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 1^ 
 PAUL FOSTEE'S DAUGHTEK.' 
 
 BUTTON COOK. 
 
 Hamlet. O Jephthah, judge of Israel — what a treasure had'st thou ! 
 Polonius. What treasure had he, my lord ? 
 Hamlet. Why— 
 
 One fair daughter and no more. 
 The which he loved passing well. 
 Polonins. Still on my daughter. {Aside). 
 Hamlet Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah ? 
 Fulotiius. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter, 
 that I love passing well. 
 
 Shakspere. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. 1. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1861. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 printed by r. born, gloucester street, 
 regent's park
 
 v.l 
 
 PAUL FOSTER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 Certain of the old Masters, studiously 
 shunning all charm of colour, and not par- 
 ticularly heedful about correctness of form, 
 were fond of painting with grim, dead, lack- 
 lustre pigments, purposing to shape, and 
 
 y harmonize, and set all right by the glow 
 and beauty of the glaze to be finally spread 
 upon the canvas. It was a cosmetic sort 
 of plan. You were not to heed about the 
 
 Js^complexion underneath, so long as a decent 
 coating of artificial bloom — jpoudre de Ninon 
 
 <^ -^adorned the surface. In point of right 
 
 J VOL. I. B
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 principle, of course, the old gentlemen were 
 wrong, as many of the picture-cleaners, who 
 so kindly and ingeniously scrape off the 
 glorious veneer, and returned to us our 
 pictures dull, ugly, raw, and " restored," 
 have demonstrated with admirable clear- 
 ness ; and Art has, in fact, abandoned the 
 injudicious scheme. Form is carefully 
 studied ; drawing made much of ; colour 
 examined microscopically, and stippled into 
 modern painting with an amazing scrupu- 
 lousness. Glazing has gone out. But 
 Nature, strange to say, like a schoolmaster 
 taking up with a boy's game, still adheres, 
 very often, to the plan. There is always 
 some one who will receive gleefully a cast- 
 ,off garment — and Nature is still partial to 
 glazing effects. Pass, on a summer evening, 
 down that not very elegant street, the 
 Strand, from east to west ; mark how the 
 sinking sun is concealing defects of form 
 and colour, by rich floodings of warm 
 blush-rays; how the north-side houses are
 
 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 6 
 
 shining as with a bright gold-leaf layer; 
 how the edges of coping-stones and window- 
 sills glitter, and the dirty windows are 
 flecked with vivid yellow diamond light. 
 Can you fail to be satisfied that that grand 
 old master, Sol, is painting, if trickily, still 
 amazingly, and with great success, in his 
 very best manner ? Nor is the lady Luna — 
 pale, tender amateur — one whit less happy 
 in her application of the same false system 
 of art — with her green grey high lights, 
 and her blue, hard-edged shadows, and 
 that soft, floating mist with which she films 
 the distance and drapes the background. 
 Under such auspices even monstrosities 
 gain beauty ; I have seen Trafalgar Square 
 look positively imposing, and a grandeur 
 and solemnity linger about the other- 
 wise not very striking edifice and precincts 
 comprehended in Co vent Garden Market. 
 
 And it is there I desire to bring you. 
 Only so much by way of a fanfaronade, 
 before the show-man pulls the strings, and 
 
 B 2
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 the curtain rises — as a clearing of tlie voice 
 — the hemming and hawing that harbinger 
 the oration — as the running up and down 
 the instrument, the trying its paces, that 
 the performer must indulge in before he 
 emerges from idle flourish into busy tune. 
 Otherwise the foregoing is hardly per- 
 missible ; for really there is no tricky art 
 in the scene disclosed after all — moonlight 
 there is none, and has been none for some 
 hours. So imagine, please, that the picture 
 has been " restored "' — the glaze well peeled 
 off, thanks to scrubbing-brush and pummice- 
 stone — the naked crude hues and the ugly 
 distorted form left exposed and open — then 
 think that a cloud of dust and dirt has come 
 across the work. No moonlight — but a 
 dense rain, and the thick cobwebby air it 
 brings with it. The market-place dismal 
 enough — with a wet shining half to each of 
 its columns, water dripping and running and 
 splashing from all its roofs and eaves and 
 ledges — a gushing in its gutters, and plen-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 tiful mud about — bright puddles glassing the 
 street-lamps — a great sense of wet and dis- 
 comfort pervading the whole — together with 
 the pungent odour of the cabbage- stalk ever 
 present. Conjure up all this late on a Sa- 
 turday night — let us rather say early on a 
 Sunday morning — for the gas-illumined 
 clock of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, has just 
 tolled out the hour of two, and London is 
 asleep, and the public-houses have been 
 shut since twelve, according to act of Par- 
 liament, and it is too wet even for the roys- 
 terer who is under cover if not asleep — and 
 the oil-caped policeman, with the hat that 
 glitters under the gas-lamps, and the large 
 feet that seem to be always falling into the 
 first position, in a splay, dunce sort of way, 
 like a beginner at a dancing academy — the 
 policeman with the whiskers and the bull's 
 eye and the trouser ends tucked up, heedless 
 of appearance, to preserve them from the 
 mire — has it all to himself; and he yawns 
 aloud, for there is really no one to hear — and
 
 6 PAUL EOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 gives chase to a cat just half a street — and 
 sings a sort of a "tol de rol" chorus, caught 
 from a wine-laden wanderer who passed on 
 his way exactly an hour and a half ago — 
 and wishes to heaven it were morning, or 
 that he were in bed, or at least that some 
 one would turn up on his beat to give him 
 some little food for thought and beguile- 
 ment — or at very least that it would leave 
 off raining. 
 
 Suddenly a sound strikes on the ear of 
 B 63, a sound as of the cracking of nuts. He 
 is a hater of solitude — life loves life; he seeks 
 the nut-eater ; he finds him under one of 
 the arcades of the market-place, a small 
 calm gentleman, apparently taking shelter 
 from the rain, and cracking the nuts in 
 question with his teeth. Of course he was 
 young, and his teeth, as they need be, strong 
 and good : not for him those wonderful me- 
 chanisms thrown up by black velvet at den- 
 tists' doors. He needed no admirable imi- 
 tations of nature, warranted not to corrode;
 
 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTEE. 7 
 
 no gutta-percha gums, no double-row mine- 
 rals, extra superfine, with gold wire spring, 
 price twenty guineas ; and so, prodigal, he 
 was playing duck and drake with his teeth, 
 cracking nuts with them. And arriving at 
 the kernels, he devoured with cool relish. 
 
 B 63, inspected the nut eater. His first 
 impulse, born, let it be said, of police duty 
 and discipline, was to address the young 
 gentleman coarsely with "• Come out of 
 that — why don't you ? You can't do that 
 here ! " or some such burst of command and 
 interrogation. But then he saw that he 
 was a gentleman, or somebody very like one, 
 who was doing no great harm after all, and 
 whom possibly the law might fairly permit 
 to be where he was as long as he so chose ; 
 and the night or the morning was very 
 lonely and wet and miserable — and the 
 sound of a human voice, and the sight of a 
 brother being, were after all consolatory 
 circumstances; and suppose a little conversa- 
 tion ensued — well, it would be a change, and
 
 8 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 might be cheering and amusing ; and even 
 if they fell out and quarrelled, the young 
 gentleman might be led to Bow Street, and 
 that would be something — it would break up 
 a melancholy monotony anyhow. SoB63 
 disturbed the silence ; and being a thorough 
 Englishman, hesitated not to inform his com- 
 panion of what he ^vas already perfectly well 
 aware. 
 
 " Beastly wet !" he said, in a husky, two- 
 o'clock-in-the-morning voice. 
 
 " Very." 
 
 The young gentleman gave a glance at 
 him, answered quietly, and resumed his 
 occupation. The constable rubbed his chin, 
 looked moodily at the grim, dusky sky, 
 and, not to be beaten by a monosyllabic 
 parry, began a new attack. This took the 
 form of a more confidential, personal, and 
 domestic communication. 
 
 " I'd as lief be in bed — I had — if not 
 liefer." 
 
 " Why aint you there, then ?" spoken
 
 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. \) 
 
 quietly, with an abstract notion of police 
 duty, and an utter want of consideration of 
 the professional demands upon the prefer- 
 ences of B 63, that were simply staggering 
 to that officer. 
 
 " Bless you, I hadn't the chance." This 
 utterance was not until after a prolonged 
 rubbing of his chin, and on this occasion 
 with the introduction of his short, massive 
 nose into the scheme of manipulation. The 
 answer was so long after the remark pro- 
 ducing it, that the originator had com- 
 pletely forgotten the provocation he had 
 given, and looked up wondering at the 
 relevancy of the speech. He could not 
 trace it out at all satisfactorily ; and too in- 
 different to trouble himself much about it, 
 soon abandoned the endeavour. Still, it 
 seemed to behove him to say something. 
 
 "Have a nut?" 
 
 B 63 did not care if he did crack one or 
 two. He received a handful, and soon the 
 sound of nut-crackinir was doubled — the
 
 10 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 conversation stopping the while almost alto- 
 gether. The nut-eaters continued their oc- 
 cupation, each careful, in throwing away 
 their shells, to aim at a particular puddle. 
 But the nuts at last began to run short, 
 and soon words once more found way be- 
 tween them. 
 
 '' Waiting for the rain ?" inquired the 
 constable, blandly, amicably. 
 
 " Part yes, part no," was the vague an- 
 swer. 
 
 " Because I think it will go on like this 
 for hours." 
 
 " I think so too." The officer's efforts at 
 conversation were certainly commendable, 
 only somehow they were not met in a right 
 and reciprocal spirit. He was, in spite of 
 the nuts, a little ruffled at the want of confi- 
 dence, as it were, reposed in him. 
 
 " Why are you stopping here ?" 
 
 " Because I choose." It was not angrily 
 spoken, but so calmly and carelessly as to 
 be extremely irritating. Really, if it had
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 11 
 
 not been for the nuts I think the young 
 gentleman would have been taken to the 
 station-house on a charge of obstructing the 
 police in the execution of their duty. B 63 
 began to wish he had not accepted the 
 courtesy of his companion, and, mentally, 
 he swore at the nuts. Still, perhaps, it was 
 hardly advisable to quarrel. 
 
 " I think I know a crib where we could 
 get some drink, if you want any." Said 
 with a greasy slyness, meant to be artfully 
 inviting, but really perhaps repelling, in a 
 measure. 
 
 " I don't want to drink." 
 
 *^Well, I don't mind saying I'm dry 
 myself inside ;" and he fell to rubbing the 
 lower half of his face generally and grimly. 
 
 "I'm sorry for you." So aggravatingly 
 indifferent, that conversation was quite 
 killed by it, and the constable was driven 
 to whistling again for amusement. But he 
 desired to part on terms of decent friendli- 
 ness.
 
 12 , PAUL eoster's daughter. 
 
 *' I must hook it. Good night." 
 ^' Good night." And the heavy beat of 
 his double soles on the pavement told that 
 he had moved slowly away. The young 
 gentleman was left alone ; he had finished 
 his nuts, so that he had nothing to do but 
 to pocket his hands, lean against the wall, 
 and study the flickering of the gas-lamp 
 opposite to him. He was certainly in no 
 hurry. It was still raining, and his situa- 
 tion was draughty enough. But cold and 
 rain seemed small matters to him, though 
 he was slight, delicate-looking, thinly clad. 
 The policeman had passed away some time, 
 and he was still gazing at the gas-lamp. 
 
 But soon a new object attracted his 
 attention : a man was to be seen coming 
 down the street opposite — a tall, broad 
 man, uncertain and serpentine in his gait. 
 He held an umbrella, closed notwithstand- 
 ing the weather. He appeared to have 
 only recently emerged into the open air, 
 and not to have yet fairly appreciated the
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 13 
 
 rain tlirougli which he was walking. He 
 crossed over and entered the market, how- 
 ever ; and having reached a place of shelter, 
 said, unreasonably, 
 
 " By Jove, it rains !" And immediately 
 commenced to open and hold up his um- 
 brella of ragged brown silk. He was now 
 close to the standing-place of our young 
 friend the nut-eater, whose hat he struck 
 against clumsily. 
 
 "Stupid!" exclaimed that gentleman, 
 thrusting away the umbrella with his hand. 
 
 The tall man stopped shortly, and looked 
 down at his critic. 
 
 " I did not see you. It was not stupidity." 
 
 " Well, let us say whiskey and water." 
 
 The tall man gazed with a stare of intoxi- 
 cated amazement. The young gentleman 
 preserved his air of phlegmatic abstraction. 
 
 " You're right," said the tall man ; " we 
 ivill say whiskey and water — a little too 
 much of it, perhaps. I humbly apologize," 
 with a tipsy sort of solemnity.
 
 14 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 ^ " Don't mention it ;" with simple in- 
 difference. 
 
 " Have I offended you ?" 
 
 " Not in the slightest ; don't let me detain 
 
 you." 
 
 "But I WILL let you detain me. You're 
 a strange fellow. What are you doing here ?" 
 
 " What is that to you ?" He spoke with 
 such coolness that what he said sounded 
 almost like insolence. The tall man stared 
 at him again. He bore the inspection un- 
 flinchingly — looking rather a stripling, it 
 must be owned, by the side of the other. 
 
 " Why, I do believe you'd fight me for a 
 trifle," said the tall man, with irony. The 
 young man looked at him carelessly. 
 
 " I suppose if I was struck I should strike 
 again. It must be owned, though, we're 
 hardly a match." 
 
 " I think I am a little bigger." 
 
 " Yes, but you're drunk — don't forget 
 that." The tall man broke into a peal of 
 laughter. The young fellow merely re-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 15 
 
 garded him with the idle curiosity he had 
 awarded to the gas-lamp. 
 
 " I think if we fought I might beat you," 
 the tall man continued. 
 
 " It depends upon me a little. It is for 
 me to own I am beaten — not you to tell me 
 I am.'' 
 
 " And you would own it ?" 
 
 "Not I." 
 
 "But don't you think — in point of pro- 
 bability — that I should beat you ?" 
 
 "David beat Goliah, the bigger and 
 stronger of the two." 
 
 "But you're not David." 
 
 " And you're not Goliah." 
 
 " I like you," said the tall man, amused ; 
 " I don't care to fight you. The world's 
 big enough for both of us, I think." 
 
 "Yes. So's the market." 
 
 " Meaning that I may as well seek shel- 
 ter in another part of it ?" 
 
 " As you please. It's a matter of small 
 interest to me."
 
 16 PAUL fostek's daughter. 
 
 " Why need we quarrel ? Why need we 
 barter ill-nature with each other? Say 
 that we are waiting here together at two 
 o'clock in the morning — waiting for the 
 rain to leave off. Cannot we pass the time 
 in something of a friendly way — seem- 
 ingly amicable — " 
 
 " And supremely careless at heart ?" 
 
 "Exactly. Neither cares a button for 
 the other — we are in prison, with the rain 
 for jailer. Soon the order for the libera- 
 tion of one or both of us may come, and 
 we shall part, not to meet again. Very 
 likely. Men are so meeting and so parting 
 every day. But is that a reason why we 
 should begin by punching heads?" 
 
 The young- fellow mused over this, and 
 smiled slightly. 
 
 " I think you are right," hp said, at 
 length ; " it's dog-manners to meet all 
 strangers with a growl and a snap. Only 
 with them it has the advantage of being 
 honest — they mean growling and snapping.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 17 
 
 So they don't begin by fawning and hand- 
 licking. With men it is different. We 
 don't care, as you say, a button for each 
 other — speaking for myself, I can say 
 frankly I care less than a button for you. 
 Still, let us smile courteously upon each 
 other, let us affect a cordial interest, and 
 then part, no way changed by our meet- 
 ing." 
 
 "Cynic! Misanthropist! With blond, 
 woman's hair, and no beard." 
 
 " Is this friendliness? — is this courtesy? 
 You start away from the compact while the 
 seal is still warm. Bah ! I forgot the whis- 
 key and water !" 
 
 " Pray, pardon me." 
 
 "A nice commencement; name-calling, 
 and personal criticism of an offensive cha- 
 racter. What is my hair to you? Why 
 pluck me by the beard? I don't mean 
 literally." 
 
 They both laughed at this. They were 
 palpably warming to each other. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 PAUL fostee's daughter. 
 
 '' I really apologise humbly." 
 
 "You're — well, not sober, though im- 
 proving. I will endeavour to forget your 
 offence." 
 
 " Try this side of the passage. I really 
 think there is less wind, and hardly a drop 
 of rain." 
 
 "You are most considerate." 
 
 And the young man moved over to 
 where his companion had been standing. 
 They were now side by side, leaning against 
 the wall. 
 
 "Have you been waiting here long?" 
 
 " I have been here for two hours." 
 
 "Are you not pretty well tired of it?" 
 
 " I have not thought about that yet. 
 I'm here to kill time. Wherever I might 
 be, it would be only to kill time. I have 
 killed two hours. Well, there remain six or 
 seven more to be disposed of." 
 
 "You propose to stay here until the 
 morning ?" 
 
 The young man bowed.
 
 PAUL fostek's daughter. 19 
 
 " What ! have you no bed to go to ?" 
 asked with abrupt astonishment. 
 
 " A bed that I cannot get at is almost as 
 good, or as bad, as no bed." 
 
 "And you cannot get at your bed?" 
 with further wondering. 
 
 "Are you not a little dull?" 
 
 " I don't remember to have been accused 
 of being so before. But is not that enquiry 
 a step out of the contract ?" 
 
 " I admit it, and apologize. Understand 
 then plainly — I am locked out. You know 
 what that means ?" 
 
 "I have a notion about it. No key? 
 Exactly. And no admittance after twelve ? 
 Precisely. I think that's called, com- 
 monly, 'the key of the street.' Do you 
 like it ? Has it happened before ? 
 Does it often happen? Is it an acci- 
 dent?" 
 
 " I think you are questioning me a little 
 too much — for our agreement." 
 
 " Your turn shall come. You shall cross- 
 
 c2
 
 20 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 examine me, Old Bailey fashion, afterwards, 
 if you like — only answer." 
 
 " It is not an accident. It has happened 
 before — many times. I don't like it. But, 
 I am on the wrong side of the door, and 
 they will lock it. Beyond that I have little 
 to complain of. I have had full notice. 
 Before twelve I am admitted : after twelve 
 I am shut out. I please myself. If I elect 
 to be shut out, knowing the consequences, 
 that is my aifair." 
 
 "But why do you elect to be shut out? 
 What can possibly compensate for a night 
 in the streets like this ?" 
 
 "If it is so extremely distasteful to you, 
 why not go ? Besides, I really think you 
 are asking too many questions." 
 
 " I have told you your turn shall come ; 
 and you have interested me so much, it 
 would be cruel to break off now." 
 
 " Are you likely to remain much longer ? 
 I begin to tire of all this interrogation." 
 
 "It is still raining hard. I am not in
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 21 
 
 the least hurry ; besides, I hate to get wet. 
 But I promise to make no further enquiries." 
 
 " Well, I have been to the theatre. I go 
 frequently to the theatre : say that I love 
 the theatre. Now, are you satisfied ? The 
 performance may be long. I hate to be 
 baulked of my enjoyments. I live three 
 miles from the theatre. Do you under- 
 stand ?" 
 
 '' I think I do— a little. But what 
 theatre?" 
 
 "Another question. I positively refuse 
 to answer. Now, what do you do here V" 
 
 " I am taking shelter from the rain." 
 
 " That I know. Tell me something more. 
 Yet — no — I am not sure that I care to be 
 informed ;" and the stripling relapsed into 
 his old careless, quiet mood. But the tall 
 man went on. 
 
 " I have been passing the evening in this 
 neighbourhood, at a club of journalists, 
 authors, artists, actors. We had pipes — 
 and talk."
 
 22- PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " And whiskey and water." 
 
 ^' Just so. By the way, may I offer you 
 a cigar ? No ? And here I am. Coming 
 out, I find it wet — take shelter here, and 
 meet you." 
 
 " To part, as you say, not to meet again." 
 
 " Perhaps ; such things happen every 
 day." 
 
 " You don't tell me much in return for 
 what I have been telling you." 
 
 " It is my misfortune that I have nothing 
 so interesting to communicate. What can 
 it matter to you, however, if we are never 
 to see each other again ? " 
 
 " If you had amused me for five minutes 
 only, so much time would have been so 
 much the more easily killed." 
 
 The tall man, a good deal sobered now 
 by time and the night air, looked down at 
 his slender companion kindly and pity- 
 ingly. 
 
 " I don't like your having the key of the 
 street, I tell you frankly — least of all on
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 23 
 
 sucli a night as this. It's not nice weather 
 for a dog even — worse, a great deal, for — " 
 he was about to be betrayed into personal 
 criticism again ; fortunately, however, he 
 stopped himself in time, and closed simply 
 with the words, " for you." 
 
 " Thank you," answered the stripling. 
 " Still, we shall part ; you will go home, and 
 in five minutes have forgotten me altoge- 
 ther ; in the course of to-morrow, perhaps, 
 it may once or twice flit across your mind 
 that you met some one in the rain over 
 night, and you will be wondering what he 
 said, and what you talked about, and alto- 
 gether what the whole thing meant, and 
 how it came to pass. So much for my 
 having interested you." 
 
 " Look here " — and the tall man turned 
 good-natured eyes on to his companion, and 
 his voice sounded very pleasantly and 
 honestly — " look here. I am going home ; 
 I live not far from here — a humble crib 
 enough, still better than the key of the
 
 24 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 street. I'll give you shelter ; it's not right, 
 it's not fitting, that you should be out here, 
 killing time, as you call it, in this miserable 
 sort of way. Will you come? We will 
 part to-morrow, just as we should part to- 
 night — the notion of that, I know, seems to 
 please you — and not meet again, and not 
 know each other a bit better. Will you 
 come?" 
 
 "Really, your offer is most kind and 
 generous." 
 
 " And therefore you are going to refuse 
 it. I can see it in your face, even in this 
 dim light. But look here. You will not 
 escape me. For if you stop here, I will 
 stop here too. I will help you to kill time, 
 and ourselves also, it may be said, in the 
 wet and the cold." 
 
 " It will soon be day-break, thank you, 
 and these May mornings — " 
 
 " If you won't care for yourself, care for 
 me. I am subject to rheumatism. I am 
 not yet quite sober. Must I die because
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 25 
 
 you are so calmly obstinate? Is this the 
 way a hospitable offer is spurned ? A gen- 
 tleman offers to shelter for a night an utter 
 stranger, wandering in the streets, and his 
 proposal is rejected with the bitterest scorn." 
 
 The expostulation was uttered with ex- 
 aggerated violence. 
 
 ^' I'll go with you,'' said the young man, 
 smiling; "forgive my seeming want of 
 courtesy." 
 
 " Come on, then ; let me hold up the 
 umbrella. Mark my generosity — I turn 
 the side with the most rents over my own 
 head. How it rains ! How cold I feel ! 
 Rheumatism ! — I am prepared to make oath 
 on the subject. Take my arm — so. This 
 way. By-the-bye, what's your name ?" 
 
 The young man stopped short, as though 
 he repented of the arrangement. But the 
 tall man drew him along. 
 
 " I see — a breach of covenant. I did not 
 mean inquisitiveness. It's pleasant to have 
 something to call a man by — right or
 
 26 PAUL eoster's daughter. 
 
 wrong. Dogs or cats, I'm not happy until I 
 have bestowed a title on them. Anything 
 will do. Ah ! I remember ; let us say — 
 David." 
 
 "Andyou— Goliah?" 
 
 " I'm quite agreeable. This way, David ; 
 mind the puddle — step out — histh, cat !" 
 
 And so they moved away from the 
 market, Goliah pretty steady by this time — 
 a great, broad, bony man, with a dense 
 yellow beard, and long thick hair straggling 
 from under a worn hat, holding the um- 
 brella over lithe little David, with difficulty 
 keeping up with the long strides of his 
 comrade. 
 
 Three o'clock boomed out by the gas-lit 
 clock, and B 63 again on the spot, more 
 murky, wet, wretched than ever, and he 
 gazes more ruefully after the retreating forms 
 of David and Goliah, cursing the fate that had 
 prevented his arriving in time to derive some 
 entertainment by a closer contemplation 
 of them. He smites his bod}^ savagely with
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 27 
 
 his arms, by way of self-punishment, or as 
 though seeking to thresh the chaff out of 
 him, and then rubbing his hands together ; 
 they were hard and rough, and something 
 of a rasping effect was produced by their 
 contact. He scans searchingly all he can of 
 the sky, and mutters, 
 
 " What I should like now would be a 
 a good fire ! " 
 
 And he strolls ruefully away, pictur- 
 ing to himself — make no mistake, not the 
 warm, cheerful, domestic hearth, but the 
 joys of alarm and confusion — blazing, 
 flaring — rattling fire-engines — rickety 
 escapes nodding their giraffe necks about — 
 roused turn-cocks, flooded streets, crim- 
 soned heavens, startled mob, and general 
 motion and excitement. Delicious dream ! 
 
 Not a bad man — not a wicked, evil seek- 
 ing — simply wanting amusement: other- 
 wise wishing ill to no man. After all — 
 Tiberius and Caligula sought for only 
 ihat^ watching their battues of gladiators.
 
 28 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 It's an apologetic age. B 63 was not an 
 incendiary at heart; but given a fire, lie 
 liked to get what fun he could out of it ; 
 and Nero, in the great conflagration of his 
 time, as he could not stop it, might he not 
 just as well make the most of the occasion, 
 and draw musical inspiration from it — 
 compose a iire fantasia for the lyre, if he 
 could? Domitian catching his flies was 
 perhaps only a very enthusiastic student of 
 comparative anatomy. More persons than 
 one have, probably, been painted blacker 
 than they really are : we now compensate 
 for it by whitewashing every one. We 
 call it looking at things from their right 
 point of view — meaning, of course, in 
 the end excuse and panegyric.
 
 29 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DAVID AND GOLIAH. 
 
 In a tangle of twisting courts and alleys 
 — remarkable for their thriving barbers', 
 rag and bottle, and sweet shops, the latter 
 dealing also in shuttle-cocks, marbles, Yar- 
 mouth bloaters, and cheap perodicals, with 
 a highly popular and strongly flavoured 
 market in its immediate vicinity — St. 
 Dunstan's Inn — dismal, sooty, unknown 
 to the white-washer, unacquainted with 
 drainage, not much troubled with clean 
 water — rears its few piles of unwholesome 
 houses, and gathers bachelor Bohemians 
 under its wings. A sort of penal settle-
 
 30 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 ment Inn, in which the outcasts of more 
 reputable neighbour Inns are hived. Un- 
 obtrusive enough— offending no one — ^you 
 can hardly find it without searching 
 curiously for it : an out-of-the-way ambus- 
 cade Alsatia — a city of refuge for social 
 outlaws, close on to the Strand and Fleet 
 Street notwithstanding — up a reeking pas- 
 sage or two — a large rusty iron gate, with 
 rich incrustations of dirt about its mould- 
 ings stopping the way; and on the other 
 side of it is St. Dunstan's Inn. With no hall 
 worth speaking of, with no chapel, no sun- 
 dial even, no Latin motto, a beadle, who 
 seems half a coster monger — he has caught 
 the character from the market close at hand 
 — and no character. The professional 
 seasoning about other Inns, which preserves 
 to them in some sort a respectability and 
 repute — I speak of the Inns corporately, 
 not of the tenants severally, mind — is absent 
 from St. Dunstan's. There is no legal 
 flavour about it ; its denizens are linked
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 31 
 
 together by no common occupation ; they 
 are not fisrhtino; for the same cause, or on 
 the same side. They are all free-lances, 
 espousing any interest that will pay, and 
 will prey upon each other quite as wil- 
 lingly as upon the stranger without the 
 gates. In this house, for instance, No. 24 
 let us say, a firm of Jew attorneys, and 
 another firm of architects and engineers, 
 occupy the ground floor ; a wood engraver 
 and a bill-discounter — the last much lie 
 with the Jew attorneys — tenant the first. 
 On the second reside a clergyman, an actor, 
 a barrister journalist, and a professional 
 comic singer. While the attics — really the 
 residents seem to defy all attempts at classi- 
 fication — their means of livelihood can only 
 be arrived at by a long course of daring 
 guess-work. I think one is a penny-a-liner, 
 and another a private detective, ready to 
 peer into anybody's cupboards and gimlet- 
 ise anybody's doors, upon the slightest pro- 
 vocation ; and a third may be either a loan
 
 32 PAUL Foster's daughtek. 
 
 society, or a male ballet-dancer, or an 
 artist's model, or an Ethiopian minstrel — 
 I am really quite at a loss to say which. 
 And No. 24 may be taken as a fair sample 
 of the houses in the Inn and their tenants. 
 None are much better or much worse. All 
 bear the same napless, temporary, adven- 
 turer characteristics. Years bring little 
 change, no improvement. Recklessness has 
 taken deep root in St. Dunstan's, and flour- 
 ishes amazingly, defying all the efi*orts and 
 examples of society and convention — pre- 
 pared to stand by and hold its own against 
 all comers. Really there is to be found 
 there much of the airy indej)endence and 
 shifty contempt of usage formerly attributes 
 of that now departed institution in Farring- 
 don Street, for so many years the sure and 
 commodious haven of the improvident. 
 Can it be that on the break-up of the Fleet 
 prison a number of gentlemen, banded 
 together by habits and notions equally 
 graceless, migrated westward and ^^ta-
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 33 
 
 blished a sort of Farringdon Street colony, 
 a free Fleet of their own, in St. Dunstan's 
 Inn? There are certain elements in its 
 conduct and appearance to be accounted for 
 in no other way. 
 
 It was into St. Dunstan's Inn that Goliah 
 led David on the wet and early Sunday 
 morning of their first acquaintance. Not 
 into No. 24, but a similar house — not a 
 whit brighter, or cleaner, or better — up an 
 unclean open staircase, the balusters greasy 
 to the hand that ventured to touch them, 
 the walls black with the marks of the dingy 
 shoulders that had rubbed them in passing 
 up, the stairs hollow with the years of 
 heavy treading they had endured, and a 
 gas lamp lighting up the gaunt ugliness of 
 the scene every now and then, as though it 
 took an ill-natured pleasure in blazoning 
 deficiencies and showing up dirt. David 
 and Goliah mounted, not halting until they 
 were pretty well at the end of their breath 
 and the top of the house. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 " We go in here," said Goliali at last, be- 
 fore a black door on the third floor. David 
 looked up, and read over the door in dim 
 letters, nearly effaced by time and grime, 
 "Mr. Smith." 
 
 " Don't think to steal a march on me," 
 remarked Goliah, who had perceived the 
 action ; " I'm not Smith. You have not 
 caught my name. There's no Smith here, 
 and there has not been for years ; only it's 
 a convenient name, and it's as well to have 
 something over the door, and Smith's as 
 good as anything else, and of course there 
 will be another Smith here in time ; so we 
 keep it up. It's a curious lock this is ; it 
 requires a good deal of humouring, and 
 lifting and dodging. All right — it's open 
 now. Stop a minute though," and he 
 stooped down, and examined with eye and 
 hand the lower part of the door. "By 
 Jove ! they've been at it again — here's some 
 fresh kicks here with a vengeance." 
 
 " Who's been at it again ? "
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 35 
 
 " Some very anxious friends of mine. 
 You see, I haven't been here for a few days, 
 and they've been calling on me meanwhile, 
 very desirous to see me ; and then they lose 
 their tempers, finding the door shut, and 
 begin to kick violently, and to call names, 
 and throw in angry messages through the 
 letter-box — it's wonderful how much they 
 want to get at me. By-the-bye, it is Sun- 
 day, isn't it ? Sure ? " 
 
 " Quite. What has that got to do with 
 it?" 
 
 "Well, you see, they don't come on 
 Sundays — in fact, the law don't let them." 
 
 David looked at Goliah, evidently not 
 understanding him. 
 
 " Did you never hear of Burdon's Hotel, 
 Cripplegate ? " 
 
 " Never," said David, frankly. 
 
 " Well, it doesn't matter much. I hope 
 you may never know more about it. They 
 want me to go and spend a few days there, 
 that's all — they think it will do them good ; 
 
 d2
 
 36 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 it's selfish of them, for they know I shouldn't 
 like it. David, be respectable — whatever 
 you are, be respectable, and Burdon's 
 Hotel is not for you to sojourn at. Enter 
 and welcome, son of Jesse — a humble 
 crib, as I have said. I'll strike a light as 
 soon as I can find the matches. Hear the 
 rain on the window-panes ! — it's better than 
 on one's back, though, and the dawn's 
 already touching up the chimney-pots. Ah 
 me ! these are shameful hours." 
 
 The outer black door had been closed 
 behind them, and through another door and 
 a narrow passage they had passed into a 
 room of moderate dimensions. A brass 
 candlestick had been found on the mantel- 
 shelf, and in time a candle secured and 
 lighted. 
 
 *^ Excuse the confusion. You see, David, 
 you were not expected ; and in my absence 
 from town things contrive to get into a 
 mess." 
 
 " I think they do, a little," David said,
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 37 
 
 laughing ; for the state of the room rather 
 justified the remark. Do you call to mind the 
 condition of things that arises when Mary 
 begins to have " a good clean and put to 
 rights?" How everj^thing is dragged ruth- 
 lessly from its place — how chairs dance and 
 reel, and the furniture generally strikes 
 eccentric attitudes about the room — the fen- 
 der at a right angle with the fireplace, the 
 door-mat in the grate, and the coal-scuttle 
 on the sofa, the poker in the umbrella-stand, 
 and the ink and the chimney ornaments 
 piled in the easy chair conveniently for sit- 
 ting on them ; and if this is the case in your 
 comfortable apartment, Benedict, fancy what 
 it must be in the tumbled menage of that ill- 
 regulated Coeleb's. For at the best his 
 room has but a heterogeneous and slattern 
 air, and his furniture an odd and indepen- 
 dent look — no combination amongst the 
 chairs, all different sizes and patterns — a de- 
 termined idiosyncrasy distinguishing every 
 article in the room. How especially was this
 
 38 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 to be remarked in the room of such a Coe- 
 lebs as Goliah ! An enormous picture hung 
 askew on one side of the room ; in the cor- 
 ner and half straggling out of it an easel, 
 a broken foil, a guitar with no strings, a 
 bookcase, and a bust of Clyte, with brown- 
 green blemishes breaking out in the 
 plaster. On the table, from which the torn, 
 stained, dull red cloth is nearly falling, 
 stands a very black, broad, flat kettle. A 
 litter of letters — some open, some with the 
 seals still intact — strews the mantel-piece, in 
 company with a tumbler, pipes, lucifer 
 matches, a black bottle with something 
 still in it, and a statuette of Thorwaldsen's 
 Venus. Portfolios, canvasses, millboards, 
 lean up against the walls, or sprawl full 
 length on the floor ; and a shower of books 
 and papers fill up odd places, and complete 
 the scene. 
 
 "You are an artist," says David, who 
 has not taken his eyes ofl* the large 
 tumbling picture opposite the fireplace.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 39 
 
 "A little one only," answers Goliah ; add- 
 ing, ironically, " this is a good light to shew- 
 off one's art by. There is some painting 
 about. What's the big one ? A competi- 
 tion picture, painted for the gold medal at 
 the Royal Academy — bless me ! ten years 
 ago — 'The Continence of Scipio.' " 
 
 " Did it gain the medal? " 
 
 " It did ; though success stopped short 
 there. I won the medal, almost the only 
 piece of gold I ever got by art. I never 
 could get on further than that. What's 
 worse, no one would ever buy the picture. 
 No one would ever even bid for it. People 
 always laughed, and treated it as a joke 
 when I asked them to. And what's worst, 
 I never could find a landlord who would 
 take it for rent. Do you like it ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't," David criticises, 
 with simple frankness. " That fore- 
 shortening isn't bad, and part of the 
 drawing is clever and daring. But 
 you bully one with your anatomical learn-
 
 40 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 ing. Why insist on all these muscles. 
 They exist, of course ; but you only saw 
 them in Albinus — never in nature with its 
 flesh on, I'll be bound." 
 
 ''You see the Academy likes anatomy. 
 Give them that, and they don't care about 
 much else." 
 
 "They think it's drawing, and beauty of 
 form, and that — and as they don't under- 
 stand colour themselves, they don't look for 
 it in their students. That flying drapery is 
 of course all wrong — impossible — untrue — 
 the woman is downright ugly, -from want of 
 feeling and expression. The composition is 
 abjectly conventional, and the colour 
 throughout hideous " — and David turned 
 calmly away from the work. 
 
 " Why, you must be an artist, David, or 
 a fine-art critic ?" 
 
 " One needn't be much of either to find 
 out some things." 
 
 *' By Jove, 1 did not reckon upon a good 
 go-in at art. There are some coals some-
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 41 
 
 where, I think, and some wood. We'll 
 light a fire, and boil the kettle. Yes, and 
 the bottle is not quite empty ; 1 think 
 there's still two honest tumblers in it ; and 
 we'll have a talk — shall we, David?" 
 
 " No, thank you. I don't want anything 
 to drink ; and I'm sure you've had enough." 
 
 *' Well, perhaps so. David, you're almost 
 a Solomon, I think. But you're tired, I'm 
 afraid. Ill show you where you can get 
 some sleep. This way." 
 
 And Goliah took up the candle, and led 
 the way into another room, much smaller, 
 and with very little furniture in it. 
 
 " I don't know that much can be said 
 about linen. You see there's a feud going 
 on with the washerwoman, and she keeps 
 the things back upon some absurd pretext. 
 But if you can tumble on to that sofa — and 
 here, put this tiger skin under you — it's a 
 good one ; I shot the brute myself when I 
 was in the Upper Provinces — and pull this 
 railway rug over you ; and here's a warm
 
 42 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 blanket. I think you may be able to snooze 
 tolerably." 
 
 David said he had no doubt of it. His 
 quick eye glanced round the room. 
 
 " Is that your cavalry sword hanging up 
 there ?" 
 
 "Yes; I wore it when I served in the 
 Nizam's irregular horse." 
 
 " A soldier, then ?" 
 
 " Ah ! David, you want to worm it all 
 out of me, do you ? Who's asking questions 
 now i 
 
 David blushed. They looked kindly at 
 each other, and Goliah strode from the 
 room. 
 
 " I like him," he murmured — " I like 
 him ; he's a trump. To think that he 
 should be up here, in such a place as this. 
 It's a rum world. I can't but think of him. 
 Poor little David ! I wonder who — what 
 he is. Bah ! does it matter? I'm not 
 sleepy a bit now ; and, dear me, sober as a 
 judge. I'll have a pipe and a think over
 
 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 him, and just the smallest thought in life 
 of" — He put his lips to the black bottle ; 
 there was a gurgling, then a gulping sound 
 — hard swallowing — both the bottle and the 
 drinker seemed to part with a gasp and a 
 sigh. Goliah shook his head with self- 
 reproach, as he jammed the cork fiercely 
 in again, and breathed heavily. He then 
 thrust some tobacco into the bowl of the 
 hookah, lighting it with difficulty, by 
 placing the candlestick on the mantelpiece, 
 and then standing off and presenting his 
 five-feet pipe as though he were going 
 through musket exercise. He was soon 
 smoking placidly, sitting sideways in an arm- 
 chair, with his long legs dangling over. 
 The candle sunk, shivered, gave a whining, 
 guttering cry, and went out. But it was 
 day ; the red, yellow, artificial light had 
 yielded to the blue, grey, natural. Goliah 
 started up. ♦ 
 
 " I wonder if David is all right — if he 
 wants anything ?"
 
 44 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 And lie quietly took off his boots, and 
 moved stealthily into the other room. There 
 were blinds to none of the windows ; and 
 David was readily to be seen, stretched 
 upon the sofa, lying on his right side, his 
 face rather upturned, and one pale thin 
 hand thrust out, droopingly. Goliah, hold- 
 ing his breath, looked studiously upon 
 Death's counterfeit : admiringly, too ; for 
 in truth David was very handsome, or more 
 perhaps what ladies call interestingly look- 
 ing ; with parted lips, and that half-frown- 
 ing, half pained expression which sleep 
 imparts, even to the baby slumberer, dozing 
 with its smooth brows bent, and its rosebud 
 fists tight clenched, as though a natural 
 wakefulness warred with repose, and only 
 surrendered to it upon compulsion and with 
 regret — with his long light hair waving to 
 and fro, especially a lock that had strayed 
 across his face, as his breath alternately 
 attracted and repelled it ; with his pale, 
 clear complexion, through which the purple
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 45 
 
 threads of the curvmg veins were clearly 
 traceable about his temples and neck. 
 David appealed strongly, though uncon- 
 sciously, to all the love of art and the 
 beautiful, and to the great tenderness and 
 kindly nature abiding in the rough bosom 
 of Goliah. 
 
 " How stunning he looks ! — how well 
 he'd paint like that ! I should like to 
 sketch him for Leander drowned — a poetic 
 view of that worthy, though, who must 
 have been a brawny, muscular gladiator, 
 after all. I did the Hellespont myself once, 
 and it nearly killed me, though I am a tidy 
 swimmer. He sleeps soundly. What a 
 small hand — like a woman's. Oh, David ! 
 I hope you're a good one at pebble-throw- 
 ing; that hand isn't suited for the sword 
 and spear. How old is he ? Sixteen, I 
 suppose. Poor boy ! — just beginning his 
 fight. These are firm lines about his 
 mouth, though, and a strong curve of the 
 jaw, and a solid brow: he may win, after
 
 46 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 all. I'll help him if I can, I know that — 
 that is, if he'll let me." 
 
 The sleeper started up suddenly — per- 
 haps Goliah had begun to mutter a little 
 too loudly, and this had roused him — 
 opened his large eyes, with quivering, quick, 
 expanding pupils and bright blue irids ; 
 dashed the straggling hair from his brow, 
 closed his lips firmly, and glanced round 
 him rather combatively. 
 
 " I came to see how you were getting 
 on," said Goliah, apologetically. 
 
 David threw away his fierce looks. 
 
 ^'Are you all right and snug, David?", 
 The small thin hand came out energeti- 
 cally. 
 
 "Don't call me David, please — it's not 
 iny real name. I ought to have told you 
 so last night : I wanted to tell you so be- 
 fore I went to sleep. Forgive me. Take 
 my hand." 
 
 " That I will," and they shook hands 
 with pleasant vehemence.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 47 
 
 " Let us break the covenant — let us tear 
 up the agreement." 
 
 "D — n the agreement! — with all my 
 heart." 
 
 "I know you — I like you. I want to 
 know you more — to like you more. I want 
 to shake hands, and not to part, as we ar- 
 ranged in the rain. You sheltered me here. 
 I can t tell you how kind I think it." 
 
 " No, no — not a bit of it, David." 
 
 " I'm not David. My name is Erie — 
 Edwin Erie. Do you hear, Goliah ? " 
 
 " I'm not Goliah. I'm Newton Dax — 
 artist, soldier, litterateur^ Bohemian adven- 
 turer, poor devil generally — entirely at your 
 service." 
 
 " My list is not so long, Goliah — excuse 
 me— Mr. Dax." 
 
 " Newton, or Dax." 
 
 "Well, Newton, then. I'm not much — 
 something, of an artist, something of a 
 lawyer's clerk, and a little — oh ! ever such 
 a little — of an author."
 
 48 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 " You're blushing, David — Edwin, I 
 mean. You know you've written heaps of 
 poetry." 
 
 ^' Say verse ; that's nearer. And now 
 shake hands, and go to bed. We're friends ?" 
 
 " Of course we are ; ' chums,' as they say 
 at school — 'mates,' as the working-classes 
 have it. We'll stand by each other." 
 
 " Till death." 
 
 "And further on, if possible." And Mr. 
 Dax went back to his armchair. He did 
 not confess that he had surrendered to his 
 guest the one article of furniture in the place 
 that approached a bed. But he curled 
 himself up in the chair, and was soon fast 
 asleep. 
 
 And Edwin, too, was soon asleep again ; 
 had flung away all his apathy, and phlegm, 
 and coolness, as one flings away an overcoat 
 when the atmosphere becomes sufliciently 
 genial. And in Mr. Dax's garret Edwin 
 felt he did not need very many wrappings.
 
 49 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A bachelor's town-house. 
 
 Tall vivid streaks of light burst out star- 
 wise in the saffron east, and up rose the sun 
 with calm, slow dignity. The doors flung 
 wide open — his majesty glided upon the 
 scene, over a glorious cloth-of-gold carpet, 
 edged with pink and orange, and shot with 
 purple and sea-green. A smiling, refreshed, 
 magnificent sovereign, prepared to go anew 
 through his diurnal routine of government, 
 beaming regard and patronage upon all the 
 surrounding cloudlets — even to the very 
 smallest that basked in his bright presence, 
 and exhibited their showy liveries with the 
 VOL. I. £
 
 50 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 ostentation and obsequiousness of the most 
 accomplished courtiers. And the horizon 
 swam in a radiant sea. New, fresh, pal- 
 pitating gilding lit up all the housetops ; 
 the lovely light came gliding in between 
 the chimney-pots, as between fingers held 
 before a candle, and a fragrant, exqui- 
 site young air rambled freely about the 
 streets, and toyed here and there with the 
 very early smoke, blew it about, curled and 
 twisted it, little heeding that by-and-bye 
 that smoke would grow, densify, and anger, 
 finally to set upon and half-kill its gentle 
 playmate. And the light knocked at the 
 casement, and made sleepers turn in their 
 beds, stamping the j^il^ow with impress of 
 their features, in avoidance of the glare, 
 and peeped roimd blinds, and fell in lines, 
 and squares, and parallelograms on the 
 walls, healing and revivifying many a 
 bruised soul, weeping through the dismal 
 watches of the night, waiHng under sick- 
 ness, or fighting hard with death, and
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 5 I 
 
 praying to God for morning — for to the sink- 
 ing another day seems as another life. So 
 the rays penetrated hither and thither, 
 angels of mercy on sacred errands, soothing 
 and bringing good tidings, and lifting up. 
 Even to the heart that has let the evening 
 sun go down upon its wrath, surely the 
 rays of morning must bring conversion, and 
 reconciliation, and forgiveness. A new day 
 — and three hundred and sixty-five of such 
 days in the year — and the world — how 
 many centuries old ! last from school ? 
 Yet the beauty of the dawn fresh as ever — 
 ineffably, inexhaustibly beautiful ! 
 
 The sun stole in at the garret window in 
 Burke Buildings, St. Dunstan's Inn, and lit up 
 the blond head of Edwin Erie, soundly asleep 
 on the sofa. Downward passed the rays, 
 and fell in an orange patch on his face ; 
 they quivered and danced upon his very 
 eyelids, yet still he woke not ; so they 
 dropped to his hand — strong, warm light, 
 that seemed to paint thie inside of the hand
 
 52 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 witli crimson, it lit it up so transparently. 
 Yet the sleeper stirred not ; pale and slight, 
 stretched upon his not luxuriant couch, with 
 the tiger-skin below and the railway-rug 
 above — looking something as that strange, 
 rapt boy must have looked whom the morn- 
 ing sun glared in upon in the garret 
 farther away, in Brook Street, Holborn, 
 years ago, and found with an effulgent, 
 intellectual beauty upon his still face ; and 
 his limbs laid out in a sleep from which — 
 poor soul ! — unlike our sleeper, he was 
 never to wake again. Wretched, gifted, 
 stark, poisoned Chatterton, whose very 
 genius seemed the weight that pulled him 
 down ! 
 
 Mr. Dax was the first to wake, though 
 the sun visited not his room. With a start 
 and a shiver, and a dazed blundering look, 
 he tumbled out of his armchair. He issued 
 from sleep into wakefulness with the un- 
 pleasant suddenness of a man flung from 
 his horse to the ground. He seemed to
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 53 
 
 regard his changed state antagonistically at 
 first. To find himself awake and alive was 
 a sore point with him. However, he sub- 
 mitted ultimately with the best grace he 
 could, and yawned fearfully. You would 
 have thought to see him that there was really 
 some permanent matrimonial disagreement 
 between his upper and lower jaws, and 
 that they could not upon any terms be 
 brought together again. He rubbed his 
 eyes with vindictive harshness, and then 
 proceeded to knock about his hair — rather 
 thin over the front, but long and thick 
 enough at the back of his head. As a 
 consummately wakening measure, he flung 
 open the window, and let the fresh morning 
 breeze, which had been waiting outside for 
 ever so long with that object, rush into the 
 room. 
 
 " A stunning morning ! " said Mr. Dax, 
 drinking in the air in a friendly way, as 
 though he were hobnobbing with nature. 
 "I'm dry, and parched, and seedy — and
 
 54 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 that dreadful whiskey ! What a fool I am! 
 — but a stunning morning — I know that — 
 stunning ! " 
 
 The view from Mr. Dax's window was 
 extensive, but monotonous. It opened on to 
 a gutter, beyond which was a sloping plat- 
 form of red tiles, coated here and there with 
 sooty incrustations. From thence vistas of 
 chimney-pots seemed to stretch out for 
 miles. But though the subject was uniform, 
 there was a certain diversity in its treat- 
 ment. There were many kinds of chimney- 
 pots. Long rows, with here and there the 
 stumps of broken -off chimneys, like a jaw- 
 full of irregular teeth. Red and black, and 
 zinc, with hooded tops, and T shapes, and 
 curved and twisted; and curious cowls, 
 groaning as they swung round in the wind ; 
 and all sorts of ingenious contrivances for 
 preventing the issue of smoke, or the return 
 of the smoke when it had issued, or to effect 
 some object in regard to the smoke, known 
 only to the projector or proprietor of the
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 55 
 
 chimney-pot. But it was not for the con- 
 templation of these that Mr. Dax looked 
 from his window, nor was it to observe the 
 conduct of the sparrows — surely a gipsy, 
 rollicking, deuce-may-care sort of bird — 
 hopping about, with a plentiful peppering 
 of blacks about their plumage, chirping 
 wdth defiant shrilliness as they pecked about, 
 busy chiffoneurs, for means to carry on their 
 merry lives out of the moist garbage of the 
 gutters. Mr. Dax had no mind on this 
 occasion for chimney-pots or sparrows. He 
 was cooling his fevered brows, he was seek- 
 ing to moisten his parched palate by means 
 of the bright morning breeze, which, even 
 filtered through the chimney-pots, came to 
 him enjoyably enough. Mr. Dax's hairy 
 face was thrust far from his casement, and 
 bore a look of dejection, betraying the 
 mental anxiety under which he laboured. 
 
 " What the deuce to do about breakfast ?" 
 he murmured. He was bent upon hos- 
 pitable measures, be it said. About his own
 
 56 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 meal he was indifferent ; in fact, I doubt if 
 lie had much appetite ; but then he had a 
 guest, who mipjht be inconvenienced by such 
 a possession if his host took no steps in re- 
 gard to its satisfying. What an exquisite 
 relief to the puzzled when the conundrum 
 propounder suddenly plumps out with his 
 solution, staying further agony. Some- 
 thing like this experienced Mr. Dax when 
 a voice, afar off, struck on his ear. It was 
 not really afar off, but sounded so, injected 
 through the letter-box. 
 
 " Ship a-hoy !" cried the voice. 
 
 " By jingo !" And Mr. Day jumped up 
 greatly elated, and moved to the passage, 
 preparatory to opening the door. But then 
 a doubt struck him, and he went back a 
 little. " May as well have the countersign 
 though," he muttered ; and then, loudly, 
 '' What's trumps ?" 
 
 " Quart-pots !" 
 
 A cheery, comfortable voice, with all its 
 gear and tackle well oiled, and in thorough
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 57 
 
 working order. Mr. Dax opened the door 
 with alacrity. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Giles," he said politely to a 
 short, stout woman, who, quickly entering, 
 took the door from him and closed it behind 
 her. A battered Dunstable straw bonnet, 
 yellow from time, and decked with stringy, 
 bronze-coloured bows and streamers, graced 
 her head ; a Stuart tartan shawl covered 
 her massive shoulders ; her dress was apple- 
 green merino. A large " marketing" basket 
 depended from her nude, fat, ruddy arm. 
 Her complexion was rubicund, her features 
 fleshy, and her eye a very diamond for 
 twinkling. 
 
 *^ Well, my precious, and how are you ?" 
 quoth Mrs. Giles, with a coquettish freedom 
 of manner, her head reposing on her round 
 right shoulder — for there was no neck inter- 
 vening, rather to the detriment of the Dun- 
 stable. 
 
 "You're the very person I wanted to 
 see," says Mr. Dax.
 
 58 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " Am I, though ! — wicked trifler ! — gay 
 deceiver ! Oh, you men !" And Mrs. Giles, 
 looking very roguish indeed, made believe 
 to hide her face with a squat, dingy hand. 
 But a face of circumference so ample re- 
 quired more than one hand to screen it. 
 Soon, however, she dropped from this 
 romantic frame of mind to a sober and 
 common-place state. 
 
 " Well, and what's up now ?" she in- 
 quired. 
 
 Mr. Dax looked at her rather curiously. 
 
 " Well, I was thinking about breakfast !" 
 and he tugged at his tawny beard with an 
 air of embarrassment. 
 
 " Never ! Breakfast ! I like that. You 
 keep away for days and days, and then you 
 drops in ever so sudden ; and, says you, 
 ^ Oh,' says you, 'Mrs. Giles, breakfast' — 
 jest as if nothink had happened — all had 
 gone on reglar. Breakfast, says you. Yes, 
 I like that." 
 
 *' Breakfast for two."
 
 PAUL eoster's daughter. 59 
 
 ^^ For two! Go it — make it half-a-dozen. 
 You're a lovely one. This climate don't 
 suit you — it ain't good enough for you ; 
 you ought to go to the Sandwich Isles, you 
 ought, where it rains quartern loaves, and 
 rounds of beef grows on trees. Breakfast 
 for two !" 
 
 " But, my dear woman — " 
 
 "Ah, you carnying wretch, be quiet. 
 Don't come dear womaning of me. This 
 'ere bussom's granite. You can't get feel- 
 ing out of flints. It aint melting day with 
 Mrs. G., I can tell you. I'm a rock, I am ! 
 Breakfast for two !" 
 
 " Yes — you see a friend has dropped in ; 
 a gentleman who — " 
 
 "A nice drop he's made of it. Rack- 
 straw, I suppose ; he's a credit to his father, 
 he is. Oh, it isn't Rackstraw. Tom 
 Chivers, then, no doubt — the bewitching 
 Tom, sweet youth — I don't care if he hears 
 me. Oh, it isn't Tom Chivers — really — " 
 
 " No, no — it's a young gentleman."
 
 60 PAUL eoster's daughter. 
 
 " A nice preparatory scliool this for him." 
 
 "Really, Mrs. Giles, the occasion is one 
 of real importance ; breakfast must be had. 
 We can't starve, you know." 
 
 "Well, must is vmst^ I suppose; and I 
 can't say I vote for starvation." 
 
 "I should be extremely obliged, Mrs. 
 Giles—" 
 
 "Well, my own, don't be gloomy. I 
 suppose you're going to settle my book, 
 though." 
 
 Mr. Dax began knocking his hair about, 
 and then made spasmodic searchings in his 
 pockets. 
 
 " I had some money once, I know — 
 somewhere," said Mr. Dax, with vague 
 mournfulness. 
 
 " You're the very wust in the Inn, that's 
 what you are — the very wust, out of as bad 
 a lot as ever come together. Do you think 
 I'm made of money? Do you think the 
 book aint never to be squared up? Oh, 
 you're a treasure, you are!"
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 61 
 
 " I think, Mrs. Giles, if you would have 
 the kindness to examine that waistcoat, I 
 almost — I really hope — " 
 
 But Mr. Dax didn't look very hopeful, 
 and his air of depression was quite touching. 
 Mrs. Giles secured the waistcoat. Her 
 anger, be it said, was of a comic and bur- 
 lesque pattern, that removed the sting from 
 her words. It was evident, too, she was 
 not disappointed: she was only too well 
 prepared by usage for the unsuccessful 
 endeavour to obtain funds from Mr. Dax. 
 
 " I shall have a cheque to-morrow — I 
 shall, indeed; it's overdue already." 
 
 *'Yes, you faithless wretch. You had 
 money yesterday, and where is it? — all gone 
 this way." And she went into a stage- 
 drinking attitude, rather comical with her 
 face and figure. " Take this cup of spark- 
 ling wine !" she sang bacchanally. 
 
 A door opened, and Edwin Erie ap- 
 peared, looking very bright and blushing. 
 
 "1 couldn't but overhear. I've got
 
 62 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 half-a-crown. Fm sorry I've no more — but 
 it will find us breakfast." 
 
 "No, no, David," says Mr. Dax, very 
 much sliocked, 
 
 " It's only fair : you find the bed, I the 
 board. Here, Mrs.—" 
 
 " Giles, that's me, my little Trojan ; Mr. 
 Dax's laundress — and a wicked 'un I've got 
 to do for, I can tell you." 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Giles, here's money for 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Which he's given me half-a-crown, the 
 charmer, looking as blooming as a pianny, 
 and as sweet as a nut, and as right as nine- 
 pence ! " 
 
 Edwin could not refrain from laughing 
 at these lavish encomiums. Mrs. Giles, no 
 way offended, joined in the mirth. 
 
 " Well, I am a rum 'un, aint I ? and no 
 mistake. I'd a lovely disposition though, 
 afore it w^as spiled by cuccumstances and 
 short commons. But what's to be done 
 with the half-crown ?"
 
 PAUL FOSTER^S DAUGHTER. 63 
 
 Mr. Dax had been looking woefully un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 "No, no, it isn't right, Mrs. Giles — it 
 mustn't be." 
 
 "The sacred rights of Ac>r.9pitality, and 
 that, do you mean ? He oughtn't to pa}^, 
 of course he oughtn't." 
 
 " Is there nothing in the waistcoat ? I 
 don't remember being quite cleaned out." 
 
 Mrs. Giles deposited her smiUng face 
 first on one shoulder, then on the other, 
 surveying the two gentlemen with witching 
 robin eyes. 
 
 " Oh, you're a sweet pair ! I don't know 
 which I don't love the most of you. 
 There's your half-crown, my small friend. ' 
 And then to Dax. "He shan't pay, New- 
 ton. 1 haven't lived all these years, 
 and done for you for ever so — to 
 cut up rusty now. Besides, here's one and 
 ninepence in the waistcoat. And now, 
 look here, and don't kiss me both at once." 
 And she placed her basket on the table.
 
 64 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 and thrust in her hands. " I dreamt of you 
 last night, Newton, and I knew you'd be 
 here this morning. Oh, there's a nice lot 
 been up this staircase during the week, I 
 can tell you. My dreams never deceive 
 me. Do look here first of all," and she 
 drew from the basket a bottle. 
 
 " Soda water," says Mr. Dax, with an air 
 of extraordinary relief. 
 
 " Come and take your physic, you 
 naughty boy. Ain't I as good as a mother 
 to him, Mr. Younker ? " addressing Edwin. 
 '^ You'll excuge me — I don't know your 
 right name. I knew how it would be — 
 this is what brings him round. It's diffe- 
 rent with different people, according to 
 constitooshuns and naturs. With the late 
 G. — he's been dead, my dear, ever so 
 long, and a good job too, for of all the 
 Tartars — well, nil easy bony. You know 
 Latin. You're up in your grammar, I 
 know by the colour of your hair. Where 
 was I ? Oh, ah, G. ! Well, when he
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 65 
 
 was a pilot, my dear — a cliannel pilot, to 
 bring in the General Navigation steamers — 
 when he was took in one of his dreadful 
 ways — often enough, I can tell you — 
 nothing would ever do but pickles — a 
 haporth of pickles — pertikerlerly cauli- 
 flowers and cowcumbers, with a rich vine- 
 gar, and he was right again. Once, how- 
 ever — he was awful bad that night, to be 
 sure, and the shop was closed, no pickles to 
 be had, and the ' King Cole ' steamer out in 
 the hoffing, blue rocketing like mad for a 
 pilot. Well, nothing would do, up gets 
 G. ; he'd bring her in — he'd be some- 
 thinged if he wouldn't. Oif he goes, reaches 
 the ship, and wrecks the whole lot on the 
 Goodens — every soul ! Shocking, ain't it ? 
 That comes of toddy — that ought to warn 
 you, Newton — and poor G.'s picked up 
 at low tide, stiff and dead, my chicken, 
 with ever such a lot of sand in his mouth, 
 poor dear — no more what d'ye call 'em for 
 
 him, hot with, and leaves me a lorn 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 6(5 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 widder — to do for such a beauty as tliat 
 Newton, and some others I could men- 
 tion, but won't." 
 
 Mr. Dax had been pouring the hissing 
 sobering water down his throat. He 
 looked the better for it. The tears stood in 
 his eyes, and there were soda bubbles on 
 his beard. It was as though he'd been 
 bathing. 
 
 "That will put the colour into your 
 eyes, old man," said Mrs. Giles ; "and now," 
 — and she commenced to disembowel the 
 basket — " here's a half quartern and a pat of 
 butter, and a haporth of milk in a can, and 
 two ounces of coffee, a lovely bloater — I'll 
 get another — I didn't dream nothink about 
 two of you, you see — and here — here's the 
 superbest water-creeses out of the whole 
 market." 
 
 These delicacies, the sight of Avhich con- 
 siderably relieved Mr. Dax of his embar- 
 rassment, were ranged in a line on the 
 table, Mrs. Giles triumphant in the rear of
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 67 
 
 them. She soon set to work, however, 
 lighting a iire in one of the rooms, boiling 
 the coiFee and milk, cutting bread and 
 butter, spreading a newspaper, the nearest 
 approach to a table-cloth to be found on 
 the premises ; and soon the two gentlemen 
 were tolerably comfortable at breakfast. 
 Mr. Dax's appetite was being coaxed back 
 to him by the fragrance of the coffee, and 
 the pleasant freshness of the water-cresses. 
 Edwin had never lost his, and was doing 
 full justice to the meal. Newton Dax 
 watched his young friend's proceedings with 
 a meditative anxiety, and took mental 
 notes. One of the most precious charms of 
 our youth, thought he, is that of appetite — 
 certain, reliable, unconquerable appetite ; 
 and for breakfast of all meals ! What a 
 fool is man, and how he trifles with his sto- 
 mach — with his happiness ! They are of 
 synonymous significancy. Enquire of Es- 
 culapius if it be not so. The toddy of the 
 evening is a heavy mortgage on the next 
 
 f2
 
 68 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 morning's breakfast. But the lovely 
 bloater had no charms for Mr. Dax, in 
 spite of his moralizing and the soda water. 
 
 "Well, David — forgive me — let me call 
 you that. I can't efface the first impres- 
 sion, and stamp the medal anew. Did you 
 sleep well ? " 
 
 "Thank you, like a top." 
 
 "You have tumbled into rough quarters 
 — into life with all the French-polish rubbed 
 off it, and the naked grain of the wood 
 plainly developed." 
 
 " What matters ? " quoth David, philo- 
 sophically. " I have slept ; I am eating ; 
 I have a roof between me and the elements 
 — what more do I need ? " 
 
 " But society, friend David — but civiliza- 
 tion?" 
 
 "I am with you. Monsieur Goliah, a 
 gentleman, a soldier, man of letters — " 
 
 " Spare me ! " 
 
 " What more could society require ? — I 
 breakfast off a newspaper — one of the mar-
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 69 
 
 vels of the century. What a table-cloth ! — 
 the highest compliment to civilization." 
 
 " You are a pleasant guest, David. You 
 twist the shortcomings of the household into 
 graces and advantages. You hide the 
 rents in my coat with embroidery ; but for 
 all that, 1 am an example — of what's to be 
 avoided. This establishment is all wrong — 
 I am all wrong. Stick to convention, 
 David ; cleave to respectability, and rule 
 and order. For me, what does it matter ? 
 I grow old ; I have cut the cable ; society 
 and I float apart ; there is wide water be- 
 tween us ; no hawser can be flung out to 
 bring us together again, and we drift 
 separate ways. I live in this attic — a bright 
 look-out, David — acres of chimney-pots, and 
 a generous sky above, that gives back sun- 
 shine for smoke — with little money and 
 much debt, and a laundress who — well, is a 
 good woman, though a talkative, and per- 
 haps she has a job to get her book squared ; 
 and a good many books in the Inn are in
 
 70 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 like plight, no doubt, for money oozes from 
 ■us quickly wlien we get it, which is not 
 often — but let us honour her, for she 
 brought us breakfast, and she is a faithful 
 soul; and when I was down with the 
 cholera, David, tended me as only a woman 
 can — that is, truly, and kindly, and thought- 
 fully, few else coming near me ; and I've 
 been her enfant gate ever since. But it's a 
 wrong life, my friend — a mistake altogether 
 — well enough, perhaps, for an incorrigi- 
 ble Bohemian comme moi^ as you say, an 
 artist — " 
 
 " And I am also an artist, Goliah," inter- 
 rupts David, in the words of prince -painter 
 Coreggio, on a different sort of occasion, 
 however. 
 
 " But not for you, David, this twopenny 
 career — a dirty attic, a dingy breakfast, 
 and much doubt altogether about dinner. 
 Be the artist of society, if you like. Wear 
 drawing-room smiles and curls, boots and 
 coats, and that tremendous emblem of
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 71 
 
 respectability, the white choker — do this, 
 and triumph, as you will, with a smile like 
 that — ah ! and such a blush ! " 
 
 "Be quiet, Goliah." 
 
 "Don't you sink into the mire of Bo- 
 hemianism — a grimy, defiant, independence, 
 voila tout J at the best ; its charms are soon 
 exhausted, and it's rather a sour plum when 
 you've blown the bloom off. Don't dim 
 your eyes with toddy — don't muddle your 
 complexion by ill-living — don't wan your 
 face by bad hours and the key of the street." 
 
 Mr. Dax was in orthodox morning-after 
 mood, and his offended stomach and mal- 
 treated liver were possessing him absolutely ; 
 from holding himself up as an ensample of 
 what to avoid, and animadverting on the 
 manner of his own life, he was proceeding 
 to criticise, in a measure, certain conduct of 
 David's that had brought about their 
 fortuitous encounter. The young fellow 
 thought he had not quite fairly come under 
 review. He arose.
 
 72 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 " I only take that key, Mr. Goliah, when 
 I can get no other, and then I yield to fate. 
 It avails not to struggle against the must he^ 
 or to complain." 
 
 Mr. Dax, looking severely at a black 
 chimney-pot in the distance, upon which a 
 crow had perched, airing its wings, sucked 
 hard at his hookah, with his long legs out- 
 stretched, and his long feet on the window 
 sill, and burst out Avith, 
 
 " I'm a nice beggar to preach. By Jove, 
 I'm qualified for the pulpit — I am. Ah ! 
 appropriately, there go thebells — thebleating 
 tinkle of little Bethel — there it is ! You can 
 see the weather-cock, wedged in among the 
 courts — nearly pressed to death by the tall 
 houses, its neighbours — poor little Bethel — 
 and the heavy gong-beatings of St. Dun- 
 stan's. More like threats than invitations, 
 are those bells. Pardon me, David, I've 
 wounded you ; we're near fighting again, 
 as we were last night in the market. 
 Sit down — I apologize. I concede that
 
 PAUL rOSTER^S DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 under certain circumstances the key of 
 the street may be thrust upon one, and 
 be unavoidable ! There, and I'm glad 
 of it — for we should not have met else. 
 There, are you appeased? And you are a 
 painter ? " 
 
 *'In a small way: call me an amateur if 
 you like ; it would perhaps be more correct. 
 I have studied art now and then — as a stray 
 sheep trespassing on a rich pasture enjoys a 
 stolen graze. But I have been perforce an 
 irregular student." 
 
 "And your preceptor, friend David?" 
 
 " A relation — Paul Foster." 
 
 " Paul Foster — a relation of yours ? " Mr. 
 Dax turned abruptly towards him. 
 
 " An uncle — do you know him ? " 
 
 " Yes — no — merely by name. And he 
 teaches you ? " 
 
 "I browze in his studio — and am not 
 driven off. He suffers me." 
 
 ''But your profession? This is leisure 
 work only, I suppose?"
 
 74 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " I am to enter my father's office — a 
 lawyer, Goliah." 
 
 " I know what that is," Mr. Dax remarked, 
 with a shudder; ''and they are going to 
 compress you into a lawyer, are they ? — poor 
 David!" 
 
 " I am to be articled shortly ! " and David 
 heaves a little sigh. 
 
 "To be tied to the stake for five years, 
 and taught the tricks of the trade, then snap 
 the dog's chain and let him loose to worry 
 the sheep. Do you like the notion, 
 friend?" 
 
 David shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 '' I can't help it ; my father wishes it, 
 ridicules objections — and if I am pertina- 
 cious, points to the door. I don't want the 
 key of the street for life — bad enough for a 
 night now and then. So — I become a 
 lawyer." 
 
 "Well, it's a career; one must work to 
 live, and live to work, it seems. As well 
 perhaps pull in money at a lawyer's office,
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 75 
 
 as work one's life out at an easel. Yet you 
 would rather have the easel, David ? " 
 
 "Yes — ^but I am over-ruled. I have 
 fought the question and been beaten — I 
 submit: I become a lawyer. Art is only 
 a pastime henceforward, not the chief object 
 and motive of my life." 
 
 "And this Paul Foster — a bachelor? No?" 
 
 "A widower, with a daughter.'^ 
 
 "Pretty?" 
 
 "Little, light, blond, rosy lips — hazel 
 eyes — and red hair ; age — sixteen." 
 
 " A neat portrait of the cousin ! And the 
 uncle?" 
 
 " Looks sixty — is not really so much ; fat, 
 bushy iron gray hair, trumpet voice, violent 
 action. Bardolphian features ; paints — 
 something after the manner of the ^ Con- 
 tinence of Scipio ' there ; plenty of muscles, 
 and a good deal of nudity, brick dusty 
 colour, splashed on with a scene-painter's 
 brush — an unsuccesful painter, in short — 
 you know the sort of man I mean ? "
 
 76 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 ^' I do," answers Mr. Dax, moodily. 
 '' And now I'll go. I must get home." 
 " They'll be alarmed, perhaps ? " 
 '^ They wont go so far as that — they'll 
 stop at wondering. Good-bye. There's my 
 address;" and he put a card on the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 " Good-bye. I shall see you again, 
 David?" 
 
 " Of course you will." 
 '' Come down soon 5 and if the oak is 
 sported — the outer door shut, you know — 
 knock with your fist, or stick, anything, 
 three times, and shout through the letter- 
 box. I shall know your voice. If you 
 don't obtain admission then, conclude I'm 
 out, as I shall be." 
 
 "I shall be sure to remember," 
 " And look here, David," Mr. Dax con- 
 tinued, hesitatingly ; ''I talk at random 
 sometimes, and I've blackguarded the sort 
 of life one leads here a good deal ; but, if 
 the time should ever come that you need a
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 77 
 
 roof, or a liome, or help, think of this crib 
 here, and the party of the name of Dax in- 
 habiting it. And perhaps it isn't so bad as 
 I tried to make out ; and a fellow can get on, 
 roughing it, pretty well, when he's once 
 made his mind up. If it should ever come 
 to this — you know what I mean — it's all 
 yours ; and Newton Dax will stand by you, 
 and back you, and fight for you, to the 
 last. You understand. Good bye, David ; 
 come soon, and be respectable, and don't 
 think of Bohemianising it, if you can help 
 it. Take care ,; there's an awkward turn in 
 the stairs just there. Good-bye, David." 
 
 ^' Good-bye, Goliah." 
 
 And so they parted — David tripping 
 lightly down the stairs, and Goliah — the 
 door closed — in deep meditation, brooding 
 over his young friend, and the jumbled ad- 
 vice lately presented to him. 
 
 *' I like him," he said, having re-entered 
 his room, and resumed his chair and his 
 hookah, and replaced his feet on the window-
 
 78 PAUL FOSTER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 sill. Comfortably settled, however, he dis- 
 turbed himself again to take the card from 
 the mantelpiece. 
 
 " Edwin Erie, 99, Gloucester Terrace, 
 Regent's Park." And he paused for some 
 minutes, brushing his beard with the card, 
 meditatively. "A tremendous little gentle- 
 man ', too good for a lawyer's office, and the 
 key of the street, and Burke Buildings, St. 
 Dunstan's Inn, and that big snob Newton 
 Dax, esquire. I like him. Loves the 
 theatre ; loves art ; writes verses. But why 
 will he insist on being locked out ? And 
 how about his father, and his cousin, and 
 his uncle ? Ah !" 
 
 Newton Dax paused in his summing up 
 of his new young friend. 
 
 Mrs. Giles was again at his side, pursuing 
 her elaborate system of burlesque-coquetry. 
 
 "And what's my cherished lamb going 
 to do about dinner ?" 
 
 At the moment it was more than the 
 cherished lamb knew, or indeed cared.
 
 79 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A MOST EESPECTABLE HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 Let us get away from the shadow of Bohe- 
 mianism into the light of respectability. 
 Let us leave the unkempt precincts of un- 
 conventionality, for the spruce regions of 
 character, good repute, and fine linen well 
 got up. 
 
 The Regent's Park — paradise of the cock- 
 ney middle-class — looked green, gay, and 
 pleasant under the gracious May sun. Its 
 long avenues of dumpy lime-trees proffered 
 agreeable strolling to the magnificent gen- 
 tlemen in short scarlet jackets who compose 
 Her Majesty's household forces, and whose
 
 80 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 peculiar province it is to entertain, with 
 gossip and gallantry, the British public's 
 nursery-maids — something, perhaps, to the 
 detriment of their juvenile charges. The 
 rows of terraces, Italian in pattern, and 
 painted cream-colour, struck sharply against 
 the clear, blue sky. The birds were chirp- 
 ing cheerily in the trees, and the animals — 
 ferce naturce — residing in the Zoological 
 Gardens, growled occasional protests, like 
 low notes on an out-of-tune organ, at the 
 state of liberty, in a free country, enjoyed 
 by others and denied to them. The distant 
 hill, Primrose — the Mont Blanc to which 
 , London is the Chamouni — wore a purple 
 crown of spectators, fishing out St. Paul's 
 and Westminster Abbey from its summit ; 
 and very young babies were being taken 
 airings, in hoods and long robes, to gasp, 
 and blink, and gurgle in the sunshine ; and 
 over-fed lap-dogs were promenading slowly 
 for their health, like valetudinarians at 
 Cheltenham j and Miss Totty was being
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 81 
 
 drawn in her perambulator, and Master 
 Jackey, on his pony, was led about by the 
 groom. Decidedly a nice morning, and 
 the Park wearing its best. 
 
 But it is afternoon now, and two o'clock, 
 as our young friend Mr. Edwin Erie knocks 
 at the paternal mansion in Gloucester Ter- 
 race. A servant out of livery, with a stiiF 
 white handkerchief propping up flabby 
 cheeks with a tendency to overlap it and 
 depend, a little curve of short, grizzly, sandy 
 whiskers on his cheek-bones, fish eyes, sal- 
 low face, and scanty hair combed into 
 streaky trellis-work over his bald forehead 
 — answers the summons, and opens the 
 door. 
 
 " Oh, it's you. Master Hedwin, is it ? 
 Well, I'm glad you have come 'ome, at last, 
 being Sunday," he said, with a leering fami- 
 liarity. 
 
 " You can reserve your observations, 
 Collis," remarks Edwin, with calm dignity. 
 "Take my hat. Is my father down yet?" 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " He's in tlie drawing-room, Master 
 Hedwin." 
 
 Edwin entered the dining-room — a grim 
 apartment, with dark Spanish mahogany 
 furniture, dark-red hangings, dark dense 
 Turkey carpet, dark oil-paintings of inscrut- 
 able subjects, bronze hanging lamp, and a 
 prevailing sense of want of ventilation about 
 it. Fresh air, indeed, was generally an 
 exile from that house, it being a misde- 
 meanour of an extreme nature to open any 
 of the windows. Suppose the dust should 
 be blown in. Terrible thought! 
 
 CoUis followed Edwin. 
 
 "Lunch have been taken away. Master 
 Hedwin," he said, with a malignant satis- 
 faction. 
 
 " By whose orders ? " 
 
 "Mr. Jeffrey's, Master Hedwin. He 
 have lunched, when he came home from 
 church." 
 
 " Very well. You can go." 
 
 And Edwin proceeded up the scrupu-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 83 
 
 lously-white stone stairs, witli the dark-red 
 and green Brussels stair- carpeting down the 
 middle, into the drawing-room. 
 
 A bright fire crackled in the highly- 
 polished steel grate ; a little old gentleman 
 seated in front of it warmed his thin, yellow, 
 shaking hands ; a white Persian cat, with a 
 blue ribbon round its neck, reposed — a 
 round, cosy, compact, snow-ball, blinking 
 idly at the blaze, on the warm rug at his 
 feet. A tall, dark young man was sitting 
 in one of the windows, looking out into the 
 Park. A handsomely -furnished room, amber 
 damask hangings, rosewood chairs and loo- 
 table, large pier-glasses, massive gilt and 
 Dresden-China clock, cut-glass chandelier, 
 buhl chiffoniers, gold and scarlet-bound 
 books, carved white-marble fire-place, &c. 
 — the fittings altogether what auctioneers 
 designate, "appropriate, chaste, modern, and 
 recherche y 
 
 " Shut the door. Ugh ! what a draught ! 
 Do you want to kill me?" screamed the 
 
 g2
 
 84 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 little old gentleman in wheezy tones, turn- 
 ing half round. '' Oh, it's you, is it? 
 Well, Edwin ? " in more pacified tones. 
 
 " Well, Edwin ? " echoed the young man 
 in the window. 
 
 "Well, father?— well, Jeffrey?" Their 
 greeting of each other was not very cordial. 
 
 " Who is it, Babette ? — who is it, eh ? 
 Fetch him out," and the old man scratched 
 the warm, round, furry head of the white 
 cat, and strove to waken up that favourite 
 into some act of animation. Futile eiFort. 
 The cat merely purred feebly, but stirred 
 not from her snug position. 
 
 "It's a lovely day," said Edwin, sitting 
 down by the table, and laying hands on one 
 of the ornamented books. 
 
 " Bah ! " said the old man, testily ; "let 
 the sun but shine, and you all cry out, 
 ' Beautiful !' while the infernal wind is cut- 
 ting one to pieces. So much you know 
 about it. Lovely day, indeed ! Why, the 
 wind is fearful — bitter — very bitter. I can 
 feel it even here sitting before the fire."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 85 
 
 " North-east, I think,'' said the young 
 man in the window. 
 
 " Don't touch those books, my dear. 
 You know I hate to have those books 
 touched ; and don't tattoo with your fingers 
 — it fidgets me, and I hate it ! " 
 
 There was a dead silence for some mi- 
 nutes. The old gentleman stroked the cat 
 again, who received these attentions with 
 indifierence rather than gratitude.. " Well, 
 my Babette — well, my pretty Babette ? 
 Was it a beauty then ? — was it a pet ? — ^ 
 did it like the nice warm fire ? " Another 
 pause. 
 
 " Did you go to St. Oswald's, Jeffrey ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, I did." It was the young man 
 in the window who was speaking. 
 
 "Who preached?" 
 
 "The Rector." 
 
 " Who read prayers ? " 
 
 " One of the curates — Mr. Gurgoyle." 
 
 "Church full?" 
 
 "Extremely well attended." And the
 
 86 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 conversation dropped. Suddenly the old 
 man started up as though recollecting some- 
 thing. He turned his back to the fire and 
 leant against the mantel-piece. 
 
 " Ah ! ha ! Master Ned. So you were 
 caught last night — locked out — eh ? " 
 
 '' Yes." 
 
 " I told you you would be ! He ! he ! locked 
 out — and a cold night, too. And it rained, 
 poured ! I heard it — ha ! ha ! Served you 
 right — served you right ! " 
 
 Ned merely looked on the ground — said 
 nothing. 
 
 " You didn't knock after twelve, I 
 hope?" 
 
 '' I did not." 
 
 " I did not hear you if you did, and it 
 would have been of no use. I told Collis I 
 would kick him into the street if he dared 
 to let you in after twelve." 
 
 " I did not attempt to obtain admission 
 after twelve. I know your rule." 
 
 ^' Where did you sleep ?" asked Jeffrey.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 87 
 
 " Ay, where ? " repeated the old man. 
 
 "That cannot matter. I abide by the 
 rule. I accept the penalty if I am too late. 
 What becomes of me cannot matter to those 
 who lock me out." 
 
 There was a quiet resolution in his 
 manner. Perhaps they had had some expe- 
 rience of it before ; they forbore to question 
 him any further. 
 
 " That wretched theatre first of all — and 
 then Paul Foster's, I suppose." 
 
 " Ay, I suppose so. D — d old fool," 
 and the old man tottered round and 
 sunk into his chair. Babette seemed to be 
 in his way as he performed this. "Out of 
 the way, you brute !" he screamed, with a 
 kick and an oath. "Ned, you're an ass, I'm 
 afraid," and he leant back and shut his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I was not at uncle Paul's." 
 
 " Uncle Paul's ! " and Jeffrey stuck out 
 his chin, and old Mr. Erie spat in the fire 
 with all his force. They had both evidently
 
 88 PAUL fostee's daughtee. 
 
 contemptuous views in regard to Paul 
 Foster. 
 
 " I think, Jeffrey, if you wouldn't mind 
 calling on old Lady Margrave this after- 
 noon, it would be as well ; but just as you 
 like. I merely suggest it. If you've any 
 objection, it being Sunday, I wouldn't 
 press it for the world. You can go, Ned, 
 where you like ; I don't care. I don't want 
 you here. And tell Collis I'll have my 
 arrow-root now, do you hear ? — and a little 
 dry toast, and a glass of Madeira, do you 
 hear ? Make haste. Don't tread so heavily. 
 You shake the whole room. Oh, my nerves! 
 — and don't bang the door, don't bang the 
 door. By heaven ! if you bang the door — " 
 
 Ned left Jeffrey and his father together, 
 gave the required instructions to Collis, and 
 then retreated to the third floor to his own 
 room, which, behind a balustrade in front of 
 the window, looked pleasantly on to the 
 Park. It was a compact, comfortable room, 
 with a fresh bright green and rose-bud
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 89 
 
 patterned paper, a small iron bedstead, up in 
 the corner against the wall, some shelves of 
 books — school- volumes amongst others, not 
 long since laid aside — water-colour drawings 
 against the wall, paint-boxes, portfolios, 
 brushes, plaster casts, the usual parapher- 
 nalia of the artist. Heedless of dust, and 
 the rules of the house, he flung the window 
 wide open. It was some relief to be able to 
 do anything noisily and precipitately. Habit 
 had done much for him; but at times it 
 was only by a great and painful effort that 
 he could restrain himself chafing under a 
 sense of wrong, and insult, and degradation ; 
 it was a comfort to him to find himself in 
 the only room where he could be thoroughly 
 alone, and free, and independent. 
 
 There was a gentle tap at the door. 
 
 " Come in ! " he said rather angrily, for 
 he thought it was Jeffrey. 
 
 " It's only me, please," said a small voice. 
 
 He opened the door. 
 
 '' What ! you, Sally !" A very diminutive
 
 90 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 servant, with snub nose, red lips, and eyes 
 like sloes. She held a plate in her chubby 
 hands. 
 
 " Oh please, Mr. Hedwiu " — she was the 
 only person in the house who used the 
 word Mister ; the others clung with fond de- 
 preciation to the schoolboy Master. ^' You'll 
 excuse me, won't you ? I've took the liberty 
 to bring you up a sandwich. You see, that 
 beast Collis ! — oh, I hate him ! — he comes 
 guffawing into the kitchen and says as how 
 he's done you out of lunch ! Do have it, 
 there's a dear — I cut it on purpose for you; 
 and I'm sure you'll be 'ungry before dinner, 
 which isn't until six. Now, do — " 
 
 " Thank you, Sally ; you're a good girl." 
 " And they locked you out. Oh, what a 
 shame ! 1 kep awake until three, listening 
 to hear if you knocked, but I couldn't hear 
 you ; and then I couldn't help it, and I fell 
 asleep. Did you knock after that ? Poor 
 dear ! I'd have let you in, I know ; what 
 do I care for Mrs. Beaver, Collis, or either.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 91 
 
 the beast! What do you think he did? 
 Why, he put the clock on five minutes, a 
 purpose to shut the door before twelve, in 
 case you should be running it fine, like. I 
 saw him do it with these eyes. Oh, what 
 a shame it is!" 
 
 " Hush, Sally ; you mustn't talk like that. 
 It's my father's order." 
 
 " Well, I don't know, I'm sure. I never 
 had no father myself to speak of; but it 
 don't seem to me right, and I don't care 
 who hears me say so, to shut a gentleman — 
 and such a gentleman as you, Mr. Hedwin — 
 oh, dear me ! — out of his own 'ome ; and 
 such a night, too, a-pouring with rain ! I 
 lay and shivered in my bed as I heard it, and 
 you to be out in it ! I hope you didn't get 
 wet ? I hope you didn't come to no 'arm ? 
 Did you go to the theayter, Mr. Hedwin ? 
 Oh, I wish I could have let you in ! Td do 
 anything for you — you know I would. 
 You've always been such a good dear to 
 me ; never a cross word from you, like the
 
 92 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 others, because I'm ugly and short, and 
 ain't clever. How can I help it if I am ?" 
 And the poor little maid, what with whim- 
 pering and blushing, and tears oozing out 
 of the sloe eyes on to the red apple cheeks, 
 began to wear a very piteous aspect. 
 
 " My dear Sally, don't cry," says Ned, 
 taking her hand. 
 
 *' Oh, it makes me wus, when you're so 
 kind like ; but you always is, and I don't 
 know how I can ever pay you back ; but 
 I'd work till I dropped for you. Don't 
 your room look nice ? — I cleaned the winders 
 yesterday. I wish you'd let me wash them 
 casts. Break them? I've washed chancy 
 ornaments in my last place. Oh, Mr. 
 Hedwin, how my heart goes; just put your 
 'and, and feel it beating !" 
 
 There was a heavy step on the stairs, and 
 a shrill, tremulous, angry voice. 
 
 " Sarah ! Sa — rah ! You lazy, idle slut, 
 what do you do up here ? How dare you 
 come up here talking to Master Edwin ?
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 93 
 
 Go away down stairs, do!" A loud slap on 
 the plump little shoulders of Sally, and a 
 loud, long "Oh!" — shall we say an Omega? — 
 from the sufferer, as she scuttled frightened 
 down the stairs. 
 
 It was Mrs. Beaver who spoke, the house- 
 keeper, in black silk, gold spectacles, and 
 blond cap with puce ribbons. 
 
 " You ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
 Master Edwin, for encouraging her. I've a 
 great mind to tell your father." 
 
 " You can do what you please, Mrs. 
 Beaver." 
 
 And the door was shut in her angry 
 face. 
 
 Does the reader possess an inmate of his 
 house known as a kitchen -cat — not an orna- 
 mental, plump, pampered inhabitant of the 
 parlour, living a sybaritic life on easy chairs 
 and warm knees, fed from china saucers, 
 and kissed and fondled baby-wise by charm- 
 ing young ladies — but an animal, lean, 
 scraggy, fierce-looking, with hard, wiry fur,
 
 94 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 retained purely for use, to make war on 
 vermin, and get a living as it can, allowed 
 on no pretence to rise from the kitchen and 
 cellars to other parts of the house — an ugly, 
 despised, useful retainer ? Occasionally this 
 creature takes into its head to wander on 
 forbidden paths, trespasses on the kitchen 
 stairs — the hall ! — the parlour ! — gracious 
 heavens ! — the drawing-room ! Then comes 
 a great cry ! and the ladies of the house- 
 hold rise en masse, and "shish! ugh! get 
 along, that horrid brute ! why isn't it 
 drowned ?" resound about the house, with 
 great clutchings at the poker and shaking 
 of petticoats, to warn the kitchen-cat oiF the 
 superior premises ; and a hunted, frightened, 
 half-mad, agonized wretch dashes about 
 hither and thither, seeking the way back to 
 its own territory. Something like this poor 
 kitchen-cat was little Sally Briggs, the scul- 
 lery-maid. She was never to show gentle- 
 folks her ugly, smutty face ; she was never 
 to enter the parlour, or mount the stairs ;
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 95 
 
 she was to confine herself exclusively 
 to those appropriate arenas, the coal -cellar 
 and the scullery. Old Mr. Erie was com- 
 pletely ignorant that such a pei'son was a 
 member of his household. Jeffrey had 
 seen once or twice the grimy little maid, 
 scampering about the house in a scared 
 fashion to get out of his way, and wondered 
 much as to whom she could be. She was the 
 butt of influential Mr. CoUis, and the espe- 
 cial victim of Mrs. Beaver, the housekeeper 
 — a lady of extremely acidulated tenden- 
 cies. Great was her anger — great the hunt- 
 ing about incurred by poor Sally on her 
 being discovered in forbidden regions — 
 many the cuffs and blows and unkindnesses 
 the poor little soul endured. I am afraid 
 that, generally, the " slavey " of the house 
 has rather a hard time of it. How Edwin 
 had first discovered and befriended little 
 Sally, it would be difficult to state. Per- 
 haps his kindness had been utterly apart 
 from his own consciousness. A something
 
 96 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 in liis calm subdued manner may have ap- 
 pealed to Sally by its very difference to the 
 pronounced ill-treatment she received from 
 others ; or she may have looked upon him 
 as a fellow-victim. She could not fail to 
 see that his influence was small in the 
 house; that he was little regarded by the 
 other members of the family — by the other 
 servants. Anyhow, Sally clung to Edwin, 
 and, in her poor humble way, worshipped 
 him with all her soul — as she expressed it, 
 "would work till she dropped," on his be- 
 hoof. Perhaps even the kitchen cat has some 
 sucli predilection, and in its uncultured 
 affections has a kindly memory and a soft 
 place for some hand that once patted its 
 rough head, and smoothed its coarse fur with 
 tenderness.
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN OLD-ESTABLISHED FIEM. 
 
 Entering tlie cliambers of Messrs. Foskett, 
 Bishop & Erie, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 solicitors, you could not fail to be struck 
 with the age and respectability of the firm. 
 These were made immediately apparent to 
 you, though it would be perhaps difficult to 
 state precisely how. It was a compound 
 impression, derived from many sources. 
 IN^ot merely was it that the house was a 
 very old house, with carved oaken staircases 
 and heavily-moulded cornices and ceilings 
 — once handsomely painted and gilded no 
 doubt — with heaps of heavily-framed gods 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 and goddesses, more or less undraped, 
 sprawling clumsily about, and threatening 
 to come tumbling down instantaneously, 
 after a fashion bygone since a century — 
 though now smeared over with whitewash 
 and clouded with smoke, with cracks in the 
 material interlining the clouds, and festoons 
 of cobwebs, like dirty gauze hangings, swing- 
 ing from every available point. Not merely 
 was it that the furniture was black with 
 age, so that the mahogany began to ap- 
 proach ebony in appearance, and the Tur- 
 key carpets in the private rooms were 
 trodden patternless and threadbare with 
 the use of years. Nor that the bookcase- 
 shelves were crowded with volumes upon 
 volumes of Reports, in the inevitable law- 
 binding of tawny sheepskin with red labels. 
 Not merely was it that portraits of judges, 
 long ago dead and buried, and dust, decked 
 the walls — not hidden by the piled-up tin 
 boxes, and the masses of papers with the 
 exposed edges black with time. But the
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 99 
 
 clerks were for the most part old grey- 
 haired men, sallow from long service, with 
 a certain look about them that told of 
 years of incarceration in the chambers of 
 Messrs. Foskett, Bishop & Erie ; they might 
 have been Bastille prisoners, just brought to 
 light, but for their clean, shorn appearance — 
 they looked so bound down to a limited 
 routine of life, so tied to a small, prescribed 
 arena, and the depositories of such accu- 
 mulated stores of secrets in connection with 
 the firm they served. They gave currency 
 and colour to the notion, if they didn't 
 originate it, that seemed to pervade the 
 place, and which, put into words, said — 
 "We're a wonderfully ancient, and respect- 
 able, and old-established firm. We've been 
 going on like this year after year for, oh ! 
 ever so long, and we intend to go on like 
 this year after year for, oh ! ever so long. 
 This is the firm, and we are the clerks of the 
 firm of Foskett, Bishop & Erie, one of the 
 most eminent, if indeed it is not the most 
 
 h2
 
 100 PAUL eoster's daughter. 
 
 eminent in the profession," &c., &c. And 
 the clerks spoke ever in low tones; and 
 there was no laughing or joke-cracking 
 among those serene, subdued functionaries, 
 unless now and then perhaps some irre- 
 pressible rampant black sheep of an articled 
 clerk had invaded the fold and tried to 
 upset its peace. But that was only a tem- 
 porary interruption ; for the interrupter 
 had soon served his time, and got plucked, 
 no doubt, and been sifted out of the flock, 
 and driven out into the world — if a lawyer, 
 to worry many a hapless client to distraction ; 
 and if a plucked clerk only, why, then a 
 Vaurien indeed — utterly spoilt as a man, 
 and incomplete as a lawyer even : a des- 
 perate job, my faith ! And they seemed to 
 wear list slippers always, for their footsteps 
 were quite noiseless ; and indeed the silence 
 of the office was seldom broken, except by 
 the scratching of pens ; and now and then, 
 once a quarter or so, one of the old hands, 
 producing a grim professional joke, which
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 101 
 
 was duly received and acknowledged with a 
 business-like air of amusement, but entirely 
 without anything so improper and un- 
 becoming as laughter ; a faint snigger, and 
 chuckle, with a little shaking about on the 
 tall, rather rickety stools — nothing more — 
 comprised the highest amount of approbation 
 ever bestowed even upon the most rigorously 
 legal jest. 
 
 The office of Messrs. Foskett, Bishop, and 
 Erie was rather, if I may use the term, a 
 wholesale emporium of legal business than 
 a retail establishment. They did not, I 
 mean, serve out law rapidly across the 
 counter, ready done up in packets. You 
 would not have gone there for a sharp, 
 quick, small stroke of business — such as 
 suing A. on his I.O.U. for twenty pounds, 
 popping a broker in B.'s establishment for 
 default in rent, or issuing a ca. sa. to the 
 inconvenience of C. You would not have 
 confided to their care any merely twopenny- 
 halfpenny sort of business ; or, if you did,
 
 102 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 very likely the whole thing would have gone 
 wrong. I believe that accomplished instru- 
 ment, the Nasymth hammer, will knock in a 
 tin tack as well as slice in half a bar of iron. 
 But that is exceptional. As a rule, the 
 man accustomed to haul a cable cannot 
 hold a packthread. And it was much this 
 case with our present firm. I believe they 
 would have failed before a county court 
 judge, and a small debtor would readily 
 have eluded their grasp ; but for a tremen- 
 dous chancery suit, of a thousand-and-one 
 complications, for the investigation of a 
 wonderful title, running through many 
 generations, and deriving difficulties and 
 involvements from each — or for the conduct 
 of a heavy appeal to the House of Lords or 
 Privy-Council — I believe that the firm of 
 Foskett, Bishop, and Erie w^as without a 
 rival in the profession. They moved but 
 slowly ; but then their movements effected 
 prodigious results — just as it takes the female 
 elephant three years to produce her off-
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 103 
 
 spring ; only then remember, please, that it 
 is a young elephant that is born, and not a 
 puppy dog. 
 
 Of this firm it is necessary to state that 
 old Mr. Erie, though apparently in order of 
 nomination the junior member, was in fact 
 the head. Foskett there had been none for 
 iive-and-thirty years ; Bishop there had 
 been none for more than twenty years. 
 Old bachelors — they had been gathered into 
 their graves, leaving their names repre- 
 sented only by the firm to which they had 
 been wedded, and for which they had toiled, 
 and of which they had done so much to en- 
 hance the influence for so many years. Yes, 
 their names were on the doors of the house 
 in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and on their grave- 
 stones in London Church-yards — there, per- 
 haps, time and ill- weather were efiPacing 
 them ; for who was there to tend those 
 tombs, and smooth the stones, and cut 
 deeper the letters, and strew flowers, aye, 
 and tears, upon them ? None ; and per-
 
 104 PAUL eoster's daughter. 
 
 haps the stones had been removed, and 
 concrete spread over them, and shops reared 
 on the site of their graves — who knows ? 
 Well, childless old men, it matters little 
 now ; your names are conserved Avhere you 
 were most known — in Chancery Lane, and 
 the courts at Westminster, and the snug 
 privy-council parlours. And old Mr. Erie 
 keeps up the firm, and single-handed fights 
 for three, and by himself represents the 
 old-established, eminent, respectable firm of 
 Foskett, Bishop, & Erie. 
 
 And yet — no, not altogether single- 
 handed, not absolutely by himself; for of 
 late years — but very recently in comparison 
 with the existence of the firm — Mr. Erie's 
 eldest son, Mr. Jeffrey Erie, who served 
 his articles in the house — an extremely 
 clever and most praiseworthy young man — 
 has been taken into partnership, and, let me 
 tell you, is very highly thought of by the 
 old gentleman in the outer ofiice, and is 
 deemed a worthy son of his most excellent
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 105 
 
 father, and one in every way likely to 
 maintain the high position enjoyed by the 
 firm of Foskett, Bishop, & Erie for so many 
 years. 
 
 It may be as well, perhaps, to state here 
 how Mr. Erie came to have a son, and to 
 call his name Jeffrey — how he failed to 
 follow the example of single life set him by 
 his partners, and took unto his bosom a 
 wife. I- am stopping the narrative, I know, 
 and turning back a great many years ; but 
 it is as well that the facts should be clearly, 
 if briefly, presented to the reader. " John 
 Whincop Erie (firm, Foskett, Bishop, & 
 Erie), 112, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London; 
 residence, 99, Gloucester Terrace, Regent's 
 Park," is the entry in the official lawlist in 
 the year of which I am writing. Well, 
 when a young man, John Whincop Erie 
 had been a little wild. He had succeeded 
 his father as a partner in the house, as Messrs. 
 Foskett and Bishop had in turn succeeded 
 their parents. There were no examinations,
 
 106 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 or lectures, or stuff of that kind then. You 
 articled a young fellow, and he served his 
 time, and was a lawyer, and was settled for 
 life. Well, in the days of Hessian boots 
 and Brummell neckcloths — there are no 
 neckcloths now, only ties — and fur collars, 
 and curly-rimmed beaver hats — who wore 
 the last beaver hat, a footman or a police- 
 man? — and generally when the Regency 
 buck was rather a flourishing young flower, 
 Mr. J. W. E. followed suit. He went 
 through the prescribed routine — was rather 
 a muscular buck than a Bond Street dandy, 
 and fought with Charleys, maltreating 
 those worthies scandalously — drove the Bath 
 coach a good many journeys, till he upset 
 it — sported a tandem, went on the turf, 
 entered a horse for the Prince's plate at 
 Newmarket, and then scratched '' Corin- 
 thian " at the last moment — most unfairly, 
 cried its backers, with a yell that drove 
 him from the sporting world — knocked down 
 a great deal of money at blind hookey one fine
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 107 
 
 morningin St. James's Street — and altogether, 
 for an Attorney at Law and Solicitor of the 
 Court of Chancery, carried matters with a 
 tolerably high hand. However, there was 
 less starch and ironing in the age than at 
 present ; and the Tooting interest was not 
 nearly so strongly represented in society. 
 It was supposed that in due time all would 
 be forgotten and forgiven ; that Mr. John 
 Whincop Erie would sow his plentiful 
 supply of wild oats, and then quietly take 
 his place at his desk, quill in hand, quite a 
 proper and well-regulated lawyer. With 
 this view every one counselled marriage : 
 nothing settles a man like a wife, they said ; 
 marry, my defr J. W. E., and be a good 
 boy, and a decent attorney. J. W. E. took 
 the advice — the letter of it, if not the spirit. 
 He did marry ; but that last oat was a fear- 
 fully wild one. He eloped with Miss 
 Agatha Bartlett Gorton Jeffrey, of Crew- 
 croft Chase, Cheshire, the heiress of three 
 wealthy families, an orphan, and — a ward
 
 108 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 in Chancery ! It was a dangerous, despe- 
 rate, tremendous business ! How he ever 
 pulled through it is more than can be told. 
 Why he was not imprisoned for life for con- 
 tempt — why he was not struck off the 
 Rolls — why he was not subjected to the 
 severest punishment in the power of the 
 Chancellor to inflict — who can answer. 
 The old gentlemen in the outer office could 
 if they would — but they won't. Somehow 
 it was cooked up, smuggled through. There 
 was a " state of facts " brought in before the 
 Master exaggerating the merits pecuniary 
 and otherwise of J. W. E. to an extraor- 
 dinary extent ; there was a humble — 
 intensely humble — petition ♦to the Chan- 
 cellor. Perhaps what was most in favour 
 of the business was, that not all the Court of 
 Chancery could do could alter the result. 
 It was like Humpty Dumpty's fall — all the 
 king's men and horses couldn't reinstate and 
 restore. The marriage had taken place. 
 Miss Jeffrey was Mrs. Erie. There was a
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 109 
 
 talk of making a great example of him ; 
 however, nothing was done. The thing blew 
 over : J. W. E. reformed ! His misdeeds 
 became merged and lost in the overflow- 
 ing, general respectability of his firm ; and 
 perhaps the way in which the extraordinary 
 business had been settled by the firm added 
 not a little to its repute. Foskett, Bishop, 
 & Erie flourished always. Mrs. Erie gave 
 birth to his son, who was christened 
 Jeffrey. 
 
 One of the dark oil-pantings in the dining- 
 room in Gloucester Terrace represents Mrs. 
 Erie — a brunette, with heavy brows and 
 curly jet bunches of hair, brought well on 
 to her forehead. She has a strong jaw and 
 compressed lips, and wears a turban, and is 
 indeed supposed to be a muse. It is a 
 companion picture to the portrait of Mr. 
 Erie at the other end of the room. They 
 are both by Jackson, and thought highly 
 of by that artist's admirers. 
 
 Miss Jeffrey's fortune was large — not
 
 110 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 so large as was represented, people said ; 
 but then no fortune ever is so large as it is 
 represented. Mr. Erie professed to be dis- 
 appointed at its amount. " It's one of your 
 half-and-balf things, "he said — " tidy, but not 
 much more — neither one thing nor another. 
 I hate your half-rich people. A millionaire 
 has it all his own way ; but a half-rich man 
 has a dreadful fight for it. Might as well 
 be an adventurer without a rap, especially 
 a bachelor one ! " So he did not retire from 
 Lincoln's Inn, and he did not scruple to 
 leave his wife a good deal to herself at Crew- 
 croft Chase. She was not a very sweet- 
 tempered lady — proud of her money, 
 earned by her hard-working relations, a 
 respectable firm of sugar-bakers, one of 
 whom had bought the Chase at the grand 
 smash-up of Lord Mountcheeseney, in the 
 early days of the Prince of Wales. What 
 on earth induced her to run away with J. 
 W. E. no one could tell. Though, truth 
 to tell, in those days he was a dashing
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. Ill 
 
 little fellow enough, with a spruce leg for 
 a Hessian, a roguish eye, and a tongue 
 that could whisper the most witching non- 
 sense into a woman's ear. He possessed 
 great power over her, and might have 
 always retained it, if he had not neglected 
 her so systematically. And then came his 
 dissatisfaction about her money. That was 
 a cruel blow to her, whose wealth had 
 been her boast. He laid his hand upon 
 all he could (there had been a post-nuptial 
 settlement of some sort insisted on by the 
 Chancellor, securing a certain annuity to 
 the lady for her life, and after her death to 
 her children), and determined to double 
 the amount by means of extraordinary in- 
 vestment. There is always a bubble year 
 recurring every now and then, as though 
 expressly to accommodate similar financiers, 
 and relieve them of funds they are evi- 
 dently unfit to manage. Miss Jefi*rey's 
 fortune was swept away. It had been laid 
 on the black and red came up, and the
 
 112 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 pitiless croupier of the Stock Exchange had 
 raked it all in. She scolded, raged, 
 stormed ; her husband simply laughed, and 
 went to his office in Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 Crewcroft Chase was once more dealt with 
 by the auctioneer. Mrs. Erie, mad with 
 vexation, went abroad with her baby son 
 Jeffrey, wandered about for two years, 
 caught a fever at Naples, and died. 
 
 But these stories about J. W. E. are 
 little known, and only vaguely remembered. 
 Certain of the old gentlemen in the outer 
 office may be acquainted with them, but 
 they travel no further. Messrs. Foskett, 
 Bishop, and Erie's clerks are staid, solid, 
 respectable men, fathers of families, residing 
 at Kennington and Wandsworth ; not like 
 the gossipping set, the assistants of younger 
 practitioners, who ' hob-nob in Chancery 
 Lane pot-houses, and discuss irreverently 
 their "governors." And J. W. E. had 
 been a man of considerable talent and great 
 application. He had worked hard for the
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 113 
 
 firm. He was now sixty-three or four 
 years of age. He looked even older, and 
 was reputed to have one of the widest 
 experiences of any man in the profession. 
 He had business connections with some of 
 the highest families in the land, and had 
 an intimate knowledge of all their affairs. 
 If he could have been only got at and 
 printed, he would have formed in himself 
 quite a supplement to the peerage — he was 
 so thoroughly possessed of all the secret 
 scandals and hushed-up stories relating to 
 the great names entered in that book. And 
 his manner had been very successful ; know- 
 ing, but quiet, cautious, and delicate. 
 The swagger of the Regency buck had 
 worn off completely. It would have been 
 impossible to see in the subdued, silver- 
 voiced graceful elderly gentleman repre- 
 senting the eminent firm in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, the rackety Adonis of forty years 
 back — the turfite, the Bath coach Jehu, 
 the watchman beater, the absconder with 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 the Chancery ward. The more old Mr. 
 Erie was looked at and studied, the more 
 young Mr. Erie seemed to be an impossible 
 character, and his mad doings extravagant 
 fables. But it must be stated that the 
 reader knows Mr. Erie only in his extreme 
 decadence. For nearly eighteen months 
 he has been a prisoner in his own 
 house, owing to the bursting of a blood- 
 vessel, and a serious attack of congestion 
 of the lungs. His physicians have pre- 
 scribed his remaining in a room of one tem- 
 perature — have forbidden his moving from 
 the house. So he has sunk into invalid 
 habits — petulant about small matters, testy 
 over his arrow-root, and angry about 
 draughts and the thermometer. He cannot 
 attend in Lincoln's-Inn now even. Still, 
 from afar off, like a general on a hill, he 
 directs the carrying on of the business ; and, 
 aided by his son Jeffrey, he pulls the 
 strings and moves the pieces on the board, 
 as the player concealed within worked the
 
 PAUL fostek's daughter. 115 
 
 automaton chess-player and won his games 
 for him. 
 
 Punctually at ten o'clock on Monday 
 morning, Mr. Jeffrey Erie passed through the 
 office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and entered 
 his own room, a quiet, gloomy apartment, 
 with mezzotinto engravings of judicial wor- 
 thies decorating the walls — pompous Lord 
 Thurlow, blatant Lord Ellenborough, Sir 
 Vacary Gibbs, Sir John Leech, Master of 
 the Rolls. Old Mr. Deacon, for many years 
 a faithful servant of the firm, brought in 
 the newspaper, and aired it before the fire ; 
 in point of fact, it had been aired and read 
 some time before by Mr. Deacon, for his 
 own advantage. 
 
 " Anything new, Deacon ? " enquires 
 Jeffrey, in his quiet, friendly, gentlemanly 
 way, as he proceeds to tear open the letters 
 on his table. 
 
 "No — sir," answers Deacon, hesitatingly, 
 as though he were seeking to fish up some 
 scrap of interest from the depths of his 
 
 i2
 
 116 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 memory ; but he knows that not for Jeffrey 
 is tlie murder at Rotherhithe, the fire in 
 Spitalfields, the extraordinary scene in a 
 church, singular birth, mysterious affair. It 
 is business news that Jeffrey seeks. '' The 
 Chancellor hasn't disposed of Kettle and 
 Kettle yet." 
 
 " Oh, we're in that." 
 
 " Yes, we represent one of the infants, 
 merely. Mr. Nodder holds a consent 
 brief." 
 
 " Ah ! yes. Let me see — there's a con- 
 sultation with the Attorney-General — " 
 
 '' In Parker's appeal ? Yes, at the House 
 of Lords, at three." 
 
 " There's nothing important in these 
 letters. Figg and Co. think our requisitions, 
 in regard to Nimber's title, are unreasonable; 
 but we can't hel|) that." 
 
 "How is Mr. Erie, sir, this morning?" 
 
 " Much the same, thank you, Deacon. 
 There is little chance of amendment until 
 quite the warm weather sets in. What's
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 117 
 
 Mr. Rook doing ? " Mr. Rook was a young 
 gentleman recently articled to Jeffrey. 
 
 " He's making part of the fair copy of the 
 release of Biffin's trustees." 
 
 " I thought he objected to copying- 
 work ? '' 
 
 '' Well, he did at first. They all do at 
 first. He said his father did not pay a 
 high premium for him to be put to do 
 copying. They all say that sort of thing 
 at first ; but they get over it. He seems 
 quite comfortable now, hard at work at the 
 copy." 
 
 " Well, we'll give him a change. Bring 
 him in." 
 
 Mr. Deacon went out, and returned with 
 a small plump young gentleman, round as 
 to features, and with short hair, who bowed 
 politely as he came in. 
 
 ^' Good morning, Mr. Rook," said Jeffrey. 
 " Here's a short deed I want drawn, between 
 Edwin Gabriel Erie, of the one part, and 
 John Whincop Erie, his executors, adminis-
 
 118 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 trators and assigns of the other part, articles 
 of apprenticeship. You can take your own 
 articles as a precedent — very little alteration 
 will be required. You understand ? '' 
 
 " Oh, is Mr. Edwin coming here to be 
 articled ?" enquired Mr. Rook. " I'm glad 
 of that" 
 
 " Well, well, never mind that now ; set 
 him an example of industry and perse- 
 verance when he does come. You see, 
 expressions of opinion of that sort have 
 nothing to do with the matter in hand. 
 There, go on with the draft." 
 
 Mr. JeiFrey's manner was perfectly good- 
 tempered, but a trifle peremptory. 
 
 Mr. Rook withdrew, slightly abashed. 
 
 *' It's really to be then ? " said Mr. Deacon, 
 enquiringly. 
 
 " Yes ; my father has made up his mind. 
 Master Edwin — Mister Edwin we must call 
 him henceforward — has had a great deal of 
 liberty, too much, perhaps ; he is not without 
 ability, but is strangely wanting in moral
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 119 
 
 discipline. We will see what regular occu- 
 pation will do for him. You must not 
 spare him." 
 
 " He has been here once or twice. T 
 thought him a gentlemanly youth, of some 
 promise." 
 
 " I daresay we shall make something of 
 him ; but he has o^ot some strano;e notions 
 into his head, caught from queer company, 
 I am afraid. He has not been particular 
 as to his associates. But we shall soon see 
 what he's made of"
 
 120 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 UNCLE Paul's. 
 
 A POPULAR proverb has it, that two of a 
 trade never agree — an assertion not to be 
 swallowed with shut eyes, or accepted with- 
 out deliberation ; for of a certainty there 
 are points of harmony to be found among fol- 
 lowers of like calling. Men of guilds are not 
 necessarily antagonistic. For instance, are 
 not co-traders ever gregarious ? Do they 
 not invariably attach themselves to special 
 locales ? Would it not be practicable to 
 partition the town into quarters of parti- 
 cular businesses ? Do not you, reader, 
 know precisely where to find a street of
 
 PAUL eostee's daughter. 121 
 
 insurance offices, a nest of bonnet shops, a 
 lane of dentists, a market of butchers, a 
 row of publishers? And do they not, by 
 this appropriation of districts, profit each 
 other, and aid, and advertise, and streng- 
 then? We are not, surely, so combative 
 that if we disagree with a man we need 
 insist on being perpetually in his company. 
 Now, when the professions and trades 
 divided London between them — as mon- 
 archs have before now cut Europe into 
 slices, like a cake, for their mutual advan- 
 tage — Art took as her share certain respect- 
 able acres situate in the neighbourhood of 
 Fitzroy Square and Tottenham Court Road. 
 Who does not know Fitzroy Square, with 
 its two sides of stone, and two of stucco, 
 like a man with one glove of white kid and 
 the other of Berlin ? Well, close to Fitzroy 
 Square — abutting, I think, is the legal term 
 — Jowland Street is to be found much in- 
 habited by artists, with many of its first- 
 floor windows cut up, with a long line of
 
 122 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 brass knobs, like organ stops or notes of 
 music, being bell-pulls, on its door-posts; 
 with a convenient pawnbroker at its one 
 corner, and a commodious public-house at 
 the other — institutions not altogether ne- 
 glected by the worthy students of the fine 
 arts to be met with thereabouts. And at 
 No. 19, Jowland Street, dwelt Paul Foster, 
 historical painter, teacher of drawing — an 
 unsuccessful great man. Perhaps, upon 
 reflection, we had better say, simply, un- 
 successful, and omit the great. 
 
 Paul stands in front of his easel — a tall, 
 massive, imposing personage, with a pro- 
 nounced Britannic convexity about the 
 front of his figure ; a thorough artist, even 
 to dressing for the part. He wears a long, 
 black-velvet, Titianesque robe, girt with 
 what looks like a crimson bell-rope and 
 tassels. Not a recent costume this : a relic, 
 evidently, of earlier weakness for fantastic 
 attire ; it is rusty and dirty ; and its pro- 
 prietor has grown stouter, evidently, since its
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 123 
 
 making — witnessthe crescents of burstseams, 
 the shirt beneath oozing through, under the 
 arms. And it is blotted and stained over- 
 much, as though in moments of acute aban- 
 donment Paul had wiped his brushes on 
 his velvet. He is clean-shaven, well shaven, 
 and has round full eyes, and heavy black 
 eyebrows. He is restless, and, as he paints, 
 whistles or sings a tuneless rum-tum-tiddy- 
 iddy burthen to an unknown song. 
 " Just a little bit more to the light." 
 This is addressed to a young person robed 
 in white, standing on the throne of the 
 painting-room, posed for art purposes. Her 
 head is stretched forward eagerly, and her 
 arms are gathered up behind, her hands 
 clutched in her streaming tawny - gold 
 tresses. 
 
 " Ah ! 1 see, it's not your fault. The 
 light's going, that's what it is — going fast, 
 just when I want it most ; one always does 
 want it most when one can have it least. 
 I suppose it's the same with everything else.
 
 124 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 Where the deuce is the flake-white? Oh, 
 here ! A few minutes more, that's all. 
 Rum-ti-tum, ti-tiddy, ! " 
 
 And Paul worked hard at his canvas, 
 slapping about the paint with a large brush, 
 noisily, like tattooing on a weak drum. 
 
 ^' And you think Sappho stood in this 
 attitude, Polly dear ? " inquired the young 
 person. 
 
 " I think so, Syl," said Paul, who seemed 
 to answer also to the name of Polly. " Fancy 
 Phaon sailing away in the galley below, 
 the ship still visible on the horizon, but 
 fading from her vision. Sappho, deserted, 
 straining her eyes — full of tears, mind you 
 — to watch the galley bearing away her 
 lover ! Fancy her on the highest top of the 
 Leucadian rocks, gazing out in agony to see 
 the last of him ! " 
 
 Paul's rich bass voice swelled with a 
 superb portamento as he gave this descrip- 
 tion ; and he waved about, giving action to 
 the words, his large brush, the flake-white
 
 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 125 
 
 in a buncli at the end of it, and his im- 
 mense oval palete smeared with paint. They 
 seemed a battle-axe and shield, in his idea, 
 and should have been, to warrant his slightly 
 exaggerated motions. 
 
 " Poor creature ! " said Syl, simply. She 
 had a light musical voice, very touching 
 when she spoke plaintively. 
 
 " Fancy you are Sappho, Syl, and that 
 that first-floor window over there is Phaon's 
 ship. You gaze at it, till suddenly your 
 eyes lose it. You give a maddened burst 
 of song — for you are a poetess, and you 
 composed all the popular songs of that remote 
 period. You accompany yourself on the 
 golden lyre at your feet — take care you 
 don't knock it down, my dear, it's only 
 plaster of Paris — and then, with a shriek of 
 anguish, you leap from the rock into the 
 sea, foaming, and rolling, and roaring, 
 thousands of feet below ! " 
 
 "Did she do that, Polly? Did she, 
 indeed ? Poor soul ! "
 
 126 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " She did, Syl. Now you know all about 
 the picture." 
 
 " It was very silly of her. He left her, 
 I suppose, of his own accord ? Ah ! loved 
 some one else ? Ah ! Still, she should not 
 have killed herself" 
 
 "You would not have done that Syl, 
 would you ? " 
 
 "No; I would have lived." 
 
 " But, you see, she loved him very much 
 — she could not bear to think of his quitting 
 her for another." 
 
 " I'd have lived. Did her death better 
 things? Would he have loved her more 
 dead than he loved her living ? No. I'd 
 have conquered my love — I'd have locked it 
 in my heart, have smothered it, killed it, 
 buried it ; and then, by and bye, I would 
 have met him — traitor ! — with a smile and 
 a curtsey : ' Monsieur, I love you no more 
 — allez done, good morning ! ' " 
 
 She dropped the Sappho pose to deliver 
 this little speech. Her hazel eyes sparkled.
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 127 
 
 and slie spoke with warmth. But she 
 finished laughing, as though at her own 
 animation — a pretty ringing laugh, too. 
 Paul added a splendid roar of mirthful 
 approval. 
 
 '^ Bravo, Syl ! Ah ! you'll lead your lovers 
 a nice dance, I can see." 
 
 " Wait till I get any, Polly dear. Now 
 — am I in the right pose again ? " 
 
 "The left arm a little higher up. No, 
 not so high — that's it. Your head well out 
 — that's it. Rum-tum diddle-iddle. Ah ! 
 you'll have lovers enough one of these fine 
 mornings." 
 
 " Nonsense, Polly." (Such a lovely blush ! 
 but Polly was puddling about with his 
 flake white, and could not see it.) " Do you 
 think I ever shall ? — really ? — earnest ? " 
 
 " Yes, — oh ! — ah ! of course," he wasn't 
 listening — intent upon some particular of 
 his work. 
 
 " I suppose every woman is loved by some 
 one ; at any rate, once during her life ? Isn't
 
 128 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 she, Polly, dear? Don't people say so?" 
 
 " Oh, dear me — yes. I should think so." 
 But he had not heard a bit, and did not 
 know what he was talking about. 
 
 "And do you think — mamma now, for 
 instance — do you think she was loved by 
 anyone else besides you? — though, of course, 
 she loved you the best, or she wouldn't have 
 married you." 
 
 He heard this time, and turned round 
 sharply. 
 
 " What nonsense are you talking ? What 
 do you mean? Your mother, Syl?" 
 
 "Have I offended you, dear?" There 
 was such love in her glance, mixed with 
 some little alarm — it was irresistible. 
 
 " Don't speak about that — anything but 
 that. Let the dead rest. There's my 
 darling." And he kissed her; and she 
 circled his large, rough, bushy old head with 
 her soft white arms. 
 
 "You shall have a hundred lovers, my 
 Syl, if you like. And yet" — he fell from his
 
 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 129 
 
 boasting into melancholy — " I'm a poor 
 bankrupt old dog ; I can't give balls and 
 parties, and launch you, Syl, on the waters 
 of society, as you ought to be launched — a 
 dear, darling, little Lady Puss like you. I 
 don't know who's to come here to find you 
 out and marry you. You see princes don't 
 go about into peasants' huts and find out 
 lovely maidens, and marry them sharp out 
 of hand, as they used to in the good old fairy- 
 tale times ! " 
 
 " And suppose they don't, Polly dear, 
 what does it matter ? Shan't I always be 
 with you, and happy, and cosy, and you 
 loving me more than all the fairy princes 
 put together ever loved their princesses? 
 And isn't that a better thing to think about 
 a good deal ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it is, my darling," Polly re- 
 sponds simply, but not quite convinced. 
 
 They were father and daughter, and firm 
 friends besides. If it may seem irreveren- 
 tial that the child should call her parent by 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 a nick-name, remember that it arose from 
 her great love for him — from his great love 
 for her, which had broken down all barriers, 
 levelled conventional distinctions about re- 
 spect, and awe, and position. She was his 
 friend, his nurse, his consoler, his counsellor, 
 his companion always : they possessed no 
 secrets unshared. His wife lost, her tiny 
 child had crept into her place in his heart 
 and household. And in her way she ruled 
 him ; for he was rather a thoughtless young 
 fellow was old Paul — now and then prone 
 to spend money when he had any, and to 
 run into debt when he hadn't ; and to visit 
 a little too regularly the two establishments 
 at the end of the street ; and altogether to 
 conduct himself occasionally with a reckless- 
 ness he fancied perhaps was an attribute of 
 genius — and he Avas therefore fairly entitled 
 to exhibit. Unfortunately, however, it 
 happens, that though genius may be irre- 
 gular, irregularity may be entirely apart 
 from genius. Anyhow, it was quite as
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 131 
 
 well for old Paul that there was a good 
 little Sylvia Foster waiting at home for him, 
 to keep his accounts and mend his stockings, 
 sew his buttons on, and prevent his spend- 
 ing his money, and keep him from running 
 out to either corner, and generally look 
 after and attend to him ; and if she did call 
 him Polly — well, the name must have 
 sprung from some fond playfulness between 
 the two — and if it didn't sound very respect- 
 ful, perhaps old Paul was not the best 
 qualified person in the world to attract 
 respect, even from his own little Syl. But 
 she gave him the more love ; and, after all, 
 that is the best thing of the two — obtain 
 that, and a fig for respect, especially the 
 sham respect of stiff manners and studied 
 words. Somehow, it seems to me there can't 
 be great awe and great friendship too ; and 
 I like to see parents and children on easy 
 terms with each other — not preserving their 
 love in ice, but with plenty of cordiality, 
 and trust, and pleasantness. I have known 
 
 K 2
 
 132 PAUL eoster's daughter. 
 
 certain seemingly reverential sons, who 
 rather dropped their respect out of the 
 paternal presence, took their revenge then, 
 shewed rather an eye-service and lip-homage 
 at the best ; and, somehow, I never could 
 bring myself to very hearty belief in the 
 sincerity of their filial piety. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and then 
 immediately a young gentleman entered. 
 
 " Why, here's Edwin ! " 
 
 " Ah ! uncle Poll— ah ! Syl," cries Edwin, 
 cheerily. 
 
 " How doth your lordship ? My duty to 
 your grace ! " And uncle Poll — Edwin, it 
 seems, is no more respectful than Sylvia — 
 bows with mock dramatic courtesy. Edwin 
 taps him on the shoulder with his cane, 
 laughingly, " Rise, Sir Paul Foster, painter 
 extraordinary to the court of King Edwin 
 the Fair ! " 
 
 You see, we are breaking in upon a 
 family party, and don't quite follow all 
 their mirth and the meaning of their jests.
 
 PAUL Foster's DAUGHTER. 133 
 
 if, indeed, there be any meaning. I have 
 known quite as much fun and laughter from 
 jokes without any. But we must take the 
 family "as we find them," to use a popular 
 expression. 1 cannot block up my pages 
 with annotations and marginal notes, such 
 as, "This joke is supposed to have reference 
 to a conversation that took place three 
 months ago, about so and so," or, " This is 
 a palpable allusion to such and such a 
 thing," &c. 
 
 " Don't move, Syl — don't move ! Look 
 there, isn't that splendid. Poll ? See, there's 
 a yellow ray of the sunset reflected from 
 the window on the other side of the street 
 falls on Syl's arm, and then just catches 
 the outer circle of her head — isn't it beau- 
 tiful? I wish I could paint it! — beauti- 
 ful ! " 
 
 "Yes, my dear, it's very pretty," said 
 uncle Poll, evidently not caring much about 
 it ; " but one can't regard accidents of that 
 sort in painting ; one must stick to broad,
 
 134 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 general, well-known effects." Edwin looked 
 disagreement, but went on — 
 
 "And how exquisite that warm, bright 
 light is, reflected from her chin to her 
 shoulder, and back again. I don't see it in 
 your picture." 
 
 '^Too trivial, my dear boy, too trivial. 
 You must put away those sort of details in 
 painting." 
 
 " Syl, you come beautifully like that ; 
 throw your head back a little." 
 
 " I'm not a model, sir ; " and Miss Sylvia 
 pouts a little, but she complies. 
 
 " 1 should so like to paint you like that ! 
 What a splendid mantle of hair ! " 
 
 " Yes, it's red, Mr. Edwin ; a nice colour, 
 isn't it ? " The young lady spoke with 
 some irony. 
 
 " Well, suppose it is red — it's shot with 
 orange and gold and green, and has the 
 most lovely wave in it. Anyone who can't 
 appreciate its beauty must be blind, or an 
 idiot, or both."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 135 
 
 " Thank you, Edwin," and she bows to 
 him, and looks smilingly with her witching 
 hazel eyes. 
 
 " Do you like the picture, Ned ? " inter- 
 rupts Poll : " * Sappho on the Leucadian 
 Rock, gazing out at the Galley,' " &c., &c. 
 Here imagine a gesticulative explanation of 
 the picture — something like what has been 
 given before, only more elaborate, for the 
 artist is speaking to another artist. Sappho 
 quits the room to assume the dress of every- 
 day life. Ned and Poll discuss the work 
 minutely. 
 
 ^' But Sylvia is hardly classical enough — 
 a different style of beauty." 
 
 *' Yes ; she ought to be the daughter of 
 a genre painter. My daughter, to have 
 really aided me in my works, ought to have 
 been something of the Roman-matron cut. 
 Syl's too mignonne, petite^'' and Poll rubbed 
 his red nose reflectingly. 
 
 " Call it the 'Nymph of the Lurleyberg;' 
 it will come better for that than ' Sappho.'"
 
 136 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " No ; I don't think that is a subject for 
 an historical painter. I shall get the head 
 and hair in from that Irish girl, Miss 
 O'Shaughnessy." 
 
 "You'll not make it a portrait of Syl, 
 then ? " 
 
 "No. She's not the head for an histo- 
 rical work." 
 
 And so on. But Edwin's opinions upon 
 art were not quite those of Uncle Paul. 
 
 Soon Sylvia comes back, the red-gold 
 tresses neatly banded — not very smoothly, 
 though, for it is in the nature of the hair 
 to be curly and ripply, and to assume a cer- 
 tain liberty and independence, certainly not 
 without charm — (for my part, I hate those 
 smooth shiny heads that suggest at once 
 the brush and comb, the Circassian -cream 
 pot and much labour) — and the classical 
 draperies of Sappho abandoned in favour 
 of a modern dress of dark-fawn merino, 
 fitting closely to her neat, lithe, supple 
 figure : (a Avhisper, reader ! She was an
 
 PAUL FOSTEK*S DAUGHTER. 137 
 
 artist's daughter, and she did not wear 
 stays ; so her waist and shoulders were in 
 their right places, and her natural woman's 
 grace of movement was not fettered by 
 busks, and buckram, and cording ; and she 
 had as perfect a form as could be seen any- 
 where, and a good deal better than the 
 models in the corset-shop windows). A 
 smart blue ribbon round her neck set off 
 her very fair complexion — you could hardly 
 find anything more dazzlingly, sunnily white 
 and beautiful than Sylvia's neck — and a 
 neat little open-work lace collar folded pret- 
 tily over the ribbon : altogether, a charming 
 little housewife, a nice fire-side ornament, 
 was little Mistress Sylvia Foster. She came 
 in to announce that tea was quite ready, 
 and would they come into the next room ? 
 
 Let those who will sneer at tea, as a 
 washerwoman beverage — a feeble, insipid, 
 indigestible, nervous — I cleave to the tea- 
 table. I like the whole business of it. I 
 like the paraphernalia — the shining pot, the
 
 138 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 glistening cups, the sparkling sugar, and 
 the singing kettle. I think there is nothing 
 so delicious as thin bread-and-butter, the 
 slices delicately overlapping each other in 
 the dish like pleatings. And then the plea- 
 sant little gossiping talk over the teacup, 
 adapted to the mildness of the entertain- 
 ment ; the sprightly tattle, like a running 
 fire of pop -guns, with just a slight flavour 
 of the most kindly scandal ; a funny little 
 story about A., an amusing little anecdote 
 about C.'s wife, a laughable little difficulty 
 between B. and his butcher, &c., &c. — the 
 clattering cups and rattling spoons making 
 a sostenuto accompaniment of an appropriate 
 and musical character. 
 
 Paul Foster took his tea vigorously, as 
 though he tried to fancy it beer. I think 
 he regarded it contemptuously as a meal ; 
 it was altogether too commonplace and 
 trivial a matter for that historical artist. 
 He looked upon it, probably, as genre work, 
 and out of his line very much. But he
 
 PAUL Foster's daughtek. 139 
 
 sought to elevate the subject by his mode of 
 treatment. He went into strong attitudes 
 over it. He blew upon it noisily ; he dashed 
 it into his saucer, and swallowed it with 
 gurgling majesty. 
 
 " And how is Mr. Erie ? " inquires uncle 
 Paul, eating thin bread and butter in a 
 muscular, gladiatorial sort of way. " Still 
 keeps his room, eh ? Ah ! " and he shook 
 his head with gloomy violence. " He's not 
 the man he was. Remind me, Sylvia, that 
 we go and call upon him. It's long since 
 we have done so." 
 
 " I don't think, Polly dear, he wants to 
 see us." 
 
 " Syl, my darling, remember he's your 
 uncle — at least in a way — as much your 
 uncle as I am Edwin's." 
 
 " Yes ; but when we went once before, 
 don't you know, Polly dear" — Polly seemed 
 embarrassed by the recollection. 
 
 " Yes, that was unfortunate, I admit. I 
 wanted a temporary loan^ I think, on the
 
 1 40 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 security of my great picture, 'The Assassina- 
 tion of Julius Ca3sar' — or did I ask him to 
 purchase that work ? I know, he said, ' that 
 he would give any money not to have the 
 picture— he valued it so highly.' It was 
 rather insulting." 
 
 " Yes, and he said it all smiling, and 
 shaking, and rocking about on his chair 
 before the fire, nursing his white cat — such 
 a clean, smooth, nice looking old gentleman; 
 and he pinched my cheeks and my chin, 
 and said I was a bright-eyed poppet, and 
 that my face was my fortune, and that I 
 could not want money with my looks, or 
 diamonds with m}^ eyes : such nonsense — 
 and then didn't help us at all." And Sylvia 
 laughed pleasantly as she recalled the scene. 
 
 Edwin could not resist joining in the 
 mirth, at the expense of the old gentleman 
 in Gloucester Terrace. 
 
 " You found him in an unlucky mood. 
 He varies very much," he said ; " sometimes 
 he seems quite to like drawing cheques."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 141 
 
 " I can understand that," Paul remarks, 
 musingly; "whati can't understand — I never 
 could — is the balance at the Bankers. It Avas 
 a dreadful business just at that time. They 
 took me to Cursitor Street first, and after- 
 wards — rum-tum-tooral-loo ! — never shall I 
 forget my emotions when I heard the key 
 turn in the door, and knew, sir, knew 
 that I was a prisoner — it might be for 
 life ! " 
 
 By Paul's expression and attitude you 
 would have thought he had been a Baron 
 Trenck, or a Sylvio Pellico at least, whereas 
 he had been arrested for a debt of about 
 two-and-twenty pounds or so. He always 
 said '' sir," in his rapt and oratorial hu- 
 mours, and talked over the heads of his 
 audience, as though there was a giant public 
 outside yonder, listening, and he was bound 
 to address himself to a sort of imaginary 
 chairman of the meeting or speaker of the 
 house. 
 
 " I was out the next day, thanks to
 
 142 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 Jeffrey, who, I am bound to say, behaved 
 with extreme propriety and delicacy." 
 
 " Jeffrey is naturally kind-hearted, I 
 think," said Edwin, " only, he likes to con- 
 ceal it under a grave manner." 
 
 " Jeffrey came to see us the other day, 
 Ned," Miss Sylvia relates ; " he called on 
 his way home from the office, I think. You 
 know he generally calls a certain number 
 of times in the year. Perhaps he supposes 
 it's his duty, as we are connexions of the 
 family." 
 
 " Humble connexions," Paul remarks in 
 a depressed way ; then in a higher tone, 
 ^' There is a great gulf between Gloucester 
 Terrace and Jowland Street — sir, a wide 
 chasm between money there and genius 
 here." 
 
 " Doesn't Ned come from Gloucester 
 Terrace ? Polly dear, you forget." 
 
 " I apologise ; king Edwin is always an 
 exception. Pardon me, my liege." 
 
 " Well, Syl, and what said Jeffrey ? "
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 143 
 
 " He came in — oh ! so polite and gentle- 
 manly. 1 was almost frightened ; and Polly 
 was out, and I was just going to have my 
 tea ; and then he said, would I give him a 
 cup too ? It was all his politeness you know 
 — because he couldn't have dined ; and he 
 talked and laughed so pleasantly, I could 
 hardly believe it was really grave, solemn, 
 grand Mr. Jeffrey Erie. And I had been 
 always rather afraid of him ; because you 
 know I haven't been into society, and don't 
 know whether I do what I ought, or say 
 what I ought ; or whether I'm not awkward, 
 or perhaps too forward — and you know 
 this little room isn't like the Gloucester 
 Terrace rooms, and everything's so different. 
 I never think about all that with you, Ned, 
 because, you see, you're so often with us, 
 and you're quite at home with us, and just 
 like ourselves — and a dear old boy always. 
 But I soon forgot my fears, and Jeffrey sat 
 in that chair, and took his tea : he said it 
 was delicious ; that they couldn't get such
 
 144 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 tea in Gloucester Terrace ; there was none 
 there who knew how to make it ; that 
 what Mrs. Beaver sent upstairs as tea was 
 just like ink; and laughed and chatted 
 away about all sorts of things — I'm sure I 
 don't know what now — and said he should 
 come again soon, if I would let him, and 
 would promise him such another cup of tea. 
 And he actually called me cousin Sylvia! 
 Think of that!" 
 
 " I am glad he has come to see you, 
 Sylvia," said Edwin ; " I am sure it will do 
 him good. It's dreadful moping work in 
 Gloucester Terrace. He did not tell me that 
 he had been, though." 
 
 " I am afraid you keep aloof from him, 
 Master Ned?" 
 
 *' No, Syl. I desire to be quite good 
 friends with him. But from his being many 
 years older, our tastes are different. We 
 have not many subjects of agreement ; and 
 he thinks me quite a child still, and unable 
 to be any sort of companion for him."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 145 
 
 I think Polly had been dozing a little, 
 but he started up with, 
 
 '^ He has a grand head has Jeffrey : I 
 should like to paint him as Caractacus, or 
 Coriolanus, perhaps, defying the rabble ! 
 
 ' You common cry of curs ! whose breatli I hate 
 As reek o' the rotten fens — whose loves I prize 
 As the dead carcases of unburied men 
 That do corrupt my air. / banish you!'' " 
 
 he declaimed in stilted sepulchral tones — 
 perhaps in imitation of the manner of the 
 late Mr. J. P. Kemble. 
 
 '' Jeffrey is very handsome," from Edwin. 
 
 " I think so too," from Sylvia. And the 
 trio fell to musing ; as though Jeffrey were 
 a wide subject. Suddenly Ned interrupted, 
 
 " Oh, I forgot to tell you, I was locked out 
 ao;ain the other nio;ht." 
 
 " Oh, Edwin ! how dreadful !" and Sylvia 
 shivers ; " and you walked about the streets 
 all night ! Poor dear Ned ! Why didn't 
 you come here ? Walking about all night ! 
 — ^you'll kill yourself." 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " No, Syl. I met a friend — I should 
 say, perhaps, I made a friend. By the 
 way, Uncle Poll, do you know a man named 
 Newton Dax, an author?" 
 
 " I knew once a man — ah ! not the same 
 — named Newton — a scoundrel ! " Poll's lan- 
 guage, like his attitudes and his art, was 
 a little over-strained. 
 
 " Ah ! and you had been to the Nonpareil 
 again ! — to see Miss Aurelia Yane, I sup- 
 pose?" Syl enquires. 
 
 " Yes, it was to her benefit ; she played 
 Pet in the ^ Yivandiere,' the little Middy in 
 ' Jack's Alive,' and Sukey in the burlesque 
 extravaganza of ' Polly put the kettle on.' " 
 
 ^' And you think her beautiful as ever?" 
 and Sylvia with serious eyes regards her 
 cousin. " And you admire her just as much 
 as ever — perhaps I should say love her?" 
 
 " I admire her extremely — I think her 
 exquisitely beautiful ; I think her every 
 movement full of grace, and es2)ritj and 
 charm. I have never spoken to her, tiqylt
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 147 
 
 seen her but on the stage. I can hardly be 
 said to love her, Syl." 
 
 "Yet you write verses to her, Ned?" 
 
 Ned blushed admission of this charge. 
 
 " I should so like to see her," says Sylvia, 
 meditatively. " Is she really so beautiful ? " 
 
 " Come with me to the Nonpareil some 
 night, Syl." 
 
 "May I, Polly?" 
 
 " May you what, my dear ? " Polly had 
 been, dozing: ag-ain. 
 
 "Go to the theatre with me. You come 
 too, Uncle." 
 
 " Of course she may go, but I'll not, for 
 some money. I hate your modern stage, 
 your modern music, your modern litera- 
 ture, your modern art. I have seen the 
 best of all these things, sir, and I tell you, we 
 have now fallen upon twopenny times, and 
 a trumpery epoch." Polly was addressing 
 a great concourse of people indeed now. 
 "Where are your grand old dramas? We 
 fought the French in my day, sir, and licked 
 
 L 2
 
 148 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 them too ; we did not filch from them, and 
 fawn on them. We didn't need paltry 
 French plays then, sir ; we had our own 
 drama, sir. Why, I remember as a boy, 
 sir, going to Covent Garden Theatre; old 
 Covent Garden — not the wretched mo- 
 dern edifice. There was a great crowd at 
 the doors, sir, and I was nearly killed, 
 though the pit was three-and-sixpence. 
 They were generous, liberal times, and y/e 
 didn't grudge our money for a good bill. 
 And I saw Pizarro, sir" — ("A prig from 
 the German," mutters Edwin) — '' with very 
 nearly the original cast. There was Mr. 
 John Kemble, sir, as Rolla, Mr. C. Kemble 
 was Alonzo, Mrs. Jordan was Cora, and 
 that superb creature, Mrs. Siddons, was 
 Elvira. 1 was a boy of ten, and I loved 
 that woman with all my soul. In litera- 
 ture, we had good, stinging, personal satire, 
 not the sniggering jokes and twaddling inu- 
 endoes of the present day. In music, we 
 had that divine singer Catalani, besides
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 149 
 
 Braham, and Incledon. I heard them sing 
 together in the duet of ^ All's well' — one 
 of the most exquisite pieces of melody that 
 has ever been heard. We had Sinclair, too, 
 with whom every woman in London was 
 madly in love ; and in art we had great, 
 grand pictures, colossal canvasses, daring 
 execution : now, you have idiots frittering 
 aAvay years of labour on works no bigger 
 than that tea-tray. Photography has driven 
 the miniature painter from portraiture, and 
 he rushes into historical painting, and pro- 
 duces microscopic great works. It's a rot- 
 ten age, sir, 1 tell you. Men talk about the 
 progress of art, while they trample it under 
 foot, and a great genius like Hay don is 
 sacrificed upon the altar of an imbecile 
 dwarf!" and Polly brought down his hand 
 with an angry bang on the table. 
 
 " What do you think Edwin said the 
 other day, Polly ?" laughs Sylvia, roguishly. 
 " He said the public were quite right ; that 
 little Tom Thumb was the greater man of
 
 150 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 the two ; that Hayclon was commonplace, 
 after all, while the dwarf was phenomenal." 
 
 They all laughed at this, Paul the loudest. 
 
 " He's a naughty, wicked boy ; don't 
 mind what he says." 
 
 " And he's in love with Miss Aurelia 
 Vane." 
 
 " Well, well : as a child I adored Mrs. 
 Siddons, as a young man I went mad about 
 Miss O'Neill ; and now, I love my pipe — 
 bring it, Syl, dear, and the G." 
 
 "Will you have H or C?" 
 
 " C, my dear." 
 
 Let me interpret this mysticism. G 
 stands for gin, H or C referred to hot and 
 cold water, with which to dilute the spirit. 
 It was the fashion of the house to allude 
 to Paul's favourite refreshment in that lite- 
 ral way. 
 
 " Sing a song, Syl, my dear." 
 
 Unaccompanied, in a soft, sweet, plain- 
 tive voice, Sylvia sang some simple ballad 
 — " Home, sweet home," perhaps. Her
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 151 
 
 father wagged liis head bravely, though 
 dosily, and sucked hard at his pipe. Edwin 
 listened, hushed, motionless — thrilled by 
 the music, and the touching tones of the 
 singer. 
 
 "Thank you, Sylvia," he said, simply, 
 when she had finished. "And now," he 
 whispered, " let us be merry to-night, for 
 to-morrow I sign my articles." 
 
 Paul was asleep. 
 
 " Poor Edwin ! " murmured Syl, and 
 she put her arm fondly round his neck. 
 They had been companions from child- 
 hood ; they were akin to each other. She 
 knew all his thoughts and aspirations, his 
 trials and disappointment ; and they loved 
 each other, that boy and girl, as brother 
 and sister. 
 
 Poor Edwin !
 
 152 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A HALT AND A RETROSPECT. 
 
 There is a single line of rails far away in a 
 pleasant western county, on which the 
 traffic is very light indeed. Why the rail- 
 way was ever constructed no one knows. 
 It seems to lead from nowhere to nowhere. 
 The travellers by it are few, and they are 
 never in a hurry, and have no luggage 
 worth mentioning ; and, generally speaking, 
 time is of no object to any one connected 
 with the undertaking. A comfortable, 
 easy-going, dawdling, dozing concern. 
 The stokers, drivers, guards, and porters, 
 are reputed to have so very easy a time of
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 153 
 
 it, that they now and then stop the train 
 just where it seems good to them on the 
 line, wherever an eligible bird's nest attracts 
 their notice, or some pleasant wild flowers 
 to be plucked, or a nice crop of mushrooms 
 to be gathered. No one complains, and 
 sometimes the few passengers come quietly 
 out of the carriages and aid and abet the 
 ofiicials in their pastimes and pursuits. 
 And the train has been known to be left 
 perfectly empty, while all its living cargo 
 have been out picking blackberries and en- 
 joying themselves immensely. 
 
 Fancy, please, that our narrative is this 
 cosy railway, and that I have stopped the 
 train — the readers, my co -travellers, acqui- 
 escent — to rake in an attractive dust-heap 
 on the way. I invite the reader to aid me 
 in the occupation. 
 
 Towards the close of the last century, a 
 monarchical and dynastic bubble burst in 
 France; for the breath of the populace 
 blew quite a gale of wind ; burst like a
 
 154 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 shell, killing a great many in the explo- 
 sion, and hurling others off to an almost 
 incredible distance. Among these last was 
 a thin, dry, sallow old gentleman, the 
 Chevalier Maxime Marie Gabriel Desir^ 
 Barielle, bearing with him little more than 
 the clothes on his back, threadbare and 
 sorry enough — some snuiF in a scrap of 
 paper — he had j^arted with a diamond-set 
 snufF-box to provide for his journey — and a 
 baby child in his arms. Madame sa femme 
 had dropped down somewhere on the way. 
 But the modern Lot held on. He had not 
 missed her until it was too late to turn 
 back, and she was never heard of again. 
 Probably the poor soul had died of fright 
 and fatigue, and was picked up and buried, 
 Heaven only knows how or where. M. 
 Barielle was blown across the channel. He 
 did not stop until he reached London, 
 breathless and trembling, and yellow-white 
 with fear as when he started from 
 Paris; but with his little son Auguste
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 155 
 
 Gabriel St. Denis Barielle tight in his 
 arms, safe though half starved. The old 
 gentleman was soon swalloAved up in Lon- 
 don, lost in its overwhelming crowds ; and 
 just at that time there were a good many 
 similar old gentlemen about similarly situ- 
 ated. How he managed to carry on his 
 poor old life it is hard to say. It is con- 
 jectured that he was supported in a great 
 measure by the snuff in the eternal screw 
 of paper. But he was accomplished — knew 
 Spanish and Italian ; and tottering and in- 
 firm, and racked with rheumatism, was yet 
 an adroit fencer and an agile dancer. He 
 could sing, too, in a quavering cracked 
 tenor voice, distressingly sentimental songs 
 of his native land — his trembling, scraggy 
 tawny hands wandering the while over the 
 guitar strings, his eyes looking heaven- 
 ward from their crow's-footed abiding-places, 
 and his thin legs twisted into what he con- 
 ceived to be an elegant and romantic pose. 
 Possibly he obtained a living by imparting
 
 156 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 educationally to others certain of these 
 advantages. Anyhow, he lived in London 
 many years — always courtly, vivacious, 
 witty, and very poor and lean ; support- 
 ing himself and his son ; making no effort 
 to return to the country he had quitted 
 with such precipitancy and panic. But at 
 length the day came when the Chevalier 
 had uttered his last mot^ had sung his last 
 song, had given the Versailles shrug of the 
 shoulders for the very last time. He was 
 found dead in his garret bed, with an 
 empty scrap of snuffy paper clutched tight 
 in his cold stiff fingers. There was a whis- 
 pered verdict of starvation in the neigh- 
 bourhood. (He lived in one of a small 
 tangle of courts between Long Acre and 
 New Street, Covent Garden.) But that 
 could hardly be. You see, the poor old 
 gentleman had become so inured to 
 hunger — besides, he was very worn and 
 broken, and a fair prey to death — it could 
 not be that that pallid monarch had won
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 157 
 
 the tliin corpse of the Frenchman by foul or 
 cruel means. So the Chevalier died, and 
 was buried. A number of emigres sub- 
 scribed, and provided decent interment for 
 their old comrade; and Auguste Gabriel, 
 his son, reigned in his stead. The revolu- 
 tion effected great changes in France — great 
 changes in Frenchmen. The thin, dry 
 Frenchman went out ; the fat, unctuous 
 Frenchman came in — the military-befrogged 
 Frenchman, with close-cut hair, formidable 
 moustache, immense cheeks, superb chest, 
 and no waist. Auguste Gabriel was of this 
 pattern. The child of misfortune, he yielded 
 to his destiny with a sublime serenity. 
 There are men whose very business it is to 
 be idle and enjoy themselves : Auguste 
 Gabriel could have come into the world 
 with no other mission. He was a very 
 proficient in the arts of indolence and 
 pleasure. Handsome in spite of his obesit}', 
 with marvellous good-humour, extreme 
 politeness, and a manner irresistibly win-
 
 158 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ning, how could he work? What were 
 those fat white hands to do in the way of 
 toil to support that fat, spherical body ? If 
 the means of livelihood of the defunct 
 Chevalier were mysterious, those of his suc- 
 cessor were positively inscrutable. Industry, 
 as Englishmen understand it, was something 
 incompatible with the nature of Auguste. 
 And yet he lived, and tolerably well, 
 thought those who witnessed the stout 
 exile promenading grandly under cover of 
 the Quadrant — (that shelter is now removed, 
 as we all know, but I am speaking of years 
 back) — his shiny, not to say greasy, hat 
 jauntily cocked over his left ear, the rim 
 dexterously curled ; his tight, blue, braided 
 surtout, with fur collar — a trifle mangy- 
 looking the fur, and the cloth somewhat 
 rusty, but the remains of a splendid garment 
 once unquestionably — incasing closely that 
 bulky form ; his trousers bulgy at the 
 knee, but well strapped over the feet, whose 
 fat symmetry the jean boots, with pearl
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 159 
 
 buttons, so fairly exhibited. The newspaper, 
 the cafe^ absinthe, dominoes, soup julUenne^ 
 billiards, cigarettes — these words seem to 
 comprehend the life of Auguste Gabriel, 
 and somehow from these sources, or some 
 of them, did he contrive to extract the 
 means of living. I can give little further 
 clue as to the carrying on of the illustrious 
 career of Auguste. I believe, however, 
 that he was a first-rate hand at billiards ; 
 and we know that there are players of that 
 intellectual game who have more money 
 than science : perhaps it was with such 
 the exile liked best to play. Very likely 
 it was well worth gold only to watch his 
 superior skill. 
 
 But in due time Auguste Gabriel, growing 
 very fat, began to think he was growing 
 also old — sage he called it. He determined 
 then to range himself, as he said. He had 
 obtained a footing in a respectable boarding- 
 house in Soho Square ; no one knew ex- 
 actly how, but his manners were popular,
 
 160 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 he played the piano, singing couplets in a 
 line tremulous baritone, with touching 
 falsetto notes ; he was called the Chevalier, 
 and was considered rather an acquisition at 
 the little evening gatherings of the house. 
 There was a blonde widow there, with a 
 tolerable income, and pretty blue eyes. She 
 sometimes shed tears at the chansons of the 
 Chevalier, especially when he sang the senti- 
 mental ones of his late father. Auguste 
 was moved deeply at this — he was a sus- 
 ceptible creature — he shed tears also ; the 
 twain mingled their emotions ; he found 
 that he adored her, that she was the very 
 woman he had been so lono^ vvaitino^ for, 
 and offered his hand — his heart, he said, 
 was hers already ; he could not give it again 
 or take it away. She was an amiable 
 woman, very good-tempered; she could 
 never refuse anyone anything. She had 
 promised to herself, weeping the decease of 
 the late James Smedley, of Billiter Court, 
 indigo-merchant, never to love anyone else
 
 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 161 
 
 — never to marry again. Perhaps she did 
 not then suppose that anyone would ask 
 her to revisit the altar. However, the 
 kind-hearted soul was carried away — per- 
 haps a little frightened — by the tremendous 
 love of the fat Auguste. She accepted him 
 — they were married. 
 
 Auguste was not a very bad husband ; 
 fond of his wife in his French, theatrical, 
 redundant fashion, and very proud of his 
 twin blonde-headed daughters, Gabrielle 
 and Desiree ; they were like two little wax 
 dolls from the same mould ; you would not 
 have known them apart but for the mole on 
 Desiree's chin. It was grand to see the 
 ample Auguste nursing his tiny twins. 
 But he was not altogether so sage as he 
 might have been, or perhaps he was less 
 successful now than of old at billiards. And 
 he took to ecarte, and I think a good many 
 of the late James Smedley's sovereigns were 
 lost at that elegant game. But I am passing 
 rapidly now over some years. Auguste, 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 swathed in crape and weeping piteously, 
 one fine morning followed his wife's body 
 to the grave, in the church-yard of St. Ann's, 
 Soho ; went home to cigarettes, absinthe, the 
 composition of an epitaph in English verse, 
 (rather a curiosity in its way,) the ransacking 
 of his wife's desk, and the examination of 
 her papers and properties. I don't think 
 this was altogether satisfactory ; but he was 
 of a lively sanguine disposition. He dried 
 the moist eyes of the pretty twins, and 
 sang couplets for their amusement. Again 
 I say I am passing rapidly over years, and 
 Auguste — he is bald now; but his mous- 
 tache is still spruce and jetty — is negociating 
 the appearance in public of the twins, Ga- 
 brielle and Desiree. They have some, not 
 very much, musical talent, have pretty light 
 silvery voices ; they sing a particular kind 
 of duet exquisitely. They have been taught 
 and trained together, and warble like two 
 young birds in one nest. Of course Ga- 
 brielle is a soprano and Desiree a contralto.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 163 
 
 When sisters sing together this is always 
 the arrangement; and voices, it seems to 
 me, can be made just what the singing- 
 master chooses, and forced and trained up 
 or down like plants, as fancy dictates. Ma- 
 dame A. did not come into the world able 
 to reach F above the line ; but Sig. B. soon 
 pumped her voice up for her to that high 
 service ; and now she can fling a roulade, 
 fizzing up aloft like a rocket or a cham- 
 pagne-cork. Monsieur D.'s ut de poitrine 
 was not an early step in the career of his 
 voice ; but he made sure of the preceding 
 notes, and touched it at last, as the gardener 
 nails the vine against the lofty wall, foot by 
 foot, till it gains the top. I rather think 
 that Auo-uste is livino; on his dauo;hters' 
 efforts. They have a surprising success — 
 not an operatic, lyrical-drama success ; they 
 don't take the town by storm, but they win 
 it just a^ surely — a drawing-room triumph. 
 They are thought so interesting — so new — 
 so remarkable. And certainly they are 
 
 M 2
 
 164 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 very pretty ; with their heads clustered over 
 with tiny blonde ringlets, their little red 
 mouths and sparkling blue eyes, their 
 dresses precisely alike — most artistically 
 alike, and in the latest French fashion ; and 
 they have such a gentle, innocent, uncon- 
 scious expression, as they put their heads 
 together, and coo out their gushing little 
 songlets in delicate trills and quavers, and 
 rises and falls. Auguste is proud of his 
 children, and takes the money for their 
 concert tickets. 
 
 At one of their performances certain of 
 the audience were deeply moved — seriously, 
 mind, not evanescently — men who, no 
 doubt, ought to have known very much 
 better; at any rate, who were quite old 
 enough to have known so. One of these 
 was an eminent solicitor, John Whincop 
 Erie, (of the firm of Foskett, Bishop and 
 Erie, of Lincoln's Inn Fields,) who had 
 buried his first wife, the chancery ward. 
 Miss Jeffrey, about whom such a dreadful
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 165 
 
 fuss had been made, some ten years pre- 
 viously. Another of these moved specta- 
 tors was a bony, bearded gentleman, inclined 
 to exuberant gesticulation and attitude. 
 His name was Paul Foster, and he was a stu- 
 dent of the fine arts, and had been so for a 
 considerable time. 
 
 I may rake about the ashes as much as I 
 will, but the fire is quite extinct. It is too 
 late in the day to make a hero of the old 
 gentleman in Gloucester Terrace, nursing 
 Babette, and coughing dreadfully ; or of 
 Bardolphian Paul Foster, dozing over his 
 tumbler of G. Who cares to have par- 
 ticulars of how these worthies prospered in 
 their suits? Suffice it that they did so. 
 That John Whincop Erie married 
 Gabrielle ; that Desir^e became the wife of 
 Paul Foster. That Auguste, with tearful 
 eyes, blessed his children, kissing them all 
 severally and collectively — something to 
 the annoyance of J. W. E. when his turn 
 came, and withdrew into private life, to
 
 166 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 expire some years after of ecarte and apo- 
 plexy and absinthe, fat and smiling, suffo- 
 cated and gay, bankrupt and happy. 
 
 Time beats the romance out of things. 
 If the pretty twins were alive now, they 
 would be very nearly old women — per- 
 haps acrid and ugly and tiresome, who 
 knows? and w^hat an infliction would be 
 their eternal gushing duets. But we have 
 nothing: more to do with them. The his- 
 tory of their married lives is not for our 
 telling. I doubt their happiness, however 
 J. W. E.'s girl wife had probably no very 
 comfortable time of it. No one could use 
 a new toy better. No one could treat an 
 old one worse. Look at your child's cast- 
 off doll — not the last, but the one before 
 that — the mutilated, battered trunk hidden 
 away in the darkest recess of the nursery 
 cupboard. You'll learn something of a 
 disposition from that ; and may guess at the 
 fate of Gabrielle Erie. Perhaps, fortunately 
 for her, the delicate little lady breathed her
 
 PAUL Foster's daughtee. 167 
 
 last in giving to tlie world her son, Edwin 
 Gabriel Erie. One of the silver voices of 
 the duet singers was hushed for ever ; and a 
 light coffin was carried down the stairs of 
 the Gloucester Terrace house ; and a little 
 boy was left in the world to wonder what a 
 mother's love could be like. 
 
 And Desiree? Well, an imprudent 
 hopeless scapegrace, like old Paul Foster 
 — he is bad enough now, what must he 
 have been as a younger man ! — wanted, per- 
 haps, rather a stronger-minded woman to 
 curb, and guide, and manage him, than 
 pretty Desiree, with the mole on her chin, 
 could pretend to be. 
 
 They are gone. We die, and our chil- 
 dren carry on the business, and no great 
 difference is made in the world. There 
 seems a great chasm in your mouth when 
 you first lose a tooth, but your tongue soon 
 gets reconciled to the cavity, and by and 
 bye you forget that there is any. We are 
 dealing with the children — we have little
 
 168 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 time to sorrow over the histories of 
 their mothers. Enough for us the fortunes 
 of Edwin, the son of Gabrielle — of Sylvia, 
 the daughter of Desiree. 
 
 And now, ladies and gentlemen, resume 
 your seats, for the train's going on again. 
 We've exhausted the dust-heap. The guard 
 extends signalling arms, the steam puffs, 
 the engine whistles, and we move on — let 
 us hope the quicker for this halt.
 
 169 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A MERRY BOND. 
 
 Edwin and Jeffrey dined together in the 
 grim parlour daily at half past six. Old 
 Mr. Erie, in his character of a confirmed 
 invalid, assumed the privilege of being ca- 
 pricious and irregular in regard to his 
 meals. It seemed to be part of the nature 
 of his complaint that arrow-root and beef- 
 tea and barley broth and chops should be 
 perpetually within hail of him. Collis, of 
 the flabby cheeks and the scant cat's-cradle 
 of hair over his sallow bald head, was con- 
 stantly employed in ascending and de- 
 scending the stairs with neatly arranged
 
 170 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 trays, brilliant white napkin, sparkling 
 silver, and exquisitely cooked meal. " Mind 
 it's for Mr. Erie, not Mr. Jeffrey, or Master 
 Hedwin," quotli Collis in the kitchen, his 
 remark being accompanied in its com- 
 mencement with much reverence, and then 
 by a diminuendo movement passing through 
 apathy and ending in contempt. 
 
 Mr. Erie had changed his bed-room of 
 late, at the advice of his doctor. The old 
 man had long resisted the alteration ; it 
 seemed rather a grave impeachment of his 
 health — a cloud over his prospects of reco- 
 very — to be told that he could not go up 
 and down stairs now so well as he used to ; 
 but it was true — the effort tried him se- 
 verely — so at length the back drawing- 
 room had been converted into his sleeping 
 room, and he could easily pass through the 
 folding doors into the front room looking 
 on to the Park. He admitted now that the 
 alteration was for the better. He was 
 spared half an hour's panting and trembling
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 171 
 
 in his easy chair recovering from the exer- 
 tion of crawling downstairs from his bed- 
 room, sometimes screaming angrily and 
 spasmodically with rage and pain, and on 
 other occasions speechless from lack of 
 breath, and scarlet in the face from suffering 
 and a sense of suffocation. '' I think I 
 could eat a chop, Collis, a nice chop, and a 
 glass of Madeira. Yes, I'll have that for 
 my dinner, at two o'clock, precisely at two ; 
 and ask Mrs. Beaver to let me have a nice 
 little ground rice pudding, made in a tea- 
 cup, you know, all to myself; not a scrap 
 left by somebody else — a three-cornered bit 
 left in a pie- dish — ugh ! no — made on pur- 
 pose for me, you understand." 
 
 So Jeffrey and Edwin dined together 
 always in the grim parlour, Collis guarding 
 the sideboard, and waiting on the young 
 gentlemen during dinner with a sober vigi- 
 lance that had something severe in it. He 
 stood in a fixed attitude behind Jeffrey's 
 chair. He was slightly in-kneed, as though
 
 172 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 his legs had given way a little under the 
 weight of his body, which was rotund and 
 massive ; and he had a way of turning out 
 his toes, proud perhaps of his pumps, 
 which were brightly polished, and displayed 
 to perfection the bunions and other callosi- 
 ties and swellings on his feet. His eyes 
 were always turned on to the hook from 
 which the chandelier was suspended, as 
 though he had found some intense interest 
 in the study of that curve ; notwithstanding 
 he always contrived to see what was trans- 
 piring at the dinner-table, and to perform 
 his duties in that respect ; and managed 
 further to hear and to carry away with him 
 all that was said. 
 
 As Edwin had stated at uncle Paul's, 
 there were few subjects of agreement be- 
 tween Jeffrey and himself. Their tastes 
 were different, there was a disparity in 
 their ages. With young men, the very 
 fact of one being ten years older than the 
 other almost unfits them for companionship.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 173 
 
 because the ten years between, say, eighteen 
 and twenty-eight are the most important 
 portion of a man's life. He learns more, 
 knows more, suffers more, joys more, grows 
 more, intellectually, then, than at any 
 other time. He passes many rubicons, he 
 moulds his life ; after thirty plasticity ends, 
 and hardening sets in — congelation, that 
 knows no melting ; good and evil are con- 
 firmed into his nature, fast fixed like flies 
 in amber — there is no new shaping, or 
 chano^e, or rootino: out. The man is arrived 
 at, and he has lived already, an epitome of 
 his life. So Jeffrey, looking down from 
 eight-and-twenty on Edwin at eighteen, 
 thought him a child, under-rated him very 
 much ; but then from a height things seem 
 small indeed. 
 
 Hence the dinners of Edwin and Jeffrey 
 in Gloucester Terrace were sometimes silent 
 and dreary enough. It was clear that 
 Edwin had nothing to tell Jeffrey — and 
 indeed in his father's house was always
 
 174 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 inclined to be uncommunicative and ab- 
 stracted. Thus tbe conversation rested 
 with Jeffrey, who, with certain fits of stern- 
 ness and fault-finding, was often pleasant 
 and amusing, and quite willing to allow 
 the dinner hour to pass agreeably, so far 
 as conversation would effect this ob- 
 ject. When people cannot converse about 
 things they talk about persons. We can 
 all do that. We are not all up in astronomy, 
 or meteorology, or the use of the globes, or 
 able to maintain lively or prolonged con- 
 verse on those interesting topics ; but, thank 
 goodness, we are able to discuss the 
 doings of our neighbours — the new shaped 
 bonnet of the young lady next door, 
 the parrot kept by the people at No. 49, 
 and the extraordinary behaviour of the very 
 eccentric old gentleman opposite. 
 
 So Jeffrey — 
 
 "The old Duke of Blankshire called at 
 the office to-day." 
 
 '^ Ah ! I've seen his name in gold letters
 
 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 175 
 
 on a number of boxes in your room." 
 
 "Yes. He's a very good client of the 
 firm, and we transact all his business." 
 
 '' Does he look like a Duke ? " 
 
 " Well — he's a quiet, pleasant old gentle- 
 man — laughs too, and heartily — takes snuff, 
 and carries an old green silk umbrella, 
 with the handle broken and the nozzle oif." 
 
 Edwin laughs, and thinks this hardly 
 comes up to his notion of a ducal umbrella. 
 
 " You'll see him often enough I daresay 
 when you come to the office regularly, as 
 you soon will now. By the way, I've got 
 the engrossment of your articles in my 
 pocket. You can look them over and sign 
 them after dinner, if my father likes. How 
 is he to-day? Has Doctor Turner been? 
 Did you write that letter for him to Lady 
 Margrave? Did he sign it?" &c., &g. 
 
 " Master Hedwin's going to be harticled 
 I 'ear," says Collis subsequently downstairs, 
 warming his superb person before the kitchen 
 fire.
 
 176 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " Oh, indeed !" says Mrs. Beaver, receiving 
 the intelligence with benignity, although she 
 didn't understand it. 
 
 " What's ' harticled ' mean ? " enquires 
 honest little Sally Briggs, not ashamed of 
 her ignorance, nor of her dirty face perhaps ; 
 " will it hurt him ? " 
 
 "You get out, hugly!" and Collis sur- 
 veys her with haughty scorn; "that gal 
 would poke her nose into hevery think, I 
 do believe, if you'd let her." 
 
 " Do you call that saucepan lid clean ? — 
 because / don't." Mrs. Beaver intensifies 
 her acidity. " Git along and clean it, do — 
 and what business have you here — and, go 
 into your scullery, do ; and, oh ! the ser- 
 vant-gals of the present day — they're enough 
 to drive one wild ! " 
 
 Sally retreated ; sorrow mingling with 
 and redeeming the dirt on her face, with a 
 "Mussy on me! one can't speak a word 
 without having one's nose well nigh bit off. 
 How I hate Beaver! — what a beast Colhs
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 177 
 
 is!" And she knocked down a large 
 saucepan, making a great clatter. It dis- 
 tressed everybody else, but it pacified and 
 benefited Sally. 
 
 Mr. CoUis picked liis teeth with elegant 
 particularity. 
 
 " A nice lawyer he'll make, I don't think ! " 
 he remarked idiomatically. 
 
 " A poor crittur, I fear," added Mrs. 
 Beaver, with sour pity, screwing up her 
 nose. " Weakly — oh, very weakly ; and 
 
 obstinate as the ," and she coughed 
 
 with emphatic irony. 
 
 "Bless yer, lies no brains, he hasn't, for 
 law — you can see that with 'alf an eye." 
 
 " He draws pretty ; why not make a 
 hartis of him ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't pretend to be a judge 
 myself Hart and that aint in my way, 
 and I don't know as I should think much 
 of it if it was." And from the throne of 
 butler dom Mr. CoUis looked down on and 
 despised painting — like a late Guelphian 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 1 78 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 monarch — "but if he could get his living 
 by his drawring — pooh ! I'd eat my 'ead — 
 there, that's what I'd do !" 
 
 Mrs. Beaver did not continue the dis- 
 cussion ; and the subject was allowed to 
 drop, as they say in the Parliamentary 
 reports. 
 
 Jeffrey continues : — 
 
 " You'll have a fellow-student in the 
 office. We have already an articled clerk, 
 Mr. Septimus Rook, from Nottingley, York- 
 shire, a decent young fellow enough." 
 
 " I've seen him," says Edwin ; " stout, 
 short, with close cut hair." 
 
 " Yes; he's fresh from the country, and not 
 quite used to our London ways of work ; but 
 I daresay will improve. There's nothing 
 like industry in the law ; in fact, there's no 
 getting on without it. Let's go upstairs." 
 
 Mr. Erie is dozing before the fire, with 
 Babette purring indolently on his knees. 
 He wakes up as his sons enter. 
 
 " Well, Jeffrey, come in quick and
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 179 
 
 shut the door, and let's have no draughts. 
 Dear, dear, what it is to be an invalid. 
 Edwin, my dear, I think I'll take my 
 cough-mixture ; every time the cough's 
 troublesome, doesn't it say ? Read the 
 label. Bah ! stupid, you've got the wrong 
 bottle. That's right. Well, Jeffrey, what's 
 the news ?" 
 
 " We shall get that money for Lord 
 Mumford." 
 
 " Ah ! who's going to lend it ? " 
 
 *^ The Cormorant Insurance Company." 
 
 '' That's all right— that's all right. They'll 
 make him pay, I suppose ? " 
 
 *' A deferred annuity on the death of the 
 Earl. The price seems heavy, but it's the 
 best that can be done." 
 
 " Is that anything — sit still, Babette — 
 anything for me to sign ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the articles of agreement with Mr. 
 Edwin Gabriel Erie ; do you know who 
 that is ? " asks Jeffrey, laughing. 
 
 " Ha ! ha I So we're going to tie up 
 
 n2
 
 180 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 Master Ned hard and fast for ^ye years, 
 eh ? " 
 
 " For five years ! '^ Master Ned murmurs 
 involuntarily. 
 
 " Take care, my dear ; mind you don't 
 tread on Babette's saucer. Now, Jeffrey, 
 mend me a nice pen, and I'll give a beautiful 
 sio-nature to Master Ned's articles. And 
 Ned ring the bell. Collis ! don't stand with 
 the door open. Shut it and come here. 
 Bring up a bottle of that nice port wine ; 
 the light-blue seal — you know. It's a great 
 occasion, Jeffrey," and the old man turns 
 appealingly to his son. " I think the cir- 
 cumstances of the case demand a bottle of 
 port, and we'll have one." 
 
 " What will Doctor Turner say ? " 
 
 *' It will do me good — do me good. I'm 
 to live well. I'm to keep up my stamina. 
 I'm a poor old man, and I need wine, Jeffrey, 
 to warm my old blood. Don't shake it, 
 CoUis ; what a lovely bouquet it has ! Get 
 away, Babette, you're heavy and trouble-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 181 
 
 some. Ah ! delicious ! I don't know where 
 you'd find a finer glass of wine. Do you 
 like it, Ned ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I was thinking more of its 
 colour than its taste," Ned owns, blushingly ; 
 " what superb violets and crimsons ! " 
 
 " It's thrown away upon boys ! " cries his 
 father. " Now, Ned, put your name there." 
 With an abstracted air he complies. " Let 
 me see — where do I sign ? Here ? 'J. Whin- 
 cop Erie,' in my very best writing." 
 
 "Collis, stay and witness these signatures.'* 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Jeffrey." Mr. Erie slowly and 
 carefully signs his name in a firm round 
 hand. He lays down the pen. 
 
 " There — there's few men of my years 
 could sign their names as well as that — 
 though I say it, and without glasses, too." 
 And the old gentleman rubs his thin, white 
 hands triumphantly. 
 
 Collis attests the signatures, his tongue 
 protruding as he writes, and dogging the 
 movements of his pen.
 
 182 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " That will do, Collis— thank you," and 
 the worthy withdraws. 
 
 " So much for that," says the old gentle- 
 man. " What do you think of it all, Ba- 
 bette ? what have you got to say to signing 
 names and witnessing signatures? There, 
 go and lap your milk. Yes, Ned, now 
 you're an articled clerk. I drink your 
 health, sir. You're about to become a 
 member of a very noble profession, sir. It's 
 not what it used to be, by a very great deal ; 
 and there's a great many blackguards got 
 in it ; and you can't get the money out of 
 it that you used to, what with a lot of in- 
 fernal amendments, and reforms, and short- 
 cuts, and changes. Infamous, disgusting, 
 unfair ! Ugh ! How bad my cough is ! 
 But there's some nice pickings left ; and you 
 must do all you can, and never lose a chance, 
 and learn how to make up bills of costs, and 
 stick to your business, and be sober and 
 straight, and steady, as your father has been 
 before you." — (Edwin did not know so much
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 183 
 
 about his father's early doings as the reader 
 has beenmade acquainted with). — "Youmust 
 work hard, and do all your brother JeiFrey 
 tells you, and obey him, and follow him, 
 and look up to him in everything. I'm a 
 poor invalid myself, and not what I have 
 been, and my health's failing me very fast, 
 so that I can't help you much myself; and 
 put away all your pictures and rubbish, and 
 be a man, and mind and stick to your busi- 
 ness, and let's hear no more about art and 
 such trumpery, and — there, there, that will 
 do. Go along — I've nothing more to say — 
 and don't either of you expect to have any 
 more of this wine, because I shall finish the 
 bottle myself ; it's thrown away upon you, 
 and will do you more harm than good, I 
 daresay ; and take away the inkstand, and 
 you take charge of the articles, JeiFrey, and 
 put the mixture on the table again. Oh, 
 my cough ! — oh, my cough !" 
 
 Outside the drawing-room door Ned en- 
 counters Sally Briggs.
 
 184 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 " Oh, Mister Hedwiii, they're never going 
 to injure yon?" 
 
 But before Edwin can answer is heard the 
 sound of Collis approaching with the coal- 
 scuttle, and little Sally is put to flight. 
 
 Depressed and gloomy, he mounts to his 
 sanctum on the third floor. 
 
 ^' An articled clerk! — for i^ve years!" 
 He bangs the door, and flings wide open 
 the window. He looks angrily round the 
 room, until his eyes rest upon the faded 
 water colour drawing over the mantelpiece 
 — rather a Chalon-esque work — a little syl- 
 phide lady in pink silk, with a cloud of 
 floating lace round her, and crowned with 
 blonde curls. He cannot look severely on 
 that. It represents his mother. 
 
 "What would she have said?" he asks 
 musingly, with a sad though tfulness in his 
 eyes. The next moment^ however, he starts 
 up fiercely — 
 
 " It's all over now !" And he seizes a 
 sketch-book and tugs at its leaves.
 
 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 185 
 
 " I'll go out ! I can't stop here any 
 longer !" He meets Jeffrey on the stairs. 
 
 "What have you been 'doing, Edwin? 
 What's that in your hand ? Have you been 
 tearing up your drawings ?" 
 
 " Only one or two." 
 
 " That's a pity. Why, who's this ? I 
 know that face !" 
 
 " A trumpery sketch of Sylvia Foster.'* 
 
 " And like her, too !" 
 
 " Ah ! You've been to see them, Jeffrey. 
 I'm glad of that. It was kind. Uncle Paul's 
 poor and sensitive, and will appreciate an 
 attention of that sort, however trifling." 
 
 '' She told you I had called ? Yes, this 
 is like her. What a pity to tear it. She's 
 certainly pretty." 
 
 " She is lovely in colour." Jeffrey looks 
 at him rather keenly, then turning away his 
 eyes, continues — 
 
 " There can be no necessity to destroy 
 your drawings. Even lawyers have some 
 little leisure. You will be able to practise
 
 186 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 your art occasionally. It will always be a 
 pleasant accomplishment. I regret I never 
 had any talent for it myself." 
 
 JeiFrey's calm, patronizing way of dis- 
 cussing Ned's pet hobby — stooping down 
 from so immense a height to pat it on the 
 head — irritated him a little. 
 
 '^ I'm going out now," he said. " Good- 
 bye." 
 
 Jeffrey returned to the invalid in the 
 drawing-room. He was crowing merrily 
 over his last glass of port. The bottle, 
 empty, stood beside him. He was rather 
 red in the face, and was drinking the health 
 of Babette. 
 
 '^ I should like now, of all things," he 
 said, " a good rubber of long whist !" 
 
 But supposing his wish could have been 
 gratified, I am inclined to think that he was 
 not in a condition to play a very scientific 
 game. So Jeffrey thought, probably, when 
 he rang the bell for Collis to help the old 
 gentleman to bed.
 
 187 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 NICE ARTICLED CLERKS. 
 
 In the house occupied as to its first-floor by 
 the old-established firm of Messrs. Foskett, 
 Bishop and Erie, in Lincoln Inn Fields 
 aforesaid, two articled clerks studied their 
 profession. Not in the outer or general 
 office, however, but in one of the inner and 
 more private rooms, formerly tenanted by 
 the defunct Bishop, or the late Foskett, I 
 am not sure which — Mr. Edwin Erie and 
 Mr. Septimus Rook commenced and carried 
 on their law learning. The status of the 
 articled clerk, be it understood, is at best an 
 ill-considered one. Somehow it is often for-
 
 188 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 gotten that he is a pupil paying in money 
 and time to be taught a craft, and he comes 
 to be regarded as an extra and rather cheap 
 "help," who draws no salary, and can, for 
 five years, be made to do the duties of 
 copying- clerk or run-about boy, just as 
 official necessity may require. So young 
 Mr. Erie and Mr. Septimus were driven 
 into an attorney's office to graze off a very 
 dry and scant pasture, and pick up what 
 legal refection they might, bearing in mind 
 strictly the while that they were bound to 
 make themselves generally useful. They 
 sat opposite to each other at a double desk, 
 pleasant, and fresh, and young-looking 
 enough. They had not caught as yet the 
 sallow, parchment tone prevalent in the 
 complexions of their colleague clerks. They 
 were as Europeans newly arrived in a torrid 
 climate, and exhibiting all the marked differ- 
 ence between the Griffin and the old Indian. 
 With them in the room, by way of presi- 
 dent, sat old Mr. Deacon, for thirty years
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 189 
 
 the faithful servant of the firm of Foskett, 
 Bishop and Erie — so at least was stated 
 one morning in the first column of the 
 Times ; but I am skipping too fast — and 
 the good old servitor is living and well at 
 the time of which I am writing. He ba- 
 lances the two young men, preserves the 
 legal equilibrium, and keeps up the heavy 
 and professional air of the room. He is 
 the chancery- department clerk, and is gene- 
 rally believed to know a thing or two in 
 that line. Not a reading man, but of ex- 
 perience, of large practice, and constant, 
 shrewd, and persevering. Enquire at the 
 ofiices of the Masters, in Southampton 
 Buildings, and you will hear a good account 
 of old Tom Deacon. Thoroughly wide 
 awake and up to his business — an incarnate 
 chancery suit, a whole library of equity re- 
 ports and leading cases in himself. Not 
 a theoretical man, mind you ; and with 
 rather a low opinion of books, to tell you 
 the truth. So when one of the articled
 
 190 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 pupils turns over the pages of one of the 
 sheepskin-bound volumes — the poor crea- 
 ture perhaps honestly groping his way to 
 some stray beam of legal light — up jumps 
 old Tom * " Oh ! so you want something to 
 do, young gentleman. Never waste your 
 time. There is always plenty of work to be 
 had for the asking. Here, make a copy of 
 this — on brief paper, you know — the affida- 
 vits in ^ Bunker v. Bunker.' " And the 
 articled pupil has wherewith to occupy 
 himself for a considerable time to come. 
 
 But old Tom was frequently out, with 
 many redtape-tied papers under his arm, 
 meeting other chancery-department clerks 
 at various public offices in the precincts of 
 Chancery Lane, and conversing pleasantly 
 with those brother functionaries, taking 
 snuiF with them, button-holding and story- 
 telling, and yet getting through an amazing 
 amount of business. For chancery pro- 
 ceedings — I am speaking of the past, my 
 history has little to do with the present —
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 191 
 
 however disagreeable and vexatious to the • 
 persons most interested, are conducted in a 
 gentlemanly, courteous, not to say affable 
 way, by the lawyers and lawyers' clerks who 
 represent the parties to the suit. Bless 
 you, they, the lawyers and the clerks, have 
 no bad feeling, or ill blood, or hurry, or 
 anxiety in the matter. They are above, far, 
 all that sort of thing. All their care is just 
 a trifle or so of costs — nothing more — the 
 merest trifle — and the interest of their 
 clients. Oh ! that of course ! 
 
 " I have an appointment at the Registrar's 
 in Swab v. Bossy at eleven, and two or 
 three other matters up the Lane ; the tax- 
 ing masters at twelve ; and I shall look in at 
 the Rolls, to see if Chigiey's petition is likely 
 to come on. Tell Mr. Jeffrey, if he asks 
 for me, that I shall be back in an hour and 
 a half or so — not more. How do you get 
 on with those interroo-atories, Mr. Rook ? 
 Slowly, I'm afraid. Can you read that 
 writing, Mr. Edwin ? The abbreviations
 
 192 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 puzzle you, I daresay. Premes. means pre- 
 mises, exors. executors, heredits. heredita- 
 ments, and so on. You'll soon understand 
 it." 
 
 And Mr. Deacon left the room, Mr. Rook 
 taking advantage of his absence to indulge 
 in violent yawns and stretchings of his 
 limbs, so prolonged and exaggerated as to 
 seem almost dangerous. 
 
 " What I should like now would be a 
 good game of cricket, or a little singlestick 
 — hitting hard, you know, and no flinching ; 
 or a round or two with the gloves. By 
 George ! a one, two, between the eyes would 
 astonish old Deacon a few, I'm thinking," 
 and Mr. Rook skirmished pugilistically about 
 the room. " A quick rally, exchanges, good 
 countering, body blows, then get down cle- 
 verly, and bring the round to a close ! " 
 and he pantomimed most scientific fighting. 
 
 " You want to get him into chancery, I 
 suppose," says Ned. 
 
 Mr. Rook laughs at this, then squares up
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 193 
 
 at a fictitious foe, and hits him an amazing 
 imaginary blow. 
 
 " What's the matter, Mr. Rook ? " en- 
 quires Jeffrey Erie, putting his head in at 
 the door. 
 
 " Oh ! — ah ! — nothing particular, sir. I 
 think there's a wasp in the room, or a blue- 
 bottle, or something ; it disturbed me dread- 
 fully. It must have got on to the top of 
 the bookcase," and Mr. Rook looked anxi- 
 ously about the room in search of the 
 suppositious insect. It was a creditable 
 histrionic effort, but I am not altogether 
 sure that it deceived Jeffrey. 
 
 "Well, well," he said, "stick to your 
 work. How are you getting on, Edwin ? 
 Working hard, I hope. The law is not a 
 profession to be trifled with, I can tell you. 
 And you must read, too ; office routine 
 won't do everything. Here are Mr. Ser- 
 geant Stephens' Commentaries, a most valu- 
 able work. Here, too, is the original edition 
 of Sir William Blackstone. You'll find it 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 PAUL fostek's daughter. 
 
 particularly interesting to compare the two, 
 and note the many remarkable alterations 
 and improvements in the law since Black- 
 stone's time, Here's Storey's ^ Conflict of 
 Laws,' Chitty's ^ Practice of the Law,' 
 ^ Coke upon Lyttleton,' ' Sugden's Ven- 
 dors ' — all inestimable books, which the 
 sooner you read the better." 
 
 And Jeffrey withdrew, leaving upon 
 Edwin's desk a tall pile of legal volumes, 
 taken from the bookcase behind. Ned 
 looked at them, shivering. 
 
 ^' Shall I ever get through all these? — 
 shall I ever understand them ? " 
 
 Mr. Rook laughed out lustily. 
 
 " Don't you be a flat ; don't mind what 
 he says. He came that dodge with me the 
 other day ; but, lor', I ain't the fool I look, 
 that's one comfort. What's the good of 
 reading now, I should like to knoAv ? — just 
 when we're beginning, when we're not to be 
 examined for five years. Why, there's time 
 to forget it five times over, supposing you
 
 Paul Foster's daughter. 195 
 
 know it all by heart now, word for word — 
 which you never will, by-the-bye, nor me 
 either." 
 
 " But one must read them some time or 
 other, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes; read them just before you go up, 
 that's quite time enough ; and then you're 
 more likely to remember them, coming hot 
 and fresh from them, like a penny roll out 
 of an oven. Bless you, I've been talking to 
 some fellows, and know all about it. I un- 
 derstand the plan, I do. You couldn't have 
 come to a better shop for information, young 
 man. This is what I intend to do. As 
 soon as I'm out of my articles — I shan't 
 read a page till then — I shall go to a coach, 
 a cram, a grindstone — you understand? — 
 who'll stick it all well into me. Well, I go 
 and read with him all day — read hard — 
 ever so, you know. Then, all night I sit 
 up with a lot of other fellows ; there's al- 
 ways a lot goes up together, you know ; 
 you'll be one of them, I shouldn't wonder. 
 
 2
 
 196 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 Well, we all sit round a table, reading like 
 blazes, and drinking cold tea, and asking 
 one another the most hideously hard ques- 
 tions you can conceive ; in fact, licking the 
 examiners all to fits in hard questions, and 
 all with wet towels tied round our heads. 
 Isn't that stunning ? " 
 
 " What do you have wet towels for ? " 
 " Oh, that's all the game, that is; no one 
 could do it a bit if it wasn't for the wet 
 towels. They act like magic, make you re- 
 member everything, wonderful ! That's what 
 I shall do, and I advise you to do the same. 
 But, lor', you'll never be a lawyer — not a bit 
 of it ; a fellow with all your talent, it is not 
 likely. I wish I was clever, I know that ; 
 I wish I could draw like you do. Blessed 
 if I'd stick in this beastly office. But the 
 governor would have it ; there's ^yq of us, 
 you know, and he chalked it all out for us ; 
 told us off on his fingers — Army, Navy, Law, 
 Physic, Divinity, he says, the old governor : 
 a rum card, aint he ? I'm the third, so I'm
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 197 
 
 stuck here, articled to Jeffrey, the prig. I 
 beg your pardon, I forgot he was your 
 brother. Why, he isn't a bit hke you ; you're 
 a trump, that's what you are, and a doosid 
 clever fellow, too. 1 say, draw us a race- 
 horse, there's a good chap, I wish you 
 would ; 111 have it framed and glazed, and 
 stick it up in my bed-room. You'd make 
 your fortune with drawing if you came 
 down in my part of the country, taking 
 likenesses, and pictures of horses and pigs, 
 and that. I wish you were a betting-man, 
 we might do no end of business together. 
 You see, I'm from Yorkshire, and think 
 there's nothing like Don caster ; of course, as 
 a Londoner you stick up for Epsom. Now, 
 I'll put you to a wrinkle — I'll give you the 
 tip. You back Epaminondas for the St. 
 Leger, and you'll bag a pot of money. I 
 reckon I shall nobble on to a good five 
 pounds," &c., &c. 
 
 So Mr. Rook rattled away, in an easy- 
 going, open, unaffected style.
 
 198 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 It will be seen that amicable relations 
 were established between the articled clerks. 
 Of course these had come about with quite 
 Britannic slowness. They had sat opposite 
 to each other at the same desk, each stre- 
 nuously ignoring the presence and existence 
 of each other, after the custom of their 
 country. Perhaps something of school-boy 
 shyness was superadded to their English 
 objections to becoming nearer acquainted ; 
 but gradually it had dawned upon them 
 that they were a minority, representing like 
 opinions, and might fairly join for mutual 
 comfort and accommodation. The articled 
 clerk always occupies a position in some 
 way antagonistic to the remunerated officer. 
 They had common and class interests — they 
 could league with none else, why not with each 
 other ? And so plump, rosy little Mr. Rook, 
 of the short-cut hair and the tight, turfy-look- 
 ing legs — (it was whispered in articled-clerk 
 circles that he had once ridden a Yorkshire 
 steeple-chase ; but for this I really must not
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 199 
 
 be asked to vouch) — turned his small, twink- 
 ling, bro^vn eyes on to his opposite neigh- 
 bour, and with a pleasant grin across his 
 fresh face, and perhaps a blush on his rotund 
 cheeks, (he was not too old for it ; and, 
 moreover, was a little diffident and awkward 
 about polite and proper manners,) thrust for- 
 ward a huge tin sandwich-box, with a neatly 
 stowed cargo of ham sandwiches within it. 
 The bringing and carrying away of this 
 sandwich-box were important items in Mr. 
 Rook's diurnal programme. He begged 
 Ned to help himself therefrom. Cooler and 
 calmer than Mr. Rook, accustomed to self- 
 containment and occupation, and looking 
 for little aid or pleasure from without, such 
 had been the manner of his life, Ned half- 
 inclined to reject the professed refection, 
 yet accepted it, and with it of course its 
 consequences. For it was not, bear in 
 mind, a mere thing of thin bread and cured 
 pork that was given and taken. The sand- 
 wich had a high and wide significance : just
 
 200 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 as a plain ring means marriage — as a glove 
 flung down represents combat to the death — 
 so the presented and accepted sandwich 
 symbolised acquaintance, junction, friend- 
 ship ; and Edwin Erie and Septimus Rook 
 swore fealty to each other over its remnant 
 crumbs, and united their forces, and formed 
 an alliance ofi'ensive and defensive, and were 
 to give battle to who would attack either or 
 both of them. 
 
 And they did not repent this treaty. 
 Different in nature, in habit of life, thought, 
 aspiration, there remained enough appre- 
 ciable stuif to form a very good and sub- 
 stantial substratum of friendship. Edwin 
 could not fail to be amused and interested 
 in his new friend. His sporting tastes, his 
 somewhat provincial manners, his fun and 
 frolic, and unquenchable spirit, and perhaps 
 over all his fidelity and untiring belief in, 
 and admiration for Edwin, could not appeal 
 to him in vain : while to Mr. Rook, Ed^ydn's 
 calm self-possession and steady strength of
 
 PAUL fostek's daughter. 201 
 
 will, his good humour, his enthusiasm when 
 thoroughly kindled, his cleverness, not for- 
 getting his ability for the drawing of horses 
 and dogs — ability such as Mr. Rook had 
 never set eyes on before, or even heard of — 
 fairly took the sporting young gentleman's 
 heart by storm. Ned was a trump, a brick, 
 a stunner, he declaimed in his slangy, and 
 perhaps a little outre excitement, and he 
 (Rook) would go through fire and water for 
 his (Ned's) benefit. He wrote home to 
 Yorkshire glowing accounts of the extraor- 
 dinary merits of his new friend. The Army 
 and Navy, and the embryo professors of Me- 
 dicine and Divinity, were alike apprised of 
 Ned's genius, and of Mr. Rook's luck in 
 having come into its near neighbourhood. 
 And the young fellows were constantly 
 together, in and out of official hours ; and 
 " Mr. Rook" and "Mr. Erie" gave way to 
 plain Rook and Erie, and ultimately melted 
 into Sep and Ned — and great friendliness 
 and affection became the order of the day —
 
 202 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 and one of those strong young friendships, 
 such as we can all, perhaps, look back upon 
 with pleasure or with pain, among other 
 experiences of the past, was fairly built and 
 launched, and for the time being a great 
 credit and comfort to all concerned. 
 
 "I'd give my head to be able to draw 
 like you, Ned," remarks Mr. Rook, as he 
 examines curiously the blotting-paper pad 
 of his friend, on which was delineated, in 
 spite of the unpleasantness of its material 
 for art purposes, quite a crowd of sketches 
 and designs of all sorts. 
 
 " Do you like paintings, Sep ? " 
 
 " I believe you — not that I know any- 
 thing about them." 
 
 *' Because I'm going to see my uncle to- 
 night ; he's an artist. You can come, too, 
 if you like, and look at his pictures." 
 
 " I should like to go of course, Ned, with 
 you, very much ; but — " 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 "Why, you see, I aint a swell, you know,
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 203 
 
 and cool and downy like you, and aint up 
 to society and that sort of thing, and don't 
 know where to put my hands, and I get 
 tumbling about over my own legs somehow. 
 I don't know how it happens ; but it always 
 does, and I shouldn't like people to think 
 that you'd got a duifer out with you." 
 
 Ned laughs out at his friend's embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 '' Don't laugh — there's a good sort ; don't 
 chaff a fellow, I can't help it ; will there be 
 any women there, you know? — is it a tea- 
 fight ? Will there be muffins, and music, 
 and silk dresses, and dancing ? No — I'd 
 better not go." 
 
 " Nonsense, Sep ; there'll be no one there 
 — only old uncle Paul smoking his pipe and 
 drinking gin punch." 
 
 " Ah ! that's something like a party. And 
 no women ? " 
 
 " Only my cousin, Sylvia." 
 
 *' No ; I'd better not, I think."
 
 204 PAUL poster's daughter 3 
 
 " Why, she's a little bit of a thing ; she 
 won't eat you. Come along ! " 
 
 " Very well." But Mr. Rook brushed his 
 hat prolongedly and dolefully with his cuff, 
 and did not seem quite easy in his mind 
 about going. Yet they went.
 
 205 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ART, TODDY, SENTIMENT, ETC. 
 
 The vox populi possesses many attractive 
 characteristics. It is very strong, and hearty, 
 and thorough-going; asks no questions, keeps 
 nothing back, gives liberally, and wants no 
 change out. It may be that it is fickle, and 
 that the statue of yesterday helps to maca- 
 damize the road of to-day. But while its 
 favour lasts there is certainly nothing to 
 equal it for breadth and depth and 
 wholeness. 
 
 Some such reflection as this occurred to 
 uncle Paul, exhibiting his works to our 
 young friend Mr. Septimus Rook, no nig- 
 gard of his admiration, although that was
 
 206 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 expressed rather in the terms of the sporting 
 bar-parlour than the studio. 
 
 " I have here one of the public," thought 
 uncle Paul ; " would I could get at some 
 thousand others, and stick my mark well 
 into them, as I have stuck it into this young 
 man ! He is utterly unbiassed. He knows 
 nothing of rival schools, of clique jealousies ; 
 a man picked up hap-hazard, out of the 
 high-ways and bye-ways it may be, and 
 placed suddenly before my easel, and mark 
 the result ! It is something wonderful. He 
 is amazed, indeed — absolutely thunderstruck. 
 To use his own strong, if homely expression, 
 * my paintings have knocked him altogether 
 out of wind and time ! ' This is success, 
 indeed ! The public is with me, then ! The 
 great public outside the door is with 
 me — clamouring at the Academy gates, and 
 demanding my admission. Why not? 
 There must come an end to the years of 
 contumely and suffering I have endured. 
 Is fortune smiling on me at last ? "
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 207 
 
 Perhaps Paul had been hardly treated : in 
 some respects his own immediate home 
 circle — a circle with a very small diameter — 
 had been a little remiss in singing the praises 
 of the great painter, and blowing trumpets 
 round his works. Sylvia, to do her justice, 
 knew little enough of art ; the hard school 
 in which she had been reared had probably 
 not been favourable to poetical views in 
 regard to her father's profession. She could 
 only look upon painting as a means of pro- 
 \iding them with a roof and dinner — of 
 keeping the old painter fed and clothed, 
 and out of debt, and free from arrest — a 
 commercial view of a noble art, very likely ; 
 but the poor little soul possessed no alterna- 
 tive — had been perforce driven to entertain 
 ignoble notions on the subject. That she 
 was interested in the labours of her parent 
 was indisputable ; with her great love for 
 him how could it be otherwise ? — and day by 
 day she stood at his elbow as he worked, 
 quite ready to slip neatly aside when the
 
 208 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 emergencies of the artist required it ; for 
 Paul was an active, not to say violent painter, 
 always backing and tacking to obtain new 
 views of his work, and retreating suddenly 
 to great distances to appraise thoroughly the 
 effects of certain touches, then rushing for- 
 ward, in a warlike charging manner, to add 
 to or rectify; he had great partiality for 
 precipitation and accident in painting. And 
 Sylvia's kindly voice had encouraged him 
 and cheered him on, and she was ever ready 
 to aid him by sitting to him, lamenting as 
 much as he did her small stature, and slight 
 figure, her delicate features, and red gold 
 tresses — her general unfitness, in fact, for his- 
 torical art purposes ; and was ever hemming 
 draperies for him, stitching together costumes 
 for his pictures, and constructing togas and 
 mantles and curtains out of table-covers, 
 sheets and counterpanes ; helping him in all 
 sorts of ways. But still this was not all 
 Paul required ; he knew of his little daugh- 
 ter's love, and loved her in turn, to do him
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 209 
 
 justice, with great tenderness ; but he knew 
 also that she was no art critic; that she 
 could only applaud in a measure, could not 
 follow out the merits of his designs — could 
 not comprehend in the slightest what he 
 chose to think his grandeur and composition, 
 effect and masterly execution. Loving him, 
 she loved his pictures, and so admired them ; 
 understanding thoroughly that by them her 
 father and herself got a living, and hoped 
 that the pictures would find purchasers 
 accordingly. Further than this she was un- 
 able to go, or else she had leanings towards 
 the art notions of cousin Edwin, who may 
 also perhaps be classed as one of Paul's 
 home circle ; and who — I think the fact has 
 been hinted before — entertained rather heter- 
 odox opinions from Paul's point of view, 
 and was not therefore likely to be any great 
 consolation to his uncle. Certainly the uncle 
 revenged himself by looking down greatly 
 on the nephew's art-pretensions, treating 
 him and his works rather as jokes, to be 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 laughed at and condemned, but not severely; 
 for the boy was a good boy — an amateur, 
 who was not working for his bread, as Paul 
 was ; and so might as well as not amuse 
 himself by bad drawing and absurd painting, 
 if he preferred them — it was no one's busi- 
 ness but his own. 
 
 "Yes," said Paul on the subject — in ex- 
 planation to Mr. Rook. "Yes, I am afraid 
 he's got hold of a sneaking kindness for the 
 silly notions of the new school — the minute 
 detail painting, as exhibited in the works of 
 Fribble, Frabble and Co. The slavish imita- 
 tion of nature, sir, even to her pimples. 
 What becomes of fancy, sir, and imagination, 
 and invention, and suggestion, in such cases? 
 That's not the way I have ever painted, or 
 ever will paint, please God. Not but what 
 I have stooped in my time — I don't deny it," 
 (in a hollow whisper), "that kit-cat in the 
 parlour of the Duke of Clarence, round the 
 corner, portrait of Blopp, licensed victualler, 
 is the work of this hand. Ay ! you would
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 2 1 1 
 
 scarcely credit it, perhaps — the same hand 
 thatpainted the Assassination of Julius Csesar, 
 and the Suicide of Cato — great works, though 
 I say it. I am a man, and not a microscope, 
 and I demand to paint accordingly. You 
 see that smear of chrome-yellow ; well, you 
 know what it means ? A sword-hilt, of course 
 — I should rather think it did. Now, what 
 more is required? My intention is tho- 
 roughly understood; why should I labour 
 more upon such a trifle, in comparison with 
 the work as a whole. Yet you know how 
 Fritter, A.R.A., would have treated that. 
 He would have been two months, neither 
 more nor less, painting that sword-hilt. 
 For my part I decline — even if the rejection 
 of my work should follow my remark — I 
 decline to be two months painting a sword- 
 hilt." 
 
 Mr. Rook, not following very readily the 
 thread of Mr. Paul's discourse, nodded his 
 head sagaciously to and fro. 
 
 " I think you're about right," he said. 
 
 p 2
 
 212 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " You see what this is ? Achilles in his 
 tent mourning the departure of What's her 
 name. There's fine academic anatomical 
 drawings there, let me tell you." 
 
 ^' He seems a muscular beggar. I should 
 feel inclined to back him at odds." 
 
 ^'That's something like a calf, 1 think; 
 and there's an arm bossy with sinews. But 
 we're fallen upon spindle-shank times in 
 art, sir ; because Fritter has no legs himself 
 worth speaking of, he ignores them in art. 
 For myself I may say that I dote on 
 muscles." 
 
 ^^ You're giving him a stunning red 
 cloak, though it don't cover him much." 
 
 " We call that a flying drapery. Fm not 
 a slave to colour, though I must say I think 
 that's a nice bit. I'm not a garish painter ; 
 I don't care for your brilliant effects got in 
 that way, all dodges, sir — meretricious tricks, 
 that can't last, sir ; I know how they're done, 
 painting with varnishes, sir, and broken 
 vehicles, and on wet copal, and flake white,
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 213 
 
 and other shameful artifices for procuring 
 temporary brilliancy. Why, the colour all 
 sinks, sir, in time, and the effect runs down 
 like a clock. I've been pretty genuine my- 
 self, perhaps not so much as I could wish ; 
 but if I was to begin again — or if I had a 
 son, by George ! I'd bring him up upon 
 turpentine, sir; nothing but turpentine all 
 the day long." 
 
 Mr, Rook, who did not understand that 
 the artist was alluding to a medium for oil- 
 paint, began to think turpentine rather a 
 novel and not agreeable regimen for the sus- 
 tenance of a child. I fancy he was inwardly 
 grateful that he was not descended from 
 Paul Foster. He could not help looking 
 out of the corners of his eyes at pretty Miss 
 Sylvia. 
 
 ^*Was she brought up on turps, I wonder ? " 
 he muttered. Ned penetrated his musings 
 — " Sylvia was brought up by hand on eau- 
 de-cologne y 
 
 They all laughed at this, and Sylvia pul-
 
 214 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 ling Ned's hair, promised to punish him yet 
 more severely at some future period for the 
 remark. 
 
 " You be off, sir ! " says old Paul, mirthful, 
 but with majesty, "don't break in upon the 
 interesting converse of myself and this gen- 
 tleman upon high and noble topics, with 
 any of your ribald jesting. Bring out the 
 tumblers, Sylvia, my dear. Where was I, 
 Mr. Rook ? Oh, I was saying," &c., &c. 
 
 I think the articled clerk began to be a 
 little bored. The conversation seemed to 
 him to consist of incessant conundrums, 
 without any answers. To use his own 
 expression, he commenced to respond rather 
 slowly to the cry of time. But he did 
 not yawn, or gape, or go to sleep ; and 
 indeed his attention and apparent interest 
 in the discussion won him golden opinions 
 from uncle Paul. 
 
 "Decidedly a superior man," said the 
 painter, afterwards. " Young, but very in- 
 telligent."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 215 
 
 One often sees unreasonable friendships : 
 between the informed and the uninformed — 
 the clever and the dull ; between men with 
 a great chasm between their intellects, and 
 tastes, and talents. I suppose there are as 
 many Johnsons clinging to Boswells, as 
 Boswells to Johnsons. Fidelity and devo- 
 tion, intense and unremitting, are not with- 
 out their charms ; and perhaps a dull votary 
 is better than a shrewd, critical, half- scoffing 
 worshipper. "A good fellow, Dunce," re- 
 marks Wit ; " not clever, you know, exactly 
 — but respectable, and steady, and certainly 
 appreciative ; not a critic, but a type-man, 
 you may say, one of the public; and, after all, 
 it's the public, and not the critic, that makes 
 the reputation. He's my friend, and I feel 
 sure there are thousands of other men think- 
 ing of me as he does, and very likely account- 
 ing me as highly. Who knows ? " Perhaps 
 the secret of such friendship is contained a 
 little in the observations of Wit. 
 
 At any rate, uncle Paul took very kindly
 
 216 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 to young Mr. Rook. The man of learning 
 favoured the man of ignorance with his 
 esteem and friendship, wishing perhaps in 
 his heart that such fervid admiration had 
 been reared on a little more education and 
 taste. But the enthusiasm of Septimus more 
 than balanced his want of acquaintance with 
 the subject of his praise. 
 
 '' So you like my Sappho ? " 
 
 " I think she's no end of a stunner. 
 There's an arm, wonderfully round, is'nt it ? 
 why, you might catch hold of it. By Jove ! 
 its extraordinary ! " 
 
 " A morning's work, sir, that — no more, 
 on my honour. You find it a comfort, I 
 daresay, in these times, when men potter for 
 months and months, I might almost say 
 years, over paltry canvases a few inches 
 square^ — you must find it a consolation the 
 knowledge that there is still one man left 
 possessing the fertility of resource, the 
 rapidity of execution — these attributes, if no- 
 thing else, — for I'm not a vain man, — of the
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 217 
 
 old Masters. I painted that leg, sir, in a day. 
 It was said of Hans Jordaens sir, so quick 
 was his hand, and so vivid his fancy, * that 
 he seemed to pour out his figures upon the 
 canvas with a potladle.' Gerard Lariesse, 
 for a wager completed in one day a scene 
 on Mount Parnassus, representing Apollo 
 and the nine Muses, life size. Giordano 
 painted in one day twelve figures, twice as 
 large as life. Philip Roos executed a charm- 
 ing landscape with foreground figures in 
 half-an-hour. The great Guido painted one 
 of his divine virgins in about four hours, in 
 the presence of cardinal Cornaro, who re- 
 warded the artist with his well-filled purse, 
 and chain of massy gold." 
 
 " Did he, though ? By George ! " 
 ^' Yes, sir, they could paint in those days, 
 a little. There was no Academy then to 
 grind them down, and crush and oppose 
 them at every turn. The imbecile Fritter, 
 A.R.A., did not exist then — no, nor any 
 type of him. Men painted quickly who
 
 218 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 knew how to paint. I paint quickly, sir, 
 now, — don't fancy I could do it always, — 
 because I know how to paint. How did I 
 acquire that knowledge? Your tumblers 
 empty — allow me. Syl, my dear, some 
 more G. How did I acquire that know- 
 ledge ? Here's the birds-eye." 
 " May a fellow smoke here ?" 
 ^' Of course you may, my dear sir." 
 " Wont it hurt the pictures ? You don't 
 mind then, Miss ? " (to Sylvia.) 
 
 "Not in the least. Let me give you a 
 light." 
 
 " Oh, thank you." 
 
 " Where was I ? Oh, how did I acquire 
 that knowledge. Why, by work, sir — hard 
 work. Now, sir, men lie a-bed, and yawn, 
 and read sentimental poetry, and wait for 
 inspiration. What did I do, sir ? Wh}^, I 
 stuck to the skeleton ; for two years, sir, I 
 may say I lived on the skeleton." (Great 
 sensation on the part of Septimus. " The 
 old beggar's cracked, I do believe ! ") " Up
 
 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTEE. 219 
 
 at daybreak, sir, and, with bent knees and 
 a thankful heart, devouring my beloved 
 bones. Why, sir, I put the skull by the 
 side of my chamber-candle and looked at it, 
 sir, hard, as I undressed and got into bed, 
 and went to sleep, sir — actually went to sleep 
 with my hand on the os frontis. And then 
 the antique, sir ; I worked at that day and 
 night. I could never tear myself away from 
 the divine Theseus — it was meat and drink 
 to me ; I forgot my meals and everything, 
 sir, in front of that glorious remnant of the 
 great Greeks, sir." 
 
 " By George !" 
 
 "What's it all come to? you say. Where 
 am I now ?" 
 
 Septimus pantomimed deprecation of any 
 such notions. 
 
 ** Well, we live in unlucky times, sir. 
 There's no encouragement for art, sir : it is 
 forgotten that art is a powerful engine for the 
 moral teaching of a people." (Paul rolled 
 out the sentence with fluent vehemence —
 
 220 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 lie had often rehearsed the feat, be it said.) 
 "It is twisted by an illiterate Government 
 and an absurd House of Commons into a 
 mere idle toy — a decoration, to be suffered, 
 not encouraged. And a menial Academy — 
 But there, the subject is almost too disgust- 
 ing to descant upon." 
 
 ^^ Polly, dear, you'll work yourself into a 
 fever. Why, how hot your forehead is !" 
 " Fill Mr. Rook's tumbler, my dear." 
 " Thank you, Miss, but I think I've had 
 enough." 
 
 Meanwhile Sylvia and Ned had not been 
 silent. 
 
 "Well, Ned, and how do you like the 
 law?" 
 
 "It's not a question of like or dislike, 
 Syl; that's been settled long ago." 
 
 " How do you get on, then ? Is that 
 better put ?" 
 
 " Fancy a man in a great fog, daily 
 between the hours of ten and five or so — I 
 ought to be there from nine till six, I
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 221 
 
 believe, by rigbts, but 1 haven't begun that 
 yet — before ten and after five broad, splen- 
 did daylight, the interim a wonderful haze, 
 in which I can discern nothing clearly, 
 unless it be my blotting-paper, and pen and 
 ink." 
 
 " But this will be only at first, Ned ; by- 
 and-bye you'll see your way through the 
 fog just as well as anybody else — better, I 
 am sure, than many," and the hazel eyes 
 glanced laughingly in the direction of Sep- 
 timus. Ned smiled. 
 
 " Oh, Sep will be a splendid lawyer in 
 time, he gets over difficulties like a hunter 
 over a gate, or through a hedge ; he does 
 not mind a tumble, or a scratched face, or 
 heed what's on the other side of the leap. 
 Whereas, I stand and contemplate, and mea- 
 sure, and wonder at the obstruction, and 
 try to comprehend what it means, and 
 what's the good of it, and what will be the 
 eflPect of my overcoming it. Sep's not 
 troubled with any such difficulties."
 
 222 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " But where he can go you can, Ned." 
 " I'm not sure of that, he's a tremendous 
 fellow is Sep. But don't look so sad, dear 
 Syl, I daresay it's all for the best ; I've no 
 doubt it will all be right in the end. Mean- 
 while to endure and keep one's heart up." 
 
 " Thank you, Ned ; I like to hear you 
 talk like that — Fm sure you'll succeed. '' 
 
 " Perhaps. It's early to predict as yet 
 one way or the other ; one must begin at the 
 beginning, I suppose, and the first steps are 
 always, I daresay, ugly and steep, and pain- 
 ful. It will be easier as one gets on. I'm 
 a mere machine at present, an automaton 
 clerk. I w^rite this, and say that, and call 
 here and go there, and have no more com- 
 prehension of what it's all about than a man 
 in a dream — not so much." 
 
 ** But doesn't Jeffrey help you ? " 
 ^'Jeffrey is very much occupied; and then, 
 like all learned people, he knows so much 
 himself, he has no conception of there being 
 such a thing as ignorance."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 223 
 
 " But lie tells you what to do, and what 
 books to read — and where to go for infor- 
 mation? " 
 
 " Why, Syl, you'll know all about a law- 
 yer's office in time." 
 
 " Well, he does this, doesn't he? " 
 
 " He brings a great pile of books and 
 heaps them round me, and tells me I must 
 read them, and understand them thoroughly, 
 if I wish to be a lawyer ; and then comes 
 up old Deacon, who thinks reading's waste of 
 time, and says, ^Make a copy of this brief, one 
 hundred and fifty big sheets,' that's all, Syl ; 
 or ^ Come along with me, Mr. Edwin,' — 
 he sometimes says ^edwin ; they're rather 
 partial to the the IT, some of them, especially 
 in the outer office — ^Come along with me Mr. 
 Hedwin, and I'll pint you out all the offices 
 in the lane, it will be useful for you to know 
 them another time. ' " 
 
 *' And does Jeffrey help you no more 
 than this ? " 
 
 " Jeffrey has too much to do, Syl — almost
 
 224 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 the whole weight of the business is on him, 
 now ; my father seems able to do less and 
 less every day/^ 
 
 "But JeiFrey promised he would do all 
 he could to help you.'' 
 
 " Promised ? — promised you ? " 
 
 "Yes, when he called here the other 
 day. But I forgot, I was not to tell you." 
 
 "Why not, Syl?" 
 
 " I mustn't say, Ned." 
 
 " As you please." 
 
 " Don't turn away like that, dear — you're 
 angry with me, don't look like that." 
 
 " Angry ! " 
 
 " No, not angry — I had sooner you were 
 so; anythingrather than that cold grand man- 
 ner. I had sooner you struck me than looked 
 on me so — you couldn't hurt me more." 
 
 " My dear Syl — why, what have I done? 
 Of course, if there's any secret attaching to 
 your interview with Jeffrey, I don't wish to 
 penetrate it. Why should I? — what is it 
 to me ? "
 
 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTEE. 225 
 
 " There is no secret." 
 
 " Only something you had rather not 
 tell. Be it so. Forgive me if I seemed 
 annoyed ; we have not been used to these 
 concealments — perhaps that is the reason." 
 
 ^' Oh, Ned!" 
 
 " Generally we have been free, each of us, 
 to ask and answer questions. That is to be 
 changed — very well." 
 
 ^^ Ned — please don't talk like that; I hate 
 you when you put on that calm, indifferent, 
 * don't care' way, with your chin out, and 
 your eyes very bright, and a dent in your 
 forehead. I'll tell you all, and it's nothing 
 when it's told." 
 
 "I don't seek to know — you have a right, 
 of course — " 
 
 *^ Be quiet, sir. Jeffrey came here, at 
 papa's request. He wrote to him. Poor 
 Polly has been unlucky, he hasn't sold very 
 much of late ; and, well, he played cards, or 
 billiards, or something, with some strange 
 people the other night ; it was a shameful 
 
 VOL. L Q
 
 22Q PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 robbery I have no doubt — and he lost a lot 
 of money. I begged him not to send to 
 Jeffrey, to make any sacrifice rather than 
 that ; but he was obstinate — he is sometimes, 
 you know — and talked about gentlemanly 
 feeling, and debts of honour, and other 
 things I couldn't understand." 
 
 " And Jeffrey gave him money, of course." 
 
 " He lent it. No, I wouldn't let him give 
 it, though he wanted to ; and Polly handed 
 him a bill, or receipt, or acknowledgment — 
 I don't quite know what — and of course he 
 will pay it all back when he sells his large 
 picture, which he's pretty sure to do after 
 the Academy exhibition ; and now you 
 know all." 
 
 *^ Thank you, Syl. But I hardly see why 
 I was to be kept in the dark." 
 
 *'Well, Jeffrey asked that you shouldn't 
 be told — and Polly, too, seemed to wish that 
 you shouldn't know. I don't see why, any 
 more than you do. You've known and 
 sympathized with our troubles before now ;
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 227 
 
 but I think Polly was too much ashamed 
 this time. I hope it will be a lesson to him ; 
 he has promised me faithfully never on any 
 account to gamble again." (He had received 
 a good many lessons, and made a good many 
 promises of the same kind before, but some- 
 how was not much the better for them.) 
 
 " I wish I had it in my power to aid him. 
 But I am sure that Jeffrey would do all 
 that was kind in such a matter. But why 
 should he wish me not to know ? " 
 
 Mr. Rook was talking to Paul. They 
 had been enjoying pipes, and tumblers, and 
 conversation pretty freely. 
 
 I'm certain you'd succeed well now, regu- 
 larly make all the running, if you were to 
 come down into our part of the country. I 
 wouldn't mind laying any monej^ on it ; and 
 Pm sure the Governor would do the right 
 thing — he's a good sort is the old Governor — 
 and hang out claret and that sort of thing 
 every day — not but what this gin's uncom- 
 mon good, — I don't ask for a better tipple
 
 228 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 myself. Bless you, the people down there 
 would be all mad to have their portraits 
 taken on their hunters, or going over gates, 
 or with their guns and dogs and shooting 
 jackets. You turn it over in your mind — it 
 would be well worth your while." 
 
 Paul rumpled his hair, and rubbed his 
 shaven chin and cheeks against the grain of 
 his beard, as he was prone to do when in 
 thought, and began to consider favourably 
 the project, and meditated getting a " Brad- 
 shaw's Railway Guide " on the morrow, to 
 see about the trains and the fares down to 
 Mr. Rook's part of the country. 
 
 " It would be a first-rate spec — I'm sure of 
 that ; and the Governor would have his por- 
 trait taken, and all his sons, life-size ; it 
 would go splendidly over the sideboard. 
 The old Governor on the bay mare, looking 
 as red and jolly as ninepence, and Bill and 
 Harry, and me on the chestnut — I'm Septi- 
 mus, you know, the seventh ; there were four 
 girls at first, older than me — but they're all
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 229 
 
 gone away, married ; then Freddy and little 
 Dick on his white pony, and the dogs in 
 front, looking and sniffing about — Mungo 
 and Shark and Bep, and the tan bitch Fanny, 
 and the bull pup Rose — I say, would'nt it be 
 out-and-out stunning ? No more grog for 
 me, thank you — are you going, Ned ? '' 
 
 " Good night. Sir Edwin — and good night 
 to you. Sir — Mr. — Rook. I beg your pardon, 
 good night. I am very pleased to have met 
 you. I hope to have frequent opportunities 
 of seeing you again. You will be always a 
 welcome visitor under this roof; good night." 
 
 " Good night, uncle Poll — good night, 
 Syl." 
 
 There was a whispered " You're not an- 
 gry now, Ned ? " 
 
 I think a brotherly kiss was the satisfac- 
 tory answer. 
 
 " Mind the step. Sep, hold up ! " Ned and 
 Mr. Rook were in the street. 
 
 " By Jove ! How queer it feels coming 
 out into the fresh air."
 
 230 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " Take care, don't run off the line. That's 
 the gutter, this is the kerbstone." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "You've been having too mucli of old 
 Paul's toddy." 
 
 "Not a bit of it. Sober as a judge. Oh, 
 Ned! " 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 " Oh, I've got it at last — such a onener — 
 clean off my legs — first-blood — first knock 
 down — everything." 
 
 " You shouldn't have taken so much." 
 
 " Bah ! It isn't that. I say, old fellow, 
 though, isn't she a clipper ? " 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Why she — you know. Your cousin — 
 what's her name? Syl something, I couldn't 
 quite make out." 
 
 " Sylvia ! " 
 
 "Ah ! that's it. It's all up with me! I'm 
 beaten — hand over the stakes — she's been 
 one too many for me." 
 
 " What do you mean ? Take care of the 
 lamp-post."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 231 
 
 " Tin in love, Ned — that's what I mean. 
 There ! — the murder's out now ! " 
 
 "Why, you didn't speak a word to her.'' 
 
 " Where was the use ? I was done for 
 without that. — Oh, Ned! By George, I 
 think I'm crying ! " 
 
 " Hi ! cab ! Take this gentleman to 
 Brompton — that's where he lives." 
 
 " I don't want a cab — I don't want 
 to ride — I don't want to go home to 
 Brompton — I want to walk about and 
 talk, and sit down and talk. By George, 
 I could talk about that girl all night. 
 There's eyes! Ah, there's a mouth, a 
 foot, a hand — a regular crack ! " 
 
 "I must run, Sep ; it's past the half-hour, 
 and I may be shut out." 
 
 "I'll give you a bed at Brompton, old boy." 
 
 " Not to-night, thank you." 
 
 " Well, I will get into the cab. Somehow 
 I don't feel quite the thing. Good-bye. I 
 say, if I should not show up to-morrow, 
 you know it's toothache."
 
 232 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 <« Very well ; it was influenza last time. 
 Good-bye." And Ned ran oiF. 
 
 Collis, yawning and dishevelled, as though 
 he had been sitting up many nights, opened 
 the door. 
 
 **This is a hawful time to come 'ome. Mas- 
 ter Hedwin ! I wonder you ain't ashamed 
 keeping a poor servant up. It's on the 
 stroke of twelve. The family's bin hours a- 
 bed." 
 
 "That will do. Give me my candlestick." 
 
 " But there ! You've no feelin', you aint 
 — one might as well talk to a brick wall." 
 
 Sally Briggs, in white drapery, appeared 
 on one of the upper flights of stairs. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Hedwin, I'm so glad your 'ome 
 in time — it's a mercy you weren't locked out 
 again ! I've been in sich a tremble ever 
 since eleven." 
 
 *' Good night, SaUy."
 
 233 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A LOVE SCENE, OR SOMETHING LIKE IT. 
 
 Jeffrey had few weaknesses, or extravagan- 
 cies — but he had two. He smoked excellent 
 cigars — he rode superb horses. Not ostenta- 
 tiously, however. It was only in the back 
 parlour in the Gloucester Terrace house, 
 fitted up as a library, that he ever indulged 
 his appetite for tobacco fumes. He seldom 
 appeared on horseback in the parks ; he 
 rode forth generally in the evening, and as 
 far countrywards as he could. Never fol- 
 lowed by the marvellously curry-combed 
 groom, with belted waist, stalwart legs 
 tightly cased in buckskin, and beautiful
 
 234 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 top-boots, a production altogether peculiarly 
 British. He rode forth alone; and if he 
 needed to alight, trusted to chance to find 
 some loiterer ready and anxious to earn 
 pence by holding the horse. I never knew 
 the place near London where such a person 
 — in fact, a good many such persons — 
 could not be found. 
 
 A ragged urchin, restraining, by tremen- 
 dous strength of will, a perpetually in- 
 creasing desire to mount and ride, was 
 walking up and down Jowland Street a very 
 trim-built and glossy-coated sorrel mare. 
 A beautiful summer evening, eight o'clock 
 and past, and yet still light. JeiFrey Erie 
 was paying a visit at Mr. Paul Foster's. 
 Had the visitor any notion, I wonder, that 
 the artist himself was enjoying a majestic 
 stroll in the Regent's Park, meditating on 
 historical art, and smoking a cheap and 
 strongly -flavoured cigar the while? It 
 was strange, but the horseman had just 
 cantered from the stables at the back of
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 235 
 
 Gloucester Terrace, on the very road the 
 painter had taken, and might even have 
 seen him. 
 
 " You have not kept your promise." It 
 was Sylvia who spoke. 
 
 " What promise ? " Jeffrey answered by 
 an enquiry. 
 
 " You told me you would aid Edwin as 
 much as you could." 
 
 ^' Have I not done so ? '' 
 
 "That you would do all that was possible 
 to smooth his way." 
 
 "Well, Sylvia, how have I failed? " 
 
 " You know you have not done this." 
 
 " Has he complained ? " 
 
 " Are you waiting for him to complain ? — 
 Did you ever know him to complain ? — Is 
 he one of those who cry out when they are 
 struck. He would sooner bite his lip in 
 two. How little you know him ! " 
 
 " You are angry with me this evening, 
 Sylvia." 
 
 " No — well, yes, I am angry. I hate to
 
 236 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 be deceived — I hate broken promises, and — ** 
 
 " Those who break them ? " 
 
 " If you please. My likings and dislik- 
 ings are matters you care little enough 
 about." 
 
 "On the contrary, they interest me 
 deeply." 
 
 ^' Say amuse" 
 
 ^'You do me injustice — I am deeply con- 
 cerned in your likings and dislikings, as you 
 call them. They are very much to me." 
 
 He spoke in a low, serious voice, and 
 looked at her earnestly. 
 
 " Unfortunately, they are things beyond 
 one's control." 
 
 *^ Unfortunately, indeed ; " and he sighed, 
 still gazing into her hazel eyes. She seemed 
 struck with somethino^ strans-e in his manner. 
 
 " You have led me away from the sub- 
 ject — you know my complaints are just, 
 that is why. You know that you have 
 withheld all assistance from Edwin — you let 
 him struggle on as best he can, when it lies
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 237 
 
 in your power to help him in every way." 
 
 Jeffrey smiled at her persistence. 
 
 ^* You don't understand these things, 
 Sylvia. Edwin is no worse oiFthan hundreds 
 of law students, beginning their profession 
 as he is. I cannot make exceptions in his 
 favour, or treat him differently to other 
 articled clerks. He wouldn't thank me if I 
 did." 
 
 *' You are both so proud." 
 
 " Besides, he is not articled to me ; and he 
 is not hardly used — his duties are of the 
 simplest kind. I don't see that he has any- 
 thing to complain of." 
 
 " I tell you, he has not complained. But 
 I can see — I know how distasteful it all is 
 to him." 
 
 " The law is my profession also, Sylvia ; I 
 lay claim to some opinion on the subject. 
 I see nothing so very distasteful in it all. 
 Nothing so repugnant and horrible as you 
 conceive." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; that is not the question.
 
 238 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 It is hateful to him, you know it is — it has 
 always been so. I don't understand these 
 things, very likely. I am talking of things 
 I know nothing about. Because I am a 
 woman — a girl — a child — a fool, if you 
 will.'' 
 
 " My dear Sylvia ! " 
 
 She stamped her foot with some passion. 
 
 *' But I know what great talent Edwin 
 has — I know what hopes, and thoughts, 
 and ambitions, he had formed. I know how 
 all these have been crushed — trampled down, 
 by his being forced into this profession of 
 the law." 
 
 " It was his father's wish, Sylvia — surely 
 it was his duty to obey.]' 
 
 " Well, and he did obey. He struggled 
 against it at first, of course — that was but 
 natural — but he obeyed. Do you think it 
 cost him nothing ? Do you think it was 
 no sacrifice? done without suffering, abso- 
 lutely painless ? " 
 
 " I am not his confidant, Sylvia.'^
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 239 
 
 " Don't sneer, sir — he makes few confi- 
 dants. If you ivere one, you might be proud 
 of it. He said little enough to me, but I 
 have eyes as well as ears ; I saw his cheek 
 pale every now and then, his cold abstracted 
 manner grow upon him, his lip tremble — / 
 knew what he felt." 
 
 " I think you exaggerate." 
 
 "I do not. But enough. I asked you to 
 make what I knew was a painful path to 
 him as easy as you could. You refuse — you 
 are kind — I thank you." 
 
 The young lady was in a temper. Jeffrey 
 felt her irony to be — as she fully purposed he 
 should feel it — severe, irritating. He was 
 decidedly nettled, inclined to retaliate. Re- 
 taliation is always a mistake, though a 
 popular one ; and to retaliate quickly is very 
 injudicious, it only buys further injury. 
 Revenge is the better for keeping. An un- 
 expected blow hits very hard. 
 
 " Is not all this interest in Edwin remark- 
 able, to say the least of it ? "
 
 240 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " How remarkable ? Because you are his 
 brother, and take no mterest in him ? " 
 
 " Unusual, let us say then." 
 
 " Another word for the same thing. It 
 is neither remarkable nor unusual. Edwin 
 has been my friendfrom childhood — he is my 
 relation, my cousin. Should I not care for 
 him?'^ 
 
 "You lay stress on the relationship. / 
 am not your cousin, you mean. Your in- 
 terest does not extend beyond your kin." 
 
 "Perhaps so. You prefer to think so?" 
 
 "My preferences signify little— I am not 
 your cousin ; I have not talent, or fine am- 
 bitions and hopes." 
 
 "You look very ugly when you sneer, 
 Jeffrey." She grew calmer as he drifted 
 into a rage. 
 
 " I am not in the sentimental attitude of 
 one tied to a distasteful post, and sighing 
 and crying for elegant pursuits out of his 
 reach. So there is no sympathy for me, or 
 regard, or respect."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 241 
 
 "Respect yourself first, Jeffrey. Show 
 the example if I am to follow it. What 
 have you done to win my sympathy and 
 regard — what ? " She spoke warmly, then 
 stopped suddenly as though struck by her 
 own question. Her voice lowered and 
 trembled as she continued : " Yes, I forgot — 
 you have done something — you lent Polly 
 money in his trouble ; " and she bent her 
 head, subdued. 
 
 "That is little enough." 
 
 " But you know what I mean — I cannot 
 feel towards you as I do to Ned ; you didn't 
 come here when I was a child to play with 
 me — I did not grow up knowing you. A 
 short time back, and you would have passed 
 me in the street — my face was no more 
 to you than any other face. I Avas a 
 stranger. Lately you have come oftener — 
 much oftener, and have been very kind — and 
 forgive me, Jeffrey, if 1 have offended you — 
 I get angry sometimes, I hardly know why ; 
 you have been very kind, and I thank you." 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 She took his hand, and tears — trem- 
 bling at their own wickedness — dimmed 
 the lovely hazel eyes. Jeffrey was in a 
 measure appeased, but somewhat contempla- 
 tive and cold. 
 
 " You thank me, Sylvia, and — you love 
 Edwin?'' 
 
 " I have ever done so. He is my bro- 
 ther.'^ 
 
 " I don't mean that — you know what I 
 mean — you love him, Sylvia." 
 
 "Let go my hand, Jeffrey." 
 
 "You love him?'' 
 
 " You are hurting me. Why do you 
 look at me like that, Jeffrey ? — What have 
 I done ? " 
 
 " Answer — you love him, not childishly ; 
 more than as a brother — you understand ? 
 I see you do. xVnswer, you love him — yes 
 or no ? " 
 
 " No." Very faintly, and a burning blush 
 upon her face. 
 
 "Again."
 
 PAUL fostek's daughter. 243 
 
 " No." He let go her hand ; a crimson 
 ring round the delicate wrist shewed where, 
 and how severely, he had pressed it. He 
 was pale and frowning; he drew her towards 
 him, and kissed her on the forehead. She 
 did not speak — did not take her eyes from 
 the ground. The tears hung for a moment 
 on her long lashes, and then dropped on to 
 her bosom. 
 
 " Good-bye, Sylvia." 
 
 He looked sternly at her, and then strode 
 to the door, looking again as he quitted the 
 room. 
 
 " A lie ! " he muttered, as he sprung on 
 to the silken sorrel, and tossed a shilling to 
 the young person in the rags, who, having 
 just made up his mind to a ride, looked 
 rather conscience-stricken and remorseful at 
 such unaccustomed liberality. 
 
 "A lie! Wo! ho! Sylphide ! " The 
 mare danced about at the sharp tug at her 
 mouth. " A lie ! a lie ! Be quiet, you 
 
 r2
 
 244 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 brute ! " and with an oath he plied the whip 
 savagely. The mare darted forward in a 
 fierce gallop. 
 
 ^' Ten thousand times a lie ! " 
 
 And people turned to look at the mad 
 horseman dashing along the London streets 
 at a pace so furious ; and little boys began 
 to think it was a case of run-away horse, 
 and contemplated joining in pursuit ; and 
 the policeman at the corner stopped in his 
 cherry-eating, and violent propulsion of the 
 stones, to discuss with himself whether that 
 was violent driving within the meaning of 
 the Act. 
 
 It was late when Jeffrey took the mare 
 back to the stables, at the back of Glou- 
 cester Terrace. She was trembling all over, 
 with blood-shot eyes, and frothy, and 
 smoking profusely. The groom looked 
 astonished. 
 
 ''Lord, she is warm! Quick, Jim, and 
 bring out the cloths. Good little mare — 
 way, then! How her heart's beating!
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 245 
 
 Had a long run, sir? — or has she been 
 frightened ?" 
 
 " Curse you, hold your tongue ! What 
 the devil is it to you ?" 
 
 And Mr. Jeffrey stalked away wrathfully. 
 A luckless carriage-dog, a handsome spotted 
 favourite, bounded to him as he went out, 
 received a smart cut from his whip for its 
 attention, and retreated howling piteously. 
 
 " A lie ! a lie I" The word was still on his 
 lips. 
 
 *^ Wheugh !" And the groom, staring 
 after his master, indulged in a prolonged 
 and significant whistle. "What's up now, I 
 wonder. Summut's gone wrong, I know. 
 Why, he's half killed the mare. Steady, 
 old lady — poor old gal — come along, then. 
 Poor old Spot, good dog— did he get a 
 licking," &c. 
 
 " I was a fool to go there. What is she 
 to me — what can she ever be to me ? But 
 — a lie ! Why did she lie about him ? 
 It makes me mad. Bah ! what is it after
 
 246 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 all? I'll never go there again." He was 
 growing calmer. " Where did I put the 
 note-of-hand of the old fool her father ?" 
 
 "With her blushes quite gone, and a 
 deathlike paleness in their place, shivering 
 as though from cold, Sylvia stood where 
 Jeffrey had left her, for some minutes 
 speechless and almost motionless — the line 
 of tears still wet down her cheeks, and a 
 strange, dreamy look of amazement and 
 fear in her eyes. Suddenly she started up 
 with an effort, that seemed almost painful, 
 as a somnambulist abruptly breaking into 
 wakefulness. She touched with her hand 
 the place on her forehead where Jeffrey's 
 lips had rested. 
 
 "It is true, then — he loves me — and — 
 Edwin !" 
 
 She tottered towards a chair, nearly 
 faintino; and falling: ere she could reach it. 
 She was silent some minutes, breathing 
 heavily, her hands now pressing her head, 
 now toying with her dishevelled tresses.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 247 
 
 There was suddenly a footstep on the 
 stairs. 
 
 She thrust her hair into something like 
 order, dashed the tears from her face, and 
 was soon in Polly's arms, kissing him with 
 all her might. 
 
 "Why, Syl, my pet, you are pale and 
 shivering ?" 
 
 "Yes, I think — I'm afraid I've caught 
 cold." 
 
 Deception seemed to come very naturally 
 to the young lady. 
 
 " Poor little Syl ! But look, who's come 
 in with me — our gracious liege King 
 Edwin ! Rum-tum-tiddy-i — " 
 
 " Oh, my dear Ned, have you forgotten? 
 When am I to see Miss Aurelia Vane ?'* 
 
 " When you will, Syl, dear." 
 
 And her colour rejoined her again, and 
 she shivered no more ; she forgot her grief, 
 and was soon very happy again — for Edwin 
 was at her side !
 
 248 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. JEFFREY ERLE. 
 
 As we are all aware, there exists a distinction 
 between Philip drunk and Philip sober. 
 And there are other intoxications besides 
 that best known one resulting from liquor. 
 King Claudius is "marvellous distempered " 
 — " with drink ? " inquires Prince Hamlet. 
 "No, my lord, with choler," poor sneaking 
 Mr. Guildenstern answers. And people 
 have been drunk with love. Perhaps 
 Jeffrey's case was of that kind. 
 
 He went to bed very hot, and fierce, and 
 angry; tossed about on his blankets, and 
 struck with clenched fists his pillow, wish- 
 ing that piece of bed furniture were en-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 249 
 
 dowed with human feelings, and could ap- 
 preciate his blows, and wince and cry out 
 under them. For it seems part of the 
 economy of suffering, that the sufferer should 
 pass something of it on to his neighbour, 
 just as children play ^' touch " — victimized 
 ourselves, we run after and make other 
 victims. Upon a good debauch of ill-feel- 
 ing and wrath he went to bed, to awake 
 subdued, and penitent, and ashamed; it 
 may be with headache, for intoxication of 
 all sorts has similar consequences. 
 
 He was sorry that he had lost his self-com- 
 mand, betrayed emotions it had been his 
 study to conceal. He did not like to think 
 that he had been seen in a ruffled state, any 
 more than a cat cares to appear with its fur 
 brushed the wrong way. And he had flung 
 his hand upon the board, and shewn all his 
 cards, unasked — uncourted — needlessly, 
 absurdly — he, a lawyer, led away by his 
 feelings — what business had a lawyer with 
 feelings? How signally unprofessional! What
 
 250 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 could warrant such conduct ? Success per- 
 haps. But had he got that ? And Sylvia, 
 what would she think of him — and would 
 she relate the story to anybody ? To her 
 father ? To Edwin ? A frown, like a thun- 
 dercloud, lowered over his eyes. 
 
 Bah ! Why should he care what she 
 did — what she said— what she thought? A 
 mere girl, whom he had seen a thin, red- 
 headed, unkempt child, but a year or two 
 back — quite plain, and awkward, and stupid 
 — at least, so it seemed to him then. What 
 was she to him ? What could she ever be 
 to him ? Nothing. Certainly she was pretty 
 now — possessed a thousand indescribable 
 charms — drew him towards her by a power 
 that was as unintelUgible as it was irresisti- 
 ble. But still this could never last — a passing 
 fancy, a mere whim — he should soon get the 
 better of, and laugh at, and forget. Love 
 her? — no, of course not — absurd! Hehadn't 
 come to that. Marry her ? What ! Sylvia 
 Foster, the daughter of that vagabond old
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 251 
 
 painter! Marry her ? He, Jeffrey Erie, the 
 eldest son of John Whincop Erie, success- 
 ful lawyer — rising young man — with 
 abilities enough for any position in life ! 
 Preposterous ! 
 
 So he argued ; yet failed to convince 
 himself that his conduct had not been a 
 mistake. 
 
 For the circumstance was particularly 
 annoying to Jeffrey. He had prided him- 
 self on his coldness, his apathy, his self- 
 restraint, and un demon strativeness. And 
 on a sudden all these had fallen from him — 
 the calm flesh had been all stripped off, and 
 the quivering nerves and pulses beneath 
 fully bared and exposed. Sylvia had read 
 his whole feelings at a glance; why, a school- 
 boy would have played his part better. 
 Edwin's quiet inscrutable manner passed 
 him utterly. Fortitude, and strength of will, 
 and temper, had all gone down at a puff, 
 like a card-house ! He had thought them 
 insuperable — it was only until they were
 
 252 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 tested. He felt as a man finding a pin run 
 through the corslet he had deemed bullet- 
 proof. 
 
 He began to think it as well nothing worse 
 had come of hisfailure — thathehad not fallen 
 down even lower still. He was decidedly 
 humbled, and as he had seldom experienced 
 the sensation before, it did him good ; not 
 that he liked it — but, maybe, it is the nastiest 
 physic that is ever the most efficacious. 
 
 It had been unfortunate, perhaps, for 
 Jeffrey, and his reliance on his own infalli- 
 bility, that the foibles of other young men 
 had not been his. Enthusiasm, passion, ex- 
 citability had never lit up the eyes or 
 quickened the heart-beats of Jeffrey Erie ; 
 and as they never had, so he believed they 
 never would. He considered himself by 
 nature removed from the weaknesses of the 
 majority of the men of his age. He saw 
 them succumb, and despised their infirmity ; 
 lauding his own strength — not reckoning 
 that the hour of trial for that had yet to come.
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 253 
 
 So he had little to look back upon in the 
 way of " youthful indiscretions ;" and having 
 sown no wild oats, thanked the stars fer- 
 vently that none of that profitless grain had 
 fallen to his share to sow. Perhaps his 
 thanksgiving was premature. But he had 
 been as proper, and quiet, and reposed at 
 twenty-one as he was at eight-and- twenty. 
 As the phrase is, he had '' gone in for " re- 
 spectability at an early age, and certainly 
 had succeeded in his efforts. He shrunk in- 
 stinctively from the young, or marked, or 
 fantastic in manner or dress. Scorned all 
 attempts at individuality. If you saw Jeffrey 
 Erie you were satisfied at once that regi- 
 ments of similar men were going about 
 London. Not for him the queer shaped hat, 
 or the strangely cut beard, or the oddly 
 patterned waistcoat. You could detect in 
 his staid appearance no peculiarity of 
 character — no crotchet, none of those weak- 
 nesses — so human, and harmless, and amus- 
 ing, and therefore so lovable — which mark
 
 254 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 out for us at once the idiosyncrasy of the 
 man, betray his mind with all its in-and- 
 out turnings, and warpings, and failings. 
 He loathed the eccentric and unusual — wor- 
 shipping the concentric and ordinary ; and 
 dressed nearly always in black — kept his 
 whiskers trimmed, his hair a proper length 
 — carried an umbrella — was altogether a 
 handsome young man — a handsome old 
 young man, with a notion hovering about 
 him that conventionality and respectability 
 had aided at his toilet, and clipped him, and 
 ironed him out, and girt, and buttoned, and 
 brushed him, till the result was so laboriously 
 unlaboured and so studiously unstudied, as 
 to be a little comfortless and depressing. He 
 idolized " the proper " — let us reprehend all 
 idolatry. 
 
 Yet he was no ascetic. Only it was a sine 
 qua non with him, that his amusements should 
 be unmitigatedly respectable — eminently 
 gentlemanly ; and it seemed part of this plan 
 that they should be pursued with little in-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 255 
 
 terest or appetite. He went to balls, but he 
 never danced; he was frequently at the 
 opera, though he knew little of music, and 
 had no taste for it ; he kept excellent horses, 
 but never hunted, and took no interest in 
 the turf; he smoked superb cigars, but not 
 in excess — generally alone, and not regard- 
 ing them in association with the wine-glass, 
 as some do. He did not shun society, if he 
 did not woo it very warmly ; but old Mr. 
 Erie's health was a sufficient reason for there 
 being little social festivity in Gloucester Ter- 
 race. Still, the large connexion entailed upon 
 a member of the old established firm in Lin- 
 coln's Inn was sure to bring in hosts of invi- 
 tations and entrances into society ; and of 
 these — as much, perhaps, from political mo- 
 tives as from any other — JeiFrey constantly 
 availed himself; and he was approved by 
 society — regarded as a safe man, always 
 perfectly en regie — good-looking — well, if 
 plainly, dressed — with pleasantmanners, and 
 thorough information upon current topics ;
 
 256 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 and these, after all, are all that society re- 
 quires of any one. So, many a client wrote 
 Jeffrey's name on his visiting list, and 
 equally for a ball or a dinner, or a wedding, 
 or a funeral, he was an appropriate and wel- 
 come guest ; and he was looked upon as one 
 safely well to do, and not unlikely some day 
 to clinch his good fortune by an excellent 
 match — and generally to succeed and thrive. 
 If, in the course of his calm, equable, 
 even-balanced career, he had experienced no 
 great joy, it is certain he had suffered no 
 disappointment. Perhaps at one time he 
 would have preferred the bar to the lawyer's 
 office ; but the commercial disadvantages of 
 this leaning were so apparent to him, that 
 he voluntarily abandoned the idea — if, in- 
 deed, he had ever seriously entertained it 
 In politics he was Conservative ; but at the 
 best only tepidly interested in political pro- 
 ceedings—making no great display of his 
 opinions. Yet it is probable that he had 
 looked forward to parliament as a goal that
 
 PAUL eoster's daughter. 257 
 
 might some day be within his reach — a not 
 unreasonable notion, after all; for the old 
 Duke of Blankshire had colossal political 
 interest, was an established client of the 
 firm, and decidedly patronized Jeffrey. 
 True, the Duke was a Whig, owning two or 
 three nice little boroughs, mercifully spared 
 to him by the great Reform Bill ; and, 
 though threatened by subsequent little bills, 
 still living, and likely to live. It is the very 
 small insects that are crushed with the most 
 difficulty. And so Jeffrey might, as it were, 
 some day be forced into a seat. His 
 opinions ? Well, he was not a bigot ; was 
 always open to conviction; the thing was 
 not so very immediate, and many occur- 
 rences might tend to change his views; 
 and, after all, the Whigery of to-day is the 
 Conservatism of to-morrow — and the con- 
 verse of the proposition might hold good 
 for once and away. 
 
 He was popular at the club — the " Ado- 
 nis," in St. James's Street, founded in the 
 
 YOL. I. s
 
 258 PAUL fostek's daughtee. 
 
 time of the Regency. Old Mr. Erie had 
 been ever one of its most prominent sup- 
 porters, and in due time had, of course, in- 
 ducted his son to its classic halls. It was 
 rather a fogey club, the Regency buck 
 being, at the period of which I am writing, 
 something battered, and broken, and shakey 
 — his make-up in the morning being a work 
 of time, and not easy to his valet ; curses 
 being flung about freely during its operation, 
 and oaths dispensed with lavish lips, and 
 groans and moans, when boots pinched and 
 girths annoyed, and thrusting arms into 
 sleeves brought on rheumatic agonies. Still 
 the remnant of the old guard smiled between 
 their blackened whiskers, and exhibited ar- 
 tificial teeth cordially, and wagged their 
 wicked old heads in their buckled black 
 satin cravats, and put out chalk-stoned 
 fingers of welcome, and greeted the new 
 member, rattling Jack Erie's son, with 
 almost afi'ection ; for his father had been a 
 credit to their creed — a godless one, at the
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 259 
 
 best of times, I am afraid. Of course 
 afterwards they shook their heads depre- 
 ciatingly, their curly-rimmed, bell-crowned 
 hats shaking also ; (they were rather given 
 to shaking, including elbow-shaking — per- 
 haps palsy had a little to do with it — those 
 purple-faced, debonair old gentlemen ;) and 
 lamented the degeneracy of the age, and 
 scoffed at the young men of the present day 
 — "Muffs and prigs all, sir, to a man, by 
 Gad!" — and boldly stated that old Jack's 
 son was not half the fellow that old Jack 
 had been. Still, he was a link with their 
 old friend, and with old times, and the 
 grand, shameful, glorious, shocking days of 
 their youth ; and a new audience for their 
 stories — of which, be it said, each had a 
 choice budget. All these were as letters 
 of recommendation brought to them by 
 Jeffrey ; and as old Mr. Erie appeared 
 among them but seldom (on every occasion 
 when he did so they whispered among 
 themselves how aged and broken he looked, 
 
 s 2
 
 260 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 forgetting that they were his contemporaries, 
 and not younger for all their dye, and stays, 
 and paddings), so the more they took up 
 with Jeffrey. Now, the old man seemed 
 to be gone from them altogether — his ill- 
 ness had snatched him away ; though, upon 
 a desperate effort, he had gone down once 
 from his bed-room, in a carriage, and played 
 at his beloved whist in the club card-room 
 till nearly three o'clock in the morning, and 
 been seized with a convulsive fit on the day 
 following, by way of recompense. 
 
 Jeffrey, then, was well received and well 
 thought of For he was " concerned " for 
 many persons of distinction, including the 
 great Duke of Blankshire, and was well up 
 in his Debrett; certain of his club din- 
 ners had been remarkably recherche and 
 tasteful, he had a good palate for wine, and 
 was a quotable authority upon many 
 matters. But to return. 
 
 Yes, he was conscious that his behaviour 
 of the preceding evening had been a grie-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 261 
 
 vous error, and for it he despised himself 
 thoroughly. How should he make repara- 
 tion ? Should he hasten to Sylvia, confess 
 his faultj apologise, beg forgiveness, &c. ? 
 But he shrunk from this course — not only 
 that he was too proud for it, but on motives 
 of policy — for he regarded the confession of 
 a fault as a further fault. By it the ori- 
 ginal fault was placed on record, duly filed 
 and chronicled for future reference — could 
 always be brought down and flung in the 
 face of the fool who had confessed. 
 Whereas the fault committed — suppose one 
 lived it down ? — effaced it by future antithe- 
 tical conduct, went on just as though it had 
 never been, coated it over with different 
 behaviour ? One idea is soon supplanted by 
 another, just as an engraved steel plate can 
 be rubbed down and engraved anew. People 
 commence to question then if the thing ever 
 was ; and, judged by the present light, it 
 seems so impossible, they conclude it could 
 never really have been, and that they were
 
 262 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 mistaken, rather than you faulty and out of 
 your usual manner. So JeiFrey argued. 
 
 Sylphide, the sorrel mare, had an easier 
 time of it, and was much petted and ca- 
 ressed ; the ragged urchin for walking her 
 up and down Jowland Street received a 
 fourpenny-piece only ; and Sylvia began to 
 think she had been mistaken, and that it 
 was impossible the calm, quiet, pleasant 
 Jeffrey Erie of to-day was the angry, stern, 
 disappointed suitor of yesterday, pressing 
 her wrist so cruelly. And William, the 
 groom, marvelled, too, at the diiference; 
 and the spotted carriage dog had his head 
 patted in quite a friendly and affectionate 
 manner, and, wagging his tail heartily, poor 
 simpleton, condoned and forgot his previous 
 grievances. Yet it was the same Mr. Jef- 
 frey Erie — only yesterday his temper had 
 mastered him. To-day he had mastered 
 it. 
 
 He had called in Jowland Street pre- 
 cisely at the same time; and, curiously
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 263 
 
 enough, old Paul was again absent, taking 
 his evening stroll, smoking his evening 
 cigar, singing his wonted comic song bur- 
 thens. And Jeffrey could look at Sylvia quite 
 placidly, and discuss, in his pleasant tones, 
 all sorts of indifferent topics — the fires of 
 love burned no longer, at least not in his 
 eyes ; and he was not nervous, didn't twiddle 
 his hat or torture his gloves, or draw ara- 
 besques on the floor with his riding-whip, 
 and the blood did not run riot in his cheeks. 
 No allusion to yesterday. His strange con- 
 duct must have been a dream of Sylvia's. 
 
 " Edwin, I think, is getting on capitally 
 with his law. I know you are interested in 
 his progress, and will be glad to hear so." 
 
 " And his success makes him more satis- 
 fied?" 
 
 ^' He is hardly yet perhaps conscious of 
 his own advance. But I am sure I am not 
 mistaken. It is a study of much interest ; 
 and assoon as he perceives that — as he cannot 
 fail to do, for he is intelligent and clever — "
 
 264 PAUL fostek's daughter. 
 
 ^' Oh, lie has great talent ! " 
 
 ^' I understate the case purposely, Sylvia, 
 I am his brother, it would not look well to 
 be puffing. He is sure in the end to be sa- 
 tisfied with his career. I make no doubt 
 of it. I was giving him some little assis- 
 tance to-day, and was quite amazed at 
 the interest he evinced. Is that a portrait 
 up there, the one in the corner, a man with 
 a beard ? " 
 
 " That's Polly's own portrait, painted by 
 himself twenty years ago nearly." 
 
 " Indeed ! I'd no idea of that." 
 
 " Oh, it was thought to be very like at the 
 time, I believe ; but he was so much thinner, 
 and wore his beard. He shaved when it 
 turned gray." 
 
 " It was painted then about the time of 
 his marriage. Is there a portrait of Mrs. 
 Foster here ? " 
 
 "No. Polly couldn't bear it; he never 
 would have any picture of mamma hung 
 up — it would try him too much, even now."
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 265 
 
 " Has he painted you, Sylvia ? " 
 
 " Oh, scores of times. I'm always sitting 
 to him.'' 
 
 " I shall become a purchaser, mind, when- 
 ever I see a good portrait." 
 
 "No, Jeffrey. You've been too kind 
 already — quite a patron enough; and Tm 
 sure Polly — " 
 
 She stopped and looked down ; she was 
 going to say her father would certainly give 
 him a sketch of her, if he really would like 
 one. But a recollection of yesterday crossed 
 her mind. The pause came a little aAvk- 
 wardly. 
 
 " I passed a shop on my way, and took a 
 a fancy to this ; pray, accept it, Sylvia." 
 
 He took from his pocket a small leather 
 case, opened it, and shewed a thin gold chain 
 for the neck, with a small locket depending, 
 heart-shaped and set with turquoise. A pretty 
 simple trifle of jewellery — ^not very costly, 
 but such a gift as he could make to Sylvia 
 without involving much comment ; such as
 
 263 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 she could accept quite naturally — not as a 
 symbol of love or atonement, but as a pre- 
 sent from a friend. There was no need, no 
 provocation to look upon it in any other 
 light. 
 
 " Oh, how pretty !— how kind! " (It is 
 wonderful how a toy from the jewel-shop 
 makes a woman's eyes sparkle. Is it because 
 they generally sell wedding-rings on the 
 premises ?) 
 
 '' It is nothing, Sylvia. I am glad you 
 like it. I must go, I think. My little mare 
 will get tired of waiting." 
 
 " Oh, please clasp it, Jeffrey, round my 
 neck." 
 
 Innocence is very much more bewitch- 
 ing than coquetry. Quite unaffectedly did 
 she proffer her request. She passed her 
 hand, and with it one end of the chain, under 
 the thick lumps of red-gold hair hiding the 
 back of her neck, and tumbling half-way 
 down her shoulders, and presented the two 
 ends of the chain for Jeffrey to clasp just
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 267 
 
 under her chin. The thin thread of bright 
 gold and the turquoise heart looked pretty- 
 enough on her warm white satin neck. Jef- 
 frey's hands could not help coming in con- 
 tact with that same delicate neck, and the 
 soft chin overhanging it. But he was per- 
 fectly cool and calm — as unaffected as was 
 Sylvia, but perhaps a little more conscious. 
 He was some time effecting the clasp ; and 
 then said good-bye, and trotted off on the 
 sorrel. 
 
 Syl was left alone with the chain round 
 her neck. It was shewn to Polly on his 
 entrance. 
 
 " Is it not pretty ? " 
 
 "Yes, Syl, pretty enough, I daresay. I 
 like a more massive chain myself" 
 
 " For shame, Polly, you should not say 
 such things. It was given me by Jeffrey.'* 
 
 "By Jeffrey, eh? Tooral-looral-li-do. 
 Has he been here to-night, again ? " 
 
 " Yes. He has not been gone more than 
 five minutes."
 
 268 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " He comes much oftener than he used 
 to. Yes; a pretty chain — very kind of him 
 — and he'll be a rich man some day, I've no 
 doubt." And he looked at his daughter 
 and muttered, "I had thought of Edwin — 
 I never suspected Jeffrey. Well, well, we 
 shall see what we shall be." 
 
 Sylvia did not heed him. She was in- 
 specting the locket. 
 
 " I shall put your hair in here, Polly 
 dear, and mamma's. I have a lock in my 
 desk, and — and — Edwin's. May I, Polly?" 
 
 Polly rubbed his chin gloomily. 
 
 ^' And Jeffrey's," he said — " he gave you 
 the locket." 
 
 " I have not got any hair of his." 
 
 " He'll give you some if you ask him." 
 
 "No. I won't put any hair in it then. 
 I won't wear the locket at all. I'll wear the 
 chain without it." 
 
 Polly rubbed his chin again. 
 
 " As you like, Syl. It's not so warm to- 
 night. I think I'll have a half tumbler of
 
 PAUL fostek's daughter. 269 
 
 G., with H. and sugar. And bring me my 
 pipe and the birdVeye." 
 
 Jeffrey was composed, yet thoughtful. 
 
 "You're not well. You're not yourself 
 to-night, Jeffrey," quoth old Mr. Erie. 
 " I've twice asked you if the Duke of Blank- 
 shire called to-day." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Yes, he called. 
 He still wants to mortgage the Pottleford 
 property." 
 
 "Well, well, we'll see about it, won't we, 
 Babette ? And now my gruel — and bed — 
 good night." 
 
 And Jeffrey smoked several cigars in the 
 library, composed, but still thoughtful. 
 
 "To-day has been better," he said; "but 
 still the thing haunts me, and I can't get 
 quit of it."
 
 270 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AT THE PLAY. 
 
 "And so Jeffrey gave you that chain, 
 Syl?" 
 
 " Yes, Ned. Was it not kind ? " 
 
 '' Certainly." 
 
 ^' Don't you like it?" 
 
 ^'I think it very pretty and becoming, 
 and the glittering line shews very well on 
 your fair neck, and sets it off, and is set 
 off by it. But—" 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "It seems strange that Jeffrey should 
 give it you." 
 
 "Why strange?"
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 271 
 
 "Well, I hardly know why. I cannot 
 explain why. Perhaps I envy him giving 
 you that chain. I wish I were rich. I 
 wish I had a heap of money. A pot of 
 sovereigns, as Sep says." 
 
 "What has money got to do with the 
 question ? " 
 
 " I would spend it in diamonds for you, 
 Syl. I would place a tiara on your white 
 brow, and diamonds should peep amongst 
 your hair like stars between sunset-clouds ; 
 and they should cluster about your neck, 
 and on your fair arms. You should be a 
 very queen of diamonds ! How beautiful 
 you would look!" 
 
 " It would be all too grand for me, and 
 I should be afraid to move for fear of drop- 
 ping my jewels, or of being robbed — mur- 
 dered, perhaps, for my diamonds. I don't 
 think I am fitted for such splendour. And 
 how out of keeping with the tiara and the 
 bracelets would be this old merino dress; 
 (I'm going to have a new one though, when
 
 272 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 Polly sells Ms large picture ;) and this studio 
 — wanting whitewash very much — and 
 Polly's canvases and paints and bottles." 
 
 "You are right. You are better without 
 the diamonds. And yet — " 
 
 " I am sure you don't like my chain. Is 
 it bad art ? There! FU take it oiF. I won't 
 wear it if you don't like it." 
 
 "No. I like it very much — put it on 
 again ; I am foolish, that's all. It seemed 
 strange Jeffrey should have given it. I 
 cannot fancv his doino; such thiDo-s — of 
 course, it is most kind of him. But — " 
 
 " You have not done him justice. Con- 
 fess." 
 
 '' No. I am pleased that he has time to 
 think of being kind and considerate to you, 
 Syl, it's only right he should. But it is un- 
 like him ; a little while ago we should have 
 been more surprised. You remember, he 
 hardly ever came then. You hardly knew 
 him, except from hearsay, and what I told 
 you about him ; now he is a constant visi-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter 273 
 
 tor, and talks, and smiles, and gives chains, 
 and is as welcome here as I am. More so, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " Don't be unjust — don't be jealous — no 
 one can ever be so welcome here — no one 
 can ever be loved so much as you are by 
 Polly — and by me, cousin Ned; you who 
 have been always our friend — always good, 
 and kind, and thoughtful — sharing our 
 troubles and happiness — is it likely we 
 should give you up — prefer any one to you? 
 Did not you come here to play at top, and 
 bows and arrows, in the back-yard — when 
 we broke the back-parlour window — and oh, 
 what a fuss there was about it ! Old Mrs. 
 Flintshaw, who was living here then, went 
 nearly mad. And didn't we play marbles on 
 this very floor — and didn't you teach me 
 ' bounce off the line,' and 'eggs in the bush' ? 
 Can I ever forget that we were children toge- 
 ther, and always brother and sister ? And do 
 you think J efirey coming in now — having for- 
 gotten all about me for years, and giving 
 
 VOL. L T
 
 274 PAUL poster's daughter. 
 
 me tliis trumpery cliain — I don't mean that, 
 it's pretty enough, and very kind of him to 
 give it — but do you think this can turn my 
 memory and my heart from you, cousin ? 
 There ! I've made quite a speech — and there 
 are terirs in my eyes, and you've almost 
 made me cry, you wicked boy. Why do 
 you tease me so? — and why are you so 
 cross, and so cruel ? " 
 
 "My dear Syl, pray forgive me— I'm 
 stupid, that's all. Jeffrey shall give you a 
 thousand chains — everybody shall give you 
 millions of diamonds, and I won't say 
 another word. And Jeffrey's quite right to 
 come, and foolish not to have found you 
 out before — and the fault and the loss have 
 both been his ; and I am not jealous of any- 
 thing that adds to your pleasure and amuse- 
 ment. The chain's a little duck — and you're 
 another. And how's uncle Poll? — and 
 how's he getting on with his picture ? " 
 
 Mr. Edwin was quite calm and unembar- 
 rassed again. Almost too quickly for Syl-
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 275 
 
 via, who rather liked his little attack of 
 jealousy, though it had caused her to make 
 a speech, and brought tears into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "What do you think Jeffrey wanted? " 
 she said. '' He asked if Polly had any 
 portrait of me, and that he should like to 
 become a purchaser of one." 
 
 " Jeffrey buying pictures ! — that's some- 
 thing new. Did he give uncle Poll a com- 
 mission, then ? " 
 
 " No ; Polly wasn't in. Besides, he 
 wouldn't like a commission of that sort. 
 It's not a very grand work, you know. 1 
 daresay he'd give Jeffrey a sketch of me if 
 he really wanted one." 
 
 " Pve a good many sketches of you, Syl." 
 
 " Will you give Jeffrey one ? " There 
 was very earnest inquiry in her eyes. Ned 
 paused. 
 
 " Oh, he can ask for what he wants, I sup- 
 pose, like any one else," he said at length. 
 "Besides, what does Jeffrey want with your 
 
 T 2
 
 276 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 portrait? Perliaps it was only to please you 
 he spoke of it." 
 
 " Perhaps so." 
 
 "Or he wanted to do a kindness to 
 Polly, and thought that as good a way as 
 another." 
 
 "Very likely." 
 
 "You see Jeffrey doesn't know much 
 about art, and all pictures are alike to him. 
 He wouldn't see Uncle Poll's distinctions 
 between portraiture and historical painting. 
 Jeffrey's improving," and he laughed. 
 "He's beginning to appreciate you, Syl, 
 and will die an art - connoisseur after 
 all." 
 
 " His jealousy is over for to - day," 
 thought Syl. 
 
 "What o'clock is it, Syl? Where's 
 Uncle Poll ? Shall we go to the Nonpareil ? 
 You want to see Miss Aurelia Vane, don't 
 you ? Will you come to-night ? '^ 
 
 " Yes, I should like it very much." 
 
 " Uncle Poll won't go, I suppose ? "
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 277 
 
 Paul Foster was in the adjoining room, 
 turning over Lempriere's classical dictionary, 
 a favourite source of inspiration with him. 
 He was searching for subjects suitable to 
 historical art treatment. 
 
 " No, most noble Sir Edwin ! Not the 
 modern stage for me. I should like the 
 drama of the ancients, cold and grand and 
 classical. Lots of togas and draperies in 
 massive folds, and the actors in masks. 
 Something like a theatre that was." 
 
 "We're going to see a new farce, 'You 
 mustn't Marry your Grandmother,' " says 
 Ned, lauo-hino; : " I'm afraid it won't be 
 
 f (Do 
 
 very classical." 
 
 " Be oiF with you, jester ! " and Paul 
 waves his arms. 
 
 " Shall we be quite by ourselves, Ned ?" 
 
 "Well, Syl, there's a friend of mine 
 very anxious to be of the party." 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "Mr. Septimus Rook. You remember 
 him, don't you ? "
 
 278 PAUL fostee's daughter. 
 
 '' Oh, yes." 
 
 ^' He would like very much to go. He 
 has not many friends in town. I think it 
 would be a real pleasure to him to be al- 
 lowed to join us. And he has so great an 
 admiration for you, Syl. So we shall be 
 a party of three. Have you any objec- 
 tion?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 " I took for granted, Syl, you would con- 
 sent. He will meet us at the door of the 
 theatre. He was quite looking forward 
 to it this morning, and couldn't get on with 
 a copy of some chancery costs he was mak- 
 ing for thinking of it." 
 
 Sylvia mused within herself of some 
 old saw — somethinoj about two beino^ com- 
 pany, and three not — but said nothing. 
 Poor Mr. Rook had unconsciously damaged 
 his position a good deal, so far as concerned 
 the good graces of Mistress Sylvia, by his 
 persistence in joining the party. He had 
 considered only his own pleasure — did not
 
 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 279 
 
 know very likely that the lady's thoughts 
 were already occupied, and could hardly 
 take in another lodger. 
 
 " At last, then, I shall see the fascinating 
 Miss Aurelia Vane ! " 
 
 And so they made for the T. R. Non- 
 pareil. 
 
 Whether this T. R. Nonpareil exists now 
 — whether it ever did exist — whether it has 
 been pulled down and rebuilt, and having 
 been cramped and confined, comfortless, ill- 
 ventilated, ugly, dirty, and successful, is 
 now restored and rebuilt, convenient, ele- 
 gant, commodious, spacious, and — well, less 
 attractive than of old — whether all this be so 
 or not, matters little. Of the time of which 
 I am writing, let me say that the T. R. Non- 
 pareil was a small dingy place of theatric 
 entertainment in the neighbourhood of the 
 Strand, and a highly popular resort. It 
 was entitled to the epithet of Royal, having 
 been really on one occasion patronised 
 by roj^alty — the Regent had once filled
 
 280 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 
 
 (literally) one of its little side boxes. 
 Where did not tlie Regent go? — what did 
 not the Regent do ? — and the ample sides of 
 the august potentate had been shaken 
 heartily by the mirthful proceedings on the 
 boards of the Nonpareil. For people really 
 laughed at the Nonpareil — they did not 
 snigger, or smile, or chuckle, or nod approval 
 merely — they gave way, they yielded to the 
 irresistible guffaw with gusto, infinitely, 
 loudly. But if it was a laughing theatre, 
 it was a crying one also. It might be called, 
 indeed, a place for the total abandonment of 
 restraint, though the title sounds clumsily. 
 People who had possessed the luxury of 
 feelings, mirthful, or tearful, here might 
 indulge them copiously. It was one of the 
 conditions of the plays produced at the 
 Nonpareil, that they should always oscillate 
 between the intensely laughable and the 
 acutely pathetic. The facial muscles of the 
 audience were continually in exercise. Now 
 were brows puckered and mouths drawn
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 281 
 
 down by sympathy and sorrow — now the 
 lips were laughing in an upturned crescent, 
 and eyes almost disappearing behind cheeks 
 puiFed up with maddest merriment. And 
 the tears which grief had produced mingled 
 with the tears drawn by laughter, so that 
 the spectators had enough to do to dry their 
 eyes and remove the moisture of excite- 
 ment and conflicting emotions beading their 
 brows. It was an exhilirating, stirring, 
 warm, and inconvenient place of public 
 amusement. 
 
 In the centre of the pit Sylvia, with 
 Edwin and Mr. Rook, witnessed the perform- 
 ance at the T. R. Nonpareil. Yes, in the 
 pit — for they did not go with orders, they 
 paid money at the doors, and she was but 
 the daughter of a poor painter, and her 
 companions were simply articled clerks, 
 never perhaps very flush of money, and she 
 did not bemoan her position, or hope that 
 she wouldn't be seen, or fear what any Mrs. 
 Grundy might venture to say about her.
 
 282 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 She who had known poverty pretty inti- 
 mately, who was the daughter of Mr. Paul 
 Foster, was quite aware that cheap amuse- 
 ments only could be bought for her, and 
 accepted her situation quite naturally, and 
 prepared herself for an evening of decided 
 delectation. Edwin was an habitue of pits 
 — a theatrical man, in fact — assuming, as a 
 matter of course, that, if you paid to go, 
 the pit was the right part of the house to 
 occupy. Mr. Rook, T think, entertained 
 doubts. He would probably have preferred 
 to engage at any expense the very best box 
 in the theatre for Sylvia's use. He would 
 have lavished all his possessions in her 
 honour, and regretted her humble, concealed 
 place in the pit. Had she sat up there in 
 the private box the whole theatre could 
 have seen her, and appreciated her loveli- 
 ness, and paid homage to it — and who 
 would have cared for the actors then ? So 
 thought Mr. Rook. But there were com- 
 pensations about the pit. They were
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 283 
 
 packed so closely and cosily together, that 
 they could interchange chat in such a quiet, 
 domestic, intimate sort of way — they could 
 read the same playbill, their heads and 
 hands almost touching. There were de- 
 lights about that, the tremendous publicity 
 of a private box would have rendered im- 
 possible of attainment. 
 
 Mr. Rook had got himself up, as the 
 phrase goes, with great care. He was 
 superbly clean, with his short hair stuck 
 very close to his head, and his brown eyes 
 very bright with happiness. There was a 
 slight jockey flavour about his light scarf 
 and horseshoe pin; but even that was rather 
 pleasant than not — you could see it was emi- 
 nently unafl'ected — and he had a rosebud 
 in his button-hole; if his waistcoat was a 
 little long and groomy, and there were fox- 
 heads on the buttons, still these were slight 
 weaknesses after all, and did not hinder 
 the ensemble from being very pleasant and 
 presentable.
 
 284 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " I say, old fellow !" 
 
 "What is it, Sep?" 
 
 "This is better than the shop — eh? 
 Rather, I should say. I wonder what old 
 Deacon's doing ? This isn't quite the same 
 thing as the interrogatories in Swob v. 
 Bossy. You'll excuse me, Miss Sylvia — 
 that's a chancery suit, that is — Edwin 
 knows all about it." 
 
 "I think they're going to begin," says 
 Sylvia. 
 
 "No, they're only tuning up — they 
 always do that, and make queer noises on 
 their instruments, on purpose to aggravate 
 you, I do believe. They always seem to 
 me to want to put off beginning as much 
 as possible. Do you like the play. Miss 
 Sylvia?" 
 
 "Oh, very much — but I don't go very 
 often." 
 
 " No more do I. You see, the people in 
 my part of the country don't take to the 
 theatres much, they think it is wicked and
 
 PAUL fostee's daughtek. 285 
 
 that — not that ever I could see any harm in 
 it myself — and of course I go now I'm in 
 town, but not very often. We sometimes 
 have some of the London actors down our 
 way — regular London swells, you know ! 
 Let me see, what was it they played last 
 time I was home? Oh, 'Werner,' and 
 the ' Wreck Ashore ' — I don't know which 
 I like best." 
 
 "Edwin 'is fond of the theatre." 
 " Oh, he's an out-and-outer at it, he is — 
 knows all about it — well up to it. Why, 
 I do believe he's been behind the scenes — I 
 never have, of course. I expect, you know, 
 those actresses are all ugly enough 
 without their paint and silk stockings and 
 that. What are they playing, Ned ?" 
 "The overture to 'Fra Diavolo.'" 
 "You see he knows all about it, even to 
 the very tunes. Extraordinary, I call 
 
 itr 
 
 And the play began. 
 
 I have described the sort of performances
 
 286 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 popular at the Nonpareil ; and as the 
 play witnessed by our three friends in the 
 pit was of the stock character, I am spared 
 entering into much detail on the subject. 
 Something, however, I must say. It was a 
 Jacobite story, with a comic barber in it, 
 who made play enough with the hot curling 
 irons and the powder puff, I can tell you. 
 There were rightful heirs and wrongful 
 heirs, and villains in shining boots and kid 
 gloves, and honest men unbrushed as to 
 their boots and hair, and generally shabby- 
 looking, and wronged, and outraged, and 
 indignant, with deep voices and dirty hands ; 
 there were fugitives, and treasonable docu- 
 ments snatched about by different people, 
 and finally rammed into a gun by the comic 
 man and fired off the stage; and soldiers 
 with hats (of the period) ridiculed by the 
 gallery ; and a lady in black velvet who 
 would rush on incessantly with a cry of 
 "Hear me!" a strong chord proceeding 
 from the orchestra the while; and there
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 287 
 
 was — and how certain hazel eyes in the pit 
 read over the line in the bill announcing 
 the fact — 
 
 '•'•Cracl-ed Tom (an idiot hoy) Miss Aurelia Vane!''^ 
 
 A ybung lady in the pit thought the opening 
 scene in the barber's shop certainly funny, 
 particularly the absurd jealousy of the bar- 
 ber's fat wife, but still tiresome ; and even 
 more so the long treasonable conversation 
 between the two noblemen in velvet and 
 lace, with hunting-boots and snufp-boxes, 
 who said, '' Ma foi !" " 'Fore George !" and 
 " Gads my life !" and swaggered so inso- 
 lently that the whole pit was, at that mo- 
 ment, democratic to a man. More talking, 
 and laughing, and fun, and the interest in- 
 creasing. Then a change of scene, a lull, a 
 rural landscape ; a roar of recognition and 
 applause ; a slight figure sits on a stile and 
 cuts at a stick with a clasp-knife ! Bravo ! 
 The figure rises, bows, bows again ; for the 
 applause is very great. Bravo ! It is 
 Cracked Tom — Miss Aurelia Vane ! Sylvia
 
 288 PAUL fostek's daughtee. 
 
 closes the bill now, and looks steadily on 
 the stage. Edwin is also occupied with the 
 scene. Mr. Rook steals glances at the 
 pretty profile of Sylvia, and is yet not in- 
 attentive to the idiot boy. 
 ''Who's that boy, Ned?" 
 " Don't you know ? Miss Vane." 
 " Oh! a woman, is it ! I've seen her face 
 before somewhere, I know." 
 '^Hush!" 
 
 For the idiot boy has commenced a soli- 
 loquy. We need not go very deeply into 
 that. The stage imbecile is something of a 
 stereotype. Gazes blankly, with parted 
 lips ; smiles wanly ; smooths his lank hair 
 (wig) from his forehead ; talks to the birds, 
 to the trees, i.e.^ to the borders and wings ; 
 is conscious of his mental infirmity ; sings 
 snatches of songs. The character is not 
 unfamiliar to the play-goer ; and Miss Vane 
 is celebrated for her idiot boys. She has a 
 low, vibrating voice, with some pathos in 
 its contralto tones. (The contralto, by the
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 2S9 
 
 way, is the most successful stage voice, 
 which has requirements different to the 
 room voice — the latter may be light, and 
 soft, and silvery ; but stronger, coarser, 
 more marked characteristics are demanded 
 for the theatre.) She has large, round, grey 
 eyes, with well-defined eyebrows ; her fea- 
 tures are rather effective than regularly 
 handsome ; her mouth, particularly, is large 
 and full-lipped, but still good in shape. She 
 is small in stature, with slight, delicately- 
 turned limbs ; her foot and hand are sin- 
 gularly well formed ; and she is conscious 
 of her advantages, and turns them to good 
 account in her acting. Her attitudes are 
 careful and good — stagey, of course, but 
 still elegant. Her gestures may be a little 
 redundant, but they are full of grace. She 
 is proud of her figure, too, be it said, and. 
 generally dresses to display it. The costume 
 of the idiot boy forms no exception to this 
 rule. But the male costume adapts itself 
 readily, and gracefully, and naturally, to 
 VOL L U
 
 290 PAUL Foster's daughtek. 
 
 her slight, light, supple frame. She is not 
 of those swelling, curvilineal figures — those 
 amply robust and drifting to embonpoint 
 ladies, who, in spite of their own predi- 
 lections, are so remarkably uncomfortable to 
 look at in a clinging garb, and for whom 
 crinoline was at once a screen and an orna- 
 ment. 
 
 " Do you like her, Syl ?" 
 
 " Yes ; very much." The answer was 
 whispered very softly. 
 
 " Is she not beautiful?" 
 
 "Hush!" 
 
 Some one on the stage has spoken the 
 word " blood !" a favourite one in melo- 
 drama. Mark how the idiot has writhed 
 and winced, and thrilled as he heard it ; 
 and he covers his face with his thin, white 
 hands — (they were a little too nervous, per- 
 haps, for abstract beauty, but full of expres- 
 sion — so thought Ned) — and, shuddering, 
 repeats the terrible word in agonized tones : 
 * ^ Yes — ah ! 1 remember — the dark night —
 
 PAUL poster's daughtee. 291 
 
 the man in the mask — the uplifted knife, 
 the blade glittering in the moonlight — a 
 shriek of anguish — a cry for mercy — ha ! 
 ha ! Mercy from a fiend ! The blow falls ! 
 and then — and then. — No ! all is blank ! 
 blank ! blank ! I remember no more ! 
 Horrible ! Horrible ! Poor Tom's mad, 
 you know ! mad — quite mad !" Staccato 
 music in the orchestra — ghost music, I think, 
 the leader of the band calls it — and a roar 
 of applause from the pit, who begin to ap- 
 preciate the mystery of the story. You see, 
 the idiot, when a child, was present when 
 the murder was committed by the man in 
 the shining boots. That's what it is. That's 
 what's turned his brain. Bless you ! I'm 
 certain of it. Of course, the agonies of this 
 scene are speedily effaced by the humours 
 of the next, in which the comic barber, the 
 supposed possessor of treasonable secrets, is 
 pursued across the stage by the soldiers, in 
 the hats of the period, and is pricked with 
 bayonets for not disclosing what he knows 
 
 u2
 
 292 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 nothing whatever about. And then comes 
 the close of the act, and a lapse of five 
 years, and the exit of Mr. Rook for refresh- 
 ment, and a general wiping of faces amongst 
 the audience — for the theatre is full and 
 warm, the performance going off with eclat 
 in consequence. Sylvia praises Miss Vane 
 warmly. Ned delights to descant to her 
 upon the peculiar excellences of the actress. 
 He is heard patiently, even interestedly. 
 Mr. Rook returns, with a refreshing scent 
 of half-and-half lingering about him, and a 
 packet of acidulated drops ; he deals out 
 that delicacy to Sylvia and Ned ; and the 
 curtain rises on the celebrated snow scene ; 
 moon-light, and real paper sprinkling down 
 from the flies. Cries of " Oh ! oh ! 'ow 
 beautiful !" and continued applause ; and 
 the idiot boy is on the ground, weak, ex- 
 hausted, in rags, persecuted by the atrocious 
 nobleman in the shining boots. How plain- 
 tively does Miss Vane enact the part ! How 
 she shivers with the pitiless cold ; how pale
 
 PAUL FOSTER S DAUGHTER. 293 
 
 she looks ; how she draws her rags together 
 and shakes off the snow (paper) from her 
 hat and shoulders ! Much sobbing in the 
 pit. Quite a garland of tears on Sylvia's 
 lovely long eye-lashes. Ned stares on to 
 the stage with parched, strained eyes ; Mr. 
 Rook busy with his acidulated drops. Then 
 the boy sings a fragment of an idiot song, 
 and sinks down, exhausted with fatigue and 
 hunger, to die in the moonlight and the 
 snow on the stage. Accidental entrance of 
 the lady in the black velvet. Discovery ! 
 " Ah ! Merciful heavens! — can it be? — is it 
 possible ? Yes ! — No ! — It is ! " The idiot 
 boy is her long-lost son ! " Mother ! dear 
 mother !" He returns to reason. Denun- 
 ciation of shiny boots, who is walked off to 
 execution by the soldiery. Glorious denoil- 
 mentf Happiness of the comic barber, and 
 perfect satisfaction of the pit, who call 
 lustily for Miss Vane, to. receive a special 
 vote of thanks. 
 
 And now, no more tears for to-night — the 
 new farce is going to begin.
 
 294 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 "You see that man up there, with the 
 black moustache — next to the bald man 
 with the opera-glass — that's the critic of the 
 Morning Thunder^ come to review the new 
 piece ; the man with the whiskers is Fipps, 
 of the Weekly Twaddler:' 
 
 " I declare Ned knows every one in the 
 theatre. It's quite wonderful, I declare !" 
 
 And the farce of "You musn't Marry 
 your Grandmother " begins, and is a good 
 deal like a good many other farces. And 
 the comic man, a linendraper's assistant out 
 for the day, sits down accidentally on a 
 bonnet-box, and there is great mirth ; and 
 Miss Vane plays a milliner's girl, his sweet- 
 heart, in a pink-silk dress, and an irresistible 
 chip bonnet, and bronze boots ; and she 
 sings a comic duet with the comic man, 
 with a comic dance between the verses ; and 
 altogether the farce is a great hit, and is 
 afterwards designated in the play-bills a 
 " Genuine Nonpareil Screamer !" 
 
 Our friends are leaving the theatre —
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 295 
 
 warm, tired a little, but x>leasecl. In the 
 lobby a large friendly hand presses Ned 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 " Traitor!" says a stalwart gentleman with 
 an orange beard. 
 
 ^'Why, Goliah!" 
 
 ''David!" 
 
 " I'm so glad to see you ! " 
 
 "That sounds honest, and the colour on 
 your cheeks, and the light in your eyes, 
 must be honest too. I think you are glad 
 to see me. But oh, son of Jesse, why have 
 you shunned St. Dunstan's Inn ? " 
 
 " I had not forgotten — I shall not for- 
 get" 
 
 ^' All right, I'm sure of it." They were 
 shaking hands cordially. 
 
 "Did you like the play?" 
 
 " I think Miss Vane played exquisitely ! 
 Do not you, Goliah ? " 
 
 " Oh, David — ^you love the theatre ! I 
 remember — and Miss Vane — Is it not so ? 
 And the smiles of Aurelia are bought with
 
 296 TAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 the key of tlie street. Oh, if she did but 
 know ! " 
 
 " Stuff ! " (But Ned was certainly blush- 
 ing.) ''Let me introduce you. Mr. Dax — 
 Miss Sylvia Foster, my cousin." 
 
 ^' The daughter of Paul Foster ! " and 
 Mr. Dax bowed courteously, and gazes with 
 much interest — or is it admiration ? — at the 
 fair face of Sylvda, who lowers her eyes, 
 smilingly wondering at Ned's friend perhaps, 
 yet quite prepared to receive him cordially 
 with such a recommendation. Mr. Rook 
 drops behind, eyeing Mr. Dax antagonisti- 
 cally. " Who is he ? What does he want ? 
 Is he going to make up to her ? Let me 
 catch him — that's all ! What a great ugly 
 beard ! " and Septimus strokes his own smooth 
 chin. " He's double my weight ; but there's 
 a good deal of fat about him — he'd find 
 that in his way ; he's decidedly out of con- 
 dition." He eyes him butcherly, fighting- 
 manly. " I think science would tell against 
 weight in tackling him; " and Mr. Rook
 
 PAUL poster's daughter. 297 
 
 falls into a reverie, as to where the money 
 should be lodged, preliminaries arranged, 
 and the fight come off. 
 
 " And did you like Miss Vane too? " Mr. 
 Dax inquires of Sylvia ; it might be prob- 
 ingly, but if so it was under a stout, well- 
 mannered, good-natured veil. 
 
 " Yerv much indeed — I had never seen 
 her before. I can understand Ned's admi- 
 ration now." 
 
 '•'■ She affected you." 
 
 '' I was foolish enough to cry — but indeed 
 I could not help it. Her voice is so plain- 
 tive ! " 
 
 " I saw it moved you." 
 
 '^ Could you see us, Goliah ? " 
 
 " Yes. I was upstairs in the boxes. Don't 
 be alarmed, Miss Sylvia. I'm not a swell. 
 I came with an order, to do a notice of the 
 new farce for the Daily Bellman. ^^ 
 
 A small neat man, with twinkling eyes 
 and a fierce moustache, stood at Mr. Dax's 
 elbow.
 
 298 TAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 "Let me introduce my friend Mr. Deverell. 
 Tom Deverell, or simply, Tom, is the name 
 he generally answers to." 
 
 "Did you like the farce?" inquires 
 Mr. Deverell. " Great bosh, wasn't it?" 
 
 " Well, I think it was," says Ned. 
 
 " I ought to know, for I wrote it! " They 
 all laughed at this. 
 
 " I wonder sometimes at my own auda- 
 city. I thought once — something of a joke 
 was being uttered by the funny man — I 
 thought the pit would have pelted me with 
 orange-peel. I unbuttoned my umbrella, 
 to be ready for the storm. Fortunately it 
 didn't come.'' 
 
 He had a sharp, bright voice, and an 
 eccentric manner, decidedly amvising. 
 
 "But Miss Sylvia laughed a good deal," 
 said Newton Dax. 
 
 "Yes," said Ned, entering into the spirit 
 of Tom Deverell's humour, " at the dance ^ 
 
 "Thank you. I brought down Dax to 
 cut it up; but he's like all the theatrical
 
 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 299 
 
 critics — praises in a loud voice, condemns in 
 a whisper; he's in favour of public thanks- 
 givings, and private executions. They'll 
 all meet presently at an adjoining chop- 
 house, ao^ree that it's horrid bad — and then 
 write articles for the newspapers, calling it 
 an ' admirable farce.' I should like to write 
 a slashing notice of it my self — only, perhaps, 
 it isn't fair to review one's own works. But 
 we're keeping you." 
 
 " Good night.'' 
 
 "And you'll come and see me, David?" 
 
 " I will indeed, Goliah." 
 
 " They're a queer lot are literary men," re- 
 marks Septimus ; " I never can quite make 
 them out ; and their jokes are all Greek to 
 me. That little fellow must be a humbug, 
 abusing his own farce, you know. Don't 
 you think so, Miss Sylvia? I'm sure it 
 was a very good farce. I know I laughed 
 at it ever so — and wasn't the dance first- 
 rate?" 
 
 ''^ La petite has stunning eyes!" and Mr.
 
 300 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 Deverell lights a long cigar ; " and — I think 
 — for one can't be positive about a woman — 
 loves le petit. Who is he, Newton ? " 
 
 " A trump," explained Mr Dax. 
 
 "So I should think;" and Mr. Deverell 
 looked as though he had received all the in- 
 formation possible on the subject. 
 
 "And loves the Vane." 
 
 "By Jove!" and Mr. Deverell stares 
 amazedly, and puffs violently at his cigar, 
 his eyes twinkling through the smoke like 
 stars through a mist. " Smoke, Newton, my 
 son ; " and he proffers his case. 
 
 ^'Goodnight, Sep." 
 
 " Good night." 
 
 "Have you enjoyed yourself ? Did you 
 like the evening?" 
 
 "Yes. Very much — pretty well — no — I 
 don't know. Ned, I'm deuced miserable ! " 
 
 " Why, what's the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing. I wish I'd never come up to 
 London. I wish — I — and yet — no, I don't
 
 PAUL FOSTERS DAUGHTER. 301 
 
 either. I "never was so bowled over as I am 
 this time." 
 
 ''How's that ?^' 
 
 " Don't ask me. It's rather horrid to 
 find yourself nowhere in the race you're 
 trying all you know, straining every muscle 
 to win ; and another fellow who don't care 
 about it, who'd as lief lose as not — against 
 his will almost — because he can't help it — 
 makinp; all the runnino; and winnino: the 
 prize. It's hard upon a chap, you know." 
 '' What do you mean, Sep?" 
 "I'll tell you another time, not now." 
 "Have I — has any one offended you?" 
 "Xo — not you. Good-bye, old man. I 
 shall be better presently I daresay," and 
 he ran off — Ned gazing, puzzled, at his 
 retreating iio;ure. 
 
 "Where are his eyes?" quoth Septimus. 
 " Loving that acting woman, and she at his 
 side ! It's horrid ! I should like to fight 
 some one. If that policeman says a word 
 to me, by George — I'll hit him I "
 
 302 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SYLVIA BY NIGHT. 
 
 It is quite settled that a man is no hero to 
 his valet de cliamhre. I suppose we may also 
 accept as an axiom, that a woman is no 
 heroine in the eyes of her lady's-maid. The 
 notion being that intimacy is incompatible 
 with the heroics ; that a knowledge of 
 the smallnesses of life sap one's reverence 
 for its greatness. And it is really difficult to 
 conceive that a number of little atoms can 
 be put together and compose a handsome 
 entirety. Yet the idea is not altogether 
 unquestionable, and came perhaps of the 
 school which, because it neglected detail in
 
 PAUL rOSTER^S DxVUGHTER. 303 
 
 painting, deemed it was producing epic 
 pictures. For my own part, I think a man 
 may be a hero, and yet have his boots 
 pulled off, and his chin shaved, and his 
 coat put on, and his night-cap handed him, 
 and now and then, on occasions of state, 
 even his hair curled by another. And so T 
 am going to be so indiscreet as to exhibit 
 my heroine en deshabille. 
 
 She is in the long, white Prse-Raphaelite 
 costume of night and bed ; and her naked 
 little feet, white with a pink edging, shine 
 by contrast with the dull worn red of the 
 carpet. There is not much light in the 
 room, only a tallow candle in a battered tin 
 chamber candlestick, pie-bald from the 
 wearing off of the japan, with a fine top as 
 large as a fourpenny piece grown on to the 
 wick, from want of snuffing ; so the flame 
 burns dimly, and, with the aid of its reflec- 
 tion in the small two-feet square looking- 
 glass, emits no great radiance. And the 
 distinction which ladies persist in drawing
 
 304 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 between their front and back hair is quite 
 merged and lost, and a cloak of taAvny 
 tresses flows down Sylvia's neck and back, 
 reaching within a foot of the floor, and all 
 stray locks are thrust back from her face, 
 and caught and clasped behind her delicate 
 little ears. The looking-glass is on the top 
 of a chest of drawers, and here she leans her 
 elbows, her hands supporting her head, and 
 her wrists meeting under her chin, and, 
 very beautiful, very serious, very contem- 
 plative, she gazes at herself in the glass. 
 
 Gazes protractedly, earnestly, critically, 
 until tears start out and dim her lovely 
 eyes, and she can see no longer, and her 
 lips part company and tremble, and there is 
 a pained look upon her brow. Then she 
 turns away from the mirror, and bends 
 down her head, covering her face wdth her 
 hands, and the cloak of hair seizes the op- 
 portunity, and leaps over her shoulders, and 
 runs down her neck and bosom like a golden 
 flood. And if you longed for a sketch of
 
 PAUL POSTERNS DAUGHTER. 305 
 
 ,her as she pored over her own image in 
 the glass, so you would long ever so much 
 the more for the representation of her 
 bending, sobbing, and tearful, half-shrouded 
 by her glorious hair. 
 
 Soon she looked out from behind the red 
 gold cloud. 
 
 " He loves her, then, and he will care for 
 me no more ! " 
 
 It pained her dreadfully that thought, 
 you could see. She rocked and throbbed 
 under it. 
 
 "And why should he not love her ? 
 How beautiful she is ! Yes, she is, I cannot 
 deny it — she is beautiful ! What am I to 
 her ? I am ugly — I know it — I never 
 thought of it before — I never cared about 
 it before — never knew what I was like; 
 but I know now. I am little, much shorter 
 than she is, mean-looking, and insignificant 
 altogether. And how clever she is — and 
 what a voice she has — and how she governs 
 one, even against one's will ! I determined 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 I would not be moved, that I would not 
 cry; still I could not help it. She spoke, 
 and her voice shook, and faltered, and 
 tlirilled — and the tears would come, and my 
 heart would ache, and, yes — I could have 
 taken her in my arms, and kissed her then, 
 though the moment before I hated her with 
 all my soul, and would have bitten her 
 rather ; and I hate her now, I do — I do ! 
 Because she is beautiful, and clever, and — 
 because he loves her ! " 
 
 She broke down here again. The candle 
 was beginning to sink and flicker, and the 
 large shadow of Sylvia flung by it upon the 
 wall and ceiling moved waywardly about, 
 as though she were dancing. She was 
 again at the glass. Perhaps the conviction 
 forced itself upon her that, after all, she 
 was not so terribly ugly, for she calmed a 
 little. 
 
 " I am sorry I went to see her. It was 
 better not knowing all. I did not think 
 she was so good — did not think there was
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 307 
 
 such ground for his loving her. I thought 
 it a fancy — such as an artist might fairly 
 have, and yet give up and forget. It is 
 more than that. I know it, I feel it — to 
 my sorrow. Why will he not love me ? 
 Others can — why not he ?" (And she 
 blushed.) " Jeffrey — well, yes, and perhaps" 
 (and she smiled through her tears) "Mr. 
 Rook. And there are women who like ad- 
 miration from all, from any — who care to 
 be loved by no matter whom. It is good, 
 is it, to have two strings to one's bow ? 
 Bah ! I would give up everything, every- 
 thing — Jeffrey, and his love, and his smiles, 
 and position, and wealth, and — and the 
 other, too, for one kind look from Edwin's 
 eyes I It can never be now — never, never ! 
 Oh ! there will never be in his heart for me 
 what there is now in mine for him ! I love 
 him, but he will never love me ! I shall go 
 mad!" 
 
 She tossed herself on to the narrow little 
 bedstead in a corner of the room — a modest, 
 
 x2
 
 308 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 simple, iron-framed couch, with no carving, 
 or drapery, or gimp, or curtains about it. 
 The candle gave a very intermittent and 
 ghostly sort of light now, and she crushed 
 her face deep into the pillow and cried 
 genuinely — not mere handkerchief, drawing- 
 room woe : a rather dry, if elegant, business, 
 it must be owned, and not very touching — 
 but honest, downright crying, with plentiful 
 tears and noisy sobs, " as though her heart 
 would break :" that is the popular phrase 
 for Sylvia's grief, and it is a very good, 
 sound, and expressive one. 
 
 Soon she was on her feet again. 
 
 "No, no, no!" she cried passionately, 
 and waving her white arms in the air; 
 " Not if she lived a thousand years. She 
 couldn't — she could not I know it — I 
 know it ! I am sure of it — I feel it ; and 
 so — so — she is not worthy of him ! She can 
 never be worthy of him ! She does not love 
 him as 1 love him ! No, no^ no ! She would 
 not go through fire for him, as I would;
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 309 
 
 she would not bear all for him, as I would ; 
 she would not die for him, as I would — 
 now, this instant ! — any instant ! Ah ! I 
 beat her there ! I am above her far !" 
 
 There was a tapping at the door. Soon 
 Sylvia was enveloped in a cloud of muslin 
 robe de chambre. She went to the door. 
 Paul stood there, with a night-cap on, and 
 clothed in the shabby dressing-gown. He 
 bore a candle in his hand. 
 
 " Why, Syl, my darling, not yet in bed ? 
 I saw the light was still burning. Why, 
 what's the matter ? You're not ill ?" 
 
 " No, Polly dear ; no, not ill — only — 
 only I have been thinking, and — " 
 
 " Over the play, I suppose ? Well, well, 
 it's excusable. You don't go very often. 
 But it's very late, my pet; you ought to 
 have been asleep ages ago." 
 
 " I was just getting into bed. Oh, Polly, 
 dear !" 
 
 "What is it, Syl?"
 
 310 PAUL Foster's daughter. 
 
 " Kiss me, dear — that's all. And you love 
 me, Polly — don't you ?" 
 
 " Of course I do, my dear." 
 
 " And you'll always love me ? — won't you 
 — always^ mind?" 
 
 " Of course I will, Syl, darling." 
 
 " For ever and ever. Thank you, Polly. 
 Kiss me again." 
 
 " Good night, dear." 
 
 " Good night, dearest father." 
 
 And Sylvia's candle expired as Polly 
 withdrew. 
 
 She crept into her little bed, first coiling 
 up her hair in some ingenious way known 
 only to herself. 
 
 And more reposed, with still some traces 
 of tears about her eye-lashes, and tired and 
 exhausted by her own passionate efforts, 
 she drifted gradually into a beautiful sleep. 
 
 Polly departed into his own room. 
 
 "Excitable," he said, "like her mother. 
 Desiree was always much moved at the
 
 PAUL Foster's daughter. 311 
 
 play. Poor Desiree," and he sighed, taken 
 back by his thoughts some years. 
 
 Then he opened the window, and looked 
 at the moon — sentimentally at first, and 
 then practically. 
 
 " I should paint it with thick flake white, 
 and a warm glaze. Antwerp blue, and 
 black, and perhaps a very little ultra-marine, 
 would give the sky well." 
 
 And soon he bundled into bed, and slept 
 — snoring. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 R. BORN, PRINTER, GLOUCESTER STREET, REGENT S PARK.