdom of his own, though he was 
 utterly unlettered, and so simple in trustfulness that 
 a child could easily deceive him. 
 
 Trust was right, as, looking back on that time, 
 I know now, in thinking that Ben had some touch 
 in him of the poet. Not of the poet^s utterance 
 surely ; I do not think he could have strung a line 
 of words together to save his existence ; but of the 
 poet's temperament, of the poet's feeling. 
 
 He would spend long moments gazing into a 
 little tuft of wood anemones or of bluebells, with 
 just the same look that your Burns must have had 
 when he gazed at the ' wee crimson-tippit flower.' 
 If a bird were wounded by some scattered stone 
 that flew from under his hammer, he took it up and 
 tended it with the same thought in his face that 
 your Coleridge must have felt when he wrote. 
 
 His fellow-workmen always complained that Ben 
 in his leisure went mooning about ; but his mooning 
 afforded him more pleasure than their ale and pitch- 
 and-toss lent to them. He would go wandering 
 about in the wood or on the moorland whenever he 
 had any spare time, with no knowledge whatsoever, 
 but with a curious comprehension and sympathy in
 
 90 PUCK. 
 
 him for all living things that were ; from the tiniest 
 spray of the moss under his feet_, to the large-eyed 
 oxen that came to rub against his shoulders in 
 homely caress. 
 
 Sunday was a well-beloved day with Ben; there 
 was no church within four miles and he did not care 
 to go to it. Now and then its pastor found his way 
 to the cottage^ and rated Ben as a heathen. 
 
 ^ M'appen I be, sir/ Ben would say sorrowfully, 
 not sure in his mind whether he were wicked or not. 
 
 ' I canna go to the church/ he said once when 
 much goaded on the subject. ^ Look'ee, — they's alius 
 a readin' o^ cusses, and damnin, and hell fire, and the 
 like ; and I canna stomach it. What for shall they 
 go and say as all the poor old wimmin i' tha parish 
 is gone to the deil 'cause they picks up a stick or 
 tew i' hedge, or likes to mumble a charm or tew 
 o'er their churnin' ? Them old wimmen be rare an' 
 good i' ither things. When I broke my ankle 
 three year agone, old Dame Stuckley kem o'er, i' 
 tha hail and the snaw, a matter of five mile and 
 more, and she turned o' eighty ; and she nursed me, 
 and tidied the place, and did all as was wanted to 
 be done 'cause Avice was away, waking some- 
 wheres ; and she'd never let me gie her aught for
 
 TFIE SABBATH-BREAKER. 91 
 
 it. And I lieard ta Passon tell her as she were sold 
 to hell, ^cause the old soul have a bit of belief like 
 in witch-stoneSj and alius sets one aside het' spin- 
 nen^ jenny so that the thrid shanna knot nor break. 
 Ta Passon he said as how God cud mak tha thrid 
 run smooth, or knot it, just as he chose, and 
 Hwas wicked to think she could cross His will ; and 
 tha old dame, she said, '^ Weel, sir, — I dinna believe 
 tha Almighty would ever spite a poor old crittur 
 like me^ don^t ^ee think it. But if we^re no to help 
 oursells i^ this world, what for have he gied us the 
 trouble o^ tha thrid to spin ? — and why no han't he 
 made tha shirts and tha sheets an^ tha hose grow 
 theersells ? ' And ta Passon niver answered her 
 that, he only said she was fractious and blas-jJ<^- 
 mous. Now she warn't, she spoke i^ all innocence, 
 and she mint what she said — she mint it. Passons 
 niver can answer ye plain, right-down, nataral ques- 
 tions like this^n, and that\s why I wunna ga ta tha 
 church/ 
 
 He did not go ; Avice did, arrayed in all her glory 
 of ear-rings and of beads, journeying thither in the 
 donkey-cart of their only near neighbour. An old 
 woman, who drove about the country with ferns 
 and greenery of all kinds, and took her poor worn
 
 92 PUCK. 
 
 beast eight miles on its only day of rest^ for the 
 very good and notable reason that ^ ta passon 
 were a rare un for ferns and tha like ; and if I 
 warna to be seed i' my seat o^ Sabbath day, 
 he'd niver buy no more on me. It's main and 
 particular is ta passon ; he canna abide Sabbath- 
 breakers/ 
 
 And she always beat the tired ass violently and 
 often, that she might reach the church whilst yet 
 the chimes were ringing. She was a woman who had 
 taken heed to the ' passon's^ counsel. 
 
 Meanwhile the Sabbath-breaker spent his Sab- 
 bath mornings out-of-doors ; amongst the things of 
 which he was fondest, the birds and the beasts, and 
 the trees, and the heather. 
 
 It was in a very unlearned, desultory, dreamy 
 fashion, of course, that he studied them, — all the 
 divinity that lies in books was hidden from poor Ben ; 
 — but he did study them in his own way, and he found 
 many curious things of their lives, and their natures, 
 and their habits, which, if he had only known how to 
 tell his discoveries again, might have ranked him. 
 with Audubon and Stanley. 
 
 ^ I just am fond o' tha things, ye see, and so they 
 lets me know about 'em,' he would say ; uncon-
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 93 
 
 scious that he was the exponent of the great doc- 
 trine of sympathy. 
 
 The teal in the brake-hidden ponds ; the hen- 
 harrier amongst the sedges ; the timid hare under 
 the ferns ; the pretty redstart on the boughs ; the 
 small dark stoat wading amongst the huge leaves 
 of the burdock ; the corn-crake in the scarce 
 patches of wheat that grew, here and there, 
 on the bleak brown moors ; the tiny chiffchaff 
 flitting' under the gorze all golden with legend- 
 loved bloom;, the field-mouse sitting, squirrel-like, 
 by her Httle home in the ground, where the sweet 
 shady plumes of the meadow-sweet hid her in 
 safety from the eyes of the kite ; — all these were 
 his friends and familiars ; and he would wander 
 amongst them all through the hours of the quiet day, 
 when not even the far-off sounds of the quarry, or of 
 the husbandmen above on the moor farms, broke the 
 sweet, restful, morning silence. 
 
 Avice, sitting at church, glancing under her 
 arching brows at the youths beside her, arrayed in 
 her beads and her ear-rings, and gazing with envious 
 eyes at the manor pew, where the great folks were 
 sequestered, received many praises from the pastor 
 for her assiduity in attending the service.
 
 94: PUCK. 
 
 Ben he called hard names^ of which a heathen 
 was not the least. 
 
 Now Avice on her homeward-way beat the donkey 
 with fury and mighty because her soul was sore to 
 think of the great ladies up in the Squire^s red-cano- 
 pied pew. But Ben, going to the fern-seller's cottage 
 to meet his sister, went first to the stable and shook 
 down a fresh bed of bracken, and filled a pail with 
 water from the spring, and threw a great arm -load of 
 sweet grasses and juicy thistles into the rusty rack. 
 
 Which of the two would the poor tired beast — 
 if he could have given an opinion* — have thought 
 the most faithful follower of the teaching of One 
 who walked in the fields on the Sabbath day, and 
 rode on an ass to Jerusalem ? 
 
 These Sundays with Ben were my greatest de- 
 light. To scamper over the boundless moorland ; 
 to roll in the short scented thyme ; to watch with 
 wondering eyes the squirrels leap from branch to 
 branch ; then, lying tired, to sleep and dream and 
 wake in the pleasant drowsy sunlight ; — all this 
 made a paradise of that old silent pine wood to me, 
 and, in a sense too, to my master himself. 
 
 * I find our friend Puck is not much more liberal after all than the 
 rest of creation ; and conceives that no race save his own possesses any 
 intelligence ! — Ed.
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 95 
 
 His eyes used to liave a curiously contented 
 look, half brightness^ half sadness, but great con- 
 tentment for all that, as he strode through the 
 yielding spear-grass, or lay at length under the 
 shade of the branches. 
 
 He did not speak often ; but now and then he did, 
 to Trust or to me, or to the cushat in the boughs, 
 or to the rabbit beneath the brushwood, or to some 
 other timid movino^ thino^. And at such times his 
 voice was so gentle, so pitiful, so serious, that it 
 had a sound in it to my fancy like that of the eyen- 
 ing bells when they rung faintly in from the dis- 
 tance across the broad moors. 
 
 Whatever good I have kept in me — ^and in the 
 world it is yeiy hard to keep any — I owe it to Ben 
 on those still Sundxy mornings, in those deep, old, 
 quiet, green woods. 
 
 There was one spot I specially loved — it was a 
 dell formed by huge boulders of granite and grit- 
 stone fallen one on another ; grown all over by ferns 
 and by moss, and by all manner of foliage; and 
 always full of shade even in the hottest noontide. 
 
 There Ben would lie for hours, looking up at 
 the blue, dreamful sky, or at the birds moving in 
 the thick leafage.
 
 96 PUCK. 
 
 ' And to think/ lie murmured once, ^ as the 
 same Hand as shattered down tha mighty stones 
 here, till they lays crushed and o^ergrowed wi' the 
 grasses, yit fashioned them wee, blue, wing-feathers 
 of tha atomy of a tomtit i^ his nest theer. It is 
 wonderfu^ ! Shanna we niver know how't was done ? 
 niver see the sun a bit nearer ? Lord's sake ! I 
 canna but wish that HeM ha thot of some ither way 
 o' food for keepin' the varsal world fu' o' his 
 critturs, than tha way o' 'em murderin' one anither, 
 preying on one anither, from tha man on tha ox, 
 tew tha sparrow on tha worm. It don't seem right 
 like ; as how Him who'd tha power o' makin' that 
 sun mov^e i' tha heavens, shouldna' ha bin able to 
 hit a' some better means for keepin' tha life he giv 
 i' us wi'out pittin' tha lusts in our souls to kill tha 
 weakest things aside o' us. It's uncommon queer — 
 an' sad tew, as ta seem — that tha should na be ony 
 way o' livin' save by dith.' 
 
 And so the dim, wise, tender, untutored mind 
 perplexed itself in sorrowful pondering; and Ben, 
 who could scarce tell one letter from another, 
 puzzled over problems that the sages and the 
 scholars of the world cannot solve. 
 
 If Ben had had education I think he would have
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 97 
 
 been a man of whom tlie world would have heard 
 somewhat, for he had all the strange mingling of 
 acuteness and childlikeness, of fine perception and 
 foolish faithfulness, that are so often characteristic 
 of genius. As it was, never having even learned 
 to read, and having from the seventh year of his 
 age been obliged to get up in the gray of the 
 mornings, and go forth to hard, incessant, bodily 
 labour that killed the brain in him, as it were, — so 
 that when he returned at night he had no sense 
 to do more than creep up to his truckle-bed and 
 sleep the heavy, dreamless sleep of over- toil and of 
 over-fatigue — he had never had any culture of the 
 powers within him. None could tell what ever they 
 might, under another existence, have proved ; and it 
 was only through the fairness of nature around him, 
 and the insight he had by instinct into its beauties 
 and mysteries, that he kept alive, at all, those tender 
 thoughts which, so sweet to the scholar, or the 
 artist, or the noble, are perhaps only full of a dim, 
 bewildered pain to the poor man in whom they 
 exist. 
 
 I did not discern all this myself, of course ; but 
 Trust did, and through Trust I came to see it. 
 
 Ben Dare's love for his sister was wonderful; he 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 PUCK. 
 
 seemed to see none of her faults^ save that ever- 
 craving of gold^ of wliich now and then he so 
 gently warned her. But even his perception of 
 this blemish in her never brought the fact^ or the 
 suspicion thereof, to his mind that she had indeed 
 taken his coins from under the apple-tree. No 
 vague fancy of the truth ever occurred to him ; he 
 trusted Avice with all his heart and soul, and 
 though many times one could observe that she was 
 an anxiety and a disappointment to him, and that 
 her sullen, ungrateful words not seldom wounded 
 him sorely, he never spoke a harsh phrase to her, 
 and only thought her guilty of ^ pettishness ^ such 
 as often besets a spoilt child. 
 
 She was not contented, he knew ; but then, as 
 he was wont to say if he spoke to any fellow-work- 
 man on the matter, ' ^tis ony tlia gaiety -like o^ 
 girlhood, look you ; they're often like that i' their 
 fust years. 'T 'ill wear off sure-ly wi' time ; and 
 m'appen she'll get wed, you know — she's sae pretty 
 — and thin wi' tha childer com', an' that, a nursin' 
 'em and a pratin' tew 'em, an' a tidyin' o' 'em, 
 she'll forgit a' these little maggits o' fancies an' 
 fineries, and sittle down good an' quiet ; I'm sure 
 o' it.'
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 99 
 
 But he was not quite sure in liis own heart ; and 
 he was disquieted oftentimes for Avice ; and took 
 blame to himself because he did not make the house 
 ^ alive ' enough to amuse a young girl ; and worked 
 extra hours^ early and late, that he might earn 
 more money to replace that stolen from him, and 
 give her some gift or some treat with it — some 
 fairing, some daintier food, or some new bit of 
 apparelling. 
 
 ^ I allays feel, ye know, as if tha mither was a 
 watcliin^ o' me,^ he said once to his only friend, 
 after Ambrose of the Forge, a man like himself, in 
 the quarry. ' She axed me a' dyin^, poor soul, to 
 liae a care o' that little un ; and I dew think if 
 anythin^ went wrong wi^ Avice, 't 'ud vex mither 
 sore, wherever she be, — for tho^ tkey may gae to 
 heaven, Fll niver brieve as they forgits all us 
 down here, or gits hard as stones to what happen 
 till us/ 
 
 ' May be no, Ben,' retorted his brother-in-labour 
 poking his hands ruefully among his tumbled 
 yellow hair, all white with the powder of the 
 shattered limestone. ' I often wonders as how 
 them as is a singin' wi^ tha angels — as they says 
 they be — can sing i' tune an^ time like, whin they
 
 100 PUCK. 
 
 knows all as is a happenin^ to tlieir frinds and their 
 cliilder below. I suppose they dinna fash their- 
 selves about it; but ^ee hev to git main an' hard 
 like^ afore 'ee can be a angel/ 
 
 Thereon he finished his noonday bit of bacon 
 and bread, and sent his pickaxe with ringing 
 strokes into the stone : he lived on the other side 
 of the wood/three miles nearer the village church, 
 at which he was a leader in the quire. 
 
 ' I s^uld niver do for a angel/ he muttered, as 
 he lifted the axe. 'Why — toother Sunday when 
 my old tirrier, Bee, as you^ll well mind un, died 
 o' that lump i^ her throat a Sunday mornin^, I 
 couldna git my voice at all for thinkin^ o^ tha good 
 old crittur ; and I had to gie o^er afore the " Glory 
 be,^^ and go outside aneath tha yew, and I was a 
 cryin^ like a child there — ^ cause t^ old Bee was 
 stiff an^ cold. If youM seen her look, Ben — her 
 look at me till tha verra last ! ' 
 
 Ben was too much a pagan to rebuke his friend ; 
 or to insist that the ' Glory be ' should have been 
 too solemn and awful in its nature for any 
 thought of the dead terrier to have intruded on it, 
 and spoilt the mellow notes of its best bass singer. 
 
 In this simple, healthful, open-air life I throve
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 101 
 
 apace, and became exceedingly beautiful and grace- 
 ful, as I could tell by looking at myself in the clear 
 mirror of tlie bright running water. If my forefathers 
 and brethren had all died at the hall, I can only 
 imagine that their lamentable decease must have 
 been caused by velvet cushions and meat-surfeitings. 
 I have often witnessed the melancholy results of 
 epicureanism on members of my noble race. 
 
 I throve certainly, and grew to my full size ; 
 which never exceeded that of a small rabbit ; nor 
 ought indeed to have exceeded it, for the virtue and 
 worth of my people lie in their diminutiveness, as do 
 those of Elzevirs and of Parliamentary consciences. 
 
 Even old Dick, the pedlar, who '' could na abide 
 dogs,^ observed me when he came again in Ben^s 
 absence one day in the summer; and remarked that 
 I was ' a rare nice un surely, an^ wurtli a sight o' 
 siller,^ he guessed. Ever after that unhappy speech, 
 Avice regarded me with more favour, but with a 
 glance excessively like to that with which a hawk 
 surveys a lark. 
 
 Once she asked her brother : 
 
 ' Wunna ye niver sell ta pup, Ben ? ^Tis 
 pretty, and sae glossy an' white, I believe ye'd get 
 a pund for't, an' 'twere well chaffered for '
 
 102 PUCK. 
 
 Ben glanced at her with a grwe look in his 
 eyes, under which she was silent and restless. 
 
 *I shall niver sell ta pup, lass/ he said. * I 
 dinna mak a thing fond o' me, and rear it wi^ 
 trouble, jist to barter it awa' to strangers, who might 
 tormint it for aught I might tell/ 
 
 Avice said no more : she knew that there were 
 things on which her gentle and patient brother was 
 inflexible, and even obstinate, however yielding he 
 might be usually to her varied caprices. 
 
 I myself heard his decision with infinite gladness, 
 for I knew nothing then of the great world, and I 
 loved the pinewood and the moor. I had my liberty, 
 I had kindness, and I had sunshine ; a young thing 
 would be very envious indeed that asked, or desired, 
 more. 
 
 So the whole, long, golden summer passed; the 
 drowsy bees humming over the countless flowers ; 
 the white and rose heaths covering the turf with a 
 maze of soft colour ; the limestone rock flushing un- 
 der the red glowing rays of the sunsets ; the water- 
 birds floating all day long in the amber light over 
 the beds of the waving sword-reeds ; the trout dart- 
 ing by in the clear shallow water, and hiding their 
 pretty bright backs under stones.
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 103 
 
 The summer was deliglitful to me ; and to Ben it 
 had a dim divine charm, that made the mere sense 
 of living sweet to him, despite all his toil. 
 
 Even Avice loved the ' summer-time/ as your 
 German singers call it fondly ; it broke the monotony 
 of her life; it brought stray wanderers over the moors; 
 it sent an artist or two into the heart of this old dusky 
 fragrant wood ; it was the season of harvest homes, 
 and of several wakes in the villages that lay nearest. 
 And Avice although so idle with her ^ chores/ (i. e. 
 housework), and so indifferent to exertion, would 
 walk ten miles any day on the chance of a dance at 
 night, and a supper in some little outlying farm, or 
 some village alehouse where, Ben not being by, she 
 wore her '' dimonds/ and eclipsed every girl who 
 might foot it there. Whenever she returned from 
 one of these pleasurings she was trebly sullen, and 
 ill at ease always afterwards. But we were the 
 sufferers from that, not she, and so the consideration 
 of the ' hard stone in the sweet date ' no more 
 deterred her from seizino^ and devourinsr her date, 
 than it deterred her sex in the early days of the 
 East. 
 
 Ben used now and then to offer some gentle re- 
 monstrance against this absolute devotion to gaiety.
 
 104 PUCK. 
 
 when its god was worshipped under the question- 
 able roofs of pot-houses; but Avice always made 
 out that she was going with some good old dame 
 whose presence would have sanctioned the very 
 revels of Bacchus or of Priapus themselves, and he 
 had not the heart to restrain her from the few en- 
 joyments that broke the monotony of her years. 
 
 A well-dressing, a wake, a dance, a wedding 
 feast, were such delight to ' the lass,^ he reckoned ; 
 it would have been ^ unked ' to have begrudged her 
 those little mirthful frivolities of a girFs earliest 
 youth. To go with her himself was impossible ; he 
 had to be at his labour by sunrise, and did not leave 
 it till sunset, whether he were at the quarry, or, 
 when stone work was slack, at the farms. He could 
 only trust her ; and he did trust her, with that en- 
 tire faith which all loyal natures give until — they are 
 paid with the coin of deceit. 
 
 ^ I fear as how the wench is a goin^ wrong,' said 
 the man who had lamented the loss of Bee once, at 
 the quarry, to his wife when she brought him the 
 noonday ^ bit and sup.' ' She 's allays a junkettin' 
 somewheres, — or if she bean't junkettin' she's a 
 mopin' ; which is m'appen worser of the tew. And 
 they do say as how she's a gay 'un ; and as how
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 105 
 
 young Isaac up a tha flour mill and slie be arter 
 no good. But I doubt^n of fashen Ben about it. I 
 might dew more harm^ na good ? ' 
 
 ' Dinna ye meddle, Tam/ said his wife, who was 
 a shrewd woman. ' It^s niver no good a threshin^ 
 other folks corn ; ye allays gits the flail agin i^ yer 
 own eye somehow. ■' 
 
 ' Mebbe/ said her lord, ''Iwouldna mind gettin' 
 hit if I saved ta corn by threshin^ it ; but I dinna see 
 as how I suld rightly. The lass ud say na, and 
 Isaac ud say na, o^ course, and Ben ud niver change 
 a word wi^ me agin.' 
 
 So not even Friendship dared to tear the band 
 off* Ben^s eyes. 
 
 Friendship, when it is not a bully, is very com- 
 monly a coward. 
 
 When the summer had passed, and it was the 
 first warm mellow touch of autumn that flushed the 
 leaves, and made the waters flow faster, and shook 
 the brown cones off the fir-trees, one of Avice's 
 beloved days of junketting came round with un- 
 usual honours. 
 
 It was ' wake-week ^ at a little town some twelve 
 miles away, and in addition to the wakes^ singing 
 and dancing and feasting, there were a fair and a
 
 106 PUCK. 
 
 circus and various other wonders. So at least old 
 Dick o^ tha WynnatSj making his quarterly visit with 
 Michaelmas, informed her with much unction and 
 imaginative description in reward for the money she 
 laid out with him — three whole shillings veritably her 
 own from her poultry yard ; the hens being the only 
 things of which she took any real care, because they 
 brought her in some silver with the outlay of which 
 Ben never interfered. 
 
 Ben dearly liked a smoke of his pipe, out-of- 
 doors in the still twilight in summer, or by 
 his hearth in the winter. But of late he had not 
 smoked at all, because it ^ pit wings to the siller, 
 my lass/ as he told her ; because, as Trust told me, 
 he was trying hard to make up by Michaelmas that 
 sovereign's worth which the thief s appropriation 
 had prevented his possessing at Midsummer.' 
 
 ^It's all in a hole in the timber under his bed,' said 
 Trust, 'he don't put faith in the apple-tree money- 
 box any more. And even she does not know of this, 
 or it would not be long quiet in his old stocking in 
 that wood cranny.' 
 
 For whichever purpose it was however that he 
 saved his tobacco money, he went without his 
 one enjoyment all through the soft hot summer.
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKER. 107 
 
 Avice knew itv, and saw him cast now and tlien 
 a wistful glance at tlie unfilled pipe. Tliere was 
 abundance of tobacco in old Dick^s poucli; but 
 slie did not purcliase three-penny-wortli of it out 
 of her egg-money. She only bought some yards 
 of bright scarlet ribbon^ some yards of common lace, 
 some mock amber beads for her throat, and a yery 
 small jaunty straw hat. 
 
 ' Te^ll come ower, sure ? ^ pressed old Dick. 
 ' Why, lawk a mercy, ^t^ill be sich a sight as hanna 
 be seed i^ the country sin th' old Kino- o^ the Peak 
 wint to glory hunderds of years agone. There is a 
 lot o^ play-actors a comin^ — and ye niyer seed a 
 play?' 
 
 ' Nay ! ' assented xA.vice with a sigh, ' I niver 
 did ; what does they dew ? ' 
 
 ' Lord sake, my dearie_, I could na tell ^ee,^ said 
 Dick, with much solemnity. ' It^s all lyin^ — all 
 lyin^, iviry bit, — most butiful ! There's fallers a 
 cryin' their hearts out as was laughin' fit to kill 
 theirsells a minit afore. There's kings wi' crowns 
 o' gowd on as was jist common men, wi' pipes i' 
 their mouths, tew seconds agone. There's ugly 
 trapeezin' mawthers o' gals, as one would na 
 ha' picked out o' street, all smilin' and rosy, and
 
 1 08 PUCK. 
 
 jewUled and lovely-like, wi^ the people a clappin' 
 an' a cheering on 'em like mad. 'Tis all lyin', ye 
 knaw ; theer's tha beauty on it ; and tha folks they 
 goes and take on so as niver was, and b'lieve it like 
 Scriptur they do. Why, Pve seed un a kickin' a 
 woman as laid on doorstep i' tha open street, (a' 
 least the constable he got a kickin' o' her, and tha 
 crittur moaned, and tha folk about laughed at it as 
 a rare good joke.; she'd a been clemmed by the 
 way, she could na get a bit o' bread nohow) ; weel ! 
 and I seed 'em that self-same night, tha self-same 
 folks i' tha playhouse, a cryin' and a clamourin', and a 
 rockin' theersells to an' fro wi' grief a'cause a queen 
 on the stage had pisoned herself out o' rage and 
 jealousy. Oh ! tha lyin's uncommon good, 'tis sure 
 to move 'em a deal more'n ony tha fac' itsell.' 
 
 Avice listened intently. 
 
 ' But 'ee sed,' she began eagerly, ' as how ugly 
 mawthers were took i' tha play and med beautiful. 
 Weel-favoured wimmin thim must be — must be — ' 
 
 ^ Dazzlin' like tha sun, my wench ! ' said Dick 
 emphatically. ^ 0' course tha beauties alius looks 
 tha best. Lawk-a-deary me, why if a pretty gell 
 git o' tha stage, she'll go wed a duke afore Christ- 
 mas ! '
 
 THE SABBATH-BREAKEE. 109 
 
 ' Bat liow does ^ee git theer ? ' asked Avice_, with 
 panting breast. 
 
 Dick looked very tlionghtful^ but lie winked his 
 eye with dull unction. 
 
 -I ' Eh, ma dear, I dun' knaw. I is na a pretty 
 gell. But I think as how if I v-as un Fd jist go 
 wheer a playhouse were ; and Fd walk in and IM 
 ax to see the gintleman as kips it ; and Pd show 
 him ma bonny face and ma bonny fute, and a' tha 
 gowd o' ma hair, and I would na doubt much as 
 heM pit me on tha boords/ 
 
 Avice listened breathlessly. 
 
 ^ A'out money ? ' she asked. 
 
 ^ Well/ said Dick, ' there is some as pays money 
 to git theer, I know ; but a handsome wench — she 
 ha' got her siller i' her eyes and her lips. If I 
 were ye, Avice, I'd hev a try, that 1 'ud, i' tha 
 wake-week. He could na but say ye nay.' 
 
 She listened thirstily, and with longing, won- 
 dering gaze. 
 
 ' But I is na bright ? ' she said, sullenly. 
 ' Clever, ye knaw — I canna read but a bit or tew.' 
 
 Dick snapped his fingers. 
 
 ' Wimmen as good lookin' as ye, lassie, need na 
 larn theer ABC! But m'appen ye would na like
 
 no PUCK. 
 
 to leave Isaac/ lie added slily. ' He's a strappin' 
 lad, sure-ly/ 
 
 ^ I^d leave him tliis minnit ! ' slie said savagely, 
 twisting to and fro her yards of new scarlet 
 ribbon. 
 
 ' Ye'r wispin^ tba ribbon, ma dear/ said Dick, 
 calmly ; then lie bent towards lier and whispered in 
 her ear : ^ Ben dinna know o't ? ^ 
 
 She coloured scarlet as her ribbons over her 
 face and bosom, as she murmured back a faint 
 negative. 
 
 ' Thin, my wench, git awa' soon, ta playhouse o' 
 somewheres if ye^re wise,' muttered Dick, still in 
 her ear, with a chuckle and a grin. Avice, still 
 with the hot flush on her face and tingeing still her 
 swelling breast, shook him off and went within. 
 The old man, still chuckling to himself, climbed 
 slowly up the hill to the moorside. 
 
 ' She'll go ta playhouse,' I heard him mutter. 
 ^ And tlia dukes will rin mad ower Isaac's cast-off ! 
 Lawk-a-day ! the lords' light-o'-loves is alius a 
 honest man's leavin's ! '
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 HIS FIRST BETRAYAL. 
 
 T was autumn-time ; and work being slack at 
 tlie quarry, Ben went ' sl ploughin^/ to the 
 various farmsteads lying around; — little clus- 
 ters of white or gray buildings, with roofs of thatch 
 or red tile, that broke here and there the dark blue 
 of the distant pine woods, the purple of the hills, or 
 the green of the woods and meadows. 
 
 Mounting the slope behind our cottage to its 
 highest point, where it became moorland, and shelv- 
 ed down again on the other side, you could see for 
 thirty miles about on every side, and many of these 
 little homesteads caught your sight, nestled in the 
 dip of a valley, caught in the cleft of a rock, or
 
 112 PUCK. 
 
 perched on the brow of a hill. Some few of these 
 were far too distant to allow him to go and come 
 to them in the day, and he slept where his work 
 chanced to be. At such times I missed him greatly ; 
 and Trust sat with a grave, anxious countenance on 
 the doorsill, every now and then awaking the echoes 
 with a short woe-begone howl. 
 
 He was going for six days' agricultural work to 
 a farm near Ashford-in-the-Water on the same 
 week that the ' wakes/ so strongly eulogized by 
 the pedlar, were to take place ; and Avice, on 
 the Sunday night before his departure, pleaded 
 hard with him for permission to go thither for the 
 great day of all. Old Dame Smedly, the fern-seller, 
 was going, she urged, and would take her. 
 
 ' It's tew far for tha donkey to kem and go i' 
 twelve hours, my lass,' he objected, ^and I dunna 
 like for ye to sleep fra' hame. Least o' all, tew, i' 
 that town where I dunna knaw a soul.' 
 
 'But Dame Smedly dew, Ben,' persisted his 
 sister. ' She hev a half-cousin, an unco' decent 
 man, as own a Public theer, and we culd sleep i' his 
 house tha night, and thin back agen wi' marn. 
 Ye knaw j^e've axed her to be wi' me here whiles 
 ye're on tha tramp.'
 
 HIS FIRST BETRAYAL. 113 
 
 ^ Pm no^ goin' on tramp^ lass/ said Ben^ a trifle 
 annoyed. ^ Vm. a goin^ tew Ashford i^ tha Water ; 
 ye mind it right on well. A Public bean^t tha sort 
 o' place for ye, my dearie; there's alius a lot 
 of men a^ skittles, and bad wimmin a trolloping 
 about. ^ 
 
 ' It^s a very 'spectable house, Ben ! ' moaned 
 Avice. '' And I think it shame to cast foul words 
 agin the old dame^s folks, as is a main deal better 
 off than us aren't.^ 
 
 ' I dinna cast no words at ^em/ said Ben, pa- 
 tiently. ' I ony ses, as I allays ses, that a Public 
 ain^t a place for sich a wench as yew.' 
 
 ' It^s tha ony roof I can sleep under, Ben ! — and 
 to lose this wakin^ will kill me, it will ! There^s a 
 fair, and merry-go-rounds, and play-actin^, and 
 conjurin^, and lots o^ dancin^ ; — an^ I didna think 
 je'd be so cruel as to do me out oH ! Whin I sees 
 nothin^ in this lonely hole fra one yearns end to 
 toother ! ' 
 
 And Avice burst into tears; using the great 
 weapon of her sex without stint or scruple. 
 
 Of course Ben gave in, and let her have her way ; 
 the more quickly, though not the more readily, 
 because he knew well that if he did not let her have
 
 114 PUCK. 
 
 it^ slie would take it_, — the moment liis back was 
 turned. 
 
 ' Gie me a kiss^ my lass/ he said sadly _, when the 
 storm had passed^ and she consented to smile 
 through her tears. ' Mebbe ye wunna be up afore 
 Pm off to-morro\' 
 
 She kissed him willingly ; with pretty caressing 
 ways and words. 
 
 Surely Judas must have been a woman — dis- 
 guised ? 
 
 With the first gray streak of the morning, he 
 went on his way, over the hills to the Wye-watered 
 dales, where his labour lay, among the golden-brown 
 woods of the autumn. 
 
 He signed Trust gently back with his hand, and 
 bid him stay and mind the place ; my head he 
 touched lightly and fondly. 
 
 '^ Good-bye, little un,^ he murmured kindly; 
 ^ni soon be wi^ ye agin.' 
 
 Then he went ; through the gray, damp, vapour- 
 ous air, that was like clouds of steam over all the 
 hills, and whitened as snow all the valleys. There 
 had been no one up to set his breakfast, or to bid 
 him God speed. 
 
 As he drew the door after him, and left us alone
 
 HIS FIRST BETRAYAL. 115 
 
 in the feeble, sickly light of the solitary rush-caudle 
 by which he had groped his way to the poor meal he 
 had eaten. Trust threw up his head and gave his 
 long wailing agonized howl. 
 
 ' That won^t bring him back ? ' I hazarded, for 
 the noise made me feel so miserable. 
 
 ' I know that ! ' said Trust, sharply. ' Howling 
 won't bring a dead sheep to life, but many are the 
 dead sheep I have howled over ; where they lay stiff 
 and frozen, down in a snow-drift, poor fools. Though 
 we canH help things, we grieve for them. If you 
 never do that when you are grown up, you will be as 
 hard as a stone — or a woman ! ' 
 
 After which answer, he recommenced his lament- 
 ations, with much seeming relief to himself; until 
 Avice opened her door, and called to him to be 
 quiet, or ^ she'd bang his head off his shoulders.-' 
 
 His reply to this was another howl, only louder, 
 shriller, and more prolonged than ever. She sent a 
 piece of heavy wood flying at him, down the stairs. 
 
 Trust watched it coming, got out of its way, and 
 with much contentment saw it shiver the little 
 angle of looking-glass on the wall. Then, satisfied 
 with his vengeance, he composed himself into a 
 ball, and was silent.
 
 116 PUCK. 
 
 Trust and I had a bad life for the next three 
 days with Avice, and the old woman^ Smedley; we 
 should have had a worse, only that they were fear- 
 ful of him when he growled, and this he did, very 
 nearly unceasingly, from morning till night. 
 
 On the third day, the husbandman on the Moor 
 Farm borrowed Trust to help him bring in some 
 sheep from a distant part of the moor on which they 
 had been turned out for the late summer graze, and 
 I saw my only friend leave me, with a sinking at my 
 heart ; — a foreboding of what ill I could not tell. 
 
 The fourth morning was that on which Avice and 
 the dame were going to the wakes ; and the donkey- 
 cart was at the door by six o^ clock of the dawn. 
 
 I had understood that ' Nell o^ the Moor Farm * 
 had promised to look after me, in recompense for 
 the loan of Trust at the sheep -fetching. So I 
 was amazed and frightened when Avice — wondrous 
 to behold in the diamonds, and the lace, and a very 
 bright blue print dress, and the morsel of a hat, all 
 aglow with the scarlet ribbons — ^jammed me into 
 one of those quaint brown willow-baskets, peculiar 
 to that district, shut the lid with only a peep-hole for 
 air, and set me up on the cart with her bundles and 
 the old woman^s red cloak.
 
 HIS FIRST BETRAYAL. 117 
 
 I moaned, I whined, I yelped, I made all tlie 
 uproar I knew how; but it was of no avail; they 
 did not heed me ; the cart went jogging on its 
 way. 
 
 Through the chinks of the basket I looked at the 
 little cottage, like a robin^s-nest in an ivy bush, 
 with the white morning mists hovering above it on 
 the great hill slope, and the bright brown brook 
 running by its door. 
 
 Alas ! I never saw it again. 
 
 The road which the cart took was not up the hill 
 and across the moors ; it penetrated the whole width 
 of the wood, and then went through a shallow 
 * sough ' * of water, which was in winter too swollen 
 to allow of any thoroughfare that way ; and then 
 passed over the brow of a steep stony slope, and so 
 got at last into a high road, called, like a score of 
 others in the country, the Derby road. 
 
 My heart died utterly, as we were dragged this 
 weary length, in a progress only interrupted by 
 the dead pauses of the donkey, and the loud 
 blows rained upon his back. I thought of Trust, 
 running, leaping, barking, so joyously, so excitedly, 
 so full of eagerness and of importance, on the far- 
 * A small lagoon, such as is called in Xorfolk a ' broad.'
 
 118 PUCK. 
 
 away purple moor bringing home tlie sheep : — if 
 only he had known ! 
 
 For I had no sort of doubt or hope left in me ; I 
 knew that she was going to sell ^ tha pup/ as well as 
 though I had heard her proclaim aloud her wicked 
 intent. 
 
 The journey seemed endless to me ; we jogged 
 at last into a little clean, old-fashioned, stone-built 
 town, shady with many trees, and with a noble 
 ancient church in the centre of its market-place. 
 I should think it was usually as quiet as its own 
 grave-yard ; but now in wake week it was thronged 
 with men and women and children from all the out- 
 lying villages. Its church bells were ringing merrily 
 and madly ; its market-place was thronged with 
 booths, and shows, and sports, and flags ; and out- 
 side a wooden building, on a platform, there Avere 
 the play-actors of the peddler^s legend, strutting to 
 and fro in all the glory of gold, and silver, and 
 velvet robes, and waving plumes, while one gor- 
 geous creature in scarlet and amber blew his 
 trumpet loudly, and proclaimed the performance of 
 the night. 
 
 ' Lawk a mussy, look ! ^ I heard Avice cry out ; 
 oh, ain^t it beautiful ? What I ^ud give to ony
 
 HIS FIEST BETRAYAL. 119 
 
 be tliat girl wi' the short pink skirt_, and the silver 
 shoon, and that crown upo^ her head ! ' 
 
 I could have told her that she had looked a thou- 
 sand times prettier herself^ washing in the burn^ 
 with her linen kirtle tucked up to her knees^ and 
 her white arms and bosom coming forth from the 
 brown leathern boddice like white moss roses out of 
 russet autumn leaves. 
 
 But if I could have spoken^ what use would it 
 have been to have told such a truth as that to a 
 woman ? With all theii' egregious vanity — voracious 
 of flattery as a fish of food — they are always dis- 
 trustful of themselves when arrayed in the garment 
 of simplicity. 
 
 At another time I should have thought the 
 market-place a gay scene enough, in its way, with 
 its colour, movement, noise, and mirth; and that 
 rich blue sky of the dying summer over all the 
 quaint peaked roofs. 
 
 As it was, I was wretched. 
 
 We stopped at a dirty tumble-down little ale- 
 house, which a gaudy sign proclaimed as the 
 ' Miner^s Joy ; ^ there were lead mines the other 
 side of the town in the heart of a luxuriant wood- 
 land, once a royal chase. Here Avice and her
 
 120 PUCK. 
 
 companion were noisily welcomed ; and she, for that 
 matter,, embraced by a knot of men before the 
 ' Public^s ' door, of whom one was her host. 
 
 She laughed a little with them ; drank a draught 
 of spiced ale, then took me up-stairs in my basket to 
 her room. When she had put the finishing touches 
 of finery to herself, she went out of the attic with 
 a loud slam to the ricketty door, and left me to my 
 meditations, which were none of the brightest. 
 
 It was now near the hour of sunset. 
 
 Through the thin wattled walls of the ^ Public,' 
 and through the open lattice, I could hear the 
 various voices — now of a man and a woman who 
 seemed husband and wife, and were in the adjoining 
 garret — now of the persons gathered drinking in 
 the wide thatched porch below. 
 
 'Thar go the wench,' said one of the former, 
 the wife I think by her voice, by which I suppose 
 Avice was meant. ' She hev trim limbs o' hern, she 
 hev — kiver ground like a Polly-wash-the-dish-up.'* 
 
 ' Esau bean't a losin' time,' said the man with 
 a grin in his voice. ' Theer's his arm aboat her 
 a'ready.' 
 
 ' She's a willin' un,' sighed his wife sadly. ^ She 
 * A water-wagtail.
 
 HIS FIRST BETRAYAL. 121 
 
 dunno let grass grow a'neatli Iter slioon i^ courtin.'' 
 
 ' She^s abuve Esau, tew/ said the husband. 
 ' She axed jist now how many dukes theer was 
 i' England—' 
 
 ' What did tell her ? ' 
 
 ^ Sed as theer warn'a but one. An' theer is na. 
 Ony our duke_, old woman.' 
 
 ' Xo, for sure. But what could gell want wi' 
 dukes ? ' 
 
 ' She's franzy wi' her bit o' oat-cake ; an' mad 
 for a plum' un/ answered the other allegoric- 
 ally. ^ It's thim chip news-sheets as dew mischief 
 ta gells and lads ; makin 'em quar'l wi' their lot_, 
 and git sae cock-a-whoop an' fulish as theer's nae 
 standin 'em.' 
 
 ' And that's trew. But un mun knaw how 
 world wags ? ' 
 
 M^Tiy mun ye?' grumbled the man. "Taint 
 nought t'ye. Ye mind yer kittle biles, and yir hins 
 lay; an yer cabbage dunna get worums, and yer 
 childer dunna tell lies to 'ee; — that's wot ye've 
 gotten ta dew. World dunna want 'ee, 'tis big 
 enow to take care o' itsell — ' 
 
 ^ Sure I'm alius slavin' for childer/ said his wife, 
 with somethino- like a sob.
 
 122 PUCK. 
 
 ^ Ye lets ^em lie/ growled tlie other. ^ Littlest 
 un, he told me a wopper yest'reen. I gie him a rare 
 crack o^ pate for ^t. Keddin^ news-sheets an' pratin' 
 o' worlds whiles worums gits at yer greens^ an^ lies 
 comes pat ta yer bairns^ — that^s just screeching at 
 neighbom-'s chimbley-smoke_, an^ lettin^ yer ain place 
 burn ta ashes.' 
 
 Here the conjugal discussion was drowned by 
 the tones of the men in the porch, who were talking 
 political economies— after their light. 
 
 ^ Times is bad i' Suffeck ? ^ said one voice with 
 an inquiring accent in it. 
 
 *^ Main bad/ concurred another which had not the 
 north-country speech that is Chaucer-like and full 
 of a curious unconscious poetry _, but had instead the 
 whine of Bast Anglia that is as like the New Eng- 
 land whine as the call of one chaffinch is like to 
 another. ^ Six shillin' a week is a'most all as iver ye 
 git. Theer won^t be no corn growed soon, if pipple 
 starve-like a farmin' as we does.' 
 
 ' Six shillin' a week ! ' ejaculated the miner. 
 * Women git as much at mill ! ' 
 
 ' Hey ? ' said the Suffolk man. ^ And a shillin' 
 or ten pence every week out o' that for landlord. 
 We niver gits a taste o' meat, year's end t' year's
 
 HIS FIRST BETRAYAL. 123 
 
 end. And when flour^s riz, it^s all as ye can dew to 
 kip body and soul tegitlier.-' 
 
 ' AATiere's Suffeck ? ' asked some other per- 
 son. ^ I' xlmericay ? ' 
 
 ' Americay ! Ye're a born natural. It's some- 
 wheres i' tha souths ain't it_, George ? ' 
 
 ass/ assented the Suifolk George. ^ 'Tis all 
 butifull and flat as yor hand theer^ none o't broke up 
 into these nasty mounds o' yourn as is ony made to 
 lame man and beast. Ye may walk hunderds o' 
 miles i' SufFeck, and hev it all as smooth and as 
 nice as a mawther's ap'on wi' the starch in.' 
 
 ' But ye dunna get good wage ? ' said the 
 miner with practical wisdom. 
 
 ^AYe doan't/ confessed the East Anglian_, ''we 
 aoan't. And that theer botherin' machinery as do the 
 threshin'_, and the reapin'^ and the sawin'^ and the 
 mowin'^ hev a ruined us. See ! — in old time, when 
 ground was frost-bit or water-soaked, the min 
 threshed in-doors, in barns, and kep in work so. 
 Bat now the machine, he dew all theer is to dew, 
 and dew it up so quick. Theer's a many more 
 min than theer be things to dew. In winter- time 
 measter he doan't want half o' us ; and we're just 
 out o' labour ; and we fall sick, cos o' naethin' to
 
 124 PUCK. 
 
 eat ; and goes tew parish — able-bodied min strong 
 as steers/ 
 
 *" Macliine^s o^ use i' mill-work/ suggested one 
 of the northerners. 
 
 ^0^ use ! ay o^ coorse His o' use — tewtha measters/ 
 growled the East Anglian. *" But if ye warnH 
 needed at yer mill cos the iron beast was a weavin* 
 and a' reelin^ and a dewin of it all, howM yer feel ? 
 Wi^ six children, mebbee, biggest ony seven or 
 eight, a crazin^ ye for bread. And ye maynH send 
 ^em out, cos o^ labour-laws, to pick up a halfpenny 
 for theerselves ; and tha passon be all agin yer, cos ye 
 warnH thrifty and didnH gev a penny for the forrin 
 blacks out o^ the six shillin' a week ? Would yer 
 think iron beast wor o' use thin ? or would yer 
 damn him hard ? ^ 
 
 ^ He speak up well,' hallooed one of the miners, 
 with a thump upon the table. 
 
 ' Fll speak agin Mm any day,' said the Suflfolk- 
 er with fierce emphasis. ' Why, look'ee, Fm 
 better off nor most. Fd some schoolin' when I was 
 a brat ; and I scraped and scraped till I got a cow, 
 and I can make ends meet a bit, wi' the butter in 
 summer-time. But there's a swarm of men in the 
 parish as dunno more'n tha beasts in stye. Dunno
 
 HIS FIRST BETKAYAL. 125 
 
 their God ; dunno their letters ; never heard o^ tha 
 Queen; never put a mossel o^ mutton in their 
 mouths — dunno nothin\ Field-work is sickly-like^ 
 ^cos o^ tha wind and weather ; and when yer comes 
 to trampin"* six mile out^ and six in^ and ditchin^ 
 or ploughin^ all day i^ tha wet_, it stan^ to reason as 
 how tha rheumatic come hot and heavy arter a bit, 
 wi^ min and w^immin tew. Farmers, they kip theer 
 greyhounds t' run for Cups and that loike ; and kill 
 sheep for ■'em Against their coursin-meetens ; but 
 their min, they dew starve mostly ; and tha cup- 
 board he^s empty and the chuchyard he^s full. You 
 see the lands is too small and min they^re too many. 
 That^s wheer it be.' 
 
 ' Gentry take up sa much o^t wi' woods for 
 shootin^/ grumbled the miner in answer. '^If ye was 
 ta till a^ the grown' wheer's wood — ' 
 
 ' Nay, nay,' objected the Suffolker. ' That woan't 
 dew. Woods is health to land; in field-work ye 
 maun' gie an' take, as wi' yer fellows. If ye doan't 
 gie timber elbow-room, yer soil '11 be parchin' w4' 
 dry loike a duck in a hayloft. If ye fell yer wood 
 ivery wheers tha land she'll gape wi' cracks, loike 
 a trollop's gound wi' holes — ' 
 
 ' Thin theer's nowt for't but t' immigrate? '
 
 126 PUCK. 
 
 ' To dew wot ? ' 
 
 ^ To gae beyant seas^ ta new countries.'' 
 
 ' Never heerd on ^em.^ 
 
 ^ Lord sake ! Why^ my brither he's theer — in 
 Australy — and lie ses as liow tlia land's jest bustin' 
 like wi' plenty, an' ye can hae mutton for a farthin' 
 a poun', an' ye can get a fat ewe for sixpence, and 
 ye don't never see naebody chilled, nor clemmed, 
 nor tatter'd.' 
 
 ^ Lawk-'a-mussy ! Well — 't 'ud come cheaper 
 to Parish to sind us all theer, I'm thinkin', than to 
 kip so many on us all starvin' and rottin' at whoam ? ' 
 
 ' They dew send a many.' 
 
 ' Mebbe. Never heard o't in our parts. They 
 s'uld come and spik about it ; and shove us a bit 
 and git us off right away : ye know we're rare and 
 like the blow-flowers in pots. We'd stick in pots 
 for iver, a'out blowin' nor naethin' ; and jist gie 
 up tha ghost along o' theer bein' no mould, and 
 no room, and our roots a clingin', and a clingin', 
 a'out nought to feed 'em. But pit plant in bigger 
 pot — pot him out o' doors, whether he like 't or not 
 — and he'll git strikin' agin, and blowin' like mad. 
 He will ; and so 'ud we. I'd loike to hear more o' 
 these new lands ? '
 
 HIS FIRST BETRAYAL. 127 
 
 ' Pll git Sue to read tha letter to ye if 'ee come 
 o'er to my place/ rejoined the Peak miner. ' She 
 read rare. She don't hev to spell out not more'n 
 ivery ither word or so. Be 'ee long in these parts?' 
 
 ' I kem 'scursion. First time I was iver out o' 
 Suffeck. But my aunt she hev done well^ a marryin' 
 this Public ; and I tho't Pd see her for onst. Ye're 
 main and queer^ wi' yer land all muddled like into 
 these up and downs. Ye must ha' raje big moles 
 to throw up sich sky-high mouns ?\/ 
 
 This was uttered with no sense ^ humour^ but 
 in a very grave spirit of wonder and of inquiry. 
 
 I did not catch the miner's reply^ as the men 
 moved within^ no doubt to get fresh tobacco and 
 more beer ; and instead of their conversation I heard 
 again the grave_, grumbling tones of the husband 
 and the more plaintive ones of the wife in the attic 
 near me^ whose lower voices had been drowned by 
 the loud arguments of the East Anglian. 
 
 ^ Ben will ha' trouble i' that gell/ I heard the 
 voice of the man say. ^ She's off trapezin about 
 a'ready; crazed-like to gape at ta play-actors.' 
 
 ' Well-a-day ! that's ony nat'ral/ said the softer 
 female voice,, with the tender exclamation that has 
 lingered in those parts since the days of your
 
 128 PUCK. 
 
 Shakespeare. ^ Gells sud bide by hearth^ I know 
 
 that right on well ; but when they^re young, and 
 
 hanna na mother like_, they gits dazed wi' lookin^ i^ 
 
 tha glass, and hearin^ tha lads crack o^ theer gude 
 
 looks. And for sure ^tis a bit dullish for Avice, all 
 
 along o' hersilf i' tha quarry-wood, and she^s jast 
 
 a bonny, feckless thing, wi^ na mind in her.' 
 
 ' She hev as good a home as ony jade can want,' 
 
 growled the man ; ' Ben's that douce tew her, and 
 
 that fearfu' o' crossin' her, that she live, she dew, 
 
 like a mouse i' a corn-bin. But theer it is — pit 
 
 mice i^* corn-bin, pit 'em i' a barn wheer theer' s a 
 
 score o' coombs i' sack, and a score o' coombs a' 
 
 lyin' loose, — why, ye know, Jess, as I know, mice 
 
 they'll niver go eat tha loose corn, they'll jist gnaw 
 
 holes i' tha sackin', for sheer sake o' thievin' and 
 
 reivin'.* And wimmen they's just like mice; giv' 
 
 'em their pleasure easy to come by, they'll nashen 
 
 and fritten theirselves till they can run aside and 
 
 gnaw tha sackin' of some joy as God and men hev 
 
 * I also have heard farmers say this of mice in a barn : but in 
 justice to the maligned rodents I must say that I have had two mice in 
 my rooms for the last six months, which, being well fed, never have 
 touched food not given them, even when left alone for hours. The 
 theft of all animals comes from hunger. I do not believe any of them 
 cai-e to steal for stealing's sake— except perhaps monkeys, to whom 
 theft is charming because it is mischief. — Ed.
 
 HIS FIKST BETRAYAL. 129 
 
 forbid to ^em. It^s queer — it^s awfa^ queer. But 
 m^appen tha Almighty knew himself wliat lie med 
 tha vermin and tha gells for — it^s more nor we dew, 
 I reckon/ 
 
 And with that sorrowful reflection^ sadly uttered, 
 his voice ceased, and his heavy nailed boots clanged 
 slowly down the wooden stairs. I never knew who 
 it was that spoke, but I conclude it must have been 
 some miner, or quarry cutter, or ploughman, who 
 thus addressed his wife ; in that utter oblivion that 
 she must have been once a ^ gell ' herself, which 
 seems a natural result of the bonds of marriage. 
 
 I was left alone all the day, evening, and night ; 
 and whimpered and sobbed myself to sleep as best I 
 could, with the big autumnal moon glowing through 
 the little leaded lattice, and the shouts of the town- 
 ship^s revelry coming faintly on the soft night wind. 
 
 It was dawn when Avice Dare returned : full 
 dawn. Her face was deeply flushed; her hair 
 dishevelled ; her dress disordered ; she laughed 
 vacantly as she moved about, and she threw herself 
 half undressed upon the bed, and slept soundly, 
 without a single movement, several hours through, 
 lying face downward with the air blowing in upon 
 her. 
 
 VOL. I, 9
 
 130 PUCK. 
 
 I had once seen a man drunk at tlie quarry ; it 
 seemed to me that she laughed,, and moved^ and slept 
 very much as he had done, under the potency of 
 liquor. 
 
 Yet when at noon she awoke, and bathed her- 
 self in the cold, clear water, and shook out all her 
 tresses, and dressed herself in a white boddice and 
 a scarlet kirtle, she looked so charmingly, thanks 
 to her youth, and her health, and her wonderfully 
 perfect beauty, that I felt as if my suspicion was 
 hateful and full of shame. 
 
 She stopped in her attiring once ; and leaned 
 her head on her hand ; and stared at her face and 
 form in the piece of mirror, which was much larger 
 than her little bit of glass at home. 
 
 She seemed to survey herself quite mercilessly, 
 with all her love for herself; and to be taking stock, 
 as it were, of her capital of physical loveliness. 
 •The scarlet lips, the glowing brown eyes, the round 
 white arms, the bosom that rose above the edge 
 of the boddice that only rivalled it in whiteness ; 
 the tender tints and the soft curves of her limbs 
 — she studied them all with a curious mingling of 
 vain worship, and of mercantile foresight, fused in 
 one.
 
 HIS FIRST BETEAYAL. 131 
 
 Tlien slie dressed herself in liaste_, claspiuo- 
 about lier a quantity of fresli tawdry trinkets — new 
 gifts^ no doubt_, from tlie fair — and turned lier 
 attention to me^ whom she seized with a sharp and 
 feverish force ; as though I were in some manner 
 the talisman whereby she would summon the magic 
 of Fortune. 
 
 It was a lovely morning; through the open 
 Tvindow the autumn air blew strong and sweet ; the 
 sun shone ; the rooks in the high trees cawed ; the 
 bells of the churches chimed merrily; — but A\'ice 
 heeded none of these. 
 
 She consigned me afresh to my basket ; and as 
 this time I was permitted no peep-hole at all^ I could 
 only surmise that I was carried down-stairs into the 
 little dirty porch of the house. This porch^ with 
 oak settles fixed against it^ was a favourite drink- 
 ing-place of the miners, I believe ; and more 
 spiced ale, and toast, and mulled elder ^vine with 
 crab apples bobbing in it, and possets of various 
 kinds made with honey and milk, and cloves and 
 apples, and all the old Elizabethan drinks that are 
 still brewed in the North, were being eagerly called 
 for, with the sweet circular wake cake always in 
 vosrue on such occasions.
 
 132 PUCK. 
 
 To all tliese^ Avice^ it seemed, rendered fall 
 justice; as the men kept crying to lier, ^Well 
 drained, my lass/ ' Take a sup o' this/ ' That's 
 a good un to drink, aren't she V 'Ye suld kip a 
 public, my wench ; ye're jist tha one for't/ But if 
 she drank much she did not tell what was in her 
 basket, and she went, at length, forth, decorous- 
 ly enough with the old woman Smedley, into the 
 streets and the market-place. 
 
 For myself — I was too terrified to do anything, 
 even to moan ; and the close confinement of the 
 basket made me feel very faint. 
 
 I suppose she met some one by appointment, for 
 she stopped in a lonely by-street, and a man's voice 
 addressed her; a small, thin, wiry voice, that I hated. 
 
 ' Am I right, ma'am ? I think I must be, Dick 
 told me to look for the prettiest lady in all the town.' 
 
 Avice laughed ; a laugh of pleasure, at the 
 coarse stupid compliment. 
 
 ' Are ye the genleman as wants a dog ? ' she 
 said, ' leastways a pup ? ' 
 
 'I am, ma'am. I always want pups ; I deal in 'em.' 
 
 ' Well, thin — I hae brought 'ee un. Brither 
 Ben he dunna know ; he'll be mad like : — I'll hev to 
 tell him as how I took tapup wi' me, 'cause I feared
 
 HIS FIEST BETRAYAL. 133 
 
 as how Nell o^ Moor-side ^ud forgit to gie it its 
 mealsj and i^ the press o^ market-place I lost it. I 
 sail hev to tell liim some gammon like, surely, — for 
 lie^s rare and fond o^ ta 23up ' 
 
 ' All, I see ! But you, ma^am, naturally do not 
 like dogs about the house ? ^ 
 
 ' Oh, I dunna care for that. ^Tis a teasin' little 
 wretch, for sure ; but they dew say as how ^tis a 
 deal o^ valew, and I want tha gowd, as Dick told 
 ye, and so ^ 
 
 ' I see ! Allow me ' 
 
 ^ Allow me,^ meant opening my basket, and 
 taking me out by the skin of my neck ; a barbar- 
 ous custom too prevalent. 
 
 They were standing, quite alone, under an arch- 
 way that connected a malting-house and a meeting- 
 chapel — a droll metaphor in stone, of the Church 
 leaning on the World. 
 
 This part of the town was entirely deserted ; the 
 noise and merriment were but dimly heard ; no one 
 was near. 
 
 He examined me with the most minute and de- 
 testable attention, and looked very shrewd and 
 avaricious as he did so. Finally he replaced me in 
 the basket.
 
 134 PUCK. 
 
 ^ Your price is higli^ ma^ain : very. high. I 
 doubt if I shall ever see it back again. The pup is 
 not of the value jou suppose : nothing like it^ still — 
 as I promised Dick ; and as you need the gold ; and 
 as the dog is certainly pretty, to say nothing of its 
 mistresses beauty ; I will purchase it for what you 
 asked.e 
 
 ^ Three pun^/ said Avice, thirstily. 
 
 ' Three pounds, — including basket ? ^ 
 
 ' Oh ! ye may have tha basket ! ' said Avice, with 
 feverish haste. ^ Hand o^er the gowd, theer^s a good 
 crittur ! ' 
 
 He counted three sovereigns slowly into her 
 hand : it clutched and closed on them, and without 
 even a word of thanks or farewell, she drew her 
 skirts up about her, and flew off down the street 
 like a lap-wing. 
 
 The man stood and gazed after her, bewildered 
 at her sudden flight. 
 
 ^ She's a queer one,' he muttered. ' No good I 
 fear; for all her handsome face. But the dog's 
 worth twice his money, anyhow.-' 
 
 With that he heaved up my basket^ and bore me 
 away to his lodgings. 
 
 I was his henceforward.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN THE MAEKET-FLACE. 
 
 T is of no use now, to recount all the misery 
 
 I I suffered. 
 
 I can recall it as thougli it were yester- 
 day ; and I cried my very lieart out like a baby 
 as I was. Tlie man was not at the first unkind 
 to me ; though he struck me some few times 
 sharply with a riding switch, when I would not 
 cease from my moaning and sobbing. He was 
 rough too, and hurt me in handling, but he did 
 not starve me. He chained me, indeed, by my 
 light collar to the leg of a chair, and kept me 
 prisoner in his little sitting-room up-stairs that 
 looked out on the market-place ; but he was out a
 
 136 PUCK. 
 
 great deal^ and I was left chiefly alone. I might 
 be there but a day, I might be there for a we^k ; 
 I cannot recollect. I only know I was miserable. 
 The first thing that recalled me to consciousness 
 was the sharp sting of a whip across my back. I 
 shrieked with the pain : in Ben^s house even Avice 
 had never dared to beat me. The only response to 
 my cry was a sharper blow than the first ; — and this 
 was repeated, till I was literally blind and stupified, 
 and was quiet because numbed with anguish. 
 
 Then evil woke in me under my torments, and I 
 bit and foamed, and flew like a mad thing — ah ! 
 how often your ' mad dog ^ is only a dog goaded by 
 torture till he is beside himself, like a soldier deli- 
 rious from shot-wounds ! 
 
 The perfection of your scientific training is to 
 make us either cravens or furies ; what a fine result ! 
 
 For this defence of myself, I was thrust in a 
 dark closet, and locked in there for the rest of the 
 day and the night. 
 
 Over that time of misery I will pass ; I hardly 
 care even now to recall it. 
 
 With the next morning my new owner called me 
 out, and gave me some bread and milk. He did not 
 beat me this time ; I believe he was afraid he might
 
 IX THE MARKET-PLACE. 137 
 
 kill me as I was very delicate^, and thus lie might 
 never realize his lost three sovereigns. 
 
 After I had eaten this, he left me, chaining me 
 ao^ain to the leof of a chair under the window : and 
 locked the door of the little parlour upon me. 
 
 Once again alone, my grief was unrestrained ; so 
 much so that the woman of the house came and ham- 
 mered at the door and swore at me for a ^ dratted 
 yelping beast/ which only made my criesthe louder. 
 As several hours went on however and my solitude 
 remained unbroken, I cried myself so hoarse that I 
 was unable to emit any sort of sound at last ; and 
 thought I might as well vary my imprisonment by 
 looking out of the casement. 
 
 It was a deep old lattice window, shut ; but by 
 jumping on the chair I could see perfectly down 
 into the market-place ; and in spite of all my woe, 
 I derived a certain amusement from watching the 
 varied life and mirth that were to be seen below. 
 There was one little pane open too, for air ; and as 
 the window was low down, like the upper windows 
 of all country dwellings, I both saw and heard with 
 ease. 
 
 It was now fully past noon by the height of the 
 sun, and the fun of the wakes was mounting high
 
 138 PUCK. 
 
 also : — its perilielion of course was not till tlie 
 dances and the ^ play-actin ' of the night. 
 
 There were numerous tawny-coloured booths 
 filled with cheap to js^ and sweetmeats^ and spar orna- 
 ments, and wearing apparel, and all manner of tawdry 
 little fineries. There were the round-abouts in which 
 men and women and children went gravely circling 
 on wooden horses till they were giddy. There 
 were all sorts of quacks, vending everything from 
 medicines that cured every disease in the pharma- 
 copseia to knives with a hundred blades for twopence. 
 
 There were Cheap Jacks screeching them- 
 selves deaf over delf-plates from Staffordshire, 
 and earthenware pans, and copper saucepans, and 
 pewter pots, and shiny black kettles; all these 
 valuable articles being literally given away, they 
 averred, for a song. But when a lusty ploughman 
 took one of them at their word, and carolling forth 
 a stave of ' Daff'er Grey,^ claimed one of the black 
 kettles for his ' missus ^ as the recompense of his 
 musical performance, the Cheap Jack loudly pro- 
 tested against such literal interpretation of his 
 figurative language, and a very pretty bout with 
 fisticuff's was the result, — the innocent kettle ulti- 
 mately being battered to pieces in the fray.
 
 IX THE MAEKET-PLACE. 139 
 
 Sucli is men^s justice ; in all tlieir quarrels there 
 is always some poor luckless kettle wkick, sinless 
 itself, gets the blows from each side ! 
 
 Besides all these amusements^ there were itiner- 
 ant musicians playing in and out of tune ; there were 
 wandering organ boys with monkeys_, who had 
 strayed out of the cities with the ending of summer; 
 there were red-cheeked country lasses^ staring 
 open-mouthed at all the wonders^ and their sturdy 
 lovers from mine and farm, and quarry and marble 
 works, treating them to all these sights with broad 
 jokes and uproarious laughter. And lastly, there 
 was the crowning glory of the whole; the mimes 
 outside the wooden theatre, who were strutting 
 again to and fro, in all the spangle and silver lace, 
 and cotton velvet, and pink calico, of their royal 
 adornment. And over all the scene there arose one 
 loud and continuous hum and rage of every noise ever 
 heard under the sun ; from braying trumpets, penny 
 whistles, screaming infants, brawling men, shouting 
 vendors, untuneful brass bands, and screeching 
 women^s shrill incessant laughter. 
 
 For the spiced ales, and the mulled wines, and 
 the sweet possets, were driving a brisk sale — and 
 even at this time of the day the larger half of the
 
 140 PUCK. 
 
 crowd, male and female, had already taken far more 
 tlian was altogether good for it. 
 
 I looked everywhere in the tumult of the market- 
 place for the scarlet ribbons of my cruel tyrant and 
 traitress : but Avice was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 I recognized Isaac of the flour-mill — a tall, well- 
 favoured, flaxen-headed fellow of twenty-two or so, 
 but she was not with him. I thought he seemed 
 wholly devoted to a pretty little brown, modest- 
 looking maiden, whom I thought I had once seen 
 in the wood, and heard of as the blacksmith^ s 
 sister. Was Avice inside the theatre, I won- 
 dered ? — had she joined herself to the ' play-actors ' 
 in pursuit of the peddler's counsel ? 
 
 The afternoon sped fast, even in my captivity, 
 with all this throng below me to watch, in its 
 coming and going, its ebbing and flowing. The 
 deep, warm glow of the late day spread itself over 
 earth and sky; making mellow the grays of the 
 old stone buildings, and tingeing with a richer purple 
 the line of the circling pine-clad hills. 
 
 Suddenly — near on sunset — I heard a voice that 
 made my heart leap. It was asking — 
 
 ' Hev ony o' ye seed my Avice ? ' 
 
 It was the voice of my dear old gentle Ben !
 
 IN THE ^lAEKET-PLACE. 141 
 
 I stretched out as far as ever I could, but my 
 head would not go through the tiny aperture alone 
 left unclosed. I could see him standing almost 
 under my casement, but he could not see me. I 
 yelped, and barked, and screeched, in the longing 
 to attract his attention ; but my voice was feeble, 
 and he never heard. 
 
 ^ Hev ony o^ ye seed my wench V he asked again. 
 ^ She^s i^ the town, I know, wi' tha owd woman 
 Smedly?' 
 
 ' 1 seed Avice somewheres about,' said one of the 
 women, rather hurriedly : the others were silent. 
 
 Ben looked very happy ; he had a little rose in 
 his bosom, and was dressed in his best fustian suit. 
 
 ' 1 got ower work quick at ta Ashford Farms,-* he 
 said, with a ringing and cheerful voice, to the woman 
 who had spoken; a poultry-seller by trade, bright- 
 eyed, and with a pleasant elderly face, an old friend 
 of his, and of his mother^s before him. ' I knowM tha 
 little wench ^ud be here, and I kem ower to gie her 
 a treat like. IVe pit by a pund^s wuth o' siller 
 as she dunna guess aught about ; and she can ha^ 
 what she likes wi^ it — a gownd, or a shawl, or a lot 
 o' fairins, or jist whativer she fancies. She tolled 
 me as how tha public tha dame was to tek her tew
 
 142 PUCK. 
 
 was called tha " Wheatslieaf ; '^ but I canna find 
 " Wheatslieaf^" nohow/ 
 
 'Tlieer^s no '^^ Wheatslieaf ^^ i^ tlia town no- 
 wlieres/ said tlie poultry-woman^ in a very low 
 voice. 
 
 ^ Nowheres ? ' said Ben, astonislied. ^ For sure 
 thin tha lass is so careless, she'll ha forgat the right 
 name. But, however sail I find her if I dunna know 
 tha public ? I' such a throng as this'n, His like 
 lookin' for a needle i' a bottle o' hay. Ha' ony o' 
 ye seed her ? Ye sed ye had.' 
 
 ^ We seed her yisternight/ muttered a man in 
 the group about him. 
 
 *" Well ! wheer was that, thin ? Canna ye say ? ' 
 
 ' V tha porch o' '' Miners' Joy." ' 
 
 ^Ta ''Miners' Joy"? Is't that the public? 
 Wheer dew it stand ? I'll go straight tew it. It'll 
 git tew dusky for tha lass to see' to git her fairins, 
 and I hev to gae back wi' tha marn.' 
 
 The poultry dame laid her hand gently on his 
 arm. 
 
 ' Dinna gae to '' Miners' Joy," Ben.' 
 
 ' Why na ? ' he asked quickly. ' Why na ? ' 
 
 None of them spoke. He looked swiftly and 
 fiercely from one to the other.
 
 IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 143 
 
 *" What is^t ye kip fra me ? ^ lie said_, in a very 
 low voice^ while liis fair_, ruddy face grew white. 
 ' Is tha little lass dead ? ' 
 
 ' iS"aj na, Ben ! ' cried a score of voices. ^ Slices 
 Avell enow — trust lier tha minx. It's ony ^ 
 
 ' Ony what ? And how dares ye to call her 
 names ? ' 
 
 His mouth was set^ his face white as death_, his 
 gray sad eyes flashed fire. 
 
 The old poultry-woman still kept her firm^ 
 pitying hold on his arm. 
 
 ' Dunna ye tak on_,Ben. I'd na say a harsh word 
 o' yer mither^s child ; but tha lass is no worthy o' a 
 that. She^s a bad un ! ' 
 
 Ben flung oE her hand with a fierce oath. 
 
 ' If ^ee w^as ony a man as sed that ? Wheer\s 
 my lass ? Wheer's Avice ? Pll hev tha truth out o^ 
 ye^ sin I wring a' yer throttles for it ! ' 
 
 They were frightened at his gesture and his 
 tone : they called out as with one voice : 
 
 ' She sold ta pup tew days agone, Ben ; an she^s 
 gaed wi^ tha gowd she got to Lunnon town; and she^s 
 tolled tha play-actors she^s meanin' to be one o^ ^em 
 i' that great city ; and ye suldna tak on so ; for ivery 
 body knowed ^cept yoursell that she^s bin a gay un
 
 144 PUCK. 
 
 iv^er sin she cud cock her eye at a man. Theer 
 stan' Isaac o' tha corn-mill as was her sweetheart 
 this summer-time through ; — ax him — he'll tell ye 
 what a light-o'-love she was ; and wi' more'n na 
 him for sure if 'ee ony know'd all.' 
 
 Ben stood still and rigid^ with his face like a 
 dead man's^ and his teeth clenched on his lower lip 
 till the blood gushed from it. 
 
 Isaac was loitering near. 
 
 He flashed his gray eyes over the youth : 
 
 ' Isaac Clifi'e, be this'n tha truth ? ' he said 
 slowly. 
 
 Isaac grinned — a half- sheepish — a half- victorious 
 laugh. 
 
 ' 'Tis trew/ he muttered. ' And Pd ha' wed 
 her, and med a honest woman o' her_, I would,, Ben ; 
 — only ye sees she was bad^ core through.' 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered ere Ben had 
 sprung on him and seized him^ and flung him up in 
 the air. The lad was strong, and a famous wrestler; 
 he struggled, and fought, and dealt back blow for 
 blow ; but he had no force against the violence of 
 passion and of agony. 
 
 The people shrieked aloud that they were killing 
 one another, and tried to tear them asunder, and
 
 IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 145 
 
 fhrew themselves on the wrestling arms and heav- 
 ing forms ; and at length by sheer conquest of 
 numbers dragged Ben away off his prey, and held 
 him motionless amongst them, while others who 
 had come to the rescue, hurried the youth, swoon- 
 ing, and bruised, and bleeding from every limb, into 
 the shelter of the nearest ale-house in the market 
 square. 
 
 All the hearts of the dense throng were with 
 the dishonoured and forsaken man; they closed 
 around him and craved his pardon, and cried out 
 rough tender words of sympathy and sorrow ; while 
 the women, with tears coursing down their cbeeks, 
 left booth, and mart, and show, and came about him 
 and sought to comfort him. 
 
 ^ Dinna take on so,^ they murmured, ''sure tha 
 wench is no wurth it. An' she ha^ gone to play- 
 actin' and sin ; and ye^ll see her na more i^ this life ; 
 and we knows as ye ha' done sl' yer duty by her; 
 andwimmin ha' got tha deil in ^em sometimes; and 
 theer's na man strong enow to cope wi^ tha deil an' 
 a wench togither. Dinna ye tak^ on so ; je'ye 
 amaist killed tha poor lad, as was na so much to 
 blame whin a^'s been said.-* 
 
 But he heard no word that they spoke. He 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 rucK. 
 
 stood upright^ rigid as a stone; gazing straight 
 before him like a bull wounded unto death, but 
 with the power to slay still in him. 
 
 Then he threw his arms above his head with one 
 loud cry : 
 
 \ Tha little lass !— tha little lass ! ' 
 
 And he fell forward like one dead; his face 
 striking the stones of the street. 
 
 The people closed around him as mourners close 
 around a grave. 
 
 They hid him from my sight : I knew no more.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 JACOBS CHURCH. 
 
 CAN but dimly recall the nights and days 
 of misery that followed on my betrayal by 
 Avice Dare. 
 
 They are all in a bluiTed mass of blows, and 
 oaths, and dark closets, and starvation, and brutal 
 teaching of antics that were styled pretty tricks, and 
 nothing stands out clearly to me save the one 
 remembrance of how utterly wretched I was. 
 
 I think nothing in the world is so intensely 
 unhappy as an unhappy dog. We are of such vivid 
 natures, of such lively imaginations, of such constant 
 affection; and as we can never tell our woes, but 
 are almost sure to receive a cuff or a kick if we only
 
 148 PUCK. 
 
 murmur at our weary lot_, we are beyond all other 
 creatures miserable. 
 
 I wonder now tliat I did not die ; — but if 
 everything died that is full of wretchedness, your 
 world would soon have but a sparse peopling. 
 
 If the brutal treatment my purchaser looked on as 
 ' training/ had long endured, I dare say my young 
 and tender frame would have given way beneath it ; 
 my spirit certainly would have been broken. Hap- 
 pily for my safety he soon received an offer of a 
 few guineas for me, in a month's time from his 
 purchase of me, which he immediately accepted. 
 This offer transferred me to a new home, in which, 
 at least, I found peace and repose, although these 
 were accompanied by a rider which too often goes 
 with them — i. e. dullness. 
 
 It was in a dower-house, amidst the flatness and 
 unloveliness of that ' fen country,' whither the man 
 who had bought me of Avice had taken me when 
 he had sped by night out of the little Derbyshire 
 town, fearful no doubt of Ben's vengeance if he 
 should be discovered. Here I became the property 
 of an old and rich woman, who was the owner of 
 this melancholy though peaceful hermitage. 
 
 She was good to me in a general way, though
 
 JACOBS' CHUECH. 149 
 
 often precise and severe, and I suffered but little 
 whilst with her. But tliere was nothing there to 
 call my affections into play, and nothing that was of 
 sufficient interest to mark out those years in my 
 remembrance : nothino^ that could make me forg-et 
 the loss of my dear friends, Ben and Trust. 
 
 No doubt this period was beneficial to me, for they 
 were two years in which I was well fed, well cared 
 for, and taught all those gracious and highly -bred 
 manners which have ever since always distinguished 
 me. They were good years for me, morally and 
 physically, I am well aware ; but they were dull ones, 
 nevertheless, and bear to my mind all the haziness 
 and dreariness that your earliest school days com- 
 monly wear to yours. They were quite uneventful, 
 as life in the house of an aged, wealthy, and eccen- 
 tric recluse usually is ; and beyond the hours I 
 spent in the trim, high -walled, damp gardens, or in 
 the big, yellow carriage, like a state cabin on wheels, 
 I had absolutely no diversion except listening to 
 the interminable readings with which my old mis- 
 tress had her hours occupied. 
 
 She had been a woman of the world, in her time, 
 I believe, though I know not what trouble had 
 made her now a solitary in her dull jointure-house ;
 
 150 PUCK. 
 
 and slie was very liberal in lier range of literature. 
 All languages being equally intelligible to us, 
 (though we can never comprehend why you have 
 not all one and the same, as we superior animals 
 have,) I derived considerable entertainment from 
 hearing the innumerable works, in various tongues, 
 which her companion read aloud to her almost from 
 morning to night. 
 
 To my thinking, it seems as dreary work for any 
 person close on her grave to stuff her brains with 
 new knowledge, as for an artist to elaborately 
 fashion a piece of pottery that he knows will be 
 broken on the morrow; but she appeared not to 
 feel it so. Besides, she was very fond of French 
 memoirs, and of all sorts of fiction, on the principle, 
 I fancy, on which an actress, no longer upon the 
 stage, likes to read over the old comedies that she 
 once played in, when flowers were showered at her 
 feet, and all the gay gladness of triumph was around 
 her. 
 
 And thus my own mind, as I listened week 
 after week, month after month, to these continuous 
 and versatile readings, became stored with a vast 
 and varied human knowledge. The depth and width 
 of it will, no doubt, astonish you as you peruse my
 
 JACOBS' CHURCH. 151 
 
 autobiography, though I endeavour to suppress all 
 evidence of my scholarship as much as I can, since 
 I am aware that to ask one's reader, or one's spec- 
 tator, to think, is the direst offence that either 
 author or actor can ever commit. 
 
 Perhaps, also, if you find any touch of egotism, 
 as of vanity, in these volumes, you will kindly re- 
 member that in these early days of my education I 
 heard a great number of religious autobiographies. 
 It is remotely possible that their influence may still 
 colour my style ; though I had excellent counter- 
 infusions of all kinds, ranging from Martial to 
 Montespan, and trust that the latter sway is the 
 stronger. 
 
 No doubt these two years were salutary for me, 
 in body and in mind ; and the wondrous tales that I 
 heard read, filled me mth all the rash, eager, longing 
 of youth for a closer sight of this marvellous great 
 world. Alas ! it came in a manner I had little 
 looked for : I chanced one day to accidentally break 
 a very fine Yernis Martin vase, of which my old 
 mistress was extravagantly fond; and as I had been 
 often before denounced as a mischievous, tiresome, 
 frivolous little creature, because my animal spirits 
 and childish joyousness would ill tone down to the
 
 152 PUCK. 
 
 gray monotone of an aged invalid's desires, I was 
 forthwith sentenced to exile. A green and red 
 parrot — as monosyllabic a creature as a mechanical 
 toy, and as greedy as a Director_, or the Liquidator 
 that invariably comes after him — was purchased in 
 my stead ; and I was consigned to the butler, to be 
 sold wherever, and for whatever, he chose. 
 
 I need not say that in this place I had never 
 ceased to passionately regret my dear old master in 
 the noble pine woods of the Peak. Indeed, I had 
 sometimes lamented for him aloud in a grief that 
 brought on me angry words, and even angry strokes ; 
 so little sympathy have men or women ever with 
 our woes, although for theirs we feel so keenly, and 
 fret ourselves so ceaselessly. Twenty times at least 
 had I endeavoured to run away, with the full intent 
 of trying to find my road back alone to the well- 
 beloved little cottage under the rose-thorn. But I 
 had been always thwarted, overtaken, and puijished 
 for what they called ' straying,' though it was but 
 the simplest and most natural exercise of fidelity. 
 
 My anxiety, therefore, was tenfold increased at 
 the prospect of a new removal, which seemed to 
 consign me still farther from him, and might plunge 
 me into still greater wretchedness. Yet, like all
 
 JACOBS' CHURCH. 153 
 
 youth, hope mingled with my fear, and I vaguely 
 trusted that if the cominof chano^e did not take me 
 back to my first beloved home, it would, perchance, 
 lead to some brighter, gladder, more sympathetic 
 existence than that which I had spent in the old, 
 dull, moated dower-house amongst the marshes. 
 My little brain was teeming with a myriad of visions 
 — dogs have very vivid fancies, as you may tell by 
 the excitement of our dreams. I scarcely knew 
 whether I hoped most, or dreaded most, from the 
 new adventures into which I should be cast, when, 
 sold to a metropolitan dealer, the butler bore me 
 forth, for the last time, from the gloomy gates of the 
 place where, if I had not known joy, I had at least 
 been safe, and well, and innocent. 
 
 It was midwinter. 
 
 The fens were half covered with ice. The water- 
 fowls were dying of cold and of starvation by the 
 thousands. The bitter winds were rushing in from 
 the northern ocean across all those desolate marsh- 
 lands and reedy still lagoons. Farther towards the 
 east the sea was washing over the dykes and piers, 
 and the salt water was flooding coppice and meadow, 
 killing the river fish, and drowning the river birds, 
 till fisher and farmer were dumb with despair.
 
 154 PUCK. 
 
 It was a very cold^ clieerless season. It was a 
 very long and terribly weary journey in such weather 
 up to the Great City : a journey on which I verily 
 think I should have died^ had it not been for the 
 goodness of the railway guards who took me with 
 him in his van^ and wrapped me in a bit of rug. 
 
 We arrived late at night, and there was no 
 one to meet me at the station. The guard was off 
 duty till the next morning came round ; he pitied 
 me, and tucked me under his arm, and carried 
 me away. 
 
 ' PU take you round, myself,^ he said to me, 
 looking at the parchment label on my collar. I 
 like men who speak to me as to a creature of reason 
 and of feeling. ^ You^re going to a rare rum bad 
 lot, you are.^ 
 
 The din, the tumult, the gas glare, the wild up- 
 roar of the London streets drove me almost mad 
 with fright ; and, but for the strong detaining hand 
 of my guard, I should have flung myself under the 
 wheels in sheer terror and been crushed to atoms. 
 
 Oh how could people live and breathe and endure 
 existence in such holes as this, I wondered ! — hun- 
 dreds of small houses crowding on one another; 
 story on story mounting to the murky smoke-veiled
 
 JACOBS' CHURCH. 155 
 
 heaven ; the stench of candle^ and soap_, and bone- 
 boiling and manure factories^ steaming over all the 
 place ; the only light the flare of the yellow gas, 
 throuofh the leaden foo*. on faces hao^o^ard with 
 misery, hideous with debauch, vile with crime, or 
 death-like with starvation ! My very blood curdled 
 in me as I saw and heard, and turned blind and sick 
 with the foetid odours of this Gehenna. 
 
 Once I had heard my dear friend Ben talk to 
 the workmen at the quarry of the cities and their 
 foulness : 
 
 ' I went to Lunnun once, Tam,^ he said, *" you^ll 
 mind the time ; I was a fule, and the ^scursion he 
 was so cheap-like ; I was tempted. Well, I'm glad 
 I went. I niver know^l till I did how much I had 
 ta thank God for i' bein' country-born and bred. 
 They're stifled, Tam :— just stifled. Th' air's all 
 smoke and reek ; an' the winds is all pison ; and whin 
 ye look upwards there's a great black hand like a 
 divil's wing a' stretchin' far o'er atween ye and tha 
 sun. There bean't a mossel of grass as is grass ; 
 there bean't a leaf as don't look sick and swounded; 
 there bean't a bird as dew sing; not a child as 
 dew laugh ; the birds fight and the childer screech. 
 They're all jammed togither, like turf- sods when ye
 
 156 PUCK. 
 
 pack 'em close ; tlieer's alius a horrible noise i' tlieir 
 ears; and a horrible stench i' their nostrils. Now how 
 should un grow up decent, and God-fearin' like, whin 
 they niver see the blue sky, nor smell a flower as 
 blows, nor feels tha sou'-wester sweep agin their 
 faces ? Ta Passon he talk a deal of divils and sich 
 like : weel ! — if theer be 'em anywheres, for sure it 
 was they as fust drew min into cities, that they 
 might forgit their God i' tha stenching drouth, and 
 be ready to be swept i' ta hell, all o' one muck an' 
 one heap ! ' 
 
 I remembered Ben's words when I also entered 
 that abomination of desolation — the eastern half of 
 the City of Labour. 
 
 In the little cottage in the pine- wood, even in the 
 dreariness of winter and under the drag of poverty, 
 there had been beauty — beauty in the white, smooth, 
 glittering snow ; in the branches all silvered with 
 the hoar-frost ; in the leaping flame on the hearth 
 that played on the lattice panes ; in the beautiful 
 clear steely skies with the northerly stars burning 
 through them. 
 
 But here ! — I shuddered as I saw the gray, dust- 
 strewn, mouldy tenements ; the tawdry frightfulness 
 of the few attempts at ornament, the ghastly tumult
 
 JACOBS' CHURCH. 157 
 
 of the choked street ; — choked with thieves and beg- 
 gars^ and tally-men^ and ballad-sellers^ and prosti- 
 tutes, and costermongers, and wretched horses starv- 
 ing in the last years of age_, and ghoul-like 
 children quarrelling with the poor stray dogs 
 for ofFal. Poverty is bitter in the country ; but 
 it is heaven beside hell compared with poverty in 
 the city. 
 
 The way seemed to me interminable through 
 these most hideous streets. Wliere the guard 
 stopped was before a little low row of filthy crowded 
 houses_, all alike_, and all hemmed in on one another, 
 with gas flaring about on either side, and stalls of 
 horrible scented fish, of cofi^ee, and of oranges, 
 standing down the narrow way with little oil-lamps 
 flaring above them under shades, and miserable 
 children gathering round. 
 
 My protector knocked at one of the low doors. 
 
 ^ Bill Jacobs ? ' he asked. 
 
 ^ Bill Jacobs, yer are,^ growled a beer-thickened 
 voice as the door unclosed. 
 
 A hand clutched me savagely by my throat. 
 
 ' Oh-ah ! this ^ere little beast,^ he muttered. 
 * Anythin^ to pay ? ^ 
 
 ' Nothin^ to pay,^ answered the guard. ' ^Tis a
 
 158 PUCK. 
 
 pretty critter youVe got tliere. I wouldnH mind 
 standin^ ten bob for him ? 
 
 The other man, still holding me by the neck, 
 growled out a sardonic laughter. 
 
 ^I dessay yer wouldn't. Ten sovs, my lad; or 
 nothin.' 
 
 And with that he slammed the door in the 
 guard's face ; and I felt, with a* fearful sinking of the 
 heart, that my only chance was gone for ever. 
 
 This new home of mine was in a hideous little 
 house, and consisted of only one room, with the 
 cellar immediately below. 
 
 The room was black with dirt and smoke ; there 
 were two cupboards in it, one occupied by two 
 badgers, the other by two small dogs. The cellar 
 beneath appeared full of dogs, to judge by the 
 howling and moaning that proceeded from it. 
 There was a miserable bed in the chamber ; a 
 rickety table — a few cages filled with miserable 
 choking throstles and larks, half dead with stench 
 and captivity ; and there was beyond, seen through 
 a little window in the back wall, a yard of which I 
 knew the purpose ere I had been many hours there. 
 
 Such was the abode of Bill Jacobs and his 
 wife ; the latter a wan, gentle, broken- spirited
 
 JACOBS' CHURCH. 159 
 
 creature, wliom he kept black and blue witli 
 bruises, and who sought, I found, to do all the little 
 she was able to mitigate for us the horrors of 
 this Black Hole. 
 
 The first thing that Bill Jacobs did with me was 
 to fling me at the woman with a curse ; the next was 
 to turn all smiles to two youths who were waiting his 
 advent. They were slender, gentleman-like boys, 
 about seventeen, and, as I imagine now, must have 
 been public school lads. They had come for some 
 pleasant pastime, it seemed by their looks and 
 words : it proved to be the baiting of a badger. 
 
 I will not sicken my readers with the narrative. 
 They probably know all the details of how the poor,/ 
 brave, stout-hearted aniuial holds his own againsn 
 the terrible odds, till, foe on foe being sent against! 
 him, the agony of his wounds and the loss of his 
 blood cow even his fearless spirit, and he submits 
 to be dragged forth, a mass of torn fur and ragged 
 flesh, helpless, blind, and shivering. 
 
 In this instance the sport was doubly horrible, 
 because neither badger nor bull-dogs had any heart 
 or zest for the fight ; they both shrank back, and 
 had to be scourged and pricked and dragged to 
 the encounter ; and when it was all over, the limping,
 
 160 PUCK. 
 
 bleeding dogs were kicked back to their cellars, and 
 the badger was thrown in his hole to recover from 
 his injuries J oiily to again go through the same 
 ' ordeal of torture. 
 
 And the slender-limbed boys, with their pleasant 
 voices, were charmed ; and left two sovereigns with 
 the exhibitor of the spectacle, and went out in glee 
 and gaiety, having enjoyed a favourite sport of 
 Young England. 
 
 It made me very ill and sick at heart ; it was the 
 first bloodshed I had ever seen, and the sight had 
 been very hideous to me, and had made me shudder 
 greatly. 
 
 How could I tell, myself, that I might not be 
 torn in pieces next ? 
 
 It seemed hell itself; — this place to which they 
 had consigned me. 
 
 The man's horrible curses ; the howls of the 
 dogs in the cellar; the wailing of the puppies in 
 cages ; the sight of the blood and the torture ; the 
 shrieks of the animal that he kicked or beat, or 
 forced into some wretched hole too small for it to 
 turn in ; the sad filmy eyes of the poor birds sitting 
 moping with their feathers all in disarray ; the 
 piteous terrors of the woman every time her hus-
 
 JACOBS' CHUECH. 161 
 
 band's savage glance lit on lier^ as though with 
 every look she feared a blow^ — all this was more 
 dreadful to me than I can ever describe. 
 
 Almost all day long I was shut up in a cage 
 lest I should roam away ; a cage of wire about a 
 foot square, in which my limbs became so cramped, 
 and my sight so stupefied from being set away on a 
 dark shelf, that I almost ceased to keep any account 
 of the passage of the days, and hardly knew when 
 night fell and dawn began. 
 
 Now and then, by urging that such confinement 
 would be my death, his wife, Jenny, got permission 
 from him to let me run loose a little in the yard ; 
 but even then I was so terrified lest evil should 
 hajDpen to me that I hardly dared to go from un- 
 derneath the folds of her cotton gown. 
 
 I was sorry for her too ; she had such an utterly 
 wretched, colourless, woe-be-gone life, that it seemed 
 frightful that any one of God's creatures ever should 
 be condemned to live such. 
 
 She never stirred out ; she was the butt and 
 scape-goat of her brutal husband, and she had 
 nothing to do from morning until evening, save to 
 dress the wounds of the torn and baited creatures, 
 and revive enough vitality in them to enable 
 
 VUL. I, 11
 
 162 PUCK. 
 
 them to go forth again to meet the torture. 
 
 She was a tender-hearted woman too, which made 
 her lot an agony scarce less than that of the martyred 
 beasts. I have known her stretch her arm between 
 a dog and her husband's whip^, though the cruel lash 
 cut into her flesh like a knife ; and I have seen her 
 seize his hand, and scream for pity, when he was 
 thrusting a red-hot needle into a canary's eye to 
 blind it (on the fancy that it sang better in blind- 
 ness), though with the next moment his huge fist 
 surely levelled her with the boards. 
 
 I dare say many such problems have puzzled 
 bigger heads than mine :— but I often marvelled 
 whatever compensation could ever be found, or given, 
 for that long, unrewarded, stricken life which was 
 spent unseen of men, subject to the brutalities of a 
 drunkard, and racked by the witness of cruelties 
 that it was absolutely powerless to prevent ? 
 
 An old dog, Punch by name, who had been there 
 many years (and to whom this tyrant was alone not 
 cruel, because he had once seen Punch strangle a 
 man that strove to beat him), told me that in a by- 
 gone time she had had a little child, and that, though 
 the child had only lived two years, it had lived long 
 enough for its blue eyes to grow pale and dilated
 
 JACOBS' CHURCH. 163 
 
 witli fear at its father^s steps — long enougli for its 
 mother to say that she thanked God when she laid 
 it down at rest within its little quiet grave. 
 
 This ruffian was indeed one of the greatest 
 brutes that the world ever held. 
 
 Dog fancier was in his case^ as in most others, 
 a delicate s}Tionym for dog stealer ; and the society 
 that met in his den was composed of some of the 
 very worst blackguards in London. These men 
 smoked and drank, and swore and gambled, in the 
 lowest and coarsest fashion that they could; and 
 were especially hilarious when one of them had 
 brought in a valuable animal, for whom its master 
 would be certain to offer fabulous rewards, or a 
 priceless little pet dog that could be slipped in a 
 pocket and carried out of the country before its 
 owner had scarcely discovered its loss. 
 
 The big dogs they drugged, lest their bark 
 might be heard and recognized, until such time as 
 a reward high enough to satisfy their own cupidity 
 was advertised ; when they would put on a clean shirt 
 and a virtuous face, and take the captive home, with 
 many declarations of their own tenderness towards 
 him, when they had found him astray ' right away by 
 Barnes Bridge, sir — ^alf starved — as Vm a livin^
 
 1 64 PUCK. 
 
 man/ Which fable^ if the dog had a mistress and 
 not a master,, usually brought about an extra sove- 
 reign to the good Samaritan. 
 
 The small ones they generally sent on to the 
 continent, and one little fellow^ only four years old^ 
 told me he had been stolen fourteen times by Bill 
 Jacobus emissaries^ on each of which occasions they 
 had never sold him for less than twenty guineas^ — 
 sometimes for more^ — and always in different cities 
 of Europe. 
 
 He was called ' Cosmo/ ' short for cosmopoli- 
 tan/ he explained to me. ^ You know that means 
 a citizen of the world; one who has seen many 
 countries and many minds. But myself — I hate the 
 title. It means^ as far as my experience goes, that 
 you have a smattering of everything, and a know- 
 ledge of nothing ; a bill at every inn, and a home in 
 no country ; everybody claims you, and you can 
 claim nobody ; your standing-point is on a see-saw, 
 and you are a tennis-ball for all racquets.'' 
 
 And he was certainly extravagantly bitter on 
 the subject of his cosmopolitanism. To have been 
 sold and bought a dozen times always sours a 
 dog; though I have known men who have been 
 sold and bought a hundred times, who have only got
 
 Jacobs' church. 1G5 
 
 very fat and vevy comfortable iu the process of ex- 
 cliange. 
 
 But, then, you see the men pocket the money j 
 and the dogs don^t. 
 
 Anything more utterly degraded, wretched, and 
 desolate than I was at this prison of Bill Jacobs', I 
 could not suppose ever had the unhappiness to 
 exist. If it had not been for Jenny Jacobs, I should 
 not have lived a week. 
 
 She did all she could to better my condition, and 
 to comfort me in my misery, and whilst I was with 
 her she in a measure succeeded. But she used to 
 be sent out by her husband, ' charring,' and was 
 half the day away ; and in her absence I was con- 
 signed to the cellars ; where all the hapless animals 
 which Jacob had stolen, or purchased cheaply, 
 were immured with scarce any light, foul water, 
 clanking chains, and the scantiest food that would 
 suffice to keep breath in their bodies. 
 
 You think you have no slaves in England ! — 
 Why I half the races iu creation moan, and strive, and 
 suffer, daily and hourly, under your merciless tyran- 
 nies. X q slav es ! — ask the ox, with his blood-shot 
 agonized eyes, mutilated for the drovers' gain ere he 
 is driven to his end in the slaughter-house. Ask the
 
 166 PUCK. 
 
 sheep, with their timid^ woe-begone faces scourged 
 into the place of their doom, bruised and bleeding 
 and tortured. Ask the racer, spent ere he reaches 
 his prime, by unnatural strains on strength and 
 speed, that he may fill the pockets of your biggest 
 blackguards with mis-begotten gold, old whilst yet 
 he is young, poisoned in the hours of his victory, 
 caressed by princes in the moment that he ministers 
 to their greed, cast off to street hire and hourly 
 misery in the worthless years of his weary age. Ask 
 the cart-horse, doomed, through a long life of labour, 
 to strive and stagger under burdens, to bear heat 
 and cold, and hunger, and stripes, without resist- 
 ance, fed grudgingly, paid for willing toil by merci- 
 less blows, killed by doing the work of men as the 
 Egyptian slave died in the lifting of the last stone to 
 the King's Temple, or consigned, as the only recom- 
 pense for years of usefulness and patience, to the 
 brutalities of the dissecting-room or of the knacker's 
 yard. Ask us — ! 
 
 What ? You tell me this is but the issue of an 
 inevitable law ? Ay ! so it is ; of the law of the 
 stronger over the weaker. But whilst you thus follow 
 out that law on millions of chained, and beaten, and 
 tortured creatures, have conscieiice enough, I pray
 
 Jacobs' chuech. 167 
 
 you, not to brag aloud that you keep no slaves, not 
 to bawl from the housetops of your reverence for 
 freedom. 
 
 AVhen will you give a Ten Hours' Bill for horses? 
 — a Prohibitive Act against the racing of one andtwo- 
 year olds ? — a Protection Order for cattle ? — and an 
 Emancipation Movement for chained dogs ? ^ay — 
 when will you do so much as remember that the 
 coward who tortures an animal would murder a 
 human being if he were not afraid of the gallows ? 
 When will you see that to teach the hand of a child 
 to stretch out and smother the butterfly, is to teach 
 that hand, when a man^s, to steal out and strangle 
 i:ii enemy ? 
 
 The time passed, as I have said, very monoton- 
 ously, very miserably, the chief part spent in the 
 cage upon the shelf, or in the cellar I have named. 
 I believe that Jacobs failed in his efforts to get a 
 purchaser for me ; for sometimes he would wash me, 
 and comb me, and carry me forth, through many 
 streets and past grand white mansions, and into 
 green carriage-crowded parks. He would offer me 
 now to one, now to another of people passing by ; 
 and when we reached home again he would curse 
 me and pinch my flesh and forbid his wife to give
 
 168 PUCK. 
 
 me any supper, alleging that I ate my head off— as 
 indeed I almost could have done, so devoured with 
 hunger was I oftentimes. 
 
 The only day that Bill Jacobs was at all in 
 decently human temper was upon the Sundays of 
 each week. 
 
 At this lodging of his there was a back yard ; 
 and in the back yard was a rat-pit. On Sunday 
 mornings there used to be grand spectacles of rat- 
 slaughter. And there were numbers of young men, 
 very gentleman-like men, some of them, who would 
 pay half-a-guinea for admission, and a seat to see the 
 rats being killed, and the rat dogs torn and worried 
 in the conflict ; and the prices ranged as high as a 
 sovereign a seat when, in addition to its ennobling 
 sport, there was one of the badgers brought out 
 from the cupboard to be drawn. 
 
 ^ Jacobs^ Church^ was a by-word amongst a 
 certain sporting community : and I have seen men 
 whom I subsequently saw in the House of Commons, 
 and at the celebrated Clubs, come thither on a Sun- 
 day morn after a late breakfast, to assist at the 
 precious spectacle of dogs and rats fighting, tearing, 
 and slaughtering one another, till the pit was red 
 with blood.
 
 JACOBS' CHURCH. 169 
 
 What did the police do ? 
 
 Oh, nothing. Jacobs paid them well to be quiet. 
 They took up an old man for selling periwinkles 
 during divine service, and they locked up a little 
 beggar child for sitting sobbing on a door-sill, both 
 just outside BilFs house ; but they knew better than 
 to come to lords and gentlemen, and members of 
 parliament, and disturb the Sabbath circle round 
 the rat-pit. 
 
 Most of our race, kept here thus, of course were 
 beagles, rat-catchers, bull terriers, and the like; and, 
 by the way, how sharp, how hard, how full of concen- 
 trated cunning and ferocity combined, become the 
 countenances of your rat-catching dogs ! They are 
 exactly like the faces of your men on the turf : of a 
 surety debasing pursuits mould the features as the 
 hand of the sculptor moulds the mask from clay ; or 
 else why should your bull-dog, who is for ever draw- 
 ing badgers or chevying vermin, get that look for 
 all the world like that on the face of your prize-fight- 
 ers? And why should your young lordling, who 
 spends all his patrimony on ' yearlings ' and all 
 his time on the ^ flat,' approximate so closely in 
 tone, and aspect, and countenance, to the book- 
 makers, and blacklegs, and trainers, and jockeys,
 
 170 PUCK. 
 
 who between them contrive to rob and to ruin 
 him? 
 
 It is needless to say that I was very frightened 
 and miserable in such society. They made dreadful 
 mockery of me and my white silky curls; and they 
 were perpetually fighting and swearing amongst 
 one another. Their conduct was fearful ; their 
 language I happily did not comprehend. 
 
 There was one old bull- dog, who looked the 
 most savage yet the most honest of them all, who 
 protected me from their violence, and was, in his own 
 hard rough way, kind to me. 
 
 He was by name Tussler, and was, I found, the 
 hero of a hundred fights. He deigned to talk to me 
 a good deal ; and tried to enlighten my ignorance ; 
 but I did not understand much that he said : I 
 only felt that life seemed, by his showing, a con- 
 stant rough-and-tumble affray in which the weakest 
 always went to the wall. 
 
 Tussler told me he had belonged to a bruiser 
 who had but recently departed from the scene of 
 his earthly combat : 
 
 ' They made me chief mourner with a bit of crape 
 on,^ he continued. ' I don't know why they thought 
 crape necessary, for I was really very sorry that
 
 Jacobs' church. 171 
 
 he died. The world thought Jemmy Brown — he 
 was called the Game- Cock always ; you must have 
 heard of him? Never! — damn it, where have 
 you lived ? 
 
 ' Well, the world always thought that the Cock 
 was a brutal blood-thirsty fellow. You know he had 
 a very neat way of pounding his man's face into a 
 jelly ; and when he got him doubled up at the 
 ropes he always went into him — awful. He killed 
 Old Swipes that way — an Irish bruiser Swipes was, 
 and only twenty when the Cock smashed him as 
 dead as a door-nail — but it was only in the way of 
 business. It was a job ; and he liked to go through 
 with it. 
 
 ' Outside the Eing Jemmy was the best-natured 
 creature going. When a badger half murdered 
 me, the Cock narsed me like a woman. And 
 there never was a man that stuck as the Cock 
 did to a friend. There was one in particular, he 
 was fond of — one he^d been with at school as a 
 child, and one he had never lost sight of; a poor devil 
 that never came to any good because he was such a 
 soft-hearted thing, and ended at last as a super — a 
 man you know that goes on the stage to carry a flag, 
 or a torch, or a sword ; and say nothing.
 
 172 PUCK. 
 
 ^Well — one day Jemmy was engaged for a 
 private match in a gentleman's rooms at Oxford, 
 and if lie failed to be tliere punctually, he'd 
 agreed to pay the bruiser whom he was to meet, 
 forfeit stakes of twenty-five pounds; — and you 
 must know that the money was a deal to the 
 Cock, for he lived fast and was often out at 
 elbows. Just as he was starting for the fight there 
 came a letter by morning mail : it was only a line 
 or two scrawled by this super, to say he had been 
 taken bad in his lungs as he was acting as standard- 
 bearer down in Cornwall, and the doctors had told 
 him he'd die ; and he begged to see Jemmy before 
 he went to his grave. 
 
 ' What did the Cock do ? — never paused a second, 
 just tossed the forfeit stakes to his friend, and 
 started that minute for Penzance. The poor super 
 died an hour after Jemmy got there : but he begged 
 of the Cock to take care of his son, a little un 
 with no mother, and a pretty puny five-year older. 
 
 ' The Cock took that lad ; and he sent him to a 
 good school ; and he laid him up in lavender as it 
 were; and never let him hear a harsh word. He 
 never let him see the Ring, because he thought as 
 the dead wouldn't like it ; but he had him trained
 
 JACOBS' CHURCH. 173 
 
 up for a glass-stainer, and tlie boy is at it now : 
 very quick at his art^ and quite steady. Now I call 
 the Cock a good man — what do you say ? And yet 
 the world called him a precious villain ; and they 
 were very near swinging him on a gallows when he 
 pummelled the breath out of Swipes ? ^ 
 
 I could say nothing : all moral and mental per- 
 ception were too utterly confused in me with this 
 combination of virtue and murder. 
 
 ' There^s a deal of goodness that the world never 
 sees/ said Tussler in conclusion, '^as there^s a deal of 
 viciousness it never guesses. Now, myself, I love 
 worrying rats, and cats, and badgers, — I am never 
 so happy as when I lay a dozen dead all round me 
 — but I should scorn to hurt a lame dog, I wouldn't 
 kill a cat that fought for her kittens, and I would 
 have let the Cock beat me to death if he'd wished 
 just because he was my master and I cared for 
 him.' 
 
 I ventured to hint that, with so much natural 
 goodness of character, it might be as well to be 
 merciful even to rats and to badgers. 
 
 ' Oh, damn it, no ! ' he replied with considerable 
 acerbity. ' They are one^s foes by nature. A 
 badger would kill me if I didn't kill him. I choose
 
 174 PUCK. 
 
 as men clioose, — I just nip Ms neck. Don't get 
 preacliee-preacliee ! Did you ever hear of a rum 
 lot called Quakers across the Atlantic that were 
 always prating of peace ? — well, my dear, they 
 burnt everybody that didn't agree with them. That 
 is what the peace-makers always do.' 
 
 I was silent out of deference : conscious that he 
 could nip me in the neck if I differed. 
 
 Much the same motive lies at the bottom of most 
 of the reverence that this age sees rendered to 
 kings and queens, creeds and codes. 
 
 Such conversations as this did not make me less 
 miserable, less terrified, at the prospect of this 
 world into which I was plunged ; or less regretful of 
 that happy, innocent, playful life that I had led in 
 the little cottage under the pines. 
 
 Old Trust would have felt every hair on his head 
 stand on end at the enormities I heard and witnessed; 
 and that humane creature, who had sorrowed over a 
 frozen lamb, would have howled in disgust at the 
 conversation of this sporting communit}^, — conversa- 
 tion exclusively of the numbers slaughtered, and of 
 the prowess of the slaughterers. 
 
 Subsequently, I have often been present at hob 
 luncheons in manorial woods after battue-shooting.
 
 JACOBS CHURCH. 
 
 t D 
 
 and once also at an Imperial hunt in tlie forest of 
 Compeigne; and tlie talk at both has borne the 
 closest possible resemblance to that heard in the 
 bull-dogs-' cellar at Bill Jacobs'. But I did not 
 know this then; and I was onlj immeasurably 
 frio-htened and horror-stricken.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 
 
 ^ EEMAINED some little time at this 
 wretched place; the only things that solaced 
 me being the poor woman's great care, and 
 the rough kindness of Tussler, whose conduct was far 
 better than his language, which, I must say, was 
 awful. The winter was merging into spring, and I 
 had been there about three months, when Tussler 
 was sold to a sporting baronet, and I became aware 
 that some change was about to take place in my 
 own affairs. 
 
 I had been washed, combed, made smart, and 
 dressed in a httle scarlet jacket that Jacobs, in his 
 good humour, was wont to ayer made me look just 
 like an Ascot post-boy ; I still wore the little bit
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 177 
 
 of a white metal cliain collar^ graven with my 
 name,, which, had been forged for poor Ben by the 
 burly smith at the forest-forge in the pine-woods, 
 who though his chief labour lay in shoeing the huo-e 
 cart-horses, yet had shown so light and facile a 
 touch at little pieces of metal work, that could 
 pleasure a maiden in her fancy, or a child at his 
 play. 
 
 When I was thus dressed, Jacobs bore me out 
 with him, he chuckled, and seemed content ; I 
 was thrust into a small dark wicker den, that was 
 tied down over my head ; and I knew no more. 
 ' Hold yer jaw, yer beast,^ he said once with a 
 shake of my cage, ^ what are yer yelping at ? ^ 
 
 I was yelping because, as he carried me into 
 the street, and I thrust my head a little forth from 
 my basket, in the damp, chill March morning, 
 a girl went by us with a basket full of little penny- 
 bunches of country-bom violets, blue and white ; 
 and the sweet familiar fras^rance of them broug^ht 
 back to me, so vividly, the clusters that purpled all 
 the moss-grown ground under the trees of my lost 
 but unforgotten home. 
 
 When your dog, lying near you, gives a sudden 
 cry, as though of pain, you kick him ; — ah ! my good 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 PUCK. 
 
 sirs, it is only because lie is troubled witli too mucli 
 memory ; a disease wMcli you, wbo are of the world, 
 worldly, you who forget with such pleasant ease all 
 disagreeable trifles, from your marriage vows to your 
 unlimited liabilities, are little likely to catch from 
 him by contagion. 
 
 Bill Jacobs carried me swiftly through his own 
 hideous quarter of the town towards open squares 
 and spacious streets, and masses of what looked to 
 me hke palaces ; — and palaces they were, as I knew 
 later on, castles of Indolence wherein the Kings of 
 Clubs reigned supreme. 
 
 He turned up one of the by-streets leading out 
 of the chief of these great thoroughfares ; and after 
 some little delay was admitted into a building bear- 
 ing the inscription of ' chambers,^ and passed up the 
 staircase to a room on the second floor of this, to 
 me, mysterious domicile. 
 
 It was a very pretty llittle room, all rose-hued 
 and gilded, and bright with gay chintz, and with 
 manifold ornaments, not in the very best taste. I 
 thought it must be the apartment of some fair femi- 
 nine thing ; but there was no one in it, save a man 
 of about thirty years ; small, handsome, and bearing 
 about him somewhat the air of that class which I
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 179 
 
 have later on heard characterized as the ^would- 
 be swells ^ of society. 
 
 He was exquisitely attired in a morning dress of 
 mulberry velvet ; and had coffee and brandy beside 
 him on the daintiest of inlaid stands ; and he was 
 glancing through a yellow-covered novel_, which he 
 slashed idly with a pretty paper-knife,, as he looked 
 up and spoke. 
 
 ' Brought the beast^ Jacobs ? Let^s have a look 
 at him.^ 
 
 ^ A perfect animal for a lady — quite perfect^ sir/ 
 my owner responded^ handing me over as roughly 
 as though I were a bit of wood^ for inspection. 
 ' You want him for a Eussian princess^ sir^ I believe 
 you said ? 
 
 The young man nodded assent ; and asked if I 
 should stand the climate^ to which of course Bill 
 Jacobs gave an unqualified affirmative ; and the next 
 fifteen minutes was employed in one of those minute 
 and merciless analyses of me^ which dogs hear 
 made in their presence^ and human beings only 
 behold in their critics^ newspaper articles. 
 
 But it comes to very much the same thing with 
 both — and whether it be a dog-fancier inspecting a 
 terrier^ a dog-buyer staring at a mastiff, a leader-
 
 180 PUCK. 
 
 writer dissecting a statesman not of his party^ or a 
 reviewer passing judgment on a poet not of his 
 clique^ tlie whole quartette equally ignore all the ex- 
 cellencies that stare them in the face, and only dwell 
 on the one fault they can find in breeding or train- 
 ing, — in strain or in style. 
 
 The moments seemed centuries to me, nor was 
 I in the least reassured at the prospect of being 
 bought for a woman. Little Cosmo, at Jacobs^, had 
 told me that parasol handles could rap fearfully 
 hard, and small, high-heeled, embroidered boots kick 
 with exceeding asperity and severity. 
 
 Ah ! you people never guess the infinite woe we 
 dogs suffer in new homes, under strange tyrannies : 
 you never heed how we shrink from unfamiliar hands, 
 and shudder at unfamiliar voices, how lonely we feel 
 in unknown places, how acutely we dread harshness, 
 novelty, and scornful treatment. Dogs die often- 
 times of severance from their masters ; there is 
 Grey Friar^s Bobby now in Edinboro^ town who 
 never has been persuaded to leave his dead owner^s 
 grave all these many years through. You see such 
 things, but you are indifi'erent to them. ^ It is only 
 a dog,^ you say ; ^ what matter if the brute fret to 
 death ? '
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED OX LIFE. 181 
 
 You don^t understand it of course; you who 
 so soon forget all jour own dead^ tlie mother that 
 bore you, the naistress that loved you_, the friend 
 that fought with you shoulder to shoulder : — 
 and of course, also, you care nothing for the mea- 
 sureless blind pains, the mute helpless sorrows, the 
 vague lonely terrors, that ache in our little dumb 
 hearts. 
 
 I am a dog of the world now, — oh yes, — just as 
 your best men are men of the world. But I think 
 to most of us cynics the world is only a shield of 
 bronze, — held before us to hide the breast-wound. 
 What do you say ? — the sentiment is not new I am 
 well aware ; but it is emphatically the truth. 
 
 I have seen so many of these shields, so brilliant 
 and polished, and proven, which rang so hard and 
 so keen, repelling the sharpest spearheads ; but the 
 hearts that beat under them throbbed ; — throbbed 
 in pain till they were quiet in death. If you have 
 not, — where have you Hved ? 
 
 Well, — my barter this morning in the little rose- 
 coloured room was soon effected, and the purchaser 
 paid for me in four crisp five-pound notes, Jacobs of 
 course protesting that I was worth quite treble the 
 amount.
 
 182 PUCK. 
 
 I was thankful when he was gone ; no fate could 
 be worse than the durance I had undergone in his 
 cellars. 
 
 The young man soon after passed into his bed- 
 chamber adjoining; and I was left alone with a 
 very big dog, whom I had noticed asleep in the 
 window. 
 
 He reared himself up_, and surveyed me ; I liked 
 his look; he was a kingly creature,, called indeed 
 King Arthur, and I thought he would fight my 
 battles for me whilst I was there. 
 
 I am brave enough in my way ; but I have 
 necessarily far more mind than matter ; and a little 
 Maltese dog can no more find courage of use against 
 a hound^s fangs or a brute's boot, than your 
 chivalrous soldier, with all the blood of . the cava- 
 liers in him, can find his avail him aught against 
 your dainty, devilish, thirty-inch shell, with its pretty 
 steel dominoes of slaughter. 
 
 He stared at me, and growled a little : 
 
 ^ Humph ! so you are for her ! ' 
 
 ' The Russian Princess ? ' I asked timidly, feel- 
 ing that he growled at her, and not at me. 
 
 ^ Russian Princess ! ' he echoed. ^Fiddlesticks ! * 
 
 ' Shall I stay here, then ? ' I inquired.
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 183 
 
 ' No_, I know wlio you are brought for ; — but 
 I don^t want to say. I have lived long enough to 
 learn discretion/ 
 
 I found King Arthur^ when I knew him better^ the 
 frankest_, blindest^ most easily cheated creature in 
 creation ; but it is always this sort of character that 
 shakes its head most sapiently, and believes most 
 implicitly in its own politic reserve ! 
 
 ^ Who is that gentleman that buys me ? ' I ven- 
 tured to ask him. 
 
 ^ His name ? Leopold Lance.'' 
 
 ' And is he your owner too ? ' 
 
 ^ Goodness no ! — I belong to Derry Denzil ; he 
 only left me here while he went to Paris. He^ll be 
 back to-night. Belong to little Lance ? — no_, thank 
 you ! I hate this room ; one can^t turn in it without 
 knocking something down. You should see DenziFs 
 rooms, big as barns, with nothing less solid than 
 oak, and bronze, and marble in them. This place 
 is for all the world like a woman's stall at a fancy- 
 fair. Women do send him some of the knick-knacks 
 — actresses do when they want a puff in the Mouse, 
 and would-be fashionable ladies do when they want 
 a line as a leader of society — but for the most part 
 he buys them himself; and then hints with a smile
 
 184 PUCK. 
 
 or a word tliat tliey come from tlie Countess of 
 somewhere^ or pretty Mrs Thingamy. Leo^s weak- 
 ness is honnes fortunes ; and when lie don^t get any, 
 he makes them to his fancy ; metamorphosing how 
 d^ye does into appointments,, and dinner cards into 
 letters of intrigue, just as your costumiers turn a 
 girl out of the streets into a superb Anonyma, till a 
 man spends his whole fortune on the very same 
 creature he gave a penny to twelve months before 
 at a crossing/ 
 
 Of this peroration I did not comprehend one 
 word; but it sufficed to make me the reverse of 
 comfortable as to my own future prospects. The 
 good-natured, gallant King perceived my perplexed 
 dismay, and hastened to comfort me. 
 
 ^ You will be well enough where you are going,' 
 he said. ^ If you were a man she would pluck you 
 as bare as the back of her hand ; being a dog a kick 
 of her boot — thirty guineas a pair her boots are, 
 real silver gilt heels that go click-clack like a 
 cavalry-man's ! — or a mouthful of cayenne pepper 
 instead of biscuit, or some little trifle of that sort, 
 will be the worst she will do for you. And Fanfre- 
 luche is there ; Fanfreluche is 'a good little soul, 
 good at the core you know : though she's a little
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED OX LIFE. 185 
 
 devil with lier teeth at times, and the vainest creature 
 living, she is as staunch as steel, and as game as a 
 bantam-cock, and can be a very good friend when 
 she likes. Besides I will have a care of you myself; 
 I sometimes come there with Denzil. And Pearl 
 can never look me straight in the face, isn^t it odd ? 
 An honest dog^s eyes always daunt those women. 
 They seem to think that we scent them out as thieves; 
 though their crowbars may only be cast from the 
 metal of barefaced greed; and their skeleton keys 
 made of men^s broken honour — ■' 
 
 ' Pearl ? who is Pearl ? ' I interrupted him. 
 
 ' You will know soon enough,^ he said curtly ; at 
 that moment my purchaser returned from the inner 
 room, caught me up, and fastened with great care on 
 my collar a pair of exquisite filigree ear-rings, slipped 
 me and them into a basket, and gave it to a man in 
 waiting, who departed with me without a word. 
 
 Of course of where we went I had no knowledge : 
 I was in almost total darkness. The ear-rings I 
 would have scratched to pieces wilhngly; but the 
 exceedingly narrow space in which I was confined 
 prevented my cramped limbs from any indulgence in 
 such vengeance. 
 
 The journey seemed endless to me.
 
 186 PUCK. 
 
 At leDgtli^ by tlie sounds I heard, I con- 
 cluded my temporary abode bad been carried into 
 a house and into a room. I thought I had been 
 hours in that wicker-work dungeon_, and when, on 
 the lid being thrown sharply ojoen, I sprang out on 
 a piece of blue velvet, I gave a sharp prolonged 
 howl of misery. 
 
 For that I got a sharp box on the ear from the 
 hand of a woman, and looking up I saw that I 
 was on the lap of one of the most magnificent 
 persons it has ever been my fate to behold. 
 
 But oh ! — how hard her hand had slapped me ! 
 
 She read a note that lay beside me with some 
 effort, as though reading were unfamiliar to her, 
 laughing a little grimly as she did so ; then tossing 
 it aside, clutched eagerly at the ear-rings to which I 
 suppose it had drawn her attention, and tore them 
 off utterly regardless of the curls of my hair that 
 she plucked away with them. 
 
 The ornaments were very elegant, and their 
 Genoese filigree was all enriched with jewels ; she 
 examined them with the keen intentn ess of a testing 
 jeweller; then put them aside in a mosaic box on a 
 table near. 
 
 The apartment was a small octagon chamber, all
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 187 
 
 blue and silver, and exceedingly luxurious in its ap- 
 pointments ; — genuine luxury moreover, and not the 
 affectation of it tliat liad been visible in tlie mere- 
 tricious rooms of the man who had sent me hither. 
 She herself was simply superb, — attired in blue 
 velvet that harmonized with her chamber, and was 
 relieved by rich old lace at her bosom and elbows, 
 and a single large diamond at her throat. 
 
 The tearing out of my hair had hurt me inex- 
 pressibly; and I shrieked aloud with the pain, hiding 
 under a couch. 
 
 She gave a gesture of intolerant anger ; pulled 
 me from my hiding-place, shook and slapped me till 
 I had no senses left, and then flung me aside with 
 a brutal violence so that I fell heavily on the sharp 
 edge of the ormolu fender. 
 
 Then, without even a glance at me, she swept 
 out of the dainty boudoir with the mosaic box in 
 her hand, leaving me half- stunned to recover as I 
 might. 
 
 I was roused from my stupor by the touch of a 
 very slender cold nose ; and looking up timidly, I 
 saw a tiny fairy-like form, clad in blue, with a gold 
 circlet of bells round its throat: — a '' toy terrier ^ in 
 point of fact, who ranks in our species much as your
 
 188 PUCK. 
 
 petits creves and your pretty cocodettes rank in yours. 
 This was evidently the little worldling of whom 
 King Arthur had spoken. 
 
 ' I am called Fanfreluche/ said the small crea- 
 ture, who had very bright eyes and a very keen, 
 coquettish^ sharp little face. ^ I shall be sure to go 
 now you are come. She changes us almost as often 
 as she changes them.' 
 
 ' Whom ? ' 
 
 ^ Never mind, my dear. You are a child ! She 
 hurt you, I am afraid ? She can be very violent if 
 you rouse her — ' 
 
 ' Indeed, she can/ said I with a shudder. Who 
 is she, pray ? Can you tell me ? ' 
 
 Fanfreluche grinned significantly. 
 
 ' My dear — I know as much about her as most 
 people, but I can only tell you what she calls herself, 
 and that is Laura Pearl.' 
 
 ' And what does she do ? ' 
 
 Fanfreluche showed again her little sharp white 
 teeth. 
 
 ' Everything, my dear, that was ever invented 
 by the devil and improved on by women.* 
 
 I shuddered again ; even in that little market 
 town in the Peak the people had seemed to take it
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED OX LIFE. 189 
 
 SO uncomfortably for granted tliat the devil and 
 tlie fair sex always were in partnership and good 
 accord ! 
 
 '' Is slie a lady ? ' I inquired timidly. 
 
 ^ My precious innocent — she has some of the finest 
 jewels in the world. That makes a lady, don^t it ? She 
 has fine horses ; fine servants ; fine wines ; the best 
 cook_, the best laces, the best everything. A lady ? 
 — oh yes ! — the girl that sells cigars, the ballerina 
 that dances in gauze, the housemaids that sweep 
 the steps, they are all ladies now, thanks to jargon 
 and the penny press. ^ 
 
 I did not understand, but Fanfreluche evidently 
 considered she had said something very witty. 
 
 ^ Are you worth much ? I doubt not : you 
 come from a very bad lot,^ she continued a little 
 superciliously. ' I wonder what Beltran will think 
 of you. Anything he praises is chic directly. He 
 said my shape was exquisite one morning ; and I 
 went up instantly from twenty to fifty-five guineas.-' 
 
 The little wicked thing looked so immeasurably 
 vain and self-conscious, as she twisted her head 
 askance to get a sight of her tiny coral collar with 
 its row of gold bells, that she disgusted me ; pretty 
 and worldly-wise though she was.
 
 190 PUCK. 
 
 ' You cannot be so very mucli more '^ chic '' tlian 
 1/ I growled sulkily _, ' since you confess you are to 
 be sent away now tliat I have come.' 
 
 Fanfreluclie sneered a little ; witli an indulgent 
 good nature however. 
 
 ' Bless the baby ! ' she cried, as though she had 
 been a matron and a mastiff at the least. ' What 
 an ignoramus it is ! Why, my dear, she will sell 
 you as soon as she shall have had you a month or 
 two. She sells us all ; and the more we are worth 
 the quicker we go : — provided she can do it decently. 
 They don^t know that, you see. Oh no ! — we are 
 always " stolen " or ^'' lost ^^ she tells them. And 
 they are such out-and-out fools — they believe it ! 
 And then they send her others to replace us ; and 
 the game goes on again ; and altogether she makes 
 a very pretty annual perquisite out of her ^' pets ! '^ ' 
 
 ' She must be a very wicked woman ! ' I said 
 indignantly, in my hurry. 
 
 ^ Not much good ! ' said the little creature care- 
 lessly. ^I don^t know that she^s worse than scores 
 of others though. There was Fredegonde, that I 
 lived with last year in Paris — why Fredegonde would 
 eat up a hundred men a quarter, and all the 
 youngest and the brightest and the best too ; and
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 191 
 
 no end of tliem boys^ well-nigli young enough to be 
 her own sons ! — ' 
 
 ^ Are they cannibals, these women ? ' I cried 
 utterly bewildered. 
 
 Fanfreluche grinned sardonically. 
 
 ^Yes_, my dear; all cannibals. And they eat 
 bones and all ; crunch — crunch — crunch ; — and get 
 rich, and laugh, and fare gaily over the brainless 
 skulls they have sucked dry, and the hearts they 
 have torn out and devoured ! ' 
 
 I had a dim perception that Fanfreluche was 
 speaking metaphorically, but I was not sure ; and 
 her words made me very ill at ease. It was horrible 
 to be in the possession of a man-eater. 
 
 ^ There comes Lizzie. I have to go out with her, 
 but I will see you again,' said the little lady, as a 
 pleasant-visaged maid appeared at the doorway. 
 
 ^ Why are you going out ? ' 
 
 ^To be ''lost,'' I dare say. But I don't intend 
 to be lost to-day ; I want to see more of you. You 
 amuse me ; you are such an innocent ! You will 
 soon lose all that, to be sure. This is a capital place 
 for learning the world and its tricks. Does my 
 blue jacket sit right ? I can't bear it to wrinkle. 
 Beltran admires my figure so much.'
 
 192 PUCK. 
 
 ' The jacket^s all right/ said I peevishly^ scarcely 
 looking at the little tiglit-fitting^ azure, silk coat 
 that she wore. ^ And who^s Beltran ? ' 
 
 ^ Pll tell you when I come back. Ta-ta little 
 one/ cried Fanfreluche_, hastening away to the 
 chime of her tiny golden bells. 
 
 I was very sorry she was gone ; there seemed a 
 certain kindliness in her despite her assumption of 
 cynicism^ and her unfeminine chatter ; and though 
 she scoffed at a good deal^ I thought she sorrowed 
 also for some things. 
 
 Left alone_, I glanced timidly around the room 
 where I lay curled under a sofa : I was looking 
 everywhere for the bleaching skulls, and the broken 
 bones_, of all the poor wretches, whom she declared 
 had been devoured here. I saw nothing of the kind^ 
 and I began to think that she must have been fool- 
 ing me when she talked of this elegant boudoir as a 
 slaughterhouse. 
 
 I saw, indeed^ golden tazze, costly china, 
 exquisite pictures, oriental stuffs, silks and satins, 
 and furs, a malachite vase, a jasper table, a little 
 ivory prayer-book, with the twisted monogram 
 in turquoises and pearls upon the cover. Were 
 these what the skeletons and the skulls had been
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 193 
 
 transmuted into by tlie modern crucible of venial 
 passion and unscrupulous greed ? 
 
 This solution of lier mystery did not occur to 
 me tlien ; but now I know well that it was the right 
 one. 
 
 For several hours Fanfreluche never returned. I 
 was left wholly to solitude. I became fearfully hun- 
 gry, but no one brought me anything to eat ; and 
 in the end, like a child, as I still was, I sobbed my- 
 self to sleep, thinking that I would give all the 
 world to exchange the broidered- satin cushion into 
 which I sank, for a bed of moss under Ben's old 
 pines. 
 
 It was nearly dark when I was awoke by a 
 dainty chime of fairy-like bells, and beheld Fanfre- 
 luche by my couch. 
 
 * Well, my dear ! ^ she began in her pert patron- 
 izing way. ^ How have you been ? Dull enough, 
 poor little wretch. I have had no end of fun. I 
 have been out driving with her, in the carriage, 
 shopping and flirting all this time. I love to go to 
 the shops ; we are first-rate customers you know ; 
 we always pay our bills, we do indeed. You see 
 we can afford to be honest ; it^s alway one of theni 
 that writes the cheques ! And how splendidly the 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 PUCK. 
 
 silk-mercers^ and the jewellers^ and tlie milliners, 
 and tlie florists, and the fruiterers serve us : you see 
 we pay very mnch better than the great ladies do ; 
 weVe got the great men^s money, and their wives 
 have not. That^s how it is. Why ! when I go into the 
 bonbon-seller^s, they stufi" my mouth full with 
 sweetmeats and macaroons : they^ wouldnH pay all 
 that attention to a mere Duchesses dog ! ' 
 
 ' Is it such a great thing to be a — Pearl ? ^ I 
 asked, hesitatingly. 
 
 ' A magnificent thing 1 ^ said Fanfreluche, with 
 a smack of her lips. ' All the fat of the land, my 
 dear. And all the cream of the milk. There was a 
 time, you know, — IVe heard my grandmother talk 
 of it, — when it was a great thing to be a great lady; 
 one of the heads of the nobility, you know. You 
 set the fashion; you ruled the tone; you shaped 
 the society ; you could ban with a frown, or elevate 
 with a smile ; you were besieged for your ball 
 tickets, and you were the cynosure of all eyes in 
 your dress. But now — bless your heart ! — if you 
 are a '^ grande dame/' you are just nowhere. Nowhere 
 at all, except for wretched little puddling political 
 purposes, if you belong to a ^^ Party.^^ As for all the 
 rest, — Pearl and that lot have it. If you, the great
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED OX LIFE. 195 
 
 lady, bore men with exclusivism, tliey levant and 
 go off to Pearl et Cie ; if you want to rule tliem 
 with a light hand, they kick over the traces, and 
 laugh at you with Pearl et Cie ; if you won^t be a 
 dowdy, out of the fashion, you must follow the 
 modes that Pearl et Cie set ; if you buy a fan, if you 
 go to an opera, if you drive a new-fashioned 
 equipage, if you adopt a costly costume, whether 
 you like it or not, whether you know it or not, you are 
 merely obeying the lead of Pearl et Cie. I have 
 heard old Lord Brune talk of the rules and regula- 
 tions of Almack's when he was a youth — gracious ! 
 the men of our day wouldn^t stand one of them. 
 They^d leave the Patronesses to dance a minuette in 
 solitude, and come and make chaff of the old 
 women over Pearl et Cie^s claret and chicken ! ^ 
 
 And Franfreluche stopped to take breath, 
 having fairly preached herself out of it. 
 
 I was very much bewildered, and not at all 
 clear as to what she might mean. 
 
 ^Then these Pearls are the real sovereigns of 
 the world ? ' I ventured to suggest, glancing at the 
 turquoise-studded prayer-book, which looked made 
 for a Chapel Eoyal. 
 
 Fanfreluche followed my glance, and grinned.
 
 196 PUCK. 
 
 till what witli her red lips_, her white teeth, and her 
 coal-black eyes, she looked for all the world very 
 much like a very small devil. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! We go to church, my dear ; we are 
 very religious, I assure you ! Sovereigns, did you 
 ask ? — to be sure ; and sovereigns you know always 
 did have a nice knack of pillaging everybody right 
 and left, and then dying in the full odour of sanctity. 
 We, now and then, die in a hovel, it^s true, after 
 all our brilliancy, if we lose our beauty very early ; 
 but then so do the sovereigns by the way, if they 
 happen to lose their crowns. So the parallel fits 
 both ways. Yes ! — they rule, do Pearl et Cie. If 
 they only saved their money oftener, and lost their 
 tempers less often ; if they only didn^t dissolve their 
 diamonds in vinegar as it were, and fly into passions 
 with their very best friends and paymasters, they 
 might rule the world. They do rule the bigger 
 half of it as it is.' 
 
 ^ But why do men — ? ' 
 
 Fanfreluche interrupted me, turning up her small 
 thin nose. 
 
 ^ My dear ! Men like to be cheated and pillaged, 
 and sworn at, and made fools of, and ruined ; — they 
 do positively relish it. Or if they don't, how should
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED OX LIFE. 197 
 
 Pearl et Cie possess the power men let them pos- 
 sess ? A fact is a fact, you know. No good being 
 blind to it. The sun will stay in the heavens how- 
 ever you may blink at him — ^ 
 
 ' Then you think— ? ' 
 
 ' That the devil himself drilled women; and 
 capital forragers he made of them ! ' snapped Fan- 
 freluche. ' They don't stand steady fire_, they wonH 
 fight on the square, and they never can carry out a 
 campaign logically ; but for sharp-shooting, and 
 pillaging, and skirmishing, there are no guerillas 
 like them. Hungry are you ? Poor little fellow ! 
 Well — they will be dining in a couple of hours ; 
 then ril take you down-stairs. AYe live very 
 well here, very well indeed. I never touch a bone 
 — on principle : — we give them all away to the poor 
 of the parish. Ah, my dear ! you don't dream how 
 religious we are ! ' 
 
 And the tiny creature — she was very much 
 smaller than I — grinned again so diabolically that 
 it positively frightened me to be in her presence. 
 
 ^^^Yhen I say we live well,' she resumed, seem- 
 ing dearly to love her own chatter : '' of course I 
 speak with a reservation. Men and women spoil all 
 they eat with their barbarous fashion of cook-
 
 198 PUCK. 
 
 ing it. Hams boiled in Madeira, — pigeons stewed 
 with cliampignons, — cMckens smashed up with toma- 
 toes, — ducks higorres with Seville oranges, — lob- 
 sters drowned in oil and sauces, — oysters crowded 
 with truffles and mushrooms, — bah ! it makes you 
 mad to think of it. Every dog knows better than 
 to spoil two good things with one another ; we like 
 the simple flavour, each rich in itself. Who ever 
 saw a dog put two things in his mouth at one time ? 
 But these barbarians put a hundred ; — the flavours 
 of a hundred at the least. And then they call that 
 Babel of contradicting essences, and anomalous 
 tastes, "good cookery," and the concocter of it is 
 dubbed a '^'^ chef! '^ Bah! I long to bite the legs 
 of every one of the cordons bleus ! ' 
 
 I answered nothing : of course milk and bread 
 and a trifle of cold meat had been my only food, 
 and I knew no more of what she meant, than of 
 the flavours of the dishes she mentioned. 
 
 But, like everybody who cannot tell a truffle 
 from a tomato, I kept a discreet silence, and deter- 
 mined to show myself a thorough gourmet by liking 
 nothing when I tasted it. 
 
 ' Of course,^ continued the Lilliputian lady, with 
 intense spite. ' Laura Pearl never, I will be bound.
 
 HE IS lau:n^ched on life. 199 
 
 having eaten anything except cabbages and black 
 bread in her early days, will never now be content 
 with anything except the brands that are a guinea 
 the bottle, and eatables that are six months at least 
 before their , due season. Her dinners and suppers 
 have every vice of the fashionable school stuffed 
 into them. That fellow in the kitchen gets a hun- 
 dred and fifty a-year ; and all he does is to turn 
 good food into claptrap '^ compotes/^ while his 
 gravies are all glaze^ and his pates all pepper. 
 Butj goodness! you know nothing about all this; 
 you are a baby. Hold your tongue^ and let me lie 
 quiet ; or Beltran will tell me my eyes are red^ and 
 say I mustn't have any chicken.^ 
 
 ^ Is Beltran omnipotent here ? ^ 
 
 Fanfreluche showed her teeth. 
 
 * Just now, my dear — yes ! ^ 
 
 ' Who is he ? You said you would tell me.' 
 
 ^ Beltran ? Oh you little ass ! I thought every- 
 body from Paris to Patagonia knew Yere Beltran. 
 There aren't a creature better known ; where on 
 earth have you lived ? ' 
 
 ^ Not in the world/ I said humbly, feeling fear- 
 fully ashamed, like the little coward I was, of my 
 dear old Ben and his little cottage.
 
 200 PUCK. 
 
 ' One can guess that, innocent, without your tell- 
 ing one. Well, — since you don't know anything, 
 expect to be pretty considerably astonished ; we^^e 
 enough to take the hair off the head of any un- 
 educated being/ 
 
 *" Are you so very wicked, then ? ' 
 
 ' Wicked ! what a silly old-fashioned word. My 
 dear child — we're only a trifle fast and very in- 
 tensely fashionable. Wicked ! — good gracious, no ! 
 And if scandal-mongers say that we play a trifle too 
 high, why, it is very malicious of them, and our 
 roulette-wheel is only a pretty toy that anybody 
 may buy for a guinea ! ' 
 
 And Fanfreluche grinned afresh. 
 
 ^ But who is Beltran ? ' I pursued. 
 
 'You'll see him,' said Fanfreluche, pettishly. 
 ' He's a very good fellow, though the world don't 
 think so ; he owns the Coronet, you know — ' 
 
 ' The public-house ? ' I asked, for opposite Bill 
 Jacobs' there was an inn with that sign, very much 
 frequented by thieves and dog-fanciers, and black- 
 guards of all sorts. 
 
 *" Public-house ? good heavens, no ! Our theatre ! ' 
 
 ' A theatre ! Does he dress in green and spangles, 
 and carry a long white whip ? ' I demanded breath-
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 201 
 
 lessly^ thinking of tlie magnificent persons I had 
 beheld outside the booth at the wakes in the Peaks, 
 and believing that I should show that I also knew 
 the world. 
 
 Fanfreluche screamed till she choked herself. 
 
 ' Oh, you dear little simpleton ! — you're as good 
 as a play yourself. Why, Beltran is a Viscount, you 
 little fool ; and he only keeps the Coronet as he 
 keeps his horse, and his valet, and his cigar-case — 
 his name don't show, you know ; old Aaron is the 
 only man the public ever hears of; the acting 
 manager, you know, villainous old screw ! ' 
 
 ' Lord Beltran is very rich, then ? ' 
 
 'He ought to be ! ' — and she gazed into the fire 
 with an expression that was plaintive and very 
 serious for this cynical, worldly-wise, frivolous young 
 lady. 
 
 ' But he is not ? ' I ventured to infer. 
 
 '' Who says so ? It's no business of yours or of 
 mine if he isn't ! ' retorted Fanfreluche quite 
 fiercely : I perceived that, with all her wickedness, 
 she was a loyal little thing to her friends, amongst 
 whom this Beltran seemed to stand foremost. 
 
 ' Was it he who bought me and sent me here ? ' 
 I inquired, to change the subject.
 
 202 PUCK. 
 
 Whereon Fanfreluche became her own sardonic 
 and scoffing self once more. 
 
 ' Pooh ! no. He's an awful fool ; but he's not 
 quite such a fool as to purchase a thing of Bill 
 Jacobs. Any dog Bill sells^ he steals again in a 
 month or two. Don't look so frightened. Laura 
 will sell you herself most likely before Bill gets a 
 chance. Set a thief to foil a thief you know ! ' 
 
 ' A thief ! ' I murmured^ unable to reconcile such 
 language with a lady of whom I had just heard as 
 one of the sovereigns 'of the world. ^ But who is 
 that man_, then^ who sent me here ? ' 
 
 ' Leo Lance^ my dear. Only an author ! ' 
 
 ' But he gave twenty pounds for me ? ' 
 
 ^ Did he ? Oh ! — and the ear-rings were two 
 hundred the pair. Yes_, I know; that's just the 
 price he got — Beltran gave it him — for that new 
 little thing they are going to play. And he spends 
 Beltran's money so ! — Chut ! ' 
 
 And the small dame clicked her little white teeth 
 like the teeth of a trap. I saw something was 
 wrong ; but I was not aware what it might be. 
 
 ^Beltran's such an awful fool_,you know/ she ex- 
 plained. ' He's one of the cleverest men on earth, 
 and keen as an eagle in some things,, but where
 
 HE IS LAUNCHED ON LIFE. 203 
 
 there's a question of moneys or women^ or play_, or 
 kindliness, pooh ! — he's a downright blind bat, an 
 idiot ! He pays Leo Lance for a burlesque he didn't 
 want out of pure good-nature — do you suppose 
 he dreams that the Mouse lays the gold out in 
 tr^^ing to steal his mistress ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, I am sure/ I muttered vaguely, 
 not having an idea what she meant. ^ The Mouse — 
 what have mice to do with burlesques, and what 
 may burlesques be, pray ? ' 
 
 'A burlesque, my sweet little daisy,' explained 
 my patroness, 'is an epitome of the tendency of 
 this age to reduce everything of heroic stature to 
 pigmy proportions, and to render ridiculous all that 
 other ages have venerated. A burlesque is the re- 
 source of writers without wit ; the grinning mask 
 whereby they conceal their inability to laugh the 
 laugh of humour ; the juggling of words and phrases 
 with which they counterfeit the Hudibrastic strength 
 and the Rabelaisean mirth that is not in them nor in 
 their times. There ! — that is not mine ; I heard 
 Derry Denzil say itj so take it for what it is 
 worth. As for the Mice — that is a name we give 
 Leo Lance, and Derry, and a few others. They've 
 a paper they call the Mouse, \ a sort of burlesque
 
 204 PUCK. 
 
 itself^ only Denzil pours real acid into it^ — and tliey 
 are all mice that write for it ; and there^s nothing 
 they don^t nibble at^ and the trapes not set yet that 
 can catch them. But for mercy^s sake, do hold your 
 tongue,, and let me be quiet and get some sleep. 
 Wake me when the clock strikes eight, and don't 
 say a syllable earlier.' 
 
 And she curled herself up and slept, and no 
 eflForts of mine could arouse her. As for me, I sat 
 the whole time bolt upright, quivering all over with 
 excitement ; — mice, actors, thieves, sovereigns, 
 cheese-baited traps, and ivory prayer-books, chasing 
 each other in wild confusion and discord through 
 my brain. 
 
 Into what a world I had alighted !
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 
 
 RECISELY as the time-piece chimed eight 
 hourSj Fanfreluche awoke and shook her- 
 self. 
 
 ' Come down,^ she said. ^ They will be soon at 
 dinner. It^s an off-week at the Coronet,, Easter you 
 know. You see we^re so pious ; we keep the feasts 
 and the fasts of the Church ! Now don't you mind 
 if she raps you hard with her fan handle^ or if the 
 Mice hit champagne corks at you ; if you make an 
 atom of noise you^ll be turned out of the room.' 
 
 ' Are the Mice always here ? ' I inquired^ dread- 
 ing these un-trapable rodents. 
 
 ' You silly ! Of course not. But they come
 
 206 PUCK. 
 
 pretty often ; — with the others. Beltran^s wines are 
 excellent — ■' 
 
 *" But is it Beltran^s house^ then ? ' 
 
 ' Oh you little donkey ! of course not ! ' cried my 
 chaperone exasperated. ' Of course it^s not his 
 house ; — only he pays for it and for everything in it ! 
 Can^t you put two and two together ? Come along ! 
 You will find the dishes burn your mouth; that 
 cook^ though they think so much of him^ has only 
 one idea of seasoning; — and that one lies in the 
 pepper-pot ! ^ 
 
 With this she trotted through the half-opened 
 door and down the pretty staircase with its gilded 
 balustrade and its bright-hued carpets^ and into 
 the dainty hall^ mosaic paven^ and filled with hot- 
 house flowers and small orange-trees. 
 
 She led the way into a room that literally dazzled 
 me as I entered it ; it seemed one sheet of light ; a 
 miniature sun in the blue arc of the ceiling shed 
 down its rays, the atmosphere was heavily scented 
 with pastilles and flowers, the table seemed a-blaze 
 with gold and silver, and the hangings of the walls 
 were azure satin, silver- starred. 
 
 There were seven or eight people round the 
 table ; and a voice called Fanfreluche. She obeyed
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 207 
 
 its call; and I crept timidly after lier^ and gazed 
 around from a safe position under a chair. 
 
 Tliere_, taking courage, I glanced round the room. 
 I recognized my purchaser^ and I recognized my 
 mistress : — tlie latter dazzled my eyes like the sun- 
 chandelier above head. 
 
 She seemed literally on fire with the superb 
 rubies that glittered all over her, and shone like 
 sparks of flame upon the exquisite whiteness of her 
 skin. Flame- coloured robes gleamed under the 
 black shower of her laces ; her scarlet pome- 
 granate-like lips, the rich flush on her cheeks, the 
 lustre of her great brown eyes; — all were full of 
 colour glowing like the hues in a stained-glass pic- 
 ture when a red autumn sun streams through it. It 
 was a perfect beauty of its kind. 
 
 The splendid lips had a cruel sensuality; the 
 splendid eyes had a hard rapacity; the splendid 
 ruddy-tinted hair shaded a brow that had the low 
 brutal ignorance of the savage set on it. But — 
 with all that youth, that colour, that magnificence of 
 loveliness, who remembered that ? 
 
 Not they, certes, who sat around her board. 
 
 Ah fools ! when you gaze on the ^ flower-like 
 face ^ of a woman, do you ever pause to notice where
 
 208 PUCK. 
 
 the animalism speaks tlirougli it ? — tlie greedy the 
 cruelty, the lust, the ignorance ? 
 
 ^Animalism' do I say ? I have lived now so long 
 in your world and its cant, that I have caught up all 
 its jargon. 
 
 ' Animalism/ forsooth ! — a more unfair word 
 don^t exist. When we animals never drink only 
 just enough to satisfy thirst, never eat except 
 when we have genuine appetites, never indulge in 
 any sort of debauch, and never strain excess till we 
 sink into the slough of satiety, shall ' animalism ^ be 
 a word to designate all that men and women dare 
 to do ? 
 
 ' Animalism ! ' you ought to blush for such a libel 
 on our innocent and reasonable lives when you regard 
 your own ! You men who scorch your throats with 
 alcohols ; and kill your livers with absinthe ; and 
 squander your gold in the Kursaal, and the Circle, 
 and the Arlington; and have thirty services at your 
 dinner betwixt soup and the ^ chasse ; ' and cannot 
 spend a summer afternoon in comfort unless you be 
 drinking deep the intoxication of hazard in your 
 debts and your bets on the Heath, or the Downs ; 
 at Hurlingham, or at TattersalFs Eooms. You 
 women who sell your souls for bits of stones dug from
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 209 
 
 tlie bowels of the earth ; who stake your honour for 
 a length of lace two centuries old ; who replace the 
 bloom your passions have banished wdth the red of 
 poisoned pigments ; who wreathe your aching heads 
 with purchased tresses torn from prisons^ mad- 
 houses,, and coffins ; who spend your lives in one 
 incessant struggle^ first the rivalry of vanity and 
 then the rivalry of ambition ; who deck out greed, 
 and selfishness, and worship of station or of gold as 
 ' love/ and then wonder that your hapless dupes, 
 seizing the idol that you offer them as worthy of their 
 worship, fling it from them with a curse, finding it 
 dumb, and deaf, and merciless, a thing of wood and 
 stone. 
 
 ^ Animalism,^ forsooth ! — God knows it would 
 be well for you, here and hereafter, men and women 
 both, were you only patient, continent, and single- 
 minded, only faithful, gentle, and long-suffering, as 
 are the brutes that you mock, and misuse, and vilify 
 in the supreme blindness of your egregious vanity ! 
 
 From beneath my chair I surveyed with some 
 interest and with more trepidation the society around 
 the banquetting-table of Laura Pearl, while Fanfre- 
 luche, kindly squatting near me, drew my attention 
 to each personage in turn. 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 PUCK. 
 
 ^ Look yonder^ at that tall slender man farthest 
 from Pearl/ she murmured to me in that language 
 which,, like the utterances of the fairies^ cannot be 
 heard by the gross ears of human creatures. By the 
 way^ with all your vaunted superiority^ a fly can 
 eclipse you in sight, a bird in volitation, a wasp in 
 architecture, a bee in political economy and geome- 
 try, a water spider in aquatic science and subtlety, 
 a — Good Heavens, one could spread the list over 
 ten pages ! 
 
 ^ Do you see that tall fair man with the white 
 flower in his coat ? ^ pursued Fanfreluche, ^ the one 
 with the handsome, contemptuous, weary face, the 
 gray eyes and the dark straight eyebrows, who looks 
 '' aristocrat ^^ all over him, and has made his face 
 as expressionless as a colourless piece of repousse 
 work, — that^s Beltran. You^re afraid of him ? So 
 are most people at first sight ; — and a good many 
 of them ever afterwards for that matter — I don^t 
 know why ; it^s only manner with him. The fools 
 toady him so ; he's obliged to give them a good 
 sound kick with the boot-heel of insolence as it 
 were.' 
 
 ^ Why does he keep the society of fools ? ' 
 
 ' Little donkey ! He lives in the world, don't
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 211 
 
 he ? ' cried Fanfreluclie with immeasurable sarcasm. 
 'It^s very easy to get into ditch-water, but not so easy 
 to get out. Besides, a man as rich as Beltran has been 
 — pshaw ! is I mean ! — can't find a world quit of a 
 flood of parasites, any more than a salmon can swim 
 in rivers free of minnows. Look there — that little 
 fellow with the brilliant eyes, and the full lips, and 
 the crisp brown hair, isn^t that he who bought you ? 
 Yes ? I knew it ! Well ! that^s the Mouse, Leo 
 Lance. He was the son of a tobacconist, they do 
 say, somewhere down south ; but had a classic 
 education, and uncommonly sharp wits. He writes 
 well and he talks well — in his own way, — cribs right 
 and left ; but wears his stolen clothes so that they 
 look like his own skin. Anyhow — he is in society to 
 a good extent, and lives with the " swells,^^ whom he 
 copies and worships, because they^re of use to him ; 
 and damns and detests because they only admit him 
 on sufferance, and don't take him amongst their own 
 women.' 
 
 ' He did buy me,' I murmured. ' Why does he 
 not notice me now ? ' 
 
 ^ Pooh ! He's never seen you before, my dear ! ' 
 said Fanfreluche, with her peculiar grin of signifi- 
 cance. ' Never ! — don't be so indiscreet as to recog-
 
 212 PUCK. 
 
 nize him. The great art in society is to be able to 
 stare our oldest friends in the face as if we'd never 
 met tbem in all our lives before. It^s an art that^s 
 always bandy ; for nine times out of ten you do 
 really want to cut tbem ; and if you don^t^ it only 
 looks good style to bave forgotten people, and 
 makes tbem feel tbemselves of no consequence in 
 sucli a great world as yours — ^ 
 
 ' But witb real friends ? ' I began ; my mind re- 
 verting to my dear old Ben. 
 
 *" Pshaw ! my little Daisy/ scoffed Fanfreluche. 
 ' There are no " friends '' now-a-days ; there are only 
 acquaintances. Beltran is *^^ friends ^^ witb ever so 
 many men, whom yet be pills witb black balls every 
 time they're put up for his clubs.' 
 
 ^ That bright, fair-faced, curly-haired boy, is the 
 little Marquis of Montferrat/ she resumed; ^ he has 
 been of age a year, and is half ruined already . What 
 by? Oh yearlings, and women, and big '^^ coups'' at 
 the tables ; the old story. Tender's Evrecombe, 
 his well-beloved Mentor, who, with the women as his 
 assistants, decoys him into what nets he pleases.' 
 
 ' A swindler ? ' I inquired tremblingly. 
 
 ^ A swindler ? Good gracious, no !/ cried the bttle 
 lady. ' Evrecombe is a perfectly well-born gentle-
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 218 
 
 man, — did you ever see a more elegant person ? — 
 and tlie day little Monti shoots himself, or rushes 
 out of Europe with worse dishonour than death at 
 his heels, his Mentor will sip an ice drink in his club, 
 and murmur serenely — '' I warned him ! " 
 
 ' Do you see Deringham Denzil, there ? ' she pur- 
 sued after a brief pause. ' Derry as they call him ; a 
 big fellow, awfully handsome ; bearded and bronzed 
 like an Asiatic? Looks like a guerilla chief, doesn^t 
 he? with his reckless, devil-may-care, picturesque 
 face, and those great sinewy limbs of his ? — well, 
 he is one of the Mice too ; and for a caustic piece of 
 incisive irony, or a wistful tender touch of thought, 
 there is nobody equal to that stalwart debonnair bri- 
 gand. He has a story too, but 1^11 tell you that some 
 other time. That man, with the superb golden-haired 
 head, there is the painter, Marmion Eagle (he's a co- 
 lossus in the studio, and mad as a March hare out of 
 it ; all great artists are) ; and the delicate handsome 
 creature next him, with a face like some pretty 
 brunette's, is a cavalry-soldier, St John Milton. 
 He has been cut all to pieces a hundred times, and 
 has seen more service, and killed more men to his 
 own hand, than any man of his years in the army. 
 Hear him tell how he set the skulls of all the Asia-
 
 214 PUCK. 
 
 tics lie liad ever killed, in a row on the top of the 
 flat roof of his house, one illuminating night, in Cal- 
 cutta; with the skulls all filled up with clay, and a 
 candle stuck into each, and lighting up the fleshless 
 jaws, and shining through the orbless eyes ! — it 
 will make your very blood run cold. But he never 
 does talk of himself hardly — your great soldiers are 
 always very modest over their own bits of derring-do. 
 There, I don^t see any one else to tell you about ; — 
 of the other two, one is a guardsman, and the other 
 a member of parliament ; both pleasant fellows, 
 gentle as women, and wild as the grouse in Novem- 
 ber. But listen ! — there^s Beltran calling me.^ 
 
 She trotted up to her hero, who stroked her 
 and gave her a sweetmeat from the gold bonbon- 
 stands on the table ; doing this he caught sight of 
 myself, and asked whence that new white dog had 
 come. 
 
 ' I bought him,^ said Laura Pearl, carelessly, and 
 I wondered her voice did not break the spell of her 
 beauty for all of them, it was so harsh, so coarse in 
 fibre, so metal-like in its resonnance. ^ A man ofi*ered 
 him to me to-day in the Park, for a guinea; collar 
 and all, as you see him.^ 
 
 ' Stole him, then ? '
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 215 
 
 ^ Well ; tliat warn't my affair if tie did/ 
 
 Slie distinctly said ' warnH.'' 
 
 ^ Yes_, it was. Wliat do you buy dogs for ? You 
 can have dozens given you.^ 
 
 ^ It^s a pretty beast, Beltran ? ^ 
 
 ' Oil ! pretty enougli. Looks awfully miserable, 
 too. Hungry — eli ? ' 
 
 He addressed the last phrase to me, and in the 
 anguish of my feelings I could not restrain a 
 piteous howl. He laughed, and set me down some 
 croquettes of chicken on his own plate. 
 
 ' I hate the dogs messing and feeding in the 
 rooms,^ muttered the Pearl sullenly. 
 
 ' Better take care they^re fed out of it then,' 
 said Beltran, in his negligent, indifferent fashion : 
 she looked angered and struck Fanfreluche a sharp 
 blow with the ivory sticks of her fan. 
 
 I wondered if these gentle amenities were the 
 custom between lovers in the fashionable world of 
 Pearl et Cie. 
 
 ' Worth twenty sovereigns, if he be worth one,^ 
 murmured Beltran, surveying me as I ate. ' Pure 
 Lion- dog, eh. Lance ? ^ 
 
 ' Looks so,' responded the Mouse, putting up 
 his eye-glass to study me.
 
 216 • PUCK. 
 
 ' Would you know the man tliat you had him 
 from_, Laura ? ' asked Beltran. 
 
 ' Good gracious^ no ! I^m sure I shouldn^t ! ' 
 
 ' And why on earth did you buy him ? ' 
 
 ^ 'Cause he seemed dirt cheap at a guinea. 
 What a heap of fuss and nonsense, Yere, you make 
 about that Kttle wretch ! ' 
 
 I turned hot and cold_, and trembled over my cro- 
 quettes: I had only been up at the table one minute 
 and a half, and already I had heard four gigantic, 
 and apparently utterly meaningless falsehoods ! 
 Was this inevitable in ' high society ' ? 
 
 Beltran laughed a little ; it seemed to amuse him 
 to be accused of making a fuss about anything, as 
 it did, indeed^ appear utterly irreconcilable with the 
 extreme quietism, and half cynical, half languid^ 
 weariness of his habitual tone and manner. 
 
 The moments that followed were not sweet to me : 
 for they passed in my being handed about from one 
 to another until I had run the gauntlet of the whole 
 circle. Happily their verdict was favourable : and 
 all of them, Leo Lance the most emphatically, con- 
 gratulated the Pearl on having so cheaply obtained 
 such a thorough-bred. All, indeed, save Beltran, 
 who having affirmed again that, if she got me for a
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 217 
 
 guinea, the man had stolen me, shut his lips, and 
 vouchsafed no more on the subject. 
 
 The Mouse and those loudest in my praises, 
 offered me nothing to eat ; Beltran, to whom my 
 presence seemed scarcely satisfactorily accounted 
 for, remembered me, and gave me a slice of a duck- 
 ling, and a handful of almond cakes. After this 
 they forgot me ; except when Laura Pearl, with 
 Lance, and the little Marquis, amused themselves in 
 frightening me out of my wits by letting off rose- 
 water crackers in my eyes, and pelting me with 
 crystallized chestnuts, till I was both deaf and blind. 
 
 ' Monkeyish malice, my dear,^ murmured Fanfre- 
 luche, as an enormous hard bonbon hit me sharply 
 on the eye. ' Boys, and cads, and women have it. 
 Go under Beltran's chair. ^ 
 
 I was so confused, and indeed so hurt, though 
 their missiles were only rosewater and chestnuts, that 
 I heard little of all that passed at the table. 
 
 Pearl laughed very often, laughed long, and 
 laughed loudly, showing the most magnificent teeth 
 in the world; and some stories were told, which if not 
 over-decorous, were to a surety wittily, if wickedly 
 imagined. Beyond these the proprieties were in 
 no way violated ; and if it was all laughable chatter
 
 218 PUCK. 
 
 enough^ mere gossip of tlie day lightly told^ there 
 were none of those brilliant scintillations which out- 
 siders are given to imagining as coruscating per- 
 petually in such spheres as this. 
 
 Men^ as I know now^ do not take the trouble to 
 be amusing in the society of PearPs sisterhood : they 
 pay^ and think the purse-strings quite enough to 
 draw, without being wearied to draw also on their 
 mental capital. 
 
 What good things there were said, came from 
 the merry mouth of Lance. 
 
 ' If that Mouse hadn't sung, and didn't sing, he 
 wouldn't feast in this cheese,' Fanfreluche meta- 
 phorically explained to me ; and when I asked 
 further explanation, added : 
 
 ^ Little goose ! Beltran gives him dinners ; and 
 he is to amuse Beltran. It's a fair exchange. 
 Do you suppose our Stuart princes don't keep their 
 Will Somers to jest for them ? In old times, you 
 know, the noblemen's fools wore motley, and jingled 
 bells atop of their caps : now they wear dress coats, 
 and half-guinea rosebuds in their button-holes. But 
 the class hasn't changed a bit. And their lord's 
 whip is an insolent word ; and their lord's wage 
 is paid out to them in dinners, and suppers, and
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 219 
 
 water parties_, and race-weeks, and mayhap, if they^re 
 very presentable fools indeed, in a club ballot, 
 and an autumn shooting/ 
 
 'The poor fools !^ I murmured, for fellow-feeling 
 makes us wondrous kind, and I had just been the 
 butt of crackers and marrons-glaces. 
 
 ' Poor indeed ! ' sneered Fanfreluche. ' IV s the 
 poor princes, I think ! paying all they do for dull 
 wit that they could eclipse in a second themselves 
 if they only weren^t too indolent to talk ! The fools 
 make pretty perquisites, I can assure you, and run 
 up all the rungs of the ladder in no time. IVe 
 seen a fool — in the end — sit aloft, looking sanctity 
 and decorum itself, and gripping his money-bags 
 tight, while the Prince sank below in a bottomless 
 sea of ruin, with the sharks of Debt and the vul- 
 tures of Yenality tearing him asunder between 
 them ! ' 
 
 ' It is his own fault ? ^ I suggested, 
 
 ' Not at all ! ' snapped Fanfreluche. ' He has 
 been ten to one too heedless to watch, and too 
 
 generous to distrust, like but you know nothing 
 
 about it, you are so young ; and youth is always as 
 obstinate as it is ignorant, and as illiberal as it is 
 illiterate. I hate youth ! '
 
 220 PUCK. 
 
 ^ But you are not old yourself, surely ? ' I 
 demanded. 
 
 ' Pooli ! ' scoffed Fanfreluclie, '' I am feminine ! 
 And into every feminine thing, my dear, the Devil, 
 before it is born, instils the knowledge of evil : for 
 he still keeps the apples by him with which he 
 tempted poor Eve ; only there is but the juice of 
 evil left beneath the rosy velvet skin, for the golden 
 side that held the knowledge of good is all shrivel- 
 led up, withered by the winds of sin that blow 
 for ever through the universe.' 
 
 And having said this she would say no more, 
 but sat watching with her black and brilliant eyes ; 
 and looking so fearfully like a very little but very 
 terrible devil herself, that I trembled, and thought 
 that indeed through the warm fragrant air of the 
 banquetting chamber I heard and felt the passing 
 breath of that sirocco of guilt which, daily and 
 nightly, sweeps over the sick and weary world, and 
 burns it with consuming fever, and will not let it 
 lie in peace, and rest. 
 
 The dinner lasted long; there were some thirteen 
 services, I counted them in amaze; at its close 
 there was the scent of variously scented smoke, and 
 the laugh of Laura Pearl rang louder.
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 221 
 
 From the table they passed to the drawing- 
 room up-stairs ; which glowed with ten times more 
 light, ten times more colour, ten times more bril- 
 liancy than the other apartment, and was indeed 
 one mass of scintillating gold, and silyer_, and amber ; 
 not a large room, everything in the house was 
 small and hijou, but intensely luxurious and very 
 costly. 
 
 They had not been there many moments before 
 they gathered round a table on which stood a pretty 
 little apparatus, made of rosewood and ebony and 
 ormolu ; a sort of plate, it seemed to me, in which 
 her hand, with its rings blazing forth bright rays, 
 was for ever carelessly tossing a little ivory ball. 
 
 What they were doing I could not tell ; it en- 
 grossed them entirely. Some grew very pale ; some 
 very flushed ; all were intent, silent, breathlessly 
 eager; and they rarely moved, save when one or 
 other of them went to a marble stand on which 
 claret-cup, and cognac, and eS"ervescing waters were 
 placed, kept cool amongst great glittering rock- 
 crystals of square cut ice. 
 
 Their faces wore a curious look, I thought. I 
 have seen it often enough since then at half the 
 gaming-tables of Europe.
 
 222 PUCK. 
 
 I had gazed at them^ amazed and entranced^ for 
 half-an-liour or thereabout when Fanfreluche ap- 
 proached me. 
 
 ^ Come away_, child/ she whispered. ^ It^s mid- 
 night, come to bed.^ 
 
 ^ I want to stay here ! ^ I remonstrated. ' I want 
 to see them : — ' 
 
 ' Oh, do you ? They're not attractive to see. 
 Some of them must lose_, you know ; and some will 
 be drunk when the morning finds them. Beltran 
 won't, but three or four of the others will. There is 
 no drinking now- a- days we're told — oh no ! — and no 
 gaming-houses either. What a precious clever thing 
 is Legislation ; it bars men out from doing a thing 
 in public, and so they go and do it ten times more 
 in private ! But then nobody guesses it, you see, 
 and that's all Legislation cares. They've shut up 
 the silver hells, and the gentlemen lose an estate in 
 a night at the Cocodes' Club, and stake hundreds 
 on the Red in their mistresses' drawing-rooms. So 
 Law means to shut up the public-house ; and the 
 working men will soak themselves in gin and rum 
 in their own cellars all Sunday long, and pay twenty 
 per cent, more for the liquor because it will be 
 supplied at a risk. Oh ! Law is wondrous clever !
 
 HE SEES SOCIETY. 223 
 
 But do come away, little one ; you^re only a baby^ 
 and tliis liouse isn^t edifying after midniglit/ 
 
 ' Your Beltran can^t be so very good_, tlien_, since 
 he is so fond of it !^ I retorted^ s^ngry to be 
 treated so cbildisbly. 
 
 ' Poobj my dear ! Beltran seeks wliat he scorns; 
 and caresses his own ruin. He^s not uncommon there. 
 I tell you^ he^s an awful fool^ and I never said any- 
 thing at all about his morals. The world thinks 
 very badly of him ; and so may you if you like. 
 Come away — that^s all.-' 
 
 And by dint of threats and persuasions she half 
 drove and half coaxed me out of the room^ and 
 into the little^ dark, deserted boudoir we had pre- 
 viously occupied. 
 
 ' Go to sleep, child ! ' she cried^ pushing me on 
 to a soft silk mat ; and I was too sleepy in truth to 
 disobey. 
 
 Once I awoke myself in my vivid dreams to ask 
 her a question. 
 
 ' Is that woman realhj a sovereign, Fanfre- 
 luche ? ' 
 
 I could see even in the moonlit darkness the 
 grin of her little white teeth. 
 
 ' Oh yes, my dear — honour bright. If 3^ou doubt
 
 224 
 
 PUCK. 
 
 it just go and look in at the fashionable photographic 
 shops : you^ll see her between Queen Victoria and 
 the Archbishop of Canterbury ; and she sells better, 
 they say, than either the ermine or the lawn. Good 
 night, and for gracious sake donH chatter ! ^
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AT THE COEOXET THEATRE. 
 
 HEX I awoke the next mornings I certainly 
 found myself in a blue velvet-hung apart- 
 ment ; 1 stared at myself repeated a dozen 
 times in as many mirrors ; I wore on my collar a 
 beautiful azure satin rosette nearly the size of my 
 head; and the man who brought us our breakfast 
 served us minced chicken on a very exquisitelypaint- 
 ed china plate : but I had been more joyous by far 
 on the rough red bricks of Ben's cottage kitchen. 
 
 ' These fine things don't make one's happiness/ 
 I murmured pensively to Fanfreluche. 
 
 ^ No^ my dear^ they don't ; ' the little worldling 
 admitted. ^ They do to women ; they're so material, 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 PUCK. 
 
 you see. They are angels — oli yes^ of course ! — but 
 they^re uncommonly sliarp angels where money and 
 good living are concerned. Just watch them — watch 
 the tail of their eye — when a cheque is being written 
 or an eprouvette being brought to table. And after 
 all^ you know minced chicken is a good deal nicer 
 than dry bread. Of course we can easily be senti- 
 mental and above this sort of thing, when the 
 chicken is in our mouths where we sit by the fire ; 
 but if we were gnawing wretched bones, out in the 
 cold of the streets, I doubt if we should feel in 
 such a sublime mood. All the praises of poverty 
 are sung by the minstrel who has got a golden harp 
 to chant them on ; and all the encomiums on re- 
 nunciation come from your bon viveiir who never 
 denied himself aught in his life ! ' 
 
 ' Then everybody is a hypocrite ? ^ 
 
 ' Not a bit, child. We always like what we 
 haven^t got ; and people are quite honest very often 
 in their professions, though they give the lie direct 
 to them in their practice. People can talk them- 
 selves into believing that they believe anything. 
 When the preacher discourses on the excellence of 
 holiness he may have been a thorough-going scamp 
 all his life ; but it don^t follow he's dishonest, be-
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 227 
 
 cause lie^s so accustomed to talk goody-goody talk 
 that it runs off his lips as the thread off a reel — ' 
 
 ' But he must know he^s a scamp ? ' 
 
 ' Good gracious me, why should he ? I have met 
 a thousand scamps ; but I never met one who con- 
 sidered himself so. Self-knowledge isnH so common. 
 Bless you, my dear, a man no more sees himself, as 
 others see him, in a moral looking-glass than he does 
 in a mirror out of his di-essing-box. I know a man 
 who has forged bills, run off with his neighbour's 
 wife, and left sixty thousand pounds odd in debts 
 behind him ; but he only thinks himself '^a victim 
 of circumstances — '^ honestly thinks it too. A man 
 never is so honest as when he speaks well of him- 
 self. Men are always optimists when they look in- 
 wards, and pessimists when they look round them.' 
 
 I yawned a little : nothing is so pleasant, as I 
 have known later, as to display your worldly wisdom 
 in epigram and dissertation, but it is a trifle tedious 
 to hear another person display theirs. 
 
 "\\Tien you talk yourself, you think how witty, 
 how original, how acute you are ; but when another 
 does so, you are very apt to think only, — what a crib 
 from Eochefoucauld ! 
 
 However, of course I did not think this then ; I
 
 228 PUCK. 
 
 only thouglit that I wished Fanfreluche was not 
 quite so much given over to the love of her own 
 chatter, and inquired of her how we were to spend 
 the morning. 
 
 ^ It^s a chance, my dear/ she responded. ^ She's 
 always amusing herself; but she'll leave me to split 
 my very throat with yawning all day long sometimes. 
 They're awfully egotistical, those women — specially 
 this class. You see, all their girlhood through, they 
 lived hardly ; and were beaten and worked, and half- 
 starved ; and thought a scrap of bacon or a scrag of 
 mutton a feast for the gods ; and could hardly pin 
 their rags together enough to look decent, or keep 
 the wind and the rain from their shivering bodies. 
 Well ! — when they come into this world, and are 
 dressed like empresses, and stuff sweetmeats all day 
 long, and drive hither and thither, and eat and 
 drink of the best the earth gives, why naturally 
 they can't have enough of it. And their necklace 
 stones are as big as walnuts ; and their wines are 
 poured out in floods ; and their dishes are all over- 
 seasoned ; and their horses all step up to their very 
 noses ; and their houses are gilded from the area 
 gate to the attic. They over-do it all in fact, just 
 because they are in love with it ; and in the same
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 229 
 
 way they are in love with, pleasure, and exaggerate 
 tlie pretty prancing creature till her laugh is a roar, 
 and her dance is a break-down, and her smile is a 
 grimace, and her rosebud is a peony, and her bright 
 frolic is a frenzy/ 
 
 And Fanfreluche snapped her teeth together, 
 with the air she always wore when she thought she 
 had said something that was especially clever. 
 
 I listened bewildered and awed. 
 
 ' But she never came out of hard life and starva- 
 tion,^ I breathed scarcely audibly. 
 
 ' I don't know where she came from, child,' 
 returned Fanfreluche pettishly. ' I declare you spoil 
 all generalities by dragging them down to personali- 
 ties — you are almost as bad as a woman. As for 
 starvation — may be not. That was a figure of speech. 
 But she came from obscurity, my dear, — she can 
 hardly read ; she can hardly write ; she don't speak 
 common grammar even now ! She'll get awfully 
 drunk on her Jules Mumm and her Pomery ; and 
 she's as common and vulgar a creature, in all save 
 her beauty, as any Irish fish -woman that ever swore 
 at old Billingsgate. You know she was playing in 
 burlesques at a horrid little East-end theatre, when 
 we first heard of her (I lived with Fredegonde then) ;
 
 230 PUCK. 
 
 Freddie is dead now ; killed herself with absinthe^ 
 and too many truffles. Old Lord George picked 
 Pearl out of the East ; and first set her going in this 
 sort of style^ in a little villa^ with a pair of cream 
 ponies, and all the rest of it. Lord George died, in 
 less than three months, of apoplexy, in at Whitens 
 one night ; and Laura had two or three adventures, 
 picking. up no end of jewellery, and gold, and knick- 
 knacks on the road as it were. Finally she threw 
 herself at Beltran^s head ; and he took her to Baden ; 
 then brought; her out here in the burlesque of 
 Corinne and the Crowner, last Christmas. Act ! 
 No, she can^t act a bit. She has no talent. But 
 she can look amazingly striking ; and she poses 
 wonderfully well ; and as at our house we have 
 chiefly those burlesque or extravaganza pieces, 
 good looks and attitudes are perhaps the chief 
 things that we want. Besides, she don't depend 
 on that : if Beltran broke with her, which he's 
 scarcely likely to do, and if she didn't take another 
 engagement, she'd have her handsome face and that 
 dear little innocent roulette wheel ! Pearl, so long 
 as she is only the fashion, can make her thousands 
 as fast as she pleases — ' 
 
 ^But had she really nothing then, two years ago ?'
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 231 
 
 ' Pshaw ! Those — Pearls — never do have any- 
 thing while they live in their oyster-shells. That is, 
 till theyVe broken a man or two. AYhen Lord 
 George — he was an old virtuoso, you know, my dear 
 and poked about in very queer places after his brie 
 a brae ! — first lit on her in Houndsditch, or Shore- 
 ditch, or some ditch or another; she was drinking gin 
 and eating tripe in a little kennel of a room off her 
 music hall, where she showed for two shillings a 
 night, and lived in an attic with a low comedy 
 man. He took a ten-pound note for giving her up, 
 and said he^d never sold a bit of trash half so 
 profitably in all the days of his life — ' 
 
 ' What was her real name ? ' I pursued, haunted 
 by this vague fancy, which yet seemed to me utterly 
 incredible and insensate. 
 
 '' I'm sure, my dear, I don't know,' scoffed Fan- 
 freluche. ^ They never have any real names. There 
 may be women who have no alias ; but there are no 
 women who have only one ! She called herself 
 " Laura Pearl " when she came amongst us. If a 
 mare win the Blue Ribbon of the Turf, what on 
 earth does it matter whether she has been christened 
 Yenus Anadyomene, or Sally, in the stable where 
 she was foaled ? She has won the Derby ; and
 
 232 PUCK. 
 
 nobody cares a straw what her name is. They pile 
 their money on her — ' 
 
 ^ But they do care what her race was ? ^ I hinted 
 with an acuteness that surprised myself. 
 
 ^ Ah, to be sure they do/ assented the little lady. 
 ' But then, my dear, men are much wiser about their 
 horses than they are about their women. They look 
 for vice in their racer^s eye, but they never heed it 
 in their mistresses ; and though they wouldnH bet 
 a single shilling on a screw, they^ll squander tens of 
 thousands on a vixen!— ^ 
 
 ^ Since she was this vile low creature, why did 
 you tell me she was a sovereign ? ' I grumbled in 
 reproachful wonder. 
 
 ' Because she is one, you daisy,^ said Fanfreluche, 
 with curt acerbity. ' The good people are afraid of 
 '^ mob-rule ee in Europe just now, — the fools ! — the 
 very dregs of the mob rule already ; the Mob Femi- 
 nine raised on high from the gutter, with its hands 
 clutching gold, and its lips breathing poison, and 
 its vices mimicked in palaces, and its lusts murder- 
 ing the brains, and the souls, and the bodies of 
 men ! ^ 
 
 I made no reply ; I was a little impatient of her 
 exordium, and I was pursued with this strange
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 233 
 
 tliouglit wMcli liad risen in me, and whicli I rejected 
 as madness. 
 
 I remembered the girl in lier russet bodice with 
 her yellow glass beads round her throat, chafferiog in 
 the ivy-hung porch over the open pack of the little 
 withered old peddler; — I remembered the woman 
 who had blazed in her rubies_, and her flame-hued 
 radiance of colour, under the fiery glow of light in 
 her supper chamber ; it was not possible that these 
 twain could be one ? 
 
 I felt blind and giddy, and sick at heart. 
 
 ' You are ill, you little simpleton,' said the sharp 
 yet kindly voice of my monitress. ^ If you can't 
 stand the sight of evil in this world, lick up some 
 arsenic at once, my dear ! Ah ! — there's Lizzie come 
 for us for a walk. She is a good creature ; — yes — 
 though she serves a Pearl. A woman may be vir- 
 tuous in any atmosphere if she like. Lizzie hates evil 
 with all her soul — to be sure she is ugly, poor 
 thing, which makes innocence come easier ! — but 
 she was once brought by accident into the ser- 
 vice of the Pearls, and now nobody of another 
 class would take her, and she must work and get 
 her wages, or her old mother would starve. So she 
 stays. There is good to be found everywhere, my
 
 234 PUCK. 
 
 dear, if you only look for it— and excellence in 
 nothing/ 
 
 With which she trotted out of doors into the 
 Park, which was nigh at hand; and I followed her, 
 very sad at heart still. 
 
 For no young thing can be consoled by the 
 negative comfort that good only barely balances 
 evil on earth ; and the assurance that excellence 
 is as unattainable as the four-leaved shamrock. 
 ¥/'hen we are very young we could better bear evil 
 in extremes if thereby we could only obtain good in 
 extremes likewise. 
 
 It is the certainty that vice and virtue are 
 so fearfully even; so perfectly weighted and mea- 
 sured in the same scales ; so entirely impotent one 
 against each other ; which makes their drawn-battle 
 through all the ages, — for which no end is perceiv- 
 able in the future, — so dreary, so depressing, so 
 hopelessly melancholy to all creatures that possess 
 the chivalries of an innocent youth. 
 
 In the latter half of the day we went out again : 
 and this time I was promoted to the dignity of the 
 front cushion in the dainty little equipage which 
 Laura Pearl drove herself, with a tiny groom stand- 
 ing behind her, and two of the handsomest gray
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 235 
 
 ponies on the town in her silver-plated and red- 
 ribbonned harness. 
 
 She did not drive with any sort of skill, and 
 she used the whip unsparingly ; but she drove 
 with fury, and without any fear whatever, so that 
 her science appeared considerable and her narrow 
 escapes were many and startling. 
 
 It was raw chilly spring weather, the Easter week 
 falling early that year, and there were not many 
 people in the Ladies^ Mile ; but she never stopped 
 under the leafless trees without being surrounded by 
 a bevy of good-looking, well-bred men ; and she did 
 not sweep round the turning at full trot without all 
 the eyes that were there following her in admiration. 
 Indeed, so great was the homage she received — for 
 even some women in splendid carriages gazed at 
 her with intent interest — that I began once more 
 to think that she must be a crowned queen of some 
 kind, and that Fanfreluche had only been laughing 
 at me when she talked of the shilling a-night, and 
 the Argyle Rooms, and the Low Comedy lover who 
 took ten pounds. 
 
 ' Look, how they stare after her, and how the men 
 bow ? ' I whispered to Fanfreluche. ' She must be 
 very eminent and powerful in some way ? '
 
 236 PUCK. 
 
 * Never said slie wasn^t, my dear/ returned that 
 cynic witli a grin. ' She's one of the best chaff- 
 cutting machines for chopping up men's fortunes 
 and souls in double quick time that has ever been 
 wound up and set going on earth ! ' 
 
 ' But they can't worship wickedness ? ' I ex- 
 postulated. 
 
 She grinned again : 
 
 ' Can't they, my dear ? Will you tell me what 
 they do worship then ? The greed of the capitalist, 
 the fraud of the diplomatist, the time-serving of the 
 statesman, the lies of the journalist, the cants of the 
 author, the chicaneries of the merchant, — they are 
 all worshipped if only successful. And why then 
 object to the successful vice of a woman ? You 
 know the Ark of Israel, and the Calf of Belial, were 
 both made of gold ; — Religion has never since 
 changed the metal of her one adoration.' 
 
 I did not understand, and kept silence, watch- 
 ing the scene that to me was so strange and beguil- 
 ing ; though Fanfreluche turned up her nose at it, 
 because, being Easter week, there was nobody in 
 London, as she said with much scorn : — even her 
 beloved Beltran having gone with that noonday to 
 Paris.
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 237 
 
 After tlie Park_, we drove to the shops ; and my 
 impression that our charioteer was a regal ruler, 
 and that the chatter of Fanfreluche was untrue, 
 was deepened by the excessive deference with 
 which the bowing shopmen treated her. 
 
 They came out, and stood bareheaded in the sharp 
 east wind, listening reverentially to her commands ; 
 or when she descended, and entered their establish- 
 ments, welcomed her with that hideous subserviency 
 of the snob-mercantile to a good customer, which 
 can only be equalled by his equally hideous 
 brutality to a penniless debtor. We followed her, 
 Fanfreluche taking the initiative, and nothing 
 could exceed the civility of the business people : — 
 in one place they gave me a ball, in another they 
 fed me with macaroons, in a third they let my little 
 dusty feet trample a new amber satin dress unchas- 
 tised, in a fourth they kissed me. 
 
 I became quite pufied up with pride. 
 
 ' You little idiot ! ^ sneered Fanfreluche. *^ You 
 think it^s for yourself? My dear, if Laura Pearl 
 liked to go through the town with a boa constrictor, 
 every shopkeeper would fondle the reptile, and stuff 
 him with rabbits. She pays better than anybody 
 going — you see she's so astonishingly honest ! If
 
 238 PUCK. 
 
 they get arrested slie^ll only shrug her shoulders : 
 but she^ll always keep well to windward of White - 
 cross-street herself!' 
 
 I did not answer : my mouth was full of my red 
 leather ball^ and I thought some jealousy lurked in 
 the cynic^ because when they gave me a macaroon 
 they only offered her a very plain biscuit. 
 
 I did her wrong in this : but when ever yet did 
 any living creature not prefer to imagine ill-natured 
 envy in a friend^ than to suppose a compliment to 
 himself insincere ? 
 
 By the time we had been through half-a-dozen 
 of these establishments, the pony carriage was piled 
 high, with scores of tempting packages, covered 
 with the crimson-lined tiger-skin. 
 
 ' What can she do with them all ? ^ I asked, 
 getting over my anger. 
 
 ^ She don't want one of them,' said Fanfreluche 
 curtly, as though the plain biscuit still rankled in 
 her mind. ' But she likes to get them, and strew 
 them round her, and break them, or burn them, or 
 toss them to her maid. Ah ! my dear, — you little 
 dream the ecstatic delight that exists in Waste, for 
 the vulgarity of a mind that has never enjoyed Pos- 
 session, till it comes to riot at one blow in Spoliation.'
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 239 
 
 ' I do wish you would answer me plainly/ I said 
 sulkily^ ' without — without — ■* 
 
 ' Epigrams ? ^ she added sharply^ ' I dare say you 
 do, my dear. Epigrams are the salts of life ; but 
 they wither up the grasses of foolishness, and natur- 
 ally the grasses hate to be sprinkled therewith ! ' 
 
 At that moment we had reached our home, 
 which was an elegant little bijou house, near the 
 Park j and Laura Pearl, as she was about to put her 
 jewelled whip in the rest, hit me a sharp crack 
 with the long white lash as I jumped out eagerly to 
 the ground ; I shrieked, and she laughed : — I felt 
 sure then that she was no sovereign, but only a very 
 vile woman. 
 
 ' What had I done ? ^ I asked piteously of Fan- 
 freluche ; wishing now that I had given her the 
 macaroon. 
 
 ' Xothing in life, my dear,^ she replied. ' She 
 hits you as she ruins them — because she finds fun 
 in the sport. But you see she never hits me — why ? 
 Because the first time she did I bit her. To show 
 your teeth, and make them felt too, is the only 
 way with women like her. She whips you, and you 
 crinch to her, — she^ll hit you a dozen times in a day. 
 She flies at them, and they give her a cheque, or
 
 240 PUCK. 
 
 a diamond,, or a carriage-liorse ; — she^ll have her 
 furies a dozen times in a week. If you treated her to 
 your teeth^ and they to a few sound curses^ she 
 would trouble neither you nor them any more — ' 
 ' Is Beltran even afraid of her ? ' I whispered. 
 ' Well, he is ! ^ said Fanfreluche, with a sigh. 
 ' He's as bold as a lion with men ; hard as nails in 
 the hunting-field ; fought two duels abroad in his 
 young days ; and saved five sailors from a sinking 
 ship last autumn. But he is afraid of the Pearl. 
 Not afraid of her — you know, but afraid of a scene, 
 which he hates ; afraid of her temper, which is the 
 deviPs j afraid of her vengeance, if ever he left her. 
 Afraid — well ! afraid, as the boldest men are of a 
 woman whom they know is bad to the core, yet 
 whom they love for her beauty, and fancy is faith- 
 ful to them, and have trusted with more secrets 
 of their lives than they care to remember. Why do 
 these connections often last all the years that they 
 do ? Love ? — Pooh ! Very little of that : but very 
 much of the force of habit, and very much of the 
 dread of annoyance.' 
 
 * But why put themselves in the power — ' 
 ^ Tut, my dear ! Why does a lad climb a walnut 
 tree, when he knows a spring-gun is underneath ?
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 241 
 
 He only tliinks of eating the walnuts : and always 
 trusts that this one particular spring-gun is un- 
 loaded.'' 
 
 ' Well_, some guns are rusty and will not do 
 harm ? ' — I had heard Ben Dare say that the guns 
 in the preserves were thus sometimes after heavy 
 rainsj and I thought the* allegorical allusion came 
 in neat and pat. 
 
 ' Possibly^ my dear/ said my lady^ who did not 
 like other people to be epigrammatic. ^ But if a gun 
 ever rusts enough to prevent explosion^ no woman 
 ever lets her power of evil rust long enough to get 
 out of use ! And now scamper ujD-stairs to Lizzie ; 
 I want my dinner. There^ll be no fun to-night; 
 Pearl goes to dine with a Whig Duke (the Privy 
 Seal), at one of the big inns.^ 
 
 ^ Why does a Duke have to dine at an inn ? ' I 
 asked in wonder ; my only notion of an inn being- 
 derived from the little public of the Miner^s Joy in 
 Derbyshire. 
 
 ' Why_, you simpleton,, he don^t invite Laura to 
 dine with his Duchess at home, does he ? Besides, 
 these huge hotels are charming. Last season I 
 belonged to the Guards ; and I went every Sunday 
 with them to their crack dinners at the Leviathan.'' 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 PUCK. 
 
 * I thought the Guards had a mess ? ^ — I had 
 heard the bull-dogs talk of these things. 
 
 ^ You goose^ so they have. But they can^t take 
 Pearl et Cie to it ; and they like Pearls on a Sun- 
 day. Pearls are their way of keeping the seventh 
 day holy ; so they dine at the Leviathan, or Pich- 
 mond, or Greenwich. Get up-stairs ! ' 
 
 We spent a quiet evening, when the mistress of 
 our destinies had swept down to her brougham at 
 nine o'clock, gloriously apparelled in a marvellous 
 glimmer of hues, and fountain spray of laces. 
 Fanfreluche looked after her with a grin. 
 
 ^ If she only never drew off her gloves and never 
 opened her lips, who on earth could tell her from 
 the proudest grande dame of them all ? She'll come 
 home in good humour. Privy Seal has a very grand, 
 gracious fashion of doing things. She'll be sure to 
 find a big sapphire drop in her bonbon -cracker, 
 and a jewelled holder with a rare flower or two by 
 her plate, and very likely a mechanical humming- 
 bird to fly out of the epergne, and nestle in her 
 bosom with a choice ring in his mouth. His Grace 
 has very pretty inventive ways. But he's cut down 
 all the woods round his noble old castle ; and he 
 won't pay one of his son's debts at Ch. Ch.'
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 243 
 
 ' Does lie pay his own ? ^ 
 
 ^My dear! — a Duke and a Privy Seal never is 
 asked to condescend to sucli a commonplace ! ^ 
 
 ' Is Beltran jealous of him ? * 
 
 * Pooh ! Jealousy isnH his form at all. He's 
 the most indifferent of mortals^ though he is in love 
 with her in his way. Besides, he thinks she's faith- 
 ful to him. He couldn't do more if he were a 
 husband ; and she a Griselda and an Arria Paetus ! ' — 
 
 And Fanfreluche grinned again with the look 
 which always made my blood run cold, and made 
 me believe that after all this good-natured, bitter- 
 tongued, little black thing might prove in the end 
 a limb of Satanus. Which was an uncomfortable 
 thought of the only friend that I now possessed in 
 the width of the world. 
 
 ' The Coronet's open to-night/ said Fanfreluche 
 to me a few evenings later. ^ There's the new extrava- 
 ganza coming on. When she goes do you follow me, 
 and nip into her brougham, and hide yourself as I do 
 under the silk mat. She won't notice, ten to one, 
 or if she do notice she won't care, so long as we 
 make no noise. I often go myself; — it's awful fun. 
 They quarrel fit to kill themselves.' 
 
 And with much trepidation of soul I prepared
 
 244 PUCK. 
 
 to follow my daring leader : at a little before eight 
 Laura Pearl passed out to lier neat niglit-brougham, 
 and with rare good luck we eluded all vigilance, 
 and were concealed among the curls of the friendly 
 mat and covered by the flow of her velvet skirts 
 without any one being aware of it_, or at least at- 
 tempting to eject us. 
 
 I shivered and trembled ; of where I was going 
 I had no sort of conception : and from what I 
 had seen of the stage at the Wake-feast I was 
 firmly persuaded that ' play-actors ^ were chiefly 
 armed with whips and swords ; and that there was 
 always first and foremost amongst them one red and 
 white devil_, in a motley painted skin_, with a mouth 
 grinning from ear to ear, who thumped everybody 
 right and left, and sat down upon babies till they 
 were flattened to pancakes. 
 
 If there should be a clown here ? — and if he 
 should sit upon me ? 
 
 However, curiosity is generally speaking a 
 stronger passion than even cowardice, and it proved 
 to be so with myself. 
 
 The Coronet, as I learned subsequently, was 
 a very fashionable theatre. It had ruined every- 
 body that had ever had anything to do with it ; and
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 245 
 
 had therefore made good its title to fashion as 
 strongly as Pearl had made hers. 
 
 It had been erected some dozen years ; and in 
 that space of time had brought to grief no less than 
 fourteen various proprietors. The veritable owner 
 of it was_, oddly enough^ a country clergyman_, to 
 whom it had been left by his father^ a metropolitan 
 contractor, who had first built it and then claimed it 
 for debt. His Eeverence was a strictly Evangelical 
 person, and, as I have heard, denounced the au- 
 tumnal fair held in his south countrv villag-e with 
 fearful anathema. But he did not sell the theatre ; 
 and every half-year his lawyers transmitted him six 
 hundred pounds, the biannual rental of those hapless 
 mortals who had been severally trapped into becom- 
 ing lessee. The good lessor drew the money ; but 
 always ignored the source ; and spoke vaguely 
 thereof to his agents as ' my late father's properties 
 in the west-end of town.^ 
 
 I have heard also that the defunct contractor 
 left him two gin-palaces; but of this I am not 
 sure : at any rate this reverend person had so many 
 thousands a year, in addition to his piety, that his 
 bishop presented him with a living of very high 
 value ; feeling it apostolically incumbent upon hiui-
 
 246 PUCK. 
 
 self to obey the precept of ^to those who have 
 much shall much be given.' 
 
 The first lessee of the Coronet had been a 
 man in the Guards,, whom it had ruined in one 
 winter season. It brought him so deeply into the 
 Jews^ hands that he had to sell at a ridiculous 
 loss. 
 
 The person who succeeded him, being an actor 
 himself with some capital, should have known some- 
 thing of what he was about. He was fool enough 
 however to attempt high art, and was smashed 
 utterly in a twelvemonth; exquisite scenery for 
 which he had paid £700 going at auction for 
 twenty pounds, and genuine buhl cabinets pur- 
 chased in Paris for two hundred a piece, being 
 knocked down for a £5 note. I believe he died 
 very miserably in a wretched estaminet in the 
 north of France ; as a man deserved to do who in- 
 sulted the London Public by offering to improve its 
 taste. 
 
 It would fill pages to recount the various adven- 
 tures of the various proprietors of the theatre, 
 which I heard by degrees from the omniscient little 
 Fanfreluche. Few escaped with only a scorch from 
 its furnace that smelted their gold so fast : none
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 247 
 
 escaped with entire impunity ; many cursed it loudly 
 and deeply. One pretty boy (althougli so young, 
 already in your parliament, and of great promise 
 there), the younger son of a great peer, took it for 
 an actress whom he adored — a beautiful, brown, 
 foreign singer, for whom on his little stage he 
 brought out the delicate, delicious, Venetian hoiiffe 
 opera, that was caviare to the English musical world. 
 In two short seasons the boy-politician spent so much 
 over this miniature opera and over her, and plunged 
 so hopelessly into the abyss which money-lenders dig 
 for the young and the rash, that on a stilly June 
 midnight, just at the hour the House was closing 
 to the public and opening to its privileged few, 
 a shot was heard in his own little brilliant sup- 
 per-chamber, and when the people flocked thither 
 they found him stretched across its threshold — dead. 
 Some said that a scene he had by chance wit- 
 nessed between his dark lady and one of his own 
 comrades in her retiring-room, had more to do with it 
 than even his losses in money : it might be so ; at 
 any rate the Israelites put in claims for thirty thou- 
 sand pounds spent in those two seasons when he 
 had kept the Coronet open. They said, also, that 
 when the beautiful brunette found him lifeless, with
 
 248 PUCK. 
 
 his own bullet through a heart that had scarcely 
 beaten three-and-twenty years^ she shrieked and 
 weptj and tore her hair in agonizing grief; — but all 
 the same she drew the big onyx ring off his left 
 hand^ and unhooked from his watch-chain the jewel- 
 led locket that held her portrait. 
 
 All these things, of course, I heard later : at the 
 moment we drove up to the stage-door the Coronet 
 was leased by our friend, Yere Essendine, Yiscount 
 Beltran, who had owned it for the last two years 
 or so, and who (as it was whispered) had lost as much 
 as any of his predecessors, even in that brief space, 
 only that he would probably choose to show longer 
 fight, and would not so quickly prevail on himself 
 to relinquish a favourite amusement. 
 
 ^ Keep close to me,^ whispered Fanfreluche. 
 ' Close ! — or else you^ll get stolen.-' 
 
 As we descended, the glow of the countless 
 gas-lamps, the pressure of the waiting crowds, the 
 huge letters on the glaring posters, the noise and 
 the confusion, and the glitter of the cross-lights, so 
 dazed and terrified me that I was in danger of forget- 
 ting her injunction, and being trampled to death 
 in the street. However, by some miracle I 
 escaped destruction, and followed my patroness
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 249 
 
 tlirougli what appeared to me the most hideous dark 
 passages I had ever beheld. 
 
 ' She goes to dress. I will show you over the 
 house/ said Fanfreluche_, in her pertest manner, as 
 she trotted along through this seemingly intermin- 
 able maze. 
 
 I heard loud gay bursts of music ; I was blinded 
 by alternations of sooty darkness and of blazing 
 lisfht ; buore walls of canvas trembled like the 
 shaking walls of an undermined house ; vast bar- 
 riers of timber and of iron loomed above-head 
 and around ; loud shocks of sound reverberated 
 through the melody-filled air_, as men in paper caps 
 pushed to and fro^ in grooves^ enormous masses of 
 wood and metal. I was surrounded by devils,, imps, 
 fairies, butterflies, peasants in white muslin, shep- 
 herds with ribboned crooks ; woolly lambs standing 
 on two legs and sucking tkeir thumbs ; green and 
 white water-lilies, with their arms akimbo i and their 
 tongues thrust in their cheeks at a joke ; a winged 
 sylph drinking from a pot of porter, and a golden- 
 haired wood-elf smoking a cigarette ; — in a word, I 
 was in that mystic region, commonly known as 
 ' behind the scenes.^ 
 
 My first impression was that it was a Pande-
 
 250 PUCK. 
 
 monium amidst an earthquake of canvas and. tim- 
 ber; my second tliat it was extraordinarily com- 
 mon-place with all its bizzarrerie, and intensely 
 vulgar and dreary with all its glitter. 
 
 The time was an entr'acte : the previous piece was 
 ended ; the burlesque not begun. From the body 
 of the house, of which I caught an oblique glimpse, 
 there came at intervals, above the music, hideous 
 shrieks, hisses, and stamping noises. 
 
 '^The gods are impatient for a break down,' 
 said Fanfreluche to me : though why gods were 
 there at all, and why they desired any one to break 
 down in their performances, was not within my 
 comprehension. 
 
 She hurried me hither and thither with breath- 
 less rapidity. I could only catch flying speeches, 
 and passing glimpses. 
 
 ' My old man^s in front. He'll be good for a 
 necklace when he sees me, in this here,' said a 
 Water-lily, twisting herself round in the shortest 
 and most transparent of gauze tunics. 
 
 ' A necklace of brass farthins, then ! ' sneered 
 the gold-haired Wood-elf. ^A ugly old cove like 
 that, as is a filthy Jew pawnbroker by the looks on 
 him \—'
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 251 
 
 ^ He ain^t ! ' screeclied the Lily. ' He's a real 
 live lord, and you knows it. He's Lord Algernon 
 Yereker — lie is ! It's only yer spite, 'cause the stalls 
 don't care a dam for yer cellar-flip-flap ! Did ever 
 you get a boo-kay. Miss, in all yer born days ? 
 Leastways, since yer mother sent yer out to sell yer 
 pennorths o' tripe and greens ? ' 
 
 What the injured Wood-elf might reply and what 
 fearful and veiled sarcasm might lie in the tripe and 
 greens allusion I never knew, for I was hurried 
 away to a little dirty, bare room, where three Fairy 
 Princes were eating hot kidneys and drinking 
 bottled porter. 
 
 TKe three Fairy Princes were gorgeous in bright 
 satins and gold lace ; and showed elegant legs in 
 white silk stockings ; and would have been all three 
 really very pretty girls, but for the terrible red paint 
 round the mouth, and black paint under the eyes, 
 and greased white powder on their foreheads and 
 arms. 
 
 ^ Who's in front?' asked Prince Azor, with her 
 mouth full of kidney. 
 
 ^ Oh, all her swells/ said Prince Silvertongue, 
 savagely, ' and all the Press lot. First nights is 
 always just alike. Packed ! '
 
 252 PUCK. 
 
 ' I see your little cliap in tlie stalls, Mary Ann/ 
 said Prince Charming. ^ You ougMer do business 
 with him. Uncommon soft ; good for a bracelet 
 a-night_, if you keep him well in hand — ' 
 
 ' Better nor that ! ' said Prince Silvertongue, 
 scornfully and mysteriously. ^ Ain^t there no 
 hysters ? I hate kidneys,, leastways unless Pm at 
 Evans's.' 
 
 ' A cursed bad piece this here/ grumbled Prince 
 Charming. ^ No. There ain't no hysters. A 
 cursed bad piece. The Mouse have spiled it out 
 and out, just to give her her dances and attitudes. 
 He's awful spoons on her. Pve a good mind to 
 pay forfeit, and go to Alhambra.' 
 
 ^ Oh lawk ! Do take care, you stupid. You've 
 upset all the rouge, and its a running among the 
 gravy ! ' 
 
 ^ Stupid yourself ! ' retorted Prince Azor, who 
 was the one apostrophized. 'You've addled your 
 head along of that gin sling. You've only got two 
 lines to say, and Pll swear you'll say 'em upside 
 down — ' 
 
 The call-boy's shrill treble was at this instant 
 shouting '^Miss Delany, -Miss Yisconti, Miss Vil- 
 liers ! ' — and answering to these patrician names.
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 253 
 
 away tlie Fairy Princes rusliecl_, leaving tlie rouge 
 to fraternize witli tlie kidneys and tlieir quarrel to 
 wait over till tlie next pause in tlie performances. 
 
 ' Curtain^s up ! ' said Fanfreluche, curtly ; as a 
 storm of applause greeted tlie appearance of tlie 
 tliree Princes^ wIlo appeared to be prime favourites 
 with the audience, and who were smiling with radiant 
 sweetness before the ' floats.^ 
 
 The shrill treble vociferated afresh : 
 
 ''Madame de Rohan! — Miss Plantagenet-Cour- 
 cey ! ' 
 
 I gazed breathless,, to behold the representatives 
 of those historic and time-honoured races, so dear 
 to me through my favourite French Memoii's. The 
 two who responded to the call were my friends 
 Water-lily and Wood-elf, as they in their turn 
 sprang on with light pirouettes and fond embraces, 
 before the footlights. 
 
 Away after them went pell-mell the imps, and 
 the lambs, and the shepherds, in what appeared to 
 me inextricable confusion, though they kept perfect 
 step to the music, and soon formed figure dances 
 out of the chaos. 
 
 ' What in the world is this ? ' I asked in a 
 very agony of amazement.
 
 254 PUCK. 
 
 Fanfreluclie turned her little nose in tlie air : 
 
 ' The merest business_, my dear ! The sort of 
 senseless whirligig all these things open with. 
 Give the public twenty pair of good legs a side^ and 
 you may treat it to just what hash of puns and 
 balderdash of verse you like. But we do do the 
 thing better than most houses. Beltran has all the 
 dresses from Paris : and he sent over the imps them- 
 selves from the Folies-Marigny. English children 
 always have too much flesh to make into sprightly 
 demons — and a heavy glum deviPs a dreadful 
 tiling.^ 
 
 With that she rushed under a white-bearded, 
 ruby-robed king^s legs, and darting round at the 
 back of the scenes brought me out on the other 
 side of the stage. 
 
 ' Look at him ! ' said my chaperone. ' He only 
 comes early first nights. How indifferent he is ! 
 And yet there^s over a thousand gone clean in this 
 blessed burlesque to-night, not to speak of all the 
 expenses afterwards ! ' 
 
 She referred to Beltran, who leant with his 
 back against an iron girder, and a cigar in his 
 mouth, talking to two other men ; with a look of 
 that utter indifference, and of that curious quietude.
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 255 
 
 with whictL such men as he are pleased to cover the 
 natural restlessness and recklessness of their game- 
 sterns temperament. 
 
 ^ Nearly a thousand pounds gone to-night/ I cried 
 aghastj ' and he can look like that ! ' 
 
 ^ Pooh, my dear/ scoffed Fanfreluche. ' Last 
 season_, when I belonged to him, he lost three thou- 
 sand one night at a certain club where they 
 don^t play money down — morels the pity ! — and he 
 walked out of it just as calm as lie is now, and 
 smoked, and read a new story of Derry DenziVs 
 throusrh before he went to bed.-' 
 
 o 
 
 ^ He must be enormousl}^ rich ? ' 
 
 Fanfreluche grinned. 
 
 ^ My dear — Fve seen a millionnaire bemoan 
 himself for days over a £5 note left in a railway- 
 carriage ; but if a man bear troubles and losses 
 easily, why — I know he^s a gentleman and a 
 beggar ! ^ 
 
 ' But how can a beggar have thousands to lose V 
 
 ' Don^t take one so literally ! You literal people 
 are the bores of society, and the murderers of wit. 
 Look there — that tall big fair man with him is one of 
 his pet friends, Paget Desmond, of the First Life ; 
 and that other one with the stoop in the shoulders.
 
 256 PUCK. 
 
 aud tlie red beard_, is the great censor morum, Dudley 
 Moore^ proprietor and editor of the Midas. All 
 social sins shrink under his scourge ; — what a pity 
 they haven^t that alliteration in the burlesque !: — 
 and all social sinners are mercilessly exposed under 
 his searching lantern. There is no one comparable 
 to him for stoning a man of genius,, in his virtuous 
 fury ; there is no one touches him for moral lessons, 
 conveyed with a scholarly asceticism that utterly 
 ruins the transgressor whom it rebukes — ' 
 ' And yet he is here to-night ? ' 
 ' Oh yeS; to see the forty pair of legs ! And has 
 in town a meek- eyed mistress to whom he is 
 moderately faithful because she ^^ stands being sworn 
 at ^' so well ; and keeps down in the south a charm- 
 ing little abode that bears the closest family like- 
 ness to the Pare aux Cerfs. His virtues are nobly 
 printed on fair white paper; his vices are only 
 written on the dusky rags of broken honour/ 
 ' He must be a very bad man ? ' 
 ' Pooh ! He is a great man; and wields a great 
 power — in its way. Why, my dear, if the Midas con- 
 descend (which is doubtful, for it is aesthetic and 
 highly intellectual) to say that our forty pair of fine 
 legs have placed us at the very tip-top of high art
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 257 
 
 and of moral excellence,, why the public will say so 
 after it. Other ages gabbled their paternosters 
 because they were priest-ridden; ours gabbles its 
 platitudes because it is press-ridden.-' 
 
 But I was tired of hearing her chatter^ and 
 looked around me. 
 
 Close by was a door that stood a little open ; 
 beyond it was a very comfortless sort of dressing- 
 room; not much better than that in which the 
 fairy princes had eaten their kidneys ; and out of it, 
 as a butterfly from its dingy chrysalis, emerged 
 at that moment, Laura Pearl. 
 
 She was exquisitely arrayed in golden tissues, 
 that floated about her like sunlit air, and showed all 
 the curves of her form, all the grace of her limbs, 
 while a girdle of real sapphires flashed fire beneath 
 her breast, and a coronal of the wondrous blue lilies 
 of the western world glowed above her brow. 
 
 ' She^s about as much as they^ll stand,^ muttered 
 Dudley Moore. 
 
 I surmise that he alluded to the transparency of 
 her draperies. 
 
 Beltran nodded to her, without removinghis cigar. 
 
 ' Knew those blue lilies would tell,^ he murmured, 
 ' You look very well, Laura.-' 
 
 VOL. I. 17 .
 
 258 PUCK. 
 
 ' Tliank you for notliing ! ' she responded gra- 
 ciously^ witli mucli scorn. ^ I go on now, donH I?' 
 
 ^ In a minute. Little Courcey is encored in that 
 forest-song/ 
 
 The Pearl^s brow lowered and darkened : the 
 first scene had taken about ten minutes ; the 
 audience had not yet beheld herself; and yet they 
 were stopping to encore the Wood-elf (who was 
 certainly charmingly pretty) in a little snatch of a 
 ballad of ten bars ! 
 
 ' What a fright that Courcey girl always makes 
 of herself ! ^ she muttered. ' Who saw her dress? — 
 she's like a bundle of green twigs and grass ! ' 
 
 ^ I should be very happy to see her dress/ re- 
 sponded Beltran. ' Unluckily, she locks her door !' 
 
 The Pearl flashed a savage glance at him. 
 
 ' Well, if Paris couldn't give you better nor that 
 in costumes/ she laughed viciously, ^ you might just 
 as well have gone to a tally-shop. What do you 
 say, Mr Moore ? ' 
 
 *" My dear lady ! I buy so many second-hand 
 articles when I pay my staff for their written 
 opinions, that of course I stand up for tally-shops 
 with all my heart and soul ! ' 
 
 Beltran laughed ; and Laura Pearl glanced
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 250 
 
 rapidly yet stupidly from one to another^ as tliougli 
 suspecting tliem of making fun of her. 
 
 At that juncture the Mouse rushed in from the 
 back : tremulous, agitated, flushed, eager. 
 
 ' You should be on, you should be on ! ' he 
 cried to her. ^ For mercy^s sake don^t keep them 
 waiting ! ' 
 
 ' Oh gammon ! They'll wait as long as I choose ! ' 
 she retorted ; but however she thought better of it, 
 and as the elves, and the lambs, and the imps, and 
 the devils rushed off the boards in two opposite 
 armies, she glided, herself, on to the stage in her 
 character of an enchanted water-queen; with 
 whom the three fairy princes were destined to be- 
 come wildly enamoured. 
 
 From where we stood, an oblique view of the 
 stage, and of a little piece of the stalls, and of 
 the stage-box on the opposite side of the hoiise, 
 was obtainable. The fury of applause was great ; 
 even the stalls clapped their delicately-gloved 
 hands; and she was received with tumultuous 
 welcome. 
 
 To me she looked only a very scantily-dressed 
 woman, going through strange antics in a labyrinth 
 of wooden beams and flapping sails of painted can-
 
 260 PUCK. 
 
 vas — but I suppose she looked very different from 
 the ' front/ 
 
 That is just the difference that makes everything 
 so curiously altered to different spectators. And 
 your stall-lounger always thinks your stage-carpen- 
 ter such a prosaic dolt_, and your stage-carpenter 
 always thinks your stall-lounger such a consummate 
 fool ; and will so think^ no doubt^ until the end of 
 time ; at least so long as stalls and flys shall have 
 their being. 
 
 All that followed only bewildered me more 
 utterly than ever. 
 
 It seemed one endless succession of wild rushes 
 hither and thither on the parts of the elves, and 
 lambs, and shepherds, and devils ; and of the 
 most unaccountable conduct in the fairy princess, 
 who combined the most mediaeval of dresses, and the 
 most chivalrous of heroics, with the broadest of 
 street-slang, and the wildest of casino dances. 
 
 There was a romantic minstrel, love-lorn and deso- 
 late, with curls that hung to his waist, who yet bore 
 a banjo and sung a yelling negro melody. There 
 were river gods, with a noble old Neptune and a beau- 
 teous young Aquarius, who yet at a certain point 
 discarded all dignity, and abandoned themselves to
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 261 
 
 the Cancan in a manner worthy of students of Paris. 
 There were charming dehcate nymphs who at a sig- 
 nal became living aisles of roses^ or blossomed sever- 
 ally into glowing azalea shrubs, yet who after realiz- 
 ing all the Greek dreams of Dryads and Hamadryads, 
 burst all at once into a comic chorus that made the 
 delighted house literally shriek aloud with laughter. 
 
 Finally,, there was the enchanted princess herself, 
 who looked like a poem and moved like a picture^ 
 with the bright azure lilies, and the blue flashing 
 sapphires ; yet who, at the very moment in which she 
 was rescued from her captivity and betrothed to 
 Prince Silvertongue, broke forth into a doggrel 
 declamation, and danced with all the vigour of a 
 sailor, and all the license of a debardeur, first the 
 hornpipe and then a break-down ! And — shade 
 of outraged Thalia ! — what applause she got ! 
 
 ' I think it^s a success ? ' said Beltran quietly, 
 when, the piece having come to an end, the house 
 shouted for her, and for the Princes, and for the 
 Wood-elf. 
 
 ^Not a doubt of it,^ answered Dudley Moore. 
 
 ^ Pm glad little Courcey's got a call,^ said Paget 
 Desmond. ' She's a jolly little girl.' 
 
 ^ She's the best lot amongst 'em,' assented
 
 262 PUCK. 
 
 Derry Denzil. ' Tliat little rat's as honest as the 
 day/ 
 
 ^ They seem to take to it^ don't they ? ' asked 
 Leo Lance, pale and breathless. 
 
 ^Yes; I think you're pretty safe this time, 
 Mouse/ assented Beltran. ' But, for heaven's sake, 
 don't make them talk such awful nonsense, next 
 thing you do.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ? ' echoed the Mouse. ^ Why ! that's 
 just what makes it swing smooth. If there'd been 
 ten ounces of sense in it you'd have heard nothing 
 but hisses ! — ' 
 
 ^ He's quite right,' said Dudley Moore gravely. 
 ' The lucky knack of combining the most perfect 
 scenic effect with the most utterly unredeemed 
 vulgarity in speech and gesture is the great essential 
 of dramatic success. Here he has very fittingly 
 wedded Undine and the Belle an Bois Dormante in 
 his story; two of the most delicately poetic legends 
 in their different manners that we possess ; — and he 
 has mixed with them break-downs, balderdash, 
 casino dancing, street jargon, countless execrable 
 puns, and occasional indecent allusions. The result 
 is success. The barbarism and bizarrerie of the 
 whole thing is undoubtedly rather funny, and pre-
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 263 
 
 cisely liits tlie popular tastes and desires. I con- 
 gratulate Mr Lance immensely myself. The wisest 
 man possible is the man that knows his own age.^ 
 
 The poor Mouse looked dissatisfied and chagrined 
 at this questionable form of felicitation ; but he did 
 not dare to complain of the almighty Censor^s 
 sarcasm. 
 
 Beltran laughed^ a little impatiently. 
 
 ' What a patriotic task, then ! ^ he said with a 
 dash of self-contempt_, Ho supply the sinews of war 
 to those barbarians ! ' 
 
 Dudley Moore shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 'My dear Beltran, you must be patriotic, for 
 you amuse the people at a loss, I believe, of some 
 fifty pounds a-night every season ? But that isn't 
 your fault. You supply them with what they like 
 best. Our ancestors performed their mysteries, and 
 their mummeries, at different seasons and on differ- 
 ent stages; but we, who donH believe in the one 
 and are fearfully bored by the other, mix them both 
 together, and take the decoction, indifferently, both 
 in Lent and at Christmas ! ^ 
 
 ' But are we so bad after all ? ' said Denzil. ' I 
 suspect that sort of cry has been raised in each 
 century. Look at those gospel parodies, those re-
 
 264 PUCK. 
 
 ligious plays, you speak of, in the middle ages. 
 Were they really anything so very 'much better 
 in taste, do you think, than these burlesques and 
 pantomimes of ours ? ' 
 
 ^ Perhaps not better. But I say they were duly 
 distinct from the fooling ; and the fooling too was 
 more genuine than ours, I am convinced. Panto- 
 mime was once the genius of gesticulation : the 
 Pulcinella, the Stenterello, the Scaramouch, the 
 Arlecchino, required talent of no slight sort in the 
 mimics who represented them. To tell a whole 
 tale solely by the means of gesture and of facial 
 expression — that was ingenious at the least. But 
 what ingenuity is there exhibited by a man's loup- 
 ing about in woman's clothes, spouting bad puns ; 
 or in a girPs casting herself into the violent and 
 ungraceful postures of the Cancan ? It is simply 
 vulgar : — unredeemably vulgar.' 
 
 ^ Well — the modern public likes it ? ' hinted the 
 discomfited Mouse. 
 
 ^ Of course. You know the Roman story of the 
 people rating the pantomime plays a thousand times 
 higher than those performed by " only '' the living 
 personaggi. Well — your public, Mr Lance, is much 
 like the Italian populace. They will have the scene
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 265 
 
 painter^ tlie sensational realism^ tlie Lancashire clog- 
 dance_, the pot-house jig — the wooden puppets, in 
 point of factj bobbing upon wires^ — sooner than 
 they will have the Hving flesh and blood ; pathos^ 
 and passion, and genius.'' 
 
 Beltran threw his cigar away, right into a heap 
 of tinfoil and muslin. 
 
 ^ You^re quite right : it^s awful stuff/ he mur- 
 mured. ^ But when I tried classic art with that won- 
 derful French woman — you remember? — the gallery 
 was crammed full, but the stalls yawned awfully the 
 first night, and never came afterwards. Now look 
 at the stalls ; weVe had to add three rows to them. 
 And what^s done it ? Nothing but Laura^s break- 
 downs.^ 
 
 Dudley Moore took snuff out of a tiny box. 
 
 ^ My dear fellow, — people don^t want to think 
 after dinners of a dozen services. High feeding, 
 and comet wines, induce a frame of mind in which 
 good ankles, and bad puns, are far preferable to any- 
 thing that displays intelligence in the actors, and 
 requires intelligence in its auditors. Pray don^t 
 attempt to return to high art, while youVe those 
 forty pairs of fine legs and the Pearrs cellar-flap 
 dancing.'
 
 266 PUCK. 
 
 ^ Hang you cynics ! ^ said Beltran. ^ Come and 
 have some supper/ 
 
 At tliat moment Laura Pearl came off the boards; 
 she and Prince Silvertongue^ literally covered with 
 bouquets ; the little Wood- elf had only one^ a mere 
 cheap knot of early roses, deftly tied with a blue 
 ribbon, probably the gift of some boy-artist or young 
 musician. 
 
 ^You did that amazingly well, Laura/ said her 
 lover, going up to her, ^Pm really very much 
 obliged to you.'' 
 
 '^Oh bother \' she responded graciously. ' It^s a 
 wretch of a piece, little Mouse; you should have 
 given me all the break-downs, and Pve only that 
 beggarly one at the end. Yere — do send me some- 
 thing to drink into my room. Pm dead-tired, and 
 as thirsty as pigs on a market day ! ' 
 
 ^ So you had a call at last ? ' said Beltran kindly 
 to the little Courcey, as the Pearl disappeared in her 
 dressing-room. ^ And some flowers too, I see ? ' 
 
 The Wood-elPs blue eyes sparkled. 
 
 ' It was that little song, my lord, as Mr Denzil 
 put in for me. Mayn^t I sing it every night ? Do 
 let me ! ' 
 
 ' Of course you may. It is in your part.^
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATEE. 267 
 
 ' But — but — ■' whispered tlie Wood-elf, who 
 seemed shyer than any other of this astonishingly 
 voluble and dar^-devil sisterhood, ' if you won^t 
 be angry, she said as how she^d have it cut out. 
 She couldn't abide me being called along of her; 
 and if I don^t have the song they'll hiss me ! ' 
 
 ^ Confound her ! ' muttered Beltran, as the poor 
 little Wood-elf turned hot and cold at her own 
 temerity in adventuring a remonstrance against 
 the person who was omnipotent with the lordly 
 owner of the Coronet. ' You shall have the song, 
 never fear. Fll speak to Wynch myself about 
 it.^ 
 
 Wynch was the acting and ostensible manager ; 
 and the Wood-elf s soul was comforted. 
 
 ' What he says he^ll do, he'll do/ she murmured, 
 cherishing fondly her knot of roses, while the costly 
 bouquets showered at Pearl were first stripped of 
 any bracelet, note, or other article they might con- 
 tain, and were then cast aside to wither as best 
 they might. 
 
 At this instant Prince Silvertongue, passing me 
 hastily to get across to the room on the other side 
 where the porter and kidneys had been indulged in, 
 kicked me sharply with her scarlet boot, and tore
 
 268 PUCK. 
 
 some of my liair out with, her gilt spur. Naturally 
 I shrieked loudly witli the pain^ which for the 
 time was very severe. 
 
 Beltran heard and took me up under his arm 
 as he went^ followed by Fanfreluche, to his own sup- 
 per-room; a very pretty apartment, hung with amber^ 
 and uniting in it the elegance of a boudoir^ the 
 luxuriousness of a smoking-room, and the artistic 
 disorder of a studio. The same room, I heard 
 afterwards, where the boy-politician had shot him- 
 self six years before. 
 
 ^ Why will you bring these dogs here, Laura ? 
 They are always getting kicked, or snubbed, or 
 stamped on by some one or other,^ he asked her 
 impatiently, as she appeared in this chamber, having 
 changed her attire with marvellous celerity, to the 
 velvet and lace of her home dinner-dress. 
 
 ^ I bring ^em because I choose to bring ^em,' 
 she answered him sullenly. ' That big brute of 
 DenziPs is often enough in the place ! ' 
 
 Now, she had not known that we had been with 
 her ; and, as Fanfreluche had averred, might have 
 kicked us out of her brougham had she done so. 
 What then could be her motive for this speech ? — 
 simply, I imagine, to disagree with him, which was
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 269 
 
 a form of amusement tliat seemed to afford lier 
 never-failing refreshment. 
 
 *" DenziPs dog can take care of liimself. These 
 little things can^/ he answered her. ^ By the way^ 
 Derrj, that's a charming little song you put in for 
 that Courcey girl. Lance is awfully in your debt for 
 it^ and so am I.' 
 
 Laura PearFs arched eyebrows lowered^ and her 
 eyes beneath them grew full of flame and gloom. 
 
 '' Little Courcey has a pretty voice/ Denzil an- 
 swered. ' If she were well taught she'd come out 
 wonderfully. The girl's a game little thing too ; — 
 keeps straighter than any one of them.' 
 
 This last phrase he muttered sotto voje. 
 
 ' She squeaks like a penny trumpet/ the Pearl 
 observed with savage scorn. ' And what you stuck 
 in them ten bars for_, Denzil_, beats me ! Fll have 'em 
 out to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Noj you won't/ said Beltran quietly. 
 
 ^ Won't I?^ she cried furiously. 'Then all I 
 says is^ Beltran^ you may find who you can for my 
 part_, for I'll never go on yoar stage no more to have 
 calls^ and bouquets^ and thingumbobs,, flung at that 
 little minx aside of me ! ' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Beltran carelessly. ' There
 
 270 PUCK. 
 
 are lots of people can do tlie breakdowns^ and you 
 know that's all jou. do do, Laura/ 
 
 ^ Vl\ write a song for you too/ added Denzil, 
 with wicked intent. ^ That^s easy enough ; and the 
 Mouse can make room, I dare say — ■' 
 
 ^ When you know I canH sing ! ' she shrieked, 
 in a gust of passion. ' And as for you, Lord 
 Beltran, if you could get people so easy out of 
 casinoes to fill your hole of a theatre, why wasnH 
 you successful with ^em before I come ? Answer 
 me that ! And as to insulting of me for that 
 wretched little toad of a Courcey, Pll see her and 
 you ' 
 
 But I had better not record the foul language 
 with which she polluted her handsome quivering 
 lips, and transformed one of the most beautiful 
 women Nature ever created into a hissing, mouth- 
 ing, furious virago. 
 
 Beltran sat quite unmoved under the tempest, 
 employing himself in concocting a continental drink 
 with ice, forced strawberries, and a little chambertin 
 wine. Indeed, for aught any one could have told, 
 he might have been as deaf as a stone. 
 
 ' I wouldnH agitate myself if I were you,' he 
 said very quietly, when the hurricane of her words
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 271 
 
 was exliausted. ' Tliere^s your favourite ris de veau 
 en demi-deuilj hadn't you better eat it ? ' 
 
 And slie did eat it ! — the men round the table^ 
 of whom there were some eight or ten_, could not 
 help smiling at this anti-climax. 
 
 Beltran still devoted himself to his ice^ with the 
 gravest face possible. But I fancied that Laura Pearl 
 knew^ somehow or other, that she would not be per- 
 mitted to carry her point about the Wood-elf s ten 
 bars of song. 
 
 ' He cares nothing about little Courcey_, my dear/ 
 Fanfreluche explained to me under the table. ^ But 
 he cares a deal about keeping his word. Won't 
 she make him pay a price for it_, — ^just ! ' 
 
 Apparently her good-humour was restored by 
 the ris de veau; at any rate her murmurs were 
 drowned by Derry Denzil, who had one of the mel- 
 lowest and most flexile of voices, and who, sitting 
 down to the piano that occupied a nook in this 
 pretty supper-room, chanted, with gay music of his 
 own, some camp-songs of the Austrian Army, in 
 which he once had served. 
 
 The Mouse came in, radiant because the carnages 
 were standing thick in two ranks down the street, 
 and because the door-keeper had averred that
 
 272 PUCK. 
 
 every one liad gone away deliglited with the enter- 
 tainment. He was genuinely hungry also^ from 
 anxiety and suspense ; and could in verity eat the 
 dainty things provided_, which the other men who 
 had hurriedly left their dinner-tables to be present 
 were not. In consequence they had only trifled 
 with claret^ or drunk brandy and seltzer^ whereas 
 he really was thoroughly ready for the larded game^ 
 and the mayonaise^ and the oysters; and he managed 
 to devour very nearly as much as Laura Pearl her- 
 self, chattering with voluble mirth all the time^ and 
 bringing an element into the society which was very 
 much wanting there ; since the conversation having 
 commenced in disputes had declined into ennui. 
 
 After a little time they all began to smoke ; the 
 Pearl included, though she threw away much more of 
 her cigar than she consumed. While the Coronet^ s 
 lights were out in every other part of the house, 
 the players gone home, and the great doors shut to 
 the street and locked, laughter reigned in the 
 bright amber-hung room ; and the chimes of a 
 neighbouring clock were tolling two in the morning, 
 when they all sauntered forth by the stage-exit, 
 and went into the cool white moonlight to their 
 waiting cabs.
 
 AT THE CORONET THEATRE. 273 
 
 ' It^s a success — an out-and-out success ! ^ I 
 heard the Mouse mutter to Denzil as they lounged 
 out to the aiv. 
 
 *■ For you_, — yes ! ' 
 
 ' Well ! Why not for him ? ' 
 
 ' Why ? ' replied Denzil slowly^ with a big 
 cheroot in his teeth that resisted all attempts to 
 light it, ^ Why ? Oh^ because it never makes any dif- 
 ference to him whether the Coronet pays or loses. 
 Old Wynch will tot up your half of the profits 
 correctly^ because youVe very bright eyes^ my dear 
 Mouse j but Beltran — well^ Beltran may be permitted 
 to see that his gallery brings him in a surplus of 
 something like eighteenpence half-penny a week.^ 
 That will be about it^ I fancy.' 
 
 ^ He's a confounded ass ! ' muttered the Mouse. 
 
 ' Yes^ he is. He trusts Wynch and you ! ' 
 
 And Denzil_, with a short good-night to them 
 all^ strode away in the moonlight alone^ while Leo 
 Lance waited to murmur farewell to the Pearly and 
 to close the door of her brougham. 
 
 ^ Are you comings Vere ? ' she asked sharply of 
 Beltran. 
 
 ^ No, thanks. Fll go and see what they're doing 
 at the Cocodes.' 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 PUCK. 
 
 And lie turned away to get into a hansom, and 
 drive rapidly to that fashionable night-club, where 
 the highest of high play was to be obtained all 
 through the early hours of the dawn. 
 
 The Mouse had his rejected seat in the broug- 
 ham. 
 
 ^ A lift ' was the least she could give, I suppose, 
 in return for my ear-rings and me.
 
 li 
 
 ^S3 
 
 ^^^^M 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BEOXZE. 
 
 N attempting to jump into tlie brougham 
 my feet slipped,, and I fell heavily to the 
 ground. No one perceived my accident, 
 and the carriage moved on quickly, while a shrill 
 little yell from within it told me that my faithful 
 little chaperone and cicerone alone had witnessed, 
 and was powerless to help^ my misfortune. I was 
 stunned for a moment or two by the sharp con- 
 cussion, and lay panting and scarcely sensible on 
 the hard stones of the deserted street. 
 
 A good Samaritan, who was the only passenger 
 past the loneliness of the darkened and melancholy 
 theatre, saw my plight and paused by me : he was
 
 276 PUCK. 
 
 a rather large^ rougli^ brown dog ; Ms coat was very 
 shabby and tangled, as if worn by wind and 
 weather; and he had a very sad, tender face that 
 made me think of old Trust's. 
 
 He stopped and sniffed me, and drew me gently 
 out of the roadway with his teeth : I was, or fancied 
 myself, too much hurt to move, and lay right in the 
 way of all passing carriages, indifferent to all danger 
 from their wheels. 
 
 ^ You are a poor tiny thing to be all alone at 
 this time of night,' he said to me kindly. ^What 
 are you doing ? Have you lost yourself ? ' 
 
 I told him my adventures. 
 
 He was not a dog of the world evidently, for 
 he knew nothing of Pearl, or Fanfreluche, or 
 even the name of the theatre under whose porch 
 he had drawn me ; consequently it was not in his 
 power to lead me aright, or indeed to help me in any 
 way, save to shelter me with his bigger body from 
 the wind, which he did with much care and tender- 
 ness. 
 
 ^ Will you take me home with you ? ' I ventured 
 to ask, emboldened by his honest kind eyes. 
 
 ' I have no home,' he said mournfully, ^ otherwise 
 I would. I sleep under bridge arches, or door-
 
 BRONZE. 277 
 
 ways,, or anywhere I can ; wliere I am not liunted 
 away — ' 
 
 ^ But that must be very miserable ? ^ 
 ^Yes, it is miserable. But there are tens of 
 thousands of human creatures that do the same. 
 I must not complain. vSometimes I am allowed to 
 lie in an empty basket^ in that great market where 
 they sell vegetables and flowers ; there it is very 
 warm and safe^ and the sweet scents of the thyme 
 and the lavender, and all the cool wet leaves^ make 
 me dream I am in the country once more.-* 
 ^ You came from the country ? ^ 
 ' Yes/ — his eyes grew unutterably sad. 
 ^ Why did you leave it ? ' 
 
 ^ Well — I followed my master. He was but a 
 lad^ barely twenty ; his people were poor, and 
 he was restless at home, and he had dreams of won- 
 drous things that he couli do in the great world, if 
 only his steps should once wend thither. It was 
 a sweet, happy, fragrant place, — that little farm 
 where we lived ; all in the heart of the green fresh 
 pasture-lands, and the apple orchards, and the 
 blossoming high hedges, with the little brooks sing- 
 ing beneath them. But Harold was ill content 
 there. He had music in his eyes, and fever in his
 
 278 PUCK. 
 
 voice : do you know wliat it ia tliat I mean ? Well, 
 lie would leave tliem — the father^ and tlie mother, 
 and the little girl Gladys ; and would go forth 
 on his own path to some greatness. I do not 
 think he ever knew what ; but dreamt of all im- 
 possible beautiful things. They wept sorely : but 
 he — he came smiling away. I followed him. I had 
 been his in his childhood, and he had always been 
 good and gentle to me ; my heart nearly broke 
 at quitting that fair green place of my birth_, but 
 what could I do ? I could not let him wander 
 alone.' 
 
 He paused : there was no sound save of the 
 night winds stealing sadly through the empty por- 
 tico of the deserted theatre. 
 
 ' Well — he came straight hither ; came out of 
 the pure free country^ and from the sight of the 
 sun, into this furnace, where men's souls are for 
 ever consuming, and the smoke of their passions and 
 woes is spread, like a veil of darkness, between them 
 and heaven's light. The lad had dreamed divine 
 dreams, that I know ; I have seen the look on his 
 face when he walked under the summer stars, or 
 saw the moon burn through a night of frost. And 
 he came here, — here ! — to squalor, and vice^ and
 
 BRONZE. 279 
 
 manifold miseries^ and ceaseless greed_, and a 
 fathomless gulf of unmeasured iniquity ! 
 
 '^Wliat lie really strove to do I cannot tell. He 
 strove liard^ whatsoever it was. He wrote all tlie day 
 long in that little^ dusky _, blackened attic_, in the roof 
 under the smoke-cloudy which he had chosen instead 
 of the bright, broad_, wooden chamber^ under the great 
 oak boughs, with the birds singing against the lattice 
 that had been his at his home. He wrote — wrote 
 — wrote,, all day and all night too : till all the colour 
 died out of his face, and all the light out of his eyes. 
 * At times he would go abroad, and wander amongst 
 strange crooked streets, and enter first one house 
 and then another. And in one he was met with 
 derision ; and in a second with coldness ; and in a 
 third with a rebuff; and so on in every one of them ; 
 so that he left each with his bundle of papers 
 clenched in his hand, and the broken bent look of 
 an old man on his lithe young form. Yet he never 
 seemed wholly to lose courage. He would write, 
 and write, and write again ; and go again to these 
 houses, or to fresh ones, with his eyes all aglow 
 with hope ; and again come forth from them with 
 the glow quenched, and his steps dragging slowly 
 over the stones. And all this time he had but little
 
 280 PUCK. 
 
 money ; and it grew less and less ; and soon we all 
 but starved. 
 
 ^ Many tender letters came to him from the little 
 farm in the orchard -country, but I do not fancy 
 he ever answered them. If he did he was too 
 proud to tell them that all their fears were true, 
 and all his dreams were dead. For if he had 
 only once hinted to them of his want, I know that 
 they would have stripped themselves to the last 
 coin to send him help, and the child Gladys would 
 have worked in the fields as a reaper rather than ever 
 have let him need unaided. 
 
 ^ Well, — each day grew worse^ than the last ; and 
 his cheeks grew hollow, and his eyes wild, and his 
 hand, when it touched me, burned like flame. He 
 still wrote — oh yes, — but he wrote at night only, 
 and all the other hours through he wandered to 
 and fro, to and fro, in the endless maze of streets. 
 It is sad to be young, and alone, and utterly miser- 
 able, in a great city that has no time to think of 
 you, no glance to give you, no ear to lend to your 
 sighs ! 
 
 ^ And at last one evening he would go out alone ; 
 he would not havo me with him. He stooped and 
 kissed me on the forehead, and I felt great hot tears
 
 BRONZE. 281 
 
 fall on me as lie did so ; but though I begged, 
 and prayed,, and moaned^ and entreated all I could 
 to go with him^ he put me back into the room^ 
 and closed the door on me^ and I heard his steps 
 going swiftly down the staircase, and out into the 
 street. Well — from that hour he has never re- 
 turned.^ 
 
 ^ He is dead, then ? ^ I asked, awe-stricken. 
 
 ' Ah ! that I cannot tell. I am looking for 
 him always, dead or alive. After a little while 
 the people of the house drove me away with blows, 
 when they found that he did not come back. I 
 used to lie in the street before the door day after 
 day, night after night ; they would throw wood and 
 stones at me; they wounded me sorely often, but 
 they could not make leave the spot while there was 
 a chance of his coming there. It is so horrible, — 
 to lose a creature you love, into darkness like that. 
 Men can speak and explain and other men pity 
 and aid them. But we — we can only suffer, and 
 wonder, and be wretched, and dumb ! ' 
 
 I listened, awed and full of sorrow — this loyal, 
 faithful, tender-souled creature. Humanity in its be- 
 sotted arrogance called a lower beast than Laura 
 Pearl !
 
 282 PUCK. 
 
 ' Have you never seen Hm again ?^ I asked softly 
 at lengtli. 
 
 * Never again. But I look for him still. I must 
 find Mm at last. One man was good to me and 
 would have given me a home^ and fed and caressed 
 me ; but I could not stay with him ; I could not go 
 to comfort and rest whilst the boy was unfound. I 
 seek him everywhere. Sooner or later I shall know 
 where he is — ' 
 
 ' But you must suffer greatly ? ' 
 
 ' Suffer ? Yes. But so did he. I have hunger 
 and thirst continually ; a drop of muddy water^ a 
 scrap of offal, is all I can get without stealing*, and I 
 never will steal. The people beat me and kick me, 
 and the boys stone and hoot me — you see, I am 
 nothing but a stupid stray dog to them. And they 
 are cruel. ^ 
 
 * But could you not find your way home to that 
 country place that you love ? ^ 
 
 ' Oh yes. It is fifty or sixty miles from this city, 
 but I could find my way well ; I should know the 
 road, and I could walk it in less than a week. But 
 how can I go home whilst I leave him here ? How 
 can I see them all again without him ? If I knew 
 he were dead indeed I might go ; they love me, and
 
 BEONZE. 283 
 
 perhaps in some sense I could comfort them ; but 
 until I do^ — whilst there still is a chance that he 
 lives and may want me_, — I have no right to turn 
 my face homeward. If I went and forsook him, do 
 you think I could sleep one moment in pei-ce, though 
 I were to lie in my old nest among the feet hay 
 in the apple loft under the oak boughs ? ' 
 
 I was silent : the greatness of this unselfish 
 elevation appalled' me. This rough country dog 
 could feel such fidelity and nobility as these, whilst 
 the men and women I had quitted ! — 
 
 ^ Forgive me, little one/ he said kindly, imagin- 
 ing that he had wearied me. ' In babbling of myself 
 I have forgotten your troubles. What can I do for 
 you ? I have nothing in the world, and not even a 
 kennel to share with you.-* 
 
 ' What was your master called ? ' I asked, still 
 haunted by the story, to the exclusion of my own 
 woes. 
 
 ' Harold. His people^s name was Gerant, but 
 we always called him and his little sister Harold and 
 Gladys. But do not let us speak more of them. I 
 want to aid you if I can.^ 
 
 I could not tell him how, for I saw no possible 
 issue to the dilemma ; but I begged and prayed of
 
 284 PUCK. 
 
 him not to leave me. I had such a dread of Bill 
 Jacobus finding and seizing me. 
 
 ^ Ah, you are afraid of the thieves ? ^ he said 
 gently. ' They never touch me. See what a pro- 
 tection it is to be worth nothing ! A valuable dog, 
 and a rich man, have no true liberty in their lives, for 
 they are for ever being hunted and trapped by the 
 spoilers. I will not leave you : and I can still keep 
 a rabble at bay, though I am old, and my teeth are 
 not strong. We are as well here as anywhere ; 
 the portico keeps the wind off a little.^ 
 
 So we sat there while the quarters and hours 
 were several times tolled from the neighbouring 
 church : and he warmed me with his rough, curly 
 body, and tried to his uttermost to shelter me from 
 the unaccustomed exposure of the night. Carriages 
 flashed past ; now and then a foot-passenger went 
 by ; but no one took any notice of us. 
 
 Now and then there came by us a man of dis- 
 tinguished appearance, walking slowly, with his hat 
 over his eyebrows and his face very pale. When I 
 saw such an one T guessed that he had been playing 
 at the Cocodes, or at some other of the night card- 
 clubs of this fashionable quarter, and had lost. Now 
 and then such an one would be accosted and pest-
 
 BRONZE. ' 285 
 
 ered, and cursed liorribly wlien lie put lier aside, by 
 some wretcliedj haggard, painted pliantom of a 
 woman tliat made one^s blood run cold by even a 
 look at her wolfish, leering, hungry eyes. 
 
 *" Poor creature ! ^ I said involuntarily, as one of 
 these — the worst of any I had ever seen — came by us. 
 
 * Poor indeed ! ' said my good Samaritan. ^ And 
 yet, after all, this is rather a sham sentiment that we 
 are guilty of when we pity these women so pro- 
 foundly. For they call our brothers, the lions, 
 beasts of prey ; but how holy are their ways, how 
 continent, how innocent, how merciful even the 
 worst that they do, beside these women ! These 
 women murder the young of their own kind : what 
 lion, what animal, ever did that ? ' 
 
 ^ But they have been tempted ? ^ 
 
 ' Well — yes,^ he said thoughtfully. ^ And how ? 
 Look you here. A few nights ago, as I was seeking 
 Harold in all likely and unlikely places, I strayed 
 into a Casino not very far from here. It was one 
 where gay, rich, foolish youngsters go to see dancing 
 women ; and specially to see one now who is a sort 
 of empress there — they call her Lillian Lee. She 
 ^' shows herself nightly to the populace for gold — '' 
 that was a line I heard Harold quote so often.
 
 286 PUCK. 
 
 'I took a long look at this Lillian of theirs before 
 they saw and turned me out : I knew lier then. 
 The last time I had seen her she had been hop- 
 picking in our fields some five years ago at harvest- 
 time. 
 
 ^That girl had as good a mother as ever breathed ; 
 a widow-woman, but full of thrift and cheerfulness 
 and virtue. They lived in a pretty little cottage, hard 
 by the water-mill ; the mother bred poultry, and 
 took the fowls and ducks to market, with herbs 
 and a few vegetables that she grew, and she washed 
 linen for the old vicar and two or three other people ; 
 she was always a contented woman, and loved her 
 daughter — well ! — as only mothers can love. If the 
 girl had been but like her, they might have been 
 very happy. But you know it is of no use to sow 
 wheat upon stone and sand. 
 
 ' Letty — that was her name — Letty had nothing 
 of her mother's temper in her. She was for ever 
 sulking, and fretting, and refusing to work, and 
 squandering her pence on finery, and mooning- 
 away her days in the sun. The only thing she 
 would do was a little hop-picking in the season ; 
 because there were many men about, and idle 
 play, and license that was worse than play, in the
 
 BRONZE. 287 
 
 hop-grounds where all tlie wild Irisli_, and the la- 
 bourers on tramp, came ; and wasted far more than 
 they worked for most of the time they were there. 
 One day at the middle of the hop-getting_, when 
 Gerant came in to the noon-day dinner^ his face was 
 very grave ; he was a quiet^ God-fearing man^ and it 
 was but seldom that he allowed anger to stir in him. 
 ^^ Lettice Dean must never darken these doors 
 again/^ he said to his wife, — the children were not as 
 yet in /rom the fields. " She is vicious and vile ; 
 she turns to sin as bees to sugar. Have a care that 
 she comes no more nigh to Gladys. ■'' 
 
 'The mistress asked trembling what the girl had 
 done : and he answered her that Letty had wanton 
 ways, and he had surprised her love-making with one 
 of the drunken Irishmen, where they stood under a 
 hedge. A little while after that, the poor woman 
 Dean came weeping sorely to Gerant and his wife, 
 and told them how the child had left her without a 
 word, taking all she owned with her. She had stolen 
 even her dead father^ s old pinchbeck watch from 
 under her mother^ s pillow whilst the old woman 
 slept ; and had carried off even the few little bits of 
 silver spoons, and salt-pots, and such like, that had 
 belonged to her great grand-parents, and were the
 
 288 ' PUCK. 
 
 pride and treasure of the cottage. Well — they 
 traced her to Loiidon_, I believe, and there they 
 altogether lost her. I only found her the other 
 night — as Lillian Lee at this Casino.^ 
 
 ^ And you think her temptations were ? — ' 
 
 ' Greed, and vanity, and discontent. No others. 
 She loved wickedness and pleasure; she robbed 
 her mother whilst sleeping ; and she went to vice 
 because she desired its wages. 
 
 ^ By the way, the old woman died ; lost all heart 
 and strength, and could no longer labour for her 
 own support, and would have gone to the work- 
 house but for Harold^ s father and mother, who, in 
 the press of their own poverty, tended and suc- 
 coured her to the end — which indeed was not long 
 in coming. Now, wherefore should we pity this 
 creature — Letty Dean, or Lillian Lee ? 
 
 ^ The flowers hang in the sunshine and blow in 
 the breeze, free to the wasp as to the bee ; — the bee 
 chooses to make his store of honey, that is sweet and 
 fragrant and life-giving ; the wasp chooses to make 
 his from the same blossoms, but of a matter hard 
 and bitter and useless. Shall we pity the wasp 
 because, of his selfish passions, he selects the portion 
 that shall be luscious only to his own lips, and spends
 
 BRONZE. 289 
 
 his hours only in the thrusting-in of his sting ? Is 
 not such pity — wasted upon the wasp — an insult 
 to the bee who toils so wearily to gather in for 
 others, and who, because he stings not man_, is by 
 man maltreated ? Xow, it seems to me, if I read 
 them aright, that vicious women, and women that 
 are of honesty and honour, are much akin to the 
 wasjD and to the bee ? ' 
 
 I was silent : his grave gentle speech recalled to 
 me my old familiar friend Trust, and seemed so 
 strange — and yet so simply-wise — after the satiric 
 sharpness and the acidulated worldliness of Fanfre- 
 luche. The one was so tenderly thoughtful, probing 
 to the core of all things ; the other was so contempt- 
 uously indifferent, skimming the surface of all truths. 
 And yet — when all was said — the Samaritan and the 
 Satirist alike pointed to the same deduction ! These 
 words of his, moreover, recalled to me the vague fancy 
 that had moved me as to the past of Laura Pearl. 
 
 Ah ! these women may well be rough to us, and 
 shrink from our eyes, when we remember so many 
 things that they have consigned to the grave of 
 oblivion, and which they believe they have sealed 
 down for ever, because they have rolled to the door 
 of the sepulchre a burial- stone of gold ! 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 PUCK. 
 
 ^ It is very cold for you/ said Bronze kindly, 
 waking me from my half-sleepy reverie. ' Bitterly 
 cold for spring. I do not mind it ; I have been 
 houseless all the winter_, which was a hundred times 
 worse than this, — but you — ^how you shiver ! ^ 
 
 ^ It is nothing/ I tried to say valorously ; ' you 
 have lost Harold long, then ? ' 
 
 ' All the winter, and all the autumn ; and he lived 
 in wretchedness here — about a quarter of a year — 
 rather more. That makes eight, or- ten, months. 
 Gladys will soon be getting into womanhood.-' 
 
 ' Is she a pretty girl ? ^ I asked him, wondering 
 if she also would ever be transformed into a Pearl 
 or a Lillian Lee. 
 
 ^More than pretty. Letty Dean was pretty. 
 Gladys has a beautiful little face, like a white 
 crocus of the spring. She was a strange child, too, 
 — so silent, so gentle, so dreamy, and some said not 
 very wise. But her eyes would blaze like stars when 
 Harold read poetry to her, and I fancy myself that 
 she thought over-much for her years ; that she had 
 — what do they call it ? — genius ; and that it was only 
 because she was silent that people fancied her simple. 
 It was odd : those two children led such quiet, 
 ordinary lives : rising with the sun ; eating food of
 
 BRONZE. 291 
 
 the plainest ; always in tlie open air ; rained on by 
 summer showers ; blown on by autumn winds ; see- 
 ing nothing except the animals and the birds on the 
 farmSj and having no books except their Bible and 
 their Pilgrim^ s Progress,, and the Plays of a man they 
 called Shakespeare : — and yet there was something 
 noble and uncommon about them ; and they seemed 
 always to be hearing such wonderful things, when 
 they lay on the grass, or wandered under the trees/ 
 
 I understood what he meant : I had seen some- 
 thing of the same thing in poor Ben. 
 
 But by this time I was so tired that I ceased 
 to hear him speak, and I fell sound asleep, and 
 forgot that my cushion was only the stone step of 
 the Coronet theatre. The wind and the rain did 
 not come upon me, for Bronze lay down by me in 
 such fashion that his brown curly body was a firm 
 barrier between myself and the elements. There is 
 a wondrous deal of kindness in men and in dogs : 
 — women I do not think have much of it. 
 
 * Oh woman ! in our hours of ease 
 So smiling, soft, and glad to please, 
 And stedfast-rooted as the oak, 
 And patient-tempered as the moke, 
 Let only cash and stiff be failing, 
 An awful tongue hast thou for railing ! '
 
 292 PUCK. 
 
 This elegant parody liad been sung by the three 
 Fairy Princes in the Monse^s burlesque^ and had 
 been received with exceeding applause ; and it was 
 wandering still through my brain as I sank to sleep 
 under the portico of the Coronet. 
 
 When I awoke it was dawn — one of those cheer- 
 less gray dawns that early spring brings in cities. 
 
 In the Peak these mornings had been beautiful; 
 by reason of the seas of white cloud-like mist, the 
 sweet damp dewy scents, the water-drops that glist- 
 ened on every leaf and blade, the purple glimpses 
 of the half-hidden hills, the soft unearthly hush 
 that reigned over all things, till the low twittering 
 of the little nest birds broke its silence. But here 
 — here it was only cold, ugly, impressibly dreary and 
 dispiriting. I woke in consequence sorely frightened 
 and sorrowful ; and the tender-hearted Bronze had 
 much ado to console me. 
 
 ' I am so cold ! ' I moaned. ' And so hungry too ! ' 
 
 ' How long is it since you had food ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Ever since six last night ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ? — And I have been two days without pick- 
 ing up anything, save a piece of mouldy bread, that 
 lay outside an area- gate ! But then I am old, and 
 very hardy, and you are helpless and young ; that
 
 BRONZE. 293 
 
 makes a great differrence. Well^ — I suppose if we 
 wait long enough, the theatre people will come^ and 
 they will know you^ — will they not ? ' 
 
 At that momentj through the dim light in which 
 the day and the gas feebly struggled for dominance, 
 there approached the form of a man, looming large 
 through the dusky and yellow steam of the fog. 
 
 It was Lord Beltran. 
 
 He was walking slowly, with his great coat 
 thrown back as though he sought the chilly air ; his 
 head was bent, his face was pale, and the stephano- 
 tis in his button-hole drooped — dead. 
 
 I sprang out on him, and managed to arrest him. 
 He paused, and raised me. 
 
 * Is it you, you little atom ? ^ he said kindly. 
 ' Has she left you here on purpose ? Not likely 
 though, as you^re of value ! ^ 
 
 And with that he took me, thrust me kindly 
 and carelessly into his pocket, and moved onward : I 
 struggled, and whined, and contrived to draw his 
 attention to Bronze, who was looking on with wistful 
 and patient endurance of oblivion. 
 
 He whistled Bronze to him. 
 
 ' You look stray and starved, my friend ? Come 
 along too if you like.^
 
 294 PUCK. 
 
 Bronze understood; and came timidly near_, and 
 touched his hand with a grateful motion of his own 
 rough tongue; but he did not move after us^ and 
 the last thing I saw of him were his two sad, kind 
 eyes, gleaming with their soft hazel light from out 
 of the portico darkness. 
 
 My heart was full at leaving him thus : — but 
 what could I do ? 
 
 I was horribly cold and hungry ; and this is a 
 combination which kills sentiment in bigger people 
 than myself. The emotions, like a hot-house 
 flower, or the sea-dianthus, wither curiously when 
 aired in an east wind, or kept some hours waiting 
 for dinner.
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. 
 
 N ten minutes or less I was comfortably 
 installed in Beltran's chambers, wMcli were 
 but at two or tliree streets^ distance from 
 tlie theatre. Tbey were tlie two prettiest rooms I 
 have ever seen in my life, connected with an arch- 
 way, and decorated with imperial blue ; they were 
 the abode of a refined gentleman, of a connoisseur 
 too moreover ; things of great antiquity and much 
 beauty were scattered about ; ivory, bronze, marble, 
 china, enamel, metalwork, gleamed out of the pre- 
 vailing hue of deep azure ; and here and there 
 nestled a mirror, and here and there hung a 
 picture.
 
 296 PUCK. 
 
 Beltran set me down on the hearth-rug, and 
 cast himself into an easy-chair_, having changed his 
 dress for a velvet smoking garb that his man 
 brought to him. 
 
 ' Give the little beggar something to eat, Ter- 
 rors/ he said of me to his servant j and then com- 
 posed himself to read and to smoke. 
 
 I liked his face better than I had hitherto done. 
 It was very delicate and thoroughbred, with that 
 handsome profile which seems to mark like a brother- 
 hood your English aristocrats. It was cold and 
 contemptuous indeed in expression, but by the 
 kindliness that came, when he smiled, into his calm 
 languid eyes, I thought that much of this cynical 
 indiflferentism was only surface deep, and much of 
 this serene insolence was only a trick of manner. 
 
 When I came to know him well I found, indeed, 
 that Yere Essendine, Lord Beltran, was one of those 
 persons very hard for men, and very easy for dogs, 
 to read. There were, to mislead his own kind, 
 the slighting languor of habit, the contemptuous 
 serenity of manner, the listless fatigue of tone, the 
 continual suppression of all feeling beneath phrases 
 of half-sardonic and half-ridiculing brevity, that are 
 common amongst those of his order. He was not
 
 SU^'DAY MORNING. 297 
 
 a little reckless,, moreover; was given to seeking 
 his own amusement^ without reckoning its cost 
 either to himself or others ; and although no one 
 ever remembered to have seen him out of temper^ 
 he could be very merciless with his quiet indolent 
 speech on occasion. 
 
 But dogs saw much more than these : dogs 
 noticed that he was never ungentle to them ; that he 
 never forgot themj that he smiled with his eyes 
 as well as with his mouth ; and that he^ like them- 
 selves^ took punishment without complaint^ not 
 from insensibility^ but from the courage of breed, 
 and the endurance of training. And the stray ones 
 of our kind would know this, by that peculiar pre- 
 science of our own which you are pleased to call 
 ' instinct ^ because you cannot in the least com- 
 prehend it ; and they would follow him home, and 
 trust themselves to his pity and shelter : — will you 
 have anywhere a surer witness to character ? 
 
 I imagined that he had some punishment to 
 bear just now ; the novel dropped on his knee as 
 he sat, and his eyes were fastened on the fire that 
 burned brightly within his pretty porcelain-panelled 
 stove. 
 
 Once he took from his waistcoat pocket an old
 
 298 PUCK. 
 
 letter^ with some figures jotted on it in pencil ; 
 studied tliem, and thrust them back with a mut- 
 tered word that sounded like a curse. 
 
 The figures, I doubt not_, were those of his play 
 losses that night at the Cocodes. 
 
 Soon after that he drank some soda-water^ and 
 went to bed: I did so too, and I shame to confess 
 slept soundly^ unhaunted by so much as a dream of 
 the poor patient Bronze,, whom we had left in the 
 chilly bleak dawn^ alone with his hunger and sorrow. 
 
 We hear a very great chatter of *' sympathy ' in 
 this world : is there aught of it^ I wonder^ that is 
 anything beyond fellow-feeling ? 
 
 When I fairly awoke on the morrow it was 
 noon ; and there were four or five men in the inner 
 room, where a table was laid out with breakfast. 
 
 It was Sunday, I knew, by the clanging of the 
 dissonant bells with which you herald your period- 
 ical fits of devotion : and Sunday breakfasts, as I 
 learnt later, are a favourite form of distraction with 
 such men as these amongst whom I had fallen. 
 
 The guests were waiting for their host; and 
 the silver dishes were still covered. 
 
 They were talking of the previous night at the 
 Coronet.
 
 SUNDAY MORXIXG. 299 
 
 ' Safe to run/ said one^ in wliom I recognized 
 Paget Desmond. ^ Ought to make money by it ? ' 
 
 ^ Humph ! ' said Derry Denzil^ who was there 
 without his big dog. 
 
 ^ AYhat do you mean by that^ Derry ? ^ asked 
 another_, a slender_, fair^ languid man^ whom they all 
 called Xed, and whom I found was^ in rank_, Earl of 
 Guilliadene. 
 
 '' Paper ! ^ returned Denzil_, briefly^ with much 
 scorn. 
 
 ^ Paper ? Oh^ hang it, no ! Stalls were full of 
 fellows, one knows ; and the private box women 
 were all in good form.-' 
 
 Denzil laughed grimly. 
 
 ' Well — don^t you know how she does it, Xed ? ' 
 
 ' She ? Not an idea ! ' replied the Earl. 
 
 ^ Pll tell you, then. Nine-tenths of those men 
 get her pass — get it all through the season, and, — 
 when she takes her benefit, what charminof bier 
 checjues the lovely Laura receives as a quid pro quo ! 
 House is full : she explains to her friend that it^s all 
 orders ; he believes her ; so it is in a sense ; only 
 the money that should have gone in at his box- 
 office goes instead at the end of the season to her. 
 Thing is perfectly simple. You see ? ^
 
 300 PUCK. 
 
 ^ I can^t say I do exactly/ muttered tlie fair 
 Earl. ' Old Wyncli must kuow ? ' 
 
 ' Of course old Wyncli knows. But wlien it suits 
 liis own book to net gains in like manner^ of course 
 it don^t pay liim to check hers. Besides^ they under- 
 stand one another ; and Wynch is a wise man in 
 his generation. He knows that she^ll be worth her 
 ten thousand a-year for a very much longer spell 
 than Beltran will.^ 
 
 ' She don^t do anything except those break- 
 downs/ murmured Lord Guilliadene. ^ Pd get a 
 score just as good as she out of the Holborn 
 Casino J any night.' 
 
 *■ That's nonsense/ said Denzil, calmly. *" She's 
 the handsomest creature about the town. I hate 
 her^ but I must admit that. Besides_, you know 
 old George made her the fashion.' 
 
 ^ Oh_, she's chic ; if the clubs saying so can make 
 her so — ' 
 
 ^ As of course they can/ cried Paget Desmond. 
 ^ No woman can hold her own against the clubs for 
 any length of time. You remember Mrs D'Eyncourt ? 
 Well — that woman was superb ; and a wonderfully 
 fine actress too ; but you know she was confoundedly 
 honest_, and had awfully queer notions ; and when
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. 301 
 
 old Beaujolais enclosed lier a set of diamonds slie 
 sent tliem back — sent them back^ by Jove ! as if 
 he^d been a pot-boy offering ker a pennyworth of 
 periwinkles. Bean,, you know^ never forgave it_, and 
 lie got her talked down in the Clubs and other 
 places till she hadn^t a ghost of a chance. She was 
 a very plucky woman^ fearfully plucky woman ; and 
 thought she was strong enough to beat him. But 
 of course she wasn^t ; of course she went to the 
 wall. She was fairly driven off the London stage_, 
 you remember ? ' 
 
 ' Yes/ added Mark Mountmorris^ a man in the 
 9th LancerSj ' and I saw her stitching shirts as hard 
 as ever she could sew_, in a little garret window^ in 
 a beggarly German town. That^s alwaj^s the way 
 women come to grief if they defy clubs — ' 
 
 ^ And diamonds ! ' concluded Derry Denzil_, with 
 that laugh which was too grim for his handsome 
 sun-browned features. 
 
 ' Well — Pearl will never sin that way/ said the 
 narrator of Mrs D^EyncourVs misfortunes and mis- 
 takes. ' Day before yesterday she came to muffin- 
 worry in Fred Orford^s rooms — you know he always 
 has a lot of women in at five o^ clock — well^ heM 
 just been getting things at the Brialmont sale ;
 
 302 PUCK. 
 
 cliina cliiefly^ and some queer old Moyen-age jewel- 
 lery; and it liad all come in from Christie^s, and 
 was lying about there loose. He didn^t offer her a 
 thing, on my soul he didn^t_, for I was there and 
 heard every word he said ; but — the deuce ! — if she 
 didn^t ask for all the Saxe and Sevres that took her 
 fancy^ and carried the best of ^em off with her before 
 Fred had got a word in edgeways ! He was awfully 
 savage ; the best of it was, too, that he^d promised 
 all the Saxe cups and saucers to the Duchess de 
 Vistaherilla, and he has had to write Lord knows 
 what lies to account to her for ^em as broken ! ^ 
 
 ' I wish she'd come to my rooms, and ask me 
 for my bronzes,' said Denzil, with a curt signifi- 
 cance that suggested the reception which the free- 
 booter would receive among his Antiques and Bar- 
 bediennes. ' Don't you think you were dreaming, 
 Mount, when you fancied you saw Mrs D'Eyncourt in 
 Germany? Germany too ! Such an indefinite word ; 
 you forget we've left one Teutonic Empire behind, 
 and haven't yet come up with another.' 
 
 ''I did see her,' said Mountmorris decidedly. 
 ' Saw her in a beastly little place off Homburg. 
 One knows that woman in a second just by the way 
 her head's set on her shoulders. If she hadn't been a
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. 303 
 
 fool and sent back old Beauts diamonds^ she'd have 
 been — ' 
 
 ^ When was it you saw her ? ^ 
 
 ''Deuce ! I don't remember/ answered Lord 
 Mark. ^Tes — stop — last autumn surely. I recollect 
 now^ because Pd lost over a monkev at Homburg^ 
 and was dead lame for want of remittances^ and 
 had nothing to do except go mooning about. I 
 wonder you don't know what's become of her. You 
 admired her awfully when she first came out. 
 Always were about with her too.' 
 
 ^ She was a very good actress/ said Denzil 
 briefly ; and said no more . 
 
 •^ Yes^ she was/ said Beltran^ at that moment en- 
 tering from his bed-room. ''What did that woman 
 disappear for^ Deny ? It was a mystery to me 
 at the time.' 
 
 'No mystery at all. Beaujolais had her run 
 down^ I believe.' 
 
 ' Ohj nonsense ! That wasn^t it all. Beau can 
 do a good deal^ and kill an actress with a sneer as 
 well as anybody; but he couldn't drive a woman 
 away out of the world_, and make her vanish into 
 space as she vanished. I always thought you were 
 at the bottom of that ? '
 
 304 PUCK. 
 
 ' Did you ? It' s/our years at least since Gertrude 
 D^Eyncourt left the stage : how should one remem- 
 ber anything about her ? It's time enough to wel- 
 come and bury twenty Rachels ; and she wasn^t a 
 Rachel by a very long way/ 
 
 * Perhaps not. But she was in thorough-bred 
 form always ; and a very good actress too. Where's 
 that brute, by the way ? ' 
 
 ^ Her husband ? I don't know.'' 
 
 ' You used to know all about them, Derry ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I did. But I've lost sight of them 
 both long ago. You hear what Mount says, he saw 
 her stitching shirts near Frankfort. That's later 
 news than any of mine.' 
 
 He spoke indifferently, but his face grew a little 
 paler under its bronzed tinting, and he dashed a 
 good stoup of brandy into his breakfast-glass of 
 seltzer. 
 
 ' She was a very good actress. I wish the 
 Coronet had her,' said Beltran meditatively, tossing 
 me a plover's wing. The attention drew all eyes on 
 me ; and they recognized me with one voice. 
 
 ^ Yes, it's Laura's dog,^ he answered them. ' I 
 picked him up in the street last night. I've half a 
 fancy to keep him.'
 
 SUNDAY MORJ^IXG. 305 
 
 ' Slie^ll Tveep lier eyes out for him/ said Den- 
 zil curtly. '' Unless you find liim worth thirty 
 guineas ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, we^ll square itv, of course/ said Beltran^ 
 with a touch of annoyance. ^ Pll send her that pink 
 Dresden tea-set there that she's longing' for; it^s 
 worth twice as much as the dog. I don^t think 
 she'll mind the exchange ; it^ll be a good one for 
 her_, as the little beggar only cost her a sovereign.^ 
 
 ' How did Jacob let him go for that ? ' 
 
 ' She didnH get him of Jacob.' 
 
 ' Oh., didn't she ? Well, I saw the very model 
 of him there a month ago_, only mtli a sooty coat 
 instead of a snowy one.'' 
 
 But Beltran was not attending, and missed 
 the hint conveyed to him. 
 
 For myself I nearly wagged my tail off with 
 gladness at the prospect of escape from the Pearl's 
 brodequin-kicks and parasol-blows. 
 
 Emotions are quite as detrimental to a dog's tail 
 as they are to a lady's complexion, Joseph Buona- 
 parte's American wife said to an American gentle- 
 man, whom I heard quote her words, that she ^ never 
 laughed because it made wrinkles : ' there is a good 
 
 deal of wisdom in that cachinnatory abstinence. 
 VOL. I. 20
 
 806 PUCK. 
 
 There is nothing in the world that wears people (or 
 dogs) so much as feeling of any kind^ tender,, bitter, 
 humoristic, or emotional. 
 
 How often you commend a fresh- coloured matron 
 with her daughters, and a rosy- cheeked hunting 
 squire in his saddle, who, with their half- century of 
 years, yet look so comely, so blooming, so clear- 
 browed, and so smooth-skinned. How often you 
 distrust the weary delicate creature, with the 
 hectic flush of her rouge, in society ; and the worn, 
 tired, colourless face of the man of the world who 
 takes her down to dinner. Well — to my fancy, 
 you may be utterly wrong. An easy egotism, a con- 
 tented sensualism, may have carried the first com- 
 fortably and serenely through their bank-note lined 
 paradise of common-place existence. How shall 
 you know what heart-sickness in their youth, what 
 aching desires for joys never found, what sorrowful 
 power of sympathy, what fatal keenness of vision, 
 have blanched the faded cheek, and lined the weary 
 mouth, of the other twain ? 
 
 The breakfast was a long but by no means 
 tedious affair. There were curious old wines and 
 quite new dishes to be tried; and with the due 
 leisure taken over these, and some pauses betwixt
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. 307 
 
 t"hem filled up by music from Denzil and a magnifi- 
 cent bufi'o singer of tlie Blues, wlio amused tlieir 
 minds witli trying over a new score of an unpub- 
 lislied comic-opera lent tliem by its Frencli composer, 
 tlie liours from noon till four o'clock sped away with. 
 sufficient rapidity ; in a dusky atmospliere of aro- 
 matic smoke, tkrougli whicb tlie singers' clear full 
 notes came oddly, like a carillon ringing through a 
 misty Flemish dawn. 
 
 ^ That's a capital opera/ said Beltran musingly, 
 as Denzil's hand crashed out a lusty riotous chorus 
 from the big Kirkmann. ' Who'll do it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, it's written for Schentach, of course,' said 
 the player, naming a famous French songstress. 
 ' They are keeping it for next New Year.'' 
 
 ' What if one had it at the Coronet ? — bringing 
 Schentach over of course ? ' 
 
 ' Good gracious ! Aren't you near enough ruin 
 already ? Schentach refused half-a-milKon francs a 
 month from the Sultan last week — ' 
 
 ^And she's an ugly woman,' said Beltran, con- 
 tentedly resigning his idea in its birth. ' But we 
 must do something ; an everlasting break-down, and 
 an eternity of negro melodies, is not a very lively 
 prospect — '
 
 308 PUCK. 
 
 ^Pays/ said Denzil curtly^ with a crasli of tlie 
 chords. 
 
 ' Does it ? Ask old Wynch.' 
 
 ' Ask an auditor at the year's end/ responded 
 the other^ with brief significance. 
 
 Beltran blew away a ring of smoke. 
 
 'Couldn't do that. Wynch would think one 
 suspected him — ' 
 
 ' The best thing he could think/ 
 
 ' I don't fancy so. Trust people wholly or not 
 at all.' 
 
 ' An excellent rule. But why do you never prac- 
 tise but the first half of it ? ' 
 
 ' Go on playing, Derry, that chorus is charm- 
 ing : — but it seems to me that IVe heard something 
 very like it before. It's the same measure as the 
 old Rataplan.' 
 
 ' Of course it is. It's borrowed body and soul. 
 The originality of men and monkeys is only varia- 
 tions upon imitations — ' 
 
 ' Don't get epigrammatic in the daytime. 
 There's a season for all things ; and you're not 
 writing musical critiques for the Mouse/ 
 
 ' By the way, did you see that poem in this week's 
 number ? It's out of the Mouse's line — utterly.'
 
 SUNDAY MOENIXG. 309 
 
 ' A poem ! Never read one/ 
 
 ' Well_, read that. It lias a kind of grandeur in 
 it ; and is worth, something.-' 
 
 'Do you mean '' Demeter'' ?' 
 
 ' Yes. It's only a fragment.-' 
 
 Beltran stretched his hand for the paper^ glanced 
 through it while Denzil and the guardsman recom- 
 menced their duo from the sparkling Frenchman's 
 score. 
 
 Beltran began to read in differ ently_, but with 
 more gravity and interest as he proceeded. The 
 verse occupied about a column and half of the 
 Mouse's thick-toned paper. He threw it aside a 
 little wearily when he had ended. 
 
 'Is your sixpenny sheet going to make us 
 think ? I claim back my subscription.' 
 
 ' Don't you like the thing ? ' 
 
 ' Like it ? Pooh ! One likes a burlesque^ a 
 pigeon-match_, an American oyster^ a number of the 
 Mouse: one doesn't like Samson Agonistesov Prome- 
 theus Unbound.' 
 
 *■ You class that bit with the latter ? ' 
 
 ' Pretty nearly. It is crude, indeed,, and over- 
 wrought, but it has the conflict of strength and suffer- 
 ing in it that they have. The idea of putting such a
 
 310 PUCK. 
 
 poem as that pell-mell in your pot-pourri of nonsense 
 verses, club-scandals^ whipped- cream wit^ sublime 
 self-sufficiency, and fashionable philistinism ! It is to 
 place a chained God in a smoking-room; a fallen 
 Titan at an Arlington whist-table. For Heaven^ s 
 sake,, since you must be court-jesters, don't fetter a 
 desert-chief beside you to make your motley fouler. 
 Be consistent — even in your foolery.^ 
 
 Denzil laughed, leaning over the piano. 
 
 ' Come, the poem's done something. It's made 
 you say actually what you think for once ! Don't 
 you want to know who wrote it ? ' 
 
 ' No, indeed. When I was a boy — strong on 
 such matters — I traced so many philosophers into 
 snuffy back parlours, and discovered so many philo- 
 mels in curl papers, that I never feel the faintest 
 tinge of curiosity in literary personalities.' 
 
 ' Who did write it, Derry ? ' asked the Guards- 
 man, looking over the verse with a mixture of good- 
 natured wonder and contempt, just touched into a 
 vague admiration. 
 
 ^Well,' answered Denzil slowly, striking some 
 wistful, solemn, minor chords with his left hand as he 
 spoke. ^ You see the name there, — Harold Gerant. 
 It's not a feigned name, as you're thinking. The
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. 311 
 
 manuscript came to little Lance just twelve months 
 ago : was put aside and forgotten. A week or two 
 since I lit on it ; in looking over old copy tkat was 
 to be burnt. I tliought I saw stuff in it ; and told 
 him to put it in type. The address on the page was 
 a street in AYhitefriars. I wrote there^ and had 
 no answer. I asked some publishers if they knew 
 the name : one of them told me it belonged to a 
 boy who was alwaj^s pestering them to accept his 
 rubbish. They had a consummate scorn for him : 
 he asked them for no money; only begged they 
 would print what he wrote. I found out the place 
 yesterday, quite by chance. The people of the 
 house said a lad of that name had lived with them 
 three or four weeks; but had gone out one day, 
 and had never returned. Some dozen days after 
 his disappearance a body had been found in the 
 Thames,, at low water, just beneath Westminster 
 bridge. They had gone to see it ; and had recog- 
 nized it by the long fair curling hair. The features 
 had been disfigured bej^ond all knowledge by 
 striking on the piles of the bridge. That is the his- 
 tory of the poet of " DemeterJ' He will not make us 
 think any more.* 
 
 There was a long silence as the deep soft tones
 
 312 PUCK. 
 
 of his voice died down : — not one of those present 
 spoke. 
 
 At last Beltran raised himself, and looked at the 
 Dresden clock. 
 
 ' Y'lYe, as I live ! Stay here as long as you like. 
 I must go and see half-a-dozen women over their 
 tea. Remember, we dine at Richmond. I will call 
 for you, Derry, at your rooms ; before I drive round 
 to take up Laura.^ 
 
 And he went to change his velvet attire, that 
 he might carry no odour of Turkish tobacco into 
 the dainty patrician boudoirs, where they were 
 never at home on the seventh day to anything over 
 a dozen. 
 
 I thought how heartless he was. 
 
 Denzil remained alone, after the rest of the 
 Sunday breakfast-party had departed. 
 
 He did not rise from the deep-seated chair in 
 which he had sat as he played through the last 
 bars of the opera; he did not relight his cigar, 
 which had gradually died out from his inattention ; 
 his face was very grave, very dark, very melancholy, 
 now that he deemed himself in solitude. 
 
 ^ Working — starving, perhaps — in a foreign 
 land. My God ! ' he muttered once, unconsciously
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. 313 
 
 aloud. And tlieii he started up, and paced to and 
 fro the two chambers with swift uneven steps_, and 
 with his head bent on his chest in depth of thought. 
 
 Once he went to a portfolio of photographs that 
 leaned against the wall, and drew one of the great 
 sheets out, and placed it upright, and gazed at it j 
 his eyes shaded with his hand. 
 
 It was only the head of a woman ; a very noble 
 head, standing out like a cameo from a black back- 
 ground of shadow. 
 
 He looked at it long; so long that in the wavering 
 light of a London sunset, that glowed through the 
 misty close of the day, the great soft eyes seemed 
 to gleam and change, and the curling proud lips to 
 move and breathe. It seemed a living thing to me ; 
 and I think it did so to him also. 
 
 Then he flung it back with nervous force 
 amongst the rest in the portfolio, and throwing him- 
 self again into the chair, buried his face in his hands, 
 and sat immovable ; while the quarters chimed again 
 and again from the clock on the mantelpiece, and 
 the church belfry in the street without. 
 
 The opening of the inner door, as the servants, 
 supposing all the gentlemen had left, entered to 
 clear away the breakfast service, aroused him ; and
 
 314 PUCK. 
 
 he rose and went : — if liis eyes had not been wet 
 with tears I never saw human tears on earth. And_, 
 having lived but a short life,, I yet have seen them 
 often . 
 
 An hour or two later^ when Beltran had again 
 entered and again gone forth^ as I looked from one 
 of the windows to divert my loneliness^ I saw him 
 dash past in his mail phaeton driving two sorrels 
 tandem^ with two grooms riding after him. Beside 
 him sat Laura Pearl, in all the splendour that gold 
 broidered cashmeres and genuine ermine could 
 give ; and behind them, leaning over and laughing 
 with a cigar in his mouth, was Deringham Denzil. 
 
 I began to suspect that men were very different 
 in society and in privacy.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HIS FIEST SEASON. 
 
 HE transfer of tlie pink Dresden for myself 
 was^ I believe^ satisfactorily effected,, for 
 that particular set of cliina disappeared, and 
 I remained undisturbed inBeltran^s possession, and 
 speedily became a favourite with him. 
 
 I had a very agreeable life. His two servants, 
 being devoted to him, were very good to me. 
 There was no one to teaze me ; and as there were 
 a great many people always coming and going 
 in his rooms, I seldom was without amusement. 
 There were men-breakfasts, and men-dinners, often 
 in these pretty costly chambers of his, that had as 
 many treasures in them as Christie's itself on a 
 view- day.
 
 316 PUCK. 
 
 In tlie mornings,, artists and authors^ and guards- 
 men, and diplomatists, and pretty actresses, and 
 witty dramatic adapters, and all sorts and kinds of 
 people, would get togetlier in tlie rooms, whether 
 Beltran were there or not ; some looking in for 
 two minutes, some staying two hours. In the late 
 afternoon not rarely there would come some fair 
 friends, or relatives, of his own caste. Dainty 
 haughty women who would have their five o^ clock tea 
 out of his egg-shell china, and talk scandal with 
 the most charming air in the world, and feast me on 
 muffins and sugar; his servant being always at the 
 doorway on guard, so that no member of the Pearl 
 order, or female aspirant to the boards of the Coro- 
 net, should be admitted, whilst these noble dames 
 and delicate damsels drank their orange-pekoe, 
 glanced over the bric-a-brac, and talked the last 
 news of the day. 
 
 He very often, also, as I say, gave dinners in his 
 rooms, for they were large, and the cook down-stairs 
 was one of the finest in London ; and whenever 
 men did dine with him there was sure to follow 
 gold-crown whist, with heavy betting on the tricks, 
 or more generally still some game of quick hot 
 hazard.
 
 HIS FIRST SEASON. 317 
 
 Taken as a whole tlie mode of life was bewilder- 
 ingly brilliant to me ; and with a week or two of it^ 
 being sugar-plummed by the actresses, praised and 
 patted by the great ladies, and highly favoured by 
 my noble owner, I utterly forgot the episode of poor 
 Bronze, and had — alas ! I shame to write it — very 
 nearly ceased to regret Eeuben Dare. 
 
 I soon, indeed, became really attached to my new 
 master and all his friends. They were ^thorough- 
 bred' to the core. 
 
 You object to that word ? You think I am 
 wedded to an Order ? Fi-donc ! — how you always 
 misappreciate your greatest instructors. 
 
 Have I not shown you how I could love and honour 
 a simple, unlettered, north-countiy quarry-man ? 
 
 He was a gentleman, in his own way, my poor 
 gentle-hearted Ben, for he was loyal and incapable 
 of a lie, and tender of soul to woman, and without 
 one shadow of falsehood, or of pretension, on his 
 honest life. And he had in a manner a right to be so 
 by race as well ; for Trust (who was an antiquary in 
 his fashion) used often to tell me that in the old old 
 times, when there were yeomen in England, and the 
 stout hand-bow was the terror of all her foreigm 
 foes, the Dares were stalwart and sturdy northmen.
 
 318 PUCK. 
 
 who rode out witli the Peverills^ and with the Ver- 
 nons after them_, and struck many a fair blow^, and 
 sped many a straight arrow,, and tilled many a broad 
 acre in that old dim time ; though, during the long 
 passage of the centuries, their sons' sons had fallen 
 to a low estate, and become one with the hinds 
 Avho sowed for other men's reaping, and garnered 
 for other men's feasts. 
 
 In truth, too, despite all the fine chances that 
 you certainly give your peasants to make thorough 
 beasts of themselves, they and your real aris- 
 tocrats have the only really good manners in your 
 country. In an old north-country dame, who lives 
 on five shillings a week, in a cottage like a 
 dream of Teniers' or Yan Tol's, I have seen a 
 fine courtesy, a simple desire to lay her best at 
 her guests' disposal, a perfect composure, and a free- 
 dom from all effort, that were in their way the per- 
 fection of breeding. I have seen these often in the 
 peasantry ; in the poor. It is your Middle Classes, 
 with their incessant flutter, and bluster, and twitter, 
 and twaddle ; with their perpetual strain after effect ; 
 with their deathless desire to get one rung of the lad- 
 der higher than they ever can get ; with their prepos- 
 terous affectations^ their pedantic unrealities^ their
 
 HIS FIEST SEASON. 319 
 
 morbid dread of remark^ tlieir everlasting imitations^ 
 ilieir superficial education^ tlieir monotonous com- 
 mon-places,, and their nervous deference to opinion; 
 — it is your Middle Classes that have utterly de- 
 stroyed good manners, and have made the prevalent 
 mode of the day a union of boorishness and servil- 
 ity^ of effervescence and of apathy, a Court suit, 
 as it were, worn with muddy boots and a hempen 
 shirt. 
 
 And I am terribly afraid that this will only get 
 worse and worse. The elegance of the aristocracy, 
 and the simplicity of the peasantry, are alike being 
 swept away; and there looms in the distance of 
 your future only one awful mass of hurry, ignorance, 
 ostentation, frivolity, and barbarous rudeness which, 
 styling itself Society, shall only be — a Mob. 
 
 If I am too discursive, pardon me ; I have 
 lived a good deal amongst women, and may have 
 caught up their habit of leading a discussion on the 
 Neo-Platonics round to Valenciennes edging, and 
 branching ofi" from the New Comtist doctrines to 
 the crack in their old Worcester card bowl. 
 
 All women talk discursively : in your stupid ones 
 it is an awful bore, but in your really clever women 
 it is charming ; — that bird-like flitting over the deep-
 
 320 PUCK. 
 
 est of waters may be done with an infinite grace^ and 
 sometimes your bird will bring you a pearl tliat all 
 the deep divers have missed. The ^ felicitous sur- 
 prise ' is_, I believe, one of the greatest charms in 
 your laws of rhetoric ; and no one deals in this more 
 than does the woman of quick talent and of facile 
 tongue, in her gay vagaries which will in their most 
 erratic moments still keep some method in their 
 madness. 
 
 I liked my new owner, as I have said, very 
 quickly ; and I liked all his friends and companions 
 — the ^ swells/ as your snobs ivill call them ; the men 
 with the pale handsome faces, borne by crusaders 
 and cavaliers before them ; the men with the gentle 
 quiet ways, and the contemptuous ring in their 
 voices, and the easy indolent insolence to all forms 
 of pretension; and the frank, kindly, generous 
 hearts for those that know them well ; and the 
 manner that is so natural to them, yet which no 
 outsider can imitate ; the manner that varies so little 
 in love or in fury, in pleasure or pain. 
 
 It is the fashion to rail at them now-a-days ; but 
 that invective has a good deal of cant and a good 
 deal of envy in it, — ay ! even envy of such slight 
 things as the accent of their voices ! — and, like all
 
 HIS FIEST SEASOX. 321 
 
 cant and all en^-y^ it is a true child of tke Father 
 of Lies. 
 
 I who write,, have I not been purchased hj their 
 money and made captive to their power ? And is 
 there any crucial test to tell you a man of breeding 
 like the manner in which he will treat a thing that 
 lies in his power ? Well — T, who thus have oppor- 
 tunity of examination and judgment passing the 
 common rule, do affirm that in all which makes a 
 man loyal, brave, patient, and of high honotir, frank 
 of speech, honest of thought, faithful in word to 
 friend or foe, without self-consciousness in distinc- 
 tion, and without complaint or self-pity in adversity, 
 I have never known the equal of your English 
 o-entlemen. 
 
 o 
 
 And I have been with them in their dark honrs 
 and their gay hours; I have seen them in their 
 weal and their woe. Ah ! — those men amono-st vou 
 whom you only behold staking their money on their 
 cards, lounging down their club steps, smoking 
 their cigars in all the capitals, and swearing good- 
 hum ouredly in all the languages, of Europe ; those 
 men with their dainty blossoms in their button-holes, 
 and their careless fashionable jargon on their Hps, and 
 
 their pleasant indifferent laugh at all created things, 
 VOL. r. 21
 
 322 PUCK. 
 
 and tlieir easy languid philosophy that holds as its 
 first thesis that nothing on earth ever matters^ I know 
 them better than you : — I know v/hat tempests of 
 tragedy have broken over their heads^ what death- 
 beds they have watched with agony in their souls, 
 what whirlwinds of passion have shaken them for 
 women fair and false, what capacities of quick and 
 true sympathy lie in them to start to life at the tone 
 of a voice that they love. 
 
 I know : — you do not. But you may believe 
 me ; — the knightly sonl is no more dead than in 
 the old days of Holy Grail ; the wild reiver still 
 grows reverent to true innocence as in the years of 
 Astolat; the gallant heart still beats to passion 
 and remorse, still thrills with pity and with pardon, 
 even as in the time of Lancelot and of Arthur. 
 
 Yon jndge these men from the externals of their 
 lives ; they in the fashion of the day like well that 
 you should deem the worst of them j they wear the 
 habit of a negligent indifference, as their fathers 
 wore the helm and the hauberk of steel : what do 
 you know of them in their best hours ? Tn the 
 moments when their voice trembles on a woman^s 
 ear with a word, spoken amidst a crowd, that is for 
 ever a farewell ; when their heads are low bent to
 
 HIS FIRST SEASON. 323 
 
 take a dying motlier^s blessing ; when tlieir eyelids 
 are wet as tliey look at tlie green grave of an 
 old dead comrade; when their very souls are 
 riven_, as the oak in storm^ as they sit in the still 
 gray dawn_, and think — and think — and think — of 
 the woman whom they have learned to speak of as 
 a jest^ yet who lay for awhile in their bosom_, only 
 to flee from them in cruel craven treachery, and 
 leave, as legacy in her stead, bitter despair and 
 utter unbelief. 
 
 Aliens ! You will say I cannot be a dog of the 
 world if I allow serious thought, or sad memories, 
 to steal over me. Let me hark back to my recol- 
 lection of the happy time that followed my dis- 
 covery by Yere Essendine under the portico of his 
 theatre. 
 
 Beltran was not a very good man, as the world 
 counts goodness. He was indolent; he was con- 
 temptuous ; he had very little respect for women, 
 which indeed was, I think, their own fault ; he had 
 the half-sad, half- slighting scepticism of his period; 
 and he held that there was nothing on earth in the 
 least worth making a fuss about. But he was 
 always kind of heart ; sincere in an unusual degree ; 
 just in action whenever he troubled himself to act ;
 
 324 PUCK. 
 
 and of a very g-reat delicacy and generosity towards 
 tliose who needed liis assistance. In truths lie gave 
 away far more tlian most ostentatious benefactors of 
 tlieir species expend^ only tliat lie did all his gentler 
 and better deeds in darkness_, and was more irritated 
 if a charity was traced to him than if a hundred 
 vices were laid at his doors. 
 
 And the world did indeed abuse him very badly. 
 To be sure,, he had been rich when he had succeeded 
 to his title^ and had managed by this time to throw 
 away almost everything he had ever possessed : and 
 this is a sin of which society is always very intoler- 
 ant. To jeopardize your power to give it good 
 dinners is always an eighth cardinal sin in its 
 sight. 
 
 Besides, Beltran was a man whom the world 
 feminine had always found it impossible to marry ; 
 and there were many bitter things said of him in the 
 boudoir and drawing-room. For this he cared very 
 little ; he went his own ways ; spent much time in 
 travelling and yachting ; preferred the demi-monde 
 to any other female world; and having some half- 
 dozen friends passionately devoted to him, was dis- 
 liked, though deferred to, by most others who knew 
 him.
 
 HIS FIRST SEASON. 325 
 
 ^Lord! — if tliat^s a lord^ I wisTi tlie land was 
 cliuck full of lords ! ^ said a brute of a bargeman 
 once^ on a dark misty niglit. There had been a col- 
 lision on the Thames, between his coal barge and 
 a naphtha-laden brig, and one man, coming down 
 from a yacht lying at anchor in safety, had plunged 
 amongst the crashing timbers and the blazing 
 waters, and fought with the hideousness of that 
 double death, until he brought out from the crushed 
 and smoking cabin of the barge two little drowning 
 children whom the river was choking, and the 
 flames were straining to devour, in their sleep ; — 
 brought them unhurt, golden and white and rosy, 
 amidst all that wreck and deluge. 
 
 Their father, the coal bargee, had been a virulent 
 agitator amongst his own kind; a fierce sullen dema- 
 gogue of pot-houses and coaling-stations, inveighing 
 against the cursed aristocrats with savage fury. But 
 when he saw those two little curly heads raised in 
 safety through the blinding water and the hissing 
 fires, he shook like a shot-struck elephant, and 
 groaned aloud. 
 
 As for Beltran, he only laughed a little, very 
 quietly, they say, though his loins were scorched 
 and blackened bv the smoke, and his left arm had
 
 326 PUCK. 
 
 been dislocated by a blow from tlie sbivering tim- 
 bers. 
 
 ' That sort of tiling^ s easy enough/ was all he 
 answered to the wild plaudits round him. ' Don^t 
 worry, please. Nothing^s worth a fuss.^ 
 
 The bargee from that hour adored him; and 
 narrated the tale in all those places wherein he had 
 been previously wont to thunder forth his foul invec- 
 tive against the '' nobles.-' The history bridged class 
 hatred, as that poisonous gulf could not have been 
 bridged by sentimental socialism cast as a sop to 
 Cerberus. 
 
 Beltran had done better for his order in this 
 demagogue^s sight than if he had gone up on the 
 wings of a bribed-for, lied-for, and truckled-for 
 *" people^ s confidence/ into the lath and plaster tem- 
 ples of ' office.' 
 
 Dogs never have any diflSculty in remembering 
 the slightest event or the lightest word that has 
 ever occurred or was ever spoken in their presence. 
 Our power of memory is something marvellous. It 
 is to the human mind as the inscriptions on the 
 Pyramids that never wear out, are to the lines in 
 your modern tombstones that a few years efface. 
 
 No doubt the shortness of your memories is a
 
 HIS FIRST SEASOX. 327 
 
 very convenient thing for you ; for without it 1 really 
 don^t know liow you could have the conscience to 
 repudiate your debts^ swear in your witness boxes^ 
 take your marriage vows^ traverse your divorce 
 petitions^ or do half the things that you du do. 
 
 But^ owing to the perfection of our remem- 
 brance^ I can recall every trifle of the life that I then 
 enjoyed with my new master. He generally took 
 me with him in his pockety and I saw a great deal 
 of life in that manner. You think a pocket is a 
 circumscribed sphere of observation ? — nay^ not 
 more so than a club window. 
 
 B8sides_,we get out of the pockety and run about 
 hither and thither ; but 3^ou_, — how few of you ever 
 move out of the circle of thought in your Club ! 
 
 It was a pleasant_, idle^ artistic,, amusing season 
 that had commenced with me in Beltran^s owner- 
 ship. Noons spent at Christie^s^ or Philips^^ where 
 one could hear a prime minister set his soul on a 
 small bit of old Chelsea^ and see a cabinet of Marie 
 Antoinette's knocked down to_ a Jew appraiser; 
 could behold the collections of a lifetime sentenced 
 to the hammer by a thankless heir^ and a courtezan's 
 priceless jewels be received by and bought in for 
 duchesses,, is as complete and caustic a satire upon
 
 328 PUCK. 
 
 Life as one can want to enjoy on a sunny spring 
 morning. 
 
 Half-hours passed in the odorous cedar-lined 
 studios of fashionable artists, with the smoke of 
 choice cigars curling round antiques and bric-a- 
 brac, and the sherry and seltzer hissing in long 
 fairy-like glasses of Venice ; where art critics fondly 
 conceited that the luxury of a Eubens must mean 
 the genius of a Eubens likewise, and gave the 
 R. A/s ill-scumbled and over-glazed portrait of 
 some patrician beauty credit for a ' depth/ and a 
 ' tone/ that existed alone in the hue, and the taste, 
 of his clarets. 
 
 Sunday afternoons idled agreeably away, under 
 the limes and acacias on the smooth sunny lawn 
 of some fair singer's or actress's toy villa by the 
 Thames, with chit-chat and ices, pretty women and 
 tea, the newest of flowers, and the flower of news. 
 Sunday dinners at some dame's of the high world, 
 with six or eight guests, at the utmost, of people per- 
 fectly suited ; and with the chasse lightly followed 
 b}^ some few bits of music or song, of an exquisite 
 choice and of a faultless execution, — some exhumed 
 glee of Arne, some unknown morsel of Schubert, 
 some plaintive passionate love-lay of Gounod.
 
 HIS FIRST SEASON. 329 
 
 Mornings passing to and fro in tlie Eide with 
 a cigar in his moutli^ and a rosebud in his coat^ 
 and a glossy sorrel neck curved delicately under 
 the light caress of his whip. Minutes checking the 
 hack under the trees_, and casting the cigar to the 
 winds of heayen_, to hold in soft murmured con- 
 verse some patrician coquette with proud blue 
 Plantagenet eyes_, or some witching head of a foreign 
 legation with a name out of the Libro d^Oro of 
 mediseval Europe. 
 
 HourSj still termed ''morning^ though at sun- 
 set_, taking his drag down the Mile_, with his wild 
 chestnut team fretting and flinging as though curb 
 had never galled^ nor ribbon ever controlled them ; 
 while aloft upon the box some duchess of demi-monde 
 avenged with reckless reign the leze-majeste to her 
 order of the noontide intrigue in Eotten Eow. 
 
 Suppers where nothing was eaten, but five 
 l^ounds a head was paid for looking at some flowers, 
 and hearing some champagne corks drawn, and 
 tasting some half-a-dozen grapes or a slice of water 
 melon : — suppers where, after opera or theatre, 
 great ladies in their paint and pearls would insist 
 on being taken into grated galleries in forbidden 
 places, to make a fast of feasting on stout and
 
 3o0 PUCK. 
 
 cheese and pickles; or suppers wliere^ after opera 
 or theatre^ casino celebrities^ late maids-of-all-work, 
 would insist on being taken into gilded chambers 
 in grand hotels,, to make a farce of scorning comet 
 wines and hot-house pine-apples. 
 
 In all these I was often his companion, going 
 into a very small compass^ being swift of foot after 
 his horse though so small^ and being a favourite 
 with all women save one^ for my beauty^ my curls^ 
 and my tricks. 
 
 Nay — he being influential and I infinitesimal^ I 
 even went into the clubs with him ; and I learned 
 to look out of the windows in Pali-Mall and St 
 James^ Street with quite as sapient and supercilious 
 an air as any club-habituee could desire. I was very 
 quick to hear^ and observe too^ the remarks that 
 they made there^ and the contempt or interest^ as 
 it might hapj with which they lifted their eye- 
 glasses at the women passing without. 
 
 Indeed, I became so accomplished in discernment 
 that I turned up my nose at a hired brougham 
 and job horse, though the prettiest creature sat be- 
 hind the shabby panels; and cocked my ears and 
 wagged my tail at a well-appointed equipage, though 
 rouged and brazen audacity lolled on its cushions ;
 
 HIS FIRST SEASON. 331 
 
 doing these with a power of selection that proved 
 me to have become^ in a month or two^ a consum- 
 mate dog of the world. 
 
 As for myfirst initiator^ Fanfreluche^ I soon began 
 to feel the polite disdain for her as ' only a woman/ 
 that your youngster^ who has been three months in 
 the Guards^ feels for the kindly coquette and ' frisky 
 matron ^ who took him up on his first introduction 
 into society^ and put him in the right set,, and got 
 him into the right clubs^ and gave him a nook in 
 her opera box^ and a word at her parties^ when 
 nobody else noticed the fledgling. 
 
 . My days and nights passed in a perpetual round 
 of sweetmeats^ antics^ ladies^ kisses, mischief, mirth, 
 and dainty dishes. When I thought of poor Ben^s 
 cottage, and old Trust^s dinner of crusts and oat- 
 meal, I shame to say I thought of them with won- 
 dering scorn. There were people and dogs who 
 lived like that, and never knew the taste of a truffle 
 or the look of whitebait ! Of course I entirely for- 
 got that the time had been — a few weeks before ! — 
 when to myself also truffles and whitebait had been 
 names unknown; but persuaded myself, till I ended 
 in believing, that I had fed on nothing else all the 
 days of my life.
 
 332 PUCK. 
 
 What hypocrites you call them^ those pretty 
 ' outsiders/ who, brought from obscurity into riches 
 and pleasure, will talk as if they had been great 
 ladies all their lives long. 
 
 Now, judging them by myself, I have little doubt 
 they are partially sincere. When we like a climate 
 we get acclimatized very soon, and when we detest 
 our birth-place we cannot have any pangs of nostalgia. 
 Now, they do both of these ; and when they try to 
 talk you into the idea that they were born in the 
 purples, believe me they have first induced them- 
 selves to believe the thing they wish. 
 
 ' And ye shall walk in silken tire,' seems to every 
 woman so inevitable a law of her being, that she 
 will forget that the time ever existed when she 
 transgressed it in homespun. 
 
 Fanfreluche I saw occasionally, meeting her in 
 a walk, or at such times as Beltran took me with 
 him to the PearPs house. But there was a coolness 
 between us, owing to her supposing that I had 
 fallen out of the brougham on purpose, and planned 
 to be picked up as I had been; a mean imagination, 
 consequent on the intrigues and deceptions that 
 were her daily atmosphere, which I resented too 
 much to explain away.
 
 HIS FIRST SEASON. 333 
 
 Bigger creatures tlian I have sulked a' true 
 friendship into its death by torpor_, from being too 
 obstinate and full of pride to clear aside a wrongful 
 supposition. Ah, good people, take my advice : 
 be as careful in choosing your friendship, as in 
 choosing new blood for your hound kennels ; but 
 when once your choice has been made, slay the 
 hydra of your amour yropre seventy times seven 
 over, rather than let it live and grow and stand like 
 a monster of darkness, between you and your chosen 
 friend. 
 
 The fact was, too, that Fanfreluche loved Bel- 
 tran with all that curious force which your cynical, 
 worldly-wise coquettes can sometimes throw into 
 an attachment ; and the poor little satirist was 
 jealous of my. place in those pleasant chambers. I 
 saw this, but I did not pity it. It was very sweet 
 to my feehngs that I, the baby and little fool as she 
 called me, should have thus prospered and distin- 
 guished myself at abound, while this Eochefoucault 
 on four legs, this female Juvenal in a blue jacket, 
 had been left to the caprices of a dancer of break- 
 downs. This feeling was a small one ; I know it : 
 but I think I have seen something like it in 
 humanitv.
 
 334 PUCK. 
 
 Slie laughed grimly when she heard the tale : 
 
 '' So Beltran purchases a burlesque in good faith 
 for two-fifty ; and the Mouse spends the money in 
 trying to divert Laura's fealty ; and Beltran gives a 
 thirty-pound bit of china for a puppy his traitor 
 bought for a song ; and the Mouse daren't say 
 anything because he knows he was guilty ; and 
 Laura nets sheer profits from both sides and cheats 
 them both in the long run ! Well,, it is neat cer- 
 tainly/ 
 
 But, though she thus grimaced and jeered at it, 
 it was, evidently, very bitter and unwelcome to her 
 that this singular turn of good fortune should have 
 befallen myself and not her; and that the pink 
 tea-set should have bought me back in her place. 
 
 On Mrs D'Eyncourt accordingly she would at 
 first vouchsafe me no information ; * the D'Eyncourt 
 was before her time/ she averred, though I believe 
 on my soul she knew all about the affair, what- 
 ever it might have been. 
 
 ' She was an actress, wasn^t she ? ^ I asked. 
 
 ' Oh yes : an actress, of genius, — I have heard.^ 
 
 *" And has disappeared ? ^ 
 
 ^ My dear — everybody has '^ disappeared '' who 
 isn't starring and staring before the world's foot-
 
 HIS FIRST SEASOX. 335 
 
 lights. We are uncommonly fond of our celebrities,, 
 — oil jes, — we buy their photographs and steal their 
 characters with the greatest ardour imaginable. We 
 are always flinging flowers before them^ and throw- 
 ing stones after them^ with the most aflectionate 
 energy possible. But it's only while they^re in the 
 range of our eyesight. If they retire^ or pause^ or 
 only get sick for a little^ weVe done with them. 
 Your statesman may have overworked his brain in 
 your service ; your painter may have paralysis ; your 
 author may have gone to his '^ otium cum dignitate; '^ 
 and your actress may have married or be a-dying ; 
 — it's all the same ; they have disappeared ; and 
 the world thinks no more about them.^ 
 
 ^ But this woman — ' 
 
 ^This woman was a great fool I believe. She 
 had no money; she had a blackguard for a husband; 
 she had nothing but her talents ; and she gave her- 
 self the airs of a duchess.^ 
 
 ^ She was a gentlewoman, perhaps ? ' 
 
 ^ What has that to do with it ? She had no 
 money, I tell you. Birth without gold is a fine- 
 feathered bird, with both his pinions cropped off 
 close at the point. Much use his plumage is ! — 
 and fine fat worms he'll pick up in the morning ! '
 
 336 PUCK. 
 
 ' But slie was surely riglit to send back that old 
 iiobleman^s diamonds ? ^ 
 
 ' Oh yes — and so wise^ my dear ! You see ; here 
 is Laura with one little gre6n beetle for her hair 
 worth its two thousand guineas^ and this D^Eyncourt 
 woman stitching shirts in an attic in Germany as 
 you tell me/ 
 
 ' A woman should not sell her soul for a— ^ 
 
 ' Beetle ? As good as anything else if it's in 
 fashion. A scarabeus at two thousand guineas_, and 
 a shirt at seven brass groschen, — Pm much obliged 
 to you for that pat illustration.' 
 
 And I could not get any more out of her^ for 
 she trotted oflP with her nose in the air to where 
 Laura Pearl's pony carnage stood by the rails in the 
 bright noon of the now budding spring season. 
 
 I was only being aired by the valet whilst Bel- 
 tran himself was attending a private view of some 
 foreign pictures. 
 
 By the way^ apropos of valets^ let me say a 
 word on your servants. 
 
 Beltran's man was an excellent fellow; but_, as 
 a rule, I do think the class of body servants is the 
 most detestable class in the universe. How you 
 allow their snobbism, their affectations, their im-
 
 HIS FIRST SEASON. 387 
 
 pudence, their ignorance^ and their general offens- 
 iveness, as you do_, is one of those things that no 
 dog can understand. 
 
 You go and laugh at Charles Surface's valet 
 on the stage^ as though his ridiculous impertinence 
 had no parallel in your own attendants^ and as 
 though in appearance^ at leasts the ' gentleman^ s 
 gentleman^ of that generation were not a million 
 times better than the wretched cad in his cut- 
 away coat and chimney-pot hat, whom you call 
 ' servant.^ Jeames, in his powder and plush_, may 
 be bad enough ; but I vow that your ' own man ^ 
 is ten thousand times worse. The former does, 
 at least, by his garb and often by his manners ^ 
 show what station he fills ; but the latter looks only 
 like some member of the swell mob, and very 
 often scarce behaves any better. 
 
 I suppose he has virtues in your eyes. I suppose 
 
 he can be trusted to compound honey-and-ink boot 
 
 varnish ; he can be trusted never to put an evening 
 
 flower in your morning coat, or vice versa ; he can 
 
 be trusted to make a brandy- smash, perhaps, not 
 
 half badly; he can be trusted, when he takes four 
 
 notes of appointments to our different ladies, not 
 
 to beget eternal confusion by leaving them va- 
 voL. I. 22
 
 338 PUCK. 
 
 riously in tlie wrong places ; lie can also_, maybe^ be 
 trusted not to tell tlie maid attendant on that pa- 
 trician dame with whom you play at platonics so 
 pleasantly, of that small villa amongst the King- 
 ston woods, where you pursue another form of 
 worship. 
 
 He may have all these virtues — or you think 
 he has them — but what others he has you would 
 be puzzled indeed to say. On my word, I hardly 
 know which is the worst ' form ' out — your familiar 
 friendship with the blackguards of the turf when 
 you want them to give you a ' straight tip ; ' or 
 your familiar association with the over-dressed, 
 moustached, impudent, pretentious cads who pocket 
 your 50 or 60 sovereigns a year for the trouble 
 they take in smoking your cigars, reading your 
 letters, riding your horses, assisting your intrigues, 
 and imitating your vices. 
 
 You are given, very continually, to denouncing 
 or lamenting the gradual encroachment of mob- 
 rule. But alas ! — whose fault, pray, is it that bill- 
 discounters dwell as lords in ancient castles ; that 
 money-lenders reign over old, time-honoured lands ; 
 that low-born hirelings dare to address their master 
 with a grin and sneer, strong in the knowledge of
 
 ■HIS FIRST SEASON. 339 
 
 his shameful secrets; and that the vile daughters 
 of the populace are throned in public places, made 
 gorgeous with the jewels which, from the heirlooms 
 of a great patriciate, have fallen to be the gewgaws 
 of a fashionable infamy ? 
 
 Ah ! believe me, an aristocracy is a feudal for- 
 tress which, though it has merciless beleaguers in 
 the Jacquerie of plebeian Envy, has yet no foe so 
 deadly as its own internal traitor of Lost Dignity. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS. 
 
 A /