mi^m, 
 
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 <S9- JW 
 
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 X 
 
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 LI B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVER.SITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 £151 
 
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 THE ILL-TEMPERED COUSIN,
 
 AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND BOOKSTALLS. 
 
 I Vol. Cloth, 3^. dd. 
 
 The New and Cheaper Edition of the Popular Work 
 of Travel, 
 
 THE DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN SPAIN. 
 
 By FRANCES ELLIOT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF * THE DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY 
 AND SICILY,' ETC., ETC. 
 
 * There is no more amusing writer of travel than Mrs 
 Elliot. . . . She never ceases to amuse and interest. This 
 has all the characteristics of her former works, and will be 
 as generally read.' — World. 
 
 ' She is bright and pleasant company wherever she leads 
 us, with a good eye for colour and scenery, and an intense 
 admiration for the romantic and thousand-storied histoiy of 
 the land of her wanderings. . . . History and the beauties 
 of nature go hand in hand through these pleasant pages. . . . 
 The book is a creditable companion to the earlier volume, 
 and an admirable relish for the more solid study of " Murray," 
 to those about to travel in Spain.' — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO., 
 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.
 
 
 THE ILL-TEMPERED COUSIN. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES ELLIOT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN SPAIN,' 
 'THE RED CARDINAL,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 V O L. I. 
 
 LONDON : R V. WHITE & CO., 
 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1885. 
 
 {All Rights r e served. "X
 
 COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
 
 8^3 
 
 TO MY FRIEND 
 
 MRS ELLICOTT, 
 
 WITH 
 
 3 THE AUTHOR'S LOVE. 
 
 I.
 
 The Ill-Tempered Cousin, 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 IFTY years ago at Twickenham ! 
 Dear old place ! No steamers, no 
 trains, no telegraphs ! Blessed 
 time ! 
 
 So long ago — I seem to have seen it as 
 Pope saw it — from his lawn-spread villa on 
 the Thames, when laced upright in a stiff 
 canvas bodice, asthmatic and tottering, an 
 old man at forty, he was rowed on the 
 river, or rambled on the banks, his dog 
 Bounce after him, decorated his shell 
 grotto, — approached by what Swift called 
 the Ars Poettca, — and turned and twisted 
 his garden-domain of five acres into 
 
 VOL. I. A
 
 2 The Ill-tempered Cousin. ■ 
 
 park-like lawns and green alleys ; — a bril- 
 liant circle round him — Arbuthnot, Gay, 
 Swift, Oxford, Bolingbroke, Peterborough, 
 Kneller, and fair-faced Hervey ; the 
 ladies, from the Court at hand at Rich- 
 mond — Lady Suffolk, 'youth's youngest 
 daughter, sweet Lepell,' to become Lady 
 Hervey; Miss Bellenden, and 'lovely 
 Montagu,' — in reality a hard-headed, keen- 
 witted, remorseless woman ; good Mrs 
 Hannah Blount, successor to her sister 
 Teresa, bringing up the rear, neither 
 handsome nor clever, — making tea and 
 pickles, and keeping off smarter dames. 
 
 And the great little earl was of Twick- 
 enham too, receiving carriage-company at 
 Strawberry Hill, trooping down the Lon- 
 don Road in fine coaches, and chariots 
 painted sky-blue and pale yellow ; the 
 ladies all hoops, feathers, patches, and 
 rouge ; the gentlemen dandies of the 
 Macaroni Club, in silk and velvet — not 
 without a suspicion of rouge also ; — he 
 laughing at them all the time, and * taking 
 the roof off their houses,' like the Diable 
 boiteux. 
 
 Another neighbour in those classic days, 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds, now in his speaking- 
 trumpet period, with his sister, gentle Miss
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 3 
 
 Reynolds, Inhabiting another famous house 
 — on The Hill next to the ' Star and Garter ' 
 — of which not a brick is altered, — the 
 same house where Garrick sat for his por- 
 trait, dressed as Richard the Third, in a 
 bag wig, gold-laced coat and satin tights, 
 — Gibbon tapped his gold-mounted snuff- 
 box, — and Goldsmith — 'Gentle Oliver' — 
 arrived to dine in the immortal plum- 
 coloured coat and yellow waistcoat ; not a 
 penny in his pocket, but, all the same, 
 hopeful and smiling, babbling about ' Turn- 
 ham green peas ' at Brentford, and making 
 everyone laugh consumedly. 
 
 Burly Doctor Johnson also, * like a thun- 
 der-cloud in motion,' sauntering through 
 the Twickenham meadows, in a Rhada- 
 minthine sort of way, to visit the noble 
 trifler, Horace Walpole ; and the great 
 Philip Earl of Chesterfield, passing through 
 the long lanes in his coach-and-six, a 
 splendid apparition, attended by his valet, 
 Dayrolles — for the earl Is old and infirm, 
 and fears to take the air unattended. 
 
 The swans had the river all to them- 
 selves, savagely ready to attack all comers 
 as the current carries them softly onwards 
 past dits and islands of osier beds and 
 water-lilies, by fleets of pleasure-boats,
 
 4 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 gay with pennons and flags ; the country 
 — real country, with great emerald spaces 
 and fine clumps of elms between the far- 
 off houses, thickening a little near the 
 Thames ; Twickenham itself, a straggling, 
 old-fashioned village, grouping around a 
 stone-towered church as old as the Henrys, 
 with a large yew at hand higher than the 
 tower, up which a flag is run on royal birth- 
 days, and on the fifth of November to spite 
 the Papists. The yew-tree shading both 
 church and grave-yard reverently from the 
 road, a pathway of shining pebbles lead- 
 ing to the porch, furnished with wooden 
 benches; good sittings on Sundays, as the 
 old men knew who frequented it, for they 
 can come and go as they like, in shabby 
 clothes, which would be a disgrace inside. 
 The interior much endeared to the vulvar 
 mind by whitewash, diversified with black 
 and yellow stripes, large hatchments, with 
 gaudy coats-of-arms, and carved monu- 
 ments painted round with deep lines of 
 colour ; also high-backed pews, with green 
 curtains on brass rods, within which sleep 
 becomes a duty. 
 
 Near the church stood the inn — * The 
 Red Lion ' — set forth by a flaunting sign- 
 board that sways to and fro in high winds,
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 5 
 
 and creaks in frosty weather. In front, 
 posters ready harnessed for the ' Light- 
 ning' coach, running between London and 
 Portsmouth, and for all chaises or chariots 
 passing on the road, the horses held by 
 broken-down post-boys, small and wisened, 
 with bowed legs far apart by reason of the 
 saddle, wearing battered jockey-caps, and 
 ragged hunting coats, fastened by pins or 
 string, over patched knee-breeches and 
 what had once been top-boots, out of which 
 toes protrude very apparently ; nonde- 
 scripts, who wipe their mouths with the 
 inside of their hands to remind you of drink, 
 and touch their jockey-caps with a curled 
 palm, suggestive of halfpence, but who can 
 swear and tipple like their betters, and kick 
 the poor horses when no one is looking. 
 
 Before the open door stands Mr Hor- 
 rocks, the landlord, his hands in his pockets, 
 and a short pipe between his teeth, his 
 right leg and foot well forward, as one who 
 says, ' I am master — deny it who can.' 
 
 * Here, Jim, you blackguard ' — (this is his 
 style of language, addressed to the oldest 
 and most decrepit of the ' Boys'), — ' that 
 near 'oss is not groomed. Do it pro- 
 perly, or I'll give you the lash !' And he 
 slashes his hunting-crutch fiercely in Jim's
 
 6 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 face, who cowers before hini like a cur, 
 and, horse in hand, rushes into the stable. 
 
 Only two doors off is the ' General 
 Warehouse,' where groceries and chat are 
 dealt out in equal quantities, by thriving 
 Mr Marshall and his two sons. Near it 
 again a haberdashery kept by the pensive 
 Widow Blake, in well-worn weeds. 
 
 But the gem of the village is the lolli- 
 pop shop of Dame Jodders, famed far and 
 wide for her hard-bake. No stranger to 
 Twickenham passes by that road without 
 entering her little parlour, with straw chairs, 
 and a Bible laid on a worsted mat on a 
 table near the lattice-window. 
 
 As visitors appear, she emerges from a 
 back-door leading to the washhouse, a black 
 bonnet tilted over her nose, and iron 
 spectacles, — her skirts pinned up, and her 
 hands white and furred with soap-suds ; — • 
 always a mossy smell about her suggestive 
 of a pump, and drops of water falling to the 
 floor. 
 
 ' Wonderful fine hard-bake,' she says to 
 her customers, in monologue, giving her 
 bonnet a shove forward as she proceeds, in 
 primitive fashion, to break the squares with 
 her fingers. ' Wonderful ! I sends he to 
 King at Windsor. A-sends down a coach-
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 7 
 
 and-four, a' does, on purpose to fetch he all 
 hisself. The Queen's Majesty and the 
 Princesses eats he — they do rarely. Queen 
 says, says she, ''George" (that's the old 
 King), " here's your hard-bake." He says, 
 says he, a - kissing on her so purty, 
 " Thank'ee, my dearie — can't live without 
 my hard-bake nohow." (They eats a lot 
 a' do at the castle !) Says the Queen, 
 " Nothing in the 'varsal world like Jodder's 
 hard-bake. Rest is cheats ! " Awdacious ! I 
 had he 'prisoned,' Dame Jodder adds, with a 
 grin, — ' took up and 'prisoned for counterfit. 
 King a' helped me. 'A got seven year, a' did, 
 at the 'sizes at Windsor town, all for he ! ' 
 
 She points to the pile of hard-bake in 
 the window. For us she had taken down 
 a tin canister, labelled 'snuff' in large 
 painted letters. Then dropping our pence 
 into a little slit in the deal table, where 
 they clink against each other, conveying 
 visions of treasure, we depart. 
 
 Turning off to the left from the highroad, 
 past the village, a blind lane ends abruptly 
 in a handsome lodge and a smart gate ; 
 on both sides bordered by high walls, so 
 darkened by damp and mildew, and the 
 mortar crevices so filled with moss, that 
 the original colour of the bricks has alto-
 
 8 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 gether faded out. Above fall shadows 
 from lofty elms — the roughly-barked 
 branches stretching across the road, and 
 almost meeting overhead. Inside, hedges 
 of laurel wild and scraggy for want of 
 trimming, and here and there a pointed 
 cypress, shooting up in rank luxuriance, 
 overtops the walls. 
 
 The road is gloomy and ill-kept ; leaves 
 fly about in the wind, and cover the strag- 
 gling footpaths, winding in and out among 
 the coarse grass on either side, at inter- 
 vals broken by other ornamented gates, 
 opening upon gravel drives enshrouded 
 in banks of evergreen, each gate the 
 entrance to some choice villa or mansion, 
 rarely recognisable, except by an elevated 
 stack of chimneys. 
 
 Further down to the right, a green door 
 opens upon a tall, gaunt, Queen Anne 
 house, presenting itself to the eye with a 
 certain vulgar freshness, very different from 
 the bashful seclusion of the modern villas 
 shrouded in veils of shrubbery and shade. 
 
 The Queen Anne house, with high, 
 narrow windows filled with small, square 
 panes of glass like eyes without eyelashes, 
 and an unporched door flattened against 
 the brick walls, is approached by a double
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. g 
 
 flight of stone steps, with iron ramps, 
 clearly curtailed of their just proportions, 
 and narrowed into absolute meanness. 
 The smallest projection or angularity on 
 the facade would be a relief, but there 
 is none — not a creeper, not a vagrant trail 
 of ivy, nor a morsel of lichen to break the 
 bewildering lines of glaring mortar, — only 
 between the windows of the first and second 
 floors a stone lozenge, with a head repre- 
 senting a hard-featured Roman emperor — 
 Caesar, perhaps, or Tiberius ; the date of 
 the house, 171 2, and the name * Scatlands,' 
 produced in black paint on a lozenge under 
 the Roman head. 
 
 Scatlands stands north and south, — 
 protecting gardens compass it about, keep- 
 ing back the wind, but concealing the 
 the river — only visible from the second 
 storey on a level with the stone lozenge. 
 The river, and the laughing meadows 
 beyond, fading away along the banks into 
 a bosky pleasaunce of parks, groves, and 
 thickets. 
 
 Quiet and silent is the high-walled 
 garden, divided by formal gravel walks, 
 cut symmetrically. But nature is never 
 unsightly. The brown earth shines rich 
 with borders of delicate-leaved box ; dusky
 
 lo The I II- temp 67' ed Cousin. 
 
 wallflower and late stocks ; and silver laven- 
 der basks merrily in the November sun, 
 striking warm upon the protecting walls — 
 covered with apricot, pear, and plum, — each 
 little branchlet stretched to its utmost limit 
 by the gardener's skill, like a gigantic fan. 
 Even the crumpled cabbage, and the sweet- 
 smelling pot-herbs and purple broccoli bear 
 a certain beauty, as do the espaliers (neatly 
 bordering the walks leading towards a dark 
 exit on the further side into the meadows), 
 trained in lines as symmetrical as mediaeval 
 iron work. 
 
 Between Scatlands and the river stands 
 another house called ' Rosebank,' one of 
 those modern villas enshrouded in greenery, 
 and looking as bright as paint and varnish 
 can make it. 
 
 Unlike its aged neighbour, Rosebank 
 has no one point of view that corresponds 
 with the other. 
 
 There are carved gables ; turrets with 
 conical tops encasing spiral stairs ; quaint 
 recesses in a line with green verandahs ; 
 projecting porches and mullioned windows ; 
 scripture texts carved in gaily-painted char- 
 acters ; coats-of-arms and supporters, all in 
 bright colours, ramping side by side with cas- 
 tellated doorways and glass conservatories.
 
 The Ill'te7npered Cousin. 1 1 
 
 Some remote idea of warlike encounters 
 must have been simmering in the brain of the 
 Cockney architect (returned probably from 
 the enticement of a Scotch trip) and caused 
 him to endow his creation with a character 
 of combativeness, highly diverting in a 
 dwelling rising peacefully out of geranium 
 beds, on a lawn sloping gently to the 
 Thames. Still the building made 'figura,' 
 as the Italians say, and was much admired 
 by those who entertained obscure ideas 
 upon national defences : the warlike char- 
 acter intensified by a toy cannon mounted 
 on a swivel, placed with its mouth facing 
 the front door ! 
 
 Somehow, although not half so high as 
 Scatlands, Rosebank absorbed all the sun- 
 shine, the air, and the brightness — to say 
 nothing of the river which glided under the 
 emerald lawn, like a diamond coil. 
 
 To look down on it from the upper storey 
 of Scatlands, was like a glimpse out of Pur- 
 gatory into Paradise. As much as it was 
 possible for one house to mock another, 
 Rosebank did mock its aged neighbour. 
 
 * Get out of my way, you old thing ! ' the 
 villa seemed to say. * Get out of my way ! 
 I am strong, and young, and comely, and 
 you are old, and bald, and grim ! The sun
 
 1 2 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 woos me, and rests on me ; the river loves 
 me, and ripples to me softly on summer 
 nights ; the birds sing to me in spring — 
 the rooks caw to me politely, telling me 
 when day breaks in the east. Primroses 
 and violets waft to me their choicest per- 
 fumes, and the first snowdrop lifts up its 
 white head to salute me ! Get out of my 
 way, you bleared old thing ! Don't cumber 
 the ground with your red face and white 
 patched eyes ! Of what use are you ? Who 
 cares for you ? Go away ! '
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Rosebank lived Mr and Mrs 
 
 Maitland, with their only son 
 
 Edward, and Miss Sterne, Mrs 
 
 Maitland's companion. 
 
 The Queen Anne house, with the tall 
 
 small-paned windows, was inhabited by 
 
 i\Ir and Mrs Winter, with no children at 
 
 all. They never had any. 
 
 Mrs Winter — universally known as 'Aunt 
 Amelia' — was a small, thin, little woman, 
 very much inclined to stoop, — with a singu- 
 larly gentle voice, which matched with her 
 soft face, and kind, caressing manners. 
 A faded blonde was Mrs Winter, whose 
 once rosebud complexion had long toned 
 down to the colour of old ivory. Fine 
 wrinkles had early gathered on her delicate 
 skin, — the golden hue had early gone from 
 her hair — still silky and abundant, though
 
 1 4 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 slightly streaked with grey, hidden away 
 under a cap of soft white lace, trimmed 
 with pale pink ribbons. 
 
 Those pale pink ribbons, and a certain 
 aromatic perfume of dried rose leaves 
 which surrounded her like an atmosphere, 
 were the only legends time had left of her 
 youthful charms, — the only vanity of which 
 she was guilty. 
 
 Poor Aunt Amelia ! the cap and its pale 
 pink ribbons, and the perfume of roses, 
 were each palpable in their different ways ; 
 but who can describe the kindly blue 
 eyes that brightened with ready sym- 
 pathy towards every living creature, the 
 exquisite delicacy of touch, the gentle, 
 modulated voice and benevolent eyes ? 
 One always thought of her as young. 
 Some natures never age. There is left 
 in them some touch of virginal charm — 
 like the freshness of autumn woods, in 
 the coolness of early dawn, bringing out 
 summer shadows long after the warmth 
 has passed. It was in this sense one never 
 thought of her as old. Her little vanities 
 of dress, intense in their simple refinement, 
 her unconscious feminine ways, had much 
 of the flavour of youth about them. Not 
 a vessel of strength Aunt Amelia ! Cer-
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 15 
 
 talnly not ! She never had been at any 
 time ; and assuredly was not now, after 
 many ups and downs, and long years of 
 care and suffering. 
 
 These uncertainties and ups and downs, 
 referable to the conduct of her husband, 
 Mr Louis Winter, who, from his earliest 
 youth, had never been able to keep a 
 shilling in his pocket. Nor did he pos- 
 sess that fine sense of vieum and tuu77t 
 that can bear the investigation of creditors. 
 Not that he meant to be dishonest. Oh, 
 no ! His motives and his actions were 
 always — as expounded by himself in broken 
 English (Mr Winter was a German) — 
 exalted even to self-sacrifice. Indeed, to 
 hear him talk, you would have imagined 
 that he would, long ago, have accumulated 
 a vast fortune, but for the impecuniosity 
 of his friends. 
 
 Always, in speaking of his affairs, he 
 used a neuter pronoun, and this had 
 become such a habit, that I doubt if he 
 did, in fact, realise that his losses were 
 the consequence of his own culpable 
 imprudence. On no occasion had he 
 ever acknowledged his own responsibility. 
 Indeed Mr W^inter had lived upon delu- 
 sions all his life, and would continue to
 
 1 6 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 live on them till his death. They suited 
 him. 
 
 At the best of times he had reckoned upon 
 chance, which, in a merchant, is dangerous, 
 and speculated in every new venture — ven- 
 tures indeed presenting apparently no other 
 inducement than their novelty — in a way 
 utterly bewildering to the business mind. 
 
 Money was money to Mr Winter wher- 
 ever he found it. Whose money It was 
 mattered little. His powers of appropria- 
 tion were unlimited (always with the idea, 
 be it noted, of benefiting his creditor by 
 returning cent, per cent, for the sums he 
 borrowed). In this way he would have 
 robbed his father, his mother, or his 
 own child, had he possessed one. His 
 closest friends he had robbed so often, 
 that the time had come when their purse- 
 strings were closed hermetically. 
 
 Nor did he thank them ! Had he suc- 
 ceeded, he told himself, he, Louis Winter, 
 would have made them rich. He had not 
 succeeded, and to repay them, under the 
 circumstances, was not obviously to be 
 expected. 
 
 Besides his business ventures on the 
 Stock Exchange, Mr Winter, full of 
 elegant tastes, and the most refined artistic
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 1 7 
 
 proclivities in china, pictures, sculpture, 
 and bric-a-brac, invested in these articles 
 whenever and however occasion offered, in 
 a manner most damaging- to his credit. 
 Rarely were these acquisitions paid for. 
 They were accepted by him airily — on 
 speculation — to be resold. If he did not 
 effect a resale, the proprietors found them- 
 selves most thankful to have them returned. 
 If he sold them, they were still more thank- 
 ful to receive a portion of the price. But, 
 as Mr Winter's name as a connoisseur 
 was supposed to confer an additional value 
 on the ' objects ' he possessed, he invari- 
 ably found ready victims. 
 
 Thus Aunt Amelia passed her life in 
 a bitter mockery of apparent wealth, in- 
 expressibly aggravating amid the real 
 poverty with which she struggled. Often 
 and often would she burst into tears as 
 she looked round on the tables and con- 
 soles, which, as well as the walls of her 
 drawing-room (whenever she possessed 
 one), were invariably crowded with the 
 rarest enamels, bronzes, pottery, and por- 
 celain, the walls ablaze with priceless 
 pictures and original sketches by great 
 masters. 
 
 Meek as she was, she always opposed 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 1 8 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 the advent of fresh vakiables Into the 
 house. She would have deemed it dis- 
 loyal to her husband to reason out logi- 
 cally the cause of her opposition, but she 
 did, in a vague manner, admit to her secret 
 self that these things were not his ; that 
 he sold them nevertheless ; and that by 
 some mysterious process money was for a 
 time unaccountably plentiful. 
 
 At this she wept bitter tears. She re- 
 monstrated — even more — as far as it was 
 in her, she became violent, and threatened 
 to leave the house. In vain ! 
 
 ' Meine goot Amalie,' Mr Winter would 
 say, embracing her fervently. * Z'ee ees 
 di letel fools. Zee no ferstand noting 
 at all. Es ees der Louis dat is vise. 
 Let he alone, Vid ees littel eye ee do 
 goots to all' 
 
 After this he would flourish his red silk 
 handkerchief in the air, like a banner of 
 victory ; then suddenly remembering its 
 legitimate purpose, blow his nose violently, 
 finally leading off Aunt Amelia to the 
 piano, where, by the aid of his silver- 
 mounted flute, leading the melody to her 
 accompaniment — for she was a charming 
 musician — all their troubles were for- 
 gotten.
 
 The Ill-tempe7'ed Cousin, 19 
 
 Louis Winter was the younger son of a 
 most respectable Jewish family in Frank- 
 fort. He had been trained m perfect 
 habits of technical mercantile knowledge — 
 he was, also, a thorough musician. Of his 
 early training he had retained nothing but 
 an ebony silver-mounted flute, on which 
 he played delightfully, and the distinction 
 of possessing the most complicated ledger 
 in existence ; so complicated, indeed, that 
 not only no one, however skilled, could 
 arrive at any knowledge of the totals, but 
 he himself had long been hopelessly 
 puzzled by them. 
 
 Years of his life had been passed poring 
 over that book, in which the minutest sums 
 he paid out were punctually entered. Sit- 
 ting at a long table (on these occasions he 
 insisted on having all the additional leaves 
 added to the one in the dining-room, 
 taking his place at the head as though 
 assisting at a feast), his double eyeglass 
 on his nose — for ]\Ir Winter was near- 
 siorhted — his larg^e red silk handkerchief in 
 his hand, a glass of water by his side, and 
 innumerable piles of bills all neatly tied 
 with red tape, and docketed with name 
 and date, spread out before him. Un- 
 doubtedly Mr Winter laboured under some
 
 20 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 hallucination respecting this spreading out 
 of his bills, for that alone could explain 
 the boyish delight he exhibited on these 
 occasions, — pacing up and down the room 
 with an elastic step, his rubicund counte- 
 nance beaming ; then rushing off to Aunt 
 Amelia, wherever she might be, enfolding 
 her in his arms, and covering her with 
 kisses. Finally, as if the bounds of the 
 old ' Anne ' house were too narrow, he 
 would seize upon his hat, and, with a bang 
 of the door, precipitate himself down the 
 stone steps Into the lane, with the triumph- 
 ant air of a man freed from every en- 
 cumbrance ! 
 
 But as Mr Winter rarely paid a single 
 bill, and always omitted to add up the 
 totals, awkward accidents had at various 
 times happened, breaking up the otherwise 
 perfect harmony of his domestic life. 
 
 On the last of these melancholy occa- 
 sions, he returned home from the City 
 unusually early, to Aunt Amelia's dismay 
 (she always was dismayed at anything 
 unusual ; a violent fit of trembling would 
 seize her, and she would become almost 
 paralysed), accompanied by a shabby 
 person in black, who kept close to 
 him.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 1 
 
 As he mounted the flight of stone steps, 
 Mr Winter was in tears ; — his voluminous 
 red handkerchief pressed to his eyes. In 
 the hall he met Aunt Amelia, and, with 
 a loud sob, flung himself on his knees 
 and tried to kiss her feet (this was a 
 delicate stroke of flattery, for Aunt Amelia 
 had extremely small and very pretty feet, 
 and when she was young, had been ex- 
 tremely proud of them), then straining her 
 to him with such violence as to cause the 
 poor lady to scream. 
 
 ' Ach, my life, my life ! ' he cried. In his 
 broken English. ' My Amalie ! Thy 
 Louis has been betrayed by der Judas 
 kiss of ees friend, ees own familiar friend ! 
 Der Judas has spoiled ee of alls — zy 
 Louis who Is zo goot, zo zaving, zo 
 prudent ! Thy Louis, who loofes die 
 Amalie ' — (here he clasped her hands and 
 covered them with kisses) — ' vid ze passion 
 of ees youth. Ach, Himmel! he is un- 
 done ! Zee will starve — starve, my Amalie ! 
 zee will perish in ze streets ! Thy Louis 
 will die at zy side ! ' 
 
 Alas ! had poor Aunt Amelia's eyes been 
 raised from her husband's distorted coun- 
 tenance, down which torrents of tears now 
 flowed, she would have seen the tongue of
 
 22 The Ill-tempered Cotistn. 
 
 the shabby nondescript in black thrust 
 into his cheek, and his forefinger furtively 
 resting upon the side of his nose. But 
 better so — Aunt Amelia did not look up, 
 and, therefore, she saw nothing. 
 
 Starting to his feet, Mr Winter, still 
 clasping his trembling wife in his arms, 
 was making for the open door, when the 
 unwelcome form of the stranger, his lack- 
 lustre eyes fixed upon him, rose up to 
 arrest him. 
 
 * Permit me, my Amalie/ said Mr Win- 
 ter, becoming by a miracle suddenly calm, 
 and even smiling, — ' Permit me to present 
 to zee — an honest Herr, a gentleman on 
 business ' (this said in his blandest manner). 
 * Do not fear ze honest gentlemans, my 
 wive ! ' he added, seeing Aunt Amelia's 
 look of consternation, — ' Ze will use us 
 well — a good Herr — I know im.' (This 
 was true ; the nondescript in black had 
 once waited on Mr Louis Winter in prison, 
 and been kind to him.) 'I know im ' — 
 moving his head up and down as he waved 
 his red handkerchief, a persuasive smile 
 on his face — ' Ze will use us well, nicht 
 wahr, Herr Shosephs }' 
 
 Mr Joseph answered this appeal by a 
 nod, and a pull with his gloved hand at a
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 23 
 
 lock of his front hair, hanging long and 
 lank on his forehead. 
 
 ' Mr Shosephs, ze are welcome to my 
 house,' and rvir Winter gave a glance round 
 as a master. ' Go wid im, my loofe,' 
 addressinor Aunt Amelia. ' Go wid Mr 
 Shosephs — show him de fine enamels, and 
 de pottery, de pictures, and de Venetian 
 lace. Ach Himmel! zem ees fine — and 
 pays ! Give him zome vine while he 
 takes a list. Ach, zo ! Dat ees goot,' — 
 he added, seeing that the trembling Aunt 
 Amelia prepared to obey. 
 
 ' Sorry, sir ; but cannot possibly leave 
 you, Mr Winter ! says Mr Josephs, the 
 sherlft"'s officer, gruffly, shaking his bullet- 
 head. ' Orders positive — not the first 
 time, Mr Winter — not the first time, sir ! 
 Stale is not trusted, Mr Winter ! ' 
 
 And Mr Josephs' stolid countenance 
 broke out into a broad grin, which to 
 Aunt Amelia, standing by, quite quiet, 
 but rigid with terror, seemed the climax 
 of horror. 
 
 ' Guter God ! ' exclaimed Mr Winter, 
 in agonised accents, as he sank into a 
 chair, again breaking into sobs under his 
 silk handkerchief, now thrown over his 
 head, — ' Guter God ! Mr Shosephs ! Not
 
 24 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 trust me ! I treat you as der broder, and 
 ze doubt me ! ' 
 
 By this time Aunt Amelia having with 
 uncertain hands placed decanters and 
 glasses on the table, Mr Josephs' resolu- 
 tion evidently wavered. The day was cold 
 — the drive from London long! His eyes 
 twinkled. He glanced from Mr Winter — 
 still sobbing on the chair — to Aunt Amelia, 
 trembling in silence beside the decanters. 
 
 ' Poor old gemman ! ' he muttered, look- 
 ing at Mr Winter, ' never knew any harm 
 of him. Some is born bankrupts. He's a 
 foreign cove. He don't know what's what ! 
 Give me some fir$t-rate weeds when he was 
 in quod last time. Poor old gemman ! 
 He's no legs to run; he's so fat and pursy, 
 and he hain't no sense to hide, if he could 
 run. He's a downright hidiot !' And Mr 
 Josephs nodded and grinned again at his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 ' I'm mortal dry — I should like to try 
 the sherry.' Taking his ink-bottle, which 
 he fastened to a buttonhole of his coat, in 
 his hand, and his pen from his pocket, Mr 
 Josephs still stood undecided. 
 
 A deep sigh from Aunt Amelia alone 
 broke the monotony of Mr Winter's noisy 
 sobs.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 25 
 
 ' Quiet old party ? ' asked Mr Josephs, 
 pointing with his thumb to Mr Winter. 
 
 A dismal groan at this moment broke 
 from beneath the handkerchief, and the 
 head under it oscillated to and fro, beat- 
 ing itself violently against the wall. 
 
 ' While you are talking he will dash out 
 his brains!' cried Aunt Amelia, running 
 to her husband, and folding her arms 
 round him. ' O heavens ! what shall I do '^ 
 Go — go away, horrible man !' addressing 
 Mr Josephs. ' If you stand staring there 
 my husband will kill himself ! ' 
 
 At this moment the red handkerchief 
 worked to such an extent, and the head 
 under it beat itself so wildly that Aunt 
 Amelia screamed. 
 
 ' Spare him ! — oh, spare him ! ' she 
 shrieked, straining her arms round Mr 
 Winter. ' I will take care of him. I 
 swear to youhe shall not leave the house. 
 Go — go away !' 
 
 ' I think I can trust um,' muttered Mr 
 Josephs, half aloud. ' I'll have a glass or 
 two of sherry, then begin my inventory. 
 Better leave the old cuss to his missus till 
 my pal comes to watch um,' and Mr 
 Josephs glided into the dining-room to- 
 wards the decanter.
 
 26 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 At this point of the narrative, Aunt 
 Amelia, In relating these events to her 
 friend, Mrs Maltland, was never very dis- 
 tinct as to what followed. The fact was, 
 that Mr Winter, notwithstanding Aunt 
 Amelia's pledge, did contrive to get away 
 from her into the garden, and, unper- 
 ceived by Mr Josephs — who found the 
 sherry to his taste — made his way by the 
 espalier walk out by the back door, which 
 opened on the Twickenham meadows, 
 and from thence to the Continent, with a 
 considerable sum secreted about his per- 
 son ; also some ' bits ' of choice antique 
 jewels and rare enamels. 
 
 This flight obliged his creditors to come 
 to a more favourable settlement than they 
 otherwise would have done. They showed 
 themselves merciful. A man who could 
 detect a copy or an imitation yards off, and 
 who could, to a dead certainty, hit on the 
 name of the painter of an unknown work, 
 was worthy of consideration from the 
 dealers. As long as he lived Mr Winter 
 would possess that fine touch as to the 
 paste of porcelain. A spurious or a modern 
 article could never hope to pass the ordeal 
 of his delicate finders. No one, either, had 
 such an eye for pictures of the Dutch
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 2 7 
 
 and Flemish school, — all claims not to be 
 overlooked by the trade. 
 
 Besides, if Louis Winter was the 
 most unreliable, he was also the most 
 good-natured of mortals — and good na- 
 ture may exercise a certain influence even 
 with creditors. He was also fortunate in 
 being the uncle of a certain John Bauer, a 
 monied man in the City, whose very name 
 meant backing and security. Bauer had 
 long since ceased to afford his erratic uncle 
 any material support as to money ; but, 
 like everyone else, he took a kindly in- 
 terest in his welfare. No one knew, how- 
 ever, when John Bauer might relax his 
 purse-strings. 
 
 Music was the bond between them. 
 Both were performers, both were amateurs ; 
 and John, a shy, reserved man, singularly 
 sensitive for a merchant, never played 
 Avith such comfort to himself as when 
 his violoncello was followed by Aunt 
 Amelia on the piano and Uncle Louis's 
 silver-mounted flute. 
 
 For the Winters to possess a house in 
 which to receive him was therefore a 
 selfish luxury to their nephew, barring 
 all family feelings, in which he was far 
 from deficient. So he bestirred himself
 
 28 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 for his uncle on this occasion, and on the 
 latter's return from the Continent, insisted 
 upon taking possession of the famous 
 ledger, and even went so far as to become 
 a kind of trustee for such odds and ends of 
 settled property as remained. No ' leetle' 
 affair could be transacted by Mr Winter 
 without John Bauer's signature. This, 
 naturally, was not forthcoming. The 
 ledger was captured and locked up in a 
 safe at his office in the City, and a little 
 pastime invented for Uncle Louis, who 
 was allowed once a month to visit John 
 and inspect the beloved volume, under 
 his nephew's eye. 
 
 So, thanks to his nephew and his well- 
 filled purse, Mr and Mrs Winter had 
 weathered this last storm, and were at 
 the present time back again in their old 
 home at Scatlands.
 
 €^i&feft^^Efei^ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ND when do you expect the 
 beautiful heiress from India?' 
 asked Mrs Maitland of Aunt 
 Amelia, who was sitting wuth 
 her neighbour at Rosebank, arrayed in 
 a neat winter costume of black, in a bay- 
 windowed room, known as the ' Pink 
 Closet.' 
 
 It was a clear, frosty afternoon early in 
 November, the sun as usual blazing down 
 upon the favoured villa, and every pane 
 of glass glistening as if on fire, the 
 lawn bathed in luminous floods of yellow 
 light, the last effort of an autumnal sun, 
 now sinking behind a group of leafless 
 elms at the end of the grounds. 
 
 What with the sun and a large wood 
 fire, and Mrs Maitland's relentless ques- 
 tionings, Aunt Amelia felt quite faint.
 
 30 TJie Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 And no wonder ! She had been ques- 
 tioned remorselessly ever since she entered 
 the room. Mrs Maitland might, indeed, 
 have been called a fat note of inter rogattoit I 
 Her whole mind formed itself into the 
 capacity of asking questions, — acquiring 
 what she called useful ' knowledge.' If she 
 scented a mystery — if she suspected a 
 secret, she would attack that secret or 
 that mystery tooth and nail, as a terrier 
 does a hole where he scents a rat. 
 
 ' And when did you say you expect 
 your beautiful niece from India?' she 
 asked again, in a loud voice. 
 
 Receiving no answer, Mrs Maitland 
 raised her prominent eyes from the fire 
 and fixed them with a determined stare 
 upon her visitor. 
 
 ' Thank you, I am too warm already,' 
 said Aunt Amelia meekly, drawing back 
 her chair, in response to a gesture from 
 her friend inviting her to sit nearer. 
 
 Still she made no reply. 
 
 * My dear friend,' recommenced the per- 
 sistent Mrs Maitland, replacing the poker 
 with which she had been chastising the 
 wood piled up on the grate, as a vent for her 
 impatience, ' allow me to make a remark. 
 What a very extraordinary person you are ! '
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 3 1 
 
 Aunt Amelia looked up with a sad face, 
 flushed suddenly, then gave a deep sigh. 
 
 ' Your conduct is really inexplicable ! 
 You have been talking to me of your 
 niece, Miss Escott, ever since your return 
 to Scatlands, describing to me her beauty, 
 her riches, her high position. You told 
 me last week, and you have repeated just 
 now, that you shortly expected her from 
 Calcutta, as her father had, at last, re- 
 solved on sending her to England alone, 
 instead of waiting until he could accom- 
 pany her, — that she was to bring her ayah, 
 and a whole troop of attendants with her, 
 — and that Mr Escott would follow her in 
 a short time. And now,' added Mrs 
 Maitland, with a deeply-aggrieved air 
 (she did at that moment feel herself to be 
 thoroughly and deeply aggrieved), * you 
 will not answer a single question about 
 her ! I do not wish to force my interest 
 upon you ' — here she spoke in quite an- 
 other tone, bridling and raising her exu- 
 berant bosom, — ' I make it a rule never to 
 force my interest on anyone ; but, consid- 
 ering the terms on which we have lived, 
 I cannot — no, I cannot — understand the 
 motive of your silence.' 
 
 At last Mrs Maitland ceased. As she
 
 32 The Ill-tempered Cottsin. 
 
 had spoken long- and loudly, she proceeded 
 to refresh herself by pouring some eau-de- 
 Cologne on an embroidered handkerchief, 
 and inhaling it with deep respirations. 
 
 It will be perceived that this lady had no 
 disguise about her. What she thought, 
 she said. What she wanted to know, she 
 asked. What she desired to do, she did. 
 Her frankness was excessive. Had her 
 father been transported for forgery, she 
 would have been willing and happy to enter 
 into every detail on the subject with her 
 friends. But, in return, she would as 
 freely demand information of any skeleton 
 in the closet they might possess — the 
 more repulsive the skeleton, and the more 
 they desired to hide it, the more certain 
 her question. Her husband, her son Ed- 
 ward, Miss Sterne, her companion, an- 
 swered, or appeared to her to answer, all 
 her inquiries. Ergo, everyone else must 
 — a species of logic which, to herself, was 
 incontrovertible. 
 
 A very audible sigh escaped Mrs Winter ; 
 she moved uneasily in her chair ; and her 
 hand slipped into the side pocket of her 
 dark merino dress, from which she drew 
 out a letter bearing the Calcutta post- 
 mark.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cozcsin. ^-i^ 
 
 'It Is so dreadful to have to tell bad 
 news ! ' she murmured, with a deep-drawn 
 sigh. ' Dear Mrs Maitland, do not be 
 oft'ended if I have been a little silent. I 
 know you mean kindly ' (this in a meek 
 parenthesis. If the truth were told, Aunt 
 Amelia, in her heart of hearts, much 
 doubted her friend's kindness at that mo- 
 ment). ' I have so many anxieties,' — here 
 the tears rose to her eyes, and for a few 
 minutes she quite broke down. Unable to 
 command her voice, she stretched out her 
 thin hand to touch that of her friend. 
 
 * I always tremble,' she continued appeal- 
 ingly, ' when letters come. I wish there 
 was no post ; I never know what ill news 
 it may bring. Several times I have tried 
 to tell you, but could not. I am so 
 nervous.' 
 
 ^What is in that letter?' asked Mrs 
 Maitland, her large, prominent eyes fixed 
 on Mrs Winter, with the air of an in- 
 quisitor. 
 
 * Ah ! ' sighed Mrs Winter, almost with 
 a groan, unfolding the paper and laying it 
 out upon her lap. 
 
 * I presume that letter relates to your 
 niece, Miss Escott. Is she ill ? Is your 
 brother, Mr Escott, ill '^. Pray, answer me.' 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 34 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 ' Mr Escott is dead — ruined,' gasped 
 Aunt Amelia. ' My brother has shot 
 himself.' 
 
 'Gracious heavens!' ejaculated Mrs 
 Maitland, sinking back in her chair. 'And 
 you absolutely concealed this from me ? ' 
 
 Here was a fact, a solid, reliable fact ! 
 Spite of a certain good-natured pity, Mrs 
 Maitland could not suppress a general 
 feeling of satisfaction at having obtained 
 possession of a fact. 
 
 ' Did Mr Escott shoot himself because 
 he was ruined ? ' asked she. 
 
 Mrs Winter bowed her head in silence. 
 
 ' How very shocking! Do speak ! Tell 
 me how it happened — every particular. 
 How could a man, holding such a high 
 position, be ruined } ' 
 
 Forced to reply, Mrs Winter roused 
 herself, — 
 
 ' My brother had recently transferred 
 all his principal into a private bank at 
 Calcutta. He was to receive a high in- 
 terest. His daughter Sophia was coming 
 to England, as you know. He was to 
 follow her. This induced him to desire 
 to increase his income to the utmost. The 
 bank failed. Charles was never seen alive 
 afterwards. My niece had no one with
 
 The Ill-tempe7^ed Cousin. 35 
 
 her but her ayah. The ayah took charge 
 of her.' 
 
 ' But was Mr Escott's life not Insured ? ' 
 asked the remorseless questioner. ' I 
 thought people in India always insured 
 their lives.' 
 
 ' My poor brother had Intended to do 
 so ; but when he died no trace of any 
 document could be found.' 
 
 Mrs Winters voice has now fallen Into 
 a whisper. 
 
 ' I do not wonder, my dear Mrs Winter, 
 that you are overcome,' said Mrs Malt- 
 land, seeing Aunt Amelia's tears dropping 
 slowly on the letter on her lap. ' Poor 
 girl ! what a pity ! Then Miss Escott is 
 not an heiress.' 
 
 ' Sophia has not a farthing,' replied 
 Mrs Winter, looking up, with tearful eyes. 
 (Tears were habitual to Aunt Amelia, and 
 welled up Into her eyes very readily.) 
 ' Poor, broken-hearted father ! All his 
 desire was that she should be rich and 
 marry well In England. The blow was 
 more than he could bear.' 
 
 ' And where is she now ? ' Inquired Mrs 
 Maltland, suddenly grown cold. All her 
 eagerness about Sophia had vanished. 
 
 ' She wrote from Calcutta,' answered
 
 36 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 Aunt Amelia, fingering the letter nervously. 
 ' She was there with her ayah, who has 
 never left her since her birth, in some 
 room they had hired. Her mother, who 
 was a Brahmin, you know, the daughter 
 of an Indian rajah, entrusted her to the 
 care of this woman, who had fled with 
 her when she lost caste by marrying 
 Mr Escott. She is called Zebula, and 
 has remained with her ever since. Sophia 
 lived on the charity of friends until 
 she heard from me and from my sister, 
 Lady Danvers. To think of Sophia 
 without a penny to call her own, brought 
 up, as she has been, like a princess ! 
 Ah ! no one knows what ruin is but 
 those who have felt it ! To look round, 
 and know you have nothing — nothing ! — 
 that you have no right to the chair you 
 sit on, the carpet you tread, and that 
 you cannot pay for the food you eat ; — 
 that you lie down in a bed which may 
 be dragged from under you ; — that people 
 hate you and curse you, because you have 
 nothinor.' 
 
 o 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, 
 as if to shut out the dismal image. 
 
 * Sophia writes to me,' she continued, 
 more calmly, ' thinking that I can help
 
 The Ill-te77ipered Co2ism. 2>7 
 
 her ! Poor dear, / help her ! She 
 does not, of course, know my Louis's 
 circumstances. No one has told her. 
 We can just live at Scatlands. Our 
 house, such as it is, is hers. I have told 
 her so. I fear she will be very unhappy. 
 It is such a change. My poor brother 
 indulged her in everything. She has 
 always been her own mistress. Her 
 mother died w^hen she was born. I am 
 afraid,' faltered out gentle Aunt Amelia, 
 ' Sophia has been a little spoilt.' 
 
 ' Spoilt ! Of course she has ! ' put in 
 Mrs Maitland harshly. ' You must pre- 
 pare yourself for that. Have you written 
 to Lady Danvers } ' 
 
 * Yes, I have written. My sister is 
 rich, but — but perhaps a little close. It 
 so often happens in large families. The 
 wealthy members are often a little close. 
 Catherine got so after she married Sir 
 Reofinald.' 
 
 ' Rich people know the value of 
 money,' observed Mrs Maitland senten- 
 tiously. ' They respect money for itself, 
 and take care of it for themselves. Poor 
 people have nothing to lose, so they 
 squander freely what they get, as long 
 as it lasts.'
 
 38 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 ' Too true, too true ! ' responded Mrs 
 Winter humbly. ' I trust, however, that 
 my sister will be touched by this cata- 
 strophe, and poor Charles' shocking death. 
 But I fear she will never have Sophia to 
 live with her. She does not like young 
 people. Then there is Jane. Everything 
 is given up for her only daughter Jane. 
 And Jane might not like a cousin ! Lady 
 Danvers complains that her relations are 
 always plaguing her. I have never asked 
 her for anything, although my dear Louis 
 has been unlucky certainly ! ' 
 
 Aunt Amelia never got beyond the 
 word 'unlucky' in speaking of her hus- 
 band. Although truth itself in all else, 
 she unwittingly indulged in the favourite 
 fiction of Mr Winter being the victim of 
 someone from whom (as from fate) he 
 could not escape.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 L £^^ 
 
 ND so Miss Escott is not an 
 heiress ! ' repeated Mrs M ait- 
 land moodily, as if speaking 
 to herself. ' Dear me, how 
 strange ! ' Then rising, and, as she rose, 
 spreading out the folds of a heavy 
 black silk dress, gored tightly to her 
 exuberant figure, and covered at the 
 bottom with several rows of minute 
 fiounces, she added, — ' Extraordinary ! I 
 wonder what Edward will say when he 
 comes home. I am expecting him from 
 Oxford. You know he was always so 
 interested about her. He used to call 
 her "the Eastern Mystery.'" 
 
 Aunt Amelia made a movement of 
 acquiescence. 
 
 ' He always says he hates girls with 
 money. Not that / agree with him,'
 
 40 The Ill-temp ei'ed Cousin. 
 
 added Mrs Maitland hastily, feellQg she 
 had gone too far in this admission. * Nor 
 does Mr Maitland ; we both agree that 
 marriageable girls ought to have money. 
 I intend Edward to marry money.' 
 
 Aunt Amelia's quick perception instantly 
 revealed to her the train of thought evolv- 
 ing itself in her friend's brain. She felt 
 hurt. Mrs Maitland did often hurt her. 
 She had no delicacy. She rose to go. 
 
 ' My niece Sophia,' she said, moving 
 towards the door, ' cannot now be an 
 object of attention to any young gentle- 
 man of your son's pretensions. All that 
 is past and gone. It will be very pain- 
 ful to teach her how changed her life is ! 
 Oh, how much I hope she will love 
 me, and make my task easy ! That she 
 is not rich is not of the least conse- 
 quence to me. I can only think of my 
 poor brother Charles' sudden death ! And 
 what he must have suffered before he 
 could have taken his own life, and left his 
 child a penniless orphan ! Depend on it, 
 Mrs Maitland, Sophia will have no pre- 
 tensions now beyond her sphere : you need 
 not fear it,' 
 
 * Oh, my dear Mrs Winter!' cried Mrs 
 Maitland, coming forward and taking her
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 41 
 
 hand, ' I did not mean to offend you. 
 I am not at all afraid, if you mean in that 
 sense. Edward always obeys me. I 
 have only to tell him my wishes. All I 
 wondered was — well, we'll say no more 
 about it,' seeing the tears again starting 
 into Mrs Winter's eyes. I really am 
 very sorry for you — so sorry, too, for 
 Mr Winter. Such a difference from 
 having a jnillionaire niece living with 
 him ! Such a difference to me too,' she 
 added, absently. 
 
 Aunt Amelia, midway towards the door, 
 looked up, and stared. 
 
 ' I mean in the way I shall receive her. 
 I was going to give a ball at Christmas — 
 I am not sure now — I don't know exactly — ' 
 Mrs Maitland stopped and hesitated. 
 Even she felt her frankness was leading 
 her too far. 
 
 ' That dreadful letter ! ' she added, 
 glad to change the subject, seeing Mrs 
 Winter folding up Sophia's letter before 
 consigning it to her pocket. * I thought 
 you would have read it to me. I should 
 have liked to hear how Miss Escott 
 expresses herself — what details she 
 gives.' 
 
 But there was such a wounded expres-
 
 42 The Ill-teinpei^ed Cousin. 
 
 slon on Mrs Winter's face, that even she 
 had not the courage to urge her to read 
 what must give her so much pain. This 
 was a great rehef to Aunt AmeHa. If 
 she could only get away before Mrs Mait- 
 land discovered how long she had carried 
 that letter concealed in her pocket, and 
 that she was actually, at this moment, from 
 day to day expecting her niece's arrival ! 
 Indeed it was only the dread of Sophia's 
 appearance before Mrs Maidand had been 
 made acquainted with the catastrophe of 
 her father's death, that had brought her 
 that afternoon to Rosebank. 
 
 ' Well goodbye — goodbye, my dear,' said 
 Mrs Maitland, opening the door of the 
 room. ' Come in the moment you have 
 more news. Be sure you let me hear the 
 day you expect Miss Escott. By-the-bye,' 
 added she, following Aunt Amelia into the 
 hall, ' are not Lady Danvers and her 
 daughter coming to you for Christmas ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Mrs Winter, quite over- 
 whelmed by all that had passed — ' yes, 
 they come on Christmas Eve.' 
 
 ^Ah! Yes— yes— I see. Will Miss 
 Escott be arrived by that time ? ' 
 
 ' That is uncertain, of course,' answered 
 Aunt Amelia, struggling to get away from
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 43 
 
 the torrent of Mrs Maltland's questions — 
 ' but I hope so.' 
 
 ' Ah, I hope so too,' echoed the other, 
 drawing- herself up with an air of conscious 
 patronage. ' That would be so nice — so 
 useful to poor Miss Escott. By the way, 
 how long is it, dear Mrs Winter, since 
 you had that letter t ' 
 
 * Some time,' replied Aunt Amelia, 
 smitten with sudden terror of discovery. 
 
 ' Some time ! Dear, dear ! Do you 
 really mean you have had it and never told 
 me ? Oh, Mrs Winter, how unfriendly ! 
 W^hy, of course it must be some time, if 
 Miss Escott can be home by Christmas ! ' 
 
 This conclusion completely disconcerted 
 Mrs Maitland, and overwhelmed poor Aunt 
 Amelia. 
 
 At that moment a figure appeared in the 
 hall, that might have been called shadowy, 
 so delicate, and small, and fragile was it, 
 dressed in such pale colours, and with such 
 a plaintive face, concealed by long ringlets 
 of fair hair. 
 
 * Here, Miss Sterne, Miss Sterne, come 
 here ! ' called Mrs Maitland. ' Can you 
 fancy ? Mrs Winter has had a letter in 
 her pocket — heaven knows how long — 
 about her brother having shot himself and
 
 44 T^^i^ Ill-tempei^ed Cousin. 
 
 her niece being ruined, and she has never 
 told me a word ! Only fancy ! ' 
 
 ' Only fancy! ' echoed the shadowy figure, 
 in a low voice, floating towards her. 
 
 This appeal to Miss Sterne was too 
 much for Aunt Amelia. She slipped 
 out of the front door, while Mrs Mait- 
 land's eyes had left her for a moment 
 to apostrophise her delinquencies to her 
 companion. 
 
 Hurrying down the tree-bordered drive 
 that led to the lodge, she reached her own 
 door, thankful to have escaped. She was 
 perfectly aware that Mrs Maitland had 
 changed towards her. This grieved her, 
 for they were old friends. Mrs Maitland 
 had often been very good to her in her 
 own distress. She did not doubt her 
 continued kindness to herself, but it 
 was plain Mrs Maitland now dreaded 
 Sophia's arrival as much as she had once 
 desired it. 
 
 Aunt Amelia was not a woman of the 
 world, but even her unsophisticated mind 
 understood this. She also understood the 
 cause. Sophia was not an heiress ! 
 
 ' Another old friend gone ! ' she told her- 
 self sadly, as she mounted the steps to her 
 own door. ' I have spent very happy days
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 45 
 
 at Rosebank ! How selfish I am ! ' was 
 her next thought. ' Sophia will repay me 
 — Sophia will be a daughter to me ! ' 
 
 At this her face brightened, and she 
 entered the panelled hall smiling.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 [WELVE o'clock on a foggy morn- 
 ing at the end of November — 
 the Portsmouth coach drawn 
 up at the entrance of the blind 
 lane leading down to Scatlands, covered 
 with mud and heavily laden inside and 
 out. 
 
 The guard — his purple face muffled in 
 a worsted comforter up to his eyes, for the 
 weather is raw and cold — gets down and 
 opens the door with a bang. 
 
 ' Now, miss, this is the place where you 
 must get out for Scatlands. Quick, please 
 miss — no time to spare. Horses change 
 at the " Red Lion," close by,' and he points 
 with his thumb towards a few straggling 
 houses — the outskirts of Twickenham. 
 The guard speaks in a gruff, hoarse voice
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 47 
 
 — a voice that sounds a long way off, as 
 coming through a tube, as he puts his head 
 into the coach and addresses himself to 
 a confused mass of inside passengers, 
 crowded upon each other, three on a 
 side. 
 
 The fog is so thick, and the accumula- 
 tion of human breath so dense (both win- 
 dows having been drawn up to keep out 
 the cold), that nothing individual is visible. 
 
 At the sound of his voice the human 
 mass heaves, separates a little, then heaves 
 again as a tall figure rises. 
 
 ' Oh dear, miss. For gracious' sake 
 mind where you step. You've a-trod on 
 my toe,' calls out a woman, in a voice 
 like a rasp, from the further corner. ' Oh, 
 how you've hurt me ! ' 
 
 ' Come, miss, come ! ' calls out the 
 guard. ' Get out, or we shall carry you on 
 to London. Make you pay the fare too ! ' 
 
 The idea of beino^ carried on to London 
 evidently alarms the tall, slim girl, in deep 
 mourning, with a thick crape veil falling 
 over her face. She struggles up and 
 pushes her way somewhat hastily towards 
 the door. 
 
 ' Take care,' cries a woman from the 
 other side ; ' you'll kill my baby,' and at the
 
 48 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 same moment, leaning forward, she catches 
 her by the shoulder to put her back. 
 
 But Sophia, already out of the coach, 
 balancing herself with some difficulty on 
 the narrow step, and holding on by 
 the door handle, manages to turn round 
 and cast on her such a pair of indig- 
 nant eyes that they flash through her 
 thick veil. 
 
 * Touch me if you dare,' she cries, in a 
 deep-toned voice, still holding by the door 
 handle. 
 
 A passenger, sitting on the opposite side 
 of the coach, seizes the outraged mother s 
 arm. 
 
 ' Come now. None of this in my 
 company. Keep your hands to yourself, 
 ma'am. You are much worse than the 
 lady ! Who cares for you or your baby ? 
 D — n the baby ! It's kept me awake all 
 the way from Portsmouth.' 
 
 Sophia has now reached the ground, and 
 is carefully gathering up her black skirts 
 from the mud, which lies thick upon the 
 road. 
 
 The guard draws from the boot a 
 solid wooden box, clamped with steel. 
 On the outside in large letters is the 
 address, —
 
 The Ill-tempei'ed Coitsin, 49 
 
 * Miss Sophia Escott, 
 Passenger, 
 
 Calcutta to Portsmouth/ 
 
 Near this there is a small card, fastened 
 to the cord, on which is written, — 
 
 ' Miss Escott, 
 
 Scatlands, 
 
 Twickenham/ 
 
 The guard throws the box contemptu- 
 ously on the ground. Being heavy, it 
 heaves over, then settles down into the 
 mud. 
 
 Sophia turns with an angry look. 
 
 * If you are so careless,' she exclaims, 
 * you will break my box ! Do not throw it 
 in the mud like that ! Lift it up, I beg of 
 you, immediately.' 
 
 How darkly her eyes flash through her 
 veil as she speaks. 
 
 * Whew ! ' answers the guard, with a long 
 whistle out of the depths of his white 
 comforter. ' Your orders indeed ! And 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 The Ill-tempered Cotisin, 
 
 pray who may yoit be ? Do 3^ou think 
 we're a-goIng to stop the coach all day 
 a-waiting upon you ? ' 
 
 ' What the devil are you about, Bill ? ' 
 inquires the gruff voice of the coachman 
 from the box. He is so enveloped in a 
 big white driving coat, with rows of 
 graduated capes down to his knees, that 
 to turn round is impossible. ' Surely you 
 are not unloading at the top of the lane ! ' 
 
 ' All right, Ben. Hold your jaw ! ' shouts 
 the guard, in his far-away voice. 
 
 ' Leave Bill alone, coachee ! ' observes a 
 sallow-faced youth on the box seat, with a 
 blue bandage round his throat, and a large 
 pipe in his mouth. ' Don't you see he is 
 sweet on the young miss ? ' 
 
 ' Ha, ha, ha ! ' rises in a chorus from the 
 outside passengers at this observation. 
 ' Ha, ha, ha ! ' is echoed from the inside. 
 
 The woman with the baby has heard, 
 and her laucrh is the loudest and most dis- 
 cordant. 
 
 ' I'm glad she's a-getting it!' she cries, 
 nodding her head to her opposite neigh- 
 bour. ' Such a stuck-up minx ! Never 
 spoke all along the road ! ' 
 
 ' Nobody can't say that of you, marm, 
 anyway,' is the response from the aggra-
 
 The I ll-te77ipered Cousin. 5 1 
 
 vated passenger. * Nor of your baby 
 neither! She's a confounded handsome 
 young ooman, and quite the lady, that's 
 what she is.' 
 
 Sophia has heard every word. She is 
 scarlet. Her hands clench themselves 
 under her black cloak. She raises her 
 long throat, throws back her head, and 
 casts a look of defiance upon all around. 
 Spite of her gathered-up skirts, her shabby 
 dress, and the mud in which she is standing, 
 she is regal. 
 
 ' Ha-ha ! he-he ! ' rises ao^ain from the 
 outsiders, and is again echoed from within. 
 
 The coachman, who cannot turn, and 
 therefore sees nothing, joins in for com- 
 pany, and gives his opinion that ' she is a 
 stunner.' 
 
 ' Now, make haste, miss. What are 
 you a-going to do for me ? ' asks the guard, 
 advancing towards her, with his head on one 
 side. To avoid mistakes, he slaps his hand 
 on his side-pocket. ' There's no time to 
 lose. Can't be less nor half-a-crown, see- 
 ing the size of your box, and you with 
 such quality airs ! ' 
 
 Sophia, with a trembling hand, draws 
 out a delicate little Indian purse of gold 
 filigree, ornamented with red tassels.
 
 52 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 (That purse was the last gift of her ayah 
 Zebula, when she left her on the deck of 
 the vessel.) 
 
 * O heavens ! ' she murmurs, opening it, 
 ' what am I to do ? I have only gold.' 
 
 * Then give it me,' says the guard in- 
 solently, stretching out his hand towards 
 the purse, which Sophia clutches con- 
 vulsively. 
 
 The coachman, getting impatient, cracks 
 his whip and touches the ear of the off 
 leader, causing that animal to kick out, 
 dangerously near Sophia, who screams. 
 
 ' I'm a-going on. Bill,' he growls, raising 
 his arms to tighten the reins — ' blowed if I 
 ain't. You must settle with the young 
 lady without the coach. Now or never is 
 the word.' 
 
 ' I'm a-coming, Ben — all right ! I'll take 
 3^our box back into the boot, I will, if you 
 don't tip me,' to Sophia. 
 
 The guard's two hands grasp the box. 
 
 ' I have told you I have nothing but 
 gold,' cries Sophia. ' I can't give you 
 that ; I am too poor.' 
 
 ' Poor be d — d ! ' he mutters, and lifts 
 the box from the ground. 
 
 * Put it down, put it down ! ' screams 
 Sophia, rushing forward.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 53 
 
 She seizes the cord, and gazes up de- 
 spairingly at the loaded coach. Will no 
 one help her ? 
 
 At this moment the coachman slashes 
 his long whip ; the four horses spring 
 forward. Bill, the guard, loosens his hold 
 of the box, which falls into the road, then 
 springs lightly on to a little step at the 
 back of the coach, laying fast hold of a 
 brass handle. 
 
 As the heavily-laden vehicle dashes on- 
 wards, it sways to one side, lurching towards 
 Sophia, throwing the guard almost on her ; 
 at which Bill doubles his disengaged hand 
 and shakes it in her face. 
 
 ' Good-bye, miss, and ill-luck to you,' he 
 shouts, at the top of his voice. ' As you 
 have served me, so may others serve j^^^^.' 
 
 Before the words are out of his mouth, 
 the coach, and Bill hanging on behind, 
 have disappeared into the fog round a 
 corner, and the rattle of the wheels is all 
 the evidence that it has been there at all.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GOD ! can the world be so 
 hard?' was Sophia's thought. 
 Tears gathered in her eyes. 
 Among all those men not one 
 to help her. Can this be Eng^land ? 
 
 Then all she had suffered in India 
 whirled through her brain. Never, no 
 never before had she been alone, grappling 
 with strangers. Never until now had a 
 harsh word been spoken to her ! Even 
 on her passage from India everyone on 
 board made much of her. 
 
 And now to be threatened and in- 
 sulted by such wretches ! What was she 
 to do ? She knew not ! 
 
 In great misfortunes there is dignity — 
 the dignity of woe. The climax of the 
 great life-drama hurrying wildly on to 
 destruction, and, like the throb of fever
 
 The I ll-te7npered Cousin. ' 55 
 
 to the wasting body, supporting, sustain- 
 ing, exciting, while it destroys. 
 
 But in the sting of small mishaps there 
 is disgrace, contumely. No one can claim 
 pity for a mean insult, nor protection for 
 some deo^radinof trifle which, all the while, 
 eats into the soul. 
 
 Not in those dreadful hours when her 
 father lay a corpse in the house, and she 
 had been driven out of her home by his 
 unpaid creditors, had Sophia felt so abject 
 as she did now. 
 
 Zebula had been with her ! Zebula ! In 
 the climax of her loneliness, she spoke the 
 name aloud, and at the sound her heart 
 gave a great bound. Alas ! could Zebula 
 see her ! 
 
 She turned very pale, her lips were 
 bloodless, and a dimness came into her 
 eyes shaded by the dark eyebrows. 
 
 She had travelled all night, and had 
 eaten nothing. Now, all at once, her heart 
 seemed to stand still. She felt so cold 
 and sick she thought she was going to 
 die. 
 
 Die ! Why not ? If life were to be like 
 this why should she wish to live ? 
 
 For a few minutes she stood rigid as 
 a statue, waiting to see what would
 
 56 The Ill-ternpered Cousin. 
 
 happen. Then suddenly the young blood 
 which had stagnated rushed through her 
 veins, a flush rose on her cheeks. With 
 the warmth of life came hope. 
 
 She raised her veil and looked round. 
 Her eye fell upon her box, tilted over on 
 one side near the ditch, in which a stream 
 of muddy water ran over a bed of coarse 
 green weeds. 
 
 In that box was all she possessed. 
 Could she carry it herself ? She laid hold 
 of the cord and tried to raise it. Alas ! 
 she could not so much as move it. 
 
 Her hands fell to her side — she must 
 wait. Surely someone would pass, some- 
 one from whom she could at least learn 
 the way to Scatlands.' 
 
 Again she gazed round anxiously. Not 
 a sinofle house was in siofht. Sounds came 
 to her from time to time, dulled by the 
 mist, the sound of labourers working 
 in the fields. Once a dog barked, and 
 children's voices came faintly through the 
 heavy air ; — there was the click of a 
 smithy far away, and many dim noises of 
 active life. 
 
 A lane opened from the highroad, ex- 
 actly opposite to where she was standing ; 
 but it was so shrouded by fog, and dark-
 
 The Ill-tempe7^ed Cousin. 57 
 
 ened by the trees which hung over the 
 discoloured walls, that but a few yards 
 were visible. 
 
 Overhead there was no sky : the fog 
 canopied the earth like a pall. 
 
 Nothing to be seen but quickset hedges 
 growing on the high banks that bordered 
 flat fields beside the road ; every branch 
 and twig, every leaf and stalk, dripping 
 with moisture. 
 
 Oaks and elms, lopped into ugliness, 
 broke the dim outlines ; a few brown 
 and yellow leaves still clustering on the 
 branches. 
 
 Beside her a wooden gate opened into a 
 ploughed field, bare with upturned furrows. 
 These furrows looked to her like graves ! 
 
 And this desolation was England ? 
 England, the land of her dreams — of her 
 father's longings ! Oh ! for the burning 
 skies, the blood-red sunsets, the spicy 
 breezes, dangerous in the strong breath of 
 their perfumes, the sultry air warming the 
 blood like a furnace, of her native land ! 
 
 England ! Sophia abhorred the very 
 name. Nothing could be good in such 
 a wintry desert. A hateful country, and 
 the people barbarous. 
 
 She was trembling from head to foot.
 
 58 The Ill-tempered Cousin. . 
 
 The hateful damp clung to her. It fell 
 upon her like rain. She drew her long 
 black cloak closer round her, and gazed 
 around. 
 
 Why — oh why was she here ? What 
 had she done to be so punished ? 
 
 As she moved, her hand pressed con- 
 vulsively upon a Httle phial which lay con- 
 cealed in her bosom. Yes, Zebula's charm 
 was there. This assurance calmed her. 
 The look of suffering faded out of her 
 eyes. Again she pressed her hand upon 
 the hidden treasure. 
 
 ' I am safe ! ' she muttered. ' I can defy 
 them ! Dear Zebula ! We may meet 
 sooner than you think ! ' 
 
 At this moment the sound of a horse's 
 hoofs became audible coming from the 
 Twickenham side. 
 
 A rider, enveloped in a dark cloak, gal- 
 loped round the corner. Sophia ran for- 
 ward. At the risk of her life she placed 
 herself before him. 
 
 ' Stop ! stop ! For God's sake stop ! 
 Only a moment — half a moment.' 
 
 She stretched out her arms implor- 
 ingly. 
 
 The rider's horse, startled at the un- 
 usual figure, swerved and nearly threw
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 59 
 
 him. The man shook his whip savagely 
 and dashed past, the mud from his horse's 
 hoofs flyino- into her face, and splashing 
 her black dress. 
 
 ' Good God ! Must I stand here for 
 ever ! Will no one help me ! ' she cried, 
 in the bitterness of her soul. 
 
 Her own voice seemed strange to her. 
 Tears of anger poured down her cheeks. 
 She tried to wipe away the mud from her 
 face and clothes. To be seen by her aunt 
 — by anyone — in such a guise ! Not even 
 to be clean ! She sobbed aloud. 
 
 A quarter of an hour passed (it seemed 
 to Sophia that she had stood there many 
 hours). Then there came a rattle of 
 wheels far off, on the London side. 
 
 She dried her eyes hastily and list- 
 ened. As the wheels approached, her 
 spirit rose. Should she ask again for help, 
 and be again refused '^, She felt no better 
 than a beggar. 
 
 Looming out of the fog appeared a 
 yellow gig on high wheels, coming from 
 London. It was close upon her before 
 she could distinguish what it was. 
 
 Two men were seated inside. At the 
 opening of the lane the gig drew up, and 
 one of the occupants jumped down on the
 
 6o The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 further side from where she was standing, 
 a valise in his hand. 
 
 'Will you not let me, sir, drive you 
 down to Rosebank ? ' inquired his com- 
 panion, who held the reins, touching his 
 hat as he spoke. 
 
 ' No, thank you, Walters, I would rather 
 walk. The coach will bring my luggage 
 by-and-by to the ''Red Lion." Good day. 
 Take care of that horse of yours ; he is a 
 good one.' 
 
 ' I believe you, Mr Maitland,' answered 
 Mr Walters, taking off his hat and shaking 
 the wet drops from the brim. 
 
 Meanwhile Sophia was waiting for the 
 gig to move. Then she would make an 
 appeal to the person called Mr Maitland. 
 She had been looking at him all the time. 
 She could see him plainly, for he was not 
 wrapped up like his companion. Her eye 
 ran rapidly over him. 
 
 A tall, powerful young man, with thick, 
 curly, auburn hair, and a sunburnt face, 
 grave in repose, but lit up by clear, full 
 eyes, with bright lights In them. 
 
 From that grave expression, and a cer- 
 tain tone of command in his voice, Sophia 
 felt drawn towards him. She hastily de- 
 cided two things, — that he was the hand-
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 6 1 
 
 somest European she had yet seen, and 
 that he was a gentleman. 
 
 When the gig moved on, Mr Maitland, 
 for the first time, perceived her. In the 
 act of stepping forward into the lane, he 
 drew back with a start. She was standing 
 by her box, near the ditch, her veil raised, 
 her face flushed. 
 
 His eyes travelled all over her, then to 
 her box. He was evidently puzzled. All 
 this was the work of a moment. 
 
 Now that there was someone before 
 her to whom she could speak, a gentle- 
 man who could tell her all she wanted, 
 Sophia was struck dumb. 
 
 Something in the look of those inquir- 
 ing eyes daunted her. Did he, too, sus- 
 pect her ? Would he call her bad names ? 
 
 Again the blood rushed back to her 
 heart, and her gaze fell before him. 
 
 After a pause — 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Mr Maitland, 
 
 crossinor the road to where she was stand- 
 <_> 
 
 ing, ' are you waiting for anyone } '
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 O, I was left here by the coach.' 
 Sophia hesitated. Under 
 that fixed, grave look her words 
 refused to come. 
 ' Can I be of any service to you ? ' 
 Maldand continued, contemplating her with 
 increasing interest. Her beauty, her evi- 
 dent embarrassment, were having their full 
 effect. 
 
 'Will you tell me the way to Scatlands ? ' 
 she asked, conscious that something must 
 be said. 
 
 ' Scatlands ? Oh, yes ; you are close to 
 it. I suppose you mean Mrs Winter's ?' 
 Sophia bent her head. 
 * I am going to the next house myself 
 — Rosebank. Scatlands is at the end of 
 this lane. Will you allow me to show you 
 the way ? '
 
 The Ill-tempered Coitshi. 6 
 
 o 
 
 As Sophia had now regained her self- 
 possession, and with it somewhat of the 
 cold manner natural to her, whatever 
 suspicions young ^Nlaitland might have 
 entertained vanished entirely. He was 
 greatly struck by her large melancholy 
 eyes turned with such unconscious pathos 
 upon him. 
 
 ' You are very good,' she answered. ' If 
 I am not a trouble, I should be very glad.' 
 
 Then, fearing she had perhaps spoken 
 too eagerly, her cheeks crimsoned with 
 blushes. 
 
 ' No trouble at all. Quite the reverse — 
 a pleasure,' was the response ; and as he 
 spoke, Edward IMaitland turned into the 
 dark perspective of the lane. 
 
 ' I am quite a stranger,' Sophia added, 
 following him — he smiling as she did so. 
 
 Under the influence of that smile — which 
 lit up his face with a new charm — she 
 thawed. 
 
 'You must think it very odd to find 
 me standing alone in the highroad,' she 
 began. 
 
 Edward Maltland's eyes expressed such 
 decided interest in what she was about to 
 say — an interest so very different from the 
 suspicious curiosity with which he had at
 
 64 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 first contemplated her, that Sophia felt 
 encouraged to proceed. 
 
 ' I only arrived in England last night. 
 I came here by the Portsmouth coach. 
 The guard put me down on this road. He 
 ■was very rude to me.' 
 
 ^ Rude to you ! ' ejaculated Edward ; ' is 
 it possible ? Do you know which coach 
 it was ? Can you give me any clue ? 
 Rude to you ! ' 
 
 His voice was so soft — his manner so 
 full of sympathy, that again Sophia felt 
 irresistibly drawm towards him. She had 
 now taken some steps, walking beside him, 
 down the lane. 
 
 * I do not know anything about the 
 coach. I can tell you nothing. But the 
 guard put me down where you found me, 
 and — O heavens ! ' she cried, stopping 
 suddenly and clasping her hands ; ' my 
 box ! I forgot it ! It is lying on the road.' 
 
 She was rushing back, but Maitland 
 put out his hand and stopped her. 
 
 ' Pray do not agitate yourself. I will look 
 after it. Left in the road, did you say ? ' 
 
 Again he gazed curiously at her, and 
 there was a tone in his voice that grated 
 on her ear. 
 
 Sophia followed him back into the road.
 
 The Ill-tempe7'ed Cousm. 65 
 
 He was already leaning over the box, 
 reading the address. 
 
 ' Miss Escott ! Good God ! are you Miss 
 Escott?' he exclaimed, gazing at her in 
 amazement. 
 
 ' Yes, I am Sophia Escott ' she answered, 
 in a low voice, averting her head — she felt 
 so ashamed. 
 
 ' I may say,' a flush of rosy colour rising 
 on his face, ' that I have heard so much 
 about you, that already I know you well. 
 I have drawn many portraits of you, Miss 
 Escott, and given them to Mrs Winter.' 
 
 * Portraits of me ! ' interrupted Sophia, 
 with amazement. ' How could that be, 
 when you had never seen me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, quite possible,' answered Maitland. 
 ' They were dream-portraits. Was it not 
 an unwarrantable liberty ? ' 
 
 After an awkward pause on both sides — 
 'Am I like what you imagined me ?' 
 Sophia's voice was soft and low as she 
 put this question. 
 
 ' Do not ask me,' replied Edward, grow- 
 ing confused. 
 
 ' Oh, but I do,' she Insisted. ' Tell me, 
 Mr Maidand.' 
 
 * No, Miss Escott, you are not. I am 
 not capable of conjuring up such a vision.' 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 66 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 A dark flash came Into his grey eyes for 
 a moment only as he bent them on her, 
 and the colour on his cheek deepened — 
 burning, as it were, all over him. He felt 
 that he had said too much. He had no 
 right to confess how long and how con- 
 stantly she had occupied his thoughts. 
 
 Sophia, on her part, would certainly 
 have resented it had not some cord of 
 subtle sympathy drawn her to him ; as it 
 was, her black eyes raised themselves to 
 his. 
 
 It was evident Maitland knew nothing 
 of what had happened. 
 
 ' You have not heard then .^ ' she began 
 in a low voice, then stopped abruptly. 
 
 ' I have heard nothing but that you 
 were expected in England by your aunt, 
 Mrs Winter, the dearest little woman in 
 the world. I have been absent for the 
 last month at Oxford. Dear Miss Escott, 
 if my nonsense has pained you do not 
 answer me. Something has happened to 
 shock you since I left home ; I under- 
 stand so much. Let me take you to your 
 aunt. I beg you a thousand pardons.' 
 
 ' And my box, what am I to do with it ? 
 That dreadful box.' 
 
 Edward smiled. A moment before,
 
 The I ll-tempered Cousin. 67 
 
 Sophia, overwhelmed with humiliation, 
 had shrunk from him. Now she smiled 
 also. There w^as a charm about him 
 which, spite of herself, fascinated her. 
 
 ' That dreadful box ! ' he echoed, laugh- 
 ing. ' I would carry it myself, only I know 
 my mother would hear of it and be vexed ; 
 evervthinof is known at Twickenham, for 
 all the women walk about here from morn- 
 ing till night and make a story of every 
 tritie.' Then turninof to her with fresh 
 curiosit}', ' Do you mean, ]\Iiss Escott, 
 that you arrived quite alone, and your box 
 was thrown into the road } ' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, and I w^as obliged to 
 stand by it till you came.' 
 
 ' Shameful ! But w^hy alone ? Here,' 
 cried Maidand suddenly, to a man who 
 had just appeared coming from Twicken- 
 ham, ' here, I want you.' 
 
 The man ran up, touching his hat. 
 
 ' Take this lady's box, and walk on 
 before us until I call to you to stop ; do 
 you hear ? ' 
 
 * Yes, sir.' 
 
 The man shouldered the steel-clamped 
 box and walked on before them. 
 
 * Now, Miss Escott, let me have the 
 pleasure of escorting you to your aunt.
 
 68 The Ill-te77tpered Cousin. 
 
 You must be quite chilled by the fog. 
 What dreadful weather for your first ex- 
 perience of England/ 
 
 But somehow to Sophia the chill and 
 the gloom of the fog had altogether 
 vanished. 
 
 * Oh no, I do not mind cold at all. Is 
 it far to Scatlands ? ' 
 
 ' Quite near, at the end of this lane. I 
 am your next-door neighbour, only think.' 
 
 A glow of warmth and colour lighted 
 up Sophia's clear olive complexion as he 
 spoke. Walking side by side, on one of 
 the straggling paths bordering the wall, 
 Edward Maitland caught glimpses from 
 time to time of her face. Its contour was 
 perfect, the profile faultless ; her nose 
 aquiline with rosy nostrils, her mouth well 
 formed, a little large, with full, red lips ; a 
 moulded chin showed firmness. 
 
 Young as she was, faint lines had formed 
 round the mouth, which closed with pre- 
 cision over white and even teeth. Her 
 dark hair fell in abundant curls upon her 
 shoulders making her natural paleness 
 still more striking. 
 
 But the glory of her face was in her 
 eyes, dark, lustrous, now fiercely repellant, 
 now dazzling with intense lights.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 69 
 
 ' A grand creature,' was young Mait- 
 land's mental decision, ' and faultless in 
 face and feature.' 
 
 Sophia caught one of his furtive glances. 
 ' Did he still suspect her .^' she asked her- 
 self. 
 
 Detected in the act of studying her, 
 Edward turned away abashed ; the sil- 
 ence between them again became awkward. 
 
 Sophia broke it resolutely. 
 
 ' Mr Maitland, I feel that some ex- 
 planation is due to you. When I first 
 saw you, I was so agitated I scarcely knew 
 what I said ; I had just been insulted.' 
 
 ' Insulted !' echoed Maitland with pas- 
 sion, but Sophia signed to him to let her 
 go on. 
 
 * I was so glad to find some one who 
 would listen to me, then, so taken aback 
 at discovering that you knew me, that I 
 forgot my duty.' 
 
 ' What duty, Miss Escott .^ What duty 
 can you owe me ? ' 
 
 ' The duty of telling you the truth. I 
 am Sophia Escott, it is true, but I am not 
 what you think me.' She spoke with 
 grave simplicity. There was not the 
 shadow of a doubt in her heart nor a 
 cloud upon her face.
 
 /O The Ill-te77ipered Cousin. 
 
 Edward Maltland started, then stood 
 rooted to the spot In pained surprise. 
 Quick as thought Sophia seized his meaning. 
 '^ ' No, no, not that, thank God, not that ! ' 
 she cried, clasping her hands. ' A great 
 misfortune has overtaken me, but not 
 through my fault. I am an orphan — a 
 dependant. I have absolutely nothing in 
 the world. I am come to England on the 
 charity of relations ; pray, do not misunder- 
 stand me, I have nothing.' 
 
 This was in reply to the expression of 
 infinite relief, almost of joy, depicted on 
 the countenance of her companion. 
 
 ' You see I am in mourning,' continued 
 Sophia, steeling herself to the effort, and 
 not looking at him. (He would despise 
 her, this gallant, handsome stranger, but 
 she would not for a moment appear other 
 than she was.) 
 
 ' I had not noticed your dress till now,' 
 answered Maltland, his tone showing how 
 deeply he was moved; 'Miss Escott, for 
 God's sake, treat me as a friend ; I am a 
 friend ; tell me what has happened.' 
 
 ' My father is dead — he was ruined — it 
 broke his heart.' Spite of her assumed 
 calmness Sophia's voice broke with a sob. 
 Now it was all over.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 7 1 
 
 * Gracious God ! This must have been 
 most sudden ! ' exclaimed young Maltland, 
 standing motionless under the trees. He 
 was amazed beyond the power of utterance. 
 Sophia mistook what was complete be- 
 wilderment for repulsion. 
 
 ' Yes,' she continued, dropping out her 
 words slowly and coldly. ' Yes, very sud- 
 den ; but for my ayah, Zebula, I should 
 have died ! ' She raised her proud young 
 head to take, as she thought, one last look 
 at him. 
 
 Never did face express more tenderness. 
 His eyes had filled with tears. He wiped 
 them away hastily. 
 
 ' Poor child ! Poor orphan ! ' he mur- 
 mured, gazing at her with an infinite ex- 
 pression of pity. He stopped, and Sophia 
 stopped also. 
 
 ' Believe me, Miss Escott, I shall never, 
 never forget the confidence with which 
 you have honoured me. From the very 
 first moment I heard your name, you were 
 a subject of the deepest, the most enthusi- 
 astic interest to me ; ' he paused, the strange 
 expression on her face arrested him. 
 
 * How much more now,' he continued, 
 
 * when I see you desolate, bereaved, de- 
 prived of all that outward prosperity that
 
 72 The 1 ll-te77tpered Cousin, 
 
 made your position so brilliant. But, per- 
 mit me to say, the interest with which the 
 beautiful daughter of the eastern millionaire 
 inspired me, is as nothing to the sympathy 
 your misfortunes have created.' 
 
 Her dark eyes were turned on the ground. 
 She was drinking in every word, eagerly, 
 like drafts of a delicious wine. 
 
 * Nothing,' added Edward, * could 
 increase the interest with which you 
 are endowed. But you are now in- 
 vested with a halo that makes you almost 
 sacred.' 
 
 As he concluded, her head sank upon 
 her breast. The surprise caused by his 
 words was almost too much for her. 
 
 ' Are you quite sure, Mr Maitland,' she 
 said, in a low voice, * that you will not 
 be ashamed of my acquaintance ? Think 
 well before you answer ; I should feel it 
 more afterwards.' 
 
 * Do you reckon me as the vilest of 
 wretches. Miss Escott,' was his indignant 
 reply, and he took her hand and just 
 touched the finger-tips with his lips. 
 
 Sophia drew it hurriedly away, and 
 blushed. 
 
 * The world,' he added, ' doubtless is 
 cruel and self-interested, but after all it
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 73 
 
 is not so bad as you imagine it. Miss 
 Escott, I am not of the world.' 
 
 A tremor ran through her from head to 
 foot. The sick, faint feeHng which had 
 overcome her in the road returned ; her 
 throat was dry ; her breath came short and 
 quick ; but for the support of the wall she 
 would have fallen. She gallantly hid all 
 this, however, and raised a pair of glisten- 
 ing eyes to Maitland ? 
 
 * Then I may venture still to look on 
 you as a friend '^. ' 
 
 * A friend ! Yes, indeed, more than a 
 friend ! ' 
 
 Edward checked himself; the frankness 
 of his nature was leading him too far. 
 She had strangely moved him. Before 
 they had met she had engaged his fancy, 
 now she appealed to every sense of his 
 manly nature. 
 
 * Scatlands is close by,' he said, breaking 
 the too dangerous conversation ; ' there is 
 the door ' (the man carrying the box was 
 beside it). ' I will detain you no longer. 
 Miss Escott ; I have no right to do so. 
 How I envy Mrs Winter,' he exclaimed, 
 in an irrepressible burst of enthusiasm, 
 ' the pleasure which awaits her ! ' 
 
 * Oh yes, my aunt,' said Sophia, absently,
 
 74 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 roused from a delicious dream. ' Yes, 
 Scatlands and Aunt Amelia.' 
 
 Her face darkened as she spoke. Must 
 they part ? Part while he was calling 
 himself her friend ? 
 
 All her dislike to strancrers, her disofust 
 of England, the bitterness of her depend- 
 ence flashed before her. Her Aunt Winter, 
 whom she had figured to herself with 
 Zebula (blindly jealous of everyone who 
 approached her) as a tyrant forced upon 
 her by necessity — the incarnation of her 
 misfortunes. Maitland alone had stood 
 between her and her dread of the futune. 
 Now he was eoin^. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' cried she, almost speaking aloud, 
 * it is so strange, so lonely. I shudder at 
 it all. I shrink from everyone.' 
 
 * You are excited, Miss Escott, and no 
 wonder; but Mrs Winter is the most 
 gentle creature in existence — you must 
 love her — she will reconcile you to life.' 
 
 * Never ! ' cried Sophia ; ' I feel it. Her 
 letters ! They were conventional — full of 
 herself and her feelings ! I have been so 
 beloved — so indulged ! I want so much — 
 No ; I feel I shall never care for Mrs 
 W^inter.' 
 
 ' Hush, hush ! ' said Edward Maitland,
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 75 
 
 soothingly. These occasional rays of light 
 from her shut-up nature exercised a strange 
 fascination over him. ' Do not harden 
 yourself, dear Miss Escott, against your 
 friends. We will all unite to make you 
 happy. My mother shall come and see 
 you at once ; she will be full of sympathy.' 
 
 (It was a standing peculiarity of Ed- 
 ward's, that he invariably gave his mother 
 credit for precisely the very quality she did 
 not possess.) 
 
 ' Ah ! you do not know me, Mr Maitland. 
 
 You have the cold English blood. These 
 
 
 
 people will despise me. They will drive 
 me mad. But I must not keep you ; you 
 are going to your mother. You have a 
 home — parents. You are loved as I was 
 once ! ' 
 
 She spoke with vehemence. He smiled. 
 
 * I hope I am loved,' taking her out- 
 stretched hand, which fitted so closely in 
 his own, and pressing it warmly. 
 
 Yet the parting seemed cold. He 
 longed to say more ; but dared not. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Miss Escott,' was all he 
 added. * When I next see you, all these 
 fancies will have vanished. Remember, 
 that I shall never forget the confidence 
 you have reposed in me. You have all
 
 76 The Ill-temi>ered Cousin, 
 
 my sympathy. The fates have brought us 
 together. You have called me your friend.' 
 
 ' Yes, my friend,' Sophia repeated the 
 words, — * My first friend. I never had 
 one before. I lived alone with my ayah, 
 and poor papa ! You will teach me what 
 an English friend is ! ' 
 
 ' That I will,' was Edward's prompt 
 reply. * I trust you will allow me to come 
 and see you soon, then I will give you 
 your first lesson.' 
 
 Sophia looked up at him with a bright 
 smile. Her dark eyes met his. 
 
 * Yes, let us meet soon, Mr Maitland.' 
 
 The words were not much, but the look 
 that accompanied them enthralled him. 
 
 Reluctantly, he raised his hat, and turned 
 his steps slowly towards Rosebank — 
 Sophia's eyes following him to a gate further 
 down the lane. 
 
 Although he lived in the next house, 
 she seemed parting from him for ever. 
 Would he be the same when they next 
 met.'* Her distrust of all the world was 
 extending even to Maitland. 
 
 How tall and manly he looked, as the 
 fog closed round his graceful figure ! What 
 an impression of power he conveyed — of 
 power, protection, and mercy.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, jj 
 
 Now she must meet her aunt! Her 
 heart sank within her. She would have 
 Hked to fly — but whither? What other 
 house would shelter her ? This was an- 
 other stab! It must be borne, like the 
 rest. 
 
 ' Is this Scatlands ? ' she asked of the 
 man who stood by with her box. 
 
 ' Yes, miss — the name is written up 
 there,' and he pointed to the lozenge, and 
 the effigy of the Roman emperor — under 
 which the painted letters gleamed out. 
 
 The bald, bare facade of the Anne house 
 looked down upon Sophia remorselessly. 
 The rows of alternated bricks and white 
 mortar dazzled her. She had pictured to 
 herself a cottage, a bungalow — a villa 
 enshrouded in creepers — full of plants and 
 flowers. 
 
 Was this dreary, staring house fated to 
 be her home ? No one could be happy in 
 such a place. A passion of tears was rising 
 to her eyes — she checked them. 
 
 ' Shall I ring the bell, miss } ' asked the 
 man, surprised at her silence. 
 
 * Yes, ring the bell,' she answered dog- 
 gedly. He did. The sound rang in the 
 air, smiting upon Sophia's heart with some- 
 thing like the knell of death in it.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 j|HY did you not write — why did 
 you not let me know ? ' was 
 all Aunt Amelia could find to 
 say in her agitation, as she 
 threw her arms round Sophia's neck, and 
 again and again pressed her to her motherly 
 heart. * Oh, Sophia, I cannot speak.' 
 
 ' If I am able to bear it, Aunt Amelia, 
 I think you can,' was Sophia's cold reply. 
 Her hard tone smote Mrs Winter to the 
 very soul — she looked up at her, and 
 at that moment an instinct, a presentiment 
 came over her that her niece would never 
 understand her. 
 
 She tried to master the feeling. She 
 did master it to a certain extent ; but the 
 inexpressible longings of love and sympathy 
 with which she had regarded the lonely girl 
 were shattered. 
 
 ^ Come in, my love, come in,' she said
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 79 
 
 nervously, bustling about, ' warm yourself 
 by the fire. What a journey ! How cold 
 your hands are ! ' 
 
 Sophia surrendered her hands reluctantly 
 to her aunt's grasp. Aunt Amelia leading 
 her into the drawing-room, opening from 
 the pannelled hall. Then, observing 
 her white face and languid manner — she 
 was suddenly smitten by the thought that 
 she had had nothing to eat. 
 
 ' Of course, of course,' she said, half to 
 herself; 'she must be faint and hungry.' 
 Then, turning towards her, with a fresh 
 effusion of love, ' Oh, my dear, dear child, 
 I am so glad to see you ! I am grown quite 
 stupid ; I will go at once to fetch you 
 something ; but lirst let me take off your 
 bonnet and unfasten vour cloak.' 
 
 Sophia, silent and dejected, submitted 
 to all this with sad, fixed eyes. 
 
 Aunt Amelia, after another longing 
 glance, went and returned noiselessly, 
 with wine and refreshments, not press- 
 ing them on her, but timidly offering 
 them, as to a stranger. At last, when 
 there was nothing more to do, she seated 
 herself opposite, her heart beating so 
 violently, it seemed impossible Sophia 
 should not hear it.
 
 8o The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 Looking thus at her, Mrs Winter's first 
 feehng was akin to terror. What was 
 she to do with this penniless niece, who 
 looked hke a queen ? 
 
 Then, gazing at her in a silence 
 Sophia did not care to break, as she 
 helped herself to the refreshments her 
 aunt had brought, Mrs Winter grew 
 ashamed of her fears, and endeavoured 
 to trace in her chiselled face some like- 
 ness to her poor brother, as a link be- 
 tween them. 
 
 ' My love,' said she, sadly laying her 
 hand upon Sophia's arm, in a plaintive 
 endeavour to break the ice between them, 
 ' you remind me of my poor Charles, only 
 he never had your grand look. I am 
 elad it is so. We cannot be strano^ers. 
 Poor dear Charles ! ' 
 
 Mrs Winter burst Into tears. It was a 
 relief to her to cry, not only from the tender 
 recollections evoked by Sophia's resem- 
 blance to her brother, but also from 
 the more immediate feeling of bitter dis- 
 appointment that was stealing over her at 
 her niece's bearing. 
 
 At the mention of her father's name, 
 Sophia's lips quivered, then compressed 
 themselves upon her set teeth.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 8 1 
 
 * Mrs Winter — Aunt Amelia — I cannot 
 speak of my father, — I cannot — I cannot ! ' 
 she added wildly, glancing at the door, with 
 some undefined notion of escape ; ' it is all 
 so fresh, it seems but yesterday. When I 
 know you better, perhaps, — but not now, 
 not now — I cannot bear it. Excuse me ; ' 
 — this in response to the pain and astonish- 
 ment depicted in Mrs Winter's face, down 
 which the tears were streaming. ' Excuse 
 me ; I have been brought up alone ; only 
 with Zebula, my ayah.' 
 
 ' But, Sophia,' pleaded Aunt Amelia, 
 suddenly arrested in the full tide of her 
 sorrow, ' I am to be a mother to you. I 
 am your nearest .relative, your father's 
 favourite sister, chosen by him to take 
 charge of you. Have confidence in me, 
 I beseech you. Do not, for an instant, 
 treat me, or think of me, as a stranger. 
 Oh, Sophia, I have no words to tell you 
 how my heart bleeds for you ! ' 
 
 The poor, little woman had risen and 
 thrown her arms round her neck. It was 
 not Sophia, it was her beloved brother, 
 that Aunt Amelia clune to. 
 
 Sophia raised her stately head, sweep- 
 ing the long curls over her aunt's face. 
 She did not absolutely repulse Mrs Win- 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 82 The Ill-te77ipe7'ed Cousin. 
 
 ten The mention of her father's name 
 had somewhat softened her ; but no kiss 
 answered the shower of love which Aunt 
 Ameha w^as pouring out on her. 
 
 ' Forgive me, aunt,' she said ; ' I cannot 
 talk like Europeans ; the words choke 
 me. I have had a great trial. Even then 
 I was silent.' 
 
 ' Ah, my poor, beautiful child ! ' burst 
 out Mrs Winter, too much excited to heed 
 Sophia ; ' who knows that so well as I ? 
 Yes, yes ; silent suffering ; how it kills ! 
 Who will ever feel for you like me ? ' 
 
 * By-and-by, perhaps,' answered she 
 half-beseechingly, putting Aunt Amelia 
 aside, and rising. 
 
 Mrs Winter sank back into a chair. 
 
 ' Not now. There are things in my 
 life over which I must draw a veil, except,' 
 she added dreamily — and a vision of young 
 Maitland, as he had looked when he bid 
 her good-bye, passed vaguely before her — 
 ' except to those I love.' 
 
 ' God grant you may love me, my child ! ' 
 ejaculated Aunt Amelia, clasping her thin 
 hands together as fervently as if she had 
 been uttering a prayer for life ; ' all the 
 happiness of your life depends on your 
 loving me. I am a poor, broken-down
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. ^-iy 
 
 creature, too old and too stupid to be a 
 companion to such as you, my love. But 
 I am used to grief and misfortune. At 
 least I can pity you. Oh, do trust me, 
 and try, dear Sophia, to love me ! ' 
 
 No answerine word came from the 
 other's lips. She sat where her aunt had 
 placed her, close to the fire, her feet on 
 the fender, gazing moodily into the 
 flame. The heat had raised a slight 
 flush upon her cheek, that added a fresh 
 charm to her beauty. Aunt Amelia 
 contemplated her with renewed dismay. 
 ' How beautiful she is ! ' was her thought. 
 ' Alas ! alas ! ' 
 
 ' This is but a poor home for you, my 
 Sophia,' she continued aloud (Aunt Amelia 
 was trying string after string, as it were, of 
 the human instrument before her, to see 
 where she could find an answering chord). 
 ' I suppose you know something of our 
 story .^ ' 
 
 'I do,' said Sophia, gravely, without 
 taking her eyes from the fire. ' But I 
 preferred coming to you, to my other 
 aunt Lady Danvers.' 
 
 ' Thank you for that,' cried Aunt Amelia, 
 colouring with delight, and grasping her 
 niece's hand, which lay impassive on her
 
 84 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 black dress. * That was noble of you — an 
 act of sacrifice.' 
 
 * I followed the wishes of my father,' 
 was Sophia's cold reply. ' I can really 
 take no credit for it. I had no choice in 
 the matter. His will was sacred.' 
 
 Again Mrs Winter was repelled. This 
 superb niece sitting beside her, her favour- 
 ite brother's child, had never opened her 
 mouth but to wound her. She felt so 
 humiliated she could have sunk into the 
 floor. Still she struggled bravely. 
 
 * Scatlands is not a bad house, but ex- 
 cept this room it is poorly furnished. 
 Uncle Louis has very recently had mis- 
 fortunes. We have very little money. 
 But such as it is, It Is your home, my child, 
 to do as you please in. All I want is to 
 make you happy.' 
 
 ' I know it is my home,' responded 
 Sophia, her eyes still fixed on the burning 
 coals, in which she was tracing strange 
 outlines of mountain ranges, such as shut 
 in the horizon of her home In the hot 
 season. ' I am sorry to be a further ex- 
 pense to you. It cannot be helped. I 
 must get used to it, and I hope you will also.' 
 
 Was not all this confirmation of what 
 Zebula in her jealousy had impressed on
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 85 
 
 her — * that, once In her power, her aunt 
 would starve and misuse her. Never, 
 never trust the white viper,' were Zebula's 
 words, * she will bite you, and the poison 
 will rest In your blood.' 
 
 ' I always had a house of my own,' she 
 continued absently. * I am grieved to be 
 a burden.' 
 
 ' Not grieved, dear Sophia, surely not,' 
 remonstrated Aunt Amelia, gallantly strug- 
 gling to the end, ' when you will ever be 
 our first thought — If you will allow It,' she 
 added In a lower tone, catching sight of the 
 hard-set lines of her niece's profile. ' Then 
 there Is Uncle Louis! Ah, Sophia, how 
 can I have forgotten Uncle Louis ? ' 
 
 At her husband's name Mrs Winter's 
 eyes glistened, and a gentle colour mounted 
 to her cheeks. Even Sophia turned her 
 head, and allowed the faintest shadow of a 
 smile to cross her face at Mrs Winter's 
 eagerness. 
 
 ' Uncle Louis Is an angel ; the most 
 excellent, unselfish man that ever lived. I 
 ought not to say so of my own husband,' 
 — and the flush In Aunt Amelias face 
 deepened to a blush, — ' but It Is the truth. 
 You will delight In Uncle Louis. He will 
 be so angry that you did not give him
 
 86 The lll-te}npered Cousin. 
 
 notice of your coming. He fully intended 
 to have met you at Portsmouth.' 
 
 To all this Sophia listened with more 
 interest than she had yet evinced. Some- 
 thing told her she should like Uncle Louis. 
 About Aunt Amelia she had decided — to 
 her she was unsympathetic. 
 
 All the predjudices and bitter animosities 
 of the ayah, during those last days at Cal- 
 cutta, rose up fresh and strong — to blind 
 her to the angelic sweetness of Mrs Winter. 
 To her it seemed but falseness. 
 
 ' My love,' continued Aunt Amelia — 
 rapidly pursuing the one topic in which 
 Sophia showed sympathy, — ' Uncle Louis 
 is, as you know, a German. He plays ex- 
 quisitely on the flute. I hear you are a 
 good musician. Is it so ? ' 
 
 Sophia bowed her head in a lofty way. 
 
 ' That will be charming. You and my 
 husband will play together. He used to 
 make me sit up half the night to accom- 
 jDany him — long ago — when we were first 
 married.' 
 
 And she heaved a sicrh as she recalled 
 those halcyon days, when credit, money 
 and friends were abundant. 
 
 ' Now, I am too old. I cannot satisfy 
 his fastidious taste — he is fastidious. You
 
 The I II- temp 67^6 d Cousin. ?>j 
 
 really do play well ? Scientifically, Sophia ? 
 You know how difficult the Germans are ? ' 
 
 * I think I shall satisfy Uncle Louis. I 
 will try. Music is all that is left me.' 
 
 * Ah ! — not so, my child. Be thankful 
 to God for granting you so much ' (an in- 
 dignant glance from Sophia told that that 
 was a line of argument not to be admitted). 
 Catching nervously at her breath, Aunt 
 Amelia continued, ' A great musician ; you 
 have a musical face — pardon me for doubt- 
 ing your skill, but Louis is such a performer. 
 Health, youth, and' (a little pause) 'such 
 wonderful beauty.' 
 
 To do Sophia justice she was not vain, 
 and she received this compliment with per- 
 fect indifference. 
 
 ' Then there Is John Bauer,' continued 
 Aunt Amelia. He plays the violoncello. 
 You must like John Bauer as well as Uncle 
 Louis ; he Is often here.' 
 
 ' Who is John Bauer ? ' asked Sophia, 
 raising her large eyes from her castle-build- 
 ing In the fire, full on Aunt Amelia with 
 such a disdainful stare as quite over- 
 whelmed that sensitive little woman. ' I 
 never heard of John Bauer ! ' 
 
 'John Bauer is Mr Winter's nephew,' 
 answered Aunt Amelia, with nervous
 
 S8 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 quickness. Sophia's deliberate stare, and 
 the ill-suppressed haughtiness of her man- 
 ner, alarmed her. ' John Bauer is a mer- 
 chant, like my Louis, only he is enormously 
 rich. He has never been unlucky like my 
 husband — never sacrificed himself so gen- 
 erously to treacherous friends. John Bauer 
 is very amiable, not handsome, but so good, 
 I hope he will please you.' 
 
 Then a vision of those happy evenings 
 arose in her mind. The shutters shut, the 
 curtains drawn, the piano open, the desks 
 set and the music sorted ; John Bauer 
 rosining his violoncello bow ; Uncle Louis 
 screwing up his beloved flute, and descant- 
 ing volubly in German on some disputed 
 tempo, or the overcoming of a difficult 
 passage, breaking off to kiss Aunt Amelia's 
 hand and lead her to the instrument, there 
 to foro^et all her sordid cares in the ideal 
 realm of divine harmony. 
 
 Would Sophia despise these friendly 
 little meetings, and turn from them with 
 disgust } Then an undeveloped germ of 
 thought rose in the mind of the artless 
 little woman. 
 
 What a glorious ending it would be to 
 all her troubles, if Sophia and John Bauer 
 were married !
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HAT Aunt Amelia meant more 
 than she said about John Bauer 
 was evident to Sophia. This 
 conviction deepened her incipi- 
 ent suspicion of her aunt's sincerity. 
 
 ' I do not see what it signifies if I Hke 
 Mr Bauer or not. Of course, I must 
 meet the people that come to your house,' 
 was Sophia's cold rejoinder. ' I think, 
 Aunt Amelia, I should like to go to my 
 room,' she added, rising. 
 
 How it all jarred upon her nerves ! 
 Sophia, utterly unused to the forms of 
 society and sympathies of English life, was 
 inexpressibly wearied by the very intensity 
 of her aunt's efforts to please her. 
 
 She asked herself, with dismay, 
 whether she would talk to her every 
 day like this ?
 
 90 The Ill-tempered Cotcsin. 
 
 'To be sure, my love,' said Mrs Winter 
 rising also. ' How thoughtless I have 
 been to keep you here talking. Come, I 
 will show you the way upstairs.' 
 
 Quite naturally Sophia walked first, with 
 a stately step, towards the door. She 
 longed to be alone ; she longed for silence, 
 for peace — to be somewhere where she 
 could think of Maitland, recall every word, 
 dwell upon his looks, evoke the remem- 
 brance of those grey eyes, so grave and 
 earnest. 
 
 Aunt Amelia followed her into the hall. 
 She had gathered up her niece's cloak and 
 bonnet, and carried them submissively 
 upon her arm. Sophia, accustomed to be 
 waited upon by a crowd of natives, did 
 not even notice it. It was so natural to 
 be waited on. 
 
 All the way upstairs Aunt Amelia's 
 gentle voice was to be heard in a soft 
 treble of excuse. 
 
 ' Only a room on the second floor, my 
 love — a long way up. We have not yet 
 been able to furnish the first storey. How 
 much I wish we could lodge you more 
 suitably.' 
 
 * What does it matter where I lodge ? ' 
 retorted Sophia, exasperated at her aunt's
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 9 1 
 
 persevering kindness ; ' I shall not com- 
 plain.' 
 
 Arrived on the landing of the second 
 floor, on a level with the Roman emperor, 
 Mrs Winter opened a door to the left, and 
 they entered a large, low room, with two 
 windows — one looking to the front of the 
 house and the lane, the other to the side. 
 
 The fog had almost conquered what 
 remained of the short daylight. A thick, 
 heavy vapour was covering all outward 
 objects with a pall. A streak or two of 
 light glimmered low on the horizon, casting a 
 faint yellow reflection upon the boarded floor. 
 
 The walls were covered with a faded 
 paper, upon which damp and rain from the 
 roof had left some stains. A few little 
 knick-knacks of Aunt Amelia's manufac- 
 ture brightened the room a little, otherwise 
 the furniture was shabby In the extreme. 
 
 A much-worn-carpet, nailed in the centre 
 of the floor ; a painted deal table, a few 
 decrepit chairs standing against the walls, 
 as if ashamed of themselves ; a chest of 
 drawers ; a glass before the front window, 
 a small bed, with dimity curtains in one 
 corner ; two little shelves with some books. 
 The air felt damp and chill. There was 
 no fire in the grate.
 
 92 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 Sophia entered with an assumed in- 
 difference. Coming upstairs she had 
 resolved to show nothlnor that she felt. 
 She owned to herself that her tone in 
 the parlour had been overbearing. What 
 was she at Scatlands but a humble rela- 
 tive, eating the hard crust of another's 
 loaf! 
 
 Poor, haughty Sophia ! Spite of her 
 resolution, a shudder passed over her at 
 the aspect of her room. Never in her 
 life had she seen anything so squalid. 
 
 * Ah, there Is no fire ! ' cried Aunt 
 Amelia,' rapidly reading her thought. 
 ' It shall be lighted, darling. If we had 
 only known you were coming, dearest, 
 but It was your own fault.' 
 
 I am not cold,' she answered languidly. 
 * Pray light no fire for me. I do not 
 require It.' 
 
 Oh, If Aunt Amelia would only go away 
 and leave her ! What a bare, miserable 
 house, as naked as a summer bungalow ! 
 How dreadful it all was ! Now that she 
 was face to face with the life that lay 
 before her, she could have sobbed. 
 
 Aunt Amelia was as eager to escape 
 from her niece, as the latter to see her 
 go ; but, like many other shy people, she
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 93 
 
 suffered from a nervous Inability to quit 
 any place, be it where it may, in which 
 she found herself. 
 
 I fear, my love, you do not like your 
 room ? ' she began nervously, — then happy 
 to find any excuse, broke off to the arrang- 
 ing of Sophia's wraps upon the bed. ' I 
 chose it for the sake of the view. You 
 cannot see it now% but when clear, you 
 lock on the Thames, and Twickenham 
 Meadows and Rosebank.' 
 
 Sophia looked up suddenly. * Rose- 
 bank ! Is that the house at the end ? 
 Can you see Rosebank from here 1 ' 
 
 A look of delight spread over her face ; 
 and her eyes, a moment before so dull and 
 brooding, caught up the faint rays of 
 yellow light, and threw them back like 
 diamonds. 
 
 This sudden change astonished Mrs 
 Winter. For once her niece seemed 
 pleased, yet she could so little imagine 
 why, that she ventured a question. 
 
 ' Have you ever heard of Rosebank, 
 dear Sophia ? The Maitlands live there 
 — our intimate friends. Do you know 
 them ? ' 
 
 * Sophia, smiling to herself a happy 
 smile, and devouring with her eyes the
 
 94 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 little that the fog and the twilight left her 
 to contemplate of the trees of Rosebank, 
 hesitated before she answered. 
 
 For an instant she wavered. Should 
 she confide in Aunt Amelia, and tell 
 her of her meeting with Maltland ? 
 Could she trust her ? No ! The pre- 
 judice that Zebula had implanted in her 
 triumphed. It rose up between them like 
 a wall, only to grow higher and thicker as 
 time went by, shutting out all love and 
 confidence. 
 
 ' I — oh no — how could I know the 
 Maitlands ? I know no one, Aunt 
 Amelia.' 
 
 ' I am going now, my child,' said Mr 
 Winter with a bewildered smile. The 
 effect of the information she had given 
 about Rosebank was obvious to her ; the 
 cause of that effect was hidden. ' Good- 
 bye,' she said, more and more bewildered 
 how to get out of the room. 
 
 ' Try to love me ; try to love us all. 
 Believe me, my dear girl, it will be for 
 our mutual comfort. The love that binds 
 too^ether kith and kin is the sweetest and 
 the safest.' 
 
 She pressed her soft lips on her niece's 
 forehead, and left her still standing by the
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 95 
 
 window, engrossed with the idea of over- 
 looking Rosebank. 
 
 The placid face, the delicate lace cap, 
 the clinging dress, that sat so well on the 
 neat little figure, passed out. The door 
 closed. Aunt Amelia was crone. 
 
 Sophia flung herself upon a chair. ' At 
 last, at last,' she cried ; ' I am alone ! ' 
 
 After leaving Sophia's room, Mrs 
 Winter slowly descended the polished 
 oak stairs into the hall. 
 
 A terrible chill lay at her heart. By 
 nature sensitive and responsive to the 
 point of weakness, she felt that her first 
 meeting with her stately niece had been 
 a failure. Instinct, rather than reflection, 
 told her this. But that it was so came 
 home to her undeniably. Why this should 
 be, was beyond the range of her simple 
 intelligence. 
 
 That Sophia should not accept her love, 
 smote her to the quick. It was like 
 treason to the dead brother who had con- 
 fided her to her care. 
 
 Standincr in the shadow of the landing 
 of the empty rooms, she paused, and clasp- 
 ing her hands together, addressed a fervent 
 prayer to God that Sophia's heart might 
 be turned towards her.
 
 96 TJie Ill-te77ipered Cousin. 
 
 Again the thought of John Bauer shot 
 through her brain. The idea once started, 
 Mrs Winter dwelt upon it eagerly. Sophia 
 betrayed in all she said and did the habit 
 of wealth — that need of service which 
 comes to the rich like the air they breathe. 
 With John Bauer she would possess every 
 luxury. 
 
 By this time Mrs Winter had reached 
 the hall. The clock on the mantelpiece 
 struck five. Five ! Uncle Louis would be 
 back from the city directly. She had all 
 sorts of things to do. They kept only two 
 servants, and she was obliged to help them 
 in many ways. 
 
 As she turned off towards the dining- 
 room, a latch-kev was turnino^ in the lock 
 of the front door ; the door flew open, and 
 Mr Winter bounded into the hall. 
 
 He was so wrapped up in a large cloak, 
 a white comforter twisted so many times 
 round his neck, and a tall hat, with a very 
 narrow brim, so crushed down upon his 
 head, that nothing of his countenance was 
 visible, except a large and very prominent 
 nose — a nose that leaped, as it were, out 
 of the zone of his face. 
 
 Seeing his wife, Mr Winter was about 
 to apostrophise her as usual as ' My
 
 The Ill-tempered Coiism. 97 
 
 Amelle ! ' Instead, * Der Teufel ! ' were 
 the words that issued in a muffled sound 
 from the folds of the comforter. 
 
 In the impetus of that exceedingly 
 juvenile bound with which he had entered 
 his short, stout legs, ill - supporting his 
 rotund, little person, had struck against 
 Sophia's box. 
 
 ' Der Teufel ! Amelia, vat ees das ? 
 A man-trap to break dee shins ? What 
 is de tevil boxes, my wive .^ ' 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, Mr Win- 
 ter, in his anger, administered a forcible 
 kick on the wood, then stooped down to 
 rub his leg, with a very piteous expression 
 of countenance. 
 
 ' Louis, dear Louis, I am so sorry. The 
 box has been forgotten. I ought to have 
 told you — don't kick it, please ; it is — ' 
 
 * Ach so ! I understand. It ees de box 
 vid de — de enamelled and blue Porcelain 
 von Dresda. Ve vill move ee presently.' 
 
 ' It is Sophia Escott's box — she is come. 
 She arrived this afternoon.' 
 
 ' Die Escott — die Sophie ! Angekomnen 
 — Gott im Himmel ! And ze stands there 
 as if noting had happened ! Ze keep me 
 avake so many nights to tell of die Sophie 
 — noting but die Sophie, till I dream tau- 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 98 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 sends Sophies all ober die vorld ; and now 
 — ze ees not out of vindows, topside down, 
 vid de news ? ' 
 
 With frantic haste Mr Winter tore off 
 his wraps, flung down his hat with a bang, 
 dropped the woollen comforter on the 
 stone floor, his great-coat after It ; then, 
 settling his cravat, and passing his large 
 hand through his bristly iron-grey hair (no 
 care bestowed upon it by Aunt Amelia 
 could ever make that hair other than 
 modified horse-hair), he strode up to his 
 wife. 
 
 ' Vere is die schilds ? Vy ees ze not vid 
 her ? ' 
 
 So vehement and rapid were his ges- 
 tures, so quick his movements, that Mrs 
 Winter had hardly time to reply. 
 
 ' Sophia is resting, Louis, in her room ; 
 she is tired after her journey. I have just 
 come down — she preferred to be alone.' 
 
 'Prefer to be alone! Nonsense — non- 
 sense ! di talk like von fools, Amalie. Ze 
 shall never be alone. Die Sophie ; ze shall 
 always be vid us. Die Sophie ees come 
 in our old age to be our daughter. Gott 
 sent her. I vill see her — quicks — quicks ! ' 
 
 Before he had finished speaking, Uncle 
 Louis' short legs had carried him half-way
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 99 
 
 up the staircase, scampering- up three steps 
 at a time. Certain ominous sounds descend- 
 ing to the hall betraying that, in his fierce 
 haste, he was slipping on the polished oak 
 of the staircase. 
 
 ' Take care, Louis, take care, or you 
 will fall ! I will light a candle.' 
 
 * No, no — never more ! ' cried Uncle 
 Louis from the landing of the first storey, 
 his voice almost overpowered by the clatter 
 of his boots — ' never more ! Sophie — 
 Sophie, my zettel angel, ze vill be my 
 h'ght. Open de door, my Sophie — Sophie ! ' 
 
 Sophia, sitting pensively beside the win- 
 dow, her head bent upon her hand, looking 
 towards Rosebank, heard her name and 
 listened. Something in the intonation of the 
 voice, full of friendly coaxing, attracted her. 
 
 A strange fiutter came over her ; for a 
 moment she felt faint. Since her father 
 had bid her good-night, the last time she 
 saw him alive, she had heard nothing like 
 that voice. She was just rising when, 
 under the application of Uncle Louis' 
 shoulder, the door suddenly gave way, and 
 Mr Winter burst into the room. 
 
 Before she could speak she was within 
 his arms. Kind and gentle was his touch. 
 He murmured some inarticulate words of
 
 I oo The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 fondness, then laid his large, plump hand 
 upon her head. It was like a silent 
 blessing. 
 
 * My Sophie, lie there ! Poor schilds, 
 poor schilds! ' He raised her face, and 
 pressed his lips upon her forehead. ' Lie 
 there/ and again his arms closed round 
 her ; 'it is ze home.' Sophia's head 
 dropped upon his shoulder. She burst 
 into tears. ' Ze must not cry, Sophie — 
 not cry, not cry. Ee ees bad for ze eyes 
 to cry.' As this excellent advice was ad- 
 ministered between audible sobs from him- 
 self, it did not produce much effect. Big 
 tears rolled down his red cheeks upon 
 Sophia's face. 
 
 Tenderly supporting her with one hand, 
 as she clung to him, resting in his warm 
 embrace like a weary child upon the full, 
 soft bosom of its nurse, he was constrained, 
 with the other hand, to take from his 
 pocket that large red handkerchief, which 
 in all crises of his chequered life floated 
 about him like a banner. With it he 
 wiped his eyes, blew his nose, with a noise 
 like a trumpet, replaced It carefully in his 
 pocket, raised Sophia, gazed at her stead- 
 fastly in the dark room, then shook his 
 head.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. loi 
 
 * Oh, Uncle Louis ! ' was all she could 
 say. 
 
 ' Uncle Louis cannot zee die schilds 
 die Sophie ; but he can feel her. He is 
 sure she is loofly.' 
 
 Mr Winter laid back the long silken 
 tresses of her hair upon his arm, smoothed 
 them, kissed them, then patted them down 
 into their place on each side of her head. 
 
 * Now, ze must not cry no more,' he 
 said, observing- the convulsive heaves that 
 heaved Sophia's bosom ; * ze must be die 
 good brave girls.' 
 
 ' Oh, Uncle Louis ! ' again exclaimed 
 Sophia, somewhat more composed ; ' I 
 cry because you put me in mind of him — 
 of dear, dear papa.' 
 
 ' Dat is goot, ver goot,' he said gravely. 
 ' I will be de papa, Sophie, to ze — always 
 de papa.' 
 
 Neither saw the other, save as an indis- 
 tinct form in an unlighted room ; but 
 Sophia had felt the love that came to her 
 in Uncle Louis' large encircling arms ; 
 felt it, and responded to it. 
 
 At this moment Aunt Amelia entered, 
 carrying in her hand a light. In an instant 
 Sophia was standing upright, hastily re 
 moving all traces of tears from her cheeks.
 
 I02 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 * My Amalie! ' said Mr Winter ; *we have 
 had ze kees of peace : is it not so, Sophie ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Uncle Louis.' 
 
 The frank, sweet tones of the girl's voice 
 came as an astonishment to Aunt Amelia. 
 
 ' Let me look at zee,' said Mr Winter, 
 with great solemnity, taking the light from 
 his wife. ' Ach, so!' and he drew back 
 sideways, contemplating her as if she had 
 been a picture by an old master, his small, 
 grey eyes all the while twinkling with fun. 
 
 ' Ach schon ! Schon ! Herrlich schon ! 
 An original ! no damned copies ! ' he ex- 
 claimed, passing the candle up and down. 
 * And so fine, so tall ! Beautiful, beautiful ! ' 
 
 He burst into a merry laugh, that rang 
 through the room. 
 
 * My Amalie ! ' he said, giving back the 
 light to his wife ; ' zee must shut ee up 
 or die ; young men will steal the beautiful 
 schilds. Zee must be shut up, my Sophie,' 
 continued Uncle Louis, giggling, as he 
 carried out his thought. 
 
 * I will be de Cerberus, vid de chain. 
 Such fun, such fun ! Ha, ha ! Ve will mock 
 at di young men, and play and sing all day. 
 You can play die musicks, my Sophie } ' 
 he asked, very gravely. Anything about 
 music was sacred.
 
 The Ill-tenipe7'ed Cotisin, 103 
 
 ' Yes, Uncle Louis.' 
 
 ' Goot, goot ; vid die music von is never 
 triste, never dull' 
 
 Between everything he said, Mr Winter 
 — his bior nose in the air — took lone 
 glances at his niece ; standing on the 
 points of his toes, throwing up his fat 
 hands, and shrugging his broad shoulders 
 in little spasms of delight. There was a 
 simple flattery in all this that charmed 
 Sophia. She laughed as she looked at him. 
 
 ' I told you, Sophia, you would like 
 Uncle Louis,' said Aunt Amelia, a placid 
 smile lighting up her kind face. 
 
 The sound of her voice recalled Sophia 
 to a recollection of her presence. Sud- 
 denly she fixed her eyes on her. 
 
 ' Uncle Louis shows that he loves me, 
 — I cannot doubt it.' 
 
 Mrs Winter turned away, too much 
 hurt to care to show it. Suffer what she 
 might, she mentally resolved that she would 
 not, by so much as a gesture, strike a dis- 
 cord in the harmony of this first meeting. 
 
 There had been a painful pause. Uncle 
 Louis raised his head, and looked from 
 one to the other. Something struck him 
 as wrong ; but he did not give himself the 
 trouble to think what it might be.
 
 I04 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 Drawing them both towards him, he 
 encircled them with his arms, his big 
 nose and httle eyes shining on both. 
 
 ' My AmaHe loofe die, Sophia, hke a 
 mother die ; Sophie, honour her as die 
 tochter,' he added solemnly. 
 
 Sophia tried to disengage herself. He 
 would not let her go — 
 
 ' Come ; it ees cold In dees room ; come 
 down wid die tante and me.' 
 
 ' No, Uncle Louis, thank you,' said 
 Sophia, struggling to free herself from his 
 grasp. ' I will stay up here, please, to- 
 night ; I am tired. 
 
 * Ee can be tired down stairs ; I must 
 have die Sophie.' He endeavoured to 
 drag her forcibly towards the door : ' I 
 want to look at ee ! ' 
 
 ' My dear Louis,' interposed Mrs Win- 
 ter, from the other end of the room, where 
 she had been lighting Sophia's candles 
 and closing the window-shutters. Aunt 
 Amelia had a quiet way of waiting upon 
 her that was quite touching in its uncon- 
 scious humility. 
 
 * Do not worry Sophia. Let her do as 
 she likes.' 
 
 ' Uncle Louis does not worry me,' she 
 replied quickly, taking his large fat hand
 
 The Ill-tempe7'ed Cousin, 105 
 
 in hers and kissing it. ' He can never, 
 never worry me. But just for to-night, 
 Uncle Louis, only to-night.' 
 
 ' Come away, my love,' said Mrs Winter. 
 (A pang of anguish passed through her, 
 as the conviction of Sophia's dislike forced 
 itself more and more upon her.) 
 
 ' Zee promise to come down in die morn- 
 ing, like die Aurore, to de poor old uncle, 
 before he goes to make de bread of live in 
 de city, nicht wahr,' said Mr Winter, in his 
 turn trying to liberate himself from his wife, 
 with a smile that extended his large mouth 
 across his face. 
 
 * Amelie, be off, or I will shoot you dead. 
 Set di example to die Sophie how zee 
 minds me.' 
 
 His genial voice fell on Aunt Amelia's 
 ears like balm. 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' said Sophia, advancing to the 
 door where her aunt had drawn him. I 
 will come down to-morrow. Good night.' 
 
 ' Gute nacht, my schilds ' — a substantial 
 kiss following, that might have been heard 
 all over the house. Then with many deep- 
 toned 'Achs!' and'Zo's! 'and 'Lebewohl's' 
 Uncle Louis permitted himself to be con- 
 ducted downstairs.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HEN Edward Maltland parted 
 from Sophia before the door of 
 Scatlands, he walked on very 
 slowly and deliberately to Rose- 
 bank. 
 
 Passing the lodge he left the well-rolled 
 drive that meandered by clumps of forest 
 trees and mossy herbage, and took a cir- 
 cuitous path upon the soft turf that spread 
 to the right, through a laurel shrubbery. 
 
 Thick as was the fog, Edward would not 
 trust to it to conceal his arrival. His 
 father, a mercantile philosopher, who re- 
 quired to ruminate in the open air over 
 his speculations in the city, — often returned 
 early, and might be encountered prowl- 
 ing about among the trees. Or Miss 
 Sterne, with her fair curls and inaudible
 
 The Ill-tempered Coiisin. 107 
 
 walk, micrht be gflidinof alone the road on 
 some commission of his mother's. 
 
 Now, of all people in the world, he 
 specially desired at this moment to avoid 
 Miss Sterne. 
 
 So, treading- lightly on the springy turf, 
 Maitland turned into the path leading 
 through the thick plantation of laurels 
 shrouding the house on that side ; and 
 with his own key opened the door of his 
 particular sanctum. He longed to be alone. 
 
 The walls of this room were a record of 
 his life. Between the windows, under a 
 a glass case, was his first shoe, of blue kid, 
 creased and marked with the impress of 
 the fat little foot which had worn it ; a 
 most aggravating memento, which he had 
 continually threatened to destroy, but had 
 been restrained by the earnest entreaties of 
 his mother, who had carefully collected and 
 preserved (as in a museum) every remem- 
 brance of his childhood. 
 
 Here were the bow and arrows with 
 which he had shot magpies and tormented 
 his nurses, — the miniature cutter, rigged 
 with spotless sails, which he had launched 
 on the bosom of the Thames, — a series of 
 hunting prints in bright colours, flanking a 
 ^rtrait of himself, aged ten, in a blue
 
 io8 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 jacket, leaning against his mother's side, 
 whose head, for want of due perspective, 
 he appeared to threaten with a whip — she 
 smiHng the while blandly. His first gun 
 suspended over the mantelpiece ; foils and 
 boxing-gloves ; ablackbird — shotbyhis hand 
 — stuffed, in a cage. His Eton prize books, 
 in brilliant bindings, ranged on shelves ; a 
 choice collection of other books in a recess ; 
 an academic cap and gown — which he had 
 lately worn in theatricals — hanging on a 
 nail ; some casts of different Venuses from 
 the antique on brackets ; a pair of white 
 cricketing shoes, and a jersey on the floor, 
 where he had left it. 
 
 I n one corner of the room stood a writing- 
 table, on which lay pipes and meerschaums, 
 side by side with packets of dusty letters 
 and pamphlets, open, as he had last laid 
 them. 
 
 A well-worn arm-chair was drawn up 
 near the window, and beside it a little in- 
 laid table of mosaic and gold, on which 
 was placed a delicate vase of Dresden 
 china, filled with choice hot-house flowers. 
 Whether Edward was absent or at home, 
 that vase was daily replenished by his 
 mother's own hands, and placed on the 
 table as on a shrine sacred to her son.
 
 TJie Ill-tenipered Cousin. 109 
 
 On enterlnor, Edward's eve caught the 
 bright hue of the flowers. He smiled. 
 
 ' Poor mater ! Always the same, always 
 good to me ! ' was his thought. 
 
 The force of habit caused him to draw 
 out the arm-chair, and seat himself before 
 the empty grate. His countenance, like 
 his attitude, was grave and full of thought. 
 
 For the first time in his life he had 
 shunned his mother. Before, he had 
 always sought her with a schoolboy's ar- 
 dour, poured into her ear every minute 
 detail of his life, and joyfully answered her 
 interminable questions. 
 
 But now, not only did he avoid her, but 
 he actually dreaded meeting her. 
 
 Sophia Escott's name might be men- 
 tioned, — she might be discussed as an 
 ordinary subject of conversation. Fresh 
 from the seduction of her presence, he 
 could not bear it. He must accustom 
 himself, little by little, to consider her as 
 an ordinary mortal. At this moment, she 
 seemed to him some bright vision from 
 another sphere. 
 
 Instinctively he trembled at what his 
 mother might be led to say. For the first 
 time he realised that their views were often 
 antagonistic. About Sophia Escott he felt
 
 1 1 o The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 intuitively that they would be. Mrs Malt- 
 land would not express herself as he de- 
 sired. Who, indeed, could speak in words 
 such as he would consider adequate ? 
 
 The vague delicious sense of what Sophia 
 was, — of what she might be to him — who 
 could express it ? The bliss of having 
 lived until that moment, — who but himself 
 could understand .'^ Sophia had swept like 
 a magnificent harmony upon every tone of 
 his deep, earnest nature, — she had satisfied 
 every requirement of his fastidious taste. 
 
 Hitherto, he had shrunk from the young 
 ladies of ordinary life, mere creatures of 
 flesh and blood, — talking, dancing, laugh- 
 ing, flirting, — like educated animals without 
 a soul. Even now he shuddered, as he 
 recalled with vivid indignation the perse- 
 cutions to which he had been subjected by 
 marriageable girls. All this he could not 
 explain to his mother. For the first time he 
 must have a secret from her. Poor mater ! 
 
 He glanced at the flowers, and a sigh 
 escaped him. Yet so It must be. The 
 inevitable moment had come when, like 
 the strong-winged young eaglet, he must 
 forsake the parent nest that had hitherto 
 sheltered him, and soar out alone In the 
 air of freedom, into a new world.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cottsin. 1 1 1 
 
 To have met Sophia Escott ! To be 
 called her friend ! Exquisite happiness ! 
 Yet it was not as a friend that he would 
 approach her ! The sombre flash of her 
 tragic eyes still rested on him ! The tur- 
 moil of his blood was not yet cooled as he 
 recalled her stately presence standing erect 
 in the muddy road, — the misty earth and 
 cloudy sky but a background for her beauty. 
 Her friend ! No, indeed ! She was a 
 being born to be worshipped, or — 
 never to be beheld again ! 
 
 In a momeut of painful excitement, she 
 had laid bare her heart. Years could not 
 have shown her to him so plainly. And 
 what a revelation ! The innate nobility 
 of her nature had proclaimed itself in every 
 word. The dignity of her bearing was but 
 the mould to the lofty candour of her soul. 
 
 * Not for her sake, but for mine, thank 
 Heaven she has lost her fortune ! ' 
 
 Carried away by the intensity of his 
 feelings, Edward raised his head, and let 
 his hand fall heavily on the table opposite. 
 Oh, God ! To have her love ! To call her 
 his ! Every pulse in his body beat wildly. 
 From this transport of love his thoughts 
 again glanced off to his mother. 
 
 Again his eyes rested on the fresh flowers
 
 112 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 her hand had placed on his table. Their 
 delicate fragrance came to him like a mute 
 appeal. From the hour of his birth, her 
 devotion had been so absolute, her affec- 
 tion so boundless, that up to this time he 
 had never disputed her right to control 
 him. 
 
 That his mother's ambition had led her 
 to anticipate the possibility of a marriage 
 with the great Indian heiress, he knew. 
 He had often indignantly combated the 
 idea. Why should Miss Escott select him 
 from the crowd of pretenders whom her 
 wealth was sure to attract ? Or why should 
 he like her well enough to marry her ? All 
 this he had argued over and over again 
 with his mother ; but in vain. 
 
 Now, the position was changed. Miss 
 Escott was no longer an heiress. The 
 reproach of her father's ruin was attached 
 to her. How would his mother accept 
 this change ? 
 
 His brow clouded. He beat uneasily 
 with his hands on the arms of the chair; 
 then rose and paced restlessly up and 
 down the room. 
 
 As yet he was free. Father and mother 
 were very dear to him, and the principle 
 of filial duty paramount. Was he, an
 
 The Ill-tempe7'ed Cousin. 
 
 1 1 
 
 only son, justified In voluntarily flinging 
 himself Into circumstances which might 
 brine him into collision with them ? 
 (What Mrs Maitland said, her husband 
 echoed.) 
 
 Yet, to resign Sophia ! To see others 
 approach her ; to know her wooed — per- 
 haps won ! The thought was maddening ! 
 In the passion of his first love he swore 
 to himself, that as she stood before him 
 in the glory of her beauty, forgetting all 
 else, he would fling himself at her feet, 
 and implore her to permit him to dedicate 
 his life to her. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 H
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 T this moment there was a sound 
 of steps in the passage leading 
 to his room ; the sweep of a 
 rich silk dress was heard upon 
 the stone pavement. 
 
 ' Edward ! Edward ! ' cried his mother's 
 voice outside. ' Where are you ? ' 
 
 ' Here, mother!' he answered, starting 
 forward to open the door. 
 
 Before he could reach it, Mrs Maitland 
 had entered, and was clasping him within 
 her ample arms. Then she drew back 
 and looked at him. 
 
 ' Why, Edward, what a colour ! 
 are handsomer than ever ! ' 
 
 Maitland's cheek flushed still 
 deeply. 
 
 ' But how stranee ! 
 
 You 
 
 more 
 
 come to me at once ? My 
 
 Why did you not 
 
 own 
 
 boy ! '
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 1 5 
 
 and ag-ain Mrs Maitland's arms were 
 round his neck. ' I should not have 
 known you were here but for Miss Sterne. 
 The lodge people saw you pass and told 
 her. She ran home directly, quite out of 
 breath. Somethinof was said about a 
 lady. Miss Sterne was quite puzzled. 
 She thought it most extraordinary.' 
 
 'The devil take Miss Sterne!' was 
 Maitland's mental ejaculation. Aloud, — 
 ' She is very kind to interest herself so 
 much about me.' The irony of the words 
 was not intended to hide his displeasure. 
 ' Does it not strike you, mother, that Miss 
 Sterne is very officious .^ ' 
 
 'No! no! Invaluable! Always con- 
 sulting my tastes and feelings.' 
 
 ' Do not trust her too much, mater. 
 You may repent it.' His manner implied 
 more than his words. ' Do not trust 
 her ! ' he added earnestly. 
 
 But his warning was thrown away upon 
 Mrs Maidand. 
 
 ' Edward, you are quarrelling with poor 
 Miss Sterne because she has found you 
 out. She knew you were in the house, 
 and came to tell me. Perfectly natural ! 
 Why did you not come yourself ^ Who is 
 the ladv ? '
 
 1 1 6 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 * No lady entered the grounds with me.' 
 Edward forced out the words reluctantly, 
 feeling himself In a glow from head to 
 foot. What demon of 111 luck could have 
 condemned him, at that moment, to hear 
 his mother allude to Sophia ? ' I was very 
 tired and came In here to rest and have 
 a smoke.' 
 
 ' But there Is no smell of tobacco,' and 
 Mrs Maltland sniffed the air energetically. 
 * I don't believe it, dear.' And fixing her 
 eyes upon her son, she shook her head. 
 ' This is most extraordinary, and so un- 
 kind ! You knew I was expecting you — 
 anxiously expecting you ! ' 
 
 ' Not unkind, mother ; never unkind to 
 you,' replied Edward, as she sank into a 
 chair. 
 
 His voice softened as he addressed her. 
 In a moment he was stooping over her 
 and kissing her. She gazed up at his tall, 
 elegant figure, and frank manly face, with 
 maternal pride. But she was not to be 
 got over In that fashion. There was a 
 fact to be elucidated — an important fact 
 affecting her son, and her mind was work- 
 ing in an agony of suspense. 
 
 Edward,' she began, riveting her large, 
 prominent eyes upon him In a determined
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 1 7 
 
 stare. ' Why did you not come to me at 
 once, as you have always done before ? ' 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 * My dear boy, you are not going to 
 have secrets from me ? ' 
 
 This persistence made Edward more 
 and more reluctant to mention Sophia's 
 name. In his present mood, he would 
 have said anything, short of an actual 
 untruth, to conceal that he had met her — 
 much more the manner of his meeting. 
 
 Receiving no answer, Mrs Maitland 
 repeated her question. 
 
 ' Edward, Edward, what are you hiding 
 from me ? ' 
 
 ' Really, mother — I am — well, I am not 
 hiding anything.' 
 
 'Yes, you are,' she replied firmly. 'It 
 is no use denying it. Speak to me, 
 Edward ; you are making me inexpres- 
 sibly wretched ! ' 
 
 With one hand she drew out her hand- 
 kerchief, and with the other seized his 
 arm. 
 
 ' There is nothing to make you wretched, 
 dear mother,' Edward replied, again kiss- 
 inof her. 
 
 ' But, if there is nothing to hide, why 
 don't you answer my question ? '
 
 1 1 8 The Ill-tempered Cotisin. 
 
 * Indeed, mother, you are making a fool- 
 ish fuss about nothing. I am sorry I came 
 first into this room, if it vexes you. I will 
 never do so again, I promise you.' 
 
 He took her hand to lead her away, but 
 with an ominous shake of the head, she 
 refused to stir. 
 
 * Will you tell your father, Edward ? 
 Is it anything I ought not to hear ? Oh ! 
 have you done anything dreadful ? ' 
 
 'Mother! What are you saying? I 
 repeat I have done nothing.' 
 
 ' Thank Heaven ! ' she ejaculated. 
 ' Where did you come from this morn- 
 ing?' 
 
 ' From Oxford,' was his answer, smilingf 
 at her. 
 
 ' Did you come alone ? ' 
 ' Yes, mother ; quite alone. I drove 
 down in a gig with Walters' man, Ben, 
 from London.' 
 
 ' In a gig ? I heard no wheels ! ' 
 ' Because I got out at the top of the lane.' 
 ' Were you alone, or in company ? ' 
 It was useless. He must speak, — tell 
 her everything. He had much better 
 have done so at once. Now the very 
 thing he desired to avoid had occurred ; 
 he had excited her suspicions.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 1 9 
 
 ' I was not alone when I came down the 
 lane.' That he spoke unwiUingly required 
 no penetration to detect, nor that he had 
 crimsoned to the roots of his hair. For- 
 tunately the room had grown so dark that 
 Mrs Maitland's keen vision saw neither 
 this, nor the troubled expression of his 
 countenance. 
 
 ' Not alone, Edward.'^' She rose from 
 her chair, and grasped him by the arm. 
 ' Who was with you }' 
 
 * Really, mother, this is too absurd ! ' 
 He tried to laugh, but failed under the 
 angry flare of his mother's eyes. ' At the 
 top of the lane I met Miss Escott. I had the 
 pleasure of escorting her to her uncle's door.' 
 
 'Miss Escott.^ — Sophia Escott? Is 
 she come '^. Why did you not tell me ? ' 
 
 ' Because — because — ' Edward's voice 
 dropped. There was no reason that he 
 could give. Fortunately she did not wait 
 for his answer. Her curiosity was too 
 imperative. 
 
 * What is Miss Escott like, Edward? 
 Tell me the truth.' 
 
 ' I always tell you the truth, mater. 
 She is a regal-looking girl.' 
 
 * Regal-looking ! Do you admire regal 
 beauty ? '
 
 1 20 The Ill-temi)ered Cousin, 
 
 J. 
 
 ' I admire Miss Escott beyond expres- 
 sion/ was his prompt reply. 
 
 ' That is because you have heard so 
 much about her ; there is a great deal in 
 that. Probably I shall not agree with 
 you ; I feel sure, indeed, that I shall not.' 
 
 * There cannot be two opinions about 
 Miss Escott, mother. Her beauty is too 
 decided to admit of doubt.' 
 
 * Now, Edward' (Mrs Maitland was 
 still holding him tightly by the arm. 
 Nothing but the dim outline of their two 
 figures was visible in the dark room), ' do 
 you know that she has lost all her money, 
 and is coming to the Winters' as a de- 
 pendant ? ' 
 
 ' She told me so.' 
 
 ' Told you so the first time she saw 
 you!' exclaimed Mrs Maitland aghast. 
 ' She must be a very bold, ill-bred young 
 woman ! ' 
 
 ' Mother ! Not a word against her, I 
 entreat you ! All that Miss Escott does 
 becomes her.' 
 
 ' Why, Edward, what do you know 
 about her ? You only saw her to-day ! ' 
 
 ' Just as you know her, mother ; I have 
 heard so much before. How often have 
 you discussed her ; how you have extolled
 
 The Ill-tempered Cozisin. 1 2 1 
 
 her. You seem to foro-et this ; I do not. 
 But Miss Escott in herself is far beyond 
 all that has been said of her. What has 
 loss of fortune to do with her beauty or 
 her qualities ? She is unchanged. You 
 are unjust, mater ! ' 
 
 Mrs Maitland, dissolved in tears, sank 
 into a chair. 
 
 'Not at all! Not at all!' cried she, 
 raising herself upright. ' I hear a very 
 different account of her ; — a fiendish tem- 
 per, inherited from her Indian mother, 
 cruel, overbearing, ruined by indulgence ! 
 I pity poor Mrs Winter ! Besides, Miss 
 Escott's father has committed suicide.' 
 
 ' Committed suicide ! She did not tell 
 me that I Poor girl ! how noble is her 
 fortitude! How she will need all our 
 support ! I pity her ; beyond all words I 
 pity her ! ' 
 
 The inflection of Edward's voice, even 
 more than the words, smote his mother 
 with dismay. 
 
 * For God's sake, Edward, do not allow 
 yourself to become entangled ! She shall 
 have no support from me.' 
 
 ' But, mother, you have not seen her. 
 All your prejudices will vanish when you 
 meet.'
 
 122 The Ill-tevipered Cousin. 
 
 ' I do not want to meet her. I will not 
 see her ! I hate her already ! Do not 
 ask me to receive her ; I shall be rude to 
 her. My love for you will make me so.' 
 
 Edward stood speechless before his 
 mother. 
 
 ' I tell you plainly,' she continued, a 
 convulsive sob now and then breaking 
 her words, ' that, under present circum- 
 stances, it is a connection that neither your 
 father nor I could sanction. Understand 
 this ! Of course the Winters would like 
 it. They have lost Miss Escott's money; 
 they w^ould have yours instead.' 
 
 Edward drew away suddenly from his 
 mother's side. She could not distinguish 
 the expression of his face, but she inter- 
 preted the movement. Now, he was 
 pacing slowly up and down the room. 
 His silence encouraged her to continue, — 
 
 * Miss Escott thinks you are rich, and 
 she knows she is penniless. Never could 
 I listen to the idea of a marriage with her, 
 nor would your father.' 
 
 ' Who talks of marriage ? ' cried Edward, 
 a sternness in his voice which Mrs Mait- 
 land had never heard before. ' But, re- 
 member, that the name of Miss Escott is 
 sacred to me. Say nothing of her that
 
 The Ill'tempered Cousin. 123 
 
 will make me forget the respect I owe 
 you.' 
 
 ' This from you, Edward ! — and about a 
 stranger ! You surprise me ! Before you 
 have been an hour in the house to address 
 such language to me ! This is Miss Es- 
 cott's doing — wretched girl ! Why does 
 she come here to divide us ? Listen to 
 me, Edward. You are our only son ; 
 your father has slaved for your sake, ever 
 since you were born. I have helped him. 
 He is slaving still to make you a wealthy 
 man. Years passed before we had a child. 
 Our son was to be all that we were not — 
 elegant, learned, accomplished — a member 
 of Parliament, a peer perhaps — the founder 
 of a family. All this is possible, for you 
 have exceeded all our expectations ; no 
 one has such a son. Is there anything 
 astonishing in our wishing to see you the 
 head of a family when we are gone ? ' 
 Then, in a coaxing tone, — * You will re- 
 ward us for all our sacrifices, will you not, 
 Edward ? ' 
 
 Maitland stopped pacing up and down 
 the room, and retreated to the window. 
 Hitherto, like most young men, it had 
 seemed to him that he was free to marry 
 whom he liked, and he had it on his lips
 
 124 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 to say that a man chose a wife for himself 
 — not for his parents. 
 
 But his mother's words presented to 
 him his position in a new light. In a 
 moment, all unprepared, he was called 
 upon to solve the problem of where filial 
 obedience ought to end and manly liberty 
 assert itself If he had known more of 
 Sophia ! If he had been sure she could 
 have loved him ! But he knew nothing. 
 
 On the other hand, he acknowledged 
 how true was all his mother said. He 
 was well aware of the devotion of both his 
 parents, and to what a degree their life 
 was bound up in his own. Was he pre- 
 pared to marry without their approbation ? 
 A cold struck to his heart. He began to 
 feel like a criminal. 
 
 ' Surely all this is premature,' sighed 
 he. ' I have seen Miss Escott once, — you 
 not at all. I expect your opinion will 
 change.' 
 
 ' Never ! ' was the prompt reply ; ' I will 
 never set eyes upon her. She is scheming 
 to take from me my only son.' 
 
 * Mother, mother, you will drive me from 
 the room.' 
 
 Rebuked, but determined, Mrs Mait- 
 land's voice softened.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 125 
 
 * I only act for your good, Edward. 
 What other motive can I have ? I can 
 only think of my dear son — what is more 
 natural ? Would you reproach me for it ? 
 Promise me' — and Mrs Maitland seized 
 both his hands and pressed them in her 
 own — ' that you will not marry without 
 our consent. There is yet time. Nothing 
 can have yet passed between you and Miss 
 Escott.' 
 
 Real tears were streaming from Mrs 
 Maitland's eyes, her hands were held up 
 beseechingly. Beside the window Edward 
 stood, rigid as a statue. The gloom with- 
 out seemed to be closing round his very 
 life-strings. Many voices spoke within 
 him. The loudest said, ' Beware ! ' How 
 could he listen ? His mother's impatience 
 gave him no time. 
 
 ' Is it so much,' she pleaded, ' to ask an 
 only son, that he will not destroy his 
 parents' home ? ' 
 
 She could scarcely speak for sobs ; she 
 clung to him imploringly. These were 
 the first tears he had ever drawn from her 
 eyes ; they smote him to the soul. He 
 loved her dearly. All his thoughts, all 
 his affections had hitherto centred in her. 
 He had never asked himself if she had
 
 1 26 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 deserved this. She was his mother ; that 
 had been enough for him. Suddenly an 
 overwhelming feeling of shame came over 
 him, that any conduct of his should humi- 
 liate her. He drew her to him and kissed 
 her hand. 
 
 ' Dry your eyes, mother ; I cannot bear 
 to see you weep. I promise what you 
 ask, but be merciful.' 
 
 What had he said } He listened in 
 terror to the echo of his own words. 
 
 ' But that is not enough, Edward. I 
 want to know that you are safe. On my 
 knees — ' 
 
 She was about to cast herself on the 
 floor, but he caught her in his arms and 
 prevented her. Gently he replaced her 
 on her chair ; but though gentle, his 
 manner was constrained. 
 
 ' There is no need to alarm yourself, 
 mother. I am quite free. I will try to 
 obey you.' 
 
 So tremulous was his voice, so hollow, 
 that it seemed not his own, but another's. 
 
 'My own boy! My darling!' cried 
 Mrs Maitland, throwing her rotund arms 
 round him in an effusion of joy. ' No 
 mother ever had such a son ! How 
 happy you make me ! From the day of
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 127 
 
 your birth you have always made me 
 happy ! ' 
 
 Edward could not answer. He sub- 
 mitted in silence to the voluminous car- 
 esses lavished on him ; all the time trying 
 to realise what he really had promised. 
 Had he resigned all liberty of action '^ 
 
 There was a sound of footsteps in the 
 hall. It broke the awkward silence of the 
 darkened chamber, w^here mother and son 
 stood side by side, neither understanding 
 what was passing in the other's mind. 
 
 'Do you hear?' whispered Mrs Malt- 
 land. ' That is your father's step In the 
 hall ! He has just returned. Not a word 
 of all this to him ! He comes home tired ; 
 it would disturb him. Come along, Ed- 
 ward ; this dark room is dismal ! ' 
 
 Passively Edward followed her through 
 the door. Her jubilation terrified him ! 
 How did she understand his promise ? 
 What did she mean ? He dared not ask 
 her.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HERE was always an ample 
 dinner at Rosebank — of the 
 substantial kind — partaken of 
 in a panelled room, with an 
 oriel window jutting- into the garden ; a 
 modern room of course, but doinor its ut- 
 most to look ancient and gloomy, with 
 mediaeval furniture and pictures, bought in 
 Wardour Street. 
 
 Mrs Maitland, among her lady-like vir- 
 tues, included a love of good eating. In- 
 deed, her early vocation in life was doubt- 
 ful, and Mrs Shorne, the clergyman's wife, 
 whom she had often offended, by reason of 
 the rigid manner in which she had repulsed 
 her advances to her son, declared that she 
 had been a cook — cook to Mr Maitland in 
 the city.
 
 The Ill-tempered Coitsin. 129 
 
 But these are mysteries which do not 
 concern the present story. 
 
 Mr Maitland, always bringing with him 
 an excellent appetite from the city, fell 
 into a habit of good eating also : yet a 
 plainer, homelier man never was created 
 than Nathaniel Maitland, Esq., merchant 
 and broker of Threadneedle Street, City. 
 
 He had, by dint of sheer perseverance 
 and honesty, risen from beins: an under 
 clerk in a broker's office, to be a name and 
 power on 'Change. 
 
 He was very like a mechanic in appear- 
 ance. A dark, common-place face, with 
 bushy whiskers, a large mouth, which 
 broke readily into a good-natured smile, a 
 large head, partly bald, with a fringe of 
 black hair, turning grey. \ tall, awkward 
 person, and large hands and feet. 
 
 Neither the persuasions nor the re- 
 proaches of his wife could induce him to 
 wear proper clothes. 
 
 He was always to be seen in a rusty 
 black coat, a long white cravat, never over 
 clean, uncommonly seedy trousers, and a 
 battered hat. 
 
 When it was cold, he would retain as an 
 overcoat the round, short cape and long 
 skirts buttoned to the knees, which come 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 1 30 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 down to us in the wooden figures of the 
 ark, as the legendary costume of Shem, 
 Ham, and Japhet. 
 
 No one, in the memory of man, had ever 
 seen him in a new coat or a decent hat. 
 If he ever put them on, he must have gone 
 out into the grounds secretly in the rain, 
 and reduced them to their usual condition. 
 How he did it was his secret ; but it was 
 done. 
 
 As he never could be persuaded to enter 
 a church, he appeared no better dressed on 
 Sunday. 
 
 All this was a standing grievance to 
 Mrs Maitland. She had even urged the 
 injustice such a disregard to appearances 
 was to Edward. But at this Mr Maitland 
 would only chuckle and walk away ; in- 
 variably bringing back from the city a new 
 dress, with which he presented her. 
 
 In the evening his appearance did rather 
 improve, for his wife had, on so many 
 occasions, punished him by refusing to sit 
 down to table with him, that as he was 
 generally very hungry, he had permitted 
 himself to be invested in clean linen and a 
 dress coat. 
 
 The table was covered with heavy and 
 showy plate. A patriarchal butler blandly
 
 The Ill-tempe7'ed Co2ism. 131 
 
 dispensed blessings In the shape of meat 
 and drink of first-class quality to the four 
 individuals who, with an acre of snowy 
 table-cloth between, and much display of 
 glass, sat down as solemnly as if it were to 
 a religious function. 
 
 Dinner was the only period of the day 
 during which Mrs Maitland's thirst for in- 
 formation was quiescent. At dinner she 
 asked no questions. Beside her lay a case 
 of little tablets and a pencil, on which she 
 noted her various remarks on the execution 
 of the dishes ; now and then addressing 
 a half-aside observation to Miss Sterne, 
 w^hose furtive eyes, modestly shrouded by 
 the pale ringlets, took that precise shade of 
 colour in reply indicated by her patroness. 
 
 Mr Maltland's duties were confined to 
 pronouncing an elaborate grace in a mum- 
 bling tone — then carvlnor with unbroken 
 taciturnity such joints as were placed be- 
 fore him by the butler, and consuming his 
 own portion In silence. 
 
 About this butler there had been many, 
 what the Americans term — 'difficulties,' 
 between Mr Maitland and the wife of his 
 bosom. Mr Maitland, accustomed to 
 female attendants in his ' poor days,' in- 
 sisted on a ' parlour-maid.' ' He would
 
 132 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 not be served by a d — flunky grinning 
 at him behind his chair.' 
 
 Certainly when, after Mrs Maitland's 
 victory, the patriarchal butler was intro- 
 duced at Rosebank, there was no denying 
 he looked the master of the house all over. 
 Mr Maidand felt this, so he never opened his 
 lips In the man's presence when he could 
 help it. Mrs Maitland liked It, so the 
 butler remained, and Mr Maitland, out of 
 pure shyness, deprived himself of many a 
 second helping. Indeed, his whole de- 
 meanour at his own table was that of an 
 unwelcome guest, not at all certain of his 
 reception. 
 
 On the present occasion, after the ter- 
 mination of the second course, Mr Mait- 
 land, watching the temporary exit of the 
 butler, raised his eyes to the rotund coun- 
 tenance of his wife, — seated a long way off, 
 opposite to him, — and drank her health, 
 with as absolute a formality as if he had 
 seen her for the first time. 
 
 He had been duly schooled to this little 
 ceremony. His whole behaviour, indeed, 
 at table was the result of long years of 
 matrimonial instruction. That he should 
 have acquired some perfection In the pre- 
 scribed code was therefore not surprising.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 00 
 
 When he had drunk Mrs Maitland's 
 health, and received equally formal acknow- 
 ledgment, he silently caused his glass 
 to be filled again, and in a more impul- 
 sive manner, turned towards Edward — 
 at that moment eyeing, with an abstracted 
 glance the flowers of a huge epergne 
 placed in the centre of the table. 
 
 ' Your very good health, my dear boy I 
 Happy to see you home. We are very 
 dull without you.' 
 
 Having ventured upon this little sen- 
 tence quite out of his own head, Mr Mait- 
 land eyed his wife from under his bushy 
 eyebrows, to mark its effect upon her. 
 Greatly to his relief she evinced no out- 
 ward sign of disapproval. 
 
 ' Thank you, dear father,' returned 
 Edward, with difficulty detaching his eyes 
 from a bright point in the epergne, where 
 they had fixed themselves, in utter forget- 
 fulness of all around. 
 
 Encouraged by the placidity of Mrs 
 Maitland's aspect, her husband, with an 
 instinct of genuine orood-breedino-, fear- 
 ing that Miss Sterne might feel herself 
 neglected, was about to drink her health 
 also. But here his guardian angel stepped 
 in and kindly prevented him.
 
 134 '^^^^ Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 From a certain unaccountable tremor 
 apparent in her whole manner, Miss Sterne 
 seemed, at that moment, as desirous to be 
 obliterated, as Mrs Maitland could possibly 
 Avish she should be. 
 
 As Edward had withdrawn his eyes to 
 fix them on his father, he had become 
 conscious that Miss Sterne was furtively 
 studylno- him through the leaves of the 
 artificial flowers. 
 
 When he raised his eyes, she dropped 
 hers with a kind of guilty haste — her face 
 folding itself up, as it were, under her 
 blonde ringlets, in Impenetrable mystery. 
 
 Mrs Maitland found so much to note on 
 her tablets to-day respecting the cook's 
 delinquencies, that she was unusually silent. 
 Five whole minutes had elapsed before the 
 apple-sauce was handed round after the 
 fragrant goose had been served in all its 
 integrity, with accompaniment of onion, 
 herbs, bread-crumbs, and rich grav}'. Five 
 whole minutes ! Disgraceful ! 
 
 Then the meat in the curry was tough ; 
 the calves'-foot jelly toppled over ignomini- 
 ously as it entered the room ! And the 
 tarts ! What was the matter with the tarts } 
 Mrs Maitland helped herself to another, — 
 eating it thoughtfully in order to discover.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cotcsin. 135 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she cried, so suddenly, as to 
 cause Mr Maitland almost to jump from 
 his chair, and Edward and Miss Sterne to 
 start, and, without knowing, look at each 
 other. ' Oh ! I have found it out ! ' 
 
 ' Found what out ?' asked Mr Maitland, 
 re-seating himself. 
 
 ' The jam is sour ! It won't do. Jemima 
 must go.' 
 
 * Is that all ?' replied the master of the 
 house from the bottom of the table. * Send 
 her away if you like, my dear ; but don't 
 startle me at dinner. I do like to be quiet 
 at meals.' 
 
 * Impossible, Mr Maitland ; impossible, 
 with such a cook ! ' 
 
 * Well, well, my dear ; write it all down, 
 only be quiet now ; let me enjoy myself. 
 The only time in the day when I can sit 
 quiet is dinner.' 
 
 The sound of Mrs Maitland's pencil 
 scratching over the paper — she wrote as 
 she talked — in bold, unformed letters, and 
 jerky, sententious sentences, and the 
 stealthy tread of the patriarchal butler, 
 pursuing his avocation upon the surface 
 of the Turkey carpet, like a conspirator, 
 was all that was now audible. Mrs Mait- 
 land being present, no one cared to lead
 
 1 36 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 the conversation ; certainly not Edward, 
 whose far-off look and absent manner 
 marked his abstraction. 
 
 Once or twice his father glanced anxi- 
 ously at him and then at his wife, catching 
 glimpses of her face sideways between the 
 flowers In the epergne. 
 
 But as Mrs Maltland seemed perfectly 
 satisfied, the good man supposed that all 
 was as it should be. He knew that, as a 
 rule, his wife did not encourage him to 
 talk at table. So easy a mode of showing 
 his marital compliance was — with a good 
 dinner before him, and the choicest of wine 
 placed on a dumb waiter, without troubling 
 the butler — not distasteful. 
 
 The same taciturnity continued when 
 they left the dining-room, and one by one 
 entered the ' saloon,' divided from it by 
 folding-doors, solemnly thrown open at the 
 moment Mrs Maltland rose from the 
 table. 
 
 Why this room, painted w^hlte and 
 panelled \vith gold and brocaded silk, the 
 ornamentation ending in a massive gold 
 cornice and a profusion of glass chan- 
 deliers, should be so called, Mrs Maltland 
 alone could tell. But her orders were 
 strict. One housemaid had lost her place
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousm. 137 
 
 because she persistently called the ' saloon ' 
 'the parlour.' This was too much for Mrs 
 Maitland. 
 
 Mr Maitland, not daring to be com- 
 fortable in his own homely way, and crack 
 his little jokes with Edward in the presence 
 of his wife, extended himself in a large 
 arm-chair before the fire, folded his arms, 
 put his feet on the fender, and stared at 
 the coals. 
 
 Mrs Maitland, with an instinct rather 
 than a feeling that her victory over Ed- 
 ward had been dearly won, and that it 
 would be well to leave him to himself, 
 after the painful interview they had had, 
 instead of sitting by him, as was her wont, 
 and somewhat overwhelming him by her 
 caresses and her admiration, while she 
 questioned him about all in which he was 
 concerned — the orderinof of his rooms, his 
 cook's expenses, his clothes, his washer- 
 woman (who on many occasions had 
 offended her nice eye when she unpacked 
 his clothes), the parties to which he had been 
 invited, what young ladies he had danced 
 with, and who had made love to him, as she 
 termed it (he always, in his turn, protesting 
 against the idea), to what noblemen he 
 had been introduced, if they liked him,
 
 138 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 and had Invited him to their homes — 
 these questions, always accompanied by 
 many recommendations to avoid second- 
 rate society and needy friends, as Hkely to 
 impede the triumphant progress she con- 
 templated for him In life — had retired 
 with Miss Sterne into a corner, and seat- 
 ing herself on a divan, prepared, in vulgar 
 phrase, to ' have her talk out ' about 
 Sophia Escott, while, with feverish activity 
 she stitched at an embroidery frame. 
 
 It was not often that any event dis- 
 turbed the tranquillity of her life at Rose- 
 bank. Now, with Edward's strange infatu- 
 ation towards the stranger, she seemed drift- 
 ing into the excitement of a perfect drama. 
 
 Talk she must, if not to Edward to Miss 
 Sterne, whose pale eyes glittered with an 
 unusual brightness. 
 
 Occasional words, bursts of conversation, 
 came to Edward's ears as he sat by the 
 fire, affecting to read a newspaper, not one 
 word of which he saw. For, alas ! he 
 knew his mother too well not to guess the 
 subject of her earnest conversation. He 
 would at once have gone out but for his 
 father, who, he knew beforehand, as long 
 as he remained awake, would insist on 
 having him near him.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 39 
 
 * Conceive — dreadful — suicide ! ' reached 
 Edward, In what his mother Intended to 
 be a whisper, her head turned away, In the 
 pauses of her stitches, towards her com- 
 panion, also engaged in some minute em- 
 broidery, overshadowed by her ringlets. 
 
 ' Disgusting ! ' echoed the latter, softly. 
 
 * Two brothers, they say — shot one after 
 the other ! Hereditary insanity ! ' 
 
 ' What has she come here for ? ' asked 
 Mrs Maitland in a louder key. 
 
 ' Daily governess ? ' suggested Miss 
 Sterne, sotto voce. 
 
 * No, no ! quite unfitted. Sets up for 
 beauty — temper — extravagance.' 
 
 ' Husband ? ' put In the other ; and as 
 she spoke, she shot a strange glance to- 
 wards the place where Edward, invisible 
 behind his newspaper, was suffering torture. 
 
 ' Husband ! ' exclaimed Mrs Maitland 
 In a distinct tone. 
 
 It must be observed that she was under 
 the Impression that she was quite Inaudible 
 to every one but Miss Sterne. 
 
 * Who would have her } ' 
 
 Edward moved uneasily in his chair, 
 noisily unfolded the sheets of the newspaper, 
 and poked the already blazing fire, but all 
 was quite thrown away upon his mother.
 
 1 40 The Ill-tempe7'ed Cousin. 
 
 ' Consider — parents — connection — 
 pauper — ' 
 
 Here her voice dropped into her work- 
 frame, in the taking of a long stitch of red 
 silk for the formation of a rose. 
 
 ' Pauper ! ' Miss Sterne was heard to 
 echo. ' Disgraceful ! ' This was added, 
 leaning back as^ainst the divan, and turn- 
 ing her eyes stealthily in the direction of 
 Edward. 
 
 ' I shall take no notice of her ! ' Mrs 
 Maitland continued, almost in her natural 
 voice, fororettinor what was due to her son's 
 presence in the excitement of the subject, 
 and the difficulty of forming a particular rose- 
 leaf, on account of a knot in the floss silk, 
 at which she tugged energetically. ' I shall 
 not see her. Advise Mrs Winter — get rid 
 — immediately — ' 
 
 The clear, harsh voice again subsided 
 into the frame. 
 
 Miss Sterne here whispered something 
 into Mrs Maitland's ear. Mrs Maitland, 
 smiling, nodded her head repeatedly — the 
 red floss silk suspended in her fingers in 
 her anxiety to catch every syllable of her 
 communication. 
 
 All this was agony to Edward. As the 
 snatches of conversation reached him, he
 
 The Ill-t€7npered Cousin, 1 4 1 
 
 grew more and more displeased. Had he 
 imagined that his mother intended him to 
 hear what she was saying, he would not 
 only have left the room, but the house, 
 but he knew her foibles and could make 
 allowances. Yet he felt, and that strongly, 
 that after the sacrifice he had just made, 
 she ought not to have exposed him to the 
 chance of overhearing such a conversation. 
 
 Miss Sterne, too, discussing Miss Escott 
 in his very presence ! Miss Sterne daring 
 even to allude to Sophia ! It was intoler- 
 able ! 
 
 With his mother it was different. He 
 had too often had reason to deplore her 
 want of delicacy. Now he resented it. 
 Starting up from his chair and crushing 
 the outspread newspaper in his hands, he 
 turned and cast an agitated look in the 
 direction of the divan. 
 
 Quite useless ! Mrs Maitland, her ear 
 still lowered tow^ards Miss Sterne, every 
 feature bent into listening, looked up 
 sharply, the premature hollows of her 
 companion's face apparent as she moved 
 her thin-lipped mouth. 
 
 ' What a noise you are making, my dear 
 Edward ! cried Airs Maitland.' ' Do be 
 quiet, or you wall make your father — '
 
 142 The Ill-te7nperecl Cousin. 
 
 Then, replacing herself In the same 
 position as before, she again turned her 
 ear towards her companion. 
 
 Mr Maitland, senior, who had been 
 nodding, here woke up. 
 
 * Anything wrong, my dear boy } ' he 
 asked huskily, looking steadfastly into his 
 son's face. ' You are pale, Teddy ! Been 
 bettlnor — p in discrrace with the Dons } ' 
 
 ' No father ; thank you.' 
 
 Ms Edward well, my dear ? ' asked Mr 
 Maitland, leaning over in the direction of 
 his wife. * He looks fagged.' 
 
 * Oh dear, yes — quite well,' answered 
 Mrs Maitland. * Leave him alone ! There 
 is nothing the matter with you, is there, 
 dear Edward ? ' after a pause. 
 
 ' Nothing the matter with my health, 
 mater,' he answered reproachfully. * Why 
 do you ask } ' 
 
 * It is not I — It Is your father ? ' 
 Edward put down the paper he had 
 
 crushed, and crossed over nearer to his 
 father. Mr Maitland was at that moment 
 yawning portentously. Taking a huge 
 gold watch from his fob, he wound it up, 
 yawned again, and then fell Into a sleepy 
 survey of his son's face as he leaned 
 against the mantelpiece.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 43 
 
 ' Ah, my boy ! ' shaking his head at him 
 with a concentration of wisdom. ' You 
 should lead my life — slaving in the city 
 all day. Making money is stirring work. 
 Losing it — stirring too. You have to get 
 it back again. Up and down — in and 
 out — down the middle — up again — double 
 shuffle and — why, Edward, you are not 
 
 listenmg to me 
 
 I beg your pardon, dear father,' replied 
 Edward, turning round. 
 
 Edward had lived this kind of life between 
 father and mother many years, but it had 
 never struck him before how unutterably 
 dull and useless it was. 
 
 ' No time for the high-strikes In busi- 
 ness,' continued Mr Maitland, happy in 
 the consciousness of the butler's absence. 
 He would not appear again for an hour 
 with the tea, and before that time Mr 
 Maitland would have gone to bed. ' But 
 you young gentlemen work at nothing but 
 idleness. I never could amuse myself 
 doing nothing.' Another yawn. ' Hardest 
 work of all holding a book, or sitting with 
 your hands before you. Long before your 
 age, Edward, I was a clerk in an office In 
 Thames Street. You would not put the 
 sole of your foot there. Up by candle-light
 
 144 ^^^^ III- tempered Cousin. 
 
 all winter ; six miles to walk there and back 
 — to Hoxton — and to run about the docks 
 all day, in and out of stinking ships, until 
 my legs felt like tape. 
 
 ' I had to sweep out the office too — no 
 joke that — a nasty, stuffy place — clean the 
 tin candlesticks, sand the floor, and put ink 
 into the inkstands. In winter I had to 
 light the fire and boil the kettle — half-an- 
 hour striking the flints before I could get a 
 light, and breath gone with blowing! It 
 all had to be done by eight o'clock, wet or 
 dry. Cold work, my boy ; with no gloves, 
 and holes in my boots to let the water in ! 
 When I got promoted to the Stock Ex- 
 change — ' 
 
 ' Now, we don't want to hear all about 
 that, Mr Maitland!' cried his wife, very 
 tartly, breaking off from Miss Sterne. 
 ' Edward is not you ! You have worked 
 to make him what he is. xA.ny boy can 
 walk six miles and flounder about at the 
 docks ; but every boy cannot be our Ed- 
 ward ! ' 
 
 She surveyed her son and smiled trium- 
 phantly. ' I should spoil him if I said 
 what I think of him ! Come, give me 
 a kiss, Edward.' (This invitation he 
 affected not to hear.) 'As for you, Mr
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 145 
 
 Maltland, if you have nothing better to 
 talk about than your early life, you had 
 better go to bed. I could talk of my early 
 life too, but it would sound like a reproach 
 to Edward.' 
 
 ' As you please, my dear,' replied her 
 husband placidly, rising from his chair. 
 ' Early to bed, early to rise, is the way — ' 
 
 ' Don't be vulgar, Mr Maitland/ inter- 
 posed his wife, with growing wrath. ' We 
 know all about that. Every infant knows 
 it. If you can only entertain Edward with 
 repeating stupid old proverbs, I say again, 
 — Go to bed ! ' 
 
 ' I am quite willing, my love,' with the 
 most immovable good temper. * I am 
 very sleepy. Edward knows I don't want 
 to reproach him.' 
 
 The father stretched out his hand, which 
 was warmly grasped by his son. ' He is 
 welcome to all I can give him — to do just 
 as he likes with it. I never was good at 
 spending.' 
 
 'Go to bed, Mr Maitland!' she re- 
 iterated. ' You are talking nonsense. ' 
 
 ' This is what you will come to, Edward ! ' 
 said Mr Maitland, with a proud smile, 
 pointing to his wife, once more absorbed 
 in a desperate struggle with the silk of her 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 146 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 embroidery. 'But if you choose the right 
 woman — the woman you fancy — it is not 
 such a bad life after all. Your mother and 
 I have pulled along well enough. She 
 likes to snub me now ; she didn't once. 
 You will push on with a wife too, one day 
 — the sooner the better, my boy. Little 
 grandchildren will make your mother happy 
 — give her something to do, when she's 
 only got me to scold.' 
 
 As Mr Maitland raised his round, grey 
 eyes to his son, standing erect, holding the 
 door open for him to pass out, even his 
 drowsy faculties were caught by Edward's 
 tall, lithe figure, on which his clothes sat 
 so well, the graceful outline of his head and 
 neck, and that grave earnestness which 
 gave such dignity to his young face. 
 
 It suddenly struck the good man how 
 strange it was that he should be the father 
 of such a son ; struck him with amazement, 
 as he stood staring at him under this new 
 aspect — the inspection proving so satisfac- 
 tory to his feelings that he broke into a 
 low laugh. 
 
 ' The sooner the better, my boy ; the 
 sooner the better,' he repeated, resting his 
 hand for an instant on his son's arm, and 
 gazing tenderly into the depths of his grey
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 147 
 
 eyes. * No fear of your being refused by 
 the girls — no fear ! Too good-looking by 
 half. Besides, we can buy you a little 
 furniture.' Liking the joke, he added, ' A 
 chair and a table — eh, Teddy .^ But listen 
 to your old father ; choose your wife for 
 yourself Never let mortal come between 
 you and the woman you love ! That's all ! 
 Money is money — all very well in its own 
 place — and I am not the man to gainsay it. 
 And a high station in life for the sweet- 
 heart of such a handsome young fellow as 
 you, if she comes in your way, but not 
 otherwise ! Choose her, when you decide, 
 for yourself, Teddy, and let all the rest 
 go to blazes. Choice is everything 
 —eh, Nellie?'— to Mrs Maitland in the 
 distance. ' Where should I have been 
 without her .^ ' pointing to the divan. ' Yet 
 her father made a deuce of a row, I re- 
 member.' 
 
 Edward's eye melted before the honest 
 love of his father's glance — a love to which 
 he knew he could always appeal. But, to 
 do so, would offend and hurt his mother 
 beyond recall. As long as he could re- 
 member, the management of everything at 
 home had passed from his father's into his 
 mother's hands. There was a tacit but
 
 148 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 absolute understanding about this. To 
 ignore the unspoken law would be mean. 
 
 Yes, to choose for himself was all he 
 asked ; and he had chosen ! 
 
 ' Go to bed, Mr Maitland, go to bed!* 
 cried his wife, catching the drift of the 
 conversation. ' You are doing a great 
 deal of harm ! You are preaching rebellion ! 
 Edward is not free ; he is responsible to us ! ' 
 
 'Hear her! hear her!' murmured Mr 
 Maitland, with a jerk of his head and 
 shoulder towards the divan. * How she 
 puts things. She would convince a stone. 
 She is a wonderful woman — has been the 
 making of me, Ted ! If that old German 
 Jew, Winter, had such a wife, he would 
 never have gone to the bad. Mrs Winter ! 
 Puff! Mrs Winter is a jackass ! Believe 
 me, the woman makes the man.' 
 
 Still talking, Mr Maitland left the room, 
 just as his wife, more and more exas- 
 perated by the turn the conversation was 
 taking, especially at the production of a 
 second proverb, was rising from her seat 
 to insist on his departure. 
 
 Edward followed his father into the hall, 
 resolved to overhear no more conversation 
 between his mother and Miss Sterne. 
 As Mr Maitland disappeared upstairs, he 
 opened the front door and went out.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HE fog had lifted. The moon 
 shone down serenely from a 
 pale hemisphere, illuminated by 
 its silvery light. Low in the 
 horizon, where the heavens were darker, 
 a few stars twinkled faintly over the naked 
 tree tops. 
 
 The river gently lapping against the 
 reedy sedges, doubled the subdued glories 
 of the moon. 
 
 The night breeze sighed soothingly 
 among the bare branches of the trees, on 
 which each drop of moisture glistened like 
 a diamond. 
 
 The air was fresh, caressing all it met, 
 in little whirls and eddies, like the return 
 of summer. 
 
 No sound but a subdued murmur from
 
 1 50 TJie Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 the water ; even the night birds were 
 hushed. All nature slept, lulled by the 
 beautiful spell of the moonlight ; above, 
 below, around reigned peace and heavenly 
 silence. 
 
 Edward walked rapidly up and down a 
 broad terrace, which stretched its ample 
 length beside the river, the little wavelets 
 crested with a silvery fringe, rippling 
 monotonously at his feet, the reeds along 
 the turfy bank bending before him, as the 
 night breeze passed, the oziers and the 
 withys whispering in a language of their 
 own. 
 
 ' Not to marry without her consent ! 
 Would to God I had never bound myself!' 
 he was saying to himself. 'If I could 
 only have known Sophia's mind, I would 
 not have yielded ; but surely my mother 
 will be reasonable, she cannot expect me 
 to keep such a promise literally.' 
 
 But while he told himself this, he 
 dreaded all the while that she wotdd expect 
 him to do so, especially after what he had 
 overheard between her and Miss Sterne. 
 
 Then as he recalled her injurious words, 
 his whole soul rose up in indignation 
 against her. For the first time in his life 
 he found himself scrutinising her character,
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 5 1 
 
 and recalling with pain her many pecu- 
 liarities, and a terrible doubt as to whether 
 he could trust her came over him. 
 
 Never had he felt towards his mother 
 as he felt now — never so keenly appreciated 
 her utter want of delicacy and refinement. 
 
 That she should so speak of Sophia 
 after the promise she had wrung from him 
 — a promise which she had no right to 
 demand. That she should allow Miss 
 Sterne (here a twinge of absolute rage 
 contracted his features) to desecrate 
 Sophia's name, shook the very foundations 
 of his confidence. 
 
 * If I only felt sure that she cared for 
 me/ — this thought rose mechanically again 
 and again as he strode up and down the 
 path. ' If I only knew how to act. My 
 mother must yield — she cannot expect me 
 to sacrifice my life to her foolish ostenta- 
 tion. I am utterly adrift. I have seen 
 Sophia but once.' 
 
 Seen her but once ! How all the world 
 had changed since then. Old Twickenham 
 seemed all aglow since her arrival. Surely, 
 when they parted at the green door, and 
 he had promised to be her friend, she 
 understood something of his feelings ? 
 
 ' Oh, beautiful eyes ! ' he cried, forgetting
 
 152 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 all but his own thoughts, * how they rested 
 on me. What a look ! Surely her fingers 
 returned my pressure — just a little. She 
 told me she was unhappy ; she said, *' Come 
 and see me," and I, fool that I was, parted 
 from her abruptly. Talked of friendship 
 with a goddess standing before me ! Ah, 
 how near she is ! ' 
 
 He suddenly paused in his agitated walk 
 and gazed up over the tree tops. Behind 
 those tall elms, where the rooks cawed all 
 day, rose the red walls of Scatlands. 
 
 ' Even now, at this very instant, she 
 may be thinking of me.' 
 
 At this thought all the blood flamed in 
 his veins in a kind of ecstasy. 
 
 ' Dare I declare myself so soon.' Again 
 he looked towards Scatlands. At that 
 moment she might be asking herself when 
 he would come. 
 
 He would risk his mother's displeasure ; 
 he would ask her if she could love him. 
 This thought came over him in fresh 
 throbs of ever-recurring delight. All the 
 world had faded away ; there was no living 
 presence but himself and his adored one. 
 The damp night air felt hot upon his brow. 
 Yes, if she loved him she should be his — 
 his own.
 
 The Ill-tevipered Cousin. 153 
 
 But this wild fit of enthusiasm, so aHen 
 to his serious nature, cooled somewhat 
 when he reflected, that to irritate his 
 mother by too great precipitancy was to 
 defeat the very object he had in view. 
 
 It could only have the effect of irre- 
 vocably offending her ; after all she was 
 his own dear mater — her faults were but 
 virtues turned the wrong way for him. 
 
 Right or wrong, he had made her a 
 promise ; he must keep it until she herself 
 set him free. 
 
 It was not possible that, with his hap- 
 piness at stake, she should hold out long. 
 She herself had all but told him, before he 
 went to Oxford, that she had destined him 
 for the Indian heiress. 
 
 It was only the ruin and the death of 
 the father that formed the present obstacle. 
 His mother could not seriously believe 
 that he was going to sell himself for money ; 
 or that he must not love a girl because her 
 father had shot himself. 
 
 At this reflection the calm without 
 seemed to penetrate into his soul. As the 
 moon mounted higher and higher into the 
 purple dome, absorbing every shadow into 
 its dreamy splendour, his hopes rose also 
 in their bright foreshadowing.
 
 154 ^^^^ Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 How long he paced up and down the 
 river walk he knew not. It seemed very 
 long, for he had been living over, in fancy, 
 all his future life — a life with Sophia. 
 
 As he at length turned towards the 
 house, a new spirit animated him. He 
 seemed to tread on air. 
 
 In the hall he began a fresh argument 
 with himself as to how far he was justified 
 in trying to gain Sophia's love. In his 
 state of mind the decision was not difficult. 
 
 The bright moonlight, flooding floor and 
 ceiling and walls, helped him wonderfully. 
 By day he might not have bridged over 
 difficulties so easily, nor might his reason- 
 ings have appeared so conclusive, but 
 under the moonlight so many things are 
 possible ! 
 
 The circumstances were so peculiar, that 
 he might flatter himself she would over- 
 look all that was unusual in his conduct. 
 If he could only see her alone ! Yet, was 
 it wise to risk a visit too soon ? He knew 
 he should be watched. She herself might 
 resent it as an intrusion. He would wait, 
 then find an opportunity of saying some- 
 thing to her, to which she might deign to 
 listen.
 
 The IU-te7npered Cousin. 155 
 
 Not marriage, but an immediate engage- 
 ment. Could he so soon dare to enter on 
 such a question. What might she think 
 of it? 
 
 Remembering the dignity of those big, 
 shadowy eyes resting on him, he trembled. 
 
 What he desired to persuade her was, 
 that even an engagement would render 
 her life happier and worthier in that deso- 
 late house, under the protection of such a 
 man as Louis Winter. 
 
 On this point he would dwell for justifi- 
 cation. As he decided all this, no shadow 
 seemed to lie before him. His mother 
 had died out of his mind as the shadows 
 had died out on the lawn, as the moon 
 rose to her zenith. 
 
 ' The sooner the better — the sooner the 
 better,' this phrase ran incessantly in his 
 brain, like the rhyme of a sweet song, 
 as he stood erect before a large bay- 
 w^indow, an illuminated figure bathed in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 How could he meet her alone ? When 
 decide his fate .'^ It would be difficult at 
 Scatlands with Aunt Amelia always at 
 home. Such a happy encounter, as to- 
 day, in the lane, could hardly be expected 
 a second time.
 
 156 The Ill-tempe7xd Cousin, 
 
 Oh ! If they could meet In the recesses 
 of a great wood, where deep shadows fell 
 across their faces, or In an open plain, 
 where the sun set In solitude upon an 
 empty world. In the silence of the mighty 
 ocean, with nothing over them but the 
 clear sky ! — If there could be nothing said ! 
 Only to kiss her lips and draw her to 
 him ! 
 
 Suddenly Edward remembered It must 
 be very late. 
 
 He moved from the window, and cross- 
 ing the hall opened the door of the saloon. 
 He had left some papers he wanted on the 
 table. 
 
 At the further end of the room, under a 
 deeply-shaded lamp, sat Miss Sterne. She 
 started up as he entered, and tried to 
 escape by a side door. So noiseless were 
 her movements, so light her step, It was 
 evident she Imagined he had not observed 
 her. 
 
 Maltland arrested her with a motion of 
 his hand. As he did so, the whole expres- 
 sion of his young face changed Into a look 
 of aversion. 
 
 ' Miss Sterne, I beg you will remain. 
 I wish to speak to you.'
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 157 
 
 As his voice came to her, she stood 
 rooted to the spot. Her head bent down, 
 her breath coming with pain. So thin, so 
 sHght she looked, so evanescent her palHd 
 cheeks, so sunk into premature hollows, 
 she seemed almost transparent. Yet her 
 large light eyes still retained something of 
 their youthful pathos, her flaxen hair still 
 its beauty, the comb which held it alto- 
 gether insufficient for its weight, letting 
 it escape in tresses and ringlets over her 
 thin shoulders. 
 
 ' You are not keeping to the terms of 
 our agreement. I must remind you of the 
 consequences.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr Maidand— Edward ! Have 
 mercy ! ' These words were uttered so 
 low that they reached his ear like a 
 whisper. 
 
 ' It is you who have no mercy. How 
 dare you speak of an innocent girl as you 
 did to-night of IMiss Escott ? What do 
 you know of her that you malign her } 
 You, of all others, to let her pure name 
 pass your lips ! ' 
 
 In his indignation Edward had ap- 
 proached a step or two nearer to the 
 place where Miss Sterne stood, in the 
 deep shadow of a curtained doorway.
 
 158 The Ill-tempe7^ed Cousin. 
 
 Before she replied, she put out her hand 
 beseechingly. * Your mother!' she gasped, 
 ' your mother ! I have to tell her every- 
 thing. If I did not amuse her, she would 
 send me away. Remember, I have no 
 home but this. I dare not oppose her ! ' 
 
 * Oppose her ! ' You fan the flame by 
 your miserable scandal. Words fell from 
 you just now. I heard them. You in- 
 tended, yes, wickedly, maliciously intend- 
 ed to injure her. Why did you tell my 
 mother you had seen me with Miss Escott 
 in the lane ? You were watching me, 
 you know you were watching me ! ' 
 
 Edward's eyes riveted themselves upon 
 her slight figure as he stood in the centre 
 of the room. His commanding form 
 doubled in the mirrors. 
 
 Miss Sterne covered her face with her 
 hands — the delicate blue veins swelling 
 under the tight pressure. 
 
 * Why could you not have been silent ? ' 
 he continued in the same hard tone. 
 ' You might have guessed that I wished 
 to reach the house unobserved. What 
 miserable jealousy prompted you to be- 
 tray me ? I warn you that if you interfere 
 in any way, or utter a single word about 
 Miss Escott to my mother, I shall tell her
 
 The Ill-tenipered Cousin. 159 
 
 the truth. I ought never to have con- 
 cealed It ! ' 
 
 ' Edward ! Maitland ! You could not — 
 you would not be so cruel. What, oh 
 what have I done but love you,' burst 
 from Miss Sterne, withdrawing her hands 
 from under the curtain of her flaxen rinof- 
 lets, and looking at him imploring. ' Why 
 may I not love you as well as this stranger '^ 
 From the first night we met — ah ! you 
 remember. You did not hate me then ? ' 
 and she shot a wild glance at Edward — 
 ' the valse — the bouquet — those sweet, 
 sweet words. Then you cared for me.' 
 
 ' Never,' broke from Edward, deter- 
 minedly. ' As the sister of my friend I 
 only offered you the ordinary attentions of 
 society. You misunderstood them, and 
 now — ' 
 
 ' And now,' she repeated, catching up 
 his words, her white face worked up to 
 a kind of frenzy. ' What can you say 
 against me ? What proof can you bring 
 to condemn me ? No one saw it done — 
 the child died in my arms. It was but 
 suspicion. Even that dreadful magistrate 
 at the inquest, when he heard me plead, 
 defended me ; and — and — ' again the thin 
 hands went up, but this time knotted by
 
 i6o The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 the grief and fury within her. 'Had it 
 been otherwise, had I been guilty, it is 
 not for you to accuse me, my worship, for 
 you should have excused even a crime.' 
 
 A quick start and a movement of re- 
 pulsion on Edward's part recalled her to 
 herself. 
 
 * But no crime was committed. I 
 swear it by the living God ! by the 
 dreadful love I bear you,' and a frantic 
 burst of tears shook her slight frame 
 as the aspen shakes before the tempest. 
 ' Yes, I a77t jealous,' she continued 
 quickly ; her voice rising like shrill music 
 in the silence of the room, * jealous of every 
 woman who approaches you. It is the 
 price I pay for the luxury of your pre- 
 sence. You cannot prevent it. It is my 
 woman's right. I have done nothing to 
 forfeit it.' 
 
 * And do you think that I should have 
 allowed you to cross this threshold if I 
 had believed you guilty ? ' broke from 
 Maitland, indignant at the tone she was 
 taking. ' Do you think I should have 
 allowed my mother to shelter a mur- 
 deress ? No ; whatever had been your life, 
 it was my belief In your innocence of that 
 charge which made me pity you, flung alone
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 6 1 
 
 on the world after such an accusation. 
 Without that, not all your dear brother's en- 
 treaties on his death-bed would have in- 
 duced me to introduce you to my mother. 
 But this has nothing to do with what 
 followed. A thousand times your un- 
 womanly importunities have all but driven 
 me to the necessity of having you dis- 
 missed. You choose to construe my com- 
 passion into — ' 
 
 Turning from her with ill-concealed 
 contempt, Edward could not bring him- 
 self to finish the sentence. 
 
 ' Then came that fever. You nursed 
 me. I did not know it. I was delirious. 
 Had I been in my senses, I would not 
 have allowed it.' 
 
 ' Don't, don't, Maitland ! ' broke in Miss 
 Sterne. Her diminutive figure seemed to 
 rise and expand as she advanced towards 
 the hearth, where Edward was standing. 
 ' You may threaten me too much. You 
 may make my life unbearable, all for the 
 sake of this Indian girl. You know it — 
 you know it ! ' she cried, with a strange 
 break in her voice, suddenly falling back 
 and clinging to a chair to save herself 
 from fall in or.' 
 
 'If, to please your new love, you dis- 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 i62 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 grace me by telling Mrs Maitland the pre- 
 tended crime of which I was accused, I 
 will go down and drown myself in the 
 river. You shall be falsely accused, just as 
 I was. I swear it ! Ah ! you are in my 
 power now ! ' she exclaimed exultingly, in 
 answer to the quick start Edward gave. 
 ' You cannot prevent that.' 
 
 Quivering, she clung to the chair, her 
 half-closed eyes revealing strange lights of 
 mingled love and hate. ' How can a 
 creature so beautiful be so cruel ? ' 
 
 'If you are wicked enough to drown 
 yourself that I may be accused of your 
 death, do it,' replied Edward ; ' at least you 
 have forewarned me.' 
 
 ' No, Edward, no,' flinging herself for- 
 ward, ' I could not harm you. You are 
 all the world to me. It is the thought of 
 Miss Escott which maddens me.' 
 
 ' But that is what you said, Alicia 
 Sterne. By heaven ! it is an awful 
 threat. It makes my skin creep. If,' here 
 he blushed scarlet — ' if I had given you 
 the smallest reason to address such lan- 
 guage to me ! Can you say I ever did ? 
 Your past life forbade it. I was shocked 
 at your exposing yourself to the fever for 
 my sake, but I never knew it. How could
 
 The Ill-te7npered Cousin. 1 6 
 
 J 
 
 I imagine that my mother would break 
 down, and that you would take her place ? ' 
 
 She shook her head despairingly. ' You 
 are an ano^el ! All I ask is to be near 
 you.' 
 
 ' And you are here. Have I betrayed 
 you ? ' answered he, with that cold reserve 
 so striking in one so young. * But, re 
 member, there were conditions.' 
 
 ' Conditions ! Yes. I am to sit by and 
 see you love another ^ Such another as I. 
 Disgraced — dependant — a beggar. I 
 watched you in the lane. I saw her eyes. 
 She was dallying with you.' 
 
 ' Silence ! ' shouted Edward, losing all 
 self-control, and striding forward. Mid- 
 way he stopped, towering over her like 
 some young god of vengeance. 
 
 ' Have pity, have pity ! ' was all she could 
 say, crouching before him. * Is it such i 
 sin to love you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Edward, ^ to me it seems 
 a sin.' 
 
 'Hear him, hear him!' cried the un- 
 happy woman ; ' and he thinks I can bear 
 this ! Am I not flesh and blood like her ? 
 Will she love you as I do ? Never ! She 
 is too selfish to know what love means. I 
 cannot help it — I cannot help it,' she
 
 1 64 The Ill-tempered Cottsin. 
 
 wailed, sinking upon a seat, as she caught 
 the scrutiny of Maitland's cold glance. 
 ' You are breaking my heart.' 
 
 For a moment there was silence ; then 
 she stretched out a child-like hand, so 
 small and fragile in its helplessness ; 
 Edward must have been more than man 
 to resist it. Of all the appeals she had 
 made to him, this little hand alone moved 
 him. For an instant he touched it, then 
 dropped it. 
 
 ' Alicia, it is not for me to accuse you. 
 I leave you to your own conscience. You 
 are the sister of my dearest friend. How- 
 ever much I disapprove your former life, 
 God forbid that I should willingly make 
 your present position worse than it is. It 
 was to put that life from you — to bury it — 
 I brought you here. But If you wish to 
 remain, you must satisfy me that you will 
 never mention Miss Escott to my mother.' 
 
 ' Yes, that you may love her and repulse 
 me ; ' the words came hissing out of a 
 tangle of yellow hair. ' You have spoken 
 to me cruelly — barbarously, Edward Malt- 
 land. You are as cold as that marble,' and 
 she pointed to the rich carvings of the 
 mantelpiece behind him. 
 
 ' But mark my words,' here she raised
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 165 
 
 her head, and cast upon him a look so full 
 of malice, it turned him cold. * You will 
 never marry that girl. I will prevent it.' 
 She gave a triumphant smile. 
 
 Now it was Edward's turn to cower 
 before this creature, so fiendish in her love. 
 Now it was that he came to understand 
 what manner of woman was before him. 
 
 How could he control her ? In his 
 present overwrought mood, her words 
 sounded prophetic. In the wild phases of 
 her passion she had struck a cord that hor- 
 rified him. She would revenge herself, 
 not on him, but on Sophia. 
 
 At this moment but one feeling possessed 
 him, to fly as from some incarnate spirit of 
 evil, palpably invoked before him. 
 
 Catching up a pile of papers that lay upon 
 a table, without another word he left her. 
 
 As his departing footsteps echoed in the 
 hall, a sudden thought seemed to strike 
 her. Wiping away every vestige of tears, 
 and carefully replacing the comb in the 
 luxuriant folds of her long hair, she took 
 up a silver taper, lighted it, and moved 
 towards one of the lar^e mirrors which 
 almost lined the room, then casting a long 
 earnest look at her own face, she murmured 
 sorrowfully, —
 
 1 66 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 * Not like her — not like her. No longer 
 young — nothing to charm him ! Oh, that 
 the years would roll back, and make me 
 what I was ! But for a month, a day, an 
 hour ! That he might feel something of the 
 fierce fire that consumes me, and take me 
 to him as but his slave.' 
 
 Then as the flame of the taper fell upon 
 her blue eyes, she turned them where he 
 had been standing before the hearth, and 
 with a passionate gesture stooped, and 
 kissed the spot where his feet had rested. 
 
 ' Let him turn me out ; let him disgrace 
 me. I have said it. He shall never 
 marry Sophia Escott.'
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 LOSE to the Bank of England, 
 turning off sharp to the left, is 
 a long, irregular lane, hardly to 
 be called a street, bordered by 
 mean houses. 
 
 Summer or winter the sun never shines 
 there. A ray of light darting, at times, 
 like an arrow through a break in the 
 monotonous row of house-roofs, is all that 
 ever appears, and that only when the sun 
 sets towards the north in long summer days. 
 It is a place just out of the racket and 
 movement of the city, of utter solitude 
 and silence. Nothing but the thunder of 
 the outer traffic is audible. 
 
 No omnibus penetrates there, and the 
 cabs and carts, coming singly, do not boom 
 and echo there as in the broader streets.
 
 i68 TJie Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 The pavement on either side Is so nar- 
 row, that foot-passengers cannot linger on 
 the way ; but pass rapidly, shouldered by 
 those who come and go. 
 
 There are many small musty shops of old 
 iron, and vegetables, and meat ; the latter 
 most uninviting to the eye and nostrils. 
 
 What are not shops are offices — some 
 with a plate and a name — some without. 
 To bear no name Is a conceit of greatness, 
 much affected by the wealthier firms that 
 Inhabit this melancholy quarter. 
 
 On many plates the dust and blacks 
 have settled, so that the letters are prac- 
 tically Illegible. 
 
 The office-doors all open on a swing ; 
 from ten to four they flap incessantly. At 
 four there Is a steady exodus east and west. 
 
 When night comes, no one Is left there, 
 but the guardians of the offices, and the 
 dingy individuals who dispense the un- 
 savoury meat and stale cabbages. 
 
 This Is their active moment — if the meat 
 be not sold during the day, it will stink 
 before morning. 
 
 A crowd of men, women and girls, more 
 wretched and degraded than the sellers, 
 pour In and carry off portions in brown 
 paper, or hanging on a skewer.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 69 
 
 Who buys the old Iron does not appear. 
 One might stand a whole day, and watch 
 in vain for anyone who came or went into 
 these dark shops. Yet somebody opens 
 them in the morning, and a shutter is put 
 up at night, and a gas jet flares in the air 
 over the heaps of rusty chains and locks 
 and hooks, and odds and ends of grates 
 and boilers, and a cat sits behind, licking 
 its face, and pensively contemplating the 
 passing world with blinking eyes. 
 
 But, beyond that, the houses might have 
 been empty, ready for the ghosts. 
 
 More than half-way down the lane, and 
 nearer the other end — which debouches 
 into another great throughfare near the 
 post-offlce, where another noisy stream of 
 traffic comes thundering down like a per- 
 petual bombardment — a small church sur- 
 rounded by iron railings pushes forward on 
 the pavement. 
 
 Nothing to strike the eye in this church 
 of red brick, faced with stone, and carrying 
 a square tower — only that, just over it, out 
 of the tops of the houses, rises majestically 
 the huge dome of St Paul's. 
 
 Seeing this, one thinks involuntarily — 
 ' Why should a church be there at all. just 
 within its shadow 1 '
 
 1 70 The Ill-te7npered Cousin, 
 
 There is a quiet, tidy court round It, 
 paved In stone, and a few scrubby plane- 
 trees, with black branches, to which some 
 shrivelled leaves still cling, spread them- 
 selves over the Iron rails into the street. 
 
 There Is no present graveyard, but all 
 around neat tomb-stones, with forgotten 
 inscriptions, and on one side a footway 
 passing by the church porch, and leading 
 off into further deserts of houses beyond, 
 in the direction of the city. 
 
 Taken in conjunction with the depressing 
 aspect of the lane, the dreary houses, the 
 musty shops, and the grave, serious faces 
 that meet each other on the pavement, 
 that church forms a contrast with the 
 prosy dulness of the lane. 
 
 If, In passing, I, by accident, miss the 
 sight of that church, I feel aggrieved, and 
 realise more forcibly the utter misery and 
 squalor of the street. 
 
 In early summer, the plane trees are 
 bright and green, glittering in the slant 
 of sunshine. Later on they tone down to 
 dusky yellow, and tremble on the branch, 
 like .young lives passing away. In winter 
 the sparrows hop about on the bare 
 branches in a bold, cheery way, and twitter 
 to each other In little homely concerts, not
 
 The Ill-tempe7'ed Cousin. 1 7 1 
 
 wanting a certain charm ; and when the 
 snow hangs there it ghtters the whole place 
 into a glory. 
 
 An old orange-woman has planted her 
 stall just beneath the iron gates, which 
 open to the church, and sits there, a smile 
 upon her battered old face, keenly scrutin- 
 ising each passer-by in respect of purchases. 
 
 If her smile meets a reassuring glance, 
 she thrusts an orange in your face. If not, 
 she watches you, smiling still, and muttering 
 to herself, — 
 
 ' Thank you, good gentleman, thank you. 
 Another day, thank you kindly.' .... 
 
 It is twelve o'clock, and very cold. It 
 froze hard in the night, only the southern 
 side of the lane has thawed a little, and here 
 and there the pavement is muddy, and the 
 stones slushy ; otherwise, all is Ice-bound. 
 
 An incipient fog hangs in the air wait- 
 ing, further on In the day, to descend in 
 force and wrap everything in its duskv 
 folds. 
 
 It Is twelve o'clock, but few passers-by 
 have appeared at all, and none on the side 
 of the street where the church stands. 
 
 The smile on the orange-woman's face 
 is almost a grin, it is so rueful. She has 
 tilted her rusty black bonnet over her nose,
 
 1 7 2 The Ill-tempe7^ed Cousin. 
 
 and wrapped a ragged tartan shawl tightly 
 round her. Her feet are hidden in some 
 wisps of hay a benevolent cabman bestowed 
 on her, as she took her seat in the morning 
 on the broken basket, which is her throne. 
 
 Before her, a patch of bright colour in 
 the surrounding gloom, lie her oranges, 
 piled up artistically upon a paper, which she 
 has carefully picked out of a recent dust- 
 heap, and having been well polished in her 
 shawl, shine preternaturally. 
 
 Not one reassurino^ smile has met her 
 eye that day. She has said, ' Thank you, 
 good gentleman, another day,' so often, that 
 she repeats it softly to herself, like a charm, 
 dozing a little between whiles, it is so cold. 
 
 Now, passing along the passage at her 
 back, towards the iron gates that lead into 
 the street, there is the sound of a rapid foot- 
 fall, and a short, thick-set man, with short 
 legs and a head and shoulders quite out of 
 proportion to his body, appears. 
 
 He is well wrapped up in a great-coat 
 of a foreign cut, faced with fur, and a vol- 
 uminous worsted comforter is twisted so 
 many times round his throat, that nothing 
 is visible of his face but a prominent nose, 
 now very purple, over which a high-crowned, 
 narrow-brimmed hat is balanced on a shock
 
 Th e Ill-tempe red Co iisin . 173 
 
 of hair. Both hands In his pockets, as he 
 reaches the orange-woman, who rouses her- 
 self from a doze, and smiles a haggard smile. 
 
 * Thank you, good gentleman,' Is on her 
 lips, w^hen something in the pucker of the 
 purple nose arrests her. A pair of keen 
 little dark eyes disclose themselves from 
 under the narrow brim of the hat — eyes 
 which smile distinctly at her. 
 
 The orange-woman plunges her hand 
 among the bright balls of well-rubbed fruit, 
 and bringing out two more shining than the 
 rest, offers them with a beseeching look. 
 ' It is very cold, good gentleman.' 
 She says no more. Experience has taught 
 her that pressing brings no customers. 
 
 * Tamned cold ! ' promptly responds the 
 voice of Mr Winter. * So, so, my dear,' 
 pushing back the oranges with his elbow ; 
 * vat can I do vid he ? I do not want he. 
 He make my stomick aches.' 
 
 ' You'd ache, mister, if you sat here all 
 day as I do,' answ^ered the woman gruffly. 
 
 She felt herself aggrieved. This one 
 had proved like the others, but he did smile, 
 and now he will not buy. 
 
 ' Dat I should!' responded Mr Winter, 
 frankly ; ' rather zee nor me, my gute frau. 
 My gute frau, I do not want ze fruit, but
 
 1 74 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 here is von leetle penny, two leetle pennies, 
 by dad ! Vy ! here is three leetle pennies, 
 and all for zee ! ha ! ha ! all for zee ! Dat 
 is vot I call the luck. No von vill geeve 
 me von single penny — no von.' 
 
 Mr Winter laughed, took out of his 
 pocket a hand warmly enclosed in a worsted 
 glove, knit by Aunt Amelia, and placed the 
 pennies in the woman's outstretched palm 
 one by one, with a grin upon his red face 
 as broad as her own. 
 
 ' Dere, gute frau,' he said triumphantly, 
 dropping the last penny into her hand, 
 which closes on it like a spring. ' Never 
 say die. Now give me a trink health.' 
 
 ' A good gentleman, you be, master,' is 
 her reply, in the same gruff voice as before, 
 as she rams the pennies into the depths of 
 a side pocket that appears to reach to her 
 knees. Then, bringing herself up again 
 with a jolt, — ' You warm a body, you do ! ' 
 
 * Gut morgen, madame,' says Mr Winter, 
 making a ceremonious bow, and feebly mak- 
 ing believe to raise his hat to the orange- 
 woman, who stands erect, her arms hanging 
 straight down, shaking with laughter. 
 
 * Good day, gentleman. I hope you'll 
 often pass this way.' 
 
 But Mr Winter is gone. With his large
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 175 
 
 feet and short legs he shuffles quickly over 
 the pavement. 
 
 Now he has crossed the road, turns 
 sharply to the right, passes about a dozen 
 houses, then, without taking his hands from 
 his pockets, butts against a swing door in 
 a very grimy house, and enters. 
 
 Within is another door, to open which 
 I\Ir Winter takes his hands from his pockets. 
 ' So — so,' he mutters approvingly, as he 
 snuffs up the warm air that comes circling 
 round him from within. ' Dat ees goot.' 
 
 He enters a large low room, a kind of 
 gallery, lighted at intervals by skylights. 
 From the outside of the house no one 
 would have guessed the size of the pre- 
 mises, built over what had once been a 
 garden at the back. 
 
 An open gangway leads down the middle 
 of the floor, straight from the outer doors, 
 to another at the far end, covered with 
 green baize and studded with brass nails. 
 
 On either side of the gangway are high 
 desks, each furnished with a rude metal 
 inkstand, a sheet of blotting-paper, and an 
 almanack. 
 
 In the centre of the office, on either 
 hand, is an open space, warmed by two 
 large stoves.
 
 176 The Ill-tenipei^ed Cousin. 
 
 The high desks, placed in a semicircle 
 near the fire, are filled with clerks of various 
 ages, writing, or appearing to write. Some 
 near the door are vacant. That is the 
 coldest part of the room, and is avoided. 
 
 At the upper end, near the baize door, 
 is a kind of wooden pulpit, at which sits 
 an immovable figure, with a blank face 
 and searching eyes, writing too, but also 
 watching the progress of the various clerks, 
 whom it is his business to overlook. 
 
 Under the pulpit is a counter, covered 
 with much-stained leather, and a couple of 
 cane-bottomed chairs for the accommoda- 
 tion of such persons as have business with 
 the firm, and are not admitted to the 
 sanctum within. 
 
 Coming from the frost outside, the heat 
 is oppressive. Mr Winter evidently finds 
 it so. 
 
 ' Poof ! poof ! ' he exclaims, as he passes 
 down the office, taking off, first, his hat, 
 then his gloves, then his fur cloak, and 
 finally his worsted scarf. 'Poof!' 
 
 By the time he reaches the pulpit, he has 
 one by one stripped himself of all his wraps, 
 and appears in his house attire. 
 
 The clerks stare at his grotesque figure 
 in silence ; only from one or two of the
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 177 
 
 younger ones, unaccustomed to his ap- 
 pearance, a suppressed titter escapes. 
 
 Mr Winter is too much preoccupied with 
 his clothes and the heat to observe this ; 
 but, had he observed it, he would pro- 
 bably have joined in the laugh. 
 
 Passing by the pulpit, he is entering the 
 baize door, when a voice out of the ceiling 
 stops him. 
 
 ' Beg pardon, Mr Winter, have you an 
 appointment ? ' 
 
 ' Vat you mean, you rascal ? ' cries Mr 
 Winter angrily, retaining the door-handle 
 in his hand, and looking up at the stolid 
 face of the clerk in the pulpit. ' Do zee 
 not know mees ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Mr Winter, I have the pleasure ; 
 but Mr Bauer, sir, has given strict orders 
 not to be disturbed. The American mail 
 goes out to-day, sir.' 
 
 ' Zee be tamned, sir,' replies Mr Winter 
 curtly, his whole face turning as purple as 
 his nose, which suddenly grows defiantly 
 prominent. ' I asks no leef to go to mine 
 own neffe. In zee teeth of all de clerks 
 in London, I go, I am gone.' 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IT this point Louis Winter, re- 
 fusing any further parley, bangs 
 the baize door open with the 
 same impetus with which he 
 entered the office, amid peals of laughter 
 rom the various clerks, which no efforts 
 of the gentleman in the ceiling can sup- 
 press. 
 
 Indeed Mr Johnstone, who is the head 
 clerk, is fain to duck down into the depths 
 of his pulpit to conceal his feelings. It is 
 with a shaky voice that, when he emerges to 
 light again, he calls out, ' Order, gentle- 
 men ! Order, if you please, gentlemen.' 
 
 Within the baize door is a passage, cor- 
 responding to the outer office, with doors 
 on either side. Half-way up, a staircase 
 leads to the first floor. Up this staircase
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousm. 1 79 
 
 Mr Winter charges headlong, his fur coat 
 and comforter streaming behind him hke a 
 train. 
 
 A door to the right on the top landing, 
 announced as ' Private ' in large letters, 
 stands partly open. Mr Winter dashes in. 
 
 A grey-headed clerk, sitting at a table 
 covered with papers and ledgers, starts up 
 amazed. 
 
 Before he can interpose, Mr Winter 
 has opened a second door, so precipi- 
 tately that the loud sound of his heels 
 on the boards inside suggests that he has 
 fallen. 
 
 The door closes in the face of the grave 
 clerk, who is apparently preparing to ex- 
 postulate. 
 
 * Poof! poof!' gasps Mr Winter, draw- 
 ing up his shoulders to his ears, as if 
 wrestling with his under garments, ' I am 
 so hot, John Bauer — so hot.' 
 
 He flings down his wraps upon a leather 
 chair standing against the wall, opens his 
 coat, pulls down his waistcoat, and loosens 
 his neckcloth. 
 
 ' Ze teufel downstairs in ze pulpeets, 
 sitting up like Herods in de judgment 
 seats, vould not let me pass. Ough, 
 Johann, I am so hot ! so hot ! ' And
 
 1 80 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 Mr Winter looks inquiringly upon his 
 nephew, as if he could relieve him. 
 
 There is no response. The scratch of 
 John's pen is heard over the paper ; his 
 head is bent down. 
 
 'A busy day, Uncle Louis; almost post 
 time — hum-hm — mit dent grdsste7n Verg- 
 nilgeUy hum-hm.' (The clerks know this 
 to their cost, and Mr Johnstone knows it.) 
 * You must not stay long. V/ir werden 
 uns verbindeii auf das ausgelegte.^ His 
 voice drops into his paper. 
 
 To look at, John Bauer is like a big 
 schoolboy, who has grown too fat. He 
 has neither beard nor whiskers ; is tall, 
 thin, and high-shouldered. He stoops 
 very much, and there is a peculiar loose- 
 ness about his clothes, as if they had been 
 stitched together without lining. 
 
 A sunny, fair-haired man, even in that 
 chill winter morning, with a pervading 
 gleam like southern hedges in spring time. 
 A long, thoughtful nose, which matches 
 with a thoughtful brow ; long, straight 
 hair, pushed back anywhere ; blue eyes ; a 
 thin-lipped mouth ; and an undecided chin. 
 
 No one, to look into his pleasant face, 
 would have taken him for the bold specu- 
 lator and successful merchant, who, since
 
 TJie Ill-te7npe7^ed Co2tsin. i8i 
 
 he came of age (he is now thirty-five, 
 and had succeeded, by the death of his 
 uncle — the brother-in-law of Mr Winter — 
 to the old-established and most respectable 
 firm of Bauer & Bauer, drysalters, oilmen, 
 and Russian merchants), had, by his 
 masterly management, almost doubled 
 their already large receipts, in the course 
 of a few years. 
 
 Both John Bauer's parents were Ger- 
 man, from Frankfort, and he speaks with 
 a German accent ; but, having lost father 
 and mother when a child, and been edu- 
 cated in England under his uncle's care, 
 he affects Anglomania to such an extent, 
 that he will never converse in German, 
 unless absolutely obliged. 
 
 Nature has not done the excellent John 
 justice. He feels it. Out of his office, he 
 is the shyest and most diffident of men. 
 
 ' What do you want. Uncle Louis ? ' he 
 asks at last, holding his pen suspended in 
 his fingers, and pushing back the long, 
 lank hair which had fallen over his brow : 
 * I have told you I am very busy.' 
 
 • Ha, ha!' exclaims Mr Winter disdain- 
 fully. ' Busy ? Es est di pore shouls like 
 me is busy ; not zee, Johann, mein sohn, 
 not zee.'
 
 1 8 2 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 Here Mr Winter takes off his spectacles, 
 put on to look at his nephew, rubs the 
 glasses carefully on his coat, replacing 
 them, then, glancing benevolently at him, 
 dives into the recesses of his pocket, 
 draws out the usual red handkerchief, and 
 blows his nose with the resonance of a 
 trumpet. 
 
 'Now listen to vot I says, Johann! 
 Dat fellow Gompertz ze gif me for a 
 pardner, he es von tamned rogues.' 
 
 Here Mr Winter raises his arm, then 
 lets his fist fall heavily on the table. 
 
 ' Uncle Louis ! Gompertz is no rogue; 
 he is an honest man.' 
 
 ' I zay it ; I zay he von rogues,' roars 
 Mr Winter, now on his feet, and leaning 
 over the table on both his hands, a pair of 
 angry eyes lowering behind his spectacles, 
 and his huge nose directed like a cata- 
 pult full in his nephew's face. ' Gom- 
 pertz lock up my ledgers, de prides, 
 de glorys of my life. All my grand 
 speculazion, in de ledgers. De noble tings 
 I have done. He keep de key. I ask 
 Gompertz vonce, — twice, — drice. I say, 
 ** Gip me die key." Gompertz, he zay, — 
 " No, nimmer 7nehr ! '' I stamps; I rage ; 
 I zeize em by de throat'
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 183 
 
 Here Uncle Louis appears about to re- 
 peat the same pantomime on John Bauer, 
 but he quickly pushed back his chair. 
 
 * Now I asks by vat right dat tamned 
 Gompertz say no ? By vat right ? De 
 rascals ! I know vy he have lock hims 
 up for ees-self, dat Gompertz, de long- 
 legged monkey. Gompertz know all vid 
 my ledger. Ee take de head off de houses, 
 and lead me by de nose like a schild. Vid 
 my ledgers die grosse Coinpanie vas 
 governed. Tausend teufels ! I miss all by 
 der tamned Gompertz. Die fall in die 
 French Funds ! Aha ! Deed I not knows 
 de fall of Charles Dix ? Deed I not tell der 
 fool Gompertz de king go away in die 
 nacht ? Ee shake von tamned heads, der 
 Gompertz. He zay noting! Nobody 
 zay noting. De Polignac ministry go 
 crack ! Die coup is gone, and Gompertz 
 stand with open mouth. Ven he see me 
 rage, he zay, " Komm, my guter Winter, 
 let us go and play di simfonia in Medea. 
 Bah ! die simfonia ! Vat ees simfonias to 
 me ? and Gompertz tamned double bass ? 
 I vant my ledgers, Johann ; I gomm to 
 ask my books.' 
 
 John Bauer held down his head, and 
 smiled secretly to the letter spread out
 
 1 84 The Ill-tempered Cottsin. 
 
 before him. He dared not face his uncle's 
 keen eyes. It was he, good, excellent 
 fellow, who had started Mr Winter again 
 on his return from that furtive expedition 
 abroad, commenced from the back door at 
 Scatlands, opening into the Twickenham 
 meadows, when he escaped so deftly from 
 the sheriffs-officer and his creditors. 
 
 John Bauer, with unknown difficulty, 
 had subsequently found him a partner — 
 for he still dabbled a little in business — 
 an immovable German, in sympathy with 
 him as being fond of classical music, and 
 a fair performer on the double bass, other- 
 wise insensible alike to persuasive elo- 
 quence or even threats ; Gompertz joining 
 with Louis Winter only on the express 
 condition that no cheque not countersigned 
 by himself should be drawn. 
 
 But before any overtures were made to 
 the proposed partner. Uncle Louis's de- 
 lusive ledger was Impounded. With that 
 ledger in his possession, nothing could con- 
 vince him that his bills were unpaid. 
 
 ' Uncle Louis,' replies John at last, ' I 
 cannot interfere. It was difficult enough 
 to find a partner for you. I can do nothing. 
 Pray gu away ! ' 
 
 * Do notings ! Do notings ! Johann I
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 185 
 
 Mein Gott ! ' and Mr Winter, grown furious 
 again, throws up his arms wildly in the 
 air, ' ]\Iy sister's son do notings ! ' 
 
 John Bauer draws some strokes on the 
 blotting-paper before him, then casts an 
 imploring glance, first at the door, then at 
 the excited face and the working purple 
 nose before him. 
 
 ' Indeed I can do nothing, Uncle Louis. 
 You have no money to speculate with. 
 Gompertz is a steady, practical man. Do 
 not oppose him, or he will throw up the 
 concern. Where will you be then '^. ' 
 
 Mr Winter wrings his hands, a look of 
 the most poignant grief flits across his face. 
 
 * It ees zo ; even zo,' he said, in a 
 muffled voice, hanging down his head. 
 ' Ven die great coup gomes — it ees ever 
 zo — it vill break my hearts. Not von 
 little chance! Not von! Vid de desert 
 of Dresda China zo schon, all de French 
 Kings — in old Dresda. Den dat blessed 
 Families von Raphael, — a copy, Johann^ a 
 copy, but a copy worth much.' 
 
 Here, extending his short arms to their 
 utmost length, he suddenly drops them, 
 and raps himself sharply on the chest. 
 
 ' A copie, but I sells ee as an originale. 
 Dat French dealer buys all ! Ach himmel !
 
 1 86 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 it ees too baad, too baad.' The tears are 
 in his eyes ; the red handkerchief at his 
 nose. 
 
 John Bauer is unmoved. He winced a 
 little, and frowned at his uncle's avowal of 
 cheating about the Raphael ; but he lets 
 it pass. 
 
 ' I am very sorry, uncle, I cannot inter- 
 fere ! Do go ! Only look what a lot of 
 letters I have to answer before five o'clock,' 
 and he points to a pile of papers before 
 him. 
 
 All the spirit had gone from Mr Winter s 
 features, the fire from his eye. The little 
 arts he practised so successfully at home 
 did not avail him here. 
 
 What John Bauer said, John Bauer 
 stuck to, and on John Bauer he was 
 utterly dependent ! 
 
 Spite of his eccentricities. Uncle Louis 
 was no fool ! He knew perfectly well that 
 it wanted but little to make Gompertz 
 throw him over altogether, so constant had 
 been their bickerings of late. 
 
 With reluctant hands he takes up one 
 by one his furred coat, hat, and comforter, 
 and, as if too much absorbed in the depths 
 of depression to say a word, is leaving the 
 room without even saying good-bye.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 187 
 
 John Bauer rose ; he held out his hand 
 with a smile. Mr Winter took it in 
 solemn silence ; he gives no answering 
 smile. Despair is written on every line 
 of his mobile face — unutterable gloom sits 
 in his eye.
 
 CHAPTER XV L 
 
 |Y the way, Uncle Louis,' said 
 John Bauer, ' before you go, 
 tell me about Aunt Amelia ; 
 how is she ? I must come and 
 see her soon.' 
 
 ' Die Amelie ^ Zee ees well ! Zee ees well,' 
 he answered, in a deep muffled voice, 
 turning towards the door. Ere he had 
 reached it he stopped abruptly. A sudden 
 light struck across his tempest-torn face. 
 His solemn air vanished. In a moment 
 he was wringing John Bauer's hand 
 violently. * Der fools ! der fools ! ' he 
 cried gaily, tapping his forehead ; ' I 
 forgets. Die Sophie ees gomm ; die 
 Sophie.' 
 
 John Bauer started. 
 
 ' Do you mean Miss Escott ? Is she 
 come already ? '
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 189 
 
 ' Zie goum like di tiefs in di nights — 
 Sophie — Beautifuls, beautifuls, Johann, 
 like von angels! And zee play.' Mr 
 Winter kissed his finger tips and waved 
 them in the air enthusiastically. 
 
 John, whose passion was music and a 
 violoncello (indeed the bliss of his musi- 
 cal evenings at Scatlands had been a 
 great link between him and his uncle), 
 forgot the mail and his unfinished letters, 
 and became suddenly deeply interested. 
 
 ' Gomm, Johann, gomm soon to de old 
 house, and hear hers.' 
 
 ' I should like nothing better/ was John's 
 prompt reply. 
 
 * Ze heard di conzert's Sttick von Hum- 
 mel ? In three parts .-^ Die Sophie play 
 he divine ! ' 
 
 ' No ; is it fine ? ' asked John, drawing 
 close to his uncle, and fixing his eyes 
 eagerly on him. 
 
 ' Not hear di Conzert Sttick von Hum- 
 mel ! Guter Gott ! Is zee mad, Johann ? 
 For vot do zee live ? ' 
 
 It was now John Bauer's turn to look 
 profoundly humiliated. 
 
 * Fine ? Gottlich ! Sophie zee play die 
 piano parts vid me. Den die part von di 
 violoncello ees silent — silent as de graves !
 
 IQO The Ill-tempe7^ed Cousin. 
 
 Not hear di Conzert Stuck, Ach himmel, 
 Johann, wunderlich ! ' 
 
 At that moment a knock was heard at 
 the door, and Mr Johnstone appears. 
 
 ' Goldschen & Grossen, sir/ he said, 
 addressing John Bauer, ' have sent the 
 junior partner to confer with you, sir, on 
 that affair of the five hundred thousand 
 pounds loan/ 
 
 ' Tell him I am out of town, Mr John- 
 stone. Tell him anything. I cannot see 
 him at this moment/ answered John quickly, 
 his blue eyes gleaming in his head like pale 
 stars. 
 
 Mr Johnstone stared ; he turned his eye 
 first on his chief, then on Mr Winter, with 
 amazement. 
 
 'An appointment must be made, sir.' 
 He spoke in deprecating accents. (Was 
 Bauer & Bauer gone mad ? Mr John- 
 stone was asking himself). 
 
 * He can come again at three — yes at 
 three o'clock this afternoon. Tell the 
 junior partner I am sorry, but that I am 
 particularly engaged at present. I cannot 
 see anyone while my uncle, Mr Winter, is 
 here.' 
 
 There was a wicked twinkle in Louis 
 Winter's eyes as he listened, and a subdued
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 191 
 
 flourish of his red handkerchief as he caught 
 the eye of his enemy Johnstone. 
 
 ' Do not let me be interrupted again,' 
 added John Bauer ; ' I am particularly 
 engaged.' 
 
 Mr Johnstone bowed and retired, evi- 
 dently under protest. 
 
 ' Now, Uncle Louis/ said John eagerly, 
 leaning on the table which divided them, 
 ' tell me all about the Conzert Stlick. Can 
 I read the part at sight without putting 
 you and Miss Escott out? or will you 
 send it me here at once to practise 1 ' 
 
 The most radiant happiness was spread 
 over Uncle Louis's rubicund countenance. 
 
 ' Zee shall have de part, mein Johann. 
 I will leave it here myselfs.' 
 
 * I play so badly. Uncle Louis ; you are 
 such an artist! and Miss Escott too — a 
 stranger. I am almost ashamed. If it 
 were not for my business, I would run 
 down for the music to-night myself.' 
 
 * Zee do not play zo bads, Johann,' said 
 Mr Winter, patting his arm with much 
 condescension. ' No zo bads, — vid more 
 practice zee do better.' 
 
 John Bauer received this very doubtful 
 eulogy with the greatest gratitude, his boy- 
 ish face beaming all over like a ripe apple.
 
 192 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 * I adore Hummel ; he is my favourite 
 master. Tell me, Uncle Louis, does the 
 piano lead ? ' 
 
 ' Zee do. Zee geef die motif in die 
 andante. Ach ! it ees schon ! ' 
 
 * What are the movements ? ' 
 
 * Die introduzions, andante, scherzo, 
 and finale. Great werke — great werke ! 
 Strong in the finale, Johann. Some fine 
 arpeggios ! — zee most stunning arpeggios ! 
 Noting is more beautifuls. Noting ! Ex- 
 cept,' he added, ' die Sophie ; zee, too, 
 is beautifuls ! ' 
 
 ' I will come down when I know the 
 part, and try it, if — if — ' John Bauer's 
 sallow face turned suddenly very shy, and 
 he blushed all over, like a girl. In his 
 enthusiasm for Hummel, he had been 
 betrayed into making a promise, which 
 concerned a young lady whom he had 
 never seen — ' if you think she, Miss 
 Escott, w^ould like it.' 
 
 ' Mees Escott ! Mees Escott ! Vot ees 
 to do vid Mees Escott,' cried Mr Winter 
 impatiently. ' It ees die musick. It ees 
 die Sophie. Zee cannot play vidout die 
 Sophie.' 
 
 Here Mr Winter looked unutterable 
 things, drew John Bauer near to him and
 
 The Ill'tempered Cousin. 193 
 
 spoke Into his ear. ' Zee must look at die 
 Sophie — die Tante vant zee to marry her, 
 Johann.' 
 
 * Marry Miss Escott ! ' cried John Bauer, 
 utterly aghast. ' Marry Miss Escott ! 
 Why she would not look at me ! ' 
 
 If the floor had opened before him, John 
 Bauer's face could not have expressed 
 more astonishment. 
 
 * So, so,' replied his uncle gravely, 
 nodding his head ; ' dat is vot die Tante 
 says. Die Tante says, "Johann can have 
 di music at home vid die Sophie. Johann ! 
 Ven die Sophie plays die eyes in die clouds, 
 zee ist die Sanct Ceciliens. Somtimes I 
 forget my flutes to look at zee. Poor 
 shouls ! poor shouls ! Die heart is broke 
 now ; zee ees zo poor 1 ' 
 
 John's countenance expressed the deepest 
 attention. 
 
 ' Z2.Z not to die Tante I zay so, or dee 
 angels will break my poor old heads. But 
 gomm, my boys, gomm and zee.' 
 
 John Bauer was greatly confused. He 
 was so much alarmed at the prospect of 
 marrying Sophia, and at his aunt's plans, 
 that he was on the point of refusing to 
 come at all ; but the temptation of seeing 
 this wonderful beauty, and of trying the new 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 1 94 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 symphony, was too much for him. After 
 a brief struggle he decided to comply. 
 
 All this time, Uncle Louis, his eyes 
 twinkling joyfully through his glasses, had 
 been watching him. Now he rubbed his 
 fat, dumpy hands together gleefully, when 
 John Bauer, his fair face growing redder 
 each moment, promised that he would 
 come to Scatlands as soon as he had 
 learned his part. 
 
 ' It ees grandiose die musics,' said Mr 
 Winter, putting on his coat, assisted by 
 him, and wreathing the endless comforter 
 round his neck. Instinct told Uncle Louis 
 it was best to dwell upon the charms of 
 the music, rather than upon the charms of 
 Sophia. ' Herrlich — ' 
 
 ' Oh, talk not of it, I implore you,' burst 
 out poor John, unable any longer to re- 
 strain his feelings. ' Go away, Uncle Louis ; 
 you have said enough for to-day.' Pie 
 was pushing his uncle gently towards the 
 door. ' Go, or I shall run away and be at 
 Scatlands before you.' 
 
 * Tell not die Tante,' pleaded Uncle 
 Louis, in his deep, throaty voice, the very 
 sound of which, to strangers, carried con- 
 viction ; ' tell her notinks.' 
 
 * You shall come here no more. Uncle
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 195 
 
 Louis,' said John resolutely, as he shook 
 hands with him ; ' you have completely 
 upset me ; I have lost a whole hour.' 
 
 ' Goot, goot,' were Mr Winter's parting 
 words at the door, glowing all over ; ' all 
 rights ; zee can afford it. Gomm soons, 
 Johann ; gomm soons.' 
 
 Mr Winter chuckled to himself all down 
 the stairs, and through the office, still rub- 
 bing his fat hands together. 
 
 He had utterly forgotten his wrongs 
 against Gompertz, and his ledger. Even 
 the inveterate Johnstone was no longer his 
 enemy. He flourished his hat in passing 
 him aloft in his pulpit, and bowed graci- 
 ously to such clerks as saluted him in his 
 passage down the room. 
 
 He was in such spirits that he recklessly 
 dropped half a sovereign into the hand of 
 the porter who opened the door.
 
 CHAPTER XVI I. 
 
 HE drawing-room at Scatlands 
 was a delightful room, lighted 
 on two sides by four tall, nar- 
 row * Anne ' v/indows, with 
 small squares of glass, and thick wooden 
 partitions. 
 
 The old-fashioned furniture, covered with 
 pale yellow damask, though somewhat 
 faded indeed, and frayed in places where 
 it had been much used, was still soft and 
 pretty. 
 
 Something, too, had been added in the 
 way of modern articles for daily use, quite 
 out of character with the rest of the room. 
 On the panelled walls, carefully placed 
 so that the light fell on them at the correct 
 angle, were hung various pictures in rich 
 frames, calling themselves Guido, Domeni- 
 chino and Caracci, side by side with the
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 197 
 
 more delicate-toned tints of Wynants 
 and Wouvermans. 
 
 A mediaeval figure in a Venetian dress 
 by Paolo Veronese, and a doubtful Titian, 
 were decidedy painted over. 
 
 Whether these pictures, and others by 
 less famous artists, were really originals, or 
 only skilfully concocted copies (like the 
 Raphael mentioned by Mr Winter in his 
 visit to his nephew), it would be presumptu- 
 ous to assert, in opposition to such a judge. 
 He declared he never had possessed a 
 copy in his life. 
 
 At all events, they furnished the dark 
 walls well, and gave colour and dignity to 
 the room. 
 
 All were for sale, havinof been consigned 
 to Mr Winter by the unquestioning faith 
 of dealers, for his written certificate — a cer- 
 tificate artfully delayed for many months, 
 until they had sufficiently decorated Aunt 
 Amelia's drawing-room, and fully indulged 
 his own artistic taste. 
 
 As one set was sold off, another arrived 
 from London to fill the vacant places, so 
 that the dark oak-panelled walls were never 
 bare. 
 
 On carved shelves and wooden brackets, 
 continued between the spaces on the walls,
 
 igS The Ill-teuipered Cousin. 
 
 and in the corners, were ranged choice 
 specimens of china — plates, vases, gold- 
 mounted pokals and tazzas. 
 
 Exquisite little groups of figures, mostly 
 Dresden and Capo di Monte, and Oriental 
 plates, with a small show of that Urbino 
 ware, to become so precious in our day. 
 
 On the various tables and chiffoniers lay 
 enamelled snuff-boxes and bonbonnieres — 
 toys in gold filigree, mother-of-pearl boxes, 
 and carved ivory plaques and cabinets. 
 
 Miniatures of powdered ladies and velvet- 
 coated gentlemen. Shepherdesses and 
 Corydons — La Vallieres and Marie An- 
 toinettes — all amazingly like each other. 
 
 A marble statue of John Kemble in 
 Hamlet, with folded arms, a highly curled 
 wig, and a saturnine expression of counte- 
 nance. 
 
 A French clock, on a purple globe, 
 from the Petit Trianon — a collection of 
 medals in a little ormolu cabinet — a Dres- 
 den tea-service, with views of the French 
 palaces, on a porcelain plateau — a Turkish 
 dagger — some old embroidery, used as 
 mats and table-covers, and a great deal 
 of old lace of a sickly yellow — of china 
 bowls and Indian boxes. 
 
 All these things, in more or less good
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 1 99 
 
 condition, like the paintings, were for sale, 
 committed to Mr Winter for his opinion, 
 as a guarantee of their artistic value, and 
 impounded by him at his pleasure. 
 
 Books there were none, except some 
 illustrated works piled up between the 
 windows, which had come in the way of 
 business like all the rest. 
 
 Now and then, out of this miscellaneous 
 collection, things were missed that certainly 
 had been extracted from Mr Winter's 
 pocket by his wife. 
 
 The dealers complained and talked of 
 law. Mr Winter, uttering many loud 
 Achs so's ! and Guter himmels ! laughed 
 gaily, and so the matter passed off, he 
 giving a better certificate than usual for 
 some anonymous painting, or a modern 
 imitation in porcelain. 
 
 In a corner of the room furthest from 
 the door stood a grand piano in a rather 
 battered case. Piles of torn, loose music 
 lay upon it and crowded on chairs and 
 stands, the pages much thumbed and dog- 
 eared by frequent use. 
 
 This pianoforte had turned up so per- 
 sistently in the changing fortunes of the 
 family, that it was suspected Aunt Amelia's 
 friends had something to do with it.
 
 200 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 On the piano reposed, upon a cushion, Mr 
 Winter's silver-mounted flute, in a green 
 shagreen case greatly the worse for wear. 
 
 Much worse for wear also was the thread- 
 bare carpet, in some places actually In holes ; 
 and several cane-bottomed chairs from 
 which the paint had vanished ; along with 
 various music-stands, more or less di- 
 lapidated. 
 
 Indeed, the legs of all the chairs being 
 very doubtful, initiated visitors at Scat- 
 lands always requested that a seat might 
 be chosen for them by Aunt Amelia. 
 
 A heavy sofa — which might have been a 
 bed — encased in a not over-clean case 
 was drawn up near the fire ; the hearth- 
 rug, once a Turkish prayer-carpet, before 
 it in tatters. 
 
 The costly objects on the tables were 
 constantly obliterated by a litter of house- 
 hold linen and old stockings, sometimes — 
 oh pudor ! — a pair of trousers made their 
 appearance, or a cambric-frilled shirt be- 
 longing to Mr Winter, in need of mending. 
 
 If Uncle Louis came home early, and 
 saw this, he stormed at Aunt Amelia, and, 
 in his eager way, generally flung the vari- 
 ous household articles about the room. 
 
 But, with all its discrepancies, the yellow
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 201 
 
 drawing-room was the secret joy of Aunt 
 Amelia's life — a bit of still life that re- 
 minded her of the days of her youth, in 
 the old country house near Uxbridge, 
 where she had passed the only happy 
 years she had ever known, with her mother 
 and sister. If bad news were to come, by 
 post or otherwise, she felt she could bear 
 it better in the yellow drawing-room, full 
 of artistic treasures, than in the horrible, 
 squalid lodgings at Hoxton or Lambeth, 
 where fate, in the person of her husband, 
 had so often consigned her. Only to sit 
 in the yellow drawing-room, in her delicate 
 lace cap and pale ribbons, and inhale the 
 aromatic odour of dried rose-leaves out of 
 some large china bowl ; the solid furniture 
 and the grand piano — hers at least for the 
 present — in tolerable ease and comfort, 
 without too much agitation about weekly 
 bills, and to gaze out of the square panes 
 of the tall, gaunt windows, framed in yellow 
 curtains, was the greatest luxury of Aunt 
 Amelia's life. 
 
 Besides some canaries, which twittered 
 and sang all day inside, there was a ledge 
 outside on which the robins pecked at the 
 bread-crumbs which she laid there. Be- 
 yond was the peaceful old garden, with its
 
 202 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 trim gravel walks, bordered by the mellow- 
 tinted bricks of the red walls, relieved by 
 branches of venerable pear-trees. There 
 was not a tree or a shrub in that garden, 
 not a leaf, hardly a stone, that Aunt Amelia 
 had not exchanged thoughts with, as well 
 as with the little robins, until they had 
 all grown into friends. 
 
 The passing clouds, the summer sun- 
 shine, the wintry mist, were her friends 
 also ; but distant friends, more vague and 
 changeful, fit only for vague thoughts in 
 idle hours. The trees and walls, paths 
 and birds, were the recipients of her daily 
 confidences, always at hand to listen and 
 console. 
 
 Aunt Amelia Is seated in a low bee-hive 
 chair, before the large open grate, in which 
 a rather small fire burns on bright steel 
 * dogs,' reflecting itself gaily on white and 
 blue Dutch tiles, representing Moses and 
 Pharaoh amid the plagues of Egypt. 
 
 The morning is grey and colourless, and 
 but faintlylights up the pictures on the walls. 
 
 Aunt Amelia wears a bombazine dress, 
 covered with crape, that hangs limp about 
 her ; but she is scrupulously neat, and 
 the soft lace and ribbons of her cap set
 
 Tlie Ill-tempered Cousin. 203 
 
 off her resigned, fair face, a trifle paler and 
 more anxious-looking since Sophia Escott's 
 arrival. She Is ashamed to produce her 
 household work before her maenificent 
 niece, so she has extracted from some 
 stores of better days, divers long strips of 
 coloured knitting. Now the steel needles 
 have fallen on her lap, her hands are folded, 
 the small white fingers, with the neatly- 
 kept nails, crossed tightly together, in the 
 attitude of one who Is waiting for some- 
 thing which she expects, yet dreads. Every 
 now and then, at some slight sound, she 
 starts and turns her eyes nervously towards 
 the door ; then, with a subdued sigh of 
 relief, she resumes her knitting. She would 
 not like to own how happy she is to be 
 alone. 
 
 It is nearly a week since Sophia came. 
 A week ! — to Mrs Winter it seems a year. 
 Nothing has gone well since. Everybody 
 has been worried and out of temper. The 
 instinct that had come over her, when she 
 first met her niece. Is but too well justified. 
 Sophia has closed her heart against her. 
 
 It is quite clear, even to kind, patient 
 Aunt Amelia — so hopeful of good, so slow 
 to blame — that her niece does not like 
 her. That critical moment when Sophia
 
 204 '^^^^ Ill-teDipered Cousin. 
 
 had hidden from her her meeting with 
 young Maitland, had cast them asunder. 
 
 Mrs Winter feels the effect, without un- 
 derstanding the cause. She can never 
 hope to associate Sophia with her genial, 
 outspoken brother. The girl is of another 
 type. She must resemble her Indian 
 mother, In that hard, sullen pride which 
 refuses to adapt itself to anything. All 
 the affection she has to give Is bestowed 
 on Uncle Louis. She can always talk to 
 him ; they play together every evening, 
 and he never rages at her in muttered 
 German oaths, rounding into rattling R's, 
 as he rages at Aunt Amelia. And, 
 what is worse, he is always scolding 
 her for not beinor kind enoucxh to her 
 niece. 
 
 Poor dear Uncle Louis does not look 
 far. He is little at home, and only sees 
 Sophia at her best ; and he has such jovial, 
 happy ways that no one could be ill- 
 tempered with him — not even his creditors. 
 Either he does not understand what is 
 going on, or, in the exuberance of his 
 artistic nature, he would rather blame 
 Aunt Amelia than Sophia. 
 
 How many tears she has shed silently 
 at night, over Sophia's unkindness and
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 205 
 
 Uncle Louis's harshness, no one can ever 
 know. In vain she tries to alter her 
 behaviour, her looks, her words. Every- 
 day she has a new plan, but it changes 
 nothing. Perhaps adversity has hardened 
 Sophia ; perhaps her father's indulgence 
 had rendered her callous ; perhaps it is her 
 own (Aunt Amelia's) fault. She is nothing 
 but an old bore ; no girl could ever care 
 for her. 
 
 And yet, how much she longed to gain 
 her niece's love ! ' Oh, how can I reach 
 her heart ? ' she repeats — ' oh, how can I 
 comfort her ? ' 
 
 All the little, gentle ways of her sweet 
 motherly nature have been tried in vain. 
 Spite of all she can do, there has risen up 
 an almost hostile atmosphere between them. 
 There were more troubles, too, afloat. Mrs 
 Winter had met Mrs Maitland one day 
 walking in the lane with Miss Sterne (how 
 much Aunt Amelia disliked and mistrusted 
 Miss Sterne, words cannot express ; there 
 was something so sinister in her face, 
 hidden by the long ringlets), and Mrs Mait- 
 land had taken Aunt Amelia aside, and 
 plainly told her that, after what had hap- 
 pened respecting her niece, she could not 
 possibly visit her as before, at least while
 
 2o6 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 her son Edward was at home. Miss Escott, 
 she heard, was very attractive to men. 
 
 She was so sorry, but she must, from the 
 first, let it be understood that any idea of 
 a matrimonial connection between the two 
 families was impossible ; therefore it would 
 be better, for the present, to suspend their 
 usual intercourse. 
 
 * People could not be too explicit and 
 too cautious in such a serious matter as 
 marriage,' Mrs Maitland said, bridling with 
 conscious superiority, ' particularly between 
 such near neighbours.' 
 
 ' Not that my feelings to you, my dear 
 friend,' added Mrs Maitland, with a dash 
 of real kindness in her eyes, turned on the 
 downcast figure of Mrs Winter, ' will ever 
 alter. No, never. We shall fall into our 
 old places again by-and-by, but just for 
 the present, I think it best to make a change. 
 Mr Maitland thinks so too, and you know, 
 Mrs Winter,' she continued, determined 
 to clinch the nail, ' Mr Maitland says little, 
 but about Edward's prospects he is more 
 imperative than I am.' 
 
 This idea of her husband struck Mrs 
 Maitland as so excellent, she proceeded to 
 improve on it. 
 
 'With Mr Maitland's strong feelings,
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 207 
 
 and the kind of marriage he wishes Ed- 
 ward to make (not a young man of the 
 world, you know, my dear, and unable to 
 bow or scrape) it would not do at all. 
 They tell me she Is very handsome, — not 
 my style of beauty, I Imagine' — here Mrs 
 Maltland bridled again, throwing back her 
 head, ornamented with a bonnet on which 
 reposed a bird of paradise in full relief — 
 * too bold and striking for my taste.' 
 
 All this time Aunt Amelia's heart beat 
 so violently, she had the greatest diffi- 
 culty in supporting herself opposite her 
 tormentor ; to speak with that thumping 
 at her side, and suffocation in her throat, 
 was Impossible. 
 
 Mrs Maltland interpreting her silence 
 into a meek acquiescence went on. 
 
 ' Of course, Edward must do as he 
 pleases about calling. He is too old now 
 for me to dictate what visits he should 
 make.' 
 
 Mrs Maltland said this simply as a 
 flourish, in the belief that after her con- 
 versation with him, and Edward's promise, 
 there was small chance of his going near 
 Scatlands, still, for fear of accidents, she 
 added, — 
 
 ' If Edward does call, do let me entreat
 
 2o8 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 you, dear Mrs Winter, not to encourage 
 his visits. Make him understand you do 
 not wish to see him. Give Miss Escott 
 a hint too, as to its being his father's wish 
 (mind, his father s, so much more import- 
 ant than mine) that there should be no 
 intercourse between them.' 
 
 At last Aunt Amelia found voice to 
 answer. With her hand pressed to her 
 side, and a hectic flush on her face, she 
 broke her long silence. 
 
 ' I think, Mrs Maitland, you might have 
 spared me so detailed a statement — ' 
 
 ' Not at all, not at all,' broke in that 
 lady. * Better be plain and above-board, 
 specially when a father's most sacred feel- 
 ings are concerned — ' 
 
 ' A hint would have sufficed, I assure 
 you,' said Mrs Winter, moving on. Even 
 she was roused to resentment. * I can 
 answer for my niece ; you quite mistake 
 her, let me tell you.' 
 
 * Ah ! that is the question,' said Mrs 
 Maitland hastily, with just the slightest 
 glance at the veiled figure of her compan- 
 ion, immovable behind her, 'the whole 
 question — ' 
 
 ' I am not going to undertake Sophia's 
 defence,' continued Aunt Amelia, with
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 209 
 
 quiet dignity (that dreadful heart of hers, 
 which always beat at the wrong moment, 
 was a little quieter) ' she needs none. 
 Your opinion of her is valueless. You 
 do not know her ; but, believe me, neither 
 you nor Mr Maitland need fear any de- 
 signs upon 3^our son. With my know- 
 ledge, he shall never put his foot within 
 our doors again. We may be unfortu- 
 nate, Mrs Maitland,' added Aunt Amelia, 
 with just a touch of bitterness, * and 
 the arrival of my niece has added to 
 our misfortunes, but we have not lost 
 the feeling of our birth. We are incap- 
 able of connivance.' 
 
 The perfect frankness with which Mrs 
 Maitland dealt with every subject, her 
 own affairs included (as has been said), 
 the absolute absence of all social delicacy, 
 left her quite at a loss before Mrs Winter's 
 grave reproof. 
 
 She stared round-eyed and amazed at 
 her neighbour, who was now turning away 
 without even the form of wishing her 
 good-bye. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' she cried, follow- 
 ing her and seizing her hand with the 
 most perfect good-humour. 
 
 ' You would not have had me silent on 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 2IO The Ill'tempered Cousin, 
 
 such a subject surely, when the prospects 
 of my only son are concerned ? ' 
 
 ' I would have you, Mrs Maltland,' re- 
 torted Mrs Winter, stopping, much against 
 her will, ' consider other persons' feelings a 
 litde.' 
 
 ' But what have your feelings to do with 
 it, my dear friend ? I don't blame you 
 about your niece : you have nothing to do 
 with her. I pity you extremely. Such a 
 temper, I hear ! Such, pride, such vanity ! 
 and then the family malady ! ' 
 
 Here Aunt Amelia opened her mouth 
 to ask to what family malady she alluded, 
 but was handicapped by her voluble friend. 
 
 * In case you might think me neglectful, 
 I wished to explain why I cannot call on 
 you at present, my dear. I shall always be 
 delighted to see you ' (with emphasis) ' at 
 Rosebank.' 
 
 Thus they parted, with further protesta- 
 tions of friendship on Mrs Maitland's 
 side, and much coldness on that of Aunt 
 Amelia. 
 
 Thinking over the scene quietly to her- 
 self, seated in her bee-hive chair. Aunt 
 Amelia felt deeply grieved. Mrs Mait- 
 land had often been very good to her 
 in her adversity, and foolish and ostenta-
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 2 1 1 
 
 tious as she was, and full of meaningless 
 chatter, she should miss her visits ex- 
 tremely. 
 
 How could she tell Sophia what had 
 occurred ? She could fancy her look of 
 proud disdain ; it absolutely made her 
 tremble to think of it. 
 
 A conflict of any kind with that im- 
 perious young spirit must be avoided. 
 Things are already bad enough without 
 that. 
 
 Sophia could only know Edward Mait- 
 land by name ; they might never meet. 
 As to his calling, that, at any rate, was 
 not likely. 
 
 Neither must Uncle Louis be told any- 
 thing. He would only be very angry, 
 blow up Mrs Maitland, use violent lan- 
 guage, and blame her. Since Sophia had 
 come, he had blamed her for everything. 
 
 No, she would say nothing. She would 
 leave all to chance. (In her way, Aunt 
 Amelia relied almost as much on chance 
 as her husband.) 
 
 That delightful scheme about John . 
 Bauer would set everything right. If 
 Sophia could only take to him and marry 
 him, what a blessing it would be ! But 
 while Aunt Amelia's eyes brightened at
 
 2 1 2 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 the thought, she dreaded lest her cold, 
 calm resistance would not baffle her in this 
 scheme as in everything else. 
 
 Here Mrs Winter gave a heavy sigh, 
 and looked out of the window. It was all 
 very sad and wretched, she thought, as 
 she gazed pensively at the rows of bricks 
 in the garden wall, and at the dull borders 
 of brown earth, unenlivened by so much 
 as a coloured leaf. Everything was 
 against her. The comfort of her home 
 was gone, and Sophia — at this point such 
 a hopelessness came over her that she 
 could not help sobbing to herself under the 
 folds of her handkerchief.
 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MEANWHILE Sophia was linger- 
 ing upstairs in her room. But 
 for Uncle Louis and his flute 
 (they played together late into 
 the night, long after Aunt Amelia had 
 gone to bed), she would have preferred 
 not to come down at all. 
 
 She was used, in the long, silent hours 
 of the hot season in India, to sit with 
 darkened windows ; everybody asleep in 
 the verandah, and no sound to be heard 
 but the creaking of the punkah. 
 
 And now her heart was so full that the 
 time seemed far too short to think out all 
 that had happened. Why had Edward 
 Maitland not come ? Would he come ? If 
 so, what would he say ? Was it possible — 
 Alone though she is, a burning blush 
 covers her from head to foot.
 
 214 1^^^ Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 ' No, no ! It is not possible ! ' (She 
 contradicts her own thoughts with loud, 
 outspoken words.) 'It is not possible ! It 
 was a mistake ! No one could care for 
 her. No one — no one ! ' 
 
 She wrung her hands piteously. All 
 that went with the death of her poor 
 father and ruin, — all the pleasant days 
 when people worshipped her. Oh, why 
 had he shot himself? If he had but lived 
 she could willingly have borne poverty — 
 disgrace even, with him. Now, a curse 
 had fallen upon her. God was very cruel ! 
 What had she done to deserve it ? 
 
 That tall, supple figure that stood be- 
 side her in the lane, like the world's master, 
 — that grave, open brow, that rare smile, 
 bringing out the glow in a pair of grey- 
 blue eyes, so full of meaning, was not for 
 her! No! no! not for her! She had 
 been a fool to think so. What he had 
 said was the ordinary tone of English 
 manners. Her ignorance had lent a sig- 
 nificance to his words and looks which 
 was not in the least warranted. 
 
 It was because she had lived so much 
 alone with her father, and associated so 
 little with young people of her own age, 
 that Edward Maitland's manner had so im-
 
 The Ill-tempe7'ed Cottsin. 215 
 
 pressed her. He, of course, had meant 
 nothing ; he had assisted her in a moment 
 of perplexity ; he had made her an offer of 
 his friendship. They had not met again ; 
 he had forgotten her. 
 
 Instead of dreaming of Maitland, she 
 would make a change in her life. She 
 would cease to be a burden on Uncle 
 Louis — eating out her heart in misery. 
 She would work. 
 
 What special work she was fitted for 
 she could not have defined. The daughter 
 
 of the almost princely resident at had 
 
 known nothing of work but the name. 
 
 A dreadful heave, as for breath, rose in 
 her breast : inexpressible longings came 
 over her. She tried to evoke her pride, 
 but no pride came. It all softened at the 
 thought of Edward. How he had charmed 
 her! 
 
 Then, in the same breath, she called 
 herself a poor, humiliated creature to think 
 of a man who had forgotten her. Yet 
 surely, after all he had said, — after the 
 earnest look of those eyes, — she grew hot 
 all over as she recalled them. European 
 as he was, might he not have taken the 
 trouble to inquire after her ? 
 
 Day after day Sophia passed in her
 
 2 1 6 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 room, at that side window that overlooked 
 the trees and shrubberies of Rosebank. 
 She even mounted on a chair and stood 
 for hours together to see if nothing were 
 moving under the elms bordering the 
 drive — her heart beating violently all the 
 time. If she could only have a glimpse 
 of him ! 
 
 That very morning, when the late day- 
 light came a little brighter than usual, she 
 had risen as early as she had been accus- 
 tomed to do in India, and throwing up the 
 sash, had stood shivering with cold, look- 
 ing out upon that shrubbery of laurels 
 near the house, bound in by the river. 
 
 It was a quiet, happy spot even in 
 winter, suggesting summer shade and the 
 fresh scent of flowers. The tall trunks of 
 the feathering elms rose up straight like 
 the pillars of a temple, supporting a canopy 
 of branches, through which glimpses of the 
 dull sky shot down. The ground, a sheet 
 of moss and ivy, across which a path 
 meandered into a little dell, where some 
 marble statues guarded a carved stone seat 
 and the entaliated border of a fountain. 
 
 Further on, deep hedges of evergreens 
 spread out like umbrageous walls, and 
 beyond, the smooth turf lawns, through
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 217 
 
 which flowed the river, broken by a 
 group of large weeping-willows, that 
 dipped their leafless branches into the 
 flood. 
 
 Sophia could just see the swans sailing 
 by, and make out the outlines of passing 
 boats, an old gentleman sitting in a punt, 
 and barges and rafts, with a rare pleasure- 
 boat — for the weather was chilly — with 
 gay-coloured flags dipping in the water. 
 Surely if she watched long enough she 
 must see Edward ! 
 
 No one! no one! Nothing but the 
 young rooks circling in the air, then 
 swooping down in search of worms, cawing 
 and chattering, the elder birds perched on 
 the leafless branches over the edgfe of the 
 old nests, until all flew away in dark 
 masses, one ancient bird leading the way. 
 
 At last, chilled by the raw air, she got 
 down from the chair and shut the window. 
 
 ' I can but die — I can but die,' she 
 moaned to herself, and tightly clutched the 
 little bottle with Zebula's charm, safe in her 
 bosom. 
 
 The touch brought comfort. Had 
 Zebula been there, she would have given 
 her something to draw Edward towards 
 her.
 
 2 1 8 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 Zebula could make love-filters and con- 
 coct poisons. She could read the stars, 
 and the lines of the hand. Plants and 
 trees were full of meaning to her. They 
 were possessed by the souls of the dead. 
 She would have spoken to those elms and 
 laurels, and drawn from them all manner 
 of secrets about Edward. Sophia thought 
 she must have offended the supreme spirit 
 Zebula dreaded almost to mention, and 
 that devils had been sent to torment her. 
 Droug^ht and blig^ht and disease came 
 from devils, and all manner of woe. They 
 are only to be won by propitiation and 
 offerings, and she had done nothing. 
 Every wicked person at his death goes to 
 swell the devil-legion. His evil passions 
 are intensified in the form of a malignant 
 and mischievous fiend. 
 
 Sophia was sure Aunt Amelia was a 
 devil ! 
 
 At twelve o'clock there was a sound of 
 steps outside, coming slowly down the oak 
 staircase. The door opened and Sophia 
 swept in. She gave a weary glance round 
 the yellow room, as if she knew by heart 
 all it contained, and hated it.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 219 
 
 Aunt Amelia rose hastily from her chair, 
 and went to meet her. 
 
 ' Are you not well, my love ? You are 
 so pale this morning.' 
 
 She asked the question hurriedly, look- 
 ing anxiously into Sophia's face. 
 
 ' Your eyes are dull too ! I am sure you 
 have slept badly.' 
 
 ' I wish, Aunt Amelia, you would not 
 always notice my looks. It worries me ! ' 
 
 Sophia frowned as she spoke, and cross- 
 ing over to the window, stood there, 
 watching the clouds scudding over the 
 grey sky. 
 
 ' Do you always have such dreadful 
 weather in England ? ' she asked. ' It 
 does not seem like the same world as 
 India. When will the sun shine .^ It is 
 much brighter at Rosebank — ' she was 
 adding, but stopped herself. 
 
 ' Yes ; winter is very gloomy,' an- 
 swered Mrs Winter, retreating to her 
 bee-hive chair, and taking up her strips 
 of coloured worsted-work. ' One must 
 be very happy to like it' 
 
 A heavy sigh was Sophia's only answer. 
 
 ' INIy love, it grieves me to see you so 
 depressed. Do try and accustom yourself 
 to your new life a little.'
 
 220 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 A bitter smile played round Sophia's 
 lips, and her large weary eyes travelled 
 contemptuously up and down the room. 
 
 ' I hope I have accustomed myself to 
 it ; at least I have tried to do so,' she added, 
 more gently. 
 
 She rather wished to conciliate Aunt 
 Amelia this morning ; tired of suspense, 
 she had resolved to ask her whether the 
 Maitlands never called. The very thought 
 of uttering their name brought a flush to 
 her cheek. Why could not Aunt Amelia 
 speak of them herself ? 
 
 ' Does she think she is to shut me up 
 like a prisoner ? She must be a devil ! ' 
 thought Sophia. 
 
 The flush on her face deepened into an 
 angry frown. She tapped her fingers 
 impatiently upon the panes of glass. 
 
 Mrs Winter was silently watching her. 
 She shook her head — then spoke, — 
 
 * It is very strange !' she said, in a low 
 voice ; ' I expected a letter this morning 
 from my sister. I hope nothing has hap- 
 pened, or that that weak-eyed postboy has 
 not lost it — he is so terribly careless ! We 
 pay him to bring the letters from Twicken- 
 ham, — whether he cannot see, or what it 
 is, I do not know ; but they are constantly
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin. 221 
 
 lost. Sophia, my love,' she added, in the 
 gentlest of tones, ' your aunt, Lady 
 Danvers, ought to have written to-day 
 about coming here. Do you not care to 
 see her ? ' 
 
 Sophia did not move ; but her fingers 
 rattled more sharply on the panes. Here 
 was this woman getting further and further 
 away from Rosebank and the Maitlands. 
 She hated her at that moment — as Zebula 
 had taught her to hate all evil things. She 
 hated herself too, for her want of courage in 
 not asking her a direct question. Yet, some- 
 how or other, the words died on her lips. 
 
 ' Sophia ! ' repeated Aunt Amelia, a little 
 louder, ' don't you hear me ? ' 
 
 She moved slowly round ; — a dark cloud 
 on her face — beautiful in its clear olive 
 outlines, and marble-like skin. 
 
 ' No, aunt ; I do not care. Lady Dan- 
 vers does not come to see me.' 
 
 A spot of red gathered on each of Mrs 
 Winter's cheeks, the bows on her cap 
 trembled, and her hands clutched the soft 
 wool of the coloured stripes. 
 
 ' Do, my love, remember,' her voice 
 faltering a little with the vexation she felt, 
 * it was your dear father's wish that you 
 should love your relations.'
 
 2 2 2 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 * Father ! ' Sophia caught up the word 
 and turned round sharply, her young face 
 set and stern, her hands held out en- 
 treatlngly. * No ! no ! Not my father ! 
 There are so few people that I can bear 
 to name him.' 
 
 Aunt Amelia was rising with some un- 
 defined notion of clasping her in her arms. 
 These cruel words stopped her. 
 
 ' Yet he was my own dear brother ! ' she 
 answered, retreating to her chair, utterly 
 discomfited. 
 
 * I know it ! I know it ! ' cried Sophia. 
 
 * I am very wrong, very wicked, but I 
 cannot help it ; ' then more calmly, — ' for- 
 give me, Aunt Amelia ! you wound me 
 without knowing it, perhaps — but you do 
 wound me.' 
 
 She drew back, and with an abrupt 
 movement turned again to the window. 
 Aunt Amelia's compassion was too much 
 roused to resent this outburst of temper. 
 
 * Sophia, you may be sure I never wish 
 to wound you. I had hoped for your con- 
 fidence — ' Here her soft voice almost 
 broke, but she forced herself to continue. 
 
 * You talk sometimes of your ayah Zebula. 
 Can you not care for me as you did for 
 her?'
 
 The Ill-te7npered Cousin, 223 
 
 There was no reply. Sophia was too 
 loyal to dissemble ; her head dropped in 
 silence. 
 
 * Well, well, never mind ! I daresay 
 it is my own fault. Something unlucky 
 seems to have come to me. The truth is, 
 I am too old, and too dull, to be a companion 
 for you. I do my best, but I have many 
 causes for anxiety which you do not under- 
 stand.' She stopped to suppress a sigh, 
 then proceeded meekly, — ' But your cousin, 
 Jane Danvers, will suit you. She is quite 
 a girl ; and so gay, so clever ! ' 
 
 ' Then she will be no companion for 
 me,' returned Sophia sharply. ^ Jane will 
 look down on me, now I am ruined. 
 People in India don't despise poor rela- 
 tions : in England they do.' 
 
 ' Oh, Sophia ! ' cried Aunt Amelia, in a 
 tone of reproach, 'Jane will love you.' 
 
 ' Love me ! ' Sophia gave a short, 
 scornful laugh. ' That is not at all likely.' 
 
 ' She will, my dear child — love you and 
 pity you.' 
 
 ' Pity me ! ' broke in Sophia, in an angry 
 voice. 'I want no one's pity! No one 
 shall pity me ! ' She raised her head, with 
 its coronet of raven plaits. * I know 
 my place. I am a humble relation, ab-
 
 224 ^^^^ Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 solutely dependent for my bread on the 
 charity of my friends. That was what you 
 wrote to me at Calcutta, Aunt AmeHa ! I 
 remember. Never fear!' 
 
 * And it is quite true,' answered Mrs 
 Winter, with unusual decision. ' Remem- 
 ber, my poor child, that our affection is all 
 you have left. It is my duty to say this 
 to you. I am sure you will forgive me.' 
 
 Sophia made no reply. Her uplifted 
 head and proud attitude seemed to say 
 that it was very doubtful whether she 
 intended to forgive anything. 
 
 * Will Aunt Amelia never give me any 
 opportunity of asking about the Mait- 
 lands ? ' was her thought all this time. 
 She reddened with vexation, as Mrs 
 Winter, quite ignorant of what was passing 
 in her mind, went on : — 
 
 ' My sister, Lady Danvers, is rich and 
 influential. Her husband died many years 
 ago and left her a handsome jointure, and 
 a lovely place for her life. Uncle Louis 
 and I went there once to visit her : I 
 never was so happy. But such visits are 
 beyond me ; I have no proper clothes to 
 appear in at my sister's house. Jane, her 
 daughter, inherits a separate fortune left 
 by her grandfather ; she will be very rich.
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 225 
 
 Lady Danvers Is her guardian, and gives 
 herself up to her education. Though Jane 
 is sixteen, she is kept hard at work. My 
 sister says she is naturally very clever, and 
 that her Intellect must be cultivated before 
 she comes out. I am afraid Lady Danvers 
 will overdo It, and make her 111. How- 
 ever, she has promised to bring her here 
 for Christmas. It will be a great treat to 
 her, especially as you are here. Jane is 
 so fond of Uncle Louis. I tell you this, 
 dear Sophia, that you may understand how 
 much Lady Danvers can do for you. She 
 lives in the world, you know — I do not — 
 we have no money. It is most Important 
 Lady Danvers should like you.' 
 
 Sophia listened to all this In stony 
 silence. Aunt Amelia, encouraged by her 
 seeming acquiescence, continued, — 
 
 * Then there Is John Bauer.' At John 
 Bauer's name. Aunt Amelia's voice grew 
 quite cheerful. She suddenly remembered 
 that he was at hand, and might come in 
 at any time ; perhaps that very evening. 
 ' I am so anxious he should please you. 
 He will accompany you and Uncle Louis 
 on the violoncello. He is such a good 
 fellow.' 
 
 ' Why do you want me to like this Mr 
 
 VCL. I. P
 
 2 26 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 Bauer ? ' asked Sophia ; turning round 
 upon her aunt. 
 
 At this question, Mrs Winter felt her 
 cheeks tingle. 
 
 ' Well, Sophia — she hesitated, — ' he is 
 Uncle Louis's nephew — a near relation.' 
 She paused again. Sophia never took 
 her dark eyes off her. This confused 
 her, and her heart began to beat * He 
 is immensely rich — a most excellent 
 match — the best of men.' She spoke 
 nervously, in little abrupt sentences. 
 ' Would it be wonderful — if — your uncle 
 and I would like it so much. We are 
 always talking about you, dear, — if he, 
 John, — should be struck — ' 
 
 A flash of fire leaped up in Sophia's 
 sombre eyes. 
 
 Do you mean struck by me ? ' she 
 asked Imperiously. ' Then, pray, beg 
 this gentleman not to come. I shall ask 
 Uncle Louis to forbid him — I shall 
 not be civil to him ! Understand, Aunt 
 Amelia, and tell Uncle Louis also, to 
 understand that you must make no matri- 
 monial projects for me.' 
 
 ' Sophia ! Sophia ! you treat me like a 
 stranger ! ' cried Mrs Winter, for the first 
 time waking into momentary anger.
 
 The in-te7npered Cousin. 227 
 
 * Neither Uncle Louis nor I can forbid 
 John Bauer the house ; — he comes and 
 goes when he pleases. No, Sophia, you 
 have no right to ask that. You are very- 
 perverse ; you care for nobody ; you might 
 have waited until you had met.' 
 
 ' On the contrary,' replied Sophia, with 
 provoking calm, ' it is better to say at 
 once that I will have nothing to do with 
 him. It will save misapprehension. I 
 know my place. Aunt Amelia. I am 
 ready to work for my bread. But in this 
 I am my own mistress. I do not mean to 
 marry. ' 
 
 'Not mean to marry!' ejaculated Mrs 
 Winter, too much aghast to notice any- 
 thing else. (How she repented having 
 mentioned John Bauer's name. She had 
 roused Sophia's temper.) ' Why ! it was 
 always intended you should marry. Your 
 father — ' 
 
 ' No ; not now ! I do not intend to 
 marry. I can quite understand your 
 motive. Aunt Amelia.' As she said this, 
 Sophia seemed to stiffen into stone. 'You 
 do not like me. You w^ish to get rid of 
 me! I promise you, I shall not trouble 
 you long.' 
 
 * Trouble me ! ' repeated Aunt Amelia,
 
 2 28 The Ill-tempered Cottsin, 
 
 too much stunned at first to understand. 
 ' My beloved brother's child ! I have not de- 
 served this ! Indeed — indeed I have not !' 
 
 At this point poor Mrs Winter utterly 
 broke down. All the sorrow that had 
 weighed upon her since Sophia came 
 seemed to engulf her in an abyss of hope- 
 less misery. She covered her face with 
 her hands ; then quickly wiping away 
 the fast-falling tears, she made a desperate 
 effort to master her feelings. 
 
 It would not do. Sophia's cruel words 
 had struck her like a knife. 
 
 ' Forgive me, dear,' she murmured. 
 * Forgive me. I feel a little unwell. I 
 think I will go out and take a walk. I 
 am so nervous — the air will do me good. 
 Good-bye, good-bye.' And she hastily 
 left the room. 
 
 As Sophia watched the manner of Mrs 
 Winter's exit, a curl of scorn rose to her 
 lips. Her disdainful eyes followed the 
 fragile little figure in its progress to the 
 door. Then her wrath exploded. 
 
 *John Bauer, indeed! So that is your 
 plan. I have no money, and you want to 
 get rid of me. You are a false, designing 
 woman, Aunt Winter, with all your soft
 
 The Ill-ter7ipered Cousin. 229 
 
 ways ! I thought so. Zebula found you 
 out. John Bauer, indeed!' And with rapid 
 steps she paced up and down the room. 
 
 Gradually, however, her pace slackened ; 
 — the flush on her face paled down, and 
 she beo^an to look with curious elances at 
 the pictures, which, spite of the gloomy 
 day, shone out in rich, subdued tints. 
 
 The subjects were as strange to her as 
 though they had been glimpses into an- 
 other planet. 
 
 The cool greys and browns and blues of 
 the Dutch school — (Mr Winter, naturally, 
 was always well supplied with Dutch 
 pictures) — the peaceful delineation of home 
 life — the running stream, beside which 
 rode a solitary horseman — the mill-dam 
 with its wheel and foam of mist — the patch 
 of bosky wood — the dim, dreamy distance, 
 melting into the sky — the groups of men 
 and women, in thick puffed-out clothes and 
 broad-brimmed hats, stolidly contemplating 
 each other — a fat-faced lady in white satin, 
 a red ribbon in her hair, performing on 
 a spinet — a cavalier beside her, a red, 
 feather in his felt hat, and a countenance 
 round, common-place, impassive — of all this 
 misty, dimly-lighted world, Sophia knew 
 nothing ; but its peacefulness soothed her.
 
 230 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 As her eyes wandered eagerly up and 
 down the walls, they fixed themselves on a 
 large painting in an elaborately-carved 
 frame, placed conspicuously in the centre 
 of a panel, on which ' San Sebastiano ' 
 was written in gold letters on the dark 
 gilding. 
 
 The figure stood out life-like from the 
 canvas, pierced by arrows to the stem of 
 a tree. 
 
 Who San Sebastiano was, Sophia had 
 no idea ; but the clear, transparent flesh- 
 tints, and that solemn, suffering look in 
 the beautiful upturned eyes, riveted her 
 like a spell. 
 
 As long as Mrs Winter was present, 
 Sophia would not for worlds have allowed 
 herself to appear interested in anything ; 
 and it so happened that she had never 
 been alone in the yellow drawing-room 
 before. 
 
 Now, all her artistic tastes were awak- 
 ened. She did not conceal her delight. 
 
 Sophia was an unconscious artist, but 
 in music alone her natural powers had 
 been cultivated. 
 
 One by one she took up and minutely 
 examined the gems that lay about among 
 skeins of darning thread and tape and
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 231 
 
 buttons and discoloured bills, and she 
 knelt to examine a Dresden tea-service 
 placed on a low shelf, with portraits of 
 smiling ladies, their piled-up, powdered 
 heads like the petals of snowy flowers. 
 
 'How gay they all look!' thought 
 Sophia. ' They must have had happy 
 lives ! ' 
 
 Continuing her Inspection, she handled 
 the blue Chinese plates, as big as chargers, 
 with great dabs of red and blue paint, like 
 Cashmere shawls, and touched the jars 
 standing on the carpet, filled with Aunt 
 Amelia's best pot-pourri, the rose-leaf per- 
 fume of which always clung about her. 
 
 * How can Uncle Louis be poor when 
 he possesses such treasures ? ' she asked 
 herself. 
 
 Then she stared at the Dutch tiles that 
 shut in the grate, with their quaint groups 
 of Egyptian Pharaoh, in royal robes of 
 cobalt, wringing his hands, — Moses stand- 
 before him, cobalt also, but more freely 
 sprinkled with white, as became an Israel- 
 ite and a lawgiver. All this was very 
 wonderful. 
 
 She took up Aunt Amelia's stripes of 
 knitting lying on the rug, eyed them first 
 curiously, then, in a sudden fit of anger,
 
 232 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 
 
 flung them on the floor. A little ashamed 
 of herself, she sauntered off, more by in- 
 stinct than by reflection, to the piano, where 
 she seated herself, and began to think. 
 
 The pale face in the picture of St 
 Sebastian followed her. Should she die 
 with mournful, upturned orbs like those ? 
 Die alone — quite alone ; with no one to 
 close her eyes, or fold the shroud around 
 her ? 
 
 Her fingers, meanwhile, wandered un- 
 consciously over the keys, — vaguely at 
 first, — striking a few chords, that sounded 
 so penetrating, so appalling, they echoed 
 in the room like the voice of a fiend ; the 
 chords followed by a dash of crashing 
 harmonies, long wailing arpeggios, and 
 musical sighs, dying out in quaint little 
 shakes and runs and trills. 
 
 It was no settled theme. She played 
 as the spirit within prompted, passing from 
 major to minor ; but with one long, earnest 
 keynote, steadfast in all the changes, — the 
 note of her own soul. 
 
 A flash of delight came into her face 
 as she felt the power of the instrument 
 under her hands ; — the music rolling forth, 
 free as a great river which overbursts its 
 bounds.
 
 The Ill-tempe7'ed Cousin. 233 
 
 Little by little she grew absolutely 
 absorbed by the subtle charms that her 
 imagination created, gazing up at the 
 St Sebastian, with that holy, martyred 
 look, the arrows planted in his bleeding 
 breast. 
 
 Yes, she suffered too ! Many sharp 
 arrows pierced her soul ! 
 
 Now her theme melted into a melody — 
 simple, soft, touching ; — the motive of a 
 sonata which her father had loved. 
 
 Yes ! she should like to die like that — 
 serene in the flames of torture, rapt in 
 the bliss of the unseen ! 
 
 Since Maidand had forsaken her, all 
 her thoughts were of death ; her hand 
 was always clutching the little filigree 
 bottle in her bosom, Zebula's last gift. 
 
 Then her fingers dashed up and down 
 the board in successive octaves, into the 
 untutored rhythm of an Indian dance. 
 But in all she played there was a wild, 
 passionate longing, — a yearning, uneasy 
 sense of uno^ratified desire, reflectinor itself 
 in her large black eyes, so sad, so fierce, 
 so full of love, so redolent of hate. 
 
 As she played, the room in which 
 she sat receded, the leaden skies outside 
 vanished.
 
 234 'I^^^ Ill-tempered Cousin. 
 
 The vast plains of India rose before her — 
 sun-baked, brown, arid — shut in by giant 
 mountain ranges, folding themselves up 
 in mist, breaking into tints of lilac and 
 purple. 
 
 In the west, a blood-red sun dropped 
 into a tawny volcano of cloud. She 
 breathed the vapours that swept by her 
 like the breath of a furnace. 
 
 A grove of palm trees shook its huge 
 fronds in the sultry air ; the outline of 
 cactus hedges fell dark upon the earth ; 
 the stifling fragrance of champak and 
 jasmine, and roses of Saadi of every 
 shade (from the splendour of the full- 
 blown Bengal to the tiny button, which 
 trails upon the earth) ; tall sandal-wood 
 trees made the air heavy with their perfume. 
 Avenues of majestic banyans, with broad, 
 smooth leaves, each tree a forest in itself, 
 rose up in the hot air ; monkeys swung 
 from branch to branch ; and parrots, like 
 living flowers, chattered among the coral 
 creepers, with stiff crimson pod. Then 
 the scene changed to a bungalow on the 
 green plateau of a mountain ravine at 
 Simla, where she spent the hot season, 
 burled In tree-ferns and tamarinds, its over- 
 spreading verandahs shaded with great
 
 The Ill-tempered Cousin, 235 
 
 plantain trees, and gaudy-leaved exotics 
 flinging themselves from bough to bough 
 in the damp air. Within, her father lay 
 stretched on a divan, his calm face veiled 
 In sleep ; Zebula, at her feet, whispering, 
 as was her wont, long tales of charms and 
 enchantments, to pass away the sultry 
 hours of the day. 
 
 Death, ruin, England were but dreams 
 — evil dreams, of the night. For one in- 
 stant, under the spell of the music, she 
 forgot even IMaitland, and lived in her 
 native land once more. 
 
 A slight sound roused her. She ceased 
 playing, and turned round. 
 
 Maitland was standing motionless in the 
 open doorway, his eyes riveted upon her ! 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.