aAA^^if^ 
 
 &yvrwvv 
 
 LIBRA R.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVLRS ITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 813 
 8fc54s 
 
 v.
 
 STKONG HANDS 
 
 STEADFAST HEARTS.
 
 LONDON : 
 ROBSON AND SONS. HUNTERS. PAKCBAS RO.VD. N.W.
 
 STRONG HANDS 
 
 STEADFAST HEARTS. 
 
 COUNTESS VON BOTHMER. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND. 
 1870. 
 
 [All rights reserved."]
 
 v. 1 
 
 Mn Mcmorn of 
 
 ONE 
 
 WHOSE HANDS WERE HELPFUL 
 
 WHOSE HEART WAS STRONG.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 i. The Quoit-thrower 
 
 ii. " Into each Life some Rain must fall " 
 in. Bostock-crescent . 
 iv. " You were asleep, Father" 
 
 v. Brookside House 
 vi. Harold at Home 
 vii. A second Daniel 
 viii. Eetrospective 
 ix. Max Sternfels 
 
 x. Honoria's Homily 
 xi. A Winter Nosegay 
 xii. Alone . 
 
 PACK 
 
 i 
 
 10 
 
 29. 
 
 5 1 
 
 6& 
 
 33 
 
 107 
 
 I2 5 
 
 166 
 
 204 
 225 
 
 24a
 
 STRONG HANDS 
 
 STEADFAST HEARTS, 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 THE QUOIT-THROWER. 
 
 •ONDON was at its dullest, and that 
 is saying a good deal. The polite 
 world had forsaken the parks ; 
 the Serpentine was a sea of mist and fog ; 
 in Kensington Gardens the bare branches 
 were dripping hopelessly on the deserted 
 pathways; and only policemen, cabs, and 
 milkmen were to be seen in those regions 
 where the shops left off, and local habita- 
 tions began to take the place of names. 
 London in November has been immortalised 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 THE QUOIT-TIIROWKR. 
 
 by so many pens, so eloquently described 
 by so many unfortunate foreigners whom 
 the Fates, or an unsympathetic government, 
 
 or a revolution, or an ungrateful country, 
 or a spirit of research, or the ardent desire 
 to spread their native tongue over the 
 earth, or one of those thousand-and-one 
 nameless necessities which know no law. 
 has brought to town when every one else 
 amis out of it, — that I shall neither swell 
 the army of critics, nor attempt a vindica- 
 tion of the autumnal charms of our modern 
 Babylon. Frenchmen have abused and 
 Italians reviled it, whilst our cousins Ger- 
 man have grown prolix on the subject; and 
 although I might indeed without any special 
 valour attempt to "whitewash" the old 
 city — for "whitewashing" is a grand fea- 
 ture of the age — (Nero is an amiable youth; 
 Messalina all things that are lovely and of 
 good report; Henry the Filth a model 
 young man, and Richard the Third an 
 enterprising genius, according to modern
 
 THE QUOIT-THROWER. 
 
 historians) — -yet I will refrain from any 
 such vindication. Mr. Bull thinks his big 
 town not only the biggest, but the most 
 beautiful, convenient, grand, luxurious, re- 
 fined, and enlightened of cities ; full of 
 sunshine and cheerfulness, and omnibuses 
 .and shoeblacks, and beer and beef and 
 mutton ; and what can a Briton — or in 
 fact any other man — want more? 
 
 Let envious foreigners say what they 
 will — what can you expect of a foreigner 
 but prejudice and absurdity? — But for all 
 that, and in spite of the archest British 
 Philistine, I must repeat again that London 
 was at its dullest and dreariest. So dull 
 and so dreary that no one would willingly 
 have gone forth who could stay at home. 
 In a word, the weather was abominable. 
 It had been raining all the morning, as 
 it had been raining on every preceding 
 morning for the space of four weeks; and 
 now in the afternoon, although the rain 
 had ceased, it was so dark, that persons
 
 THE QUOIT-THHOAVKI;. 
 
 indoors might well have imagined it to be 
 raining kittens and pelting puppy-dogs ; the 
 streets were full of greasy black mud, and 
 the gas-lights were already burning in some 
 of the shops, although it was not much past 
 three o'clock. 
 
 A girl, sitting before an easel, looked 
 anxiously up at the skylight in the Grteco- 
 Koman saloon of the British Museum. 
 She passed her hands quickly across her 
 face, sighed, stood up, stretched out her 
 arms as though they were cramped, and 
 then, with another sigh, sat down again. 
 
 She was copying that wonderful statue 
 of the Quoit-thrower, which is so instinct 
 with life and with the "poetry of motion," 
 that one almost expects the metal to fly out 
 of the young athlete's hand and fall with 
 a clanging ring upon the pavement. The 
 beautiful resolute face, the firmly com- 
 pressed lips, the determined but harmo- 
 nious chin, the proud delicate nose, the 
 energy and purpose of the whole face and
 
 THE QU0IT-THE0WEE. 
 
 figure were admirably given again in her 
 spirited yet patiently worked-out copy. 
 But she sighed again as she sat down. 
 For a moment the ghost of a smile followed 
 the sigh, and the transitory gleam of light 
 in her eyes told what such a face might be 
 when only the reflex of a joyous heart. 
 But in the poor girl's heart there was no 
 joy, and therefore in her face there could 
 also be none ; but rather a settled sadness 
 which struck one strangely, and jarred 
 upon one "like sweet bells jangled out 
 of tune." Such a face ought to have been 
 wreathed in smiles like that of Aurora or 
 Hebe, not clouded with a veil of grief, not 
 paled by sorrow, nor made wan by care. 
 The shades of evening were creeping on ; 
 the more delicate part of her work had to 
 be abandoned ; yet still she worked on, 
 patiently, conscientiously, and with a per- 
 severance that ignored the weariness of 
 the delicate body, and laboured as though 
 life were nothing else but labour.
 
 THE QUOIT-THKOWEE. 
 
 Shall I tell you what she was like, this 
 patient, sorrowful girl, this toiler of the 
 millions? Yes, I will tell you ; but when 
 
 1 have done so, then invest her with a thou- 
 sand touching graces, a thousand name- 
 less charms, and the picture will he still 
 imperfect. 
 
 She was tall and slight; not over tall. 
 but of that gracious height which conveys 
 dignity without detracting from woman- 
 liness. An artist would have divined full 
 harmonious forms beneath her loose dress ; 
 her head was set upon her shoulders so 
 gracefully, and the line of the bust and 
 shoulders was so beautiful, that a trifle 
 more fulness would have ripened them into 
 perfect beauty itself. Her face was a re- 
 markable one. The hair, jet black and 
 abundant, was drawn off the temples, and 
 rolled up in massive coils at the back of the 
 perfectly shaped head; the face was of that 
 pure oval which is apt to have angular 
 lines about the brow and chin when sick-
 
 THE QTT0IT-THE0WEE. 7 
 
 ness or sorrow comes to set their seal on 
 beauty. There was already a slight sharp- 
 ness of outline in the contour of this face, 
 which when seen en profile suggested fast- 
 ings and watchings, and an early acquaint- 
 ance with crief. The mouth was full, 
 and the lips of a rich rosy red ; otherwise 
 the face was totally devoid of colour, but 
 of that clear transparent paleness which 
 flashes into brilliant beauty when any 
 strong emotion stirs the heart. The nose 
 was well-formed, slightly aquiline, and de- 
 licately cut about the nostrils. 
 
 But the eyes — what shall I say of the 
 eyes? Were they beautiful, or cruel, or 
 terrible? were they loving, or eager and 
 fierce ? Just now they were none of these 
 things ; they were simply pale, clear, blue- 
 grey eyes, looking at the statue before them 
 with an expressionless, patient perseverance 
 that became a trifle more eager as the 
 afternoon darkened. The lashes round 
 them were very thick, long, and black,
 
 8 THE QUOIT-THROWER. 
 
 but for all that the eyes looked cold and 
 stony, and as though they were too shallow 
 for any intense expression. 
 
 As for the girl's dress, it was of the 
 simplest. It would have been mean and 
 shabby on any other woman ; on her it 
 seemed only modest and unpretending. 
 The long lines of her draperies gave height 
 to her figure; and when she rose and 
 stretched her arms, it might have been 
 seen that, despite the reign of steel, sin- 
 wore no crinoline, and that though slight, 
 she was strong and lithe. 
 
 Hers was a face that every more intel- 
 ligent passer-by would have looked at, but 
 having so looked twice or thrice, would 
 have turned away from, with a feeling of 
 disappointment, and but for some slight 
 peculiarity in the cut, shape, and colour 
 of the eyes, would soon have forgotten. 
 Perhaps, after all, the most remarkable 
 thing about the lace was its utter nullity. 
 It was totally void. I cannot assert that it
 
 THE QUOIT-THROWER. 
 
 9 
 
 was u faultily faultess" or "icily regular ;'' 
 but it was in truth " splendidly null." It 
 was a beautiful mask, nothing more.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 INTO EACH LIFE SOME RAIN MUST TALL." 
 
 ^VENthe windows of the Rag and 
 Ma Famish were dull. At least, so 
 thought Lieutenant Holsters of 
 Her Majesty's — tli Lancers, as he looked 
 out of the club-windows and reflectively 
 caressed his moustache. I never heard 
 that little Holsters was specially affec- 
 tionate in the bosom of his family ; but 
 the devotion which he bestowed upon 
 that modest little sandy adornment of his 
 was something positively incredible. The 
 poor little fellow's mind was more than 
 usually vacant, and he was wishing that 
 the night would come ; wishing that he 
 knew how to kill time ; wishing that he
 
 "into each life some rain must fall." 11 
 
 knew what to have for dinner ; wishing 
 that he had no debts, and that he could 
 grow two inches (for the heels of his 
 boots were already a standing joke in the 
 regiment) ; wishing, probably, a thousand 
 and one little delusive personal wishes to- 
 tally beyond the pale of realisation. He 
 had got leave, and had come up to town, 
 but there his career seemed likely to end 
 for the present. His parents and sisters 
 were abroad, and as his own funds were 
 not exactly in the condition of a green 
 bay-tree, his movements were somewhat 
 restricted ; for it requires coin to travel by 
 rail, or indeed to go about much in cabs 
 and omnibuses, though into the last-named 
 eonveyancc nothing would have induced 
 Lieutenant Holsters to enter. He knew 
 too well what was due to himself and to 
 the gallant — th ; and he would have 
 preferred death to disgrace, especially to 
 such an indelible disgrace as that. So 
 little Holsters kept pretty much to the
 
 12 " INTO EACH LIFE 
 
 distances that he could traverse on foot, 
 and only went home t<> the big family 
 mansion in Portland-place to sl<-rp at 
 night, because his finances did not favour 
 
 bachelor apartments, or a room at an ho- 
 tel. I believe the poor little fellow was 
 half afraid of going up the big empty un- 
 carpeted staircase at night, and past all 
 the silent rooms alone; and that he looked 
 lingcringly over the bannisters at old True- 
 man's (the butler's) bald head, illumined 
 by the light of a solitary tallow-candle, 
 with a longing for companionship savour- 
 ing more of nursery days (or nights) than 
 of the mess-room and barrack-yard. 
 
 "Why Lieutenant Holsters had left the 
 charming little country town in which he 
 was quartered was best known to himself. 
 Had he made too fierce love to the c " young 
 lady" at the pastry-cook's, or had some 
 rival beauty reproached him with his faith- 
 lessness? Was lie in want of money, or of 
 credit? or had he come to town in the
 
 SOME RAIN MUST FALL." 13 
 
 fond anticipation of finding his beloved 
 parents and amiable sisters once more at 
 home, and the Lares and Penates set up 
 again for a permanency ? If so, he was 
 disappointed ; for not only were the house- 
 hold gods not set up, but the carpets were 
 as yet not laid down, nor did curtains 
 drape the windows, nor were the bags 
 taken off the furniture. Now, as he stood 
 looking out of the club-windows, he felt 
 very disconsolate, and almost wished him- 
 self back at Y , killing time and the 
 
 young lady behind the counter at one blow. 
 What was he to do with himself? To dine 
 alone, and then go alone to the theatre, was 
 not an arrangement quite to his taste ; but 
 he knew of no better programme for the 
 evening. He was just making up his mind 
 as to which temple of the Muses he should 
 honour with his presence, when a vision 
 of something (or somebody), in the street 
 caused him to utter an exclamation of sur- 
 prise, and to leave for a moment that occu-
 
 14 " INTO EACH LIFE 
 
 [Kition which appeared to be a balm for all 
 sorrows and a solace in all misfortunes. 
 
 " Couldn't believe my eyes, you know," 
 
 he said, as he passed his arm into that of ;i 
 young man who had just come out of the 
 Exclusive, and was walking soberly towards 
 St. James's-street. 
 
 "Ought only to believe half that you 
 see," replied his friend, without the slightest 
 appearance of surprise or pleasure at the 
 little Lieutenant's sudden greeting. 
 
 "0, of course; but I thought you were 
 somewhere in Germany, or Russia, or Tur- 
 key, or one of those places ; I heard Stanley 
 saying so the other day."' 
 
 "Never believe anything that you hear,"' 
 interrupted his friend. 
 
 "Of course not; but why didn't you 
 stay in your last place?" 
 
 "Dismissed with a month's wages." said 
 the elder of the two, in answer to the Lieu- 
 tenant's artless inquiries. 
 
 "Don't chaff, but tell me the real 
 story."
 
 SOME RAIN MUST FALL. 1 ' 15 
 
 " The real story is not much to tell : 
 I only got a month's wages (nothing for 
 board or keep), and have had to come 
 home at my own expense. That is how 
 talent is encouraged and genius rewarded 
 in this benighted country." 
 
 " I suppose you got into debt?" 
 
 "Yes; but that was only a detail, and 
 had nothing to do with it." 
 
 "Well, then, why have you come 
 home?'' 
 
 " Well, because I ventured to blow my 
 nose in the presence of his Serene Highness 
 the Duke of Saxe-Pumpenheim, and incau- 
 tiously observed to the dowager Duchess 
 that I considered the climate detestable." 
 
 " Of course you are laughing at me ; 
 but never mind ; I know you diplomatic 
 fellows never save the right answer to any- 
 thing. But will you dine with me ?" 
 
 "Willingly," said Mildmay; and then 
 the two young men walked on in silence. 
 
 " Where are you going?" asked little
 
 L6 " INTO EACH LIFE 
 
 Holsters presently; for his boots were very 
 tight, and his companion's legs appeared 
 uncommonly long. 
 
 ••To pay my respects to the ancients, 
 and to leave my card on Teutamus the 
 Twenty-third, King of Nineveh, as also to 
 all his satraps and human-headed bulls. 
 In plain English, I have promised an old 
 friend of mine in Germany to hunt-up one 
 or two inscriptions for him; and as I 
 have the whole thing, into which I am in- 
 structed to inquire, written down, am now 
 going to see about the legends in question ; 
 though I confess, in entering the great 
 gilded gates I leave all hope behind." 
 
 This was not very intelligible talk, but 
 still it was talk ; and so little Holsters grin- 
 ned, and looking as wise as he could, tried 
 to keep up with his friend and bear it. 
 
 Presently they entered the old "Catholic 
 dome in Bloomsbury," of which our great- 
 est humorist has written sneh loving words. 
 
 "Queer sort of a place, this,*' said little 
 
 //
 
 SOME RAIN MUST FALL." 17 
 
 Holsters to himself; but he kept quiet, and, 
 on the whole, was rather impressed. He 
 thought it was a chapel perhaps, or a 
 congregation of chapels, that he was being 
 taken to ; he didn't approve of the style 
 of architecture for ecclesiastical purposes 
 (when in town, he always went to All 
 Saints', Margaret-street) ; nor were the ver- 
 gers, with their wands, exactly to his liking; 
 but he discreetly held his peace, and fol- 
 lowed his friend. An agreeable warmth 
 pervaded the building, and the matting was 
 pleasant to his poor feet, after the greasy 
 mud of the streets. They had walked all 
 the way ; for Mildmay declared he was too 
 hard-up to pay for a hansom (he weighed 
 twelve stone eight, and was afraid of getting 
 stout) ; and Holsters had registered a vow 
 in heaven never to enter an omnibus ; so 
 they had no choice but to walk; and thus 
 the little Lieutenant was very tired, and 
 had long since ceased to prattle by the 
 way. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 " INTO EACH LIFE 
 
 " Now we arc here." said Mildmay, 
 having procured the information he desired 
 
 for his friend the German savant, — "now 
 we are here, we may as well improve the 
 shining hour, and look round the old 1 jar- 
 rack." 
 
 " I wonder what place this really is ?" 
 thought little Holtsters, but he said not a 
 word, and submissively followed his friend. 
 There had been some slight delay in ac- 
 quiring the needful information, but it had 
 finally been procured; and Mildmay, with 
 the inscription and dates in his pocket, 
 turned into the Roman saloon. 
 
 The young girl who was copying the 
 quoit-thrower, was putting away her draw- 
 ings. She stood with her face turned away 
 from the statue, and did not observe the 
 two young men, who paused for a moment 
 to admire that work of art. As she turned, 
 however, she became aware of them. Not 
 the least discomposed, she proceeded with 
 her work, and did not remark that their
 
 SOME RAIN MUST FALL." 19 
 
 eyes had wandered from Art to Nature, 
 from the statue to herself, from the dead 
 stone to the living flesh. It was noAV 
 almost too dark to distinguish more than 
 the outlines of the figures posted at regular 
 intervals down the long gallery where they 
 stood, but the light was sufficient to show 
 the noble contour of the young girl's head, 
 and the harmonious proportions of her 
 figure as she stooped to take her drawing- 
 materials from a chair and threw a long- 
 dark mantle round her shoulders. They 
 were both gentlemen, and they passed on, 
 neither staring nor lingering in her way. 
 When they were fairly out of sight, she 
 looked cautiously round. All was silent, 
 and not even a footfall resounded through 
 the now nearly empty galleries. Then she 
 crossed the vestibule, and standing close up 
 against the pedestal, looked into the beau- 
 tiful resolute face of the athlete. A mar- 
 vellous change came over her countenance. 
 It was as though she were going to press
 
 20 " INTO EACH LIFE 
 
 the full red lips upon the marble; a slight 
 flush passed over hercheek 3 and her eyes — 
 those strange cold blue eyes — became bright 
 and deep and liquid; then the colour faded 
 away, the lips relaxed, the light died out of 
 her eyes, a tear trickled over her cheeks. 
 and she sighed again, more heavily and 
 deeply than she had done before, and glided 
 away into the darkness. It was four o'clock, 
 and a number of people were streaming out 
 of the huge building. At the top of the 
 steps, beneath the portico, stood the two 
 friends. It was raining again, and they 
 were debating as to their movements. 
 
 " It's beastly wet," said Holsters, "and 
 most infernally dirty." 
 
 " It might be drier, certainly, and I don't 
 quite see that it could well be much dirtier," 1 
 assented his friend. Just then a tall figure 
 in a dark cloak passed them ; there was a 
 moment's pause, during which the girl ga- 
 thered up her dress before descending into 
 the sea of mud and wet that la)' spread
 
 SOME EAUf MUST FALL." 21 
 
 out beneath her. She had no umbrella; but 
 she passed swiftly out into the rain, and 
 was gone. It was against Mildmay's creed 
 to see a woman (and especially a young and 
 beautiful woman) wet to the skin, whilst 
 he went dry. He ran after her, and taking 
 off his hat : " Pray allow me to offer you 
 my umbrella," he said, " for I see y ou have 
 come out without one ; or shall I call a cab 
 for you ? '' The porters and men about the 
 place knew better than that : they had not 
 offered to fetch her a cab ; tliey knew how 
 poor she was, and that for her even an om- 
 nibus was an unattainable luxury. 
 
 Mildmay knew none of these things; 
 he saw that she was young, beautiful, and 
 graceful ; a woman, alone, and in need of 
 assistance. The plainness of her dress had 
 not even specially struck him ; and now that 
 he stood in the rain, offering her his um- 
 brella, he was not conscious that she differed 
 from other ladies, but for a certain indefin- 
 able nobility of aspect, that indescribable
 
 oo *< 
 
 INTO EACH LIFE 
 
 <iir noble which can afford to set fashion at 
 defiance, ;m<l to wear shabby dresses with 
 something approaching to Impunity. Many 
 a girl would have been frightened or but- 
 prised by the suddenness of Mildmay's ad- 
 dress, gentle and respectful though it was. 
 Grace Hepburn was neither startled nor 
 discomposed. " Thank you ; I do not mind 
 the rain," she said simply ; " besides, I have 
 not far to go, and could not think of taking 
 your umbrella, for I have no means of re- 
 turning it.'' " I could call for it," suggested 
 Mildmay, "or you could send it to my club 
 by a servant." At the words, "or you 
 could send it to my club by a servant," a 
 slight smile gleamed for a moment over the 
 girl's face, and then, Avith something like 
 amusement in her tone, she said : "Thank 
 you; I have no servant to send; we are 
 poor people. But I cannot let you stand 
 in the rain ; I am very much obliged to 
 you" — and she walked on. Still Mildmay 
 kept up with her. She was not the least ner-
 
 SOME RAIN MUST FALL." 2o 
 
 vous or shy, this young girl ; and he was 
 so courteous that even had she been so, his 
 manner must have reassured her. He still 
 walked by her side, holding the umbrella 
 over her. She, apparently unconscious that 
 he was doing anything out of the way, 
 against the convenances, or in any wise 
 improper; he, grave and polite, and evi- 
 dently also under the impression that he was 
 doing nothing more than his duty. Seeing 
 this, she walked steadily on ; not altogether 
 sorry, perhaps, for the shelter, — for who 
 could say that she would find a fire whereby 
 to dry her wet garments on her arrival at 
 home ? Thus they passed through two or 
 three great gloomy squares of that Meso- 
 potamian region, across a street or two, and 
 then, turning suddenly to the left, Mildmay 
 found himself standing before a small house 
 iu a crescent of other small houses, with 
 a horrid little garden in front, all melan- 
 choly, with bare branches and leafless trees. 
 "Thank you, you are very good," she said
 
 24 " INTO EACH LIFE 
 
 simply, as she turned the handle of the 
 door: "but I will not keep you in the rain; 
 thank you" — and she went into the little 
 
 house, shutting the door behind her upon 
 the chivalrous Mildmay. He walked away 
 again in a puzzled frame of mind. The gir] 
 had roused his curiosity. How strange her 
 absence of shyness was! and yet, he felt, 
 this very absence of apprehension, this utter 
 want of self-consciousness, had stood her. 
 and must often stand her, in good stead. 
 He felt how impossible it would be to 
 address an}' of those idle flatteries, or 
 foolish innuendoes, so generally supposed 
 (by men) to be agreeable to the female 
 mind, to such a woman as this. He felt 
 that he should like to know all about her. 
 Was she married? Was she single? She 
 had a composure of manner, a calm assur- 
 ance, which did not seem of right to belong 
 to a young unmarried girl. Why did she 
 live in such a shabby house? Why did 
 she walk through the rain? AVhv did no
 
 SOME RAIN MUST FALL. 
 
 9.fv 
 
 one come to fetch her ? and why did she 
 go to that melancholy place at all? She 
 had been drawing ; yes, he had seen that ; 
 and he had been struck by her beauty and 
 grace as she stood putting up her drawing- 
 materials ; for aught he then knew, she 
 might be some spoilt darling, following a 
 freak of fancy in coming to the "old bar- 
 rack," as he had irreverently called it; fancy- 
 ing herself an artist, and deluding herself 
 with the delightful idea of possessing "the 
 divine spark." Mildmay had seen that the 
 house into which she had disappeared was 
 shabby, but he had not remarked that her 
 dress was still more so. He had only seen 
 that beauty and grace were hers in an un- 
 common degree ; and now it struck him 
 strangely and unpleasantly that all her 
 surroundings were not beautiful and grace- 
 ful also. 
 
 Pondering still over the matter, he 
 reached the club (for he knew it would be 
 useless returning: to the Museum for Hols-
 
 20 " JXTO EACH LIFE 
 
 ters), and found his little friend furnished, 
 and waiting dinner for him. 
 
 Nothing was said between the young 
 men about Mildmay's erratic course Pall- 
 Mall-wards till just as they were setting oft' 
 to the theatre. 
 
 "Where did she live, Mildmay?" asked 
 little Holsters abruptly. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Why, that young woman you took 
 home this afternoon.'' 
 
 "I don't know that I took any young 
 woman home." 
 
 " Well, where did you take her to, then ?" 
 
 "I did not take her anywhere. She 
 went,'' 
 
 "It's all the same, only you diplomatic 
 fellows are so confoundedly sharp as to a 
 word more or less.'' 
 
 "Not less, we don't mind that; its too 
 much talking we object to." 
 
 "All right. But, I say. 1 mean where 
 does she hang out ?"
 
 27 
 
 " Never having seen her in that position, 
 I really can't say." 
 
 "Well, after all, it's no business of 
 mine ; so keep your own counsel." 
 
 " I shall be very happy to accept yours, 
 my clear fellow, when I am in need of good 
 advice," said Mildmay politely, as they 
 turned into the theatre. 
 
 "Devilish civil fellah, Mildmay," said 
 Holsters to Cornet Callous, as that ingenu- 
 ous youth stood with him at the Rag win- 
 dow next day. Mildmay had just come 
 out of the Exclusive, which, as all the 
 world knows, is a little lower down the 
 street, on the opposite side of the way. 
 He nodded good-naturedly to those young 
 military fledglings as he passed, and then 
 Holsters, remembering the complimentary 
 speech of the night before, spoke that little 
 encomium on his friend which Ave have 
 already chronicled. It was short, but em- 
 phatic (as far as the young Lieutenant's 
 vocabulary went, he did his best); and then,
 
 28 "into each life some rain must fall. 
 
 having spoken, according to his lights, at 
 -Mine length, on the extraordinary diplo- 
 matic talents Mildmay had already dis- 
 played, and of the brilliant career that 
 doubtless awaited him. Holsters returned 
 to the ballet, from which he had only 
 digressed on the appearance of Mildmav. 
 and became still more profoundly eloquent 
 upon a topic, in the discussion of which he 
 felt himself infinitely more at home than in 
 that of Mildmay's political genius.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 certainly have not much 
 for which to thank the Four 
 Georges. Dulness and coarse- 
 ness combined are not likely to prove 
 patrons of the fine arts ; and the monarchs 
 of the Hanoverian dynasty were conspi- 
 cuous for their insensibility to beauty, and 
 for their debased tastes in all matters aes- 
 thetic. The great men of the Georgian 
 period were great, it might almost be said, 
 rather in spite of royalty than because 
 kingly encouragements and honours fos- 
 tered their genius and rewarded their la- 
 bours ; for mediocrity was safe, and dul- 
 ness cle rigueur.
 
 30 ROSTOCK CKESCEHT. 
 
 But to the "sweet Queen," as Miss Bur- 
 ney (with a flunkeyism which would be 
 contemptible but that it has also its other 
 and touching side) called the royal but 
 parsimonious and unsympathetic spouse of 
 George the Third — to the "sweet Queen" 
 we are indebted for the names round about 
 those regions in the Bloomsbury quarter 
 of London, of which Mecklenburg and 
 Brunswick-squares, Caroline and Charlotte- 
 streets arc the chiefest glories. There was 
 a time, yea within the memory of man, 
 when the beauty and fashion of London 
 was wont to congregate and sun itself 
 hereabouts, and when Woburn-place and 
 Gower-street were fashionable neighbour- 
 hoods ; but not even those potential names 
 have saved their brick-and-niortar god-chil- 
 dren from that oblivion which conies in 
 turn to all and everything in this world ; 
 their glories arc departed, and beauty and 
 fashion haunt those shades no more. 
 
 Rostock-crescent was one of those aba.
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 3 1 
 
 minations of desolation, that lead one to 
 speculate reflectively on the probable end, 
 aim, and design of the wretched architect 
 who conceived it, and of the builder who 
 carried out, the atrocious conception. One. 
 comes to the conclusion, that the architect 
 was a misanthrope, and the builder a hypo- 
 chondriac; and that they, in their combined 
 hatred of mankind, and to avenge their 
 imaginary woes, had united themselves to 
 render others as uncomfortable and discon- 
 tented as they themselves were. 
 
 One side of the street was called Stre- 
 litz-street. Here were numberless " apart- 
 ments to let furnished," and "lodgings for 
 single men." Every alternate house seemed 
 to be occupied by a tailor, and in the win- 
 dows of the intermediate ones old prints of 
 the fashions, and, now and then, an impos- 
 sible sleeve or cape, or some other mys- 
 terious portion of the female toilette, ele- 
 gantly executed in white tissue-paper, with 
 green or yellow trimmings, seemed to in-
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 dicate that dressmakers and sempstn 
 had also pitched their tents in this unin- 
 viting district. The street was so narrow 
 
 that it is possible the architect who made 
 the original design had been forced to bend 
 the opposite side of it out into a crescent, or 
 the tailors and needlewomen would have 
 risen in a body and revolted at the outer 
 darkness to which they were condemned. 
 Anyhow, it had been so bent, and, though 
 the result was far from beautiful, it was 
 doubtless satisfactory to the opposite neigh- 
 bours, who sat all day close up against 
 the small dirty windows of their dingy 
 little rooms, sewing, so to speak, body and 
 soul together, with a hungry weary mo- 
 notony that was melancholy beyond all 
 words, and eloquent above any clamours. 
 
 Rostock-crescent had originally been 
 stuccoed, but the cake of composition had 
 long ago fallen off, and the dirty brick 
 looked forth all the dirtier and more dismal 
 for the occasional patches of white plaster
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 33 
 
 which clung to the mean little houses, like 
 clusters of fungi, born of clamp and ruin. 
 
 The bend of the crescent was so shallow 
 that the little road in front of the houses 
 was too narrow for any known vehicle 
 (unless it had been a wheelbarrow) to have 
 driven up to the door of any house situated 
 in the row ; the garden looked like a play- 
 thing garden, and the road like a make- 
 believe road (as indeed it was) ; and the 
 houses had evidently been built to match 
 their surroundings. Tradesmen's carts were 
 fortunately never seen in this locality; the 
 inhabitants of Strelitz-street and Rostock- 
 crescent were in the habit of fetching the 
 simple articles of food which they required 
 in bags or baskets, and these were seldom 
 of such dimensions as to cause their pur- 
 chasers any difficulty in carrying. 
 
 Children abounded in Strelitz-street; 
 the pavement swarmed with them; the 
 doorsteps were covered with them ; the 
 windows were full of them. It was a dis- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 tinctive feature of tin- place; but they were 
 fortunately far less abundant in Rostock- 
 crescent; which, partly on that account, 
 j)artly because of the departed glories of 
 its stucco, and the present glories of its 
 garden, assumed to itself a higher and 
 more exclusive gentility. "The Crescent" 
 was spoken of with a certain awe and re- 
 spect, mingled with the jmde f semi-pos- 
 session by the dwellers in Strelitz-street, 
 to whom the remoteness from the thorough- 
 fare, and the semicircular retirement of their 
 opposite neighbours, appeared enviably 
 like rural felicity. 
 
 The houses in the crescent could boast 
 of no flight of steps ascending to their 
 doors. You walked straight in from the 
 pavement, and found yourself in a passage 
 so narrow, that a moderately broad-shoul- 
 dered person must have made abrasions on 
 the paper, though he " went" never so " de- 
 licately." A little parlour opened out of 
 this passage, and behind the parlour was a
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 small bed-room, nearly as dark as a cellar, 
 from the fact that Strelitz- street having 
 been bent out on one side into Rostock- 
 crescent, the devoted little tenements in 
 that melancholy row abutted on a high 
 brick wall, so that what Avas gained in front 
 was lost behind ; the only advantage in 
 this piece of moral equity being, that from 
 the street-side both rows of houses were 
 benefited ; and that, though the more gen- 
 teel crescent was somewhat curtailed in 
 its back premises (especially towards the 
 middle, where the scoop was greatest), the 
 tailors and sempstresses had air and light 
 whereby to pursue their handiwork. The 
 windows in Rostock-crescent were round- 
 topped, methodist-chapel-like windows, of 
 a depressing pattern, and filled with the 
 cheapest and greenest of glass. In the 
 second story, small iron balconies were at- 
 tached to each window; and although not 
 made to sit or stand upon, they were 
 capable of holding a few flower-pots, and
 
 3G HOSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 were thus used by some of the more well- 
 to-do inhabitants of the place. Into one 
 of these houses Grace Hepburn had turned 
 on the rainy afternoon when she had sighed 
 so over the early darkness, and when little 
 Holsters had so groaned in the spirit over 
 the lengthiness of the day. She passed 
 quickly up the stairs, and opening the door 
 of the small back room, hastily laid aside 
 her mantle. She shook the rain-drops off 
 her dress ; washed her hands, smoothed her 
 hair, and then passed into the front room. 
 
 The fire was low. Near the fireplace 
 was an old horsehair sofa ; and on the sofa 
 lay Grace's father. He did not move as 
 she came in ; and seeing that he was asleep 
 she gently removed the pipe which he had 
 laid down upon the chair by his side before 
 falling asleep. A pipe — but a wonderful 
 pipe of the finest meerschaum, carved with 
 such marvellous carving, that the eve rested 
 on the beautiful figures with surprise and 
 pleasure.
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 37 
 
 The lovety supple limbs of Venus and 
 the Graces had assumed a somewhat dark 
 hue, but their divine beauty remained the 
 same ; the polished arms and graceful necks, 
 the flowing locks and slender hands and 
 feet, all were so pure in form, so har- 
 monious in proportion, that one instinc- 
 tively recognised the artist's hand in the 
 tobacco-stained marvel. " Dark but comely, 
 like the daughters of Jerusalem," were those 
 classic beauties. To a connoisseur the pipe 
 was priceless, and even to the uninitiated 
 it must have appeared a gem. Grace lifted 
 it tenderly from the chair, blew out the 
 tobacco-dust that remained in it, and then 
 laid it carefully away in its velvet-lined 
 case on the mantelpiece. The smell of 
 tobacco was abhorrent to her; but she 
 handled her enemy reverently, with that 
 instinctive love of beauty, and tenderness 
 for and appreciation of the harmonious 
 in form, which had been born in her. 
 Then she sat down by the fire, and resting
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 her chin in her hands, and her elbows on 
 her knees, gazed into the coal with a long 
 earnest far-oil' gaze that told how deeply 
 her mind Avas preoccupied. From time to 
 time she put a coal upon the fire, lifting 
 it with her delicate hand from the scuttle, 
 and dropping it lightly on the glowing 
 cinders lest it should disturb or awaken 
 her father. Presently, when the blaze 
 grew bright, she moved a little, and shad- 
 ing her eyes with her hand, leant back 
 against the corner of the fireplace. 
 
 Of what was she thinking? Of the 
 dearness of provisions? Of the price of 
 oil, and coals, and candles ? Of her work 
 in the British Museum ? Of the handsome 
 stranger who had sheltered her from the 
 rain, and despite her shabby clothing- 
 treated her as though she had been a 
 princess? Or Avas she wondering what 
 Mr. Jacobs the dew broker would give her 
 for her copy of the little Gerard How which 
 he had ordered, but for which she had as
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 39* 
 
 yet received no payment? No; she was 
 thinking of none of these things. She had 
 thought of the coals and candles in the 
 afternoon when she had sighed and looked 
 up at the skylight ; but now that she sat 
 staring into the fire she did not think of 
 them at all; as to the "swell" who had 
 proved himself such a friend in the hour of 
 need, she had as totally forgotten him as 
 though umbrellas were not yet invented, 
 and rain an almost unknown phenomenon. 
 Poor Milclmay ! the curled and scented 
 darling of so many drawing-rooms; the 
 favourite partner of so many Viennese 
 Countesses, of such an army of Berlin 
 beauties, of such a phalanx of fascinating 
 Parisiennes, — he was totally forgotten by 
 this poor proud girl, who in her abstraction 
 scarcely felt grateful to him. for his friendly 
 action. Was she thinking of the statue she 
 had been copying? of the young athlete 
 with the god-like brow, and beautiful reso- 
 lute mouth and chin? Perhaps so. But
 
 40 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 through this girl's life there ran one thought, 
 absorbing all other thoughts, as the occau 
 absorbs all tributary streams. She did not 
 specially think this thought. It came to 
 her: it was there : it was a principle of her 
 life; and in each simplest action, in each 
 dairy task and prosaic occupation it has 
 its part ; involuntarily, half unconsciously, 
 it may be, but none the less securely on 
 that account. She rose up with it in the 
 morning, she lay down with it at night; it 
 walked by her side through the crowded 
 street, it guided her hand, it beat in her 
 heart, it spoke in her voice, it pervaded 
 ever}- action of her life, and coloured every 
 impulse of her soul. 
 
 As yet Grace had not recognised this 
 fact, The dreamer, as long as lie dreams, 
 knows not that he does so. It is when 
 he awakes that he becomes aware of the 
 visions he has seen; of the rose-coloured 
 glories of that beautiful dreamland from 
 which a rough hand has torn him, to plunge
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 41 
 
 him into tlie pale realities of this sad- 
 coloured work-a-day world. Grace Hep- 
 burn still dreamt ; but her awakening was 
 near. 
 
 A neighbouring clock struck six; she 
 rose, and began to prepare the table for 
 their simple evening meal. When all was 
 ready, she lighted a small hand-lamp that 
 stood upon a bracket near the door, and 
 then went to wake her father. His eyes 
 were open — great pale blue eyes, like 
 Grace's own ; fringed with dark lashes, 
 peculiar in colour, beautiful in shape, but 
 not altogether pleasant to look at, for all 
 that. They were eyes that aAvakened dim, 
 undefined uneasiness in looking at them, 
 though it would have been difficult to ac- 
 count for this feeling. He sighed as she 
 touched him, and then, putting his hand 
 round her neck, said, still half asleep : " Is 
 it you, darling ? I did not hear you come 
 in ; I must have been asleep some time.'' 
 Then he kissed her, and Grace led him to
 
 42 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 the table. The beautiful blue eyes stared 
 into the flame of the lamp, and uever 
 blinked. He was stone-blind, — utterly, 
 hopelessly, eternally blind — for ever, and 
 ever, and ever. He knew this, and lie was 
 resigned, — resigned, that is, so far as the 
 renunciation of all participation in the de- 
 light of sight, and colour, and form, and 
 effect was concerned ; but in no wise re- 
 signed to be an object of pity to his fellow- 
 men, — in no wise resigned to the depen- 
 dency and helplessness of this darkened 
 life ; by no means reconciled to the en- 
 forced idleness, to the weary hours of soli- 
 tude that his condition brought with it ; 
 by no means resigned to the fact that his 
 beautiful, graceful one, his darling, his 
 crown of life, the delight of his once clear 
 but now poor sightless eyes, his treasure, 
 for whom he had dreamt to win glory and 
 renown, luxuries and dainty living, purple 
 and fine linen, and daily sumptuous fare, 
 and greetings in the market-place, and high
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 43 
 
 places at festive gatherings, — should have 
 to work and toil for bread ; should have to 
 walk long miles, alone, unprotected, through 
 rain and mud, to earn the simple food they 
 ate, the modest clothes they wore. How 
 could he be resigned to this ? It would 
 have required all the fervent piety of a saint 
 to bow the head and fold the hands, and 
 say in single-heartedness, " Thy will be 
 done," under such a grievous affliction, such 
 a bitter trial as this. And Warren Hep- 
 burn had never been a saint, but rather — 
 as he himself would have been the first to 
 confess — in his day a sinner among sinners. 
 His affliction he could have borne and did 
 bear bravely, in so far as it was only a 
 question of personal deprivation and loss ; 
 and he would have concealed in his own 
 heart the bitterness of the terrible trial that 
 had come upon him, if such concealment 
 could have averted all the consequences to 
 others which must result from this awful 
 blow. To these consequences, and all the
 
 44 KOSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 long train of after evils that they might, 
 and inevitably must, bring "with them, he 
 was in no Avi.se resigned. Nay, a hundred 
 times, in the loneliness of his darkened day, 
 he declared to himself that he never could 
 be so, and that the burden laid upon him 
 was greater than he could bear. 
 
 Society — even such society as was pos- 
 sible for him — he harshly refused. He 
 never went out. 
 
 In the dusk of the summer evenings 
 Grace would coax him forth into the soft 
 twilight, and they would wander arm in 
 arm round the silent squares, talking cheer- 
 fully enough. These were the bright hours 
 of life for the saddened man. Then he 
 would talk of the past; of that past which 
 his young wife had made so beloved and 
 beautiful to him, in spite of the manifold 
 trials that had come to their married life. 
 Even the most prosaic past assumes a cer- 
 tain beauty of its own when time has set its 
 hallowing seal on fond recollections and
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 45 
 
 tender associations. We are all of us 
 prone to be ungrateful to the present, and 
 (if our lot in life has been a hard one) mis- 
 trustful and apprehensive of the future. 
 But Warren Hepburn's past was no pro- 
 saic one ; it was full of poetry, of light, of 
 warmth, of colour, of Italian skies and per- 
 fumed nights, of art, and love, and song. 
 When Grace could get her father to speak 
 of bygone days, she was always happy; it 
 had a hallowing, softening influence upon 
 him. In the tender memories of the past 
 he would lose the bitter sense of the pre- 
 sent, though at times, when the reaction 
 came, his desperate spirit would rise in all 
 the more furious rebellion, in all the wilder 
 pain, for the comparisons which, like evil 
 demons, suggested themselves, whispering 
 blasphemies and revolt unceasingly into 
 his ear. 
 
 His murmurs were never for himself. 
 It never occurred to him to say, "Why 
 should I, to whom form and colour, beauty
 
 4G liOSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 and grace, were 'joys for ever;' why should 
 I, to whose hand cunning had been given 
 to reproduce with subtle art and delicate 
 instinct all that my eyes saw ; why should 
 I be thus unjustly visited ? Why should 
 I, to whom life was in itself good enough, 
 without any unrighteous hankerings after 
 other goods which the gods denied, — win- 
 should I be thus afflicted? Why was not 
 some poor, insignificant, brainless boor sub- 
 stituted in my place ? why was not some 
 dull, spiritless, useless drone, some helpless 
 clod, chosen to bear a darkness which his 
 obscure mind would scarcely have felt?" 
 Warren Hepburn's rebellion never took 
 this form. Of himself, and of his own suf- 
 ferings, he was silent. Perhaps some dim 
 notions, shadowy and undefined, but mak- 
 ing themselves felt, as the clouds do which 
 momentarily obscure the sunshine; per- 
 haps some dim notion of a Nemesis stilled 
 his murmurs as regarded himself. But for 
 her, for his Grace, his darling, his beloved
 
 ROSTOCK CEESCENT. 47 
 
 one, he murmured and rebelled. For her 
 he repined and vainly resisted ; for her he 
 shed bitter tears, salt with the concentrated 
 agony of sorrow. 
 
 But just now he sat cheerfully by the 
 tea-table, and Grace and he were talking, 
 as people will talk, though the direst evils 
 beset their lives, of a thousand-and-one in- 
 different trifles. He was always ready to 
 be cheerful for her sake, and had so much 
 to say that was interesting on so many 
 various subjects, that Grace always listened 
 to him with perfect delight. Many a valu- 
 able hint he smve her in matters of art ; 
 many a trenchant criticism and many a 
 subtle judgment had reached her from 
 this source, and she listened to him with 
 reverence, and treasured his words with 
 love. He knew all the picture-galleries of 
 the Continent, and was equally familiar 
 with the art-treasures of the Vatican and 
 the Grtine Gewolbe, of Dresden and Flor- 
 ence, of Munich and Bologna, of London
 
 48 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 and Paris and Berlin. His memory never 
 failed him, and all that lie had read came 
 to help him, as well as all that he had seen ; 
 so that at times Grace would become an- 
 xious lest the brain that was so full of facts 
 and imagination, of numbers and history, 
 of poetry and dates, might sink under the 
 accumulated burden of the observation 
 and study of years. 
 
 But now they sat by the tea-table, and 
 the kettle was singing merrily, and the very 
 rain beating against the windows seemed to 
 give them a ray of additional cheerfulness, 
 making their shelter more apparent, and 
 their security from the pitiless storm with- 
 out doubly pleasant to them. 
 
 They were thus sitting, when a knock 
 came to the door of their room. A clear, 
 gentle, and yet precise knock, as though 
 the fingers which rapped were delicate, 
 lithe, and yet not over-fleshy fingers; it 
 had a certain clear, rapid rhythm, and 
 was almost harmonious and agreeable, like
 
 ROSTOCK CRESCENT. 49 
 
 some little simple musical instrument skil- 
 fully played. 
 
 "That is Bender's knock," said Hep- 
 burn, with the quick perception of sound 
 common to the blind. 
 
 " Shall he come in, father ?" 
 
 " Yes; let him come in." 
 
 Then Grace rose, and went to open the 
 door of their room to the visitor, who stood 
 patiently outside, waiting for permission to 
 enter. The light streamed out into the 
 little dark passage, and Grace's figure, 
 standing out against the warm glow, looked 
 almost queenly to the knocker, who with 
 an instinctive delicacy had retreated a step 
 or two down the narrow staircase, lest he 
 might by chance overhear any of the con- 
 versation within the thin badly-fitting deal 
 door. 
 
 Now, as he stood looking up, it seemed 
 to him that the gates of Paradise were 
 opened, and that a beautiful angel was 
 standing at the door, not driving him forth 
 
 VOL. I. e
 
 50 110STOCK CRESCENT. 
 
 with a flaming sword, hut inviting him, in 
 a clear harmonious voice, to enter. 
 
 "Good-evening, Herr Bender,'" said 
 Grace, looking out upon the landing; for 
 though she could not see their visitor, she 
 knew that her father's instinct had not 
 misled him. " Good-evening. My father 
 will be very happy to see you, if you will 
 come in." 
 
 " To see you !" She used the old fami- 
 liar formula; and so, though her father 
 could not see him, Herr Bender passed in. 
 
 " I have brought back your watch, Mr. 
 Hepburn," said the pale young German, as 
 he laid a handsome gold chronometer down 
 upon the table.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 YOU "WERE ASLEEP, FATHER." 
 
 'd RACE had taken up her work 
 and sat silently sewing. She 
 listened to the two men's talk, 
 but did not attempt to join in it. She was 
 always glad when her father found some 
 congenial mind, and when in pleasant in- 
 tercourse he could forget for a moment the 
 terrible evil that had come to his life. 
 
 She had no false pride ; and it never 
 occurred to her as a humiliating fact, 
 that her father, formerly of her Majesty's 
 — th Lancers, and the son of an ancient 
 house, should find pleasure in the intelli- 
 gent conversation of the young German 
 mechanician, who was now so eagerly com- 

 
 52 " YOU WERE ASLEEP, FATHER." 
 
 paring notes as to some points of difference 
 
 in the opinions of Leibnitz and Sir [saac 
 Newton. 
 
 Grace knew her father's history per- 
 fectly well. He had told it to her himself 
 without varnish, and she was not ashamed 
 of it. Knew how, as a lieutenant in a 
 cavalry regiment, he had run through a 
 great deal of money, had got into debt, and 
 even worse troubles ; had been rescued by 
 his good old father, and received like the 
 prodigal in the New Testament with open 
 arms again. How his elder brother had 
 looked on his prodigality and his forgive- 
 ness alike with an evil eye, and had never 
 welcomed him with a brother's welcome 
 home again. How his parents urged his 
 marrying a lady whose estates joined the 
 Hepburn property ; and how he had tried 
 to overcome his repugnance to the match, 
 and to meet his parents' views ; but how 
 every instinct of honour and truth had re- 
 volted against the compromise, and he had
 
 YOU WERE ASLEEP, FATHEE. 
 
 gone to the lady herself, and confessed 
 the Avhole truth and the motives of his 
 feigned affection. She forgave him; and 
 she remained his friend through a long 
 number of years ; then they had both mar- 
 ried, and Hepburn had heard nothing more 
 of his once-betrothed. 
 
 Grace knew how, finally, after his fathei 
 and mother's death, her father had plunged 
 into a vortex of dissipation seven times 
 worse than the first ; for now nothing had 
 a hold upon his affections ; the old home 
 was hateful to him, and there was a deadly 
 feud between the brother.-:. 
 
 Hepburn's love of the beautiful, his in- 
 tense appreciation of art, his correct taste 
 and clear judgment, had led him in former 
 days to work diligently with his pencil and 
 brush; and his pictures were even then far 
 above mediocrity. Then, a smile from his 
 mother had been sufficient incentive to, and 
 reward for, his industry ; and the walls of 
 her boudoir at Hepburn Manor still bore
 
 54 " YOU WERE ASLEEP, FATHER." 
 
 evidences of his talent. But in later days 
 poverty, or something very like poverty, 
 had again stimulated him to exertion, and 
 his name was honourably known in many 
 an art-studio. After his parents' death had 
 come that period of wild Bohemianisin to 
 which I have already alluded, and then 
 Hepburn had met his fate. 
 
 At Florence dwelt an English sculptor, 
 and to this sculptor he had letters of intro- 
 duction. Three months after he had pre- 
 sented his credentials he was married to the 
 sculptor's niece, — a fair, gentle girl in the 
 first blush of womanhood ; standing, in 
 
 fact, 
 
 " With reluctant feet" 
 
 beside 
 
 " The brook where womanhood and childhood meet." 
 She was not very specially beautiful, 
 this fair northern "flower; but she had a 
 nameless charm about her, and a sweet 
 gentle womanliness, that seemed to have 
 ripened into a sunnier grace beneath the
 
 "you were asleep, father." 55 
 
 warm Italian sun. She was pure, lovely, 
 and of good report ; and Warren Hepburn 
 loved her passionately, with all the ardour 
 of an only and absorbing passion. For her 
 sake he wished — ah ! how bitterly, none 
 but himself eould know — that all the stains 
 upon his manhood might, by future faith 
 and devotion, be wiped out. He felt that 
 he was unworthy of her; but he felt also 
 that he could not live without her, that life 
 without her would be a purposeless blank, 
 a living death ; — for he had no religion, this 
 wild, impassioned man, to sanctify his af- 
 flictions to him, and to soften grief. She 
 was not very difficult to win. Probably 
 any one might have won her who had 
 come, as Warren Hepburn had done, to 
 woo with a fixed determination to succeed, 
 with a real intense love glowing in his 
 heart. Hers was a gentle, passive nature, 
 and she would have bent to any strong- 
 will ; but in the present case it was not 
 difficult for her so to bend, for Hepburn
 
 -jC) "you were asleep, father.' 
 
 came to her in the beauty and strength 
 of manhood, full of ardour and devotion, 
 glowing with enthusiasm, an artist-soul, 
 eager, gay, and sociable. Many an Italian 
 had offered incense at her shrine; but it 
 had been incense, and nothing more. They 
 admired her as the}' admired the golden- 
 haired Madonnas of their old masters, and 
 they laid their homage at her feetj thinking 
 of her as some beautiful star, some pure 
 lily, some bright, cold, distant dream of 
 loveliness. " Your northern beauties are 
 so cold," they would say. And, in fact, 
 she was not beautiful, only essentially wo- 
 manly, and as bright and pure inwardly as 
 she was outwardly. 
 
 Hepburn had no one's feelings to con- 
 sult but hers and his own. lie had some 
 independent property (considerably dimin- 
 ished, it is true, by his wanderings in 
 foreign lands), and was ready, eager in- 
 deed, to work hard, and win for himself a 
 name and place amongst the men of his day.
 
 u YOU WERE ASLEEP, FATHER." 57 
 
 The feeling of unworthiness on his side 
 grew and deepened ; so that at last he 
 came to marvel at the fate which had 
 brought this pure angel to walk by his 
 side along the thorny paths of life. She 
 was always gentle, patient, and kind ; 
 never demonstrative ; never lively, or ca- 
 pricious, or affectionate, or saucy. She 
 was equably good and calm ; and in this 
 calm and gentleness her husband's eager, 
 ambitious, passionate nature found repose. 
 He wondered at her. He found her per- 
 fect, Avithout flaw, or speck, or blemish. 
 He worshipped her through long years ; 
 and when she died, he felt as though the 
 only good for him was in the thought that 
 death would reunite him to his beloved 
 one. But Warren Hepburn was a man — 
 manly. Where he saw oppression, there 
 his indignation burned ; where he saw 
 cruelty, there his strong right arm was 
 bared ; where he saw weakness, thither he 
 carried his strength. And now his young
 
 58 " YOU WERE ASLEEP, FATHER." 
 
 daughter appealed to him for a double 
 love, a double care, a double tenderness 
 and watchfulness and devotion. The weak 
 never appealed to him in vain ; and for 
 liis lamb's sake he would be strong. So 
 he fought and struggled with that wild 
 
 O Co 
 
 desire for death ; combated his grief, and 
 conquered it. Of the terrible fever which 
 had laid him low — had robbed him of 
 his sight, had wasted his substance, had 
 brought misery upon him worse than all 
 former miseries — I will not now speak. 
 He had travelled from land to land, seek- 
 ing relief at the hands of science; but there 
 is a point beyond which science does not 
 go, and this fact he at last recognised on 
 that day when a doctor, more truthful than 
 the rest, and more skilled than they, had 
 told him in tender, solemn tones the aw- 
 ful crushing truth, that he was hopelessly 
 blind — hopelessly. He had lived on hope 
 for so long, that his sentence fell upon him 
 with all the cruelty of surprise. At first
 
 59 
 
 he refused to give up all hope. Then — 
 then came a time when he prayed (in his 
 own uncouth, unorthodox way) that he 
 might be kept from a too utter despair. 
 
 Grace sat sewing and listening. She 
 heard the names of Leibnitz and Descartes, 
 of Spinoza and Newton ; and yet, though 
 she sat and listened and sewed, her mind 
 was unconsciously full of one thought, and 
 her being filled with the one presence 
 which had come to be so inseparably in- 
 corporated with every word and deed of 
 her life. 
 
 She never looked up ; her busy fingers 
 moved monotonously to and fro, and her 
 eyes rested on her work, whilst they saw 
 far-off things, invisible to other sight, 
 Hepburn and the pale German were still 
 amongst the philosophers, when a some- 
 what sharp knock at the street-door caused 
 the blood to mount for an instant to Grace's 
 clear pale cheek. . The disputants were far 
 too eager to pay any attention to sublunary 
 matters.
 
 CO "you were asleep, eatjier." 
 
 "Leibnitz, however, held a contrary 
 opinion," said Herr Bender; "he believed 
 Descartes' theory to be a most erroneous 
 one, and sought to combat it with all the 
 energy of an essentially truth-loving na- 
 ture ; at the same time — " 
 
 But a short knock at the door was fol- 
 lowed by the appearance of a tall figure 
 wrapped in a large cloak. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Hepburn,'' said a 
 sonorous and yet pleasantly ringing voice. 
 "I have not stood on ceremony. Bender is 
 1113- host, and has most inhospitably gone 
 out himself after inviting me to spend the 
 evening with him. Mrs. Boxer told me he 
 was ' up-stairs,' so I have come to seek 
 him, and expose his treachery. Good-even- 
 ing, Miss Hepburn ;" for Grace, hidden by 
 tlic shadow of a great leather arm-chair, 
 had but now risen to her feet from the low 
 stool on which she was sitting. 
 
 " Good-evening, Doctor." 
 
 " I wish you would tell her not to go
 
 " YOU WERE ASLEEP, FATHER." 61 
 
 out such weather as this," said her father 
 somewhat fretfully. " There is no ocasion 
 for it, and she risks taking a severe cold." 
 
 " You should not go out unnecessarily, 
 Miss Hepburn," said the Doctor obediently, 
 but smiling as he spoke. 
 
 Grace had no reply ready. She co- 
 loured slightly, and then said, " I am glad 
 to employ my spare time. You know I 
 am not always able to do just what I like 
 with it." 
 
 "But getting wet is not employing your 
 spare time very profitably." 
 
 " I did not get wet," 
 
 " But it was pouring in torrents be- 
 tween four and five, the hour at which Mr. 
 Hepburn says you were returning." 
 
 " Miss Hepburn had an umbrella," said 
 Bender. 
 
 Then Grace remembered that she had 
 said nothing about her escort home, and 
 she now regretted not having done so. 
 She had not in truth entirely forgotten it,
 
 G2 " YOU WERE ASLEEP, FATHEE. 
 
 though it liad only once passed tlirough 
 her mind during the evening's conversa- 
 tion ; but she had resolved not to mention 
 it, because it was just things of this sort 
 that were sure to rouse her father's anger, 
 and make his repinings loud. Now she 
 was vexed at having to explain in the pre- 
 sence of witnesses; and yet she felt herself 
 imperatively called upon to do so, for she 
 knew that Herr Bender had seen her, and 
 it would not do for her to have the appear- 
 ance of wishing to conceal what was in her 
 eyes so simple a fact from her father. 
 
 " A gentleman offered me his umbrella,'' 
 she said, making an effort to appear un- 
 concerned. " I would not accept it, so he 
 kindly brought me home.'' 
 
 Her face flushed brightly as she spoke, 
 and in her heart there was an unreasonable 
 movement of anger and dislike to Bender 
 for his stupid observation. 
 
 "A gentleman brought you home? 
 What gentleman? You never told me that,
 
 "you were asleep, father." 63 
 
 Grace ? Why did you not tell me directly 
 you came in ?'' 
 
 "You were asleep, father." 
 
 " But I have not been asleep ever since. 
 Who was it? What gentleman ?" he asked 
 again angrily. 
 
 "1 do not know, father." 
 
 "Then how do you know he was a gen- 
 tleman ? Is every impertinent jackanapes, 
 every impudent loiterer, to have the privi- 
 lege of escorting my daughter home? There 
 shall be an end of it ! If this accursed 
 blindness prevents my looking after you, 
 why then you must stay at home." 
 
 By this time Grace was nearly crying, 
 but she said firmly, " He was not imperti- 
 nent, father ; he was a gentleman." 
 
 "There are good Samaritans all over 
 the world," said the Doctor cheerily; " and 
 I think if Miss Hepburn hasn't taken cold, 
 there's no great harm done." 
 
 He spoke pleasantly ; but all Mr. Hep- 
 burn's good-humour had vanished, and he
 
 64 "you were asleep, father." 
 
 continued to reproach Grace with secrecy, 
 her cavalier with impertinence, and himself 
 with his blindness, till every one became 
 thoroughly uncomfortable. 
 
 " If you had the eyes of Argus, my 
 dear sir," said the Doctor at last, " you 
 could not prevent a well-disposed young 
 man from being courteous ; and I, for one, 
 am very much obliged to him if he has 
 saved Miss Grace from the influenza.'' 
 
 But the peace and comfort of the even- 
 ing were at an end. The Doctor now took 
 leave, saying he had come in search of 
 Bender, and that they had, he feared, al- 
 ready intruded too long. 
 
 Mr. Hepburn's natural good-breeding 
 recalled him to himself more effectually, on 
 hearing these words, than any arguments 
 could have done. He rose and courteously 
 accompanied his guests to the door. The 
 two men went downstairs; and forthwith 
 compasses, pencils, and paper were pro- 
 duced, and in a few minutes they were
 
 " YOU WERE ASLEEP, EATHER." 65 
 
 deep in calculations as to the possible con- 
 struction of some mechanical marvel that 
 had its existence as yet only in the Doctor's 
 fertile and busy brain. Yet, from time to 
 time, it seemed to Herr Bender that a vivid 
 blush burnt upon the paper, and as though 
 a pair of pale mystic blue eyes looked 
 through the figures at him with a cold 
 anger that was very terrible to bear. 
 
 " Why did she keep it secret ?" he said 
 to himself. " Why did she blush ? Why 
 did she look so scornfully angry at me ? 
 She said she did not know his name ; shall 
 I doubt her word ? But why did she per- 
 sist so in repeating that he was a gentle- 
 man ? Ah ! that word covers a multitude 
 of sins with you cold, proud English," he 
 said somewhat bitterly to himself, as he sat 
 before his little fire musing over the even- 
 ing's occurrences an hour or two later, after 
 he had let the Doctor out of the little street- 
 door with all the abstruse calculations that 
 they had been making in his coat-pocket. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 66 "you webe asleep, fathee." 
 
 The evening was fine, and the moon shone 
 brightly; but Herr Bender did not pause 
 to enjoy the change in the weather. He 
 shut the door gently, lest it should disturb 
 the other lodgers, and then he went back to 
 his little fire to muse. He wanted to be 
 alone. " A gentleman !" he said to himself 
 again, angrily. " And what is a gentle- 
 man ? A man that is clothed in purple 
 and fine linen, and fares sumptuously every 
 day. Then I do not envy the ultimate 
 fate of gentlemen, for we all remember 
 the parable of Dives. A gentleman ? A 
 man in ganis glaces, who is to be seen gap- 
 ing out of his club-windows at the vul- 
 gar world beneath him ? A man who is 
 always languid, never surprised, never 
 pleased, never unhappy ? A man who will 
 cut his own father with the greatest sang- 
 froid, and gamble away his sister's marriage 
 portion? A man who lives on his debts. 
 has ready-money enough for all his plea- 
 sures, but not a penny to spare for the
 
 YOU WERE ASLEEP, FATHER." 67 
 
 poor wretch who lies starving on his door- 
 steps ? A man who neither thinks with 
 his mind, nor feels with his heart, nor 
 judges with his understanding ? A man 
 who is less a man than a puppet ? Was 
 Shakespeare a gentleman, I wonder ? Was 
 Lessing ? Was Schiller ? Was Goethe ?" 
 said the angry young man to himself. 
 " People were men before they were gen- 
 tlemen. I do not know whether they have 
 grown more noble and more manly for the 
 'gentle' prefix. I hate the word." But 
 Herr Bender's democratic criticisms were 
 perhaps more energetic than just ; more 
 particularly interesting to himself than they 
 would be generally edifying to others. By 
 and by he rose to go to his little dark 
 bed-room, and as he got up, he said aloud, 
 " The Doctor is certainly a man, but I 
 wonder whether she would consider him a 
 gentleman ?"
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 EROOKSIDE HOUSE. 
 
 9 ROOKSIDE HOUSE could by 
 no stretch of the imagination be 
 called a pretty place. It was 
 redeemed from positive ugliness by its trim 
 lawns, gorgeous flower-beds, and well-kept 
 walks and drives ; but although this sort of 
 extrinsic beauty might make it pleasing in 
 the eyes of those that dwelt within its red- 
 brick walls, and had grown up with the 
 younger trees of the young plantations, no 
 stranger could be expected to fall into any 
 rhapsody of delight over its picturesque 
 exterior or harmonious ensemble. It was 
 approached by a short carnage-drive inno- 
 cent of lodge, though the gardener's house
 
 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 69 
 
 stood near enough to the iron gate (which 
 led into the high road) for the young 
 embryo gardeners, who were not old enough 
 as yet to be employed in weeding, to rush 
 out and open it to any visitors who did not 
 come on foot through the small postern 
 that was cunningly devised for the ingress 
 and egress of pedestrians, in its floriated 
 iron barrier. 
 
 The house itself was, as we have already 
 said, of red brick with heavy white stone 
 copings. It consisted of a centre building 
 and two irregular wings; that on the left 
 being larger and more imposing than the 
 original building itself; that on the right 
 someAvhat narrower, but a story higher 
 than the middle part of the house. The 
 hall, which was large, and plainly furnished 
 with an oak table, some stags' heads and 
 antlers, a few curious chairs, and some old 
 china, was very comfortable just now, for 
 a large fire was blazing cheerfully in the 
 open fireplace, and a group of children
 
 70 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 
 
 were seated round it, stringing red and 
 yellow berries on to long threads and chat- 
 ting merrily amongst each other. A huge 
 white rocking-horse stood in one of the 
 ■windows, and was seldom without a rider : 
 at present baby was mounted, and having 
 taken the poor animal's tail out, was en- 
 couraging the indefatigable beast to quicker 
 action by using that appendage as a whip. 
 Presently the dining-room door opened, 
 and a tall lady came forth with a bundle 
 of flannel and linen in her plump white 
 hands, and passed up the wide staircase 
 which led to the bed-room story. Mrs. 
 Mildmay was one of those large, fair, 
 motherly women who never seem to get 
 much older, and who go placidly through 
 life, as though trouble, and misery! and 
 want, and sickness belonged to another 
 world, and were only to be read of in 
 books. Not but that she was charitable 
 and benevolent enough in her way; but 
 her lines had fallen in pleasant places, and
 
 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 71 
 
 she did not think it her duty to go out of 
 her way to seek for the unpleasantnesses 
 that were providentially spared her. 
 
 Like all persons whose lives are fair 
 and prosperous, she had a certain amiable 
 selfishness, looking at everything from her 
 own particular stand-point, and only re- 
 garding the chances and changes of this 
 
 CD O O 
 
 troublesome life in so far as they affected 
 or might affect her children, her husband, 
 or herself: for, to do her justice, she always 
 put herself last in the list, and this of im- 
 pulse and natural inclination. 
 
 Mrs. Mildmay passed with her packet of 
 poor's clothes up the staircase, and into her 
 dressing-room, where her maid was at work, 
 and where her daughter was busy cutting- 
 out pinafores, frocks, and undergarments 
 for Christmas distribution amongst the 
 women and children of Brookside village. 
 
 She looked up as her mother came in, 
 but did not leave her occupation to relieve 
 Mrs. Mildmay of her burden. When she
 
 72 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 
 
 had finished her task, however, she walked 
 across the room towards the sofa where the 
 calico and flannel lay, and examining each 
 alternately, spoke with her mother about 
 the way in which it would be best to dis- 
 pose of it. 
 
 Honoria Mildmay was two-and-twenty 
 years of age. She was tall and well-shaped, 
 like her mother, but there the resemblance 
 ceased. Honoria's face was an acute, ener- 
 getic one. She was active and quick in all 
 her movements, and intolerant of anything 
 that seemed to her like indolence or languor 
 in others. She was essentially practical, 
 and was skilful in all kinds of needlework. 
 Anything like sentiment or romance was 
 abhorrent to her. I say 'abhorrent' ad- 
 visedly, for hers was not a nature to take 
 things passively, and to let the world come 
 and go, without any special interference on 
 her part ; she had decided views upon most 
 points; and though she was for the most 
 part chary of giving her opinion, yet she
 
 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 73 
 
 had (and held) the same in a manner some- 
 what remarkable for so young a woman. 
 I do not believe that she had ever read a 
 line of Tennyson or Longfellow in her life ; 
 and it stood on record that she had once 
 quarrelled violently with her younger sister 
 for proposing to read Aurora Leigh aloud 
 to her during a period of convalescence 
 from a severe typhus fever caught in com- 
 ing home from an outlying district of the 
 parish, where cholera was raging. She 
 was honourable, truthful, unselfish, and 
 energetic : these were her good points. 
 The bad ones, if she had any, will doubt- 
 less in time speak for themselves. 
 
 As she stood by the table reckoning up 
 yards and inches, measuring breadths and 
 lengths, she looked strangely unlike what 
 her mother's daughter might have been ex- 
 pected to look. Her hair, which was very 
 abundant and jet black, was drawn off her 
 face, plaited in one thick plait, and fastened 
 up, ungracefully enough, at the back of her
 
 74 EltOOKSIDE IIOUSE. 
 
 head with a comb, after a fashion that had 
 long since exploded, and had nothing but 
 neatness to recommend it. At that time 
 long full skirts were worn; but Honoria"> 
 draperies fell as stiffly and straightly as 
 those of a mediaeval saint, and barely 
 reached the ground. Her hands were beau- 
 tiful — white, plump, and delicately formed. 
 Her face was of a clear healthy dark ; the 
 features good, regular, and not without dis- 
 tinction ; but there was an observant, rest- 
 less look in her quick dark eyes, that gave 
 one the idea that she was looking out for 
 work to do, for faults to correct, for discre- 
 pancies to remedy, for mistakes to counter- 
 act. There was a business-like air and 
 want of repose about her, that was. perhaps, 
 all the more striking by contrast with her 
 mother's suave, gentle manner. But then 
 no one who knew Honoria Mildmay ever 
 expected suavity from her. The amenities 
 of life she regarded as sinful luxuries, all 
 the more sinful because so often (so she
 
 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 75 
 
 said) but hypocrisies and deceit veiled be- 
 neath plausible words. 
 
 "Where is Sibyl?" said Mrs. Mildmay 
 at last, after a quarter of an hour's silence, 
 and quick business on Honoria's part. 
 
 " I really don't know, mamma." 
 
 Honoria did not offer to go and look 
 for her sister; in fact, she considered her 
 flannel petticoats of infinitely more import- 
 ance than Sibyl's possible whereabouts. 
 
 Sibyl was seated in the drawing-room, 
 with her feet on the fender, dozing over a 
 novel. She was younger than Honoria, but 
 had already been married four years, and 
 still seemed quite as much of a child as 
 when at seventeen she had surprised every 
 one by declaring herself engaged to be 
 married to Mr. Somers, a neighbouring 
 squire, more than twice her age, and with 
 a little encumbrance in the shape of a 
 weird sallow child about eight years old ; — 
 had surprised every one, and eternally dis- 
 pleased her sister Honoria, who, though
 
 76' EROOKSIDE HOUSE. 
 
 only eighteen herself at the time, was as 
 
 decided in her views, and perhaps a little 
 more frank with her opinions, than she Mas 
 now at two-and-twenty. Mr. Soiners had 
 been a widower seven years. He was very 
 much in love with Sibyl, was well off, 
 sufficiently agreeable, and not bad-looking. 
 But Honoria could not forgive her sister, 
 and had not yet forgiven her. She de- 
 clared the whole thing to be a piece of self- 
 delusion on Sibyl's part; and then, when 
 she saw her declarations were disregarded 
 and remonstrances useless, she ceased to 
 declaim on her sister's romantic folly ; that 
 is, she ceased to declaim aloud, but in her 
 heart she was more angry than ever, and 
 justified this persistency of wrath to herself 
 with a plausibility that was quite inconsis- 
 tent in a person so highly principled. 
 
 Sibylla, endoAved like her mother with 
 a great amount of placidity and no small 
 powers of endurance, did not suffer her feel- 
 ings to be ruffled by Honoria's eloquence.
 
 BKOOKSIDE HOUSE. 77 
 
 " You will see, Sibyl," she had said to 
 her one day, " you will see how he will 
 tyrannise over you, and you will repent 
 your folly when it is too late." 
 
 Sibyl made no reply, but in her own 
 mind she settled that it would be more 
 agreeable to endure Mr. Somers' tyranny 
 than to submit to Honorias scoldings. 
 
 " What do you know about bringing-up 
 children ?" said the elder sister indignantly, 
 trying another tack ; " especially step-chil- 
 dren ?" 
 
 " But there are no children," said Sibyl 
 apologetically ; " only a child, you know." 
 
 " Children, or child, it's all the same," 
 her sister had angrily retorted; "it's of no 
 good splitting straws, Sibyl. Now do you 
 understand the bringing-up of a child — of 
 a step-child?" she added, with awful em- 
 phasis on the qualifying adjective. 
 
 " But I am not to bring it up," Sibyl 
 had answered plaintively; "he says so. 
 He and Miss Strong have brought it up for
 
 78 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 
 
 seven or eight years. Why should I inter- 
 fere ?" 
 
 "Why, indeed?'' said Honoria with su- 
 perb sarcasm. She was angry with her 
 sister for calling Mr. Somers " he," as 
 though there were no other " he " in the 
 world ; but Sibyl instinctively felt that her 
 sister would be still more indignant if she 
 called her intended "Henry,'' and her 
 loyal little soul revolted at "Mr. Somers,"' 
 for she had promised him that very daw 
 after sundry kisses in the conservatory, 
 never to call him by that distant formula 
 again. 
 
 Now Sibyl sat dozing over her novel 
 in the comfortable drawing-room at Brook- 
 side, and her baby was riding the rocking- 
 horse, with that devoted and indefatigable 
 animal's tail for a whip, and the little 
 sallow step-child, now eleven years of age, 
 sat in front of the hall-fire with two twin 
 Mildmays, aged ten, who, after a long in- 
 terregnum, had come to inhabit the long-
 
 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 79 
 
 closed nursery again, and make the house 
 untidy and cheerful with childish ways and 
 childish laughter. 
 
 " He will be here soon, Honoria," said 
 Mrs. Mildmay, as that busy damsel took up 
 a fresh roll of flannel. 
 
 "In about seven minutes, mamma,'' she 
 answered, looking at her watch. 
 
 " Will you not come down stairs ?" 
 
 "I must finish this set of petticoats 
 first ; but I shall be at the bottom of the 
 staircase as soon as you will get out of 
 the drawing-room. Besides, I shall see the 
 fly coining through the gates." 
 
 This was a long speech for Honoria. 
 
 Mrs. Mildmay coughed. 
 
 " Will you not change your dress ?" she 
 said, not without an effort, after a mo- 
 ment's pause. It was not easy to suggest 
 things to Honoria, but it was easier than 
 being demonstrative or affectionate to her. 
 
 " Thank you, mamma, I changed it 
 when I came in."
 
 80 LR00KSIDE HOUSE. 
 
 "I thought, perhaps," said Mrs. Mild- 
 may, hesitating a little, and not looking at 
 her daughter, " that you would let Phillips 
 arrange your hair for you. You are tired 
 with your long walk, and all this work — " 
 
 "Thank you, mamma, I am not the 
 least tired ; and Phillips does not under- 
 stand the way I do my hair." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Mildmay! She saw it was 
 useless beating about the bush any longer ; 
 so with a supreme effort she rose, came 
 nearer to her daughter, and said in lower 
 tones, so that the maid should not over- 
 hear her words of pleading, " Honoria 
 dear, he has been away so long, and — and 
 — you know first impressions are lasting, 
 and Harold was always fastidious ; do, to 
 please me, make a little difference in your 
 dress; he will think you are not pleased to 
 see him, if you receive him thus." 
 
 "Then he will think wrongly, mamma." 
 
 " But, Honoria—' 1 
 
 "There's no time, mamma, for any al-
 
 BROOKSIDE HOUSE. 81 
 
 teration; and besides, why should I cheat 
 him by trying to look different to-day from 
 what I shall look to-morrow ?" 
 
 " He has seen so much of the world, 
 Honoria, I should not like him to be dis- 
 contented with his home, or that he should 
 draw comparisons between the ladies he 
 has met abroad and his sister, to the dis- 
 advantage of the latter." 
 
 " If he does either, mamma, he will have 
 returned more foolish than he went away," 
 said Honoria, smiling. 
 
 When Honoria smiled, she had some- 
 thing very charming about her. 
 
 " But really, dear, your dress is not — " 
 
 " Fashionable," put in Honoria. " Per- 
 haps not, mamma ; but if Harold does not 
 like me as I am, he will never like me, for 
 I am too old to alter." 
 
 Just then an old fly came lumbering 
 along the drive ; and the children, who had 
 been on the look-out, were heard rushing 
 
 VOL. i. g
 
 82 BROOKSIDE BOUSE. 
 
 up the stairs, screaming, " Harold is conic, 
 mamma! Harold is here !" 
 
 Yes, Harold was come; and Honoria 
 had cut-out two flannel-petticoats and a 
 boy's shirt whilst she had been arguing 
 with her mother. Sibyl, roused by the 
 children's shouts, had run into the hall ; 
 and as Mrs. Mildmay came down the stair- 
 case, with Honoria behind her, she saw 
 her son already holding his youngest sister 
 clasped in his arms.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 >AROLD MILDMAY had been 
 away from home some years. 
 Quite long enough to be alive 
 to any peculiarities in his family, and also 
 quite long enough to have formed indepen- 
 dent opinions upon men and things, not to 
 speak of women. He had felt agreeably 
 surprised when, after clasping Sibyl in a 
 brotherly embrace, he had put her away 
 from him, and holding his sister at arm's- 
 length, had looked into her fair peach-like 
 face, all sparkling with pretty pleasurable 
 excitement, to find how lovely she was. 
 He had not seen her since her wedding, 
 when she had been but a slip of a girl.
 
 84 HAHOLD AT HOME. 
 
 A mere child he had then mentally called 
 her; and now she had developed into a 
 graceful, lovely woman. But if his in- 
 spection of Sibyl had filled him with plea- 
 surable emotions, and her beauty had 
 agreeably surprised him, the vision of Ho- 
 noria on the staircase, behind her mother, 
 had aroused no such pleasant astonishment 
 in his mind. Three or four years had deve- 
 loped one sister into beauty, and had dulled 
 the other into premature old-maidishness. 
 It was not Harold's fault if he saw, almost 
 before he had kissed his mother, that Ho- 
 noria's gown was ugly, scanty, ill-made, 
 and ungraceful ; that her hair was ill-ar- 
 ranged, and her whole appearance little 
 agreeable to the eye. He was keenly 
 sensitive, and unfortunately alive to such 
 things, and piqued himself also on some 
 little experience in matters of the kind. 
 Still, he folded her also in a brotherly em- 
 brace, thinking at the time that she was 
 either in love with the curate, or had been
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 85 
 
 disappointed in her affections. When all 
 the family salutations were done, and baby 
 once again reinstated on his rocking-horse, 
 with the twins and his step-sister in attend- 
 ance, Harold had time to look round. 
 
 " Can I go to my father ?" he said ; " or 
 mustn't he be disturbed before the usual 
 time ?" 
 
 " I think you had better wait, dearest," 
 answered his mother ; " he is probably a- 
 sleep ; but the first gong sounds at half-past 
 five, and then he will be happy to see you." 
 
 " Let me carry up your sticks, Harold," 
 said one of the twins. 
 
 "And me your railway-rugs and muf- 
 flers," said Sibyl. 
 
 " Look at him paws," said baby, who, 
 being of a turbulent disposition, had slid 
 from his charger unperceived, and was 
 holding up a fat little hand with a great 
 furry glove upon it. 
 
 " 0, Harold, what funny things !" ex- 
 claimed the little sisters in concert.
 
 86 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 " Those are what I suck in winter," 
 said Harold, growling and making a funny 
 face. 
 
 " Isn't he a lovely creature ?" exclaimed 
 Sibyl with enthusiasm, picking up her boy, 
 who struck out lustily at the stranger, and 
 finally caught him by the ear. 
 
 " He isn't a bad-looking little kid," said 
 his uncle, with less enthusiasm than, per- 
 haps, the mother had expected. But it is not 
 always easy to be enthusiastic about other 
 people's children, more especially when one 
 is being buffeted and clawed in tender 
 places. 
 
 " Let go of uncle Harold's hair, dar- 
 ling, and he shall have the other paw," 
 said Sibyl. Upon which one of the twins 
 brought another great sledge-glove from 
 the heap of cloaks and wraps in the corner, 
 and gave it to the little monster. 
 
 "Thanks, darling," said Sibyl; and Ha- 
 rold thought again how pleasant his sister 
 was.
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 87 
 
 " Let me take you to your room," said 
 his mother. 
 
 " Thanks. But surely I know my way ; 
 or have I got into other quarters ?" 
 
 " Yes. Your room has been made into 
 a schoolroom for the three girls, and we 
 keep the old nursery for baby when he 
 comes on a visit." 
 
 Baby meanwhile, having struggled out 
 of his mother's arms, showing a good deal 
 of athletic limb in so doing, had seized a 
 case of fishing-rods, and was running a-tilt 
 at everybody and everything, going down 
 with an ignominious bump after each 
 charge, but getting up again undaunted 
 by the reverses he experienced. 
 
 "Just call nurse, dear," said Sibyl to 
 her little step-daughter. 
 
 "I am going up-stairs, and I will tell 
 her," said Honoria. It was almost the first 
 word she had spoken; and as she spoke she 
 moved away, and ran quickly up the stair- 
 case. She thought time enough had been
 
 88 HAROLD AT HOKE. 
 
 wasted, and she could not understand how 
 her mother, who had almost remonstrated 
 with her for not making any special toilette 
 to please her brother, could stand by and 
 see him bored with all these children, and 
 never give Sibyl a hint to have her trouble- 
 some baby removed. 
 
 In truth, Harold, after the manner of 
 his kind, was not specially given to babies; 
 but he did not in anywise feel bored on 
 the present occasion, and rather appre- 
 ciated the noise his appearance had created 
 amongst the small fry, thinking it was by 
 no means so disagreeable to be an uncle as 
 he had expected. 
 
 " Where is Somers ?" he asked in a 
 pause. 
 
 "0, he has gone to Wickham; but he 
 will be here to dinner. You know he is a 
 J. P. now/' 
 
 " I hope he doesn't make any blunders. 
 England is a terrible country for showing- 
 up such things."
 
 HAEOLD AT HOME. 
 
 89 
 
 " He doesn't make as many as he did," 
 answered Sibyl laughing ; " but he is con- 
 tinually being attacked in the Wickham In- 
 dependent.'' 1 
 
 " Well, those are some of the delights of 
 landed proprietorship, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes ; those are some of the delights. 
 But not all. It isn't altogether such a bad 
 life." 
 
 "It is twenty minutes past five," said 
 Honoria, coming clown the stairs with her 
 watch in her hand. " If Harold wants to 
 go to his room before seeing papa, he must 
 not waste any more time." 
 
 Harold did not feel his intimacy with 
 his sister sufficient to justify any raillery 
 about the "waste of time ;" and Sibyl saying 
 that there was no appeal against Honoria's 
 watch, disappeared after her baby, leaving 
 the mother and son alone. 
 
 They went up-stairs together. 
 
 "Take my arm, mother," he said; and 
 she took it, leaning on it with a firm pres-
 
 90 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 sure, as though to feel more certain that she 
 had him really there. She was Btrong and 
 active enough, but yet she leant upon him, 
 and felt so happy in being able thus to 
 rest, that she was almost sorry when they 
 reached his room. 
 
 ' ; I hope you will be comfortable, dearest. 
 I am almost afraid you will find our ways 
 strangely old-fashioned and inconvenient, 
 after the manner of life to which you have 
 been lately accustomed." 
 
 " It is all a great deal too good for me, 
 mother." 
 
 Too good for him ! What could be too 
 good for him ? nay, what could be good 
 enough for him ? "Was he not all a mothers 
 heart could wish ? Had he ever done as 
 other sons do? Had he gambled mid got 
 into debt? (Of course she knew nothing o£ 
 what he had done in this line at Saxe-Pump- 
 enheim.) Was he not strong, and straight, 
 and healthy ; were not his eyes honest, and 
 his voice manly, and his whole bearing such
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 91 
 
 as no mother could but be proud of? Good 
 enough for him! Nothing was good enough 
 for him ! And I verily believe, if the door 
 had opened, and a dazzling princess could 
 have walked in clothed in diamonds and 
 gold, adorned with every virgin charm, and 
 clad in every womanly virtue, the fond 
 mother would, in her heart of hearts, have 
 doubted whether her son was not sacri- 
 ficing himself if he elected to follow the 
 resplendent creature. 
 
 But no such princess was imminent. 
 The mother as yet had him all to herself 
 (or thought she had) ; and as she looked at 
 her son, her eyes filled with tears. He had 
 placed a low chair for her by the fire, and 
 she had sat down, whilst he stood leaning 
 against the chimneypiece, with one hand 
 run through his thick dark hair. But now 
 she got up again, and with a movement 
 that was infinitely touching and graceful, 
 she laid her hand on his shoulder, and 
 kissed him again on both his sunburnt
 
 92 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 cheeks. "Dear Harold," she said, "I am 
 so happy to have you; so content to see 
 my boy looking so bravely, and to know 
 that to-night he will sleep once more under 
 the old roof-tree." 
 
 " Dear mother" — there was a moment's 
 pause, and then Harold, clearing his voice, 
 asked if he had not better go to his father. 
 He was not a man of demonstrative man- 
 ner, nor prone to be otherwise than chary 
 of any show of emotion ; and now it seemed 
 to him that he ought not to delay seeking 
 that other parent, whose slumbers might 
 by this time be presumed to be finished, 
 since the gong was sounding, and dinner 
 would be ready in another hour. 
 
 "Yes, we will go," answered his mo- 
 ther, almost a little reluctantly. Those had 
 been such moments of unalloyed delight to 
 her, in which she had again held her first- 
 born in her arms, had had him " all to her- 
 self," that she would fain have prolonged 
 them, and realised her happiness, if that
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 93 
 
 might be, yet more intensely. But, ever 
 true to her wifely duty, and pleased to see 
 her son anxious to pay his filial respects, 
 she put away the selfish temptation, and 
 prepared to lead him to his father. A 
 moment she paused. " You will find him 
 very much altered, Harold — painfully al- 
 tered," she said ; "but my letters will have 
 prepared you for that." Then she opened 
 the bedroom-door, and went resolutely 
 down the broad passage, which looked 
 comfortable enough for habitation, with its 
 crimson carpeting and comfortable stuffed 
 and cushioned window -seats, filled with 
 baskets of flowers, and cages full of canary- 
 birds and finches, twittering merrily as 
 they hopped to and fro. Mrs. Mildmay 
 pushed back a baize door, and they stood 
 within a smaller vestibule, lighted by a 
 skylight in the daytime, and by two Ro- 
 man lamps at night, which hung suspended 
 from the ceiling, and cast through their 
 pink-glass shades a pleasant glow on all
 
 94 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 around. For a moment she paused before 
 one of the three doors facing them, then 
 knocked; and on a voice answering her 
 from within, opened it, and motioned to 
 her son to pass on. 
 
 He found himself alone with his father. 
 Two wax candles were burning on the 
 mantelpiece, a white frosted lamp of etrus- 
 can shape stood on the table ; there was a 
 bright wood fire on the hearth; and upon a 
 sofa lay a gentleman whose face was so 
 like Harold's own, that it seemed like a 
 revelation of the future. He did not get 
 up ; but as his son approached, he pushed 
 the reading-desk before him aside, and ex- 
 tended his hand. 
 
 " How are you ? eh ! But young peo- 
 ple are always well, or if not, it's their own 
 fault," 
 
 "I am quite well, thank you, sir ; how 
 are you ?" 
 
 " Couldn't be worse — to be alive." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear you give so bad
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 95 
 
 an account of yourself ; I had hoped Jenner 
 might set you up." 
 
 " Never hope. But that's useless ad- 
 vice. Young people always do hope, eh ? 
 Never mind ; never mind ; all in good time. 
 Some day you too will 'leave hope behind.' " 
 
 "I hope not, sir." 
 
 " Of course, of course ; but some day 
 you won't so hope." 
 
 Harold having nothing to say, coughed 
 respectfully, and looked at his boots. 
 
 " The wind appears to me to be in the 
 east,'' remarked his father after a minute's 
 silence. 
 
 " Upon my word, sir, I don't know." 
 
 " Of course not ; but you will some 
 day." 
 
 The prospective advantages thus held 
 out to him were almost too much for 
 Harold's philosophy, but he still remained 
 respectfully silent. 
 
 " Have you seen your mother ?" 
 
 " She brought me to your room."
 
 96 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, of course ; I forgot, But 
 you'll forget some day too. How do you 
 find her looking ?" 
 
 Mr. Mildmay was proud of his wife, in 
 his way, and he liked people to praise her 
 appearance and bearing, and now he ex- 
 acted this tribute from his son. 
 
 " Very well indeed, I should say," said 
 Harold, thinking of his mother's loving 
 looks, as she twined her arms about him 
 and kissed his cheeks a few minutes ago. 
 
 " Yes ; she was always handsome, and 
 placid — placid, you know, and consistent, 
 very consistent. Have you seen Sibyl?" 
 
 " Yes ; I saw them all when I came ; 
 they were in the hall to meet me — Sibyl 
 and Minnie and Winnie (the twins) and 
 Sibyl's baby—" 
 
 " Babies are a mistake." 
 
 "And Honoria."" said Harold, without 
 noticing the interruption. 
 
 " Ah ! Honoria. Honoria is very pe- 
 culiar, you know — sensible and strong-
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 97 
 
 minded. Her appearance, I consider, is 
 unfortunate ; but Ave can't expect all the 
 family to turn out beauties." 
 
 " And Somers' little girl," pursued Ha- 
 rold, to whom these impartial criticisms 
 were becoming embarrassing. 
 
 " Ah ! Somers' little girl ; extraordinary 
 plain child ; quite singular ; but I don't see 
 much of her ; only it's unfortunate being a 
 girl ; but still — " 
 
 " I think, sir, I must leave you now ; I 
 have not yet dressed for dinner." 
 
 "Very true. Just ring the bell for me, 
 will you? Thanks. Hume is too discreet 
 to intrude. I shall see you again at din- 
 ner. Thanks. Be careful to shut the outer 
 door; I believe your mother left it open." 
 
 Then Harold went out of the room, and 
 just as he opened the outer door he met 
 Hume with a can of hot water in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Lor, Master Harold, is that you ? 
 Well, the sight of you's good for sore eyes ; 
 
 VOL. i. H
 
 98 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 weary time since you went; but you'll 
 be staying now for a while, I'll be bound, 
 and a good tiling too." 
 
 Then Harold shook hands with Hume, 
 and that faithful retainer, mastering his 
 emotion, and shouldering his hot-water 
 can, walked away with a ray of joy on his 
 puckered old face like sunlight on a with- 
 ered apple. Hume had nursed Harold as 
 a baby, and he loved his young master, and 
 was proud of him. Whether he loved his 
 old master, and whether he lavished pride 
 upon him also, I cannot say ; but there was 
 a bond between them, a bond which had 
 lasted so many years that nothing but 
 death was likely to break it now. 
 
 Harold walked into his room and shut 
 the door. He felt strange and yet fami- 
 lial' at home, as we all do after a long 
 absence. The furniture, the carpets, the 
 old servants, the familiar pictures, the old 
 names and ways, and nooks and corners— 
 almost everything, in fact, that meet> the
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 99 
 
 eye seems to speak to us of old days, and 
 of our right to a participation in all the 
 comforts and privileges, in all the talk and 
 interests, of home. At one moment it 
 seems to us that we have never been 
 away. There is the old familiar chintz, 
 the same china ornaments; the very ink- 
 stand and pen-wiper are the same that we 
 knew in former years ; the next, a whole 
 army of spectres pass before us, and we 
 feel that the years which are gone, for ever 
 and ever gone, have taken so much with 
 them that we are in truth strangers where 
 •once we were at home. What Ave see 
 brings the past so near to us, that it is with 
 a pang of wild regret we realise how far 
 the things we do not see thrust that past 
 away from us. When we were all together 
 as children — ay, even as young people — 
 had Ave not like joys, like soitoavs, like 
 amusements, and pleasures, and pursuits, 
 and friends ? But iioav — one has come 
 hither, the other gone thither ; one is pro-
 
 100 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 sperous, the other unfortunate ; some are 
 married, some dead; some, alas! dishon- 
 oured and clean forgotten, or only spoken 
 of in hushed whispers and with a pitiful 
 sorrow and deprecation, worse a thousand 
 times than forgetfulness. We have sepa- 
 rated and gone our different paths, and 
 lived our different lives, and hoped our 
 personal hopes, and loved and hated, and 
 fought and failed, and hoped again; and 
 when we meet, after a separation of years, 
 we are surprised that we cannot get into 
 the old grooves, and run pleasantly on in 
 the old way; as if those years of strug- 
 gling and fighting, of doing and suffering, 
 had not drifted us wide, wide asunder. 
 It can never, never be again as it was in 
 the old days; and the sooner avc recognise 
 this, and strive to find out the best way of 
 settling down in the new, the greater our 
 chance of happiness will be. 
 
 I do not think Harold Mildmay was 
 conscious of such thoughts as these; but
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 101 
 
 he dimly felt that he must live himself 
 into those divided lives again, and that he 
 could not expect to find himself quite com- 
 fortable at first amongst old relations, who 
 had become in some sense new to him. 
 
 " After all, I'm only a lodger," he said, 
 as he tied his white tie in an infinitesimally 
 small and expert bow, and looked at the 
 parting of his back hair by the aid of a 
 hand-glass. " Doubtless I shall soon be 
 au fait ; but Honoria's style of dress is 
 very distressing." Then he had gone down- 
 stairs, and had found his admiring family 
 waiting for him in the drawing-room. 
 
 Mr. Somers was also there, and gave 
 his brother-in-law a hearty grip of wel- 
 come. " All right, Harold, eh ?" he said. 
 Then Harold had assured him gravely that 
 all was right, and Mr. Somers rubbed his 
 hands, and said it was getting coldish, but 
 seasonable. "Where's the boy?" he asked 
 of his wife, after a minute or two more of 
 commonplace.
 
 102 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 Sibyl frowned at him, for the baby was 
 
 never allowed to come within earshot of 
 her father, and then Mr. Somers imme- 
 diately knew he had done wrong. 
 
 Presently Mr. Mildmay appeared, and 
 then they went in to dinner. He gave 
 his arm to his married daughter, Mr. 
 Somers condueted Mrs. Mildmay, Harold 
 and Honoria brought up the rear. " I 
 wonder where the curate is," thought 
 Harold, to whom that mythic personage 
 had assumed a reality that was ridiculous, 
 being totally without foundation. Honoria 
 seemed very cheerful, however, without the 
 curate; and Sibyl, who was her father's 
 pet, was lively enough to redeem the meal 
 from anything like dulness. As for Mrs. 
 Mildmay, her eyes beamed every time she 
 looked at her son; and even his father 
 seemed pleased to see him. " Try that 
 claret, Harold," he said, pushing the jug 
 towards him; "too good for such young- 
 sters as you, but you've learnt the taste,
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 103 
 
 doubtless, abroad." Harold praised the 
 claret, and passed it to Mr. Somers, who, 
 however, remained faithful to his port, in 
 spite of all the ridicule his father-in-law 
 was so obliging as to cast upon him for his 
 unenlightened tastes. 
 
 That night, when Sibyl was undressing, 
 her lord being already in a semi-somnolent 
 state (for his day's work had been hard), a 
 knock came at her bedroom-door. It was 
 Harold. "I beg your pardon, Sibyl," he 
 said, " but I can't go to bed without smok- 
 ing my cigar; do you think there would 
 be any objection to my smoking in the 
 kitchen ?" 
 
 " For goodness-sake, Harold, don't make 
 such horrible jokes." 
 
 " But it's no joke, my dear ; where am 
 I to go to ? all the doors are barred and 
 bolted." 
 
 " 0, but, Harold, he would never for- 
 give you." 
 
 "Nonsense !"
 
 104 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 " It's not nonsense ; he has never let 
 Frank Larkyn come here again, because 
 he smoked out of his bedroom-window." 
 
 "But I am not Frank Larkyn." 
 
 "I know that." 
 
 " What's the good of being the son and 
 heir if—" 
 
 " 0, Harold, he will cut you off with a 
 shilling!" 
 
 " What's all that noise about?" asked a 
 voice from beneath the bedclothes. 
 
 " There's no noise. It's Harold ; he will 
 smoke." 
 
 " Well, let him." 
 
 " But—" 
 
 " Smoke is better than tire ; one would 
 think the house was burnt down." 
 
 " Don't be stupid, Henry," said Sibyl ; 
 " Harold will believe you are encouraging 
 him." Then she shut the door on her 
 brother, and came and sat down on the 
 bed. "It's awful!" she said: "papa will 
 never forgive him. Don't snore, Henry ;
 
 HAROLD AT HOME. 105 
 
 you are so unsympathising. Do wake up ! 
 Harold must get married." 
 
 " What ?" said Mr. Somers ; " your bro- 
 ther has not even slept a night at home, 
 and you are already caballing and plotting 
 treason against him. Intrigue, thy name 
 is woman !" 
 
 " Such horrid habits," said Sibyl ; " and 
 he looking so nice too ! Who would have 
 thought it ? but no wife would put up with 
 it — none." Thus scheming matrimonially 
 for her brother's benefit, pretty Sibyl fell 
 asleep; rather disgusted than otherwise, 
 if the truth must be told, by her hus- 
 band's want of sympathy. 
 
 " Dear Harold !" were Mrs. Mildmay's 
 last words. "Don't you find him much 
 improved, dear ?" 
 
 " He has a very good air," said the 
 father. " But did you not think, my love, 
 that there was a trifle too much truffle in 
 that vol-au-vent V 
 
 "I will tell Benson of it, to-morrow,"
 
 106 HAROLD AT HOME. 
 
 she answered, and returned to her thoughts 
 of her boy. 
 
 Honoria said her prayers with a quiet 
 conscience, and lay down to rest at peace 
 with the world. Harold's appearance, his 
 manners, his good looks, his irreproachable 
 linen, and his superlative tie, had all been 
 observed by her; but she did not set so 
 much value on these things as perhaps the 
 rest of the family were inclined to do. 
 
 "Dear Harold!" she thought; "he is 
 very agreeable ; but how odd it seems to 
 think he can do any good for his country! 
 He seems very particular about his dress ; 
 but he is not noisy, and I am sure he does 
 not drink. I wonder if he has given up 
 going to church on Sundays ; but of course 
 he will do what is right here."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 HAROLD must have smoked his 
 cigar up the kitchen- chimney, or 
 consumed the fumes thereof after 
 some occult fashion unknown to the inhabit- 
 ants of Brookside House ; for nothing more 
 was heard of it, to Sibyl's intense relief. 
 
 It still wanted three weeks to Christ- 
 mas; and though the weather was better 
 than it had been whilst Harold was in 
 town, it was yet murky and dark; not 
 cold, but rather of such a character as to 
 make one long for a brisk wind and a hard 
 frost. He had been detained in town a 
 fortnight longer than he expected, having 
 had to await Lord Brobdignag's return,
 
 108 A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 which his lordship had daily delayed, being 
 much occupied at the time in filling game- 
 bags in company with other noble friends 
 devoted to the customary sports of the 
 country during the shining hours of recess. 
 Harold had found it somewhat difficult to 
 while away his time during those days of 
 waiting ; he had, however, in the interim, 
 written to his German friend, the savant, at 
 Munich, and had sent him all the Ninevite 
 inscriptions -which he had promised to send. 
 He had also received an answer, which 
 told him, without much circumlocution, 
 that he had not executed his orders satis- 
 factorily, and sent him off again to the 
 British Museum with fresh notes and que- 
 ries in his pocket. 
 
 To tell the truth, Harold was not sorry 
 to have something to do. Othello misses 
 his customary occupation when it's gone ; 
 and there is no more wretched state of 
 being than that so graphically described 
 by the familiar phrase, of "being at a
 
 A SECOND DANIEL. 109 
 
 loose end." He had again presented him- 
 self at the gates of Knowledge, but on that 
 occasion he had come too late, and was 
 obliged to go away unsatisfied. A few 
 days later he returned on the same errand, 
 was admitted, and promised the informa- 
 tion he sought. He had not forgotten the 
 beautiful girl with the pale cold blue eyes 
 and the grand queenly figure, to whom he 
 had offered his umbrella one rainy after- 
 noon some fortnight previously. It may be 
 doubted whether young men of his age and 
 disposition ever do forget any pretty face 
 within so short a time; but on the occasion of 
 his second visit of research he saw nothing of 
 her ; for time was short, and he was scarcely 
 able to present his credentials before the 
 public were rung out. But on the occa- 
 sion of his third visit, he had seen her 
 again, still working at Discobolus, and still 
 with the same abstracted quiet look in her 
 face. She had not seen him, nor had he 
 dared, or even wished, to make himself
 
 110 A SFX'OND DANIEL. 
 
 known to her. He rather stood at a dis- 
 tant angle of a transverse gallery, watching 
 her earnestly, and with an ever-growing 
 
 surprise. To him it seemed so strange 
 that such a young and remarkable-looking 
 woman should be there alone. He had 
 been used enough to see female students 
 working away in foreign galleries and 
 schools of art, but they, for the most part, 
 had been dowdy, ugly, and ill-dressed ; 
 many of them no longer young, and those 
 who were so, scarcely attractive. Such 
 women, with lines in their faces, and ill- 
 made clothes on their ill-made figures, 
 might go anywhere and do anything with- 
 out impropriety. The utmost they could 
 do would be to annoy hyper-fastidious per- 
 sons, like himself, by their ugliness or un- 
 gracefulness, thus made more prominently 
 conspicuous. But this girl, this grand and 
 beautiful creature, with her strange man- 
 ner and simple dress ; with her small, well- 
 shaped head and full, harmonious figure ;
 
 A SECOND DANIEL. Ill 
 
 what could her brothers, or father, or — 
 husband be thinking of, to let her come 
 thus, day after day, to a public gallery, 
 where every bold fool or coarse knave 
 might think himself at liberty to stare at, 
 annoy — who knows — even speak to her? 
 But if Harold had thought, he might have 
 known that a fool would not recognise 
 such beauty as hers, and that no knave 
 could appreciate, even if he recognised it. 
 She looked, perhaps, a trifle weary, and yet 
 there was no absolute melancholy in her 
 face. Once or twice she sighed, and now 
 and then it almost seemed to Harold as if 
 she smiled; but whether she smiled or 
 sighed, the earnest, clear, penetrating look 
 never faded from her face for a moment, 
 and the light of her wondrous blue eyes 
 remained cold as before. 
 
 The Sunday before he left town he had 
 been taken by his friend Holsters to a 
 fashionable church in the neighbourhood 
 of Regent-street. It was one of the things
 
 112 A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 to be Been, and the correct thing u to do," 
 the little Lieutenant assured him, though 
 the season of the year was not altogether 
 propitious, as most of the fashionable beau- 
 ties, who resorted thither during the sea- 
 son, would be out of town. Yet, although 
 it was at the dead season of the year, they 
 had found the church, on their arrival, 
 already unpleasantly crowded. 
 
 " By Jove, there's the girl Hamilton is 
 going to marry!" said Holsters, as a lady 
 passed him and took a chair close to where 
 the friends were sitting; "tidy figure, and 
 lots of tin ; but not to my taste, for all that.'' 
 
 To this, Mildmay had not felt himself 
 called upon to make any special reply ; the 
 tin and the figure not interesting him per- 
 sonally in any way. " 'Pon my soul, there's 
 the widow that every one was talking about 
 last season ; they say she's been married 
 four times already, and has four fortunes ; 
 she's engaged now to one of the felknvs 
 attached to this church."
 
 A SECOND DANIEL. 113 
 
 A tall woman in black, dressed in the 
 height of the then prevailing fashion, passed 
 up the aisle and sank upon the ground 
 amidst a sea of sable draperies. 
 
 " They say the Princess comes here 
 sometimes," continued Holsters in an awe- 
 struck whisper at the idea of breathing the 
 same air with royalty; "awful bore, you 
 know, for a married man to be separated 
 from his wife in church ; the very place 
 where they were joined together. By 
 George, how dark it is in here ! I say, do 
 you think it's raining, old fellow ?" 
 
 Mildmay had been silent hitherto, and 
 now merely shook his head. He was sur- 
 prised at much that met his gaze, and be- 
 gan to wonder whether he had come to the 
 right place, after all. But of this there 
 could not be much doubt, since his pioneer 
 seemed so perfectly at home. " Monstrous 
 style of bonnet, eh ? Nuns, you know, 
 and that sort of thing. Horrid ugly! 
 Shouldn't like a woman with a bonnet like 
 
 VOL. I. i
 
 114 A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 that to come and nurse me, eh? (Jive 
 one the nightmare, you know, instead of 
 doing one any good. That's one of the 
 greatest ruffians in London," continued the 
 ingenuous youth, as a tall handsome man 
 with a silky yellow beard and moustache, 
 and an irreproachable get-up, took a chair 
 just in front of them; "beat his Avife with 
 a poker, and tied her for a week to the bed- 
 post. She ate up all the soap in the soap- 
 dish, and then died; since which the brute 
 has turned pious, fasts, and confesses, and 
 all that sort of thing." Thus he continued 
 to prattle, till, the clergy coming in, the con- 
 gregation arose as with one consent, and the 
 service commenced. It was a grand, beau- 
 tiful service — simple, solemn, and digni- 
 fied ; even little Holsters felt somewhat of 
 its influence and was awed into a more 
 quiet and reverent behaviour. This better 
 frame of mind lasted until a young divine 
 ascended the pulpit and forthwith plunged 
 into his sermon. He was yet a beardless
 
 A SECOND DANIEL. 115 
 
 boy ; his round young face, thick closely- 
 cropped hair, and small regular features 
 making him appear even much younger 
 than he really was. In truth he had but 
 just received priests' orders, and he was not 
 inclined to lose any time in making his 
 voice heard with due priestly authority. 
 He had spent his holidays and vacations 
 mostly abroad, frequenting, when he found 
 himself in foreign lands, the most celebrated 
 Jesuit preachers. He had studied the best 
 models, and had, in some sort, caught the 
 trick he so much admired ; in some sort, 
 but not wholly, not entirely; not, if the 
 truth must be told, altogether satisfactorily. 
 He indeed raised his hand in the air in 
 denunciation ; he leant over the pulpit in 
 persuasion and remonstrance ; he enounced 
 dogmas and required obedience, and de- 
 monstrated and argued with all possible 
 authority of tone and manner. But there 
 were two things against him; so much, 
 indeed, against him, and so glaringly evi-
 
 1 1 G A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 dent, that they pleaded his excuse even 
 whilst they made those excuses necessary, 
 — his youth, and his appearance. What 
 could such a boy, with such a face, teach 
 graybeards and men who had striven and 
 combated the world? With what author- 
 ity can the experience of twenty-five speak 
 to fifty, sixty, seventy ? — ay, even to 
 thirty or forty? A second Daniel, if he 
 come to judgment at all, must come with 
 some more authority and some wider expe- 
 rience than a round face and a conventional 
 manner (formed though it may be on the 
 best models) can give. However advanced 
 a state of piety may be his, it ill befits so 
 young a man to lay down the law to gray- 
 beards and saints of older standing than 
 himself; still less is he likely to persuade 
 or terrify sinners. 
 
 Mildmay listened in his usual impas- 
 sive way, and wondered at the patience of 
 the men and women who, listening to the 
 sermon,
 
 A SECOND DANIEL. 117 
 
 " sat on, divinely flustered, 
 Sniffing (he thought) its dew of Hermon, 
 With such content in every snuffle 
 As the devil inside us loves to ruffle." 
 
 He glanced at a venerable white- haired 
 clergyman who sat near the choir, and 
 marvelled at his long-suffering patience. 
 Then he turned his eyes upon the youth- 
 ful preacher again with a yet acuter sur- 
 prise at his assurance and authoritative 
 tone. "They manage these things better 
 abroad," he thought, remembering the 
 calm quiet faces that he had seen in 
 distant pulpits ; the finished manner, the 
 air of asceticism, and the halo of benevo- 
 lence and long-suffering surrounding some 
 of those noble heads. He had a vision of 
 a noble enthusiasm and a grand authority ; 
 of eyes glowing with faith and kindling 
 with inspiration ; of voices in whose metal- 
 lic vibration, in whose persuasive pleading, 
 there lay untold tales, unscanned volumes 
 of fiery temptations and cruel ordeals, of 
 dark experiences and divine love, of end-
 
 118 A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 less self-denial and willing martyrdom ; and 
 then — why then he thought how wretched 
 are poor copies and bad imitations; and in his 
 impatience made a movement as though to 
 get out of his chair, and so escape from such 
 futile thunders as were now reverberating 
 in his ears. As he moved, Holsters touched 
 him. " Look at the sixth chair of the third 
 row," he said ; and Mildmay, out of very 
 weariness, followed his friend's behest, saw 
 a cloak and a shoulder which seemed fami- 
 liar to him, but the face belonging to which, 
 he could not, by reason of his position, at 
 present scan. The dress and cloak were 
 not unlike those of the "Sisters," upon whose 
 appearance Holsters had made such free 
 and uncomplimentary remarks ; but those 
 ladies had brought with them into church 
 a number of small children, whom they 
 had conducted to a remote part of- the 
 building, and had then, with their charges, 
 been lost to sight. A slight movement on 
 the part of one of his neighbours made a
 
 A SECOND DANIEL. 119 
 
 gap, and then Grace Hepburn's face met 
 his gaze. Always the same. She now 
 looked steadily at the young preacher ; a 
 clear, quiet, inexpressive gaze ; giving no 
 evidence of interest or disgust, of weariness 
 or ridicule, or reprobation. If any one feeling 
 predominated over another in Grace's mind 
 at that moment, it was, like Mildniay's, that 
 of wonder that so young a man, with so 
 young a face, could have the assurance to 
 speak before his elders and betters in so 
 authoritative a manner. • She, also, had 
 seen other things, and could not help con- 
 sidering such youthful prominence a mis- 
 take. Just at that precise moment, how- 
 ever, she was contemplating the young 
 enthusiast's countenance from an artistic 
 point of view, and speculating as to whether 
 time and sorrow, temptations, trials, and 
 experience, could ever give dignity and 
 manliness to that round head and those 
 short and insignificant, if regular, features. 
 Mildmay had seen her. Fate, chance,
 
 120 A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 what you will, had brought her once again 
 in hi> way. The young man's sermon 
 m> longer appeared wearisome to him; he 
 "thought of Ruth the beautiful" a few 
 Beats behind him, and wished that the 
 youthful preacher would go on for ever. 
 
 The service was over. They were stand- 
 ing outside, the two friends, as though they 
 were anxiously expecting to meet some 
 one. Holsters did not long conceal his 
 motive for so waiting ; " There comes my 
 cousin, Xorah Lennox," he said to Harold ; 
 " that jolly little girl with the black eyes 
 and neat boots ; there, with that savage old 
 spinster in a poke." 
 
 The cousins nodded confidentially at 
 each other, but the lieutenant dared not 
 brave the Argus-eyed governess, and Norah 
 passed quietly on without any vocal greet- 
 ing. 
 
 Harold's eyes wandered from the young, 
 thin, undeveloped beauty to the grave, 
 earnest face that was just coming from be-
 
 A SEC01SD DANIEL. 121 
 
 neath the porch into the damp cold light 
 of the short winter's day. Their eyes also 
 met; and a slight blush rose to Grace's 
 face as he raised his hat in recognition. 
 She bowed slightly — so slightly, that to 
 him it seemed as though she had scarcely 
 acknowledged his salutation. 
 
 "Why that's the invisible girl again," ex- 
 claimed Holsters ; " she seems to be every- 
 where ; but you must know her well to bow 
 to her first." 
 
 "I don't know her at all." 
 
 " Then you are a cool hand." 
 
 " How so?" 
 
 " Why, she would never have noticed 
 you, if you hadn't done the civil thing in 
 such a marked way." 
 
 Then Mildmay remembered that it is 
 only abroad gentlemen have the privilege 
 of bowing first ; and the blush, which had 
 in no wise displeased him, he now put 
 down to annoyance at what might have 
 appeared like impertinence.
 
 122 A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 " Come along," said Holsters ; and he 
 came along accordingly. " We shall just 
 be in time to see Norah before that old 
 dragon shuts the door upon her." 
 
 But they scarcely got more than a 
 glimpse of the skirts of her clothing. 
 
 " After all, you only saw her ankles," 
 said Harold. 
 
 " Well, that's better than nothing. But 
 what do you think of the whole thing ?" 
 
 " What whole thing ?" 
 
 '' Why, the candles, and vestments, and 
 incense, and so on." 
 
 " I have not yet thought about them 
 at all." 
 
 " The sermon ?" 
 
 " Pray don't ask my opinion of that 
 young gentleman who was so abusive." 
 
 " He's quite a shining light amongst 
 them. All the girls ask him to confess 
 them; and I'm told at Easter they crowd 
 round him in flocks and herds to see how 
 he has borne all the fasting."
 
 A SECOND DANIEL. 123 
 
 " H'm," said Harold, to whom this sort 
 of talk was rather a bore than otherwise ; 
 " if you'll excuse me, I think I'll say good- 
 bye. I want to look-up a fellow I know 
 hereabouts." 
 
 " Ta-ta. I suppose you'll look in at 
 the Club some time this afternoon ?" 
 
 But Harold met other friends in his 
 homeward course ; and on the Monday he 
 had, as we have seen, gone down to Brook- 
 side (after a highly satisfactory interview 
 with Lord Brobdignag), and had been re- 
 ceived once more into the bosom of his 
 family. 
 
 Grace, as she walked homewards, was 
 not altogether comfortable. She had met 
 the stranger whose civility had already cost 
 her so much annoyance ; she had blushed 
 at his recognition, not because she felt shy 
 at being noticed, but because of certain 
 thoughts which involuntarily arose in her 
 mind as she returned his bow. Harold 
 might have been bald, lame, and fifty-five,
 
 124 A SECOND DANIEL. 
 
 for all the thought she bestowed upon him 
 for his own sake ; but he reminded her of 
 other things, and her thoughts on the sub- 
 ject were not altogether agreeable ones. 
 She said nothing to her father, however, of 
 the encounter ; for he had as yet scarcely 
 got over his former irritation.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 FTER Mr. Hepburn's violent out- 
 break, Grace had thought it 
 more prudent to remain for a 
 time at home, working steadily at her oil- 
 paintings as far as the short and foggy days 
 would allow of such work, and passing the 
 evenings with her father, plying her needle 
 ■with nimble nnsrers, and listening to his 
 reminiscences with feelings of delight. He 
 was calm again; and thus the period of 
 her voluntary seclusion was a happy one to 
 Grace, to whom the sight of his anger was 
 always distressingly painful. They had not 
 many books ; and novels and new literature 
 were entirely beyond their reach. A guinea
 
 1 2 G RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 a year — which is a wonderfully moderate 
 Bum when it represents a subscription for 
 most of the current wisdom, and all the 
 current folly of the day — was yet too large 
 a one for the Hepburns to expend in a 
 luxury so beguiling as books. Grace, 
 notwithstanding that she had a tolerable 
 amount of resolution when duty required 
 it, could yet surely never have gone on 
 painting so perseveringly in her garret, if 
 she had known that a sensation heroine 
 was waiting for her in the dingy little sit- 
 ting-room below, and that a whole army of 
 critics were employed in cutting that fasci- 
 nating female up into mincemeat so small 
 that not one of her florid charms should 
 ever be recognisable again. It was good, 
 indeed, for both Mr. Hepburn and his 
 daughter that their little stock of old- 
 fashioned volumes sufficed them ; otherwise, 
 though they might have enjoyed the "feast 
 of reason and the flow of soul" from the 
 sources I have mentioned, yet it is to be
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 127 
 
 feared that they would have been stinted 
 in their bread-and-butter. The Attic salt of 
 all the wits in Christendom would scarcely 
 have flavoured their porridge, had they 
 been reduced to that frugal fare ; nor could 
 literary varieties have compensated to them 
 for the monotony of such a diet. 
 
 But Mr. Hepburn was a good linguist. 
 He had spent so much of his life abroad, 
 that French, German, and Italian were fa- 
 miliar to his tongue ; Grace had also a fair 
 smattering of all three languages : so that 
 when Herr Bender brought up his weekly 
 Art Journal for them to read (and he 
 was scrupulously punctual in this matter), 
 she was able to make all the German text 
 intelligible to her father, though she would 
 scarcely have ventured to speak a Avord in 
 his native language to the young mechani- 
 cian. Now and then a stray French or 
 German novel Avould also find its way up- 
 stairs ; though these Grace had to enjoy by 
 surreptitious snatches at odd moments to
 
 128 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 herself; for Mr. Hepburn had do longer 
 patience for love-tales. All the books they 
 possessed were relics of former days, when 
 money had not been so scarce as it now 
 was, and when Hepburn would buy a vo- 
 lume at a time to read aloud to his young 
 wife during their happy evenings. Scott 
 was there in full force, prose and poetry 
 (it was the fashion in those days to read 
 Scott), and Byron and Shelley (whom it 
 was the fashion then to revile); Burns and 
 Moore, and Milton and Shakespeare (of 
 course), were also there ; and even the gen- 
 tle Keats, and all the poets of the lake 
 school; though these latter Grace did not 
 greatly affect, declaring herself wearied by 
 Wordsworth's insipidity, and in no wise 
 lending a favourable ear to Shelley's ex- 
 travagances, or Coleridge's weird stories of 
 lovely enchanted ladies, and unfortunate 
 old seamen who ought by rights to have 
 been pensioned off in Greenwich Hospital 
 with a comfortable retiring allowance of
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 129 
 
 grog and tobacco. A volume of Tennyson 
 was also there (but only one) ; and Long- 
 fellow's poems stood next to it on the shelf. 
 As was natural, these were Grace's favour- 
 ites; and in her walks to and from the 
 Museum she would gaze longingly through 
 the windows of a bookseller's shop at the 
 gorgeous edition of Maude and In Memo- 
 riam, the Idyls of the King, and the Prin- 
 cess. She knew nothing of these books ; 
 for, as has already been seen, reviews and 
 magazines were quite beyond her reach ; 
 but that only made her longing to read 
 them the more intense; and she would 
 stand staring at their titles, and trying to 
 imagine what the gorgeous bindings held 
 within — what gems of thought, what pearls 
 of poesy — with an eagerness that was akin 
 to tears ; for all the time she knew that 
 these delights were as much beyond her 
 reach as though they were contributing 
 their brilliance to the adornment of some 
 New York " store." 
 
 VOL. i. k
 
 130 INTROSPECTIVE. 
 
 Books of history stood also on the little 
 chiffonier, neatly ranged according to their 
 binding; but it is to be feared that Grace 
 seldom took down these chronicles of de- 
 funct kings and queens and warriors and 
 statesmen; for her father was a walking en- 
 cyclopaedia of knowledge, and the utmost 
 use she ever made of them was, perhaps, 
 in his absence, to turn over the pages in 
 search of some particular period of history, 
 some dramatic or tragic event, which she 
 had seen immortalised, perchance, in a 
 grand historical painting or fine engraving, 
 to which she now required the key. Her 
 education had been desultory, and what 
 she knew, she had learned more from in- 
 tercourse with her father, and from travel, 
 than from regular methodical study pur- 
 sued on any special plan or system. She 
 herself often bitterly deplored this, and was 
 wont to rank herself very low amongst 
 women, thinking at times that it was per- 
 haps fortunate fate had denied her much
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 131 
 
 feminine intercourse, and thus mercifully 
 spared her the pain of those comparisons 
 which she felt sure must fall out so greatly 
 to her disadvantage. She was apt to over- 
 rate the advantages that other girls en- 
 joyed, and to underrate her own. To her 
 it seemed that she had been always begin- 
 ning and never ending anything ; always 
 travelling, and never attaining a resting- 
 place; always attempting, and never suc- 
 ceeding; always growing up, but never 
 reaching that full womanly stature, that 
 completion and fulfilment, which in other 
 girls of her age seemed to come as a matter 
 of course. 
 
 She forgot the immense advantage of in- 
 tercourse with such a mind as her father's ; 
 she did not reckon the inestimable value of 
 travel, nor did she for a moment imagine 
 that all she had seen and heard had been 
 gradually, but surely, opening her mind 
 and educating her heart. She envied every 
 school-miss her parrot-like catalogue of
 
 132 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 dates, and her mechanical chatter of geo- 
 graphy and babble of grammar ; whilst 
 she herself knew many a choice anecdote, 
 many a historical fact, many a poetical 
 inspiration, which would have been sub- 
 jects of mystification to the giggling girls 
 whose advantages she coveted. 
 
 All that she had seen (and it was not 
 little, for in all the Italian cities of note the 
 Hepburns had sojourned at various times, 
 exploring the treasures of art they con- 
 tained with an enthusiasm that never flag- 
 ged ; nor had they been more apathetic 
 in their German wanderings) — all that she 
 had seen had been gradually opening and 
 forming her mind for the reception of 
 future knowledge ; and that which the en- 
 vied schoolmisses would never have under- 
 stood, she was able to take in at a glance, 
 and comprehend as it were by intuition. Yet 
 it is not to be denied that her education had 
 been desultory, and that in some matters 
 she was behind others of her sex and age.
 
 EETEOSPECTIVE. 133 
 
 Grace had known no intimate female 
 companionship except that of her mother. 
 For that sweet, gentle, lovely woman she 
 had cherished (as did almost all who came 
 within the magic circle of her influence) an 
 affection that verged on adoration. In this, 
 father and daughter had, from the very 
 earliest years of the latter, entirely sym- 
 pathised; and it Avould be difficult to say 
 which had been most overwhelmed by the 
 blow, when, after long years of feebleness 
 and delicacy, counteracted by the most 
 watchful care, it fell at last, and their 
 hearth was left unto them desolate. 
 
 Grace had been stunned; but she was 
 the first to rise. Then had come that ter- 
 rible fever, during which she had nursed 
 her father with a devotion that was but 
 another name for an agony of apprehen- 
 sion, a frenzy of fear, lest he too should 
 be taken, and she left to buffet the world 
 alone. But he recovered his health, and 
 lost his sight. Recovered it, at least, par-
 
 1?A j: introspective. 
 
 tially; for HepbuTD was never again the 
 
 man he had been before his sweet wife's 
 death, and now never eould be the same 
 again. To Grace, who had been hourly 
 dreading his death, this loss of sight ap- 
 peared a very secondary evil ; she had him 
 still to Avalk by her side, to guide and 
 counsel her ; she had him still to tend and 
 cherish, to console and protect and love. 
 For him she felt the loss to be a very 
 terrible one ; for herself it was as nothing 
 compared with the loss she had taught her- 
 self to look upon, not only as possible, but 
 as probable. She was deeply grateful, and 
 though her religion was, perhaps, not of 
 that rigidly orthodox school which is now 
 in the ascendant, her thanks to God were 
 quite as hearty as (possibly much heartier 
 than) if they had been enunciated accord- 
 ing to prescribed formulas. The girl had a 
 great, strong, brave, loving heart, and her 
 thanksgivings were as warm as her plead- 
 ings had been passionate.
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 135 
 
 And then the blow had not come upon 
 them suddenly. They had both hoped ; had 
 travelled hither and thither, going from 
 one physician to another, ever looking for 
 better news than the last was able to give 
 them, for cheerier prospects than those that 
 more immediately lay before them. 
 
 But there had come a term to their 
 wanderings; there had come a day when 
 their little funds were well nigh exhausted, 
 and when hope was beginning to give way 
 to despair. 
 
 Then a great German physician whom 
 they had consulted had given them a note 
 to his distinguished countryman (that coun- 
 tryman who had either been expatriated, 
 or who had of his own free will become an 
 Englishman), and the Hepburns had come 
 to London and sought out Dr. Sternfels. 
 "If any man can cure you, he can," the 
 great German medicus had said, as he gave 
 the letter of introduction into Hepburn's 
 hand; and the poor man caught at the
 
 13G RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 straw of hope, and floated awhile longer on 
 the waters that should soon overwhelm him. 
 
 On Dr. Sternfels had devolved the pain- 
 ful task of telling the poor believer in his 
 skill, that in his case the cunning of an 
 operator's hand was useless. 
 
 Kindly cruel, Max Sternfels, after a 
 word or two of preparation, had uncom- 
 promisingly told his patient the definitive 
 truth, that he was hopelessly, incurably 
 blind ! 
 
 Perpetual night should be now his por- 
 tion ; eternal darkness and solitariness and 
 dependence his lot. And how should he 
 give his child bread? how gain enough to 
 keep body and soul together ? For he had 
 spent all his substance on doctors, but the 
 spending had been in vain ; and now, 
 cheated of his last hope, the only thing 
 that he saw was starvation, like some grim 
 spectre, staring him in the face. 
 
 But Grace kept a good heart, and in 
 spite of all things was not afraid.
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 137 
 
 They had remained in London. In truth 
 they knew not whither to go, and England's 
 earth held her for whom they had so lately 
 mourned. To Hepburn all places were now 
 of necessity alike. Relations they had none, 
 for it was years since he had heard any- 
 thing of his brother ; and the news which 
 he then learnt had been gathered by him 
 from a public journal. It told of his mar- 
 riage, some two years before Hepburn's own 
 wedding; and a year later he saw that 
 a child had been born to his brother at 
 Hepburn Manor. 
 
 His young wife had also no near rela- 
 tives. She had on the death of her mother 
 been sent to her uncle in Florence, and had 
 remained with him up to the time of her 
 marriage. After that, he too had died, 
 and all communication with England had 
 ceased. But young Mrs. Hepburn's child- 
 hood had been tended by a faithful nurse, 
 who had brought the child to Florence, 
 and given her into her uncle's hands, with
 
 138 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 many tears and lamentations, not unmixed 
 with recommendations and adjurations of 
 a warning character, which had completely 
 mystified the simple old man. He had, 
 indeed, begged the woman to stay with 
 him, offering any wages that she chose to 
 ask, and plaintively bewailing his ignorance 
 as to the requirements of children. But she 
 had refused all his offers, saying that if her 
 love for the child could not make her re- 
 main in foreign parts, no greed of gold 
 should do it. In truth the woman was a 
 rabid Protestant, and the sight of all the 
 papistry that surrounded her was alike 
 terrifying and exasperating to her outraged 
 feelings. The priests and monks and nuns ; 
 the processions and ceremonies, the pros- 
 trations, and genuflexions, and crossings, 
 were abominations in her sight, and un- 
 savoury in her nostrils. She regarded 
 every hour spent on Italian ground as im- 
 perilling the salvation of her soul; and if 
 she had known any formula for exorcising
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 139 
 
 the heathen mysteries she beheld with such 
 horror, all her time would have been spent 
 in seeking to counteract the evil influences 
 surrounding her. 
 
 " If that blessed lamb should turn to 
 heathen ways, the sin will be on your head, 
 sir, as I makes bold to say, which says it 
 as perhaps in other countries didn't ought." 
 
 The simple old artist soul had gazed 
 at her wonderingly, and had begun to re- 
 alise more sensibly than he had ever done 
 before the proverbial eccentricity of his 
 country people, descending even into this 
 grade of society. What she had said about 
 heathenism he supposed to apply in some 
 way to his Art, — to the nymphs and 
 goddesses, to the fauns and satyrs, and 
 naiads and dryads adorning his studio; 
 but he had entered into no argument with 
 the honest irrational woman before him, 
 contenting himself with promising to do 
 his best for his sister's orphan child. So 
 nurse had departed; and little Grace was
 
 140 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 left sitting amongst the marble blocks, gaz- 
 ing up at her uncle with mystified wonder 
 as he wielded hammer and chisel. 
 
 The old sculptor had never troubled 
 himself much about theology. Long cus- 
 tom had brought with it unconscious re- 
 verence for the forms of religion by which 
 he was surrounded ; and he raised his cap 
 reverently when processions passed him in 
 the street, and crossed himself with holy- 
 water as mechanically as the most ortho- 
 dox Catholic could have done, when he 
 went to mass. This, indeed, he did by no 
 means regularly; but at great festivals he 
 was always to be seen kneeling devoutly on 
 the marble pavement of the church of San 
 Paolo, which holy edifice he specially af- 
 fected because it was near his dwelling, and 
 further enjoyed the advantage of being de- 
 dicated to his own patron saint. 
 
 Every Sunday he made little Grace read 
 some chapters out of her English Bible to 
 him ; though to his ear, accustomed to the
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 141 
 
 sweet Italian tongue, our rude accents — 
 even from childish lips — appeared as in- 
 harmonious and unpolished as he declared 
 his fellow-countrymen's ideas on art to be. 
 After such readings, he regularly repeated 
 the same formula to the little golden-haired 
 maiden at his knee. " Thanks, my child. 
 Always read your Bible ; for you know Ave 
 are Protestants." Beyond this weekly pro- 
 testation, however, no evidence of the fact 
 would have been found in the good old 
 man's life; and to Grace the words con- 
 veyed no meaning whatever; for she had 
 not yet arrived at the age of inquiry. 
 Once, indeed, her uncle had taken her to 
 hear the English service read by a British 
 chaplain; but the result had not been satis- 
 factory. A man with a profusion of oily 
 hair, a signet-ring, a nasal twang, and a 
 sheet pinned round his neck with a hair- 
 pin by way of surplice, was not exactly an 
 object to inspire Grace with enthusiasm for 
 the religion of her forefathers ; and, in-
 
 142 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 deed, the poor old uncle was somewhat 
 abashed, when, the dreary function oyer, 
 lie found himself again in the sunny streets 
 with his pretty little niece. 
 
 He was quite unable to answer her 
 many questions, and was embarrassed at 
 tin ding himself so ignorant of Protestant- 
 ism. 
 
 " Do not let us go to mass at the Pro- 
 testant priest's again." little Grace had said. 
 in an innocent jumble of jargon ; and. in 
 truth, her reverent young soul had been 
 pained at the baldness, and meagreness, 
 and meanness of the manner of worship 
 in vogue amongst "Protestants." She did 
 not understand the wide gulf fixed between 
 the two forms, nor would she have been 
 able to comprehend how lost a sheep she 
 herself would have seemed to Protestant 
 eyes, could they have witnessed her mass- 
 goings. 
 
 The tender Virgin-mother and her beau- 
 tiful large-eyed Babe were objects of won-
 
 EETEOSPECTIVE. 143 
 
 der and delight to the little girl, as also 
 were all the graceful idolatries by which 
 she was surrounded. Yet, when the time 
 came that Warren Hepburn had already 
 laid his devotion at her feet (though as yet 
 he had not openly declared his love), it 
 was with a feeling of pride and pleasure 
 that, in answer to his observation, " I am 
 not a Roman Catholic," she had been able 
 to answer in the old formula, "And we 
 too are Protestants." It was like the fa- 
 mous Ed ancli io of the old painter. 
 
 "Wherein her Protestantism lay, Hep- 
 burn did not inquire. He had travelled 
 too much to be shocked at any differences 
 of form, or to be inclined to split straws 
 on shades of creed ; but he was glad that 
 the young girl held — so she declared — the 
 same faith as himself. It was the correct 
 thing. " All Englishmen," so Hepburn told 
 himself, "were Protestants. His father and 
 mother had been Protestants; he himself 
 was one; and it was good that his young
 
 144 .RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 wife should be one also.'' Thus they had 
 been married by an English clergyman, and 
 the question of religion once for ever laid 
 at rest between them. 
 
 In later days Grace had declared the 
 whitewash piety in vogue amongst the 
 " protesting' was abhorrent to her feelings, 
 and she had consequently declined, when in 
 England, attending the dreary gatherings 
 which were dignified by the name of "ser- 
 vices," and eschewed the privilege of " sit- 
 ting under" a gentleman whose flowery elo- 
 quence and Johnsonian periods were quite 
 beyond her simple comprehension. Again, 
 in still later days, the Anglican church 
 had gathered her into its fold once more, 
 and her last moments found consolation 
 in the ministrations of a holy man, whose 
 eloquence was of a simple character, and 
 whose periods were not Johnsonian. 
 
 Now that Grace, the daughter, was 
 alone with her father, she did not often 
 get to church; for, though Sunday was a
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 145 
 
 day of rest to her, she could not let it be 
 one of loneliness to him ; and nothing- 
 would have induced him to suffer himself 
 to be led out, an object of pity and cu- 
 riosity to the smart Sunday folks, in the 
 glare of noonday sunshine. Sometimes, of 
 course, Grace did leave him; but it was 
 when she knew that Herr Bender would 
 come up and spend the quiet Sunday morn- 
 ing with her father. 
 
 In the summer afternoons and even- 
 ings, when the days were long, she would 
 also occasionally escape, and go gliding 
 through the quiet streets in her dark dress, 
 feeling solitary and sad, as the family 
 groups passed her, or as she heard the gay 
 prattle of children, or the happy suppressed 
 laughter of young couples walking arm-in- 
 arm. Hers was a strange, lonely, self-con- 
 tained life ; and at such times the yearning 
 for her departed mother would arise in her 
 heart with a painful intensity of longing, 
 to which the only relief was in tears. She 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 14G RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 would walk homewards soothed and calmed 
 by the beautiful holy-day services, M'ith the 
 songs of the singing-boys still sounding 
 in her ears, and the beautiful altar-flowers 
 blooming again in her breast, in the form of 
 fervent thankofFerings for all that her life 
 still held dear. Through the dusky streets, 
 between the rows of dark houses, looking 
 up at the purple heavens, and gazing at the 
 stars, her heart full of memories, of hopes, 
 of courage, and high resolves, Grace would 
 walk. At such moments the world was 
 far from her, and she felt happy in her 
 abstraction. Even the strong earthly love 
 which beat quickly in her warm young 
 heart — even all her enthusiastic projects, nil 
 her devotion to art, all her courage and 
 eagerness, seemed to be sanctified in that 
 sacred hour to something higher and holier, 
 purer and more intense, than mere earthly 
 love and courage, devotion and enthusi- 
 asm, can of themselves be. Vague visions 
 of eternal beauty breathed on her soul;
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 147 
 
 but the eager eyes were downcast) and 
 the eager feet stayed; for she felt that 
 the place whereon she stood was holy 
 ground. 
 
 Coming home, she would find her father 
 waiting to walk with her round the quiet 
 squares ; and she would slip her arm within 
 his, and lead him gently forward into the 
 mild summer night. Then she would per- 
 haps tell him of the music which she had 
 heard, of the sermon, and of the glory and 
 dignity of the flower- crowned altar. At 
 such times she could speak warmly and 
 eagerly ; but her father listened, and made 
 no sign. His affliction was as yet too griev- 
 ous to him, and in silence he still rebelled 
 as fiercely as ever. 
 
 But in these short November days such 
 evening church-goings were impossible to 
 Grace; and seeing his ruffled frame of mind, 
 she had kept very much at home. 
 
 They had been living some time in Ros- 
 tock-crescent, and Grace often wondered if,
 
 14<S RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 after all their wanderings, she was destined 
 to live and die there. 
 
 Mrs. Boxer was no other than her nio- 
 thers old nurse — now a stout bustling 
 
 o 
 
 woman of nearly seventy, hale and hearty, 
 and with a kind heart beating in her ample 
 old bosom. She had never quite lost sight 
 of her young mistress; and when Mrs. 
 Hepburn came to England, she had sought 
 out her old nurse, who was then living at 
 Kensington, having married a market-gar- 
 dener. 
 
 But the market-gardening days were 
 now over, and Mrs. Boxer had come doAvn 
 in the world; her husband Avas dead, and 
 she lived by letting her small lodgings at 9 
 low rent, and by occasionally going out to 
 cook in great houses when extra hands 
 were wanted. 
 
 To have gone to such lodgings, and to 
 have been treated as lodgers ordinarily are 
 by the proprietors of such houses, would 
 have been torture to Grace's proud, scnsi-
 
 KE^KOSPECTIVE. 149 
 
 tive spirit, and wrath and fury unbounded 
 to her father's now irritable one. But Mrs. 
 Boxer could scarcely have treated them 
 with more respect had they spent a hun- 
 dred shillings where they demurred at 
 spending one. Her young mistress had 
 died in her arms, and now all the old 
 love and affection seemed to have de- 
 scended on the husband's and daughter's 
 heads. Thus Grace had much trouble and 
 drudgery taken off her hands ; and the 
 more she was able to do for them, the 
 greater and more fervent Avaxed Mrs. 
 Boxer's love for her lodgers. She was 
 particular that no noisy bachelors should 
 come to take up their abode in her par- 
 lour apartments, making night hideous 
 with their revelry, and themselves uproari- 
 ous by their libations. Herr Bender, it is 
 true, was a bachelor, but he was a quiet 
 bachelor, neither given to late hours, nor 
 to noisy companions, nor to strong drinks ; 
 he paid his way regularly, and had never
 
 150 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 owed his laundress anything. So, though 
 she objected as a rule to foreigners, she 
 had allowed this young man to take up 
 his abode beneath her orderly roof-tree, 
 and to set up his gods in peace. Of 
 what gods, and also of what goddesses, 
 he set up, we shall have presently to 
 speak; but for the present we will not 
 further occupy ourselves with those divi- 
 nities. 
 
 Thus a week passed, and Sunday came 
 round again. Grace, seated by the fire in 
 her best dress, a dark brown garment, 
 void of adornment, but fitting closely to 
 her lithe round figure, and finished by a 
 neat linen collar and cuffs, looked pale, 
 and a trifle sad. The weather was dark 
 and gloomy, and though it had ceased 
 to rain, the atmosphere was still murky. 
 There came so little change to this young 
 life, so little intercourse with the outer 
 world, that it was no wonder if at times 
 a certain stillness fell upon Grace, a cer-
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 151 
 
 tain numbness and dumbness, of which 
 she herself was painfully conscious, but 
 from which she found it impossible to 
 rouse herself. At such times she would 
 sit and wonder stupidly why she felt so 
 dull ; if other people, young girls of her 
 own age, ever felt so ; if she were des- 
 tined so to feel for ever ? It was not 
 discontent with her lot, nor was it a re- 
 bellion against the trials that had come 
 to overshadow her dark life ; it was more 
 a stagnation of power and will, a dead- 
 ness and numbness of energy and hope. 
 For, unlovely and ungraceful as her life 
 may seem to us, Grace, in her healthy 
 moments, was still full of hopes and as- 
 pirations. But to-day even thought was 
 a trouble to her, and her mind refused 
 to think, or in any way to do active 
 duty. 
 
 "You are going to church to-day, 
 Miss Grace ?" said Mrs. Boxer, as she 
 opened the window, and shook the crumbs
 
 1 52 EETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 off the table-cloth into the dingy little 
 garden below. 
 
 " I think not, nurse." 
 
 Grace said " nurse '' from habit, as her 
 mother also had done up to the day of 
 her death, and the old woman's heart 
 rejoiced in the fond name. 
 
 " You didn't ought to let Miss Grace 
 sit so much at home, sir.'' 
 
 Mr. Hepburn, thus attacked, did not 
 know what to say, and therefore wisely 
 kept silence. 
 
 " I really do not care to go, nurse," 
 I J race answered listlessly. 
 
 " But you ought to care, Miss ; you'd 
 be all the cheerfuler for a brisk walk, and 
 it never did any one harm to go to church 
 yet," 
 
 " I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. 
 Hepburn smiling, and now speaking for 
 the first time. 
 
 "But I am not going, papa.'' 
 
 "It would do you good, Miss Grace
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 153 
 
 even though you don't think it a duty, 
 and the walk would bring some colour 
 into your cheek, which is not like a young 
 lady's, but as pale as any poor factory 
 girl's." 
 
 " Are you pale, Grace ? Do you feel 
 ill?" 
 
 "I am never very rosy, papa; and as 
 to being ill — well, I am as well as usual." 
 
 The listless weariness of Grace's voice 
 could not but strike her father. 
 
 " You must go to church," he said, 
 with sudden inconsistency. " Mrs. Boxer 
 is right; it is a duty." 
 
 " Which, not meaning any offence, is 
 likewise my opinion, sir." 
 
 " It will do me no good, papa," 
 
 "I am not so sure of that," said Mr. 
 Hepburn for the second time, and in seem- 
 ing contradiction to his first expressed 
 doubts on the subject. 
 
 " I would rather stay with you, papa." 
 
 " And I had rather you went out. No
 
 154 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 one will have an opportunity of offering 
 you an umbrella to-day, for it is not rain- 
 ing ; and no one will venture to speak to 
 you if you carry a prayer-book in your 
 hand, and look as though you were going 
 to church." 
 
 Grace blushed. Her father had not 
 yet forgotten the umbrella episode ; and 
 yet his remembrance of it was not the 
 cause of her blushing. She had private 
 reasons (or feelings) of her own for colour- 
 ing-up like a rosebud at the allusion. But 
 even now, though Mrs. Boxer's eyes were 
 fixed on her in surprise, she would not let 
 her father run away with a wrong opinion, 
 reasserting it until it assumed all the sta- 
 bility of positive fact in his mind. 
 
 "The offering of that umbrella was not 
 rudely meant," she said, " nor was it imper- 
 tinently done. I was foolish not to mention 
 it to you at the time ; but it was also very 
 stupid of Herr Bender to speak of it in the 
 way he did."
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 155 
 
 "I do not see that, my dear; but I 
 have observed that you are often unjust to 
 Herr Bender ; that you do not like him." 
 
 Grace blushed again, this time some- 
 what conscience-stricken. " I know he is 
 very clever, and very good and kind, papa; 
 but I hate that abstracted, dreamy, senti- 
 mental sort of people. Herr Bender would 
 be much more admirable in my eyes, if he 
 made clocks and watches, and useful in- 
 struments, instead of elaborating all sorts 
 of speculative, useless, imaginary theories, 
 and impossible abstract ideas." 
 
 "You are very unreasonable, then. 
 The man is a deep thinker, and has read 
 much and well. His sort is only to be 
 found in Germany ; and though such men 
 would not do for active life, yet they too 
 are of use in their generation." 
 
 "I do not care for people who bury 
 their talents in a napkin," said Grace. 
 
 " I do not think he can be fairly said to 
 bury his talents in a napkin. He is skilful
 
 1"><) RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 and industrious in his metier, bringing all 
 liis knowledge and varied information to 
 bear on new discoveries and new ideas. 
 The peculiar kind of learning which he pos- 
 sesses would not qualify him for any of the 
 learned professions, even were these open 
 to him. His knowledge is too varied, and 
 his studies too miscellaneous, to be of much 
 practical use to him. But long before his 
 father died, he was forced to adopt his pre- 
 sent calling ; and, as far as I see, is satisfied 
 with it." 
 
 " Surely it is a pity that so much ta- 
 lent should be wasted." 
 
 " I do not think that it may fairly be 
 called wasted. Sternfels himself has often 
 told me, that without Bender many of his 
 most brilliant discoveries and useful inven- 
 tions would never have existed. It seems 
 to me that immense patience and scrupu- 
 lous perseverance are qualities not often 
 found united with keen intelligence and 
 modest industry."
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 157 
 
 " papa, what a partisan you are !" 
 "0 Grace, what a prejudiced person 
 you are !" 
 
 " Not prejudiced, only just." 
 " Not just — only — ungenerous." 
 Again Grace blushed, for the third time 
 this morning; but Mrs. Boxer, finding the 
 conversation soaring beyond the regions in 
 which she ordinarily dwelt, had long since 
 departed with the tablecloth ; and so Grace 
 blushed "unseen," and without any special 
 vexation. 
 
 " As you are going to church, I will ask 
 Bender to come up and have a chat with 
 me." 
 
 "Am I going?" 
 " It will do you good." 
 " Very well, papa, if you think so, I 
 will go." 
 
 When Grace came into the room again 
 to kiss her father before going out, Herr 
 Bender already sat by the fire warming his 
 delicate hands. He was talking eagerly,
 
 158 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 and there was a bright spot on each cheek. 
 As Grace opened the door, he turned his 
 head, and sprang quickly to his feet, with 
 some muttered apology for having drawn 
 his chair so unceremoniously near the fire ; 
 " and for talking so loud," he added; " but 
 I thought Mr. Hepburn told me you had 
 already gone to church." 
 
 '■ Not gone — only going ; but pray do 
 not apologise," said Grace, with a feeble 
 attempt at cordiality in her manner. 
 
 She could not bear loud talking, and he 
 knew it. But altogether there was some- 
 thing apologetic and deprecatory in his 
 manner towards her. He felt that she did 
 not like him — that he was there on suffer- 
 ance — that he was endured for her father's 
 sake, not liked for his own. Grace was 
 always polite to him, but never cordial. 
 He coidd not account to himself for the 
 knowledge of her feelings. In such cases 
 these things are instinctively felt; we all 
 know where we are liked and loved; and
 
 RETKOSPECTIVE. 159 
 
 in the sunny atmosphere of affection and 
 sympathy we open and expand, offering all 
 the flowers and perfumes of our glowing 
 hearts in return for the genial kindly rays 
 of warmth that have shone upon them. 
 We all feel instinctively the dislike that is 
 not spoken, nor even hinted at, much less 
 positively expressed ; we shiver and with- 
 draw into ourselves, like a sensitive plant 
 at the rude touch of man ; all perfume is 
 gone ; the blast has passed over us, and left 
 us cold and withered, shrinking and co- 
 lourless, and with a feeling of chill pain 
 at our hearts, that makes us resentfully 
 dumb. 
 
 Herr Bender stood holding the back of 
 his chair, conscious of such a chill, and 
 speaking in a tone of voice that told of 
 some inward suppressed pain. She stood 
 opposite to him, with her beautiful, proud, 
 pale face and her great clear gray-blue 
 eyes ; and all the time he was longing, 
 passionately longing, to throw himself at
 
 1 60 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 her feet with a wild, insane cry of love and 
 adoration, that made his heart beat by its 
 very temerity. But Grace saw none of tlii>: 
 and it was well for him that she did not. 
 
 "I am going, father; good-bye;" and 
 she stooped down to kiss him, buttoning 
 her glove at the same time, whilst she held 
 her prayer-book under her arm. 
 
 " Do not be so resigned, my dear." 
 
 " One must be, to the inevitable." 
 
 " Fancy a young lady going to a bon- 
 net-show, and talking of her fate as inevit- 
 able !" said Mr. Hepburn to Bender. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Hepburn despises bonnets. 
 perhaps." 
 
 "No, I do not despise bonnets; I even 
 like looking at those which are pretty, and 
 go so far, occasionally, as to wish one or 
 the other, more especially becoming, were 
 mine." 
 
 Here would have been a tine opportu- 
 nity for Bender to pay her some ingenious 
 compliment about " unadorned beauty,*'
 
 EETROSPECTIVE. 161 
 
 &c. &c. ; but no such glib words came to 
 his tongue. He simply stood gazing at her 
 with eyes that were moody, and a heart 
 full of passion, and the sense of his own 
 folly bitterly strong within him. 
 
 " Good-bye, child." 
 
 " Good-bye, papa." 
 
 "Pray for us." (Us!) 
 
 u If the bonnets Avill let me." 
 
 " Well, they may well prove too much 
 for your philosophy — by all accounts," 
 added Hepburn, with something between a 
 smile and a sigh. 
 
 " Or rather, for my religion. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 She was gone ! Perhaps, on the whole, 
 it was a relief to him. The pain was so 
 acute, the pleasure so doubtful, that many 
 a time and often he had sworn to himself 
 he would keep away and see her face no 
 more, lest the sweet madness within him 
 should betray itself, and he be banished 
 for ever from the light of her presence. But 
 
 VOL. i. m
 
 1G2 
 
 IMTUOSPECTIYi:. 
 
 for such wounds as these, neither time nor 
 absence are healers. Away from her, lie 
 thought continually of her; of every trick 
 of her face, of every tone of her voice, of 
 every turn of her head, of the touch of her 
 hand, of her hair and her dress, of the 
 little white collar round her throat, of her 
 graceful movements and quiet ways. He 
 would sit in the little parlour below, listen- 
 ing for her step overhead; he would pic- 
 ture her to himself sitting on her little low 
 chair, her hands busy with needlework, or 
 holding a book in them, so that the glim- 
 mering firelight fell on the pages, while she 
 read her father to sleep in the twilight. 
 He saw her coming and going; he knew 
 when she was busy in her little garret 
 painting industriously by the dim light of 
 the short winter's day ; and then he felt as 
 though she were very far off. But when 
 she came down the little rickety wooden 
 staircase, and went into her room to wash 
 her hands, he was glad again, and his
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 163 
 
 ears listened eagerly for every movement 
 above. 
 
 When she went to bed, and when she 
 got up, he knew ; and when she knelt 
 down to say her prayers, he knew it also. 
 Reverently he would bow his head in his 
 hands, and sit silently awaiting the mo- 
 ment when her step would again tell of 
 her finished devotions. The great gulf be- 
 tween them was ever present to him. But 
 this did not prevent him from being bit- 
 terly, passionately jealous. Some unde- 
 fined feeling of this kind had made him 
 speak of the young man who had sheltered 
 her under his umbrella ; and the satisfac- 
 tion he had imbibed from her father's 
 angry reproof was by no means incompa- 
 tible with the deep love he bore her. He 
 knew the folly of it ; he, who would 
 scarcely have dared to touch the hem of 
 her garment, who trembled when her dress, 
 in passing by, swept against him ; who lost 
 all presence of mind in her presence, and
 
 164 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 became a low-born, ill-bred man of the 
 people before her calm, quiet grace ; he 
 knew that he could never speak of his 
 love ; never tell her of it ; never hope that 
 she would listen ; never dream that she 
 could return it. And yet he loved her; 
 loved her so intensely, that he was, as 
 Heine says, "though unloved, a god;" for 
 all things had a touch divine for him in 
 those days ; and her voice was like hea- 
 venly music, and her laughter like celestial 
 melody. 
 
 As he drew his chair near the fire 
 again, he resumed, with a violent effort, 
 the thread of the conversation where it 
 had been dropped, reserving all sweeter 
 thoughts for solitary moments. 
 
 Grace, who, for a second had awakened 
 to something like vivacity, was now walk- 
 ing along the New Road weighed down by 
 the nameless oppression which so stead- 
 fastly beset her. She looked neither to the 
 right nor to the left ; the outer world had
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 165 
 
 vanished ; she Avas again communing with 
 her own heart, and walking on through the 
 long, ugly, half-deserted streets like one in 
 a dream.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MAX STERNEELS. 
 
 R. STERNFELS sat in his study 
 with Bender's calculations be- 
 fore him. He was deep in 
 thought ; not in personal thought, but 
 travelling after that idea which had taken 
 him to the young mechanician's house, en- 
 deavouring to trace it back to its source, 
 and to dive down into the mysterious 
 depths of the well at the bottom of which 
 he hoped to find the truth he was seeking, 
 the first faint glimmering of which had 
 suggested the calculations he held in his 
 hand, and at which he from time to time 
 glanced, as though the numbers were sign- 
 posts to guide him on his way. He had
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 167 
 
 given the hopes of his youth, the strength 
 of his manhood, the earnest, enduring love 
 of his heart, the energy of his soul, to 
 Science. He had given her the best powers 
 of his mind, and he was also minded to give 
 to her all the rest of his life. He had no 
 place for the smaller affections, the more 
 personal interests, the petty objects that till 
 out, and make the sum and substance of 
 other men's lives. To his love for mankind 
 he sacrificed all closer attachments, as from 
 man to man, all more genial friendships. 
 In his devotion to science, the love of 
 woman was forgotten. He had no time, 
 no place for such things ; and, indeed, he 
 felt no want of the more intimate affec- 
 tions, of the graceful tendernesses of life. 
 
 All that had been sacrificed long ago. 
 He had, in his early youth, also dreamt his 
 short dream of romance, but that was long, 
 long ago now; forgotten except as a fact (and 
 Dr. Sternfels never forgot facts), but incapa- 
 ble of arousing the slightest emotion in him
 
 1G8 MAX STKRXFELS. 
 
 at this distance of time ; unless, perhaps, a 
 
 passing emotion of gratitude that he should 
 have escaped a fate which would have been 
 so uncongenial to him and so fatal to his 
 pursuits. He was a man who never wasted 
 time in vain regrets. He made up his 
 mind to a plan ofaciion, persevered in 
 it, battled with the enemy, overcame it r 
 and finally conquered, or — was conquered. 
 But the latter contingency did not often 
 occur; for Dr. Sternfels was not a man to 
 undertake anything that was likely to beat 
 him in the long-run. Baffled he might 
 be, and often Avas, but never discouraged,, 
 never convinced that success was impossr 
 ble to him, until his understanding clearly 
 told him that he was finally defeated. He 
 was a man who, at a superficial glance, 
 appeared incapable of any enthusiasm. I 
 doubt whether any one had ever seen hiin 
 enthusiastic on any subject; I do not be- 
 lieve that he ever lost that well-balanced, 
 well-assured manner which seemed to re-
 
 MAX STEKNFELS. 160 
 
 move liim so far from common men. He 
 appeared cold, unsympathetic ; one felt 
 that he looked over the heads of the units, 
 over hundreds of thousands, and that his 
 gaze did not rest longer on the one than on 
 the other. 
 
 Let us look at him whilst he sits at 
 his writing-table, unconscious of our gaze. 
 First a general impression, and then a 
 more detailed analysis. The figure is 
 somewhat above the middle height ; broad- 
 shouldered, deep-chested, and remarkable 
 for the smallness of its delicate hands. 
 (Of his skill as an operator many a poor 
 wretch could tell.) The face is dark, and 
 healthily pale. The general impression is 
 one of self-reliance, energy, strength, and 
 an indomitable will. Look at the face 
 more narrowly; watch its changes of ex- 
 pression ; and you will find reasons for 
 all your general impressions, and see that 
 they are in the main correct. The head 
 is beautifully formed, and covered with
 
 170 MAX STERXFELS. 
 
 thick, closely curling, short, dark hair ; 
 the forehead is remarkably full and wide; 
 the nose is slightly aquiline, with nervous, 
 sensitive nostrils ; the eyes are gray — cold, 
 clear, and bright; the mouth is perfectly 
 formed — not too small, and expressive of 
 immense determination ; the short upper 
 lip, and firmly modelled chin, which is 
 cleft in the centre — as one often sees in an- 
 tique statues — gives a certain air of pride 
 to the face. Regular features are apt to 
 he hard, and are always cold unless soft- 
 ened by mobility of expression or by very 
 beautiful and brilliant colouring. Dr. Stern- 
 fel's face was redeemed from hardness by 
 the wonderful flexibility of his features, 
 but it was a cold face for all that ; not 
 proud, or haughty, or contemptuous, but 
 still scarcely sympathetic; suggestive of 
 immense self-control on the one hand, and 
 a want of enthusiasm on the other. When 
 he smiled, one saw that his teeth were 
 regular and white ; but he smiled rarely.
 
 MAX STEKNFELS. 171 
 
 for his occupations were for the most part 
 of a grave nature, and the turn of his mind 
 not jocular. Humour he possessed abund- 
 antly ; but he relieved himself of the pos- 
 session so gravely that few people surmised 
 the fact. His own relish, however, of the 
 shots he occasionally fired off was much 
 heightened by often seeing that those he had 
 hit did not even know they were wounded. 
 He was patient, grave, earnest, minutely 
 conscientious in whatever he undertook. 
 He would be as scrupulously careful in the 
 treatment of an insignificant case of illness, 
 such as any country apothecary could easily 
 have cured, as he would be by the bedside 
 of some terrible example of the obscure and 
 horrible sufferings to which our poor hu- 
 man flesh is heir. But one instinctively 
 felt that as soon as the relationship of doc- 
 tor and patient ceased, all other relation- 
 ship would cease also. The disease gone, 
 the doctor disappeared. He had no time to 
 waste in mere personal friendships ; and he
 
 172 MAX STERNFELS. 
 
 would not rob suffering humanity for his 
 own selfish ends or private gratification. 
 Jhit, in truth, he had no want of these 
 tilings, as we have seen ; and therefore 
 the renunciation, which would have cost 
 many men much, cost him nothing. He 
 went into no sort of society. "Art is long," 
 he would say, in answer to remonstrances 
 on the point, "and Science is longer still; 
 but Life is terribly short." 
 
 "How can you pay so much attention 
 to such a trifling malady?" an acquaintance 
 had once asked him in reference to some 
 very simple case of illness. 
 
 " In paying attention to trifling things." 
 he answered, " the greatest truths have 
 been stumbled upon. I may discover some- 
 thing that shall be an eternal boon to hu- 
 man nature by this scrupulous attention to 
 trifles in which you find so much to ridi- 
 cule." 
 
 He was a man of iron frame and iron 
 will, and everything about him betokened
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 173 
 
 strength, power, and determination. In 
 fashionable drawing-rooms and boudoirs he 
 was unknown. " I have not time to change 
 my gloves a dozen times a day," he an- 
 swered, when a celebrated physician pointed 
 out to him how large a fortune he might 
 realise by settling in a fashionable quar- 
 ter of the town. " I find men and women 
 enough in the hospitals who require my 
 care ; the ladies and gentlemen are safer 
 with you." 
 
 The fashionable physician had laughed 
 a sleek, prosperous laugh, and perhaps in 
 his heart of hearts agreed with the young 
 enthusiast, who preferred studying science 
 and making discoveries by hospital pallets, 
 to sitting on satin couches and feelino; the 
 pulses of hysterical ladies. 
 
 It was impossible but that such a man 
 should have a certain roughness of man- 
 ner. He was never rude, never coarse, 
 never personal ; but he did not wrap-up 
 his words in delicate tissue-paper, nor did
 
 174 MAX STERN'FELS. 
 
 he polish his periods and disguise his real 
 opinions beneath a flimsy veil of conven- 
 tionality. 
 
 He had many friend-; but they were 
 
 all amongst the poorer, or more correctly 
 speaking the poorest, of the toilers in tin- 
 great city. Down by the river-side, among 
 courts reeking with typhus, and alleys pes- 
 tilential with small-pox and cholera, he 
 walked fearlessly and unscathed. The poor 
 toy-makers and watch-makers, the orange- 
 women and street-hawkers, the working 
 jewellers and small instrument - makers, 
 they all knew him. Of these, and such as 
 these, he never took afee; yet none of them 
 ever hesitated to send for him in their neces- 
 sity, and no one of them ever experienced 
 the slightest impatience, or the shadow of 
 a shade of neglect at his hands. 
 
 He felt deeply the honour of his calling. 
 He recognised the immense power that Lay 
 in his hands to alleviate the torments, the 
 agonies, the weaknesses of suffering human-
 
 MAX STEEXFELS. 175 
 
 ity. There was something god-like in this 
 gift of healing ; something elevating and 
 inspiriting, yet serious, in the mighty re- 
 sponsibility laid upon him. He was not a 
 religious man. He had but one love, one 
 yearning, one joy, one hope, and that was 
 in his calling. 
 
 Peril aps to him might be revealed a re- 
 medy for maladies looked upon hitherto 
 as incurable. Perchance in his blind, yet 
 eager, gropings he might stumble on some 
 dark mass which should prove to hold the 
 diamond he was seeking. Possibly, in his 
 patient researches, in his untiring perse- 
 verance, a spark of divine truth should 
 one clay flash into sudden light, revealing 
 to him a hidden treasure, the discovery of 
 which should alleviate the sufferings or 
 cure the diseases of all after-ages. Men of 
 science knew and respected his name as 
 a great authority. Himself they could 
 scarcely be said to know, except in so far as 
 a common object threw them together. His
 
 176 MAX STERNFELS. 
 
 own countrymen, the very men Avho had 
 disclaimed and fought shy of him in the 
 common Fatherland, began to speak of him 
 with a certain pride, with the pride of 
 possession, saying, "He also is one of us." 
 For his part, he laughed at any such tri- 
 bute; saying, that a prophet was always 
 without honour in his own country; and 
 that he therefore preferred the land of his 
 adoption. Great men may say anything; 
 and now that his star was in the ascendant, 
 his fellow-countrymen did not quarrel with 
 him for laughing at that Yaterland for 
 which he once was eager to shed his warm 
 young blood. Then, they would have 
 handcuffed his skilful fingers, and impri- 
 soned his science in a gloomy cell. Now? 
 — but it is only the old story — autres temps, 
 dutres moeurs. Dr. Sternfels was successful, 
 and he laughed; but how many of the un- 
 successful are there not, whose curses are 
 deep and bitter over similar wrongs ? 
 
 It sometimes so happened that learned
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 177 
 
 professors coming from Germany, would 
 bring letters of introduction to their dis- 
 tinguished countryman, or failing such 
 letters, would present themselves at his 
 door, sending in a card and some compli- 
 mentary message. He whom they sought 
 never refused them admittance. He would 
 patiently carry them about with him to 
 hospitals and dissecting rooms, to blind 
 asylums and prisons and lunatic asylums, 
 bearing with their helplessness, and acting 
 willingly as their interpreter. But let them 
 begin (as they generally would after a short 
 time) to speak of politics, he immediately 
 cut them short, declaring that he had no 
 time for such matters, and that he was as 
 ignorant of the subject as he was of the 
 mysteries of stocking-knitting. Then, if 
 pressed by his friends on the subject (with 
 a want of tact not uncommon amongst 
 those of their nation), he would laugh, 
 saying with good-natured irony, " When I 
 was a child, I spoke and thought and acted 
 vol. i. N
 
 178 MAX STEENFELS. 
 
 as a child ; but now that I am a man, 1 
 have put away childish things." 
 
 " But, my dear sir, the liberties of the 
 peoj3le — a united fatherland — consider the 
 immense importance, &c. &c. — " 
 
 " Liberty," the Doctor would reply, " is 
 a very good thing ; but entre nous, my most 
 highly-estimated over-counsellor of medi- 
 cine, I agree with Heine, and think that 
 whilst we Englishmen love liberty like a 
 lawful wife, and our fiery neighbours across 
 the Channel as though she were a beautiful 
 bride, you Germans love her as though she 
 were but an old grandmother !" 
 
 Then his visitors would generally be 
 silent, seeing that in revenue for their hav- 
 ing expatriated him, the Doctor had come 
 to look upon his adopted country as his 
 own ; that is to say, that he preferred his 
 step-mother to his step-fatherland, since 
 the former left him at liberty, whereas the 
 latter would fain have bound him fast in 
 chains of misery and iron.
 
 1TAX STERXFELS. 179 
 
 To such a man as this a wife would 
 have been an encumbrance. He could not 
 have served two mistresses ; he loved 
 Science, and clave to her, finding* that love 
 all-sufficing. 
 
 Sterne says, that in pursuing his literary 
 avocations he was always obliged to have 
 some Dulcinea in his head — that "it har- 
 monised his soul." If Doctor Sternfels ever 
 •carried a lady in his head, it was from less 
 romantic causes ; and his mind's eye did 
 not see the fair-one's charms, but only 
 her maladies, only her physical defects, ail- 
 ments, and infirmities ; she was simply Case 
 No. 3 in his memorandum-book, with some- 
 thing painful to be cured. He could not 
 say, as Alfieri did of the Countess of Al- 
 bany, " instead of proving, as other women 
 have formerly done, a hindrance to me, she 
 has given me a higher incentive than has 
 ever yet been presented to me to pursue 
 the path of duty." Since that " impossible 
 she" did not exist, nay, did not even flash
 
 ISO MAX STKRNFELS. 
 
 across his imagination as a " possibility" 
 which might some day exist, and come to 
 usurp the place of Science, and to replace 
 labour with love. 
 
 If to labour be, as the old Latin pro- 
 verb says it is, also to pray, then Dr. Stern- 
 fel's life was indeed a prayerful one. He 
 scarceh' rested from bis labours day or night, 
 and work was to him a sort of religion. 
 
 His youth had been a stormy one; but 
 of his youth he never spoke, unless it mini it 
 be in some caustic allusion to the follies 
 that had then filled his brain. That much- 
 abused word, ' liberty,' had caused most of 
 his misfortunes. Young blood is easily in- 
 toxicated, and young heads feel quickly the 
 fumes of strong drink. He was too full 
 of energy, of life, of generous ardour and 
 impulse, to sit down quietly and feel the 
 pulses of village crones, or prescribe black 
 draughts for beer-drinking boors, when his 
 country was agitated by such violent throes 
 as shook her to the very centre.
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 181 
 
 His mother — a proud, obstinate woman, 
 then in the pride of life, and endowed with 
 a beauty and spirit of which her son's 
 energy and strength were but a later 
 edition — had laid her commands upon 
 the fiery youth, and had forbidden him 
 to take part in any of the political de- 
 monstrations of the day. With her great 
 glowing black eyes kindling ominously be- 
 neath the bent brows, she had warned him 
 what the consequences of his disobedience 
 would be. She had led his betrothed aside, 
 and had talked and argued, threatened and 
 denounced, till the timid shallow-natured 
 girl had trembled before her, and then, 
 bursting into torrents of helpless tears, 
 had promised to do her bidding — to seek 
 to win her lover from his wild visions, and 
 to discourage in his aspirations the ardent 
 young dreamer of dreams. 
 
 " See," his mother had added, when, 
 mollified by the girl's submission, she had 
 thought fit somewhat to soften her tone —
 
 182 MAX STERNFELS. 
 
 "see, is there not food and raiment enough 
 for all of us? and have we not flocks and 
 herds on our farms, and goodly store of 
 wheat and barley garnered into our barns? 
 Have we not linen enough, and to spare, 
 for the two households ? and is not the 
 pasture-fa nil there for thee and Max? And 
 after the summer fair," the mother had 
 added, "there need be no further delay, 
 Lina, and thou canst don the matrons 
 cap. 
 
 Then Lina had blushed ; but she wept 
 no more, and knitted the tears that had 
 already fallen from her bright blue eyes 
 into the stocking over which she was busy. 
 
 Later that evening, as the mother and 
 future daughter-in-law sat by the stove, the 
 dark-eyed, imperious elder woman begun 
 again on the subject which, while it irri- 
 tated her. she seemed never able to let 
 alone. 
 
 " See, Lina," she said, " how foolish 
 Max is." His betrothed dared not dissent
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 183 
 
 openly from this opinion, though in her 
 heart she resented the words bitterly. " I 
 married his father at eighteen ; at twenty- 
 two I was a widow. I have farmed the 
 land myself, and have spun and laid-by 
 linen and gold. I have never thought of 
 marrying again. I have lived for my son. 
 And now my son is ungrateful to me ; he 
 is disobedient and rebellious, and does not 
 listen to my words. I have had suitors 
 enough," she continued proudly; "but I 
 have never smiled on one of them. Some 
 of them told me that it was for love of 
 my bright eyes that they wooed me ; but I 
 knew that my bright eyes, without money 
 and lands to back them, would never have 
 given them a heart-ache. Others, more 
 sincere, — or, perhaps, more courageous, — 
 pointed out how advantageous it would be 
 for both parties that our lands should be 
 joined. ' I have had one husband for love,' 
 I said to them ; ' and I will never take ano- 
 ther for money.' And so I have kept faith-
 
 184 MAX STERNFELS. 
 
 fill to my Max's memory, and done my 
 duty by his child." 
 
 The knitting-needles clicked, and there 
 was a pause in the dimly-lighted room; for 
 Lina held her future mother-in-law in great 
 awe, and scarcely knew what to say. 
 
 " Why is Max so unlike his father?" the 
 angry mother went on. " I ask thee, what 
 does he mean? Is it natural that he should 
 leave his betrothed to go away for months 
 at a time to the towns ? To stud)- medicine, 
 forsooth ! As if people have not been dying 
 from the beginning of the world, and will go 
 on dying to the end of it, in spite of all the 
 science, and the universities, and the disco- 
 veries, and inventions, and charlatans, and 
 quacks ! He who cannot be cured by 
 herbs and fasting, by pure water and fresh 
 air, by good milk and wholesome food, and 
 early hours and a quiet conscience, will 
 never be cured. But it is simply a pre- 
 text. He wishes to be a fine gentleman ; 
 he scorns to follow the plough ; he despises
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 185 
 
 the station in which God has placed him ; 
 and he keeps his hands white in kid gloves, 
 and wears town-made clothes ! I ask thee," 
 pursued the angry woman, " is it at all 
 likely that he loves thee ? Should he not 
 prefer thy society to all else in the world ? 
 My Max would have shared the hardest lot 
 with me rather than the grandest with any 
 other woman ; and is the lot so hard that 
 his son would have with thee, my niece? 
 But my patience is at an end. When he 
 comes we will open a new chapter; and all 
 the worse for him if the story that we then 
 read be not a pleasant one." 
 
 When Max came home, fresh reproaches, 
 new accusations, more tyrannical orders, 
 awaited him from his mother. He should 
 leave the university; he should cut his old 
 friends ; his voice should be heard no more 
 in the debating clubs ; he should resign the 
 profession he had chosen ; he should come 
 home and till the ground, and watch the 
 flocks and herds, and marry Lina, and lead
 
 18G MAX STERNFELS, 
 
 a life of pastoral delight — or — Ah! foolish 
 mother! could you not see that all the 
 energy, all the pride, all the decision of the 
 heart you were trying to quell, would rise 
 ii]) in bitter rebellion against threats? — or 
 she would disinherit him, she would nul- 
 lum, and the land which had been his fore- 
 fathers' should go to a stranger, and an 
 alien should reap the harvests from the fer- 
 tile fields ! 
 
 On the one side, everything to gain ; 
 on the other, nothing to lose. But every 
 generous heart will sacrifice self-interest to 
 noble impulses. Max had looked at his 
 mother for an instant in silence, and whilst 
 so looking, his face hardened and darkened. 
 and his final resolution was taken. Yet 
 even then he looked at her with an admi- 
 ration that took the place of anguish, or 
 tenderness, or remorse. "What a grand 
 woman she is!" he thought to himself. 
 whilst her black eyes were flashing fire ; 
 c - but she belongs to another generation."
 
 civ, 
 
 i 
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 187 
 
 Then lie had left her, and sought consola- 
 tion with his betrothed. Lina was spin- 
 ning. At first she was silent, then cross, 
 then coy, and finally, being of too simple a 
 nature to carry on any fine strategy, she 
 burst into tears, and began to reproach her 
 loyer so violently and so indiscriminately, 
 that Max attempted no refutation, 
 simply gazed on her with wonder. By 
 grees he began half-chidingly to coax her) 
 as one coaxes some angry child, but she 
 repelled his caresses. 
 
 " Thou dost not love me," she sobbed; 
 '• thy mother says so. Thou apest the fine 
 gentleman, and despisest the simple girl 
 who knows none of the arts of thy town 
 dames. Thou art a rebel, and disloyal to 
 thy sovereign ; thou goest with base men, 
 and art never seen at church ; thou talkest 
 seditious talk, and art the companion of 
 vagabonds ; thou art an ungrateful son, 
 and a faithless lover." 
 
 Alas, poor Lina ! Here were two women,
 
 188 MAX STERXFKLS. 
 
 both loving the same man in different ways, 
 but with equal intensity; and yet they 
 neither of them had the wit to see that they 
 were driving him to do the very deeds they 
 most apprehended and condemned. All 
 Lima's little self-love had been wounded by 
 the mother's taunts, and the sting was still 
 there pricking her on to unreasonable anger. 
 "Lina," said Max, very gravely, "you 
 are angry now, but still you know that you 
 are unjust and untrue. I have loved you, 
 and you only ; but the beginning and end 
 of a man's life is not fulfilled in this" (he 
 did not say Alpha and Omega — he wished 
 the poor, angry, simple girl to understand 
 every word). "I have other aspirations and 
 a nobler ambition than vegetating among 
 pigs and sheep. Wilt thou share my 
 hopes? Wilt thou sympathise in my 
 ambition ? Shall we be one soul as well 
 as one flesh? Canst thou set aside thyself 
 for a greater object and a grander aim 
 than thy personal ease and content ? Then,
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 189 
 
 Lina, thou shalt never have cause to say, 
 I do not love thee. Nay, thou thyself wilt 
 love me more for that worldly interests 
 could not sway my convictions from east 
 to west, from north to south. See, Lina ! 
 my mother is hard upon me ; thou must 
 soften her. Thou art gentle and tender, 
 thou must be the bond of union between 
 us, and my consolation in the dark hour." 
 
 But Lina made no answer. Half of 
 what he had said she had not understood ; 
 to the other half she had not listened. She 
 was still smarting under the sense of her 
 own troubles, and had no sympathy for 
 those of her lover. She thought, to use a 
 familiar expression, that "it served him 
 right;" and in her stupid little head she 
 made up her mind not to smile upon him 
 until he had begged her pardon. 
 
 But to beg her pardon was not a part 
 of Max's programme. He knew his Virgil ; 
 but all the rural delights of all the ancients 
 and moderns would not have tempted him
 
 190 MAX STEBHTFBLS. 
 
 to relinquish the path he bad chosen. Bu- 
 colic pastimes and pastoral pleasures had 
 no attractions for him; and whilst Phyllis 
 was accusing him ofbeing a faithless swain, 
 Corydon was laying down the law to her 
 in a quasi-marital manner, irritating in the 
 extreme to the weeping shepherdess. 
 
 Disappointed and chilled, he left her to 
 the enjoyment of her sulks, and had gone 
 out, and crossed the wood at the back of 
 the house, and climbed the hill to the next 
 village. There, with the schoolmaster, the 
 publican, two tailors, and a elockmaker, he 
 had soothed his angry soul with music ; 
 and had returned home by moonlight in a 
 philosophic frame of mind, which he had 
 sworn to himself nothing should more dis- 
 turb. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. Lina had 
 dressed herself with extra care ; she was 
 cheerful even gay, meaning Max to see 
 
 CD J > O 
 
 that it was not her intention to wear the 
 willow on his account. But Max felt that a
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 191 
 
 momentous period of his life had come, and 
 Lina's blue eyes and silky plaits were less 
 attractive to him than on former occasions. 
 He was deep in thought, and in no wise 
 disposed to dance now to her piping. They 
 all went to church together ; but there was 
 no gay talk on the road, either going or 
 coming. Lina saw there was something; se- 
 riously amiss, and began to be frightened ; 
 whilst the elder woman strode on before 
 the young couple, neither looking to the 
 right nor to the left, and, it is to be feared, 
 in anything but a pious frame of mind. 
 
 At length, after the mid-day meal, 
 "Whither didst thou go yesterday even- 
 ing, mv son ?" she said. 
 
 " To the schoolmaster's, on the heights, 
 mother." 
 
 " And whom didst thou meet there?" 
 
 " The usual Saturday-evening club, and 
 Bender the clockmaker." 
 
 " Didst thou too play? or hast thou 
 formed an audience to their folly?"
 
 102 AIAX STKkXFELS. 
 
 This was said in a sharp Litter tone 
 "I took the first violin in two pieces, 
 mother; but I am somewhat out of prac- 
 tice, and my arm ached; so I resigned my 
 place to the younger Markworth." 
 
 "And talked to the republican Bender." 
 "Yes, I talked to Bender, certainly," 
 replied Max; "he is an honest, upright 
 soul, true to the core, and knowing many 
 tilings that learned men might be glad to 
 know." He did not notice the harsh adjec- 
 tive that his mother had made use of, but he 
 spoke decidedly, and perhaps with a mean- 
 ing in his tone beyond the mere words. 
 
 But the text was already there for what 
 was to follow. 
 
 " Max," said his mother, " hast thou 
 decided? Hast thou reflected on what I 
 yesterday said to thee? Wilt thou re- 
 turn to thy duty and obedience as a son? 
 or wilt thou continue to defy me, and go 
 headlong to destruction? Shall I welcome 
 thee as the master here ? or shall I see thee
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 193 
 
 go forth a stranger and an alien ? Speak ; 
 hast thou decided?" 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " And that decision is — " 
 
 "To devote myself heart and soul to 
 my profession." 
 
 "Thou defiest me? Remember, I have 
 power." 
 
 "Do not abuse it, mother." 
 
 " Is it thy last word ?" 
 
 "My last." 
 
 " Then — " she began in a harsh metallic 
 voice, but suddenly stopped. She would 
 not let loose the whole fury of her denun- 
 ciation on him yet. She had other wea- 
 pons still unused. She would try ridicule. 
 
 " Thou thinkest to become a fine gentle- 
 man, to wear grand clothes — who knows ? 
 orders and titles and decorations, perhaps ; 
 to forget the honest bread which nourished 
 thee, and the honest sweat that stood on 
 thy father's brow. Thou wilt never be one 
 of them ; do what thou mayst, they will 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 MAX STERNFELS. 
 
 look down upon thee in spite of thy fine 
 linen and soft words." 
 
 "I am not afraid of that, mother." 
 
 "Then thou deniestit not ; thou dream - 
 est to become a gentleman?" 
 
 "I certainly do not dream of becoming 
 a clodhopper — " 
 
 Then that interrupted sentence had 
 been completed, and horrible words rang 
 in the young man's ears, and reechoed in 
 his breast, as he walked away down the 
 hills that golden summer evening, an out- 
 cast and a wanderer. 
 
 His farewells with Lina had been brief 
 and somewhat cold ; for, to tell the truth, the 
 girl's love was weak, compared with the awe 
 she felt of her aunt. Max, too, was chilled. 
 He found out that blue eyes and red lips, 
 though very agreeable things in their way, 
 were not altogether consolatory in the hour 
 of trial and wrath. He wanted something 
 more than this; but he instinctively felt 
 that what he wanted Lina could not give
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 195 
 
 him, and he was too reasonable to be 
 angry with her on that account. He felt 
 very kindly towards the blue eyes, and 
 red lips, and sunny silken braids ; and as 
 he kissed her, and said good-bye, a warmer 
 impulse had stirred him. He had taken 
 her to his heart, and held her firmly there 
 for a moment or two in silence ; then he 
 had released her, and had gone away. 
 Yet once again he turned. "Lina," he 
 said, " if ever you can feel with me, and 
 have courage to share my lot, remember 
 my heart is true, and only write me one 
 word — I shall understand it." 
 
 But Lina had never written that word ; 
 and Dr. Sternfels sat in his gloomy study 
 in Finsbury-circus as absorbed in his cal- 
 culations as though the red lips and blue 
 eyes had never existed. 
 
 Later there had come terrible rumours 
 to the house upon the hill. There had 
 been a rising amongst the students; Max 
 had headed the demonstration. The ring-
 
 10G MAX STERXFELS. 
 
 leaders had been captured, had been tried, 
 and sentenced to death, on the charge of 
 high treason. Many of these young men, 
 however, bore feigned names ; was Max 
 really among them? or was it Rumour, with 
 her thousand tongues, that had given him 
 his fate and place among the condemned ? 
 
 We all know how the stone walls of 
 prisons, and the iron bars of cruel cages, 
 have miraculously opened and widened in 
 stirring times. It may be that he had 
 really been amongst the condemned, and 
 had then escaped ; or it may be that 
 Rumour had spoken falsely, and that no 
 such hairbreadth escape had been his. 
 
 With this part of his history we have 
 nothing to do; and for himself, have we 
 not already heard how, in reference to 
 these things, he was wont to say, with 
 his grave yet meaning smile, that the day 
 for childish things was past, and the day 
 for manly things had come ? 
 
 Of the two women (who had each loved
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 197 
 
 him in her different way) news reached 
 him from time to time. There had been 
 a long period of unbroken silence, during 
 which the mother never spoke her son's 
 name, and Lina had not dared to ask any 
 questions. During that time, Max Stern- 
 fels had been battling with life ; silencing 
 all suffering by the imposition of his iron 
 will ; enduring a thousand privations, bear- 
 ing a thousand hardships ; but never doubt- 
 ing, never despairing of ultimate success. 
 And at length success had come to him — 
 had come, not in the shape of brilliant 
 saloons and recherche dinners; not in the 
 smiles of lovely women in dazzling attire ; 
 not in the form of well-hung carriages and 
 costly wines ; but in the fact that his name 
 stood high on the scroll of science, embla- 
 zoned there in beautiful letters of purple 
 and gold, a glory and an honour for ever. 
 Came to him in the knowledge that he had 
 saved many a life by his patient skill, and 
 that in future times (when his busy brain
 
 198 MAX STERNTELS. 
 
 should have ceased to throb, and he him- 
 self should be but a handful of dust) his 
 name would live still on the lips and in 
 the hearts of men, as one who had been 
 a benefactor to his kind. Success had 
 come to him. But still he worked on; 
 for his was a noble ambition. All the 
 yet unexplored paths of science lay before 
 him, and his eye looked down the long 
 vista with a courage, and a hope, and a 
 determination, such as only generous hearts 
 can know. 
 
 Government had more than once selec- 
 ted him (the stranger and the alien) to 
 go on missions of inquiry and scrutiny. 
 His labours had been rewarded by more 
 than one appointment which hundreds of 
 eager Englishmen had stood to fill: the 
 pay was small, but the honour was great ; 
 and within fifteen years of the day he had 
 first set foot on English ground, his name 
 had become one "for all time" and for 
 every country.
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 199 
 
 Success had come to him. It had 
 not caused him to relax his efforts ; it had 
 not made him one whit less devoted to his 
 profession ; nor could it be said to have 
 hardened his heart. His youth had not 
 known much tenderness. His mother's 
 fierce, imperious love, and Lina's feeble 
 affection, had not made him happy; and 
 he had come by degrees to regard happi- 
 ness of the purely personal kind as im- 
 possible for him, and indeed — if the truth 
 must be told — as a very negative good. 
 
 For years he had been kept by his 
 poverty from looking (with any ulterior 
 view) at the girls and women Avhom chance 
 had thrown in his way ; and the unceasing 
 toil of his laborious life unfitted him for 
 the task of making himself agreeable to the 
 fail* sex. Then also traditionary feelings of 
 honour and faith to the silent Lina had 
 had their weight, and he determined that 
 his parting words must not be forgotten by 
 him, when perhaps they were remembered
 
 200 MAX STERNFELS. 
 
 b}- her. So at length, when success came to 
 him, he wrote to his mother, and, shortly 
 afterwards, to Lina. To the latter he Baid 
 (as was indeed the truth) that he had never 
 forgotten her; and that if she could make 
 up her mind to fulfil the promise she had 
 once given him, and come and share his 
 English home, that she should never find 
 him ungrateful for the sacrifice she was 
 willing to make. It must be confessed that 
 the Doctor awaited his fair cousin's answer 
 with considerable trepidation ; but he had 
 acted from conviction (as indeed he always 
 did), and was prepared to abide by the 
 result. At length the answer came. The 
 direction was so quaint and helpless, had 
 such an out-of-the-world air, and Avas so 
 painfully elaborate, that Dr. Sternfels smiled 
 involuntarily as he looked at it before break- 
 ing the huge dirty red seal on which the 
 letters L. S. indicated his cousin's name. The 
 address was as follows: "To Doctor Max 
 Sternfels, Over-Counsellor of Medicine, In-
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 201 
 
 timate Referee of Chemistry, Extraordinary 
 Inspector of Royal British Orthopaedic Hos- 
 pitals, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c, Wellborn, Lon- 
 don." And lower down in a remote corner, 
 in a very cramped writing (as though a 
 hasty afterthought scarcely worthy of notice) 
 stood the words, " 750 Finsbury-circus." 
 The letter ran as follows : 
 
 "Dear Cousin, — Thy letter gave me 
 great pleasure ; and believe me I am deeply 
 sensible of the honour thou hast done me. 
 But thou art a gentleman now, whereas 
 I am but the simple girl I was, only 
 not so young." ("I know that," said the 
 prosaic matter-of-fact Doctor to himself, as 
 he read the letter.) " But perhaps the sim- 
 plest reason is the best to give for my 
 answer to thy proposal. I am going to be 
 married to miller's Franz next week. The 
 miller is now an old man and requires rest ; 
 so Franz will take his father's place, and 
 we shall nurse my father-in-law's declining
 
 202 MAX STERXFELS. 
 
 years. Thy mother is still hale and hearty, 
 and but for the asthma would have nothing 
 to complain of. The old house-dog is dead ; 
 but we have a new breed of pigs, which are 
 much admired. There have been many 
 changes since thou left us. Hast thou ever 
 met clockmaker Bender in London ? He 
 left our village after the troublous times 
 of 18 — . But I will add no more. This 
 letter was written (as thou may est well Bee) 
 on different days. Excuse my faulty writ- 
 ing. Thou knowest we have not much 
 practice, and one does not grow cleverer 
 with years. — Thy well-affectioned cousin, 
 
 " Lena." 
 
 A feeling of intense relief had come 
 over him. " One does not grow cleverer 
 with years," she had said ; and Max invo- 
 luntarily indorsed the sentiment. He had 
 done his duty, and now he met with 
 his reward. " Let me see," he said to him- 
 self ; " she must be two or three and thirty
 
 MAX STERNFELS. 203 
 
 by this time, and those stoves play the very 
 deuce with a woman's complexion !" 
 
 Then he had written her a neat little 
 note of congratulation, enclosing a very 
 handsome sum as his cadeau de noces for 
 the bride, and saying many friendly things 
 to the bridegroom. 
 
 I think it may be fairly said (without 
 casting any undue imputations on the Doc- 
 tor's gallantry), that he was very grateful 
 to miller's Franz.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 honoria's homily. 
 
 jHERE was one person who had 
 not come forth to welcome Har- 
 old on his return, but of whose 
 welcome he was, nevertheless, very sure. 
 Almost his first inquiries had been for her ; 
 and immediately after breakfast on the day 
 following his arrival, he announced his 
 intention of paying her a visit, and asked 
 his sisters whether they would accompany 
 him. 
 
 " I will," answered Honoria promptly — 
 " that is, I will go as far as the gate with 
 you. It is so far on my road to Mrs. 
 Goodman's."
 
 honoria' s homily. 205 
 
 " And why only as far as the gate ?" 
 " Because I have not time to go in ; 
 grandmamma will enjoy you much better 
 if she has you the first day all to herself." 
 ('All to herself!' what a favourite wo- 
 man's phrase it is !) 
 
 " Are you always so tremendously 
 busy ?" asked Harold, to whom his sister's 
 business-like tone, manners, and way of ar- 
 ranging things began already to be alarm- 
 ing. 
 
 " 0, I'm not tremendously busy to-day; 
 only you see I can be doing Mrs. Goodman 
 a kindness by going on, and should be 
 giving grandmamma no manner of plea- 
 sure by going in." 
 
 When Honoria came down equipped 
 for her walk, Harold was almost appalled 
 by her appearance. She wore boots of 
 a thickness, a bonnet of a fashion, and 
 a cloak of a pattern, that dismayed him. 
 Everything about Honoria was eminently 
 practical ; and, doubtless, her expedition
 
 20G honoria's homily. 
 
 across country required garments of a spe- 
 cial cut and character. 
 
 On her arm was a basket of no despic- 
 able dimensions. Not such an airy trifle 
 of delicate wicker- work as one sees ticketed 
 in the bazaars " For ladies visiting the sick," 
 but a good stout osier market-basket, with 
 a lid (which never fell off as other basket- 
 lids are prone to do) and a strong handle, 
 which handle, Avhen the basket was very 
 full and more than usually heavy, was apt 
 to leave a great tender mark on Honoria's 
 arm, of which, however, she never com- 
 plained, and rather gloried in feeling the 
 bruise. That purple and green stripe 
 was as dear to her as any star or deco- 
 ration to a young soldier could be ; only 
 that Honoria hid her stars and stripes be- 
 neath dowdy dresses, whereas young mili- 
 tary men show their decorations with all 
 the pride of conscious valour. 
 
 " Give my dear love to grandmamma," 
 said Sibyl, who was standing in the hall
 
 honoria's homily. 207 
 
 watching the gambols of her son with ma- 
 ternal pride, " and tell her if she's very 
 good, I'll bring Bertie to see her." 
 
 " Bertie riding 'ossback, Bertie hunting 
 of hares," said that young gentleman on 
 hearing his name. 
 
 " Come, darling, kiss uncle Harold," 
 said Sibyl, in ecstasies at the genius for 
 equitation displayed by her son. But the 
 1 darling' clung to his charger, saying, 
 " Shoot him, uncle Harold. Him uggerly 
 man." Upon the delivery of which piece 
 of critical acumen his uncle laughed, and 
 told the delighted mother to " let the little 
 beggar alone." 
 
 "And he'll come home, and bring him 
 tail behind him," shouted the little beggar, 
 waving that of the rocking-horse in frantic 
 
 career. 
 i 
 
 ' Come," said Honoria, " we shall never 
 
 get off at this rate." 
 
 "Let me take your basket. But isn't 
 it rather — not for me, of course — but I
 
 208 HONOBIA's H05IILY. 
 
 think I've seen lighter things of the kind," 
 said Harold deprecatingly, as he looked at 
 it before picking it up. 
 
 " It will be lighter coming home. But 
 let me carry it ; I am used to it, and really 
 don't find it heavy." 
 
 "Nonsense, Honoria; as if I should let 
 you carry such a machine as this, whilst I 
 went empty-handed." 
 
 "You won't go near the fever," said 
 Sibyl timidly, coming near the door. 
 
 " I have promised you that so often, 
 Sibyl, that it is really silly and provoking 
 of you to speak in that way." 
 
 "But think of Bertie and Sophia; 
 Henry would never forgive me if they 
 caught the fever." 
 
 " Henry can't expect Providence to 
 make special exceptions in favour of his 
 children," answered Honoria shortly; "but, 
 leaving them entirely out of the question, I 
 have Minnie and Winnie to think of." 
 
 Sibyl did not approve of her juvenile
 
 honoria's homily. 209 
 
 portion of the family being "left entirely 
 out of the question ;" but she said nothing. 
 
 " Besides, I have promised mamma," 
 added her sister after a pause, " and I hope 
 you don't think me unprincipled enough to 
 break my word ?" 
 
 " Give my dear love to grandmamma, 
 Harold," called Sibyl brightly after them as 
 the two went down the drive together ; " and 
 tell her I shall expect a cup of tea at four 
 o'clock." 
 
 Harold looked back and nodded plea- 
 santly. "How pretty she is!"' he said to 
 Honoria. 
 
 " Yes ; but it's a great pity she's so 
 foolish about that child. It is completely 
 spoilt, and will grow up odious to itself and 
 every one else." 
 
 " I don't suppose any one ever is really 
 odious to himself?" 
 
 "I don't know; but I should think if 
 they saw that they were so to every one 
 else, they must finally become so." 
 
 vol. i. p
 
 2 1 hoxoeia's homily. 
 
 " My dear Honoria, what has become 
 of Linclley Murray ?" 
 
 " Never mind my grammar, Harold, if 
 you know what I mean; that's all I care 
 about." 
 
 " Well, Sibyl's folly is very pardonable, 
 and also very pretty." 
 
 " That is just it. If she were ugly, no 
 one would put up with all that dawdling 
 and desultoriness," said Honoria, without 
 the slightest idea of being unkind to her 
 sister. 
 
 " Well, it's a woman's duty (and, I sup- 
 pose, her pleasure too) to be pretty ; for my 
 part, I prefer the dolce to the utiles 
 
 "That's all very well in the abstract; 
 but if you married a poor wife, you would 
 perhaps change your mind. Sibyl has mar- 
 ried a rich husband." 
 
 " I hope I may be as fortunate in my 
 matrimonial venture," said Harold, who was 
 thinking what a good fellow Somers was, 
 and how happy Sibyl's rosy face looked.
 
 honoria's homily. 211 
 
 " Harold, you surely would not marry 
 for money ?" 
 
 " Who said so ? But Sibyl did not 
 marry for money. She could not have 
 helped Somers being rich, if she had liked 
 him ever so much • it was an agreeable de- 
 tail." 
 
 Honoria made no immediate reply. She 
 had thought, during this walk, to question 
 her brother somewhat more closely than 
 was practicable in the general circle, as to 
 his theology, and here was the time being 
 frittered away in the most frivolous of 
 small-talk. But it requires two to keep 
 up a conversation ; and if she abstained 
 from answering his remarks, he too must 
 soon become silent, and then it would be 
 for her to take the field. She felt that her 
 task was not altogether an easy one ; but 
 Honoria had a soul above buttons, and 
 she scorned broad and easy ways with a 
 consistent scorn that every action of her 
 daily life exemplified. She was not (as
 
 212 honoria's homily. 
 
 most young women of her age would have 
 been) the least anxious to hear any of the 
 brilliant details or gay gossip of sueh a life 
 as had been his for the last four years. To 
 her his success, in the social sense of the 
 term, was a matter of utter indifference. 
 She did not in the least care to know who 
 had been singing at Berlin, or dancing at 
 Vienna, when he was there ; she felt no in- 
 terest in the toilettes of the Grand Duchess 
 of Saxe-Pumpenheim, nor in the Dowager 
 Duchess's diamonds. 
 
 She might have walked with Harold for 
 years, and never have dreamt of question- 
 ing him on such points as these. Had it 
 been pretty Sibyl, she would have asked 
 him a thousand details, would have found 
 out all his love-affairs, would have sympa- 
 thised in all his successes and reverses, and 
 would have propounded a hundred-and-one 
 questions about the Empress of Austria and 
 the ex-Queen of Naples ; about the divine 
 Patti and the bewitching Lucca ; about the
 
 honoria's homily. 213 
 
 Prince Imperial of France and the Em- 
 press's hunting costumes; about that won- 
 derful Princess on the wonderful horse ; 
 about that handsome German adjutant who 
 had just shot himself for love of the beaux 
 yeux of his too gracious sovereign (who 
 herself, if rumour whispered truly, was a 
 broken-hearted wife). 
 
 But Honoria's was a nobler curiosity and 
 a higher anxiety. She wanted to test his 
 orthodoxy, or to measure his heterodoxy. 
 Such testings and measurings are neither 
 easy nor, as a rule, are they agreeable ; but 
 as we have seen, Honoria scorned the easy, 
 and disregarded the agreeable on principle ; 
 and having made up her mind, she only 
 waited her opportunity. 
 
 They had passed out of the gate with 
 a word of friendly recognition on Harold's 
 part to the gardener's wife, and a donation 
 of sundry small silver coins amongst the 
 curly-headed brood about the house; and 
 now they were walking towards Brookside
 
 214 honoria's homily. 
 
 village, on the Wickham road, but in a 
 contrary direction to the post-town. They 
 had come to a turn of the road, and the 
 church and village-green, surrounded by 
 picturesque old gabled houses, was before 
 them. The church stood on rising ground, 
 and immediately in front of it was a mag- 
 nificent old oak, beneath the shady branches 
 of which stood the village stocks. A little 
 to the right was the smithy ; and above the 
 smithy was the old glebe-house, a quaint 
 gabled dwelling, with ancient carved oak 
 porches and curious diamond-paned lat- 
 tices. The windows were built out, form- 
 ing picturesque variations and eccentricities 
 of architecture pleasing to the eye. This 
 ancient glebe-house acted as lodge to the 
 rectory grounds, but was made use of in 
 various ways, owing to certain rectorial 
 family exigencies, as we shall presently see. 
 The north side of the churclryard was bor- 
 dered by some magnificent beeches, cele- 
 brated in all the country round as the
 
 honokia's homily. 215 
 
 " Brookside Beeches;" and somewhat be- 
 yond the churchyard, at the east end of the 
 enclosure, ran the sparkling brook which 
 gave its name to the village. Harold was 
 not of an enthusiastic disposition, nor was 
 he prone at any time to much demonstra- 
 tion of what was passing within ; he was, 
 however, capable of long and lasting attach- 
 ments, and of a faithfulness and stedfast- 
 ness in some matters that almost savoured 
 of obstinacy. Now, as the church and 
 the smithy, where the forge was glowing 
 brightly, and the hammer, falling on the 
 anvil in regular cadence, resounded plea- 
 santly through the wintry air, speaking of 
 "labour," as the churchyard spoke of " rest," 
 and the old familiar houses, and the great 
 hollow oak-tree where he had so often played 
 with Hodge and Piers in days gone by — met 
 his gaze ; now, when the old church -clock 
 struck noon, and the children came rush- 
 ing out of school with a whoop and view- 
 halloo, a something seemed very soft about
 
 216 iionoria's KOMILY. 
 
 his heart, and a mist rose for a moment 
 before his eyes, not born of December fog. 
 " It's the same dear old place," he said, 
 speaking to himself: but Honoria caught 
 the tone, and glanced at him quickly. 
 Harold loved his home. He loved the 
 very ground and stones of his native soil; 
 and now he felt that it was good once 
 again to be there. The air was very still, 
 and the children's voices resounded plea- 
 santly across the churchyard calm, and 
 contrasted cheerfully with the autumnal 
 decay around. 
 
 "Yes," said Honoria, "it's not much 
 altered since you left;" and then again she 
 paused. She did not want to catechise him, 
 but yet she had something to say. 
 
 "Mr. Maxwell has gone, and is a great 
 loss ; but it was impossible he should stay 
 after the manner in which Mrs. Pigot 
 treated him." (Mr. Maxwell was a former 
 curate, and Mrs. Pigot was the rector's 
 wife.) " We are not so well off, now,"
 
 honoria's homily. 217 
 
 continued Honoria. ''But, Harold dear, 
 do you ever go to church ?" 
 
 " Do I ever go to church ?" he repeated, 
 surprised at the abruptness of the question. 
 "Does your Christianity consist in suspect- 
 ing every one else of heathenism, Honor ?" 
 
 She felt for the moment a little abashed. 
 "You know you might go to chapel," she 
 said, after a moment; "and yet not be a 
 heathen." 
 
 Harold laughed. " She is counting the 
 curate's flock,'' he thought, and felt amused 
 at her thus doing vicarious duty. 
 
 " Do I look like a Dissenter?" 
 
 " Dissenters don't all look exactly alike, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "But which do you take me for — a 
 Jew, Turk, Infidel, or Heretic ?" 
 
 "I do not take you for any or either ; 
 but you need not be surprised or hurt at 
 my asking the question." 
 
 " I am not in the least hurt, but very 
 much surprised.''
 
 218 HONORIA'S HOMILY. 
 
 " I understood fashionable people sel- 
 dom went to church," said Honoria, apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 " I deny that : but I am not a fashion- 
 able person." 
 
 " I have been told that German Pro- 
 testants are all Rationalists ; and of course 
 you would not go to a Roman Catholic 
 chapel." 
 
 " That is by no means of course. You 
 forget that all our embassies are provided 
 with chaplains, who have such small flocks 
 that any wandering sheep would soon be 
 missed and brought back to the fold." 
 
 " 0, Harold, I am so glad; I was afraid 
 you despised such things." 
 
 " I am sorry you had so bad an opinion 
 of me." 
 
 ■ I had no bad opinion; but I thought 
 you might have been misled." 
 
 Something like a smile passed over 
 Harold's face. "I'm not much of a 
 saint,'' he said; "but I don't know that
 
 honoeta's homily. 219 
 
 I'm worse than other fellows; at any rate, 
 I hope you won't find me so, Honor." 
 
 She might have said, she didn't know 
 (and didn't care for) any "other fellows;" 
 but repartee was not Honoria's forte. " It's 
 the curate catechising by deputy," thought 
 her brother, and refrained from comment. 
 
 They had now come to a sudden turn 
 of the lane, and on the right hand side, 
 bounded by a low stone wall, stood the 
 house for which they were bound. It was 
 a large irregular pile of building, of gray 
 stone, with deep mullioned windows and 
 quaint buttresses. The older part of the 
 house was covered with ivy, and fronted 
 the north ; the east, upon which side ran 
 the road, was approached by a gravelled 
 path cut straight across a broad level lawn, 
 on which the grass was, even now, smooth 
 and fine as a green velvet carpet. Exactly 
 opposite the gate was a quaintly carved 
 stone porch, with stone benches inside ; on 
 the west side a dainty rose-garden ; on the
 
 220 honoria's homily. 
 
 south broad green terraces, which descended 
 almost to the brook-side in soft regularity. 
 Brook-end had formerly been a farmhouse, 
 and had been added to from generation to 
 generation, until, by degrees, spendthrift 
 sons and fashionable daughters had made 
 such inroads on the old estate, that the 
 land had dwindled away, and only the 
 gardens were left, so that finally the 
 house had been sold for what it would 
 fetch. Mr. Mildmay's mother had bought 
 it. Sir John was dead, and Sir George 
 reigned in his stead; and Lady Mildmay 
 had elected to give up at once and un- 
 conditionally the reins of government to 
 her successor and daughter-in-law, the 
 present mistress of Mildmay Manor. She 
 abdicated gracefully, and with dignity, yet 
 no one could say that any envious haste 
 had marked her movements; and it was 
 observed that her daughter-in-law, though 
 not given to hospitality in general, had 
 shown her approval of the dowager's con-
 
 honoria's homily. 221 
 
 duct by begging her to remain with them 
 another week. But Lady Mildmay thought 
 it wiser to adhere to her original plans, 
 and departed ; outwardly at peace, inwardly 
 with a soul rent by a thousand old asso- 
 ciations, which she felt she was leaving 
 behind for ever. She might indeed come 
 again, and find the old place unaltered ; 
 the trees unshorn of glory ; the pictures in 
 their accustomed places, the old servants 
 still there; but she Avould be there as a 
 visitor. It would no longer be her home; 
 her own to do as she liked with ; her voice 
 could no longer be raised in command, 
 nor be heard in reproof; the gardener 
 would not come to her for orders, nor the 
 clergyman's wife for subscriptions ; the very 
 school-children would not remember her in 
 a year or two, when a younger generation 
 should have cropped up in their stead; 
 and she might pass through the lanes, and 
 look in at the school-house, without either 
 urchins or lassies recognising "my lady.''
 
 222 hoxoria's homily. 
 
 Lavinia was "my lady" now; and it 
 behoved the dowager to make place for her 
 daughter-in-law with what speed she could, 
 and to show no pang in so doing. 
 
 Lady Mildmay had far too noble a soul 
 to waste in petty regrets a feeling which 
 was the echo of something deep and holy, 
 hidden far away in the secret recesses of 
 her brave heart. She had been brave all 
 her life ; and when the bitterest trial of all 
 during a long life came upon her, it found 
 her brave still, and able to meet the blow 
 with a bearing that was at least outwardly 
 serene. She had come to Brookside on a 
 visit to her younger son, and Brook-end 
 had about that time come to the hammer, 
 upon which Lady Mildmay had bought it. 
 She caused the great form-yard to be filled 
 up, levelled, and turfed over; she had all 
 the outhouses and farm-buildings removed; 
 she sent for her old gardener to come and 
 lay-out her gardens for her ; and then she 
 wrote to Sir George, Baying she should be
 
 honoria' s homily. 223 
 
 glad to have certain packing-cases, which 
 were awaiting further orders at the Manor, 
 forwarded to her, and apologising, with her 
 usual courtesy, for the length of time which 
 had passed before she had been able to re- 
 lieve the house of her unsightly packages. 
 So her household gods had come to her; 
 and old books, and old pictures, and fami- 
 liar furniture made a home, in which, sad 
 though her soul had been since she saw 
 them last, and heavy her heart, she could 
 yet take delight. Thus the young Mildmays 
 had known and loved her all their lives, 
 and had come to look upon her as a friend 
 to whom they could always apply without 
 fear or hesitation in any emergency. 
 
 But Harold and Honoria are standing 
 at the gate. 
 
 "Won't you come in, Honoria?" 
 " No, thank you ; I must make haste, or 
 I shall be late for luncheon." 
 
 " You cannot carry this heavy basket." 
 " Have you found it so heavy ?" said
 
 224 honoria's homily. 
 
 she, smiling, and looking at him so kindly, 
 that Harold was startled to see the momen- 
 tary beauty of her expression. " You see 
 I am used to it," she added, " and use is 
 second nature. It is natural to me to 
 carry a basket, and I am always at a loss 
 when I find myself in the village without 
 one. 
 
 " Well, as you will not come in, I sup- 
 pose I must say good-bye till luncheon 
 time." 
 
 " Give my love to grandmamma." 
 So Harold shut the gate behind him, 
 and walked up the gravel path, and passed 
 beneath the stone porch into the presence 
 of 'grandmamma.'
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 UT not into her immediate pre- 
 sence. Virginie took care of 
 that. As he entered the hall, 
 which was carpeted, and where a bright 
 fire was blazing, Mademoiselle Virginie met 
 him. (She had spied him from her bed- 
 room window, and had watched the par- 
 ley at the gate.) She now greeted him 
 as he came into the house. " Bonjour, 
 M'sieu 'Arid," she said; "without doubt 
 you desire to see miladi; mais miladi est 
 tres souffrante; which does not astonish 
 one ; for what times we have !" 
 
 Harold, who knew perfectly well that 
 Mademoiselle Virginie considered it the 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 correct thing for Lady Mildmay to be aris- 
 tocratically indisposed, took all this as a 
 matter of course 
 
 " I hope you are well, Mademoiselle Yir- 
 ginie," he said. " You look blooming." 
 
 " Monsieur is too complaisant ; but 1 
 carry myself well par le temps qu'il fait." 
 
 " I hope that my grandmother will be 
 able to see me," said Harold, after express- 
 ins; his satisfaction at the favourable con- 
 dition of Mademoiselle Virginie's health. 
 He knew all the little farce by heart, and 
 that Virginie's vanity required the tribute 
 of a little flattery. 
 
 " Count on my services, M'sieu 'Arid ; 
 I will announce your visit to miladi ; and 
 if she is not too suffering, I will return 
 and bring you to her." 
 
 But she was saved the trouble. A door 
 at the further end of the hall opened, and 
 Lady Mildmay, Avith a winter nosegay in 
 her hand, and a clear healthy colour in her 
 face, came towards them.
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 227 
 
 "I am so glad to see you looking so 
 well," said Harold, after some time; and 
 when the first greetings were over, they sat 
 down to talk. " Mademoiselle Virginie was 
 quite despondent about you. I thought 
 you were in bed !" 
 
 "It is the old war; she is annoyed at 
 my rude health. Only yesterday she was 
 seriously angry with me because I was not 
 to be persuaded to represent myself as 
 ' very suffering' to the Hamiltons. ' Every- 
 thing of most bourgeois' she called it, and 
 seemed hurt at my saying I was very glad 
 to think bourgeois health was proverbial ; 
 for that generally we country-folks ima- 
 gined we absorbed all the health in the 
 world. Upon which she replied, that to 
 hear madam talk, one would think I had 
 never been out of the provinces." 
 
 " One would call it impertinence in an 
 English woman." 
 
 " Perhaps so. But I prefer to give it 
 the prettier name of attachment."
 
 228 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 "Well, it is a sort of manifestation, of 
 which I should highly disapprove in your 
 place." 
 
 " Ah, mon cher ! with age one learns 
 patience." 
 
 As she said these words, there was a 
 slight melancholy in her tone. It was as 
 though some distant chord reechoing had 
 produced the faint note of sadness. Harold 
 looked up at her. He had always admired 
 and loved her, but now a certain feeling, 
 not altogether rare in youth, came to 
 heighten the old love and admiration. 
 There was the reverence that a noble life 
 inspires ; the respect for sufferings, trials, 
 experiences ; the awe for regrets which 
 may never be uttered ; and also the regret 
 itself, which strikes coldly and heavily on 
 our hearts, when we realise that the noble 
 gentle life is on the wane, and that we 
 cannot hope to have it always with us. To 
 me it always seems that elderly men and 
 women, whose lives have been brave,
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 229 
 
 cheerful, active, and sincere, are like living 
 sepulchres ; one feels that a thousand 
 sacred hopes and fears lie buried in these 
 living tombs, and that there are sorrows 
 and joys hidden away in the dark recesses 
 of the soul, which may never be revealed. 
 Many people carry about their ghosts with 
 them. We may sit with our friends, and 
 seem glad and careless in spite of the phan- 
 toms which haunt us. There are spectres 
 which are so familiar, that Ave never dream 
 of the possibility of banishing them. They 
 live with us; rise up with us at morn, 
 follow us through the day, lie down by our 
 sides at night; are with us even when we 
 sleep, in our dreams. Happy the man that 
 is not so haunted; he can never have 
 known what it is to regret. 
 
 Yet I would not seem to imply that 
 Lady Mildmay was so haunted. Hers had 
 been a life rich in experience, and full of 
 change ; she had seen much, felt much, and 
 suffered much — because — she had loved
 
 230 A WINTEfi NOSEGAY. 
 
 much. Yet she was cheerful with a noble 
 cheerfulness j she was brave, because it was 
 her nature to be brave ; she was patient, 
 because, although it was not her nature 
 to be so, she had learnt that virtue, which 
 Faust so heartily curses, in the school of 
 adversity. She was a woman of large intel- 
 ligence, of acute penetration, of grand man- 
 ners and noble instincts. She was truthful, 
 and yet reticent ; she was playful, and yet 
 serious; she was witty, but her wisdom 
 was still greater than her wit. She was 
 generous, but she was also just. She was 
 proud, but with so courteous a pride that 
 it could never wound. She was a woman 
 of warm impulses and acute feeling, but 
 yet the surface of her life had ever run 
 smoothly, because of her powers of self- 
 command. And then, lastly, she was a 
 Frenchwoman. Not one of those elegant, 
 trifling, charming butterflies, who wear the 
 last fashions, repeat the last canard, laugh 
 over the last mot, whisper the latest scandal
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 231 
 
 of their friends. No. The Reign of Terror 
 had given the first colour to her impres- 
 sions. "We can guess what that colour had 
 been. Her father, the Marquis de La- 
 marliere, was one of the first victims of 
 that terrible reign. Her mother, young, 
 beautiful, delicate, the sole of whose foot 
 had scarcely been allowed to touch the 
 ground, escaped from the awful city in the 
 garb of a peasant-woman. The foster mo- 
 ther of her little girl (the real mother of 
 Mademoiselle Virginie), dressing the beauti- 
 ful little aristocrat in boy's clothes, got her 
 beyond the barriers, and brought her to her 
 mother. Then the two women had taken 
 their children, and the weary march began. 
 The good Therese had nothing to regret. 
 She had wept for the father of her child a 
 year ago, when fever had taken him from 
 her ; then the Marquise had sought with 
 gentle words to console her; now it was 
 her turn to be comforter; and, 0, how 
 often did her hearty voice call cheerily,
 
 232 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 " Courage, madame ; nous voila bientot au 
 but," but in vain, during that weary jour- 
 ney ! The } r oung widow saw only her hus- 
 band's dying eyes, heard only his farewell 
 words, was possessed of no hope, but only 
 of a dull leaden sort of fear, which made 
 her walk on weary and footsore in obe- 
 dience to Therese's exhortations to courage. 
 Her child scarcely awoke any emotion in 
 her ; she was too stricken, too bewildered, 
 too utterly crushed and terrorised, to be 
 able to think or feel. She went forward like 
 one in a dream, and let Therese take the 
 child from her, and restore it again to her 
 arms at will, without comment or remon- 
 strance. At night they slept in barns and 
 behind hayricks; by day, they tramped 
 wearily onwards ; seldom speaking even 
 to each other, and exchanging only ne- 
 cessary words with any passers-by. To all 
 questions Therese replied that her sister- 
 in-law was going to join her husband in a 
 distant part of the country, where he had
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 233 
 
 established himself as shoemaker, having 
 lost the chief part of his clientele at Paris. 
 The Marquise never spoke, nor did she 
 seem to hear Therese's ready histories. 
 Sometimes, when suspicious glances were 
 directed towards the silent suffering wo- 
 man, who held her child so wearily and 
 listlessly in her arms, never answering its 
 prattle, nor smiling at it — as mothers, 
 though never so weary, will do — the faithful 
 peasant woman would conjure up a smile, 
 and touching her forehead significantly, 
 whilst glancing at her companion, she 
 would say, "Mais oui, elle a ete bien ma- 
 lade la pauvre Christine ; et meine elle est 
 encore tres epuisee; mais §a ira." At the 
 sound of these horribly familiar words her 
 mistress would look at her with a stare of 
 wonder, and a shudder of remembrance; 
 and the two women would pursue their way, 
 followed by the pity of their questioners. 
 
 It would be tedious to follow them 
 through that weary journey ; but Therese
 
 234 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 felt that French ground was no longer safe 
 for them, and pressed ever onwards. Thus 
 they passed into Spain ; and there, after a 
 time, found rest. The children kept them 
 alive ; their thousand little wants and ne- 
 cessities, their health, their play, their 
 dress must all be attended to; they grew 
 strong and brown under the warm southern 
 sun ; and by degrees, by very faint degrees, 
 the Marquise awoke from her dream of the 
 past to recognise her duties in the present. 
 She gave herself out as a needlewoman and 
 embroideress, and sat working day and 
 night at delicate fairy-like fabrics, which 
 Therese took into the town to sell. The 
 two children were sent to an old abbe, 
 also a refugee, in order that they might 
 not grow up entirely without instruction. 
 Therese, indeed, remonstrated at Virginie 
 sharing the education which was thus se- 
 cured to the beautiful Clementine de La- 
 marliere, but the Marquise would have 
 it so.
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 235 
 
 "Look, my friend," she would say to 
 the faithful woman ; " Virginie is Mademoi- 
 selle Clementine's only companion ; it be- 
 hoves me to see that she should be well 
 educated. I am not fit society for my 
 daughter ; I am too sad, too full of me- 
 mories, too old for such as she. Let it be 
 as I desire; a good education never did 
 any one harm ; and, besides, 1 doubt 
 whether Monsieur L'Abbe is so very wise, 
 after all." 
 
 Thus the two girls grew up together. 
 Year by year little additional luxuries came 
 to beautify their humble abode ; the fine 
 Spanish ladies became interested in the 
 beautiful exile who worked for them so 
 patiently, carrying out all the caprices their 
 vanity could suggest with such skilful deli- 
 cate fingers. By degrees it oozed out that 
 she was of noble birth, and that her name 
 was written on the most ancient scrolls of 
 French history. Then they would fain have 
 made advances to her, and have drawn out
 
 236 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 some detailed account of past sufferings and 
 experiences. But the Marquise received 
 these efforts at intimacy with a gentle re- 
 serve, somewhat tinged with surprise, and 
 so alarmed the gay Spanish elegantes by 
 her grand air and serious gentle courtesy, 
 that they soon abandoned the enterprise 
 altogether. 
 
 Thus years passed on. When the room 
 was closed in for the night during the Ions: 
 
 © © © 
 
 winter evenings, the Marquise and TheVese 
 
 would recount to the wondering girls his- 
 
 © © 
 
 tories of their own youth ; traditions of 
 loyalty and aristocratic prejudices, tales of 
 chivalry, descriptions of the court, and the 
 lovely, graceful, fascinating Queen Marie 
 Antoinette ; histories of fetes and water- 
 parties, of masquerades and comedies played 
 in the open air, with princes and dukes for 
 actors, and queens and duchesses for ac- 
 tresses; which stories, to the listening girls, 
 sounded rather like fairy tales and legends
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 237 
 
 of romance, than stories out of real every- 
 day life. 
 
 The Marquise cle Lamarliere was a wo- 
 man of character. When she awoke from 
 that long stupor of leaden grief, and had 
 come to recognise all that she had lost 
 in the past, all that lay before her in the 
 future, she recognised also that it was her 
 duty to live, and — still more difficult task 
 — to teach her young daughter how to live. 
 " I must be father and mother both to her, 
 Therese," she would say, " and I must not 
 let my own grief cast its gloomy shadow 
 over her gay youth. Would her father be 
 pleased with me if he could see me making 
 his child unhappy ? Have I not to replace 
 him to her ? She must never sigh and feel 
 what she has lost, as I may do. And she 
 must love her country. She must never 
 forget France. Who knows ? Perhaps 
 some day the Bourbons may sit once more 
 on the throne of their fathers, and the 
 house of Lamarliere do loyal duty again.
 
 238 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 She; must be educated as befits her father's 
 daughter, Therese, as becomes our child. 
 And now that all fear of pursuit is over, 
 we will sell some of the jewels that we 
 brought with us; and the children shall 
 be better dressed and better taught than 
 they have been." 
 
 But when it came to music and danc- 
 ing lessons, honest Therese had interfered. 
 "Pardon, madame," she said; "what befits 
 a Marquise does not befit her femme de 
 chambre. Virgin ie may learn to speak her 
 own tongue correctly, but I will not suffer 
 her to place herself on a par with our 
 young mistress. I am your servant, ma- 
 dame; but, before that, I am the girl's 
 mother." 
 
 Her sturdy good sense gained the vic- 
 tory ; and Mdlle. Virginie learnt, instead of 
 music and singing, a deejier lesson as to 
 the respect due to rank and blood, and a 
 more entire devotion and submission to her 
 young mistress.
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 239 
 
 Thus years passed by. No mention was 
 ever made by the Marquise to her daughter 
 of the terrible death by which her father 
 had died ; no allusion to the Reign of Ter- 
 ror ever passed her lips. She had con- 
 ceived the notion that it was her duty to 
 hide all from her daughter which could 
 prematurely sadden her ; and she was not 
 a woman to break any resolution once 
 made, or to neglect any duty once recog- 
 nised. 
 
 But Therese, with all a true peasant's 
 morbid love of tales of horror, was not so 
 reticent. She would, in hushed whispers 
 and with stealthy glances towards the door, 
 entertain her two eager young hearers with 
 stories of atrocities, and anecdotes of false- 
 ness, betrayal, and execution (winding up 
 always, however, with the somewhat incon- 
 sistent admonition, " Pourtant, Mdlle, faut 
 toujours aimer la France"), which were 
 quite in contradiction to her mistress's pro- 
 gramme. Thus Clementine came to know
 
 240 A WIXTKK NOSEGAY. 
 
 much and to guess more of the sad his- 
 tory of her mother's wedded life and early 
 widowhood; and it was with some impa- 
 tienee she began to hear Therese's oft-re- 
 peated formula, " Fant aimer la France tout 
 de meme, Mdlle ; faut toujours aimer sa 
 patrie. J]ut there was a change coming, and 
 Clementine would soon cease to look upon 
 that land of horrors as her own country. 
 
 Au English regiment was quartered at 
 San Jago. Day by day the drums and 
 fifes sounded in the narrow Spanish streets, 
 and day by day the visits of a young- 
 English officer at Madame de Lamarliere's 
 house became more frequent. He had been 
 the means of saving Clementine from a 
 dangerous fall amongst some rocks in the 
 neighbourhood of the toAvn, whither she 
 and Yirginie had gone to gather some 
 sweet-smelling flowers for the Marquise. 
 The young officer had carried their baskets, 
 and had assisted the limping girl home. 
 The Marquise had thanked him courte-
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 24 
 
 ously, and the following day Arthur Mild- 
 may called with a bouquet of the self-same 
 flowers to inquire after the patient. The 
 young people were often together ; the 
 Marquise, who looked on Clementine as a 
 child, was glad that she should see a youth 
 of such good manners and so distinguished 
 an air. 
 
 " She will learn in this way to choose T 
 when the time comes," said the Marquise 
 one evening to Therese. " Monsieur Mild- 
 may is a gentleman ; it is right that she 
 should learn to be at ease in the society of 
 such, whilst her heart is as yet too young 
 to be disturbed." 
 
 "Ah, madame," said the acuter The- 
 rese, " our demoiselle is no longer a child. 
 The birds do not ask their parents how to 
 build their nests !" 
 
 " Time enough for that, my good The- 
 rese. 
 
 "Perhaps, madame; but to me it seems 
 the time is already there." 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 242 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 " You forget that our Clementine is not 
 yet sixteen." 
 
 " I do not count by years, madame, but 
 by looks. Fruits ripen quickly beneath a 
 southern sun, and Mademoiselle Clemen- 
 tine it already taller than yourself." 
 
 " Madame, I love your daughter," said 
 Arthur Mildmay to the astonished Mar- 
 quise, a few nights later. 
 
 "You love my daughter? Then I am 
 sorry for you, Monsieur; for she does not 
 love you." 
 
 " Are you sure of that, madame ?" 
 
 " If I am sure ? but certainly I am 
 sure ! How can you ask me ?" 
 
 " Because I hope that you may be mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " But there are things about which one 
 is never mistaken." 
 
 " You must forgive me, if I say I think 
 you still may be so." 
 
 " I am sure, because I am sure. There 
 are things which carry conviction with
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 243 
 
 them. She is a child; she knows no one, 
 goes nowhere, has seen nothing. She is 
 happy in running through fields and ga- 
 thering flowers. But why do I argue ? for, 
 enfin, c'est impossible, monsieur." 
 
 " Let me at least ask her in your pre- 
 sence whether she so totally disregards and 
 so utterly rejects me ? Or rather, let me 
 tell her how dearly I love her." 
 
 " Excuse me, monsieur; she is a child, 
 and I will not have her young mind dis- 
 turbed. I am sorry for your disappoint- 
 ment, and acknowledge the honour you 
 have done us ; but the thing you desire is 
 impossible." 
 
 As Arthur Mildmay went out he met 
 old Therese. 
 
 " Allons," said she; " est-ce que le prin- 
 temps est la? Faut toujours esperer meme 
 quand il fait mauvais temps, monsieur. 
 Aujourd'hui la pluie, demain le soleil !" 
 
 Arthur felt comforted by the old wo- 
 man's skilful sympathy and encouragement.
 
 244 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 " Mdlle. Clementine sings no more," 
 she said a few days later, when she met 
 him in the market-place. " She reminds 
 me of the birds, who are always silent when 
 they commence building their nests." 
 
 Within three months from that time, 
 Clementine de Lamarliere became Mrs. 
 Mildmay. Arthur had pressed his suit so 
 perseveringly ; had been so patient and 
 good-humoured under the Marquise's re- 
 buffs; had been such a pleasant, cheerful 
 companion ; had known so well how to 
 add to the little joys and pleasures of the 
 small household; had so won Therese's heart 
 by his bel air, and so impressed Yirginie 
 by his manieres distinguees, that the Mar- 
 quise had at last given in, and the young 
 people were happy. It was true he had 
 little besides his pay ; but that was more 
 than Clementine had been used to spend. 
 The greatest pang of all to the Marquise 
 lay, perhaps, in the thought that her beau-
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 245 
 
 tiful daughter, the last of the Lamarlieres, 
 should be marrying a plain English mis- 
 ter, with a younger son's scanty portion. 
 She had in her romantic dreams always 
 hoped that some Prince Wonderful with a 
 " de" before his name would come to carry 
 off her daughter to the land of her birth. 
 But she gave in. She felt that she was 
 ill, and began to be resigned to the mar- 
 riage as the conviction stole upon her that 
 Clementine would soon need another pro- 
 tector. 
 
 " Ah, mademoiselle," said old Therese, 
 " I think we are all imbeciles. Here are 
 we all bewitched by a son of perfidious 
 Albion, whose barbarous tongue we cannot 
 speak (Heaven be praised !), and whose 
 only qualities are his air of distinction and 
 his fine eyes." 
 
 " My daughter," said the old Abbe, " I 
 am above narrow prejudices ; but have you 
 well reflected on what marriage with a
 
 246 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 heretic means ? And have you well con- 
 sidered his temporal position ? For, enfin, 
 ma fille, sans vouloir etre trop mondaine, 
 'on ne se marie pas pour des prunes.' " 
 
 As Clementine drove away on her mar- 
 riage-day, Virginie stood crying on the 
 steps behind the Marquise, who looked 
 sadly ill and worn. 
 
 "Fidonc," said old Therese, pushing her 
 daughter ; " does one cry, sotte, at a wed- 
 ding, for example ? Keep your tears for 
 a better moment." Then descending the 
 steps, she put her head into the carriage. 
 " Au revoir, madame," she said; "I do not 
 like that word adieu ! You are now an 
 English iniladi; pourtant faut pas oublier 
 la patrie. A bientot, et bon voyage !" 
 
 A few months later, and Clementine 
 was weeping for her mother with Therese 
 and Virginie. 
 
 But now — ah, now ! — she is standing 
 before her grandson, Harold Mildmay, in 
 the drawing-room at Brook-end, with a
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 247 
 
 winter nosegay in her hand, and is saying 
 to him, in a tone of tender melancholy — 
 " With age one learns patience !"
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 T was Christmas eve. The rain 
 was pouring steadily down, and the 
 streets were deserted. The flaring 
 gas in the butchers' shops, the holly- 
 crowned beef, the bunches of mistletoe 
 and evergreens adorning the greengrocers' 
 counters, found no purchasers; for the streets 
 were empty, and none but those who were 
 forced to do so ventured forth into the 
 inclement weather. 
 
 Herr Bender sat in his gloomy little 
 parlour before the dirty ashes of a coal 
 fire, and felt desolate. His mind had tra- 
 velled back to his childhood, and in fancy 
 he saw once again the Christmas tree 
 decked out with toys and gewgaws, with
 
 ALONE. 249 
 
 wax-lights and bonbons ; he heard the old 
 familiar songs, the melodious Volkslieder, 
 the simple joyful Christmas strains; he be- 
 held the merry faces, the hearty interchange 
 of good wishes, the delight of the happy 
 children, the beaming satisfaction of the 
 gratified mothers, the general merriment 
 and good fellowship. " After all," he 
 thought, " what have they here ? The 
 rich, to whom beef and mutton are no 
 delicacies, have nothing, unless perhaps a 
 little extra ennui at getting two Sundays 
 in the week, and the bore of feeling that 
 they are somehow out of their reckoning. 
 The poor, the very poor, have worse than 
 nothing ; they have hunger and thirst, and 
 cold and nakedness and misery, and per- 
 haps a little gin, in which to drown their 
 cares. The middle class, the respectable 
 people, the grand citizens, they have — 
 beef and plum-pudding, perhaps turkey 
 too. We manage these things better in 
 Germany, where every peasant has his little
 
 250 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 festival, his burning taper, and his Christ- 
 mas tree. — I wonder whether I shall ever 
 see a German Christinas again ?" And Herr 
 Bender poked his dusty little fire impa- 
 tiently, and sighed, and fell back in his 
 horse-hair arm-chair with something like a 
 groan of desolation. But soon he was deep 
 in his Newton again ; and forgot the beef and 
 mutton, and the Christinas trees and tapers. 
 In the room above sat Grace Hepburn. 
 She also was musing. A cloud was on her 
 pure pale face, and her eyes looked gloomy. 
 Was this dreariness never to end ? Would 
 the time never come when gay laughter 
 should sound in her ears; when young 
 voices should mingle with her own ; when 
 some of the graces and beauties of life 
 should be her portion also ? Was there 
 never to be any change from the dull toil, 
 and the bare bald existence, and the care 
 that preyed at her heart ? Would her 
 father never be well again ? Would he 
 never walk in God's sunlight rejoicing in
 
 ALONE. 251 
 
 its warmth, in the hum of insects, in the 
 song of birds, in the scent of the new-mown 
 hay ? Would it always be thus ? Alas ! 
 no. The change, Grace, is coining ; the 
 change which shall make you look back to 
 those days with passionate regret, as one 
 who had eyes and saw not, and ears and 
 heard not. The change is coming. But 
 what a change ! How gladly in those fu- 
 ture days would you ransom one of these 
 precious hours from the past, to call your 
 own again ! How often will you long, with 
 an aching intensity of longing which knows 
 that it can never be stilled or satisfied, for 
 " The touch of a vanished hand, 
 And the s*ound of a voice that is still" ! 
 
 As she sits by the fire and gazes into the 
 living coals, she does not see that awful 
 Presence, which passes noiselessly over the 
 threshold, and sweeps that scarcely discerni- 
 ble and yet all too palpable veil over those 
 sleeping features. No sound, no cold icy 
 chill tells her of that presence ; there is no
 
 252 ALONE. 
 
 moan, no sigh, no waving of hands in fare- 
 wcll, no agonised leave-taking. All is still. 
 So still that the utter silence even strikes 
 the self-absorbed girl. It becomes unbear- 
 able to her. She rises and strikes a light, 
 and fetches down the little lamp and shades 
 it, and then goes to her father's couch. 
 
 " How soundly he sleeps ! it is almost a 
 pity to wake him ; and yet it is better ; the 
 nights are so long; and wearisome for him 
 when he cannot sleep. Father !" 
 
 No answer. Yes, it is a pity to wake 
 him. Such a pity that the Angel of Death 
 has taken care it shall be otherwise. The 
 night is lono- but will not seem wearisome 
 to him now. 
 
 "Father!" There was already a sur- 
 prised, half- conscious, pleading terror in 
 Grace's tones. "Father!" She knelt down 
 beside him; but the next moment convic- 
 tion, and at the same time agonised resist- 
 ance to that conviction, flashed upon her. 
 He was not dead. No, he could not die !
 
 ALONE. 253 
 
 Not thus, not so, not in this fashion; he 
 was fainting ; he had been very weak of late 
 — she had left him without food too long. 
 
 " Herr Bender, will you go for Dr. 
 Sternfels? My father is very ill, danger- 
 ously ill — perhaps dying!" A white scared 
 figure standing at the door, with haggard 
 dilated eyes and pale cheeks, gasped out 
 these words in a tone which said all. 
 
 Out into the street, through the blind- 
 ing rain, to the nearest cab-stand, and then 
 on, on, as fast as driver and horse can take 
 him on his errand of mercy. With a satis- 
 faction that was infinitely calming, Bender 
 remembered now that Dr. Sternfels had no 
 family; that he would be at home, if the 
 gloomy house in Finsbury could be so 
 called. Other doctors were out of town, 
 in the country, staying with their own or 
 their wives' relations ; but Sternfels had no 
 wife, no relations, and never seemed to 
 need a holiday. " I am sure of finding 
 him," he said to himself, as though to as-
 
 254 ALONE. 
 
 sure himself more fully of the fact ; "he 
 will come with me at once." 
 
 Telling the driver to wait for him, he 
 ran hastily up the steps, and pulled the bell. 
 The door was opened by the doctor himself. 
 
 " Wiry, Bender!" he said, his face relax- 
 ing from its usual gravity, "who would have 
 thought of your coming to be my Christ- 
 kind?" 
 
 But the allusion to the customs of their 
 own country passed by unheeded. 
 
 " You must come at once, doctor," he 
 answered. " Miss Hepburn begs you to 
 come; her father, she fears, is very ill — 
 dying, perhaps." 
 
 " In one moment I shall be ready. 
 Have you got a cab?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then go out and fetch the policeman 
 you will find at the corner of the square. 
 I gave my people leave to go out. I must 
 give him the house-key, lest I should not 
 be at home when they return.''
 
 ALONE. 255 
 
 Bender went; and Dr. Sternfels, gather- 
 ing some necessary medicines together, pre- 
 pared to leave the house. There had been 
 no exclamations of surprise or regret on his 
 part, no waste of words; he provided for 
 every emergency, and was ready when, two 
 minutes later, Herr Bender and the police- 
 man appeared at the door. 
 
 On the way the two men were very 
 silent. The Doctor, never a great talker, 
 was thinking of his patient; to Herr Bender 
 it seemed that anything like conversation 
 would impede their progress. 
 
 "When was he taken ill?" the physician 
 had asked; and his companion told him of 
 the sudden apparition at his parlour-door, 
 and of Grace's terrified words — "perhaps 
 dying!" 
 
 " I fear he is already dead," was Dr. 
 Sternfels' answer; and then they drove on 
 again in silence. 
 
 Before they reached the little house in 
 Rostock-crescent Grace knew that all was
 
 25 G ALONE. 
 
 over ; that the change had come ; the great 
 change — that he was dead. 
 
 When the Doctor entered the room, he 
 saw at a glance that his presence (as a phy- 
 sician) there was useless. The two women 
 had done all they could do; but they were 
 now resting from their labours with the sad 
 conviction that they were all in vain. Mrs. 
 Boxer sat at the foot of the sofa, lamenting 
 after the manner of her kind. Grace was 
 kneeling with her face on her father's 
 bosom, her arms round his neck, perfectly 
 silent and motionless. She did not appear 
 to notice it when the Doctor and Bender 
 entered the room. There was a moment's 
 pause, only broken by Mrs. Boxer's sobs 
 and tears and somewhat noisy grief. 
 
 The Doctor went up to her, and, taking 
 her out of the room, sternly checked her 
 talk. " My good woman," he said, " if you 
 are really sorry for what has happened, 
 prove it by making yourself useful. Your 
 lamentations will not bring my poor friend
 
 ALONE. 257 
 
 to life again. You should show your affec- 
 tion for him by serving his daughter." 
 
 " Surely, sir, it's for her that I take on 
 so; he's at rest, poor gentleman, and may 
 be is thankful that he's recovered his sight, 
 while we are repining that he don't take no 
 notice of us." 
 
 But the Doctor had left her to her spe- 
 culations on the landing, and had reentered 
 the chamber of death. He was not a man 
 given to moral cowardice, as we have al- 
 ready seen; but as he stood there, waiting 
 for some fitting words to come to him, he 
 felt that his position was a painful and per- 
 plexing one. He had been by death-beds 
 enough to make this no novel scene; but 
 mostly there had been mothers or sisters 
 for the young widow, daughters or hus- 
 bands for the bereaved mothers to turn to : 
 here, there was simply no one ; neither 
 kith nor kin. A sense of his own rough- 
 ness, of his small experience of feminine 
 ways and griefs, came very strongly upon 
 
 vol. I. s
 
 258 ALONE. 
 
 him. He regretted, perhaps for the first 
 time in his life, that he had not a wife, or 
 — better still — a sister, whom he could send 
 to this sorrow-stricken girl; who would 
 raise her in their arms and kiss her, and 
 sympathise with her sorrow with a gentle, 
 tender, womanly sympathy, showing itself 
 by deeds rather than in words; by small 
 silent services, and ready tactful help. 
 Such tact and gentleness he felt were not 
 his; and Grace was not a childish, appeal- 
 ing sort of girl, who would suggest petting 
 and caresses to the mind as worthy modes 
 of consolation. " Suppose she should cry 
 dreadfully," he thought to himself; " how 
 am I to comfort her?" But in the midst 
 of his perplexities he did not forget that 
 he had a duty to perform. " Miss Hep- 
 burn!" he said, and came a step or two 
 nearer the sofa; but she made no sign. 
 "Miss Hepburn!" Still no answer. "I 
 must try some other way," he thought. 
 •' I must catch her attention — Grace!"
 
 ALONE. 259 
 
 Upon this she raised her head, and, 
 without movino- her arm from about her 
 father's neck, looked at him with fixed, 
 dry, tearless eyes. He was perplexed, but 
 he spoke again. 
 
 " You did not hear me the first time, 
 and so I called you ' Grace.'" 
 
 " What is it that you want to say to 
 me ?" 
 
 " I want you to come here ; I have to 
 speak to you ; you will be ill if you stay 
 there any longer." 
 
 His tone was not sympathising, perhaps, 
 but she felt that he meant kindly. 
 
 " I know all you have to say ; he is 
 dead!" she answered. 
 
 "Yes," replied the Doctor quietly, "he 
 is dead. But that was not what I had to 
 say to you. I felt you knew that already." 
 
 "Yes; I know it." 
 
 "Will you listen to me?" 
 
 " No, I cannot listen ; I do not care ; 
 what does it matter? He is dead!"
 
 2G0 ALONE. 
 
 " But what if he would wish you to lis- 
 ten? What if I have a message from hiinV' 
 
 "Ah! that is different." 
 
 Then she bent down and rested her head 
 on his bosom again, and kissed his lips and 
 cheek and brow, her arms still locked about 
 his neck. 
 
 "Come," she said, rising suddenly from 
 her knees ; "I am ready to hear what you 
 have to say to me, since he wished it." 
 
 He took her hand and led her to a 
 seat. He was perplexed and sore troubled. 
 All his instincts, as a quasi-misogynist, 
 revolted at the thought of tears, and yet 
 his knowledge as a physician led him ar- 
 dently to desire them. But she was tear- 
 less ; and as he looked into her beautiful 
 but stonily-rigid face, he felt that her ner- 
 vous system had received a shock, such as 
 is felt by the sufferer years and years after 
 that shock has taken place. 
 
 "I would have told you this," he said, 
 "or told you that you must expect some-
 
 ALONE. 261 
 
 thing of this kind some day, but he — Mr. 
 Hepburn — your father — did not wish it. 
 He thought it better you should not en- 
 dure weeks, perhaps months, of useless 
 anxiety." 
 
 " 0, how mistaken !" 
 
 " He charged me to tell you," said Dr. 
 Sternfels, not noticing the interruption, 
 " that he was quite aware of his state, and 
 prepared to die ; also he wished me to say 
 that which as a physician I conscientiously 
 can do, that his death was painless, entirely 
 without suffering, and," he added, pausing 
 for a moment, " as far as we can venture to 
 speak in general terms of so great a mys- 
 tery — unconscious." 
 
 " And you knew it, and never told 
 me?" 
 
 " I had no right to tell you. Perhaps, 
 even if I had had the right, I should not 
 have done so." 
 
 " Do not let us speak of that now ; I 
 cannot bear it. Do not stay with me;
 
 2C2 ALONE. 
 
 you cannot bring him to life again ; he is 
 dead!" 
 
 She repeated these words in a heart- 
 rending tone. He was dead. What could 
 anything else matter ? What was all the 
 world now to her ? A desert — a solitude. 
 There, on the sofa, lay all that was left of 
 him; she was impatient to be alone with 
 him again ; with him and her own thoughts. 
 She did not cry nor think of crying ; but 
 she felt she should be glad — glad ? no, she 
 could never be that again ; but that it 
 would be a relief to get Dr. Sternfels out 
 of the room. He came between her and 
 her father. She did not know him inti- 
 mately — few persons did ; but she knew 
 him quite well enough to feel that it be- 
 hoved her to keep her feelings under con- 
 trol in his presence. She indistinctly felt 
 this, but was for once wrong. Dr. Stern- 
 fels began to wish she would "give way." 
 Me was a man, and in his masculine cha- 
 racter deprecated tears; but he was, before
 
 ALONE. 2G3 
 
 all things, a physician, and in this capacity 
 he saw that they were necessary to his 
 patient's well-being. He wished that he 
 could school that stubborn tongue of his to 
 frame some touching phrase which should 
 strike home to the grief-shocked heart. 
 But he was wise enough to know that such 
 words and turns of speech, in order to be 
 effectual, must come spontaneously, and 
 cannot be made. So he turned his thoughts 
 to the practical side of things. 
 
 "I will do all that is necessary for 
 you," he said, "respecting the funeral, for 
 which your father gave me some months 
 ago full instructions. I need not say, Miss 
 Hepburn, how much I wish to help you and 
 be of service. I should like to feel that I 
 could aid you — could in some way replace 
 — no, not replace — but, perhaps, do for you 
 what he that is gone was accustomed to do." 
 
 He called her Miss Hepburn now that 
 he had succeeded in fixing her attention, 
 but his tone was kind.
 
 264 ALONE. 
 
 As he spoke thus of her father's fune- 
 ral (half-hoping to bring by this means the 
 tears to her strangely-fixed eyes), for a 
 moment a terrible gleam shot into them ; 
 it was a sudden storm of passion at his 
 wanton cruelty. What! he could speak 
 thus to her, in that room, in that presence ! 
 He saw the bitter anger and antagonism in 
 her face, and understood the cause of it. 
 That too died away again, and the same 
 expressionless calm returned. Let the 
 whole world be cruel now, what did it 
 matter? if he would only go, and leave 
 her alone with him. That was all she 
 wanted. Then remembering the kind 
 words of proffered help she tried to thank 
 him. 
 
 "No one can replace him," she said; 
 " no one, no one ! But you are very kind. 
 If you would only leave me alone, and not 
 ask me anything. It is sure to be right, 
 anything you do. And nothing can matter 
 now — at least, I do not think it can, pro-
 
 ALONE. 265 
 
 vided his wishes are carried out. Good- 
 night !" 
 
 He was dismissed. He groped his way 
 down the narrow stairs, very sore at heart. 
 He had not expected to be of much use, 
 but he felt that he had signally failed. 
 Bender, who had withdrawn when the 
 Doctor had returned, after banishing Mrs. 
 Boxer, was waiting at the door of his little 
 room. " How is she?" he whispered below 
 his breath. 
 
 " She is very strange, quiet, and tear- 
 less. I wish she had some woman with 
 her." 
 
 "Not Mrs. Boxer?" 
 
 "Well, I begin to think Mrs. Boxer 
 even would be better than none. The fact 
 is, men are useless in affliction." 
 
 " Does she cry very bitterly?" 
 
 " Not a tear." 
 
 Then they had gone together into the 
 little room, and Dr. Sternfels had drunk a 
 cup of Bender's long-neglected tea. They
 
 2CG ALOXE. 
 
 spoke of the poor dead man upstairs, of his 
 illness, and death, and burial, but they made 
 no further reference to his daughter. 
 
 Meanwhile Grace knelt with her face 
 against her father's, and her arms about his 
 neck, and rebelled. She could not cry. 
 
 "0 papa, papa, speak to me! papa, 
 say you feel my hand ! You are not dead, 
 papa ; you would never go and leave me all 
 alone !" 
 
 But in her heart of hearts she knew 
 he was dead all the time, and his voice 
 would never in this world answer hers 
 again. Never, never, never, through all 
 the dreary long years that were coining! 
 through all the weary lengths of her soli- 
 tary life, never, never, never ! Every 
 thought which had not been of him. pose 
 up and reproached her now; every wish 
 for change, every longing for other things, 
 every vain repining. He would never press 
 her hand again; never walk with her 
 through the dusky squares in the summer
 
 ALONE. 267 
 
 twilight ; never tell her of his early life, 
 never talk to her of her gentle mother 
 again. Never, never again ! She did not 
 think of what the future might be without 
 him. She simply felt that she would be 
 alone, and that nothing henceforth could 
 nearly touch her, nothing could matter. 
 She had no one to please, no one to work 
 for, no one to cheer, to nurse, to love, to 
 tend. Let her make the most of the time 
 that remained before — ah ! why had she 
 left him to speak to strangers, to strangers 
 who could not feel what a precious boon 
 the next few days must be? To Grace it 
 seemed as though she had been mournino- 
 her father for years ; as though a weary 
 time had passed since he last spoke to her. 
 Alas ! a few hours ago, that very after- 
 noon, they had talked long and cheerfully 
 together. How was she to ii - et through all 
 her future life ? Thus she knelt with her 
 head on that silent heart, and felt that 
 each moment was precious.
 
 268 ALOXK. 
 
 Where was he now ? The spirit that a 
 few short hours ago had communed with 
 her own had floated away into eternity. 
 She did not know where to seek him. 
 And yet there was comfort, if comfort in- 
 deed there were any, in the cold clay. As 
 long as she had that, she had something. 
 
 Thus Christinas morning dawned on 
 the orphaned girl, still tearless and silent, 
 with her arms about her father's neck, and 
 her face set pale and rigid. 
 
 In another week even that was gone, 
 to which in her tearless agony she had so 
 clung. It seemed to her all through those 
 long and silent days as though she were 
 preparing for a second death. And when 
 at last they came and took him from her, a 
 merciful blank fell on her spirit, and the 
 light went out in darkness. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LOXDOH: 
 JIODSON' AND SONS, PBEiTSBS, PABCBAS ROAD, H.TT.