L I B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVERSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 Sh3lp 
 
 V.I
 
 Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/prinklehisfriend01shea
 
 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 P R I N K L E 
 
 AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 |L ptel. 
 
 BY JAMES SHEARAR. 
 
 ' For every worm beneath the moon 
 Draws different threads, and late and soon 
 Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.'— Ts:>">'T30N. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 
 
 1877. 
 
 iAll RigJits reservi-I.'}
 
 JOltN CHILDS AKD SON, PBINTERS.
 
 r.l 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL I. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. THE OLD CUESE COMES BACK TO HEE 
 
 DOOE 
 
 II. EOE BIDS FAEEWELL TO TEWTON" 
 
 III. THE CITY 
 
 IT. A LIGHT IN A DAEK PLACE 
 
 T. KO HOME ! 
 
 VI. KEW FACES 
 
 YII. ALONE IN THE STEEETS 
 
 VIII. THE LEVITE AND THE SAMAEITAN ... 
 
 IX. THE OLD JEW AND HIS VICTIM 
 
 X. A SCENE IN COUET 
 
 XI. HE IS A WISE SON WHO KNOWS HIS 
 OWN FATHEE 
 
 XIT. MTSTEEY AND MISEEY 
 
 XIII. THAT FACE WHICH ^YAS SO BEAUTIFUL 
 
 XIV. ME PEINKLE DEEAMS A DEEAM 
 
 XV. THAT OTHEE FACE WHICH WAS NOT 
 HALF SO BEAUTIFUL, BUT SO LIKE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 14 
 22 
 42 
 55 
 68 
 84 
 98 
 114 
 126 
 
 14a 
 164 
 175 
 
 187 
 
 205
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 XVI. PHCEBTJS COURT 219 
 
 XVII. ah! lizzie 234 
 
 XVIII. MAUD CLAYTON ... ... ... 243 
 
 XIX. MRS CLAYTON IS PEEVAILED UPON TO 
 
 WEITE 253 
 
 XX. MR PEINKLE REPLIES 257 
 
 XXI. UNDER THE CLOUD 277 
 
 XXII. DISAPPOINTMENT 294
 
 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE OLD CURSE COMES BACK TO HER DOOR. 
 
 You may try to forget it, but no ! 
 
 It will rankle and fester and pain ; ' 
 In your sleep you may reck not of woe, 
 
 But you'll wake up to sorrow again. 
 
 You may drive it away for long years, 
 And believe 'twill return nevermore, 
 
 But in spite of your boping and prayers. 
 The old curse shall come back to youi- door. 
 
 Katherine Trail resided in the sleepy little 
 village of Tewton, in Kent. She was tall, straight 
 as a reed, and possessed of a pair of dark eyes — 
 usually dull, but brightening up at times in a start- 
 lino; way. Handsome she was, but not eno^affino- 
 for the unnatural rigour, of her whole deportment 
 marked her out as a woman with a secret which 
 she meant to keep. Anybody knows what a pre- 
 carious business it is to venture on the exact age of 
 a woman ; but in this history all data are given 
 as the result of close, and oftentimes painful, in- 
 quiry ; and, while the arrangement of the inci- 
 dents is necessarily arbitrary, the facts are facts, 
 neither capricious nor conjectural.
 
 Z PPJXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 At the time of wliich. we write, Katherine Trail 
 had entered upon her thirty"- seventh year. Ten 
 years previous to this she came to Tewton with 
 a boy three years old, and although she had never 
 been away from the village for a day, she was with- 
 out a single acquaintance in the place. 
 
 Of course, being a recluse, many conjectures 
 were made among the villagers as to what her his- 
 tory had been. There were those who said that 
 she had run away from her husband, and there 
 were others who confidently affirmed that she 
 never had one ; while there were older heads who 
 hinted about things, horrible and preposterous, 
 which would have caused her to be shunned by all 
 respectable people. Katherine saved her neigh- 
 bours this disagreeable duty, had they been so in- 
 clined, for she entered into none of their gossip, 
 asked no questions, and answered none. In the 
 village, she was not of it ; and the small cottage 
 at the end of Tevv^ton, in which she resided with 
 the bo}", had almost as little part in its social 
 economy as if it had been a hundred miles 
 away. 
 
 Eobert Trevor, the child to whom we have re- 
 ferred, was now a bright- ej^ed boy of thirteen ; 
 and on account of his peculiar circumstances, liv- 
 ing apart from the companionship of boj^s like 
 himself, and growing up under the immediate ad- 
 vice of such an one as Katherine, he was a strange 
 mixture of old ideas and crude experience. Bob, 
 as he was called^ had never joined with the other
 
 THE OLD CUESE COPIES BACK TO HER DOOR. 6 
 
 cliildren of Tewton in their sports ; and, conse- 
 quently, lie was ej^ed by them and their parents 
 with a curiosity, partly jealous, and partly suspi- 
 cious. The smaller children regarded him with a 
 sort of awe, and if he happened to approach while 
 they were playing, the}^ would crowd together like 
 a flock of sheep in view of the enemy, and wait 
 quietly till he passed. Bob had no particular 
 wish to live apart from those children, nor did 
 Katherine enjoin it ; but seeing that he was re- 
 garded by them with dread, he had no desire to 
 make himself known,, and so destroy that import- 
 ance with which the deference of ignorant children 
 had clothed him. 
 
 For a while after the advent of Katherine to 
 Tewton, the relationship existing between her and 
 the boy was^ to the neighbours, another matter of 
 conjecture. Many said that they were mother and 
 son ; many, aunt and nephew ; but a few made bold 
 to suggest that there might be no relationship at 
 all, and that the child^ being heir to some unknown 
 estate, had been abducted at the instance of some 
 treacherous uncle whom he had displaced. One 
 day, however, Katherine spoke of him to the 
 grocer as her nephew^ and the news spread like 
 wildfire through the little place. This put many 
 suspicions to sleep ; but still there were a few an- 
 cient spinsters, conscious of their own unimpeach- 
 able integritj^, who virtuously screwed their spines 
 and hinted darkly that ' Miss Katherine Trail 
 mightn't be the child's aunt after all ; more won-
 
 PRINKLE AXD HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 derful things liad liappened since the world began,, 
 not mentioning names ! ' 
 
 During all the time they had resided in Tew- 
 ton there was only one visitor who ever came to 
 the little cottage, and that was a Mr Charles 
 Woodrow from London. Once a month he gener- 
 ally came, and 'Bob eagerly looked forward to his 
 visit, for the gentleman was kind, and bronght 
 many presents from the big city in the distance^ 
 Bob noticed, too, that his aunt wearied for his com- 
 ing, and it gave his simple childish heart much 
 pleasure to think that, even although she seemed 
 to shut herself out from the social enjoyments of 
 the worldj there was yet one, on the outside of 
 their little circle, who could bring the light of 
 love to her eye and the smile of afiection to her 
 cheek. Durins: the few hours he remained with 
 them, and even for daj^s after his \'isit, the influ- 
 ence of Mr Woodrow was instinctively observed by 
 Bob in the increased liveliness of his aunt^s dis- 
 position and the calm contentment with which 
 his visit seemed to inspire her. 
 
 It must not be thought that Bob was a dull or 
 dejected boy, that the narrowness of their social 
 circle had made him gloomy or morose^ for he was 
 happy and sprightly as any lad in Kent. After the 
 hours devoted to stud}^ with his aunt were over^ he 
 usually experienced a great sense of relief, and 
 would betake himself across the field, to a house that 
 stood on the outskirts of the wood, in which there 
 lived a widow lady and her little orphan niece.
 
 THE OLD CUESE CO]iiES BACK TO HER DOOE. O 
 
 Mrs Clayton, the widow, althougli she lived in a 
 quiet way, was understood by the villagers to be rich; 
 indeed, her fortune was set down by the rustics 
 at a fabulous figure, for she was always readj^ to 
 assist the distressed with her kindly sympathy and 
 a generous hand. Maud Clayton, her niece, was 
 a charming little bright- eyed creature, happy as a 
 summer's day, frank and outspoken, warm, and 
 ready to love. Her father had been but a poor 
 country curate ; and while she was yet a baby, he 
 had brought home a fever caught in his pastoral 
 vocation, and before it left their home again Maud 
 was nestlino; in her aunt's bosom, a fatherless and 
 motherless bairn. Mrs Clayton continually kept 
 the memory of the parents fresh in the child's 
 mind, pictured to her what their homely life had 
 been, told her of their trials and their penury, how 
 that her father was brave and generous, so that 
 Maud, when she was only five years of age, looked 
 up in Mrs Clayton's eyes, while the bright tears 
 filled her own, and said, ' Auntie ! I am glad that 
 papa died so well I ' 
 
 Many a time did Katherine Trail stand at her 
 bed-room window in the back of the cottage, watch- 
 ing the sports of her little boy and Maud ; but who 
 can tell what were her feelings at such a time ? for, 
 God knows ! the gambols of these innocent romps 
 formed contrast enough to the darkness of her 
 heart within ! 
 
 Bob's frank disposition had won for him the 
 love cf Mrs Clayton, and she had frequently asked
 
 O PPJXKLE AND HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 him in to drink tea with. Iter niece, for the cliilclren 
 were fond of each other, and Maud rejoiced when 
 he called her his little sister. Once or twice Bob 
 had touched a deeper chord in her heart, child 
 though she was, when, in a playful way, he had 
 called her his little wife. But the fairest scenes 
 chanf^e first. 
 
 One autumn afternoon Bob sat in the little bay- 
 window with his aunt, repeating his task for the 
 day, when, just as he was finishing, a dark form 
 stumbled against the garden- gate and burst it open. 
 
 'Halloa! ' he cried, jumping up in astonishment. 
 ' There's a man, but it is not Mr Woodrow ! ' 
 
 The moment that Katherine recognized the 
 form, she turned deadly pale, caught Bob by the 
 arm, and tore him from the window ; then rushed 
 and locked the outer door. Returning as quickly, 
 she hurried her nephew from the room and shut 
 him up in a closet, firmly, but with an agitated 
 Toice, demanding that he should not stir till she 
 came for him again. Bob was at a loss to compre- 
 hend the meaning of all this, but he knew his aunt 
 too well to disobey her, so ho composed himself to 
 wait her return among the old dresses, band-boxes, 
 et cetera, with which the closet was crammed. 
 
 "When Katherine had, as she thought, safel}^ 
 secured the boy^ she returned and opened to the 
 stranger, who was already thundering at the door. 
 On seeing her he leered at her out of his sunken 
 eyes, stumbled past her — for he was drunk, — and 
 tripped on the door-mat as he entered the room.
 
 THE OLD CUESE COjIES BACK TO EER DOOR. / 
 
 Katherine saved hiiu from falling : as it was_, it 
 only jolted an execration from liis lips with regard 
 to door-mats in general. 
 
 Although he was only some thirty- eight years 
 of age, his black hair was already becoming grizzly 
 and his full round face, beardless and whiskerless, 
 was marked with the blotches of dissipation, and 
 his heavy upper-lip was cut and bleeding. He was 
 attired in a seedy black surtout, a greasy hat nod- 
 ded precariously on his brow, and^ instead of a col- 
 lar, he wore a black silk muffler that had once been 
 new. His boots were in a very dilapidated con- 
 dition, made for laces, but unlaced, while their 
 tongues were hanging out as if even they par- 
 ticipated in the craving of their owner for more 
 drink. The only care apparent in his whole attire 
 was a seeming fastidiousness that nothing about 
 him should wear a respectable appearance. It was 
 a sorry sight, indeed, to see the fellow standing 
 there, with his hands stuck far down in his breeches 
 pockets, swaying backwards and forwards without 
 speaking, and leering at Katherine, with eyes very 
 drunken, very red, and very sleepy. If Katherine 
 did not speak for a time her attitude was enough ; 
 for she stood, slightly bent forward, glaring wildly 
 upon the man, her clenched fists shaking by her 
 sides, and her face rigid and pale. 
 
 * What now ? ^ she hissed, the very personifica- 
 tion of hatred. *Have you found me again, at 
 last?' 
 
 But this had no effect on the man, who merely
 
 O PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 made another drunken stumble;, leered comicalty, 
 and liiccouglied. 
 
 ^ 'Course I have/ he mumbled, ' got you at 
 last/ 
 
 And now that he had got her, he seemed as if 
 he were going to make himself comfortable, for he 
 rolled into an easy-chair by the fire. 
 
 ^ Tell me what you want,' she cried, ' and be 
 gone ; for you shall not remain in this house longer 
 than I can help I ' 
 
 ' Ha, ha ! ' he laughed. ^ Longer than you can 
 help ! And how long may that be, my dear ? ' Then 
 he rose and shook his fist in her face, while his 
 voice changed into one of surly huskiness. * J^one 
 of that talk with me, you know ! It won't do. I'm 
 master of this house if I but please to assert my 
 right. The law is on my side : what's yours is 
 mine_, and what's mine is my own. Curse me, 
 woman ! do you think I'm to be bullied by the like 
 of you ? I want some money ; and if you do not 
 give it me, I tell you the law is on my side_, and 
 I'll put every stick of furniture you "have to auction, 
 and pocket the result. There now_, I want fift^^ 
 pounds, and if you haven't got it beside you, I'll 
 wait till you get it. What have you got to eat ? 
 I'm hungry. I'm thirsty : what have you got to 
 drink?' 
 
 Katherine had heard the same threat frequently 
 before^ and, indeed_, once it had been carried into 
 execution ; so, what with the restraint she put 
 upon her passion, and the terror that possessed her.
 
 THE OLD CUESE COIIES BACS: TO HER DOOE. 9 
 
 she was in a pitiable state. She remained silent 
 for a minute or two^ while the stranger sat back 
 in the chair and took a dirty clay pipe from his 
 poclcet^ coolly lit it^ and commenced smoking. 
 
 ' Ah/ she cried, * I thought I had seen the last 
 of 3'ou I Have you no pity in your heart for one 
 who is weaker than yourself ? You know that I 
 have misery enousrh without your addinp^ these 
 bitter drops to the cup.' 
 
 * Misery ! misery ! Is it for you to talk to me 
 about misery ! Who began this : was it you or I ? 
 "Was I not as good as the best of them ? Did I not 
 hold my head as high as the rest ? Did I not love 
 you as purely as man ever loved woman ? Did you 
 not dally with me, as with a plaything, till you took 
 me for a covering to your shame ? Great Heavens ! 
 I would like to know if these sobs are for your own 
 wickedness, for the injustice you have done me, or 
 are they for the addition I make to your misery ? 
 I know you well enough : from the day I found 
 you out till now, you have not uttered one word of 
 regret^ or sought my forgiveness. You have pride 
 for the million ! Sob away ! but you won't affect 
 me : Pm proof against your talk : Pm past your 
 sensationalism. Give me money : I want money ! ' 
 he cried, stamping his foot fiercely. * Money I 
 shall have before I leave this house. It's not at 
 all Likely that I'm going to let you off so easily 
 after I have ferreted for you, as for a rat, in every 
 corner of London ! ' 
 
 Katherine, with an effort, drew herself up and
 
 10 PEINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 wiped the last vestige of a tear from her eye. 
 
 * How much do you want ? ' 
 
 ' As much as you like more than fifty pounds, 
 but not one copper less/ 
 
 * I haven't got it/ 
 
 ' Then don't hurry yourself ; I can wait till 
 you find it. There is no particular reason, my 
 dear^ why I should be in any haste to leave my 
 own house, and such a sweet, good-tempered lass as 
 yourself; egad, though, you are older-looking since 
 I saw you last ! ' 
 
 Katherine stood still, with her hand pressing 
 on her brow as if she tried to crush back the agony 
 which these taunts had inflicted upon her. 
 
 ' Chained ! ' And her hand fell. 
 
 * Yes ; chained ! ' he cried, ^ and chained by one 
 of those legal links that won't break, even though 
 it be an accursed load that is dragged along. Come, 
 out with the money. In half an hour a coach 
 passes this for Sloward, and I want to catch the 
 London train. Give me fifty pounds, and I'm off ! 
 If not, I'll stop here night and day ^till I get it. 
 There now, think what you're about.' 
 
 Katherine thought of Bob : she felt that she 
 could have given a thousand times what she had, 
 to keep him from the eye of the stranger. 
 
 ' I have only ten pounds,' she answered coldly. 
 ^ Will you go for that?' 
 
 * Swear it is all you have.' 
 ' It is all.' 
 
 * Then give it me, I can return for more.'
 
 THE OLD CUESE COMES BACK TO HER DOOR. II 
 
 ' But will you go at once ? ' 
 
 ' INTow, now/ lie replied in a surly tone. ^ I don't 
 want to make conditions with jou when I'm not 
 bound to ; but gi\e me the cash, and I'U go.' 
 
 As Katherine turned towards her bed-room for 
 money, the stranger rose to follow. 
 
 She stopped. * Stay where j'ou are/ she com- 
 manded firmly. ' I'll fetch it.' 
 
 * None of that, you know. I wish to see if it 
 is all you have. Look sharp, I say^ the time is 
 about up, and if you make me miss that coach, 1^11 
 bring the whole village about your ears to-night ! ' 
 
 This was enough, and Katherine hastened to 
 her room. As she unlocked the Kttle cash-drawer, 
 the man stood, looking over her shoulder, to see if 
 the ten pounds was all she had. Her agitated 
 lingers were working among the coins, when he 
 drew near to her^ put his arm about her waist, 
 and placed his ill-favoured cheek against her 
 own. 
 
 * Hands ofi* ! ' she shrieked, as she swung her- 
 self free. ' Is it not enough for you that I should 
 give you all I have ? Stand back ! ' And she seized 
 in her hand a little bronze image that stood near 
 her, and raised it to the full height of her arm, as 
 if she would have felled him to the floor. Her 
 glaring eye frightened the man, and he shrank 
 back till she got the monej^ When they returned 
 to the front room she handed it to him ; but as he 
 took the gold, his eye glanced upon a ring which 
 she always wore when in the house, and he had no
 
 12 PPJNKLE AND HIS FEIElsDS. 
 
 sooner pocketed the coins than he snatched vici- 
 ously at her hand. 
 
 ' This too ! It is mine ! you got it from me by 
 a lie — I Vv^ant the ring ! ^ and he held her with 
 a grip of iron. 
 
 ' Off, wretch ! ' she cried. * It is my own : — 
 before Heaven it is ! ' and in the haste of her ex- 
 citement she dealt him a blow in the face. 
 
 The man staggered back and was furious when 
 
 he felt the blood upon his lips. ^ By ' he 
 
 cried, ' I'll be revenged for that ! ^ And he drew 
 back to spring at her. 
 
 Bob, in the closet all this time, heard nothing 
 of what passed, except when the quarrel rose high, 
 when his ready ear caught a few fragmentary cries. 
 As he listened to the scufSe which followed their 
 passage to the bed- room his excitement became in- 
 tense ; and scarcely knowing what he did, he piled 
 several old boxes on the top of each other so that 
 he might get to a height from which to peep out 
 of the holes in the top of the door. But, as ,he was 
 clambering up, the fragile structure gave way, and 
 down he tumbled, almost smothering himself be- 
 neath a quantity of ladies' wearing apparel which 
 he tore from the pegs in the course of his fall. His 
 excitement, probabl}^ heightened by his rapid de- 
 scent, knew no bounds, so he threw his whole 
 weight on the door, and the lock, which was a frail 
 one, burst open. With flushed face and flowing 
 hair, he rushed into the room just as the stranger 
 raised his arm to retaliate on Katherine ; nor did
 
 THE OLD CUESE COilES BACK TO HER DOOE. 13 
 
 our young friend, bj' reason of his unwonted ex- 
 citement, notice that his left foot was still encased 
 in one of the unfortunate old boxes upon which, in 
 the dark, he had tried to make a stand. This was 
 awkward, and detracted from his youthful dimitv. 
 
 * Will you tell me whose brat is that ? ' cried 
 the man, starting back and pointing at Bob. 
 
 Katherine answered nothing, but she drew her 
 arm around the boy's neck and turned his face 
 from the stranger. 
 
 At this moment the clatter of horses and wheels 
 was heard, and the Sloward coach came rumbling 
 along. The man then turned quickly to the door, 
 but before going he faced about at Katherine. 
 
 * Hark ye, woman ! You'll smart for that : by 
 — 3'ou shall ; as sure as your name is — ' 
 
 ' Silence, man ; for Heaven^s sake say not that ! ^ 
 she cried in a loud voice, as if to drown the name, 
 while she wrapt her arms around Bob and held 
 him tight. 
 
 ^ What name was that ? ' he inquired anxiously, 
 for the noise of the coach and his aunt's cry had 
 effectually drowned it. 
 
 ^ Xever mind, Kobert,' she said tremulousl}', as 
 she put a kiss on his brow. ' JSTever mind, it may 
 be well you have not heard.' And then, when she 
 saw the man clambering to the roof of the coach, 
 and heard the noise of the wheels becoming faint 
 in the distance, she breathed more freelv.
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 BOB BIDS FAREWELL TO TEWTOX. 
 
 In the ■world's "u-ide range it is change, ever change, 
 
 A greeting and then a farewell ; 
 Good old plac^ v:e knew are but soon lost to view. 
 
 Companions and friends just as well. 
 
 ^ But perchance there's a spot which shall ne'er be forgot, 
 "Where memory listeth to dwell ; 
 Ah ! ne'er to depart, for it lives in the heart, 
 Like the sound of the sea in the shell. 
 
 Mr Chaeles T^oodrow was a tall, gentlemanly 
 fellow, verging on five-and-fort3\ His face, al- 
 though, well covered with iron-grey moustache and 
 whiskers,, was frank and open, so that the varying 
 expressions of pleasure, sympathy, or pain, played 
 on his countenance as visibly as the wind does on 
 a field of hay. "When you met him, the easy cor- 
 diality with which he grasped your hand, and the 
 full generous voice with which he saluted j-ou, 
 were enough to make you like him ; but could you 
 have seen him when he was alone, you might have 
 observed a dull, leaden look in his eye, and a rest- 
 lessness in his demeanour^ which would have led 
 you to suspect that, however bright and genial he 
 might be in company, there was a something deeper 
 down which was false or frail. 
 
 Mr Woodrow had been bred to the position of 
 a country gentleman, but on account of a disap- 
 pointment that came rather suddenly upon him, he
 
 BOB BIDS FAREWELL TO TEWTON. lo 
 
 had been forced into business somewhat late in 
 life ; but by the time be comes upon these pages 
 he had wrought himself into a position of ease, if 
 not of oj)ulence. For years he had been the main- 
 stay of Katherine^s little home ; he had his share 
 of all her joys and sorrows, and had it not been for 
 this one man, the world vfould have been but a 
 cold, companionless place for her. Yet when he 
 was in her society there was nothing of the frank, 
 buoyant manner which characterized him at other 
 times ; the cheerful light in his eye faded out, and 
 his demeanour was subdued, kindly, and even sad. 
 With Katherine it was otherwise : she thou2:ht of 
 him continually in his absence, counted the days 
 till he would come again ; and when he did come 
 there were a light and happiness in her home such 
 as it seldom saw. You would have smiled to ob- 
 serve the manner in which she bustled about to 
 provide her best for him, how she joyed when she 
 brought the pleasant smile to his lips, how she tried 
 even to put a mask upon her trials so that he should 
 not be grieved ; but Charles Woodrow could see_, 
 beneath the mask, that a deep, unalterable pain 
 was there, which, while he had the faculty to alle- 
 viate, he was powerless to remove. It was thus 
 when he came to Katherine, at her own request, 
 the day following the event of the foregoing chap- 
 ter. The visit was only a hurried one, and it was 
 the first he had made without brinofin^ a little 
 present for Bob. Katherine and he were engaged 
 in serious conversation for a couple of hours, and
 
 16 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIEXD3. 
 
 towards tlie evening he left with the Sloward coach. 
 Bob, who was not admitted to this interview^ 
 met his amit at the door just as their friend de- 
 parted, and he noticed with pain that her eyes were 
 swollen and red. Our little friend looked up in 
 her face sorrowfully, and was about to speak, but 
 Katherine took him gently by the hand, and they 
 entered the cottage together. 
 
 * You have been crying, aunt,' he said, in soft, 
 boyish tones. 
 
 * Hush, dear,' she replied, forcing a smile 
 through her tears ; ' you should not notice these 
 things. IMr Woodrow and I have been arrang- 
 ing matters : jou are about to enter on a change.' "V 
 
 *■ What change, aunt ? ' 
 
 Her voice trembled. ^ "We have arranged that 
 you go to London the day after to-morrow to com- 
 mence business in his office.^ 
 
 ' I ! ' he ejaculated in amazement. ^ I to go to 
 London to an office ! ' And he apj)eared as pleased 
 as any spirited lad is who has before him the im- 
 mediate prospect of setting his foot on a higher 
 step in the ladder of life. ' But am I to go as a 
 boy?' 
 
 ' Certainly,' she smiled ; ^ you would not ex- 
 pect to go as a man ? ' 
 
 * That is hardly what I mean. Are they cruel 
 tp boys ? ' 
 
 ' Sometimes they are, my dear ; but why do 
 you ask? Surely you do not think that Mr 
 Woodrow would be cruel to you ? ^
 
 BOB BIDS FAEEWELL TO TEWTOX. 17 
 
 * Ko, it's not !Mr Yv^oodrow I me^n. But j'ou 
 know tlie others in the office might make a fag of 
 me and beat me/ 
 
 She tried to remove his fears, and he said, ' I 
 don't care ; I can be no worse oif than other boys, 
 and that's a consolation ! ' 
 
 Katherine kept smoothing back the hair from 
 his brow, and the tears were trickling down her 
 cheeks as she looked fondly — very fondly, on the 
 bright-eyed boy before her. 
 
 ' You are so yomig to go away ! ' 
 
 'But I shall grow older, aunt,' he replied, 
 hopefully. 
 
 *Yes; perhaps too soon. Boys grovr very old 
 in a year in London.' 
 
 * Do they, though ? ' he asked, opening wide 
 his eyes ; and then he laughed as if she had jested 
 with him. 
 
 ' Yes : London is so different from the country ; 
 such a variety of life is seen there that a year 
 might make a boy feel like an old man : he might 
 be so changed from what he used to be.' Katherine 
 said this with deep pathos, and she drew the boy 
 to her breast, folding her arms upon his neck. 
 
 'But / shall not change,' said Bob, having 
 freed himself from that position in which every 
 boy feels awkward. ' I shall come home here 
 often^ and just be the same as ever.' 
 
 * I hope so, Bob : I hope you wiU be a good 
 lad. But—' 
 
 ' But what, aunt ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIEXDS. 
 
 *You can't come here often; I — I shall be 
 away/ 
 
 ' Away ! where ? ' he asked in astonishment. 
 
 *■ I, too, am leaving Tewton ; but I shall often 
 see you in London. Do not ask me, Bob — I can- 
 not tell you now where I am going. It is all — 
 all for your good, but there are many things of 
 which you know nothing, and I — I cannot tell. 
 Be a good lad, and do not ask me.' 
 
 Bob knew well, from the tone of her voice, that 
 her words covered much, the nature of which he 
 could not divine. 
 
 * There is something in all this, aunt, which 
 concerns that man ? ' 
 
 * Hush, hush, dear, hush ! ' she replied hastily. 
 And she added firmly and precisely, '^You must 
 fovfjet that man. It is enough for you to know 
 that it is for your good you do not know.' 
 
 The lad seemed to resent this for the moment, 
 and Katherine's e^^es were flooded with tears as 
 she caught him, almost hysterically. 
 
 ' ^0, Bob ; no, my boy — my darling boy ! Am 
 I not kind to you ? Would I not tell you if it was 
 right? Come — that is a good lad.^ And as he 
 was putting his arms about her neck she kept 
 whispering, ' Say that you love me. Bob : say that 
 you love me ! ' 
 
 Yes J Bob loved her ; and he would go through 
 all the Yv'orld, he said, and find no one so kind and 
 good. 
 
 That evening and the following day were de-
 
 BOB BIDS FAREWELL TO TEWTON, 19 
 
 voted to preparation for liis departure. Aft-er 
 ever^'tliing had been arranged, Katherine brought 
 out an old silver watch, that had not seen the light 
 of day for years, and in presenting it to her nephew 
 she cautioned him to take great care of it, as it 
 had been in the family for ever so long. Bob, of 
 course, was proud of the watch even though it ap- 
 peared to be well worn, nor did he think the less 
 of it that there was a vacant, idiotic look about the 
 dial, which was caused by the loss of half of one 
 hand. 
 
 In the confusion of the day. Bob had almost 
 forgotten his little friend across the fields; but 
 having been reminded, he hurried off to bid Maud 
 a long good-bye. In crossing the fields he broke 
 into a run, but suddenly recollecting that he was 
 now a business man, he checked himself, and pro- 
 ceeded with a more sedate and dignified mien. 
 Several times he held his watch to his ear to ascer- 
 tain if its works had been disarranged by his un- 
 dignified motion. At one of these times, when he 
 was hearkening to the tic-tic, little Maud burst 
 through a hedge and saluted him joyfully. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said Bob in a profound tone, still 
 holding the watch to his ear. 
 
 ' Let me see. What is it ? ' she cried, boister- 
 ously catching him by the arm. 
 
 ' Don't be rude, Maud ; it is only a watch. I 
 declare you have frightened it ! ^ 
 
 *A11 right,' cried the happy little creature, 
 quite in a tone of dignity. ^ Good evening, Master
 
 20 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Bob Trevor, I'll not be rude, seeing that you would 
 rather listen to the ticking of an old watch than 
 speak to me ! Ta-ta.' And she quickly made her 
 exit through the same hole at which she had ap- 
 peared. Bob was not long in pocketing his v/atch, 
 and his dignity too, and he bounded after the girl. 
 Of course he soon overtook her, although she ran 
 well, and catching her round the neck, he laid his 
 cheek against hers, in the most natural way. 
 
 After astonishing her about his determination, 
 as he called it, to proceed to London the next day, 
 he went with her to the house, and drank tea there 
 for the last time. 
 
 Both aunt and niece were very sorry at the 
 prospect of losing him, and much good advice did 
 the lady give him that evening before he left. 
 Maud said very little, but, poor child, she thought 
 a great deal. 
 
 The shades of evening were beginning to fall 
 when Bob rose to go. Mrs Claj^ton accompanied 
 them to the garden-gate, and as she bade him an 
 affectionate farewell, she put a bright shining 
 sovereign in his hand, and told him to be a good 
 lad. He at first made a bopsh show of declining 
 the coin, but Mrs Clayton good-humouredly told 
 him to hold his tongue, or she would give him 
 another. 
 
 As he turned from the gate he felt very sad, 
 even although Maud was by his side ; and as the 
 loving little girl escorted him across the field few 
 words passed between them^ for their childish
 
 BOB BIDS FAREWELL TO TEWTOX. 21 
 
 hearts were full of tliouglits — great tiiouglits for 
 tlieir Kttle years. 
 
 * I shall go back vritli you, ii^Iaucl, if you turn 
 here/ 
 
 * Oh, no ! you'll leave me here, I'd rather re- 
 tuT:n alone,' she replied sadly. 
 
 ' Are you sorry I am going, 3Iaud ? ^ There 
 was a pause, and he took her by the hand. 
 
 ' Yes, Bob ; I am sorry, ^^e have been so 
 happy here that I shall be lonely when you are 
 gone.' 
 
 Bob felt a something rising in his throat : he 
 could hardly speak as he held her little hand, 
 gazing on the downcast eyes before him. There 
 was a quiver on Maud's lip, and as she raised her 
 eyes to his, a tear glistened in them. 
 
 ' Will you always be good. Bob — as you are 
 now — when away in the big City ? I know you 
 will ; ' and her eyes fell. An odd question that — 
 from a girl of twelve years, for it means much. 
 
 Bob encircled her neck with his arms and 
 kissed her cheek. ' You are a good girl, Maud ; 
 and when I think of you I must be good ! ' 
 
 ' But will you ever think of me when among so 
 many — many people, far away ? ' 
 
 The lad was touched with the question, nor 
 could he answer a word for a minute or two, for 
 his heart rose to his mouth ; and the tears started 
 to his eyes, as he clasped her in his arms again, 
 ' I will, I will ! God bless you, Maud ! ' and he 
 tore himself away.
 
 22 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Maud's eyes followed him for a time after he 
 had disappeared through the hedge, and there was 
 a sad, vacant expression on her face. The shades 
 of evening were falling — ^falling, the fresh colour 
 died away from the fair young cheeks, and Maud, 
 the loving little girl, sank down upon the grass 
 and cried. 
 
 Bob did not sleep a wink that night ; and his 
 head was sore, and his heart was sad, when he 
 awoke early on the following morning. At seven 
 o'clock, when the old coach came rumbling along, 
 he affectionately kissed his aunt and bade her good- 
 bye. The morning was fine, and from his seat on 
 the top, as the coach rattled away, he cast a long 
 sorrowful look on the cottage that stood on the 
 outskirts of the wood ; but he did not see the child 
 who stood by the attic- window in her night-dress, 
 nor hear the sobs that burst from the heart of 
 Maud as she buried her face in the pillow. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CITY. 
 
 * And.in that town a dog was found, 
 
 As many dogs there be, 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
 
 And curs of low degree.' — Goldsmith. 
 
 The morning was fine; the atmosphere was 
 rare and clear, and there was just enough of crisp-
 
 THE CITY. 2S 
 
 ness in it to make you suspect tlie first touch, of an 
 autumnal frost. The face of JS'ature was bright and 
 beautiful, and although the trees had not yet ar- 
 rayed themselves in a thousand glorious tints, the 
 light and shade that played upon their branches 
 lent a pleasing variety to the scene. 
 
 Bob ensconced himself in the seat under the left 
 arm of the jolly, elephantine driver, and he was as 
 comfortable as a sparrow under the eaves of a 
 house. On they went — up hill and down dale, 
 raising clouds of dust that rolled away behind like 
 the smoke of battle; brushing beneath the branches 
 of overhanging trees that threatened to sweep them 
 from their seats ; swinging from side to side with 
 an easy oscillation ; while the horses strained every 
 muscle, as if to please their good-natured driver, 
 who never laid a whip on their backs, but urged 
 them with a peculiar cry, and cheered them by 
 chirping like a bird. Bob addressed himself at 
 times to his companion, but it was only while they 
 were going over the level road that the driver divid- 
 ed his attention between the boy and the horses. 
 
 * Well, to be sure, you are a young shaver to 
 go off to Lunnon ! ^ he said^ looking down on him 
 Tvith curiosity. ' But I've often heard of young 
 chaps like you as have become Lord Mayors. I'm 
 not a goin' to be dirty particular, or I might 
 enoomerate one or tv>'0 as I've drov' on this 'ere 
 coach myself ! ' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' cried Bob. ' Then you must feel 
 proud.''
 
 24 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 ' "No I don't, sir. I'm neither wery proud nor 
 wery 'iimble. I take kindly to any sitivation in 
 life. You're a young bit of a chap ; and, as I take 
 it, just a startin' on the most difficult stage of ex- 
 istence — barrin' your birth — and the advice of an 
 old stager is, that you take it easy. If you drive 
 too fast you'll kiU, and if you drive too slow you'll 
 get lazy ; so it's better to keep at a good steady 
 trot, as we're a doin' now, and keep in mind, alius, 
 that it's possible when you've gained a shilling's 
 worth in time that you've dropped a guinea in 
 flesh. Hu-whitz, Bess ! steady, my lady.' 
 
 * I think I understand you,' said Bob^ with a 
 laugh, * but you can't be very ambitious.' 
 
 * "Wot right has the likes of me to be ambitious ? 
 If I fills my speer it's all I want. D'ye see this 
 rose ? ' referring proudly to one in his button-hole. 
 ^ Well, I gets one of them flowers every blessed 
 morning from a little girl as meets me at the last 
 stage. When I'm ^dead in my grave, all the 
 folks '11 say as Dick Bolter was kind to his horses, 
 and the little slip of a girl, grown up to be a fine 
 lady, '11 tell as how she know'd a coachman long 
 ago as had a bright smile for her every mornin' 
 when he passed. There now, Jerry ! Bess ! steady, 
 my lass ! ' 
 
 It was well that Bob could be entertained by 
 conversation such as this ; otherwise it might have 
 been a weary ride to Sloward, for the terrible sus- 
 picions that had arisen in his mind since the visit 
 of the drunken stranger, and the prospects of
 
 THE CITY. l€> 
 
 London wliich liad already begun to bewilder him, 
 "were enough to unsettle his mind and put him in 
 an anxious mood. Thus it was that, before he 
 knew, he was rattling through the narrow streets, 
 and in a couple of minutes more they drew up at 
 the Railway Station. 
 
 In those days the railway was not patronized to 
 the same extent as now, and the railway carriage 
 was not unfrequently the scene of unmitigated 
 rascality and even crime. In such circumstances 
 it was only natural that Katherine Trail should 
 have impressed the boy, as she did, with the ad- 
 Tisableness of choosing his company before he took 
 'his seat ; and it was quite as natural that he, while 
 he carefully scanned the countenances of the 
 passengers, should observe, or think he observed, 
 something more or less suspicious in each indi- 
 vidual face. Dick Bolter, however, came to his as- 
 sistance ; and after having stowed away Bob's box, 
 he directed him to an empty carriage, and made 
 him jump in. When the train was about to start 
 Bob handed the huge fellow a shilling, but Dick 
 said that it was too much. * Here's a sixpence 
 back, my little man ; it's enough for a slip like you 
 to spend all at once.' And he turned away, laugh- 
 ing like an earthquake. 
 
 Yet Dick, as he went back to his horses, argued 
 thus : * In course I oughter to have got a shilling, 
 but I've spent a sixpence on eighteen-pence worth 
 of charity ; ' and he chuckled mightily that he had 
 made such a bargain.
 
 26 PPJNKLE AND HIS FPJEXDS. 
 
 The coimtiy was now entirely new to Bob ; — 
 the tall grey spires which towered to the sky 
 for a moment, then quietly slid away, he had 
 heard of, but had never seen ; the rapidity 
 with which they passed from field to field 
 astounded him; and the illusion of the trees, 
 eddying around and sweeping past, gave him the 
 idea that the landscape was but a great merry- 
 go-round, and that all nature was off to the fair. 
 It was the first time he had travelled alone, and 
 the novelty of the rapid motion through the 
 morning air filled him with a breezy sensation of 
 joy which he had never felt before. Ke forgot all 
 about the savage stranger who had cursed his 
 aunt in Tewton ; the thought of breaking up so 
 many pleasant associations was not present in his 
 mind, nor had even the love of little Maud a part 
 in his boisterous delight. This would have been 
 very enjoyable had it continued, but Bob^s soli- 
 tude was encroached upon at the first stopj)age, 
 where a woman of some thirty years entered the 
 carriage and took her seat directly opposite him. 
 
 There is nothing very remarkable in a woman's 
 taking her seat opposite one's self in a railway 
 carriage, but when that woman fidgets about, 
 violently contorting her face, she is apt to 
 attract one's attention. This woman's appearance 
 savoured very much of London life. Her face 
 was thin — almost haggard, and very pale. Her 
 dress had once been gay, but now it was neglected 
 and shabby. AYhen she entered the carriage she
 
 THE CITY. 27 
 
 stared at Bob till he felt uncomfortable, and as 
 the train moved away from the platform she com- 
 menced gesticulating with her arms, striking her 
 forehead, and glaring all the while on our aston- 
 ished friend in such an extraordinary manner 
 that he began to entertain grave' doubts as to 
 the woman^s sanity and his own safety. 
 
 For a while this was carried on in silence, till 
 Bob was constrained to ask what she meant. The 
 words were no sooner out of his mouth than 
 the woman fell on his neck, and commenced kiss- 
 ing his nose, and eyes, and ears, in a way that 
 threatened speedy suffocation. ^ ^Tis he ! ' she 
 cried. * The very voice ! ^Tis he, my child, my 
 child ! ^ And the osculatory process was continued. 
 
 It will easily be observed that Bob was now 
 placed in a somewhat awkward predicament. The 
 question of his parentage had always been one of 
 mystery to him ; he might never have had a 
 father or mother for all he knew regarding them ; 
 and, consequently, he was unable directly to deny 
 the rights of maternity to the stranger. How- 
 ever, all his ideas were averse to this woman, the 
 more so, as he had detected that her breath, as 
 well as her manner, was spirited. So he struggled 
 from her embraces ; and, with policy more ancient 
 than his years, good-humouredly requested her 
 not to be so outrageously affectionate over her 
 offspring. 
 
 * The very voice ! ^ she cried, again renewing 
 the attack ; and no doubt Bob would have had an
 
 28 PPJXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 unpleasant time of it^ but for their slowing at 
 anotlier station. As soon as tliey stopped lie 
 jumped out, and when he turned to take another 
 look at his obstreperous companion, she burst out 
 into a hoarse, hollow laughter — a style of laugh- 
 ter which one seldom hears in the country, but 
 which is often heard in our city streets at night. 
 
 Bob got into another carriage all right, and 
 as he cast a farewell look at the one from which 
 he had been so happily delivered, he observed a 
 gentleman enter it. His first impulse was to go 
 and warn him of the inconvenience to which he 
 might be put by the woman, but just as he was 
 rising to do so the train started, and he consoled 
 himself with the idea that the gentleman would 
 be quite capable of looking after himself. 
 
 In the roar of the train, and the confusion of 
 his thoughts, this incident was soon forgotten : 
 they had no more stoppages by the way, and in 
 thirty minutes his excitement was raised to a 
 higher pitch when he found they were tearing 
 through London. 
 
 Our young friend was greatly bewildered 
 when he jumped out upon the platform, and he 
 anxiously searched among the many gentlemen 
 who were hurrying to and fro, eager to find the 
 kind face of Mr Woodrow, who had promised to 
 meet him there. He ran here, and he looked 
 there, but no Mr TFoodrow did he see. 
 
 Borne down by the immensity of the change 
 from a quiet country place, he was stricken with
 
 THE CITY. 29 
 
 terror lest he raight be lost ; and amid tlie be- 
 wildering confusion of tbe Eailway Station and 
 the everlasting roar that dinned his ear, poor Bob 
 felt very much alone, and the dignified demeanour 
 of the business man, which he had intended to 
 assume, was forced to give way to one more 
 natural, — his spirit sank within him, and in a 
 little while his eyes were dimmed. Poor soul I it 
 was enough to call forth the sympathy of the 
 hardest heart, to see him sitting there upon his 
 trunk in the centre of the platform, looking so 
 very much alone in London. 
 
 * Clear out of this ! ' cried a porter, harshly, 
 and he dragged the box aside. The officiaPs com- 
 mand, so gruffly given, fell like a blow on his ear, 
 and Bob turned away his face to hide his tears. 
 
 At this moment a pompous Kttle man strutted 
 up, and inquired, in a peculiarly thin, insignificant 
 voice, if his name was Eobert Trevor ? Bob was 
 as much startled with the nature of the voice that 
 addressed him as he was to hear his name pro- 
 nounced by an utter stranger; and he took a 
 second or two to recover from his surprise. 
 
 ' Did you hear my question, young man ? ^ 
 he repeated, raising his voice. Bob was becoming 
 flurried. 
 
 ' I — I was so astonished, sir, that I — I — ' ■ 
 
 * God bless me I ' he cried impatiently, ' Is 
 your name Eobert Trevor, or is it ]iot. That's 
 simple enough ! ' 
 
 On Bob's answering him, Zdr Peter Prinkie —
 
 30 PPJXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 for it was tie — turned sharply. *Then, come 
 along with. me. Porter ! ' he cried peremptorily^ 
 * Porter, bring along that box ! ' 
 
 ' But, sir,^ inquired Bob, cautiously, * are you 
 from Mr Woodrow ? ' 
 
 At this Mr Prinlde turned about with military 
 precision and stopped. Bob also stopped, for he 
 was being regarded from top to toe by his new 
 friend with an expression of countenance that 
 was meant to be importantly serious and indig- 
 nant, but which was, in fact, intensely amusing. 
 
 'Did I hear you correctly. Master Trevor? 
 Am I so exceedingly like a kidnapper that you 
 require to put such a question ? ' 
 
 Bob's first impulse was to laugh, but there 
 was something that terrified him in the bright 
 twinkle of Mr Prinkle's eye. 
 
 * N — no, sir. I — I beg your pardon ! ' 
 
 * Yes. T/mt is all right. I'm glad for ijour 
 sake,' he replied, with a significant contraction of 
 his eyebrows, as if he wished Bob to infer that he 
 had made a very narrow escape. 
 
 ^Yhen they got to the outside of the station, 
 Mr Prinkle hailed a cab, and ordered Bob to 
 jump in. He did so. But as all Mr Prinkle's 
 movements were characterized by a certain 
 sprightliness, that gentleman rather vaulted in 
 than otherwise, when his hat came in contact wdth 
 the roof of the cab, and had it not been that his 
 mouth disappeared altogether, Bob's ears would 
 have been regaled with a few lively expletives.
 
 THE CITY. 31 
 
 As it was, lie smootlied out his hat without further 
 remark, and sat himself primly in a corner as if 
 the place were too limited for his importance. 
 
 Mr Peter Prinkle, book-keeper and gentleman- 
 of-all-work to the firm of Charles Woodrow & 
 Company, was a dapper little man|of three-and- 
 thirty. There was something scrupulously neat 
 about his whole attire, and although his clothes 
 were neither new nor in the height of fashion, they 
 fitted well, and gave to him a trim appearance. 
 His head was round as a ball, and the hair that 
 adorned it was gingerly, both in colour and 
 economy; for from the division at the back it 
 was carefully brushed out on either side and 
 carried forward above his ears, while, if the bald 
 space on the top was not completely covered, it 
 was not from the want of an attempt having been 
 made to accomplish it. His brow was large and 
 round, — nothing angular about it to give it 
 a character, covered with flaccid flesh of a sallow 
 hue. His small grey eyes were bright and twink- 
 ling; and at times they flared up in quite an ex- 
 traordinary way ; very frequently, indeed, for Mr 
 Prinlde could brook no nonsense, and he was 
 constantly flaring up. His nose ; — well, his nose 
 was nothing to speak of ; it was a soft little nose 
 of no very particular shape. His chin was pro- 
 minent, and seemed to stick out as a standing pro- 
 test against the general rotundity of his features. 
 
 Altogether Mr Peter Prinkle was a strange 
 conglomeration ; his dignity was a burlesque, his
 
 32 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 importance pomposity ; lie was funnily sad, and 
 solemnly ridiculous ; j^ou could never be sure of 
 him for a single moment, for he continually sus- 
 pected you were poking fun at him, and oh ! but 
 he was sly, and knew your tricks. His language 
 was quick and precise, if not ver}^ intelligible, 
 for one word was as good as another with him : 
 his walk was as prim as his life, and every move- 
 ment he made was a jerk. 
 
 Bob v/as rather uncomfortable on account of 
 the silence that reigned between them in the 
 vehicle, and he thought to hazard a remark which, 
 if not very original, was certainly true. ' What 
 a great number of people there seems to be in 
 London ! ' 
 
 Prinkle's scent was too keen for him, and 
 from the trifling remark he thought Bob was. 
 making game of him. 
 
 ^ S'pose th' are : what's that to you ? ' 
 
 ]S"ow, Bob, not having considered the question 
 in all its bearings, was at a loss for the moment to 
 define the relationship in which the great nuijiber 
 of people in London stood to him ; so he wisely 
 held his tongue, and that was all the conversation 
 that passed between them. 
 
 When they arrived at the office of Charles 
 "Woodrow & Co., and were in the act of getting out 
 of the cab, Mr Prinkle had the magnanimity to in- 
 form him, voluntarily, that the sole partner of that 
 firm had gone out of town for a couple of days, but 
 that he had left all necessary instructions with him.
 
 THE CITY. 33 
 
 As the}' entered tlie office, a lad, wlio sat on a 
 high three-legged stool before a desk, wheeled 
 round on his seat, discarding the use of two of its 
 supports, and addressed the book-keeper. 
 
 * Ho, ho, Mr Prinkle ! Is that what you were 
 a hiding from me all the morning ? But I knew 
 it all, sir ; I guessed as much that you were off 
 to fetch the younker.' 
 
 Mr Prinkle was shocked and chagrined at this 
 show of familiarity, and retorted snaj)pishly, * Vic- 
 tor Cole, you'll be as good enough ^s to mind your 
 own business ! You don't get no remuneration for 
 thinking.' 
 
 '^Yery good, Ifister Prinlde ; but I didn't know 
 as you were on f/iaf horse to-day ; but somebody 
 must think.' 
 
 The knight of the three-legged stool had a way 
 of accentuating his words that nettled his superior. 
 
 ' 2so insolence, Yictor Cole ! You're a malicious- 
 feUow ! ' 
 
 'Xo I ain't.' 
 
 *.But you are ! ' 
 
 * Then I'm a liar, and you're a gentleman,' he 
 replied laconically, ' which is two lies ! ' and he 
 turned round to his work. 
 
 Mr Prinkle was _ in a great fury, and jumped 
 about in his excitement. Throwing off his hat and 
 coat^ he appealed to Bob. ' Did you ever see the 
 match of this ? A wiper that I^ve nursed in my 
 bosom, to turn and bite me like that. Man}^ a time. 
 Master Trevor, could I have told things to Mr
 
 O-i PFwINKLE AND HIS FFJENDS. 
 
 "U'oodrow as would have set him up against Victor 
 Cole^ but I forbore ; and yet this is the way he 
 rewards me, and he gives me insolence when I^m 
 most desirous of his respect ! ' 
 
 The last statement was a manifest truth, and if 
 3Ir Peter Prinkle had his failings^ he was evi- 
 dently too honest to hide them. 
 
 * When did 1 do things as would have set Mr 
 "VYoodrow against me ? ' cried Victor, sharply. 
 
 * Oh yes, you did. Yes, he did, Master Trevor ; 
 and if it wasn't for the natural goodness of my 
 heart I would have told all about it, but I reco- 
 membered his peculiar trying circumstances at 
 home, and forbore.' 
 
 ' Now, Mister Prinkle, it's time I was telling 
 yoii to mind 3'our own business,' cried Victor. * If 
 I was fool enough to tell you about the old 'un^ it 
 says wery little for you to go an' refer to it. It 
 ain't gen'rous, Mr Prinkle ; and it ain't like 3^ou ! ' 
 
 Prinkle was touched, as he always was when, 
 any good quality of his was alluded to. * Well, 
 Victor, who commenced it ? ' he inquired meekl}^. 
 
 ' It was you, Mister Prinkle.' 
 
 * It was not, Victor.' 
 
 * Come now_, Mister Prinkle, it was.' 
 
 ^ WeU, I declare ! Did you not at the very 
 first — ? ' and he was commencing to go back on 
 the dispute when he observed a smile on Bob's 
 face. * What are you laughing at, sir ? l^o ex- 
 planation, sir, for I won't stand it ! I'm not to 
 be mocked/
 
 THE CITY. . 35 
 
 Bob was about to explain, but he was immedi- 
 atel}^ shut up. 
 
 *I tell you I won^t stand it. "Victor Cole, 
 that's what your pernicious example has done ; but 
 you are mistaken, Master Trevor ; youVe begun 
 very earl}', but I tell j'ou I'll put a stop to it ! ' 
 And to awe Bob the more, he ordered him into Mr 
 TVoodrow's private room. * Just 'you come with 
 me, and I'll let yon know what's what.-* 
 
 The smile passed from the lad^s face in a mo- 
 ment, and he followed the excited book-keeper ; 
 nor was he in the slightest degree re-assured b}^ 
 Victor, who, as 'soon as Mr Prinkle's back was 
 turned, shook his head gravely, and mysteriously 
 tapped his brow while he winked significantly. 
 
 Mr Prinkle then closed the door with all the 
 dramatic effect of a stage villain ; and drest in a 
 little brief authority, with great dignity of manner, 
 seated himself in Mr Woodrow's chair. 
 
 * Young man/ he began, addressing him as if 
 he were a prisoner at the bar, ' your name is Tre- 
 vor — Robert Trevor, I believe ? ' 
 
 Bob answered him tremulously, nor would he 
 have dared to hint that he had answered the same 
 question before. 
 
 * Hold your tongue, sir. Don't interrupt me ; 
 I'm not to be mocked ! ' 
 
 The boy bowed submissively, as if he quite be- 
 lieved it. 
 
 ' xit the request — I might say the urgent re- 
 quest, of Mr Woodrow, for you know I don't re-
 
 36 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIEXD3. 
 
 quire to do all tliat he bids me ; — remember that 
 I didn't come here as a common servant ; — but o£ 
 course you'll have observed that already — ' 
 
 Bob bowed again, scarcely' conceiving vrhat he. 
 was driving at; and Mr Prinkle proceeded less, 
 spasmodically. 
 
 * The time wiis when it was very different from 
 this : when Mr Prinkle, although I should say it 
 myself, had a business of his own ; when he was. 
 generally admired by an enterprising community 
 for his invaluable advice, his open heart, and. 
 generous hand. But these days are past, and Mr 
 Prinkle, on account of the misfortunes which not- 
 imfrequently attend on noble minds, has descended, 
 from his high estate, to a position of dignified im- 
 pecuniosity, to be made the object of office boys* 
 abuse, and — and to keep lodgers, at the urgent re- 
 quest of his master ! 'No, sir, I'm not an object for 
 mockery, and I won't be bullied. There's a spirit 
 slumbering within me now, — But 1^11 not say 
 ^ny more, in case you might respect me more than 
 you would Mr Woodrow.' 
 
 Bob was about to reassure him on that point, 
 but Mr Prinkle coughed. ^Hem, ahem — certainly 
 — it's quite natural, — I know you would, but it 
 wouldn^t be right.' 
 
 ' But, sir,' began Bob, wanting to put him right. 
 
 * Hold your tongue, sir ! ' he cried, striking the 
 table and rising passionately to his feet. ' Don't 
 speak back, sir. Eemember I'm in Mr Wood- 
 row's place ! '
 
 THE CITY. 37 
 
 Bob bowed again, as if he bad no desire to con- 
 tradict bim. 
 
 ' Wbat is it tbat you're bowing for ? Don't do 
 it again, sir ; it is too ostentatious/ 
 
 But tbe boy^ being slightly bewildered^ very 
 naturally did bow again. 
 
 ' Stop that, sir,' he cried, in a towering passion. 
 ' Don't mock me : I say I am not to be mocked. 
 What I wanted to tell you is that you have to 
 stay at my house, feed at my table — not that I'm 
 in need of money, but because Mr Woodrow re- 
 quested me verf/ urgently. Now go to your work : 
 that's all : and if you're as clever as you are im- 
 pertinent, you^ll do.' 
 
 Bob returned to the outer office, profoundly 
 astonished at the curious specimen of humanity 
 from whom he had just parted ; and no doubt he 
 thought that the prospective pleasure of his life in 
 lodgings was dubious, at the best. The book- 
 keeper remained in the private room, and our 
 young friend, eager to commence business, took up 
 his position by the side of Victor Cole. 
 
 Victor was about eighteen years of age. His 
 education was nothing to speak of, but his eye 
 showed that he was possessed of sufficient city 
 cunning to carry him through the world one w^ay 
 or another. Although officially under Mr Peter 
 Prinkle, as has been already shown, his respect for 
 the book-keeper's authority was none of the great- 
 est ; in fact, w^hen Mr Woodrow was absent, the 
 rule of the pompous man was little better than a
 
 38 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIEXDS. 
 
 farce. Eough. though, he was in exterior, his sly 
 humorous manner made him bearable, at least to 
 those whose position did not demand his respect. 
 
 'You're the chap, I suppose,^ he began, address- 
 ing Bob, ' as Mr Woodrow speaks so highly of ? ' 
 
 ' Well. Hem ! I don't think— exactly— ' 
 
 * Oh, but you are though ; and whether you 
 think it or not, you don't get no remooneration for 
 that, as His Lordship has just observed.' Victor 
 signified who ' His Lordship ^ was, by cocking a 
 thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the 
 private room. ' He^s a rum cove, His Lordship is. 
 ^Strikes me there^s a wacancy in the inside of 'is 
 'ead.^ 
 
 'Does he often get into a rage like that ? ' 
 
 * A rage ! Bless you, that wasn't a rage. It was 
 no more like one of his rages than the pourin' out 
 of a kettle of water's like the falls of Niagrar. 
 Lor' bless you, you should see him when the pres- 
 sure's on ! ' 
 
 Trevor could hardly conceive the possibility of 
 his being worse. 
 
 ' Worse ! Why_, sir, I've seen him when jou 
 would a thought that his nose, and eyes, and ears, 
 was all flyin' separate, and he was spittin' up big 
 words as would choke a ordinar^ sized elephant T 
 But he^s a good sort of cove after all, and if you 
 let him alone he'll jog along as quietly as a jobbin' 
 horse as doesn't get his wittles.'' 
 
 Bob was gradually having his eyes opened. 
 Four hours ago it would have been rank blasphemy
 
 THE CITY. 39 
 
 to compare a business man to a jobbing horse, 
 especially one that doesn^t get his * wittles.' 
 
 * But how does he get on with business ? I had 
 no idea that Mr Woodrow would have kept a man 
 like that beside him/ 
 
 * Ah, you don't know His Lordship yet. If 
 he's not interfered with he'll keep his accounts as 
 square as anybody, but the moment you commence 
 to chaff him he'll write down twice five's a hun- 
 dred and ten, and I've know'd him spell his name 
 with two Prins and a "Winkle ! ' 
 
 Trevor was amused at this, and Victor con- 
 tinued, ' Oh, yes ; if you want to chaff him you 
 mustn't do it when he's busy, or it'll be a pretty 
 go. I mind him once writin' a letter, and he tore 
 it up in a bilin' heat ; and when I went to stick 
 the pieces together I found as he'd been tellin' his 
 correspondent that he was dashed if he was going 
 to be mocked ! ' 
 
 Bob would have laughed out, had it not been 
 for the chance of Mr Prinkle's hearing him. ' But 
 what does he do if he makes any mistakes ? ' 
 
 * Well, you know ; if he does make a mistake 
 he just blames it on me, and that clears him.' 
 
 Trevor was not sure of the moralit}- of such a 
 proceeding. ' But that is not right — is it ? ' 
 
 ^ Ho, my ! ' cried Victor, considerably amused. 
 * You are a green cove, too ! Folks in business 
 don't stop to ask if a thing's right or wrong, but 
 do it slap off, and if it ain't found out there's no 
 harm done.'
 
 •40 PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 'But if it is found out ? ' tie inquired, blush- 
 ing like a neophyte. 
 
 * Why, then, the party that's done tries to do 
 him as did him at another time. I take it out of 
 His Lordship in another way/ 
 
 * How ? ' he inquired ; for he was much aston- 
 ished that Yictor should make light of a matter 
 that was one of honesty or dishonesty with him. 
 But His Lordship interrupted the answer by pop- 
 ping out his noble head. 
 
 ' Victor, you are not working ! ' 
 
 * JSTobody said I was,' muttered the lad, gruffly ; 
 audible enough, however, to let the book-keeper 
 hear. 
 
 * What was that you said ? ' he cried, jumping 
 into the middle of the floor. 'Tell me what it 
 was?' 
 
 , ' Didn't you hear ? ' 
 
 ' If I did, I wish you to repeat it ! ' 
 ' ' Well, I won't.' 
 
 * Oh, 5^ou won't, won't you ? ' he shouted, 
 doubling up his fists and striking the air. *' We'll 
 hear more about this, Victor Cole ! I've stood 
 your bullifications long enough ! Everybody 
 knows what you are. You are an addle-pated 
 jobbernowl, and your father before you was no- 
 thing better nor a nincompoop ! ' 
 
 * ^one of your lies, Mr Prinkle ! I am as good 
 as you any day ! The old 'un may have been bad 
 enough, but I'U not stand to hear him rewiled by 
 vou ! '
 
 THE CITY. 41 
 
 And from this little episode Robert Trevor 
 found tliat even Victor could lose his temper. 
 
 Prinkle was in a state of great excitement ; his 
 eyes were glaring in his head, and his spirit was 
 sorely tried to think that he had lost his day in 
 attempting to inspire the new comer with a proper 
 respect. "When he had got on his coat and hat 
 he turned to Victor Cole, and as he spoke his voice 
 trembled, and the tears spurted to his cheeks. 
 
 * Victor Cole,' he cried excitedly, ' you have 
 been v>'orse on me to-day than you have been for 
 many a week ; and I know what is the reason of 
 it, for you want to keep Master Trevor from re- 
 specting me ; — I know you do ! I've got feelings 
 as well as anybody, and there's a spirit slumbering 
 within me now that'll assert itself some day, and 
 you may be ashamed when you contemplate the 
 man you have despised. Oh, you may laugh, but 
 it's truth that I'm saying ! ' And Mr Prinkle 
 passed with an agitated step from the office ; but 
 in total disregard of his former words, he remarked 
 to Trevor, when he was passing out, that, if matters 
 did not change very shortly, he would put an end 
 to his life by swallowing a cab, or by allowing a 
 quantity of poison to drive over him ! 
 
 When he was gone, Victor turned coldly round 
 to Bob and explained, 'That's the way I takes it out 
 of him. It comes out in amoosement and fat ; for he 
 struts like a pantomime and sweats like a jockey. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Bob, with reservation. * It may be 
 all very funny, but I think it is too bad.'
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 A LIGHT IN A DARK PLACE. 
 
 * Many a green isle there needs must be 
 In tlie deep wide sea of Misery.' — Shelley. 
 
 That evening Robert Trevor v\^as introduced to 
 his lodgings at Mr Prinkle^s house, by that worthy 
 himself. It seems that he had thought better not 
 to tax his digestive organs by the sv/allov/ing of a 
 cab, and conjecturing that the taking of poison 
 might lead to unpleasant consequences, he took his 
 revenge on something more palatable — a pint of 
 stout. This pint of stout, although but a small 
 quantity_,had the effect of warming up Mr Prinkle's 
 nature, and of bringing to the surface much of the 
 latent goodness of his character, thus giving Bob 
 an opportunity of knowing him more truly. ' In 
 lino Veritas ' is a fine old saying, but do not let us 
 despise stout on account of that, for in it, though 
 it may not sound so delectable, there also is truth. 
 
 On their way home, when he was alone with 
 Bob^ Mr Prinkle displayed no animosity against 
 Victor Cole, rather he spoke of him kindly, and 
 tried to palliate his rudeness. 
 
 * The fact is. Master Trevor^ it is not every one 
 that would stand what Victor does. You see I 
 have a very biting tongue, and it's rather a trying 
 business to be called a nincompoop or a jobber- 
 nowl.'
 
 A LIGHT IX A DARK PLACE. 43 
 
 ' By tlie bye,' said Bob, ' wliat are tbe mean- 
 ings of those words ? I could not understand 
 them wben they were used to-day.' 
 
 Prinkle was taken aback at this ; he had an 
 indistinct idea of the definition of the latter word, 
 but the former was one that he had picked up in 
 some odd corner and kept for the purpose of shying 
 at Victor. However^ he was careful not to show 
 his ignorance, and he replied to Bob_, with his pluffy 
 little eyebrows most extraordinarily arched, ' Weil, 
 you see, Master Trevor, it's rather a difficult thing 
 to define a word at a moment's notice, but "job- 
 bernowl " means something stupid ; and nincom- 
 poop is — is the name of a small town in the South 
 of France.' 
 
 Xo doubt he hesitated, and looked very hard 
 at Bob, before making the last statement, but he 
 thought, as there are so many small towns down in 
 that quarter, he might risk it. 
 
 * Of course, I knew you would laugh, Master 
 Trevor ; but really what is the use of being par- 
 ticular with Victor Cole ? He wouldn't know any 
 better, so I just used it, and it had all the efl'ect I 
 desired. You must understand that Victor's father 
 took drink, and beat his wife and died suddenly ; 
 and no doubt Victor thinks it had something to 
 do with that. I'm very sorry I hurt his feelings, 
 for you know I've got feelings of my own ; and 
 though I do look fierce I'm not at all cruel. It's 
 the power of language I've got ; it's the power of 
 language. Master Trevor, that makes me say such
 
 44 PRINKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 things ; and, would you believe it ? Mr Wood- 
 row told me once that if I had just a little polish 
 I would be a beautiful speaker. Of course I knew 
 it before, but it's very pleasant to be told things 
 that one likes to hear.-' 
 
 Thus Bob found that in Mr Prinkle there was 
 little of the lion and much of the lamb. His try- 
 ing to make the most of any little authority he 
 possessed was not the result of a bad heart, but of 
 a weak mind ; and when he did exert his power it 
 was not from the wish to oppress his subordinates, 
 but that outsiders might know that he considered 
 himself in a position to command, and be obeyed. 
 Bob began to see that he and Prinkle might yet be 
 the best of friends, and before he arrived at his 
 lodgings, he had been told more of the outs and 
 ins of Mr Woodrow's business than he could well 
 comprehend. 
 
 Mrs Prinkle he found to be superior to her 
 husband in every way. All her actions were 
 characterized by an unconscious superiority ; and 
 Bob, young though he was, remarked in her de- 
 meanour traces of those other days to which Peter 
 had referred, when he said that he had not always 
 been a common servant. Mrs Prinkle had no 
 children — a fact to be recognized as a special dis- 
 pensation of Providence. That there was no money 
 to provide for them is in itself a sufficient reason ; 
 but we scarcely think that the pompous little man 
 could have long survived the indignity of requir- 
 ing to perform the paternal duty of rising in the
 
 A LIGHT IN A DARK PLACE. 45 
 
 night-time, and strutting about with shivering 
 legs for the purpose of putting a squalling baby to 
 sleep. 
 
 After tea was over, Bob went out, as he said, 
 for the purpose of taking a short stroll, but in 
 reality it was to meet with Victor, who had 
 promised to be in waiting at a certain hour. We 
 can pardon Bob if he was eager to see some of the 
 sights of town, for Victor had already been filling 
 his boyish imagination with descriptions of some 
 of its scenes. 
 
 The appointment was kept, and they hailed the 
 first omnibus going into the City. 
 
 Although the social positions of these two lads 
 were widely different. Bob, on the one hand, was 
 glad of a companion, let him be of whatever sort; 
 and Victor, on the other, was naturally proud to 
 make a swell acquaintance. 
 
 'Have you any money with you?^ inquired 
 Victor, rather abruptly. 
 
 Trevor replied that^he had ; and Victor some- 
 what profanely signified^ his gratitude to God, as 
 he himself had quite forgotten to fetch any. ' How 
 much have you got ? ' 
 
 * A sovereign,' answered Bob, laying his fingers 
 on the coin which Mrs Clayton had given him. 
 
 * Dash me ! "Where d'ye get all the blunt ? ' 
 he cried, as his eye brightened. ' Let me see it ! 
 That's the weight,^ he said, weighing it in his palm. 
 * I never sees the queen^s face lookin' half so well 
 on anything as on a sovereign ; there's a smile o'
 
 46 PPJNKLE AND HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 contentment about it that one don't see on a ha'- 
 penny ! ' 
 
 Bob was amused, and the youthful designer 
 continued : *" I'll tell you what it is, Master Trevor ; 
 there's all sorts o' chaps as '11 try to fleece you out 
 o' that, and as we're a goin' to some queer places 
 to-night it'll be better if I be your 'chequer. 
 That's it : I'll look after the money, and won't I 
 bully all the fellows just ! ' 
 
 Robert Trevor never felt younger than at the 
 present moment, and he gladly handed the coin to 
 Victor. 
 
 It was becoming pretty dark when the two ad- 
 venturers alighted in the vicinity of the Church- 
 yard, and Victor hurried along his protege, nor 
 would he allow him a moment to admire the huge 
 cathedral towering in the night, for he had some- 
 thin g^ better to show him than all the cathedrals 
 in creation. 
 
 * I'll show you where they makes the laws of 
 the country now. It ain't the House o' Commons, 
 though ; but it's where they makes the laws before 
 submittin' them to Parliament. Oh, I know all 
 about it ! ' 
 
 And by this time Victor was hurrying him 
 along one of the alleys that transect those that 
 lead down from Cannon Street to the River. 
 Trevor, in good sooth, was not nearly so comfort- 
 able as he had been, for the narrow lanes, with 
 their reeking taverns and unsavoury denizens, 
 their dark corners and their brilliant glares, be-
 
 A LIGHT IN A DAEK PLACE. 47 
 
 wildered him ; lie felt wliat a little mite he was 
 among the millions of the great metropolis, and 
 what a terrible thing it would be were he lost in 
 the midst of such a vast confusion. 
 
 * Yv^ill it be long till we're there, Victor ? ' he 
 inquired, as firmly as possible, for he did not wish 
 to betray a chicken heart,"though he did clutch 
 more tightly at Victor's arm. 
 
 * Don't you be afraid,' he answered ; ' I'm pretty 
 well known down in these parts ; and so was the 
 old 'un before me. Just you brace yourself up, and 
 I'll stand by you.' 
 
 The round way in which Victor said these 
 words did give him more confidence ; and as he 
 looked up at the face of his companion, when they 
 passed under the lights, and saw how sternly he 
 knit his brows as he elbowed his way along, he 
 could not help remarking how old he looked. 
 
 * Old ! ' ejaculated Victor, with a coarse laugh, 
 * I tell you, my youngster, if you was to live as 
 long as I've done in a place like this, you would 
 wery soon be old too ! Ketch a hold of my 
 hand. There now, what d'ye start for ? ' 
 
 Bob had started involuntarily as he heard Victor 
 give utterance to the same idea as that of Katherine 
 Trail, when she said that boys grow very old in a 
 year in London. And he recollected, too, the 
 promise he had made. * But I shall not change.' 
 
 He clntched]at Victor's arm. ^ Come back,' he 
 said. * I cannot go ! ' 
 
 ' You what ! '
 
 48 PEINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 ' I cannot go, Victor. It is not a right place^ 
 and I cannot go.' 
 
 The lad stopped, and cliafed. ' By George ! 
 3^ou've led me a pretty dance. "WTiat d'j^e come 
 this length for if you don't go the whole way ? I 
 want to show you the " Pope's Eye." It's a society, 
 and I'm a member. The old 'un was a member 
 before me. You won't go ! Then if you won't, 
 you won't,' and he wheeled the boy about, and 
 hurried him on in the opposite direction. 
 
 Victor was disappointed that he had been 
 balked of his device, for he had pictured to him- 
 self the dash that he and a sovereign would cut, 
 among his father's cronies, in the beery precincts 
 of the ' Pope's Eye.' Trevor, too, saw^that he had 
 displeased Victor, who asked him satirically if his 
 inclination lay in the direction of ' a Method}^ 
 Meetin' -house.' 
 
 * I am very sorr}^' he said, ^ but, Victor,, I don't 
 know the City so well as you do^ and those dark 
 places are fearful.' 
 
 As he made this remark, the brilliant glare of 
 lamps fell upon them, and Victor said, ' Here's a 
 light enough place, surely ! Let's go in — it's only 
 a bob a-piece ! ' 
 
 But the boy still made a show of hesitation, for 
 this was one of the places against which his aunt 
 had cautioned him. 
 
 ' Bless your heart, nobody comes to London 
 without goin' to a Music Hall ! There ain't no 
 harm ; it's all right ; come along. I tell you that
 
 A LIGHT IX A DAEK PLACE. 49 
 
 the man wlio sajs there^s harm in hearin' a good 
 song^s a brute, — that's all ! ^ 
 
 * But, Victor, is there no harm in these places ? ' 
 
 ' Harm ! Of course there's harm. Tell me a 
 place there's no harm in ! But, ^cause you go to a 
 menagerie it ain't no reason why you should stick 
 your head in the lion's mouth ! It's the same 
 here ; it's the same everj-where. Come on ! and 
 don^t be a fool.' 
 
 By and by, Victor overcame the scruples of his 
 companion ; but, as Bob came beneath the brilliant- 
 ly-lighted entrance, he felt a strange, indescribable 
 something drawing him back. But, as it would 
 be unmanly to turn now, he followed Victor. 
 
 "When he entered the Hall, such a world of 
 blaze and music burst upon him, that he was 
 riveted to the spot, and he stood, for some time, 
 gazing on the wondrous spectacle that surrounded 
 him. So sudden was the change from the cold, 
 dim street, that his senses were stunned. Ko 
 description of Victor's had ever pictured such a 
 scene as this ! Hundreds of lamps were glaring 
 fiercely on the gaudy colours ; wondrous music 
 burst from the orchestra ; fairy forms were flit- 
 ting lithely across the stage ; and the Hall was 
 filled with the breath of an excited multitude ! 
 Bob panted as his companion linked his arm and 
 drew him along towards the front. 
 
 The nearer he came to it, the hazy dreaminess 
 of the stage began to dispel, the music became 
 more overpowering, the forms appeared more real, 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 and when he took his seat, only a few yards from 
 the front, his blush was deeper than a maid's. 
 
 As the night w^ore on^ Bob sat, leaning for- 
 ward, feeding with all his eyes on everj^thing he 
 saw, every immodest gesture, drinking in every 
 sentence of mistaken wit, until the flush on his 
 cheek told w^ell of the fascination that enthralled 
 him ! 
 
 Man or Woman ! do you remember it ? When 
 your brow was open as a summer's day, and there 
 was never a touch of guile in all the virgin beauty 
 of your heart ! When your life-springs were fresh 
 and clear as the morning dew ! When each 
 thought, as it entered your soul, cast up a reflection 
 of its own, — as a pebble when it is dropped in 
 limpid lake, — before you had the skill to scheme 
 and hide ! That was the Paradise of youth before 
 you knew yourself ! Then there came the languid 
 relaxation, and the Strange Idea born of weakness, 
 vaguely felt, but yet unknown. How it grew with- 
 in you, yet you could not mark its growth ! How 
 it thrilled your blood and fired your appetite, until 
 it trembled into life, and tJicn you knew ! Man or 
 Woman ! do you remember it ? And do you not 
 look back with leniency upon the mother of our 
 race ? For, tell me, is not the knowledge of good 
 and evil as sweet a morsel as the tongue of Man 
 may taste ? 
 
 Bob was enthralled with a fascination that was 
 new to him, and it seemed as if the strange sensa- 
 tion had mastered every power of his being, for
 
 A LIGHT IN A DAEK PLACE. 51 
 
 ills feelings were those of a iieopliyte, and his ecstasy 
 was complete ! But sounds, from behind, fell upon 
 his ear, bringing him back to himself, and breaking 
 the intoxicating spell which bound him. Low, at 
 first, and indistinct, until they clashed upon him. 
 He turned his head, timidly, to ascertain their 
 source, and such language greeted his ear that his 
 flesh crept when he saw that women were there to 
 hear. He clutched at Victor's arm as if convulsed. 
 
 * This is awful ! ' he gasped. 
 
 ' Tut, stoopid ; hold off! ' said Victor, gruffly, 
 being intent upon the stage. ' What's awful ? ' 
 
 'Listen!' 
 
 He listened. ' That's all, is it ? I tell you 
 this, Trevor, you'd better hold your peace. If 
 you talk morality in London, you'll get mobbed, — 
 mind that. London ain't a place where morals 
 thrive : nobody expects it ! ' 
 
 But the language fell upon his ear again, and 
 scarcely knowing what he did, he cried — ' I'm off ! ' 
 and rushed from his seat. 
 
 Victor turned, in time to see his companion 
 jostling the loiterers at the Hall door in his hurry 
 to be out. With a low curse on his squeamishness, 
 he hastened after him, and caught him in the outer 
 passage. It was only ten o'clock, and Victor was 
 chagrined at being hurried away so soon. 
 
 * This, here, is a pretty piece o' petticoat 
 modestv. Can't you show 3'ourself a man ? Come 
 back I '^ 
 
 ' I can't, Victor. I can't go back ! Come 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLlNOlii 
 LIBRARY
 
 52 PEIXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 away from this place — it is not riglit I ' and lie 
 kept dragging nervously at his arm. 
 
 * Leave go, young knickerbockers ! ' sneered 
 Victor. ' One would think you were the mother o' 
 a famil}^ to go on at that rate. What's not right ? 
 Come back, I say, the best's just a comin' on.' 
 
 But Bob, flushed and excited, was not to be 
 tempted, even although Victor's sarcasms stung 
 into the weakest chamber of his young heart. 
 
 Along the brilliantly-lighted passage that led 
 to the street, there came, at this moment, shouts 
 of a quarrel from among the loungers at the en- 
 trance. Victor's eye brightened up in prospect 
 of witnessing a fight, and he hauled Trevor along 
 towards the door. 
 
 A little crowd was assembled on the pave- 
 ment, in the midst of which were two men quar- 
 relling, and others acting the part of middle-men,, 
 all apparently fired with wine. 
 
 ' It was a fair game ! ' cried the taller of the 
 two, throwing a fierce curse at his antagonist. 
 ' And 3'ou are a d — d cheat, as ever^^body knows ! ' 
 
 As with a concerted motion, the little crowd 
 swayed back a pace, and the other flew at the 
 throat of the wretch who had just spoken. The 
 crowd closed in again. 
 
 * You lie ! ^ rang from its midst, and Bob, who 
 was leaning on Victor's arm in the doorway, fell 
 back against the wall in a swoon. 
 
 The scene had fallen upon him like a flash 
 of light, and the last thing he did was to recog-
 
 A LIGHT IN A DAEK PLACE. bS 
 
 vAze the stranger of Tewton in the face that was 
 turned against the light, by the hand clutching 
 at his throat. 
 
 Victor had now to direct his attention to the 
 recovery of his friend, whom he carried^ with the 
 aid of a young female by-stander, into a gin-shop 
 opposite. 
 
 This girl, degraded though she was, showed 
 that the dirine spark was not altogether dead 
 within her, for she knelt like a mother, with the 
 lad's head on her knee, bathing his deathlike 
 forehead with her handkerchief. 
 
 "\'\"hen he awoke to consciousness she spoke to 
 him tenderly, and soothed him with words that 
 made the tears start to her eyes, for they sounded 
 to her wretched soul like the echo of a better 
 life ! A cab was brought to the door^ and, in 
 assisting Bob to enter^ she imprinted a kiss upon 
 his brow_, and then softly wiped it off — as if it 
 had been a stain. When Victor was about to enter, 
 she turned to him reprovingl}- ; 'Ah, young 
 man, I sat behind you both in the hall, and 
 heard you ; but it was no place for a boy like him ! ' 
 
 Victor shruo:o:ed his shoulders ; and as he 
 jumped in, he told her to mind her own business. 
 
 The drive refreshed Trevor considerably, so 
 that he was able to walk from the poiat near 
 Prinkle^s house, further than which Victor had 
 deemed it unadvisable to take the cab. The boy 
 had no reason to thank his companion for his first 
 experience of city Hfe, but he promised Victor,
 
 04 PEINKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 faithfully, that he would not tell where or with 
 whom he had been. 
 
 Mrs Prinkle was greatly relieved when Bob 
 made his appearance, for his prolonged absence 
 had been the source of much anxiety, both to her 
 and to her husband, who, indeed, v*'as now roam- 
 ing about the sj;reets, astonishing the policemen 
 with his absurd importance and his incoherent 
 questionings. Mrs Prinkle, observing the exhaus- 
 tion of the boy, did not torment him with in- 
 quiries, but spoke kindly, and set a bit of supper 
 before him. He tried to eat_, but could not. His 
 sharp experience had been too much for his appe- 
 tite ; so he bade Mrs Prinkle ' good night,' and 
 turned to his bed-room. 
 
 Weary and worn out by the fatigue of the 
 day, and his head aching with the excitement of 
 what he had just seen and heard. Bob threv/ him- 
 self heavily on the edge of his bed, and began 
 slowly to undress. His coat was scarcely off, when 
 lo — he found his watch was gone ! In the con- 
 tinued novelty of the day he had forgotten all 
 about his watch, and never once, since leaving 
 Tewton in the morning, had he looked upon it. 
 Poor little fellow ! we must sympathize 'with him 
 again, as he stands, with a vacant stare, mechanic- 
 ally fingering the tampered ends of his hair-guard, 
 feeling that everything is going against him. 
 It was the first day of his first watch ; a watch 
 that his aunt told him had been long in the 
 family ; and when he remembered this, his heart
 
 XO HOME ! 55 
 
 swelled witliin him to tlie exclusion of everj^ other 
 thought, and the large tears fell splash on his 
 hand. After a while he thought of the woman : 
 could it have been she? But from a suspicion 
 such as this his soul recoiled. He felt that there 
 was a higher natui'e looking through those eyes, 
 which he first saw when recovering from his faint, 
 and that there was a depth of truth in the tender- 
 ness of those tones which soothed him. 
 
 Bob was right ; for, in a miserable hovel in 
 London, a weak woman's soul had lifted itself 
 from the midst of degradation, pinching penur}', 
 and starvation, to thank an almost forgotten God 
 for the little kindness she had been allowed to do. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 XO HOME 
 
 *But time or change can ne'er efface 
 
 This truth, where'er we roam, 
 That the heart has many a dwelling-place, 
 
 But only once a Home.' — Feeeerick Enoch. 
 
 Next morning Eobert Trevor awoke with a 
 pale face and aching head. The dissipated coun- 
 tenance he had seen turned on the glare of light, 
 so unexpectedly, the night before, had haunted 
 him in dreams, and many a fitful start had he 
 given as he thought he again heard the fierce 
 shouts of the wretch. And then, too, the loss of
 
 56 PRINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 his watch : was that not, in itself, enough to damp 
 the spirits of any boy ? With regard to this, how- 
 ever, he determined to mention his loss to no one ; 
 for he had a wish to stand well in the estimation 
 of Mr Woodrow, and he feared lest he might be 
 upbraided for carelessness. 
 
 During breakfast he had to endure the sharp 
 reproofs of Mr Prinkle for his thoughtless conduct 
 in leading them to think he was lost ; but Mrs 
 Prinkle treated him differently, for she tried to 
 palliate his offence, and endeavoured to appease 
 her husband's yesty wrath. There was an affec- 
 tion in this woman's manner which Bob began to 
 appreciate, and the more he saw of her, the better 
 he liked her ; indeed he could not help drawing 
 mental contrasts between her and her husband, 
 much to the detriment of the latter. 
 
 During Prinkle's presence in the office, Victor 
 made no allusion to the previous night's proceed- 
 ings, but when he went out for a few minutes, the 
 subject was reverted to by Victor, when he handed 
 Bob the remains of Mrs Clayton's sovereign. 
 
 ' By George,^ he said, * I did get a fright with 
 you last night. You were so ill.^ 
 
 * Yes : but I soon got over it. Didn't I ? ' 
 
 * Well, you did : but I thought you was a 
 corpse, you was so pale. Howsomever, I hope 
 you won't say a word about it to the guv'nor, Mr 
 Woodrow — I mean ; for I did it all for the best ; 
 and I'm sorry if I broke my temper once or twice. 
 You won't mention it ; will you ? '
 
 XO HOME ! • 57 
 
 Bob, seeing how anxious he was on the subject, 
 TQade him. every assurance : and he was satisfied 
 for the time. But Victor had a view to future 
 continsrencies. 
 
 o 
 
 * Look here, Trevor. You and I are likely to 
 be together in the same office for a long time to 
 come, and if you promise to act fair and square with 
 me, I'll do the same with you, and put you up to 
 a wrinkle or two besides/ 
 
 * What's that ? ' he inquired curiously. 
 
 * But will you be fair with me ? ^ he repeated. 
 awiU.' 
 
 *Then I'll give jou a hint about the man 
 3^ou've to deal with.' 
 
 * WTiom do you mean ? Mr Prinkle ? ' 
 Victor dismissed the idea of Prinkle as absurd. 
 
 ■* 1^0 : but Charles Woodrow, your guv^nor, a 
 wery different man.' 
 
 Bob should think so ; and he composed him- 
 self to listen, for he was interested, and wished to 
 know what were Victor's ideas of the only male 
 friend he ever had. 
 
 * "Well, you see, Mr Woodrow's a wery diffi- 
 cult man to take the measure of. He's an un- 
 common man ; for I sometimes think as he is two 
 distinct beings rolled into one. Mr Woodrow in 
 the inside of his waistcoat is not Mr Woodrow on 
 the outside. As long^s you've got to deal with the 
 one on the outside he's fair enough, and frank, and 
 kind ; but just you ruffle him, the tiniest bit, and 
 out stalks the other Mr Woodrow, and you^ll find
 
 58 PEINKLE AXD HIS FEIEKDS. 
 
 him a wery different indiv/iclual. IVe seen him 
 when you would have thought as he was all ice 
 and hatred ; and, in a moment, when he has had 
 his say, he steps back into the inside of himself, 
 just like a cuckoo in a Swiss clock, leaving the 
 outside Mr Woodrow as soft an' pleasant as a 
 oyster, and as niild as milk ! Lor' bless you, he 
 ain't that for nothing I ^ 
 
 * What do you mean, Victor ? ' 
 
 * What I mean is this,^ he replied, with a know- 
 ing wink, and laying his forefinger pat on the side 
 of his nose. ' Whisper, Trevor — ' he said, sidling 
 up to him, mysteriously, * My opinion is that he's 
 been circumwented by somebody; or that he means 
 to circumwent somebody ! ' 
 
 This was rather a vague opinion, and Bob was 
 requiring Victor to explain himself, when the sub- 
 ject of their conversation opened the door. Robert 
 would have bounded over stool and desk to salute 
 his friend, but he was thunderstruck that Mr 
 Woodrov/ gave him no sign of recognition, but 
 passed through the office and entered his " private 
 room. For a moment the boy felt as if his spirit 
 were being crushed, and then his heart palpitated 
 madly, maybe from mere natural excitement, but 
 likely enough from a sense of resentment at his 
 having been slighted. 
 
 Mr Woodrow sprung his bell, and Victor started. 
 ' It's part of your work, Trevor, to answer the bell; 
 but I'll do it for the first go,' and he attended on 
 Mr Woodrow, while Bob anxiously listened to 
 what was being said.
 
 NO HOME ! 59 
 
 isk. 
 
 * Yes, sir ; about twenty minutes ago.' 
 
 * Do you know if lie has attended to those Bills 
 of Lading for the '' Ariel ? '' ' 
 
 * I believe he has gone about them now, sir ; 
 they were not signed yesterday when he called for 
 them.' 
 
 'Ah, well — see that he gets them to-day, for 
 the mail leaves this evening. Was there anything 
 requiring my presence yesterday ? ^ 
 
 * ISOy sir. ]N"othing of importance.' 
 
 * You may go;' and Victor v/as turning, when 
 he called him back. * By the bye, whom have you 
 there?' 
 
 * Master Trevor, sir, as Mr Prinkle brought 
 from the train.^ 
 
 * Ah, I recollect — Robert Trevor. Send him in, 
 and consider my door locked.^ 
 
 ' Yes, sir. ' Victor drew the door to behind him ; 
 and to show the new comer how lightly the au- 
 thority even of Mr Woodrow sat on him, he com- 
 menced silently to dance a minuet in emulation of 
 what he had seen the night before ; while he twisted 
 his thumb backwards,, towards the room, after the 
 manner of a low comedian. * You're vanted, young 
 man.' 
 
 Trevor was ready in a moment, and stood on 
 the threshold of the private room, determined that 
 the first sign of recognition would not come from 
 him. 
 
 Mr Woodrow motioned him to shut the door, 
 which he did. * Well, Eobert,' he said quietly >
 
 60 PPJXKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 without the gliost of a smile, as he held out two 
 of his fingers. ' You have got to London at last.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. I am here.-* 
 
 ' You came yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' I did, sir.' 
 
 ' Do you find your lodgings comfortable ? ' 
 
 ' So far as I have seen, they are to my taste. 
 Mrs Prinkle is everj^thing that could be desired.' 
 
 ^ Ah, I thought as much. He seems to be very 
 fond of her. His good wife, IS'ell, I think he 
 calls her ? ' 
 
 ' I have not heard him call her by that name,' 
 he answered concisely. 
 
 Mr Woodrow was struck by the abrupt, and 
 peevish nature of Bob's replies, and he wished to 
 signify his disapprobation. 
 
 ^ I am afraid, Eobert,' he began after a pause, 
 calmly, but firmly, ' that the manner of your ad- 
 dress, at present, is not such as will further your 
 prospects in business. ]^o doubt you may be 
 pained that I should treat you with less freedom 
 than has been my habit, but I am not the less 
 your friend ; and when 3'ou answer me, you must 
 learn to be respectful without being impertinent. 
 Do you understand me ? ' This was said with the 
 utmost calmness, but Bob could not answer, for 
 his heart was rising convulsively in his breast. 
 The reception was so utterly different from what 
 he had expected, for he had hitherto looked up to 
 Mr "V\^oodrow as the incarnation of everything 
 that was kind and good. Mr "\Yoodrow continued.
 
 xo 6o:^E ! 61 
 
 'You are entering on a new life, and your ex- 
 periences may be very bitter, but if you make a 
 proper use of tbem, they'll be as so many school 
 books in a higher system of education. But if you 
 rebel — I don^t think you will do that, however ; 
 so give me your hand, Eobertj dry those tears and. 
 be a man.' 
 
 This outburst of frankness only made the 
 tears fall the more freely, but it made Bob feel 
 that Mr Woodrow was as much his friend as 
 ever. 
 
 * That's right,' said his master, clapping him 
 on the shoulder, * be a straightforward lad, and 
 although you have no home, and few friends, j^ou 
 have only to come to me in your trials, and I shall 
 do my best for you at all times/ 
 
 ' Xo home, sir I ' and he looked up, vacantly. 
 
 ' No, Eobert ; in the mean time you have no 
 home. Your aunt has left Tewton, for o-ood 
 and all. Y^ou may see her shortl}', and you may 
 not. I am not at liberty to tell you more, but you 
 may be sure that this is all for your good. IN'ow, 
 go to the office: Victor will help you in your 
 work^ and so will Mr Prinkle.' 
 
 Bob turned vrith a sad heart from the private 
 room, but he was quick enough to observe Mr 
 Prinkle spring away from the door, where he had 
 been listening on his knees at the key-hole. How- 
 ever, he was too much taken up with his own afiairs 
 to make any remark on this, so he sat himself lazily 
 at his desk, and, quite regardless of what the others
 
 62 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 miglit think^ bent- forward, resting Ms brow in his 
 hands, feeling, oh ! so weary and old. 
 
 Could you brush away the landscape, like a 
 cobweb, you might realize the vacancy that is 
 brought to a boy's heart vv^hen he is told that he 
 has no home. Bitter experience, indeed ! Surely 
 there could be none more bitter than that of open- 
 ing up his understanding to the reception of such 
 a truth ! What was to become of him now ? How 
 far away, and beyond his reach, were the sunny 
 fields of Tewton, his bright companion, in whose 
 love he had learned a sweet delight^ and the watch- 
 ful care and the dark eye of her who had taught 
 him all he knew ! Well might he weep, for, now 
 that the wrench had come, he knew how these as- 
 sociations were part of his very life, and he could 
 appreciate them to the full, when he felt that his 
 heartstrings were bleeding and sore. 
 
 Prinkle, seeing the condition of the boy, had 
 compassion on him, and came to his side. 
 
 * Oh, Master Trevor — Kobert, I mean, you must 
 cheer up ! I know what it is to be home-sick as 
 well as anybody, but you must put your breast to 
 your new life like a man, and this '11 soon wear 
 away.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr Prinkle,' he said, rising and 
 stretching his arms ; * I believe you are right. 
 Give me some work to do.' 
 
 Prinkle was struck by the weary aspect of the 
 boy^s face, and it brought to mind some of the 
 passages in his own life.
 
 KO Ho:iiE ! 63 
 
 ' Oh, Eobert/ lie said, with earnestness, ' how 
 like your face is to what I have seen my own ! 
 When I went, one morning, to work, and found I 
 was bankrupt, my face was just like that when I 
 came home again ! Many a time when I've been 
 teased and tormented during the day, till I wished 
 that I had been born a dog, I've gone home and 
 found my face like that. But Nell, my good wife, 
 always smiled my troubles away, and I'm sure she'll 
 do the same for you. Look at that. There's mj^ 
 tears for your tears, and if you are kind to me I 
 shall be kind to you ; and we may both be happy ! ' 
 
 The poor fellow's simplicity entered into the 
 boy's heart, and they shook each other warmly by 
 the hand. 
 
 Victor, who had been watching all this, nar- 
 rowly, was greatly amused. ' 'Pon my soul,' he 
 said, ^it's wery affecting. I've a good mind to 
 join you, and if we could all three sink pumps in 
 our eyes, we might make a good thing of it by 
 offering to supply the City with water ! ' 
 
 Prinkle was furious. 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, sir. You^re an insolent 
 piece of vitooperation ! ' 
 
 ' Take care,' said the lad, coolly, ' I'm alius 
 afraid that one of them big words '11 stick in your 
 throat, and you're sure to choke ! ' 
 
 * Great Hivens ! This is too much ! ' And 
 Prinkle made one boimd into the private room. 
 
 His advent in such a state of excitement was 
 no new thing to Mr Woodrow, who very methodi-
 
 64 PEINKLE AND HIS FPJENDS. 
 
 cally laid down his pen, and sat back attentively in. 
 his chair. 
 
 * Mr Woodrow ! ' 
 'Well, MrPrinkle.' 
 ' Yes 'r ! ' 
 
 * What is it now, Mr Prinkle ? ' 
 
 ' Now, sir ! Now, sir ! It's just the same as 
 ever, sir ! I can't stand the bullifications of that 
 boy no longer, sir ! He has tortured me — ' and he 
 began a speech that had been thoroughly prepared 
 in case of an emergency. ' He has tortured me 
 with every means that an evil mind can revise ! 
 He has wit, sir, and he cuts wdth it into the very 
 flesh of my heart ! He has robbed me of every 
 enjoyment in life_, and he has brought down the 
 hair that was on my head with sorrow to the grave ! ' 
 
 Prinkle was always satisfied when he could 
 weave an idea from Scripture into the warp of his 
 complaint ; and he proceeded. 
 
 ' Perhaps you don't think it is as bad as I sa}^ ; 
 but it^s a fact, sir ! I'm sure I try to do my work 
 faithfully, but Victor acts the part of a Philistine, 
 and makes a Samson of me for sport ! ' Mr 
 Woodrow smiled. * Oh, you may laugh, sir ; but 
 it^s no laughing matter to me ! I've been tor- 
 mented so long, sir, that the hair of my head, 
 which I used to be proud of, has been took avray, 
 and left me alone to tell the tale ! I'll not stand 
 it, sir : I can^t, sir : and if it's not stopped I'll do 
 what I never did before, sir, — no, nor won't re- 
 quire to do again.' Mr Prinkle paused here, to
 
 NO HOME ! bo 
 
 see what effect this dark hint miglit have, as lie 
 drew his forefinger slowly across his throat. Con- 
 trary to his expectation, and much to his chagrin, 
 his master took no notice of this ; and he continued 
 angrily. * l\e said all I was going to say ; and 
 it's just this, that PU not be tormented no longer 
 by such — such — ■* and he again paused, for he 
 would fain have interposed that adjective which 
 some theologians apply to the ultimate state of the 
 wicked. * 1^11 not stand to be buUified by such a 
 fool ! ' 
 
 During this the tears were trickling over his 
 cheek, and when he finished his rhapsody he was 
 shaking like a leaf. 
 
 Mr Woodrow knew IsLr Prinkle's history, and 
 was sorry for him. He rose, and closed the door 
 firmly; then returned and patted him kindly on the 
 shoulder, as if he had been a child. Prinkle had the 
 unbounded confidence of a dog in his master, and 
 Mr Woodrow fully understood the nature of his 
 servant. 
 
 ' My dear Mr Prinkle,' he said, '' I am grieved 
 that the repose of a mind such as yours should be 
 disturbed bj^what a child like Victor Cole may say.' 
 
 ' He^s eighteen years of age, sir,' he suggested. 
 
 * Very true, Mr Prinkle. But I speak of him 
 mentally, not physically. He is very childish, and 
 the more you 'give heed to his impertinences, the 
 more frequently will they be offered. Eeall}', yon 
 should be above taking offence at anything he says 
 or does. You have talents — talents of a rare sort; 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 ^Q PPJNKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 YOU have an uncommon mind ; but you are ruin- 
 ing them by these passionate flights. Treat Victor 
 Cole with the contempt which is due to him, for I 
 tell you plainty, that, if you do not learn to do this, 
 you will never reach that point which a mind like 
 yours ought to attain.-' 
 
 Ko doubt Mr Woodrow was within the truth 
 when he told his book-keeper that he had talents 
 of a rare sort, and an uncommon mind; but 
 Prinkle was not likely to accept the statement 
 literall}^, and it was too bad of Mr Woodrow to 
 make it. There are certain minds whose turbu- 
 lency is most easily soothed by flattery ; but, like 
 many other narcotics, the employment of flattery 
 is liable to be abused, and present peace may be 
 purchpiSed at the expense of future pain. 
 
 Mr Peter Prinkle was very grateful ; and he 
 could hardly speak, for his thin, piping voice was 
 imbecile with emotion. 
 
 * Ah, Mr Woodrow,' he said, ' I can never 
 thank you enough, sir, for mentioning my talents 
 so kindly. It was even more than I could have 
 expected from your warm heart, and I hope, sir, 
 that strength may be given me to bear the honour 
 meekly ! It was Grod, sir, that put them there ; 
 and if I was proud of them, He might take them 
 away, and leave — an awacancy ! Yes, sir,' he cried, 
 grasping his master's hand, ' I used to be proud 
 of the hair on the top of my head, but it was wrong 
 of me, sir; and it was all took o&, and there's 
 almost none left now. Just because I was proud 1
 
 XO HOME ! 67 
 
 It was a dissipation of Providence, sir ; a dissipa- 
 tion of Providence ! ' 
 
 Mr AVoodrow could hardly restrain a smile at 
 this, and he suddenly found that the tie of his boot 
 was loose. 
 
 * Quite true, Mr Prinlde,' he said, straighten- 
 ing himself, ' we are all getting old, and your 
 hair is not what it used to be.' 
 
 The book-keeper's eye suddenly brightened up 
 when he recollected what a glorious opportunity 
 he now had to show his master that he was pos- 
 sessed of genius as well as talent. ' You said, sir, 
 that I had talents, and an uncommon mind, but 
 perhaps you didn^t know, sir, that I could write 
 poetry: it's just on the subject we're talking 
 about, sir ; and it's my own composition ! Here it 
 is, sir.' ^ind he commenced to read from a piece 
 of paper, which, after a deal of fumbling, he had 
 produced from his pocket : — 
 
 ' Each time I smooth my polished head, 
 
 And rub off many a hair, 
 I look at them and, sighing, say, — 
 
 " Why don't they linger there ? " 
 For many a year they've deck'd my head, 
 
 Hung loosely on my bro"w, 
 And made me feel quite young again — 
 
 "WTiy don't they do it now ? ' 
 
 ' Capital, Mr Prinkle, capital ! But is that 
 really your own composition ? ' 
 
 * As sure as you're sitting there, sir ! May I 
 never stir, if it isn't ! ' he replied solemnly. And
 
 08 PRIXKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 then he began to be garrulous. ' It's not very 
 long, sir ; but a friend of mine, who is a beautiful 
 cricket, for he has been selling books for the last 
 twenty years and keeps a library, told me Lord 
 Byron would be immortal, if it was just for two- 
 lines that he wrote ; so it doesn^t matter about 
 length. And this same friend complimented it as 
 being better than most of the poetry of the present 
 day, which nobody can understand. And he told 
 me also there was no mystery about mine, and that, 
 if I continued, I would yerj^ soon be a real poem ! ' 
 N'ot to disappoint Mr Prinkle, his master 
 feigned the most ecstatic admiration for his 
 genius ; and his critique was in accord with that of 
 Prinkle's literary friend. But clearly the conversa-^ 
 tion was too highly pitched for office hours ; and 
 Mr Woodrow gently lowered it ; for, with all his 
 regard for Literature and Art, he was evidently 
 anxious about those bills of lading for the ' Ariel.'' 
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 NEW FACES. 
 
 The gas was Kghted in a handsomely furnished 
 parlour in Iso. 3, Esther Square, and there sat, be- 
 fore a dj'ing fire, two gentlemen engaged in seri- 
 ous conversation. The taller of the two, a prim, 
 austere, uncongenial-lookiDg personage, sat back,
 
 XEW FACES. 69 
 
 during a lull in the conversation, with his fingers 
 interlaced and ejes fixed as in thoughtful delibera- 
 tion ; while the other, a little good-natured, lawyer- 
 like man, busied himself with the tongs, raking up 
 the dying embers in the grate. 
 
 The latter lay back in his chair, while he 
 brought the tongs to rest on his shoulder, and 
 addressed his companion. 
 
 * That is all that can be said in the mean time, 
 either for or against; and it is, as j'ou say, Mr 
 Hendry, a most disagreeable business.-' 
 
 The other shut his eyes firmly and opened them 
 wide, as was his custom when about to put a ques- 
 tion of dubiet3\ ' Is it right that a man should 
 plead not guilty, when he really is ? ' 
 
 'Perfectly, sir; perfectly.^ 
 
 * Then, is it not possible to manufacture a de- 
 fence on behalf of Mr Alton ? ' 
 
 ' Mr Hendry,' he replied promptly, ' you are 
 mistaken in your conclusions. The one is known 
 and regarded as a mere matter of form, while the 
 other is a question of honesty or dishonesty on the 
 part of an agent ! ^ 
 
 * Ah, indeed I ' and he smiled incredulously. 
 * Pardon me, Mr Beeds, but I am simplicity itself 
 in all matters pertaining to law.-* He was one of 
 those disagreeable mortals who seldom smile, and 
 when they do, it is a cross between incredulit}' and 
 a sneer. Mr Twentyman Beeds observed this. 
 
 ' Indeed, Mr Hendry, I assure you, you are 
 mistaken. The act of pleading is neither more nor
 
 70 PEINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 less than a formality by which to open a trial. It 
 is universally known and recognized as this. You 
 must know that witnesses, when they are put in 
 the box, even although they have been sworn to 
 tell the whole truth, are frequently cautioned by 
 the Judges, that they cannot be called upon to de- 
 pose to any -circumstance which may criminate 
 themselves. It is precisely the same right which 
 is conceded to a prisoner, and his pleading " T^ot 
 Guilty,^^ is merely a signification that he wishes 
 the case to go to proof, and vice versa.' 
 
 "While Mr Beeds was speaking, the eyes of the 
 other were directed to the floor, and he listened 
 without showing the slightest sign of intelligence. 
 
 When he had finished, Mr Hendry remained 
 silent for a second or two, for the purpose of allow- 
 ing Mr Beeds to continue, or leave off, just as he 
 pleased. As he did leave off, he raised his eyes as 
 high as the lawyer's knees, and said, ^ What you 
 have so clearly explained, Mr Beeds, was fully 
 understood by me many years ago.-' 
 
 * Indeed, sir ! Then, why didn't you stop me ? 
 I've just heard you remark that you are simplicity 
 itself in matters pertaining to law.'' 
 
 Mr Hendry ventured to fix his eyes so far up 
 as the second button on the lawyer's waistcoat, and 
 blandly replied, ^ I make a point never to interrupt 
 a man who explains himself with perspicuity, for 
 the reason that I would not denj^ my friend the 
 pleasure which he most enjoj'S.' 
 
 The impertinence of this remark was badly
 
 NEW FACES. 71 
 
 concealed, and Mr Beeds felt as if liis tongue were 
 being tickled to reply in the same humour ; but he 
 recollected that he was a guest under the same 
 roof with Mr Hendry, and that they were sur- 
 rounded by circumstances peculiarly painful and 
 distressing. 
 
 Mr Hendry resumed, *But j^ou mistook the 
 the purport of my question. I wanted to know if 
 the manufacture of evidence, in defence, is not 
 also considered as a matter of form ? ' 
 
 ' I am astonished, Mr Hendry ! If you can 
 conceive a conviction for perjury being a matter 
 of form, you may also — * 
 
 *But it is not what /conceive ! ' he interposed 
 hastily. 
 
 The lawyer laid the tongs carefully in their 
 place, and quietly replied, ^ I was endeavouring to 
 explain myself with perspicuity, sir, and I am sorry 
 you should not allow me to gratify myself. But,' 
 he continued, with more spirit, * I can see that 
 you are labouring under a misconception with re- 
 gard to the uses of our profession. In a case like 
 that of Mr Alton, it is our business to collect, and 
 arrange evidence, not to manufacture it.' 
 
 * Yet, without doubt, the latter is frequently 
 done.' 
 
 * I acknowledge, Mr Hendr}', there are disre- 
 putable men connected with our profession, as 
 there are also high-minded nien, but they have no 
 more in common, than you have with the wretch 
 who cooks his accounts or steals I '
 
 72 rrjNKLE and his feiends. 
 
 ' Indeed.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ! ' he continued warmly. * We have 
 endured more obloquy than any other class of men; 
 we have been reviled, without discrimination, by 
 proverbs and apophthegms, in literature and on 
 the stage. Yet no one will question the necessity 
 of our profession, even although its province lies 
 with the sins of Society. But I suppose we must 
 lay our minds to accept of this abuse, for it is the 
 way in which Society distributes her favours.' 
 And Mr Beeds caught up the tongs again, and 
 waited what his companion had to say. But Mr 
 Hendry sat rigidly in his chair, with his eyes rest- 
 ing on the last feeble flicker in the grate, and made 
 no reply. After a little while, however, he rested 
 his elbows on the arms of his chair, and brought all 
 the tips of his fingers in contact with each other, 
 while he seemed to make an effort to raise his eyes 
 as high as those of Mr Beeds, but stopped short at 
 his watch-pocket. 
 
 * You have not informed me, Mr Beeds, of the 
 result of your inquiries with regard to the man 
 who is bound over to prosecute ? ' 
 
 The lawyer brought the tongs to the perpen- 
 dicular, and rested them on the rug. ' Well, sir^ 
 the result is, mj belief is strengthened that the 
 case has been trumped uj) for the purpose of ex- 
 torting mone3^' 
 
 * That is good, so far.' 
 
 * He is an old scoundrel, of some sixty years of 
 ase, said to be a Jew. His name is Rubens, but no
 
 KEW FACES. Vc3 
 
 one seems to know anytliing, for goodj of his mode 
 of life ; and to-day I was refused admittance to liis 
 iiouse. It does seem strange, that a man, of Mr 
 Alton's position, should be detained in custody on 
 the simple word of a woman nobody knows ; and I 
 am glad that the newspapers have taken up the 
 ■case. It is scandalous, sir ; scandalous I * and he 
 emphatically danced the tongs on the rug. 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said the austere man^ slowly ; 
 but as if he were painfully exercised by the 
 thought. ^ I am afraid that;, whichever way this 
 case goes, it will injure business. It is a most 
 unpleasant prospect.^ 
 
 ' Business ! Bless my soul, !Mr Hendry, can 
 you think of nothing^ but business at such a time 
 as this ? "When a wife's heart is well-nis^h broken 
 by the reproach that has been cast on her husband ; 
 when their beautiful child is flitting about the 
 house like a spectre, her ej^es red with weeping, 
 because she cannot conjecture the cause of her 
 mother's grief or her father's absence ! Pardon 
 my heat, sir, but I cannot conceive how you can 
 think of business for a moment, or, thinking of it, 
 have the conscience to express your thoughts ! ' 
 And he flung the tongs from him, sat back in his 
 chair, and twirled his thumbs, while he gazed 
 contemptuously on Mr Alton's partner. But Mr 
 Hendry was not put out in the slightest. 
 
 * You say, Mr Beeds, that the old man is a Jew ? 
 
 ' I was informed to that eS'ect,' he answered 
 shortly.
 
 74 PRINKLE AND HIS TKIENDS. 
 
 *■ Perhaps, sir, you liave heard of my scheme 
 for the conversion of the Jews ? My Lord Med- 
 waydown is chairman of the society^ but, in reality, 
 I am its author.' 
 
 ^WeU, sir?' 
 
 ' Oh, I meant only to refer to the subject? 
 believing that this might be a favourable opj^or- 
 tunity to impress upon you the importance of its 
 object. Have you supported the scheme in any 
 way, Mr Beeds ? ' he asked, furtively casting his 
 eyes between the bars of the grate. 
 
 * I have not, sir ; nor do I intend to do so.' 
 ' May I ask, why ? ' 
 
 * You may ; but it'll be pleasanter for you and 
 me if you don't.' This answer made it plain to 
 Mr Hendry that the little lawyer was in no mood 
 now to brook a continuation of the veiled insolence 
 with which his share of the conversation, through- 
 out the whole evening, had been replete ; so he 
 rose to his feet, and yawned deliberately. 
 
 * It is half past eleven o'clock, Mr Beeds : I 
 shall go to bed now. Do you sit up late ? ' 
 
 ' 'Not generally ; but I pray you not to wait on 
 my accomit. I can find my way upstairs alone. 
 Good night, Mr Hendry ; ' and he made himself 
 comfortable in his chair, as his austere friend strode 
 from the room. 
 
 Mr Twentyman Beeds was quite at a loss to un- 
 derstand the manner of Mr Hendry towards him- 
 self; but it had always been so, and he could account 
 for it in no other way than by believing that the
 
 NEW FACES. 
 
 75 
 
 rigid righteousness of 3Ir Alton's partner forbade 
 his associating with a hireling of the world, one of 
 the Devil^s Own. Nevertheless, our lawyer was a 
 warm-hearted little man, and although there was 
 nothing ostentatiously pious about him, there was 
 that, better far, deep down in his soul, that was 
 kind and true. Moreover, he was a sociable man, 
 and at this particular time, being badly off for a 
 companion, he took from the grate one of the larg- 
 est pieces of coal left, and holding it up before him 
 with the tongs, began to soliloquize over it in a 
 desultory fashion. 
 
 ^ There are men,' he muttered, ' in whom there's 
 no more human nature than there's light in this 
 cinder. There was, but it's gone out : cold, un- 
 sociable, and unkind. David Hendry's one of 
 them. " Hastening to be rich " has turned him 
 into stone. Austerity and piety have chiselled him 
 into a Pharisee. God forbid ! It's not for me to 
 judge ; but then, it's so difficult, at times, not to. 
 I'm not what I ought to be myself; there's some- 
 thing awanting. I don't know what it is. I live 
 for the best, and if I don't live lij the best, I live 
 as I was bred. IN'o doubt we lawyers subsist on 
 the SLQS and disorders of humanity ; it's very hard 
 when you look at it in that light ; but it has a 
 bright side too, and it's consolatory to feel that 
 one's individual aim^ at any rate, is concord and 
 goodwill. I wonder if Hendry has a heart ? 
 When I see the like of him, out of whom every- 
 thins: like warm human nature has been crushed
 
 76' 
 
 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 by the cares of business ; — and there are tricks of 
 commerce as there are tricks of law ; — I can cry 
 " Hurrah for the Law ! '' and think it the best 
 trade going.' 
 
 Whether Mr Twentyman Beeds had borrowed 
 his exuberant spirits from the decanter that stood 
 on the table beside him^ we do not care to say, but 
 certainly he was very jolly in spite of his depreci- 
 ation of commercial men. And yet his thoughts 
 were not wholly festive. 
 
 ' Poor Mrs Alton ! ' he said to himself. ' Indeed, 
 I am sorr}- for her. But it'll be all right, I dare 
 say : I'm sure of it.' But he said this as if his 
 fears belied his hope. ^Yet, when everything 
 seems to be going against Mr Alton, when his 
 name is clouded with a suspicion of the worst dis- 
 grace, that man — that man Hendry — who has been 
 the partner of his success for years, and at this 
 moment living under the same roof with his grief- 
 stricken wife, has not a word of reassurance for her 
 before her face, or a note of symj)athy for her be- 
 hind her back ; not that he is untouched by the 
 misfortune ! for, Grod bless me ! — it has entered 
 into the marrow of his soul, and. his devout, and 
 onl}' prayer is, that it won't injure business ! Bah, 
 I despise him ! ' 
 
 And Mr Beeds, in his little excitement, was not 
 careful enough, so that the coal fell, breaking into 
 fragments on the rug. Down he got on his knees 
 at once, — at least, as quickly as a general rotundity 
 would allow, for nature had dealt liberally with
 
 NEW FACES. 77 
 
 him,, and lie was no sylpli. But the exertion of 
 throwing the hot pieces into the grate, and of ap- 
 plying his nose to the rug and smelling it all over, 
 brought the perspiration to his brow, and in his 
 flurry he wiped it off, leaving streaks of black all 
 over his face. 
 
 This exertion^ he thought, had its deserts ; and 
 they were duly satisfied by a glass of what was in 
 the decanter ; after which he tied a silk handker- 
 chief under his chin and over his head, as old men 
 do, and lay back in an easy-chair. 
 
 ' Hang that fellow Hendry ! If it hadn't been 
 for him, that rug would never have been singed.' 
 
 He took a cigar from his case, and struck a 
 light ; and as he lay back in his chair, with his 
 dumpy legs stretched out, he presented a very 
 comfortable^ though somewhat ludicrous figure. 
 If the line of beauty lies in a curve, our lawj-er 
 might have been a Yenus de 3Iedici, for he was all 
 curves. Indeed, so remarkable was this, that the 
 cigar in his mouth, the ultimate button on his 
 waistcoat, and the elevation of his toes, were like 
 60 many alphabetical points in a mathematical 
 diagram. From A to B vou could draw a straisfht 
 line ; from B to C you could do the same ; but if 
 you were to cut off the elevation between A and C, 
 you would reduce Mr Twentj^man Beeds to a dire 
 extremity, and make him as flat as a coffin lid. 
 
 Thus he lay, with the handkerchief tied in a 
 great knot on the top of his head, long black marks 
 all over his beaming countenance, while his sharp
 
 VO PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 little eyes looked out, from beneatli his shaggy eye- 
 brows, at the rings of smoke rising from his mouth, 
 watching them becoming wider, and thinner, and 
 more indistinct, until they vanished in the cloudy 
 canopy of the room. 
 
 * Hem ! Hem ! ' 
 
 There was a cough on the stair, which caused 
 a sudden commotion among the lawyer's limbs. 
 He threw the remains of his cigar into the grate, 
 got up, and listened at the door till he heard foot- 
 steps, and then came back to his seat and stretched 
 himself out as before, apparently unconcerned. 
 
 The parlour door vv'as opened — slowly, as if by 
 a cat, and Mr Hendry, not gone to bed yet, stood 
 at the door, handle in hand, and sniffed with a 
 cold, austere sniff. '■ You have been smoking, Mr 
 Beeds ? ' he said^ stepping in, and looking around 
 the room, ^ I think I must have left my handker- 
 chief somewhere about.'' 
 
 * I hope, sir, you don't find the smoke disagree- 
 able ? ' AYithout turning to Mr Beeds, he raised 
 his hand as if to say^ * Not for the world,' but 
 answered, ' I do not like it. But pray do not 
 mind me, Mr Beeds. I wonder what has become 
 of that handkerchief ! ' 
 
 Mr Hendry was one of those men whose eyes 
 are continually avoiding those of their neighbour ; 
 so that, in his search for the handkerchief, he did 
 not once look upon Mr Beeds, or he would have 
 observed the missing article tied comfortably round 
 that gentleman's head ! Mr Beeds, who was quite
 
 NEW FACES. /y 
 
 TinconscIoTis of this, got up to look around also ; 
 and as tlieir faces met, Mr Hendry started in- 
 Yoluntarily, at seeing the lawyer's countenance 
 streaked with black, and girt about by the very 
 article for which he was seeldng. The eyes were 
 withdrawn at once^ but thej^ wandered significantly 
 to the almost empty decanter standing with the 
 stopper out. 
 
 Xot having the moral courage to tell Mr 
 Beeds whose that handkerchief was, which he wore, 
 he glided out. 
 
 * Good night, Mr Beeds. I shall not disturb 
 you further. It is not absolutely' necessary that 
 I should have it to-night. Good night, again ! ' 
 And bestowing another glance on the decanter, he 
 shut the door. 
 
 The little lawyer had noticed t^ese two special 
 glances, and was at no loss to understand what 
 they impKed. He was beside himself with indig- 
 nation. 
 
 * Does the fellow think I'm tipsy ? Hang his 
 insolence ! I don't believe he's lost his handker- 
 chief after all. He only wanted to spoil my cigar ! ' 
 And he angrily pulled off the article in question, 
 innocently put it in his pocket, and stamped up 
 and down the room. 
 
 After two or three minutes, he took out his 
 watch, and was thinking of retiring, when the door 
 opened, and a young face peeped in. 
 
 'Has l\Ir Hendry gone for the night, Mr 
 Beeds ? '
 
 80 PEINKLE AND HIS FllIENDS. 
 
 * I hope SO, Mary ; but come in. You should 
 have been in bed long ago, dear/ 
 
 And in there stepped a beautiful girl of fifteen. 
 He took her kindly by the hand. 
 
 ' Eeally, my little pet, you should have been 
 in bed hours ago. Tv^hy, your eyes are quite red 
 because you have robbed them of their rest ! 
 "What has kept you so late, Mary ? ' 
 
 The girl shivered slightly, and looked round. 
 ' I was waiting till he would go. I wished to speak 
 with you alone.' 
 
 The lawyer again sat himself in his chair, and, 
 being an old familiar friend, he drew her to his 
 side, so that her long fair hair flowed gracefully 
 over his arm. 
 
 ' What is it, darling ? ' 
 
 ' Do tell me, Mr Eeeds,^ she said, turning her 
 eyes upon his with affection. * What is it that 
 grieves mamma ? ' 
 
 ' It'll be all right, child. It'll be all right in 
 a day or so. But what makes you put such a 
 queer question to me ? "Whj don't you. ask your 
 mamma ? ' 
 
 * I've done so : often. But she won't answer, 
 and it only brings the tears to her eyes. Why is 
 papa not here to comfort her ? She won't tell me 
 that either.' 
 
 ' Oh,^ replied the less scrupulous lawyer, ' he's 
 absent on business ; he'll be back in a day or so.' 
 
 The girl was silent for a little while, and the 
 tears gathered fast as the pleasant old man
 
 XEW FACES. 81 
 
 smoothed back the hair from her brow. Again 
 she looked softly in his face.' 
 
 * You won't tell me, I see ? ' 
 
 'No, Mary,' he answered tenderly, *I can't 
 tell you. You must know that lawyers haye 
 secrets which it would not do to giye to little girls. 
 The mystery of the law must be respected as well 
 as its majesty — d'ye see .^ No mystery — no law: 
 — that's the motto ! ^ And wdth this little plea- 
 santry he tried to cajole Mary's sad expression 
 into a smile. She did smile. 
 
 * What are those marks on your face, Mr Beeds ? ' 
 ^ Marks I T^Tiy — what d'ye mean ? ^ and he 
 
 stroked his face and looked at his hand_, quite 
 puzzled. 
 
 ' T\Tiy, your face is all oyer w^th dark streaks, 
 Mr Beeds.' 
 
 * Dear me ! How can this be ? ' and he was 
 becoming quite flustered, when suddenly he recol- 
 lected. 'Ah, I see,' he cried, and he began to 
 explain how he was afraid that he had de^ 
 stroyed her mammals rug by letting the coal drop 
 upon it ; and he was not loath to turn the inci- 
 dent to account for the purpose of amusing Mary. 
 
 'AYhat a stupid old man I am, to be sure. 
 But, really, you are tired, Mary ; you must go off 
 to bed.' 
 
 ' I see you don't wish to tell me,' she said. 
 
 ' No, no, Mary. Run away. You would not 
 expect me to be serious with such a face.' 
 
 ' Good night, then, Mr Beeds.' 
 
 VOL. I, 6
 
 82 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 * Good niglit, dear.' And when lie had kissed 
 her she glided from the room. 
 
 As soon as the door was shut, he turned on his 
 heel. ' Bless my heart/ he cried, * she's a woman 
 already, so far as curiosity goes ! ' 
 
 Mr Beeds took another look at the rug, to see 
 if it was badly burned, and he again sat down, 
 bringing the decanter into close proximity at his 
 elbow. 
 
 It is not for us to interpose with the assurance 
 that Mr Beeds was no slave to the seductive 
 draught, but we allow that your moderate dram- 
 drinker is a man of easy virtue, and that with 
 him, when he is alone and inclined to be sociable, 
 an ordinary supply of liquor is likely to meet 
 with an untimely end. Indeed, we are bound to 
 confess that such was the case with our little 
 lawyer, for when he again thought of retiring to 
 revel among the pillows, he found it rather a 
 difficult matter to turn off the light. He worked 
 about the gas-lamp for some time, blowing and 
 puffing, for he could by no means lay his fingers 
 on the turning- cock, the designer seemingly hav- 
 ing exercised all his ingenuity to conceal it by 
 forming it like one of the flowers that were 
 moulded round the pipe. 
 
 ' Where's the cock,' he muttered in great per- 
 plexity. * Wonder what they've done with the 
 cock. What do they mean by not making the 
 €0ck distinct ? ' 
 
 There is no saying how long he should have
 
 NEW FACES. 83 
 
 been required to wait had accident not done for 
 him what his invention could not accomplish_, and 
 there having been only one burner lighted, he was 
 unexpectedly left in the dark. This was ex- 
 cessively awkward in his present condition, the 
 more especially that he had not taken the geo- 
 graphical bearings of the table, the chairs, and 
 the door. Even had Mr Beeds been in the habit 
 of using expletives,, he must have remained silent, 
 for he could not possibly have done justice to the 
 thoughts which arose in his mind, there in the 
 dark room, with regard to the entire brass-found- 
 ing and gas-lamp manufacturing community. 
 
 Making as little noise as possible he began to 
 clamber up- stairs, and when he had gained his 
 room he fell across his bed in an exhausted state, 
 again wiping with Mr Hendry^ s handkerchief the 
 perspiration from his face. 
 
 By and by he sat up, and when he began to 
 reflect on his condition he was utterly ashamed of 
 himself, but when he turned up the light and re- 
 cognized the handkerchief for which Mr Hendry 
 had been seeking, he was filled with horror that 
 he should have acted so weakly in the presence of 
 one whom he despised. But he was too tired to 
 give extended thought to such disagreeable re- 
 flections, and in a few minutes from the time he 
 began to undress, he rolled into bed, and in a little 
 while his nasal organ gave audible demonstration 
 that he slept.
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 ALONE IN THE STREETS. 
 
 The first few clays passed' by, and notliiug • 
 further liapj)ened to Robert Trevor tbat in any 
 way disturbed the routine into whicli business bad 
 drawn him. Already he was hoine-sick ; London 
 to him was dreary ; in the office he felt very 
 much like a caged bird, and he now wished 
 that he were back in Tevs^ton, romping through 
 the fields with the genial little Maud by his 
 side, no care to depress him, and no sorrow to 
 subdue. 
 
 In Tewton his movements had ever been, 
 watched Vvith mysterious observation on the part 
 of the villagers, but in London his advent had 
 created no commotion, business had not in the 
 slightest degree been disturbed by his appearance; 
 and he now found that he was but a drop in the 
 ocean, and, as he thought, a very small drop in- 
 deed. His boyish, country notions had led him 
 to expect something difierent from this, that, at 
 least, he should have been made the object of some 
 little regard ; and he was naturally chagrined 
 that nobody noticed him as the boy newty come 
 to London, that no deference was paid to him, and 
 that the world should have the audacit}- to go on 
 as it went before. 
 
 Bob had arrived at the most critical period in a
 
 ALOXE IN THE STREETS. 85 
 
 1)0y's life. There is not a father, not a mother, we 
 believe, who in committing a son to business in some 
 distant city does not realize, to some extent, the 
 temptations to which j'outh, there, is ever exposed : 
 yet how very little is often done to make this new 
 path safer. The parents come to town, look about 
 for suitable lodgings, and eventually settle upon 
 rooms seemingly well furnished, in which all the 
 comforts of a home are proverbially guaranteed. 
 The said comforts being understood to consist of re- 
 spectable upholstery, a fire-place, and meals served 
 well. In the novel style of life the lad at first 
 feels uneasy, as if in a new suit of clothes which 
 somehow or other don't fit, although he can't tell 
 where or why. As the days pass numerous incon- 
 venient flaws in the furniture, and general arrange- 
 ments, become patent. The great easy-chair is 
 found to be rickety, two large incombustibles are 
 placed in the grate to economize the fuel, the chim- 
 ney smokes, a leg will persist in withdrawing its 
 support from the table every time it is moved, the 
 tea-pot leaks, and everything about the place seems 
 to be subsiding into a general dilapidation. Still 
 it is his home, and as such, his castle ; he can go 
 u'hen he will and where he will, indulging himself 
 in anj^thing short of growling at his landlady, 
 which, for obvious reasons, must be done in private. 
 He is altogether dependent on his own resources 
 for recreation ; the companionship, the confidence, 
 the restraint of home and parents are all sus- 
 pendedj and he dangerously left to form com-
 
 86 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 panionsliip where he may, and enter into con- 
 fidence with, whom — God knows ! 
 
 The first month in lodgings may pass quietly 
 enough with a series of suppressed j^awns and vain 
 wearyings, but such a state of matters cannot exist 
 longer, it is against human nature that it should, 
 and the lad sallies out of an evening, without the 
 shadow of a purpose or desire, wanders about 
 town, listlessly at first, until that under-circle of 
 society, which is ever moving round, drags him 
 in. His tastes are perverted, he finds his enjoy- 
 ment in pleasure of an unhomely sort, which is not 
 happiness ; his pleasure must be excitement, his 
 excitement sin, and so on and on, away surely 
 down the sliding scale of life ! 
 
 Thank Heaven ! there are many exceptions 
 to this, in which the comforts and the companion- 
 ships of home are enjoyed, or, failing these, where 
 the youth has that within him which is more of a 
 kingdom to him than the land he lives in ; but it 
 does not lessen the obligation which lies with 
 parents to provide for their sons who are cast 
 upon the city wholesome recreation and com- 
 panionship for leisure hours, remembering that 
 they are boys — not girls, and as such are soon to 
 become men ! 
 
 Like the great majority of boys, Bob had been 
 duly cautioned against going to theatres, music- 
 halls, and other places of amusement, which are gen- 
 erally esteemed, among quiet-going countr}' people, 
 as so many temples in which the passing stranger
 
 ALOXE IN THE STREETS. 87 
 
 may receive Yiaticum for hell ; and yet lie had 
 been told of no source at which he might quench 
 his thirst for companionship, or receive provision 
 by the way, if his inclination led him to a more 
 desirable destination. It was not long before Bob 
 began to feel this neglect ; and to him it looked as 
 if he had been carelessly cast upon the waters and 
 left to sink or swim. What had become of his 
 aunt ? Was this inattention of hers like the 
 tenderness with which she used to regard him ? 
 And, alternatelj^ the feelings of resentment and 
 affection would rise within him when he ques-' 
 tioned thus. Then there was the mystery of his 
 parentage. On that point he knew that he was 
 growing older, for the questionings to which 
 Yictor had subjected him, with regard to his 
 father and mother, had shamed him to the very 
 depths of his being, and his failing to answer, 
 or his answering vaguely, had covered him with 
 confusion. It was all very well, among the 
 daisies and sweet milk of Tewton, where his life 
 was a holiday, ere this subject had ever occasioned 
 him a serious thought ; but he was growing older 
 now, he was living at a higher pressure, and he 
 knew that his ignorance, besides being a hidden 
 reproach to himself, rendered him liable, at any 
 time, to Victor's flouts and sneers. It was this 
 very shame which caused him to eschew the 
 friends to whom the Prinkles might have in- 
 troduced him, lest the}^ might make Idndly in- 
 quiry about his relatives, which, however well
 
 88 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 meant, would have stung him to the quick. The 
 resentment that had first been roused bv Victor's 
 questionings was rapidh^ gaining strength and 
 form, and while he felt that he had no right to 
 approach Mr Woodrow on the subject, he deter- 
 mined that he would not part with his aunt 
 Katherine Trail again, until she had told him all. 
 This resolution was fixed in his mind, and he knew 
 that he had onty to wait and weary till she came. 
 
 Close by the Prinkles^ house there was a little 
 shop in which a diminutive, hump-backed man 
 retailed tobacco, lent out books on hire, and sup- 
 plied general stationery and account books of 
 every description, wholesale to the trade — which 
 magnanimous intimation was made in great 
 crooked characters on a dilapidated sign-board over 
 the door. Mr Prinkle had recommended this 
 place as a pleasant resort, and on the evening of 
 the second day Bob began to make friends with 
 the little man. On the following evening he came 
 again^ and he was sitting in the sanctum at the 
 back, while his friend attended to the varied wants 
 of his customers. !N^ewspapers were lying tossed 
 about the room, and from sheer listlessness he took 
 up one dated the previous day, and began to look 
 through it. 
 
 What could there be in its pages to make him 
 read so keenly ? His eyes sparkle ; his cheek be 
 comes flushed ! He is intent upon a paragraph 
 which he reads and re-reads. Then he meditates 
 over it for some time, and again takes to reading 
 it with aviditv.
 
 ALONE IX THE STREETS. 
 
 89 
 
 The paragraph is entitled — * Gentleman 
 charged with an assault of a grievous nature, 
 committed in a Eailway Carriage/ — and it sets 
 forth that a gentleman belonging to the City had 
 been given into custody by a woman upon this 
 serious charge ; that the gentleman denies it, and 
 avers that, shortly after his entering the carriage, 
 the woman, whom he found there, began gesticu- 
 lating violently, and that, on his remonstrating 
 with her, she threw her arms about his neck, 
 knocking his hat off; that he did use force in try- 
 ing to make her keep her seat, but in this alone. 
 
 "Were it not that such paragraphs appear too 
 frequently in the papers, we might quote this one 
 in full ; but, as it is, we only give the concluding 
 sentences : 
 
 * As this gentleman fills a respectable position 
 in societ}', we forbear, for obvious reasons, to di- 
 vulge his name now; he is, however, detained in 
 custody. The woman will also be detained until 
 the authorities are able to satisfy themselves as to 
 her respectability. We hope to be able to give 
 further information in to-morrow's issue. The 
 gentleman is a Scotchman.-' 
 
 It was very natural that Bob should become 
 excited over this, for it had occurred in the very 
 train by which he had come from 81oward to Lon- 
 don. He at once searched among the newspapers 
 for the further information, and found the follow- 
 ing in the issue referred to : 
 
 * As it is now useless for us to conceal the name 
 of the gentleman charged, we give it, and doubt
 
 90 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 not that many of our readers will be astonlslied to 
 learn that it is Mr John Alton, of Messrs Alton 
 and Hendry, which firm has long held a position 
 of respectability in the manufacturing trade, both 
 in this city and in Manchester. Yesterday, when 
 he was brought up for examination, the woman, 
 Sarah Traynor, repeated her former statement, and 
 added that Mr Alton had offered her a sum of 
 money to hush the matter up. The accused, of 
 course, denies her statements in toto, as being from 
 beginning to end a tissue of falsehoods ; but allows 
 that he may have been the cause of her torn dress 
 during the scuffle, though he cannot be certain. He 
 still holds to what he said with regard to her vio- 
 lent conduct, and, in keeping with his story, was 
 much surprised and shocked when, on arriving at 
 the railway station, she brought the present charge 
 against him. The examination was adjourned 
 until to-morrow, and in the mean time Miss Sarah 
 Traynor, having found security for her appearance, 
 has been allowed to go. Mr Alton seems to feel 
 his position keenly, and meanwhile we would ad- 
 vise our readers to suspend their judgment in the 
 case. "With all due deference to magisterial wis- 
 dom, we submit that the simple word of a woman 
 unknown, even though she may have a sum of ^ 
 money to back her, should not be sufficient to keep 
 a man of Mr Alton's position in custody for three 
 days on such an odious, unlikely charge. We offer 
 our sympathy to his family, and earnestly hope 
 that this cloud which now hangs over them may 
 soon pass away.'
 
 ALONE IN THE STREETS. 91 
 
 Robert Trevor was in a state of great excite- 
 ment, he remembered perfectly every incident that 
 had occurred during his journey, everything about 
 the woman and her extraordinary conduct ; and 
 he weighed that conduct in the light of the two 
 paragraphs before him, set the woman down as an 
 impostor, and IMr Alton as an innocent man. What 
 was he to do ? One thing was certain, that he 
 must lose no time in making himself acquainted 
 with the unfortunate gentleman's family. But 
 how was he to do this ? — he, a mere boy, only three 
 days in London, unfamiliar with its manners, a 
 stranger among its streets, a drop in its ocean of 
 Hfe. 
 
 Mr Prinkle, he thought, was no man from 
 whom to ask advice on such a subject ; and if he 
 waited until he saw Mr Woodrow, it might be too 
 late, and in all likelihood Mr Alton would be com- 
 mitted for trial. What was he to do ? At last a 
 thought struck him, and he laid the whole story 
 before the little hump-backed man, who listened 
 to it with anxiety in every furrow of his face. At 
 its conclusion he was not a whit less excited than 
 Bob, and he rubbed his hands eagerly. 
 
 ' You^re a made man, you are ! If I had had 
 the same opportunity ! AYhat a world this is, to be 
 sure ; why, I have waited on the tide these forty 
 years, and yours is at the flood already ! You 
 must be off to Mr Alton's house at once — there is 
 no time to lose.' 
 
 ' But how am I to know where he lives ? * 
 
 The man caught up the postal directory, and.
 
 02 PPJNIvLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 after his agitated finger had wandered about for 
 a time, it stopped. 
 
 ' That's the place. Number Three, Esther 
 Square ; ' and he looked at the clock. 
 
 * But how am I to know where Esther Square 
 is ? I know nothing of the city. And the night 
 is wet.' 
 
 * It's away on the other side of London.' 
 He was as wise as ever. 
 
 * I wish I could have gone with you, but I 
 can't. You must drive. Have you money ? ' 
 
 He had still the remains of Mrs Clayton's sove- 
 reign. 
 
 ' All right. Here you, girl ; fetch a cab at 
 once ! JSTow don't sleep over the road, will you ! ' 
 
 The shop-girl stared for a moment, then ran oiff, 
 wondering what the tobacco, library, or stationery 
 trade could possibly w^ant with such a commodity. 
 The cab vras brought, and the girl afterwards told 
 all her friends that she had been for it. 
 
 ' Now, jump in. I'll tell Mr Prinkle you'll be 
 late. Number Three, Esther Square, my man. 
 Be off, and drive like life and death ! ' 
 
 ' Extra fare, sir,' smirked cabby, touching his 
 hat. 
 
 * Drive on, will you ! ' he cried angrily. 
 
 * Is the 3'ounker's life insured, sir ? ' inquired 
 the wag. 
 
 * Drive on, I say ! ' 
 
 ' All right, old cockulorum ; don't bust ! Go 
 it, my Arabian ! ' and he tipped up the ears of as
 
 ALONE IN THE STREETS. 93 
 
 shabby a superannuated London hack as ever drew 
 breath. 
 
 Away they flew ; but as soon as they were 
 round the corner, the horse cooled down into a 
 philosophical jog-trot, as if it were under the im- 
 pression that its exertions were paid for by the hour. 
 During the drive, which was a long one, Bob 
 was regardless of everything that was passing 
 around him in real life, and his imagination grew 
 bigger and wider, as he built his stupendous cas- 
 tles in the air. He wasn't in a cab ; he was in a 
 court of justice. He saw a grave man upon the 
 bench, and he saw multitudes of barristers moving 
 about, with sombre faces and profound, as if fully 
 alive to the responsibility of their profession. 
 There was an awe pervading the whole court 
 when he rose to give his evidence ; the audience 
 remained still, with bated breath ; and as sentence 
 after sentence fell from his lips, he saw the learned 
 wigs nodding significantly to each other ; and he 
 read afterwards, in the papers, that at the conclu- 
 sion of Mr Robert Trevor's evidence, the applause 
 in the gallery could hardl}- be suppressed ! There 
 is no saying what more he would have imagined, 
 had the cab not been drawn up suddenly in Esther 
 Square, shattering his castle like a mirror. 
 
 There he was before ]S"umber Three, without 
 the most remote idea how he should introduce 
 himself. 
 
 ' Is this dumber Three ? ' he inquired of cabby, 
 for it was now pretty dark.
 
 94 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 * Ii[umber Three, sir ; if the liglit of this 'ere 
 lamp serves me/ 
 
 He alighted and iniiocentl}^ asked what was 
 the fare ? 
 
 ^ Six shillings, sir.' 
 
 * Six shillings ! That is surely too much.' 
 
 * Not a hap' worth, sir. Extra fare, sir,^ and 
 he respectfully touched his hat. 
 
 * But you didn^t drive fast.' 
 
 ' You see^ sir,' said cabby, taking off his hat, 
 and working his fingers in it, as if he had left some 
 of his ideas there — ' You see, sir ; this 'ere hanomil 
 respects the laws of his country, and likewise takes 
 advantage of them hevery opportoonity. 'E's 
 learnt a lesson has this 'ere brute ; ^e's been took 
 up them nine blessed times for furious drivin', and 
 the last time as he was took up, the magerstrate 
 swore 'e was to be] shot the wery next time as he 
 was apprehended again.' 
 
 Bob was in no mood for chaffering, so he paid 
 the money, and the man drove off, politely inform- 
 ing him that he would be most happy to serve him 
 any day on the same terms. Three-and-six was 
 the legal fare ; but cabmen ai'e like physicians, 
 they name their fees according to the circum- 
 stances of their victim. With his heart all in a 
 flutter, he ran up the steps and rang the bell. 
 After what looked like an age, the door was opened 
 by a stout negro boy, who rejoiced in the name of 
 x^apolian. 
 
 Bob stammered out something, almost inarticu-
 
 . ALONE IN THE STREETS. 95 
 
 lately, for he liad never seen, a negro in real life 
 tni now. 
 
 ^Sar?' 
 
 * I — I — Vxe come to speak with !Mrs Alton, 
 sir.' We believe that the ' sir ' to a nigger was 
 not so much the result of natural politeness in Bob, 
 as the confusion into which he had been plunged. 
 
 ' Can't see Missis Alton to-night, sar. Missis 
 Alton is in her own room, sar.' 
 
 ' It is on business of the utmost importance,' 
 urged Bob. 
 
 ' 'Structions, sar : — must keep to 'structions. 
 She can't see nobody to-night, sar.' And he was 
 shutting the door when Bob interposed his foot. 
 
 ' Is there any one else in ? I must see some 
 responsible person.' 
 
 * Most responsible bein' alive in the world, sar, 
 is the cook ; but she can't see nobod}^ neither : — 
 she's got company.' And he again tried to close 
 the door, but Bob persevered and got his leg in. 
 
 * Go away, sar : go away. Keep out, will you ? 
 There now, git out, or I'll bite your nose off.' And 
 he showed a formidable set of teeth, which Bob 
 thought would be quite equal to the occasion. 
 
 But Trevor was determined. * I must see some 
 one, and will not go away,' he cried, stamping his 
 foot, * untn I have done so.' 
 
 There was a light in the servant's dark eye ; 
 he chattered with his teeth and grinned horribly. 
 * Git along, you skunk ! ' and he struck the boy on 
 the breast, so that he reeled out upon the steps.
 
 96 PPJNKLE AND HIS FEIEND3. 
 
 The door was shut with, a bang, and he was left 
 alone ! 
 
 There was little of castle-building in his mind 
 now ; his breast was sore, not so much, from the 
 stroke, as from the despair to which he began to 
 give way. The rain, which had been drizzling 
 before, was now pouring steadily down ; but there 
 were other drops, besides these, which fell upon 
 the steps. In his despair he tried the door again, 
 but in A'ain ; the wet street was before him, and he 
 reluctantly walked into it, sorely vexed and cast 
 down. 
 
 What was he to do ? It was after nine o'clock, 
 he was far from home, and the rain was falling 
 heavily. In spite of all this, he never lost the 
 sense of responsibility which was laid upon him:, 
 and, as a last chance, he took up his post before the 
 house, hoping to catch some one going in. 
 
 The time passes slowly and drearily ; his thin 
 garments are soaked with rain, and he is cold and 
 weary. Yehicle after vehicle rolls past, but no 
 one stops at Number Three. The city bells toll 
 ten ; every stroke sounding with a deeper and a 
 hoarser clang ! Shivering, and weary, and wet, he 
 looks around the square. The windows are blazing 
 with light, shadows of fair forms flit across the 
 panes, and the waves of music come to him 
 through the rain. What a contrast with Number 
 Three I He hears no music there, not a window 
 is lit ; for it is a house of reproach, silent as the 
 grave. Well does Bob know this^ and his heart
 
 ALOXE IN THE STEEETS. 97 
 
 beats with renewed animation when lie thinks of 
 the change which his evidence may yet accom- 
 plish ; how that, as with the wand of a magician, 
 he may yet bring light and happiness into this 
 desolate home. 
 
 And now, his protracted agonj^ begins to con- 
 quer even these bright thoughts ; for, is it not 
 agony to have the generous impulse crushed 
 within you by those whom you would befriend ? 
 Bjs clothes are sticking coldly to his skin; 
 his energy is slipping fast. The cit}^ bells now 
 toll eleven ; everj^ stroke acting as the stroke 
 of a hammer breaking up the little hope that lin- 
 gers in his breast. He rings again^ and again the 
 door is rudely shut. What if no one should come 
 to-nio^ht ? Still there is a somethins: that chains 
 him to the spot ; he cannot go. The night wears 
 on, and the rain clears away. Exhausted, he leans 
 against the rails. A strange torpor falls softly, 
 like a comfortable cloak, around him ; a heaviness 
 presses on his shoulders ; he is weak, and sways 
 from side to side ; he grasps the railings while his 
 knees shiver and bend, and he sinks easilj^ upon 
 the steps. That strange drowsiness again creeps 
 over all his frame ; his head nods upon his breast; 
 he dreams of his own warm bed, of Maud, and the 
 bright green fields of Tewton ; the boy is asleep, 
 alone and unknown, at midnight, in the streets of 
 London I 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 THE LEVITE AND THE SAMARITAN. 
 
 * And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked 
 on him, and passed by on the other side. 
 
 But a certain Samaritan came where he was, and when 
 
 he saw him, he had compassion on him.' — Luke x. 32, 33. 
 
 When Mr Twentyman Beeds awoke in the 
 morning lie had but a confused recollection of the 
 incidents of the preceding night ; his tongue was 
 parched, and, to add to his discomfort, he had a 
 grievous headache and a sense of shame. What- 
 ever were his weaknesses he had the fortitude to 
 acknowledge his fault, and when he met Mr 
 Hendry in the breakfast-parlour he offered an 
 ample apology, which was received with the 
 blandest of smiles. 
 
 It was rather an awkward opening to the day's 
 proceedings, for arrangements had already been 
 made that he and Mr Hendry should occup}^ them- 
 selves in searching for evidence, against the ex- 
 amination of Mr Alton which was fixed for the 
 next day. 
 
 Mrs Alton did not appear before they left, but 
 tsent word, from her own room, that she would be 
 ready to meet them when they returned at night. 
 
 It is not necessary for our story that we should 
 follow these gentlemen throughout the peregrin- 
 ations of that day ; the ground they had to travel.
 
 THE LEVITE AND THE SAMARITAN. 99 
 
 and the scenes into wMch they were led, were 
 foreign to both ; and in their inquiries after Sarah 
 Traynor they were brought into contact with 
 phases of life that might have provoked the 
 austere Mr Hendry to concentrate upon the lapsed 
 Christians at home some of those energies which 
 he was in the habit of dissipating on the Jews 
 abroad. In all they did they were aided by detect- 
 ives who knew every nook and corner of the city ; 
 but these gentlemen of the police, while they 
 could point out a number of individuals likely to 
 be able to speak to the manner of Sarah's life, 
 thought it advisable that Mr Beeds and Mr 
 Hendry, and not they themselves, should com- 
 municate with these women, for the reason that 
 they woidd have more freedom in speaking with 
 civilians, than with men whose office was the ob- 
 ject of their special dread. 
 
 Their efforts were crowned with considerable 
 success, and they were enabled to take the names 
 of several who volunteered to give the desired in- 
 formation, on oath, in a court of justice. Still, 
 Mr Beeds was not altogether satisfied, for, besides 
 making it necessary that he should request that 
 the examination be adjourned for another day, for 
 the purpose of calling his witnesses, he knew that 
 the evidence which he should then bring forward 
 would be eyed with susj)icion, seeing that these 
 women were more frequently before the court in 
 another capacity than that of testifying on their 
 oath.
 
 100 PRIXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Yet, sucli as it was, he' was thankful for what 
 he had got, and at a late hour he and Mr Hendry 
 were glad to quit the scenes of their research. 
 Before driving to Esther Square, they had supper 
 in the City, and Twentyman Beeds had further 
 opportunity of seeing through Mr Hendry. 
 
 * I never,' said the latter, when they were alone, 
 ' could have believed that there existed such de- 
 pravity ; and in the nineteenth century, too ; it is 
 horrible ! ' 
 
 * Yes, Mr Hendry, it is horrible ; but we have 
 ourselves to blame.' 
 
 ' Sir ! ' 
 
 ' I mean that our sex is to blame.' 
 
 ' Oh, it is horrible ! ' and Mr Hendry rubbed 
 his hands, and was excited, in spite of his wonted 
 austerity. ' I wonder it does not call down the 
 fires of Heaven ! ' 
 
 ' I do not wonder at it,' replied the lawyer, 
 calmly. ' It is well for us all, that the Divine fires 
 of vengeance are beyond the control of man.' 
 
 Mr Hendry, of course, acquiesced, in this, but 
 still he was astounded that such depravity should 
 exist in the nineteenth century. 
 
 * Well,' said the lawyer, ' I confess that I don't 
 see anything more particularly bad or good in the 
 nineteenth, than in other centuries.' 
 
 ^ Look at the strides we have made in Chris- 
 tian civilization ! ' 
 
 ^ Yes, but I am afraid that, in our strides, we 
 have gone over miles of decency, and inches of
 
 THE LEVITE AND TEE SA:iIAEITAN. 101 
 
 morality. The nature of man is still pretty much, 
 what it always was/ 
 
 * Yet, Mr Beeds, Christianity is making great 
 progress in foreign parts. Among the Jews in 
 Germany, for instance, it is positively astounding 
 the souls that are being gathered in. But you 
 can see for j'ourself,^ and he selected a bit of 
 letter-press, in pamphlet form, from the papers 
 in his pocket. ' That is an " Appeal '' from our 
 agents, and after you have read it, you may see 
 fit to reconsider your refusal to support the 
 scheme/ 
 
 Mr Beeds, of course, took the paper, but he did 
 not signify to Mr Hendry that there was any chance 
 of his changing his determination; on the contrary, 
 he had a strong inclination to open out on that 
 gentleman with regard to this ver}' scheme, but the 
 consciousness was painfully present with him that, 
 in view of the circumstances of the preceding night, 
 it would be somewhat impertinent in him to offer 
 his advice to one who seemed to be the acme of 
 righteousness, and the pink of rectitude. Mr Beeds 
 therefore ceased^ for the time, to combat any of 
 Hendry's propositions, and, consequently, that 
 gentleman's austerity was, for the moment, of a 
 modified t3'pe. 
 
 After supper they drove to Esther Square ; and 
 
 during the di'ive there was almost no conversation 
 
 between them, for the one was congratulating him- 
 
 - seK that business might not be so badlj- injured 
 
 .after all, while the other was anxious to meet with
 
 102 PKIXKLE AXD HIS FPJEXDS. 
 
 Mrs Alton^ so that she might be relieved by the 
 tidings of their success. 
 
 When they di-ew up at Namber Three, Mr 
 Hendry jumped out first, and, while the other was 
 settling with the driver, he kept turning over, with 
 his foot, something like a bundle that he had found 
 lying on the steps. 
 
 ' ^Tiat. have you got there ? ' inquired Mr 
 Beeds. 
 
 * Indeed, I hardly know ; but it looks like a — / 
 
 * Stop, stop; be careful,' cried the lawyer, bend- 
 ing down and catching away his leg. ^ Bless my 
 soul ! it is a child.' 
 
 ' I thought so. Better leave it, Mr Beeds ; it 
 is only an urchin ! ' 
 
 Only an urchin ! What a deal of Christian 
 charity is contained in these three words, in spite 
 of the cold contemptuous manner in which they 
 were uttered ! Mr Hendry was standing, on the 
 topmost step, impatiently. 
 
 * Leave him, Mr Beeds ; he is probably a rogue.' 
 The warm-hearted little man turned upon him, 
 
 and frowned bitterly through the dark. ^It is 
 quite possible he may be a rogue, though he does 
 not wear the look of one I ' 
 
 It was ver}^ seldom that Mr Twenty man Beeds 
 spoke with sarcasm — he was too kind-hearted for 
 that, but when he was roused he sometimes did 
 employ bitter language, the more bitter that it 
 was the language of a genial, charitable man. 
 
 'Well, well/ was the angry reply, 'have 
 your own way ! '
 
 THE LEVITE AND THE SAilAEITAX. 103 
 
 The door was opened, and Mr Hendry stood 
 in the doorway, smiling cjTiically on Mr Beeds, 
 who still busied himself trying to rouse Bob, for, 
 as the reader has already divined, it was he. 
 
 * Wake up ; wake up, my little man. "Will 
 3^ou stand out of the light, sir, that I may see the 
 lad. Bless my soul ! what a sweet young face ! 
 There is Kttle of the rogue here, Mr Hendry ; you 
 might assist me to ca-rry him in.' 
 
 * In, Mr Beeds ! What do j^ou mean ? In 
 where ? ' 
 
 * Into the house, to be sure ! You would not 
 leave a child to die in the streets, would you? 
 Wake up, my man ; wake up.' But Bob was 
 quite unconscious, and his head rolled on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 * Lend a hand : do, Mr Hendry,' he cried again, 
 in a most supplicatory tone. * There's nobody to 
 see 5^ou.' 
 
 But probably this was the very reason which 
 made the author of a scheme for the conversion 
 of the Jews turn Pharisaically from rendering as- 
 sistance to the insensible boy. And yet there 
 might be another reason, for in the commercial 
 world there is an established rule that a wholesale 
 firm may not interfere with the retail trade, and, 
 consequently, Mr Hendry, being a wholesale Chris- 
 tian, might think that his pro\'ince lay with a race 
 of Grerman Jews, and that it was proper that he 
 should leave to a retailer, like Mr Tvv'entyman 
 Beeds, such a miserably small transaction as that 
 of rescuing a boy from the streets !
 
 104 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Mr Hendry entered tlie house, leaving the 
 lawyer musingly nodding his head after him. 
 Mr Beeds did not speak, but he looked as if he 
 were swearing inwardly. Then he bent over Bob, 
 and putting forth all his strength, raised him in 
 his arms, and carried him triumphantly out of the 
 cold wet night. 
 
 Mr Hendry, who Vv\as leisurely taking off his 
 gloves, stood aside to allow the lawyer and the 
 thing he carried to pass; and as the gas-light 
 streamed down upon these two men, their faces 
 formed a most striking contrast. The one wore 
 an expression of coldness, austerity, and cynicism ; 
 while the other beamed with more humanity than 
 could possibly exist in a whole colony of Hendrys. 
 It was an insignificant thing to rescue a boy 
 from what might have been 'a death in the 
 streets,' but oh ! there was something infinitely 
 grand in being author of a scheme having for its 
 object the conversion of the Jews, and that_, too, 
 under the distinguished patronage of My Lord 
 Medwaydown ! Mr David Hendry fully under- 
 stood the exalted nature of his position'; he was 
 an upright man : j^es, upright and stiff as moral 
 starch could make him. Yet there was a soft 
 point in him too, — it might have been a con- 
 science, for he felt that Mr Beeds was acting a 
 humane, Christian part, and that he himself was 
 wrong in withholding his assistance. But there 
 was casuistry in him. 
 
 ' Hem, ahem ! ' he coughed, dryly. ^ Mr Alton
 
 THE LEVITE AND THE SAMAPJTAX. 105 
 
 "^ould require a much, larger house, Mr Beeds, if 
 you intend accommodating every urchin you find 
 sleeping in the streets.' 
 
 The lawyer, steadying his burden on a chair, 
 turned angrily. * If you have nothing more be- 
 coming to say, will you be silent, sir ? You vex 
 me. I do not pretend to much, but I cannot con- 
 ceal from you, Mr Hendry, that you have shocked 
 me!' " 
 
 The upright man thought that this was rather 
 too much to come from such as Mr Beeds ; but 
 there was enough of truth in it to make him quake 
 with rage ; and he clenched his fists, and was about 
 to denounce him sternly, when Mrs Alton appeared 
 on the scene. On seeing her he governed his wrath, 
 stammered out a lame excuse for not waiting with 
 her, and walked up-stairs with a stately step. 
 
 The lawyer merely noticed Mrs Alton, and 
 continued his efibrts to rouse the boy, who now 
 began to give signs of returning consciousness. 
 
 Mrs Alton was a handsome woman, but her 
 once beautiful — still noble face, was shadowed 
 with grief. And little wonder, too, for the agony 
 of anxiety which she had endured, for the last few 
 days, was beyond the power of utterance. At an- 
 other time there is nothing that would have en- 
 gaged her so quickly as a boy brought in from the 
 street, but it was difierent now, and she stood back, 
 trj-ing to hide her agitation, while Mr Beeds at- 
 tended to Bob, who had recovered so far that, in 
 clinging to him, he held the lawyer's ear in a des- 
 perate grip.
 
 106 PRINKLE AND HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 But Mrs Alton could bear tlie suspense no 
 longer, so she stepped forward and inquired of Mr 
 Beeds, in an agitated manner, about the results of 
 the day ; adding, as if to reassure herself before 
 he spoke^ * I know he is innocent ! ' 
 
 This ejaculation of hers had a powerful effect 
 on the boy, who was struggling hard with the 
 lawyer, and at once he comprehended all. 
 
 * And so do I !' he cried. ^ I know he is in- 
 nocent.' 
 
 Both were startled by this unexpected cry ; 
 but Mr Beeds explained how he had found him 
 insensible on the steps, and set it do^n as a part 
 of his raving. ^ We'll let him alone,' he whis- 
 pered ; ' he'll soon come round.' 
 
 ' Poor boy,' said Mrs Alton, taking him kindly 
 by the hand ; * I hope you will soon get well.' 
 
 He started to the floor. * I am neither poor^ 
 nor ill, nor raving ! How I got in here I do not 
 know ; though I tried hard to see you, Mrs Alton ! 
 Your husband is innocent of the crime with which 
 he is charged. I know it, ma'am ; I was there, 
 and know ! ' 
 
 There was an earnestness in the boy's excite- 
 ment, which looked like truth ; and as he stood 
 from beneath the lamp, his bright ej^e flashed 
 when he again cried, ' He is innocent ! ' 
 
 Mr Beeds started back, stuck his hands deep in 
 his pockets, and gave a comprehensive whistle ;, 
 while Mrs Alton flung herself at the lad's feet 
 and held him by the hands.
 
 THE LEVITE AXD THE SAITAEITAX. 107 
 
 * Speak/ she said, like one exLausted. ' Speak ; 
 I know he is innocent. Say so — say it again — 
 say on ! ' 
 
 Bob at once told the story, speaking it out like 
 a man ; and before he had finished, she was kiss- 
 ing his hands and sobbing fitfully. ' Good lad — • 
 thank God,' and many other such, short, but 
 heartfelt expressions of gratitude. When he had 
 done, she rose and threw her arms about his neck, 
 not minding his wet clothes a bit. Then she ran 
 to carry the good news to her daughter, and at 
 this moment the door-bell rang. Napolian was 
 promptly in attendance, and as soon as the door 
 was opened there was a scuffle. 
 
 * Git along — no there ain't I ' cried the servant, 
 keeping some one out. * There ain't none of that 
 name here ! ' 
 
 * Stand out of the way, will you ? ' cried a 
 piping voice from the outside. *Go back to 
 Ameriky ! ' And Mr Peter Prinkle popped in his 
 excited head. 
 
 ' I nivir war once in America,' retorted the 
 darky, angrily, ' and I ain't agoin' now.' 
 
 * Get out of the way, then, and nobody ■'11 ask 
 you.' So saying the redoubtable book-keeper 
 tumbled over the servant, fighting his way in. 
 
 ' Xow, black-face, show me to your mistress ! ' 
 
 * HaUoa! Mr Prinkle,' cried Bob, recognizing 
 him. 
 
 ' You're there, then,' he shouted. ' Bless my 
 soul, I thought 3'ou were lost, so I did ! ' and
 
 103 PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 turning pompously to Mr Beeds^ wliom lie believed 
 to be master of the house, he inquired, ' What's 
 the use, sir, in keeping a lot of fighting niggers 
 about you, as rolls their eyes about like a parcel 
 of mainyacks ? ^ 
 
 ' Don't mind him,' said Bob to the lawyer, in 
 a propitiatory whisper ; but Prinkle overheard. 
 
 ' Mind him !^ Who's him, young man ? Is 
 that all the thanks you give me for finding you 
 out, and being willing to take you back to the 
 rospitality of your home ? I'm not his father,' 
 addressing Mr Beeds, by way of explanation, *nor 
 I^m not his mother — I mean, I'm not his parents, 
 but he's my boarder — not, mark you, that I'm in 
 need of money, sir, but because his master, which 
 is Mr Chal-les Woodrow, being a friend of mine, 
 requested it. I wasnH always — ' 
 
 But Bob interrupted him. ^ When did you 
 leave home ? ' 
 
 * Leave home, sir ! ' still addressing the lawyer, 
 ' It's the second time he's done it, and we're hav- 
 ing a lively time of it. It's been a game of hide- 
 and-go-seek ever since he came; and this very 
 night my wife was like to go out of her fifteen 
 senses ! ' 
 
 * Dear me ! ' said the lawyer, ' that would have 
 been a catastrophe.' 
 
 * You may call it what you like, sir ; but it's 
 truth I'm telling ! ' he answered smartly. 
 
 ' But when did you leave home ? ' the lad in- 
 quired again.
 
 THE LEYITE AXD THE SAMARITAN. 109 
 
 * Ten o'clock, or thereabouts.' 
 
 * And have you been all that time on the way ? ' 
 said Mr Beads, who thought Prinkle rather an odd 
 character. 
 
 ' Yes ; all that time, sir, except what I was 
 with the library chap ; and Fll make presumption 
 to say that you wouldn't do it in no less if you 
 didn't know the road. Why didn^t you put Esther 
 Square in a more perspicuous part of the city ? ' 
 
 The lawyer laughed. ' It must have been an 
 oversight.-' 
 
 'Don't laugh at me, sir,' he answered loftily ; 
 but with a touch of feeKng in what he said. ' You 
 wouldn't laugh at me, sir, if you knew what I am, 
 and all I have been ! I know that there^s a spirit 
 slumbering within me, and it's there now, sir. 
 When I'm excited I do say many wonderful 
 things, but don't laugh, sir; don't laugh, — it was 
 God that made us all ! ^ 
 
 Mr Beeds seemed to understand his nature at 
 once. *I really beg your pardon, Mr Prinkle, 
 but 3'ou must remember that there is a difference 
 between laughing at a man, and laughing at what 
 a man says ! But, enough of this ; you must be 
 tired after your walk ; come in with us and have 
 something.' And as Mr Beeds was conducting 
 them to the parlour, in which we have been before, 
 he told Mr Prinlde that he ought to be proud of 
 his boarder. The book-keeper, at this, touched 
 the lawyer quite familiarly, and whispered that, of 
 course, he was ; only it didn't do to say so before 
 him!
 
 110 PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Bob was still very weak on account of His ex- 
 posure, and it was thought advisable to send him 
 off to bed at once. AVlien he was in bed Mrs Alton 
 brought in some hot supper, and while he sat up, 
 she fed him with her own hand. Then, when he 
 had finished^ she tucked the bed-clothes warmly 
 in about him, and asked if he was comfortable. 
 He said he was ; and after she had turned down 
 the light she came and kissed him, and said that 
 it was God who had put it into his heart to come. 
 
 ' Good- night, my boy.' And she left him alone. 
 
 Whether it was his excessive weakness, we 
 cannot say ; but Bob's heart was fluttering while 
 Mrs Alton spoke, and acted, so kindly towards 
 him : it seemed as if a blank in his life were filled 
 at last ; and, when she was gone, he put his hands 
 to his face, and wept while he wished that he could 
 have called her by the name of — mother ! 
 
 Mr Prinkle, down- stairs, was enjo}dng himself 
 all the while with Mr Beeds ; and there is no say- 
 ing how long he would have sat, had not the cab 
 been announced, which had been sent for to take 
 him home. 
 
 * Oh, bless my soul ! ' cried he, * this is too 
 much, sir. I can easily go as I came. There's 
 no use in a cab.' 
 
 * I^ot another word, Mr Prinkle,' said the law- 
 yer, as he walked with him to the door. * The 
 cab is there, and paid for, and you may as well 
 use it. By the bye, do you smoke, Mr Prinkle ? 
 There's a couple of cigars — take them, at any rate.
 
 THE LEYITE AND THE SAMARITAN. Ill 
 
 Good-niglit, sir ; good-niglit. I am very glad to 
 have made your acquaintance.' 
 
 And Prinlde walked down the steps to the cab, 
 feeling that he was covered with honour. 
 
 * Good night ' he cried to Mr Beeds, who was 
 waving an adieu from the topmost step. * Good 
 night, sir. You're the best man I've met for a 
 long time ! ' and the impatient cabby shut him in, 
 and drove away. 
 
 Mr Twentyman Beeds turned on his heel, 
 highly amused with Peter Prinlde ; and, otherwise, 
 he was quite light-hearted on account of the con- 
 clusive evidence which he would be able to bring 
 forward in the person of Trevor ; and now that he 
 had time to congratulate Mrs Alton he was pleased 
 to see how Bob's advent had revived her. 
 
 Before going to bed, he turned into Mr 
 Hendry's room, for the purpose of informing him 
 of what had taken place. That gentleman, who 
 was sitting by his bedside reading, did not rise 
 when the lawyer entered, nor did he express the 
 slightest emotion during the recital of the story. 
 He was cold, and austere throughout ; so much so, 
 that Mr Beeds could not conceal his surprise at 
 receiving no congratulation on the unexpected 
 turn of affairs. Still there was no response ; and, 
 thinking to provoke an answer, he said, * I do not 
 expect that it will injure business, now, Mr 
 Hendry.' 
 
 There was a passive change on the man's face 
 as this was said, the same as if the muscles had 
 become more rigid.
 
 112 PRIXKLE AND HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 ^ "We have had a quarrel, sir, and I thought 
 you would, at least, have had the gentlemanly 
 feeling to keep out of my room ! ' 
 
 ' God bless me ! I had quite forgot ! ' 
 
 Mr Hendry rose excitedly. 
 
 * You have taunted me in a most unchristian 
 manner. You have sneered at my scheme for 
 gathering in' the chosen people of God. How 
 dare you, sir ! But I am glad^' he said, with a con- 
 temptuous wave of his hand, ' to think that Chris- 
 tian endurance has been vouchsafed to me, and 
 that I am not likely to be turned from seeking 
 after their welfare, even although Mr Twentyman 
 Beeds looks uncharitably upon them, and with- 
 holds his assistance froni their cause ! ' 
 
 *0h — bless — my — soul ! ' ejaculated Mr Beeds, 
 opening his eyes wider at every word. * You are 
 a man to charge me with a want of charity ! You, 
 who would have left a child to die in the streets 
 rather than wet your gloves on his clothes ! 
 Heaven forbid that I should boast of charity, but 
 it is a virtue which, above all others, should be ex- 
 ercised at home ! I never deprecated youi* foreign 
 schemes, as you say, but I think that, first of all, we 
 should not overlook the heathenism of our own 
 city; for, before Heaven! there's enough of black- 
 ness and darkness there ! ' 
 
 ' You talk like a fool, Mr Beeds/ he hissed. 
 
 ' Then, sir, I am answered for my folly.' 
 
 Mr Hendry stamped his foot and chafed. 
 ^ Have you read your Bible, sir ? Are we not told
 
 THE LEVITE AND THE SAMARITAN. 113 
 
 to go out into all the world and preach, the gospel? 
 It is the command of God ! ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, Mr Hendry, I have read my Bible, 
 and prize it. But I would advise you to read yours 
 in a different spirit.* 
 
 ^Sir-rr 
 
 'I am sorrj^,' said the lawj'er, as his voice 
 changed into one of softness and kindness. ^ I am 
 sorry if you have been angered by anything that 
 has passed between us ; but you vexed me by your 
 language when that boy was being carried in. 
 May all success attend your missionary efforts ; 
 but I would have you remember a passage that 
 occurs in that book to which you have referred. 
 I am not sure of it, hut it runs thus, ' when I was 
 a stranger you took me in ; ' and further on, 'Inas- 
 much as ye did it unto one of the least of these my 
 little ones, ye have done it unto me.' Perhaps I 
 should read my Bible often er than I do, but, some- 
 how, that passage has stuck to me. Good night — 
 or, rather, good morning, Mr Hendry ; may you 
 sleep weU.' 
 
 The little lawj^er uttered aU. this in the kind- 
 liest manner, but it had a bitter effect on the cold, 
 austere man, who turned with an open Bible in his 
 hand, and the spirit of a curse in his heart. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE OLD JEW AXD HIS VICTIM. 
 
 ' I pray you, think you question vrith a Jew : 
 
 You nfay as well do anything most hard, 
 
 As seek to soften that 
 
 His Jewish heart — ' 
 
 The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 The man who was known as Old Eubens, the 
 JeWj carried on his money-lending business in a 
 damp- smelling, little room, which was entered 
 through a dark passage, leading off a narrow, 
 dimlj^-Kghted thoroughfare in the city. Round the 
 walls of this apartment were ranged a number of 
 dusty shelves, laden with grim, greasy-looking 
 folios ; and on the table in the middle of the floor 
 were scattered, in exquisite confusion_, letters, and 
 scraps of letters, long out of date. 
 
 The shaded lamp threw out a ghostly light, 
 touching with a sombre tint the faces of the two 
 men, who sat at the table watching each other with 
 distrustful eyes. One of these men was possessed 
 of a tall, commanding figure ; but his face was 
 blotched, and when he spoke, he kept pulling at 
 his greyish, moustache like one in difficulties. The 
 other was Eubens himself, who, if he had nothing 
 of the Jew in his face, was most unchristian both 
 in speech and demeanour. He was like the room, 
 dirty, grim, and greasy. His fingers were twitch-
 
 THE OLD JEW AND HIS VICTIM. 115 
 
 ing constantly, and his dark, eager, cat-like eyes 
 glanced furtively from beneath his heavy-hanging 
 brow, now at the iron safe at his knee, and then 
 at the tall figure, across the table. 
 
 *My dear Mr Gartly,' he said, in what was 
 meant to be a most insinuating manner, * it is but 
 a paltry sum to you ; but it is wealth — immense 
 wealth to me. There now, put your name to it 
 like a gentleman/ And he tossed over a bill to 
 the man. 
 
 Mr Gartly shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * Come, come, Richards ' (he was the only one 
 who called the Jew by this name), ' you know, as 
 well as I do, that it is not the amount I grudge, 
 but I want to rid myself of this affair altogether. 
 It has weighed upon me long enough, and the 
 consciousness of its still hanging over me is shat- 
 tering my nerves. I^ame a round sum, let us burn 
 the document and stand quits. Isn't that fair ? ' 
 
 But the old miser only shook his head, remain- 
 ing silent. 
 
 * It is driving me mad, I say ; let us be quits, 
 — it w^ll be better for you and me. I would be a 
 different man. I cannot be happy so long as that 
 document exists. The idea of it is dragging me 
 down ! ^ There was a miserable supplication in 
 his tones, and they were not unmixed with pathos. 
 
 He continued, * I would fain change the nature 
 of my Kfe : I am getting up in years, now ; and 
 it is time. I would even marry if it were off 
 my mind ; but, as it is, I must remain as I am.
 
 IIG PRINKLE AND HIS IFJEXDS. 
 
 fearing to drag an innocent soul into tlie dis- 
 quietude of my own ! ' 
 
 Themisercurledliislip,but still remained silent, 
 
 * Have you no sjTnpatliy ? I wish devoutly 
 that / could shut out all humanity, as you do, and 
 live seared in sin, and callous ! Is it not enough 
 that you have degraded and ruined me ? Can't 
 you leave me alone, to bear the consciousness of 
 my share in your crime, without tormenting me as 
 you do ? ^ 
 
 * Degraded and ruined ! ^ hissed the miser, 
 shivering in all his miserable joints. * Is it 
 degradation and ruin to be put in possession of 
 broad, rich lands; to be raised from penury to 
 wealth ; to be taken from among menial associates, 
 to whom you were a burden, and to be placed in a 
 position from which you can command the best 
 that the land can give ? Who did all this for 
 you ? Tell me that ! ' And he excitedly struck 
 his breast. * "Was it not I — respectable Mr H., of 
 Wyecaster, who had to flee from among friends, 
 who had to change his name — ay I his very race, 
 that your fair fame might not be sullied, and that 
 your luxurious degradation and ruin, forsooth ! 
 might be accomplished and made secure ? ' 
 
 The man Gartly curled his lip, and bending 
 forward, looked the miser in the face as he mut- 
 tered slowly, 
 
 * Great Heavens, that I should ever have mis- 
 taken you ! ' 
 
 ' Was that ruin ? ^ cried the other, not heeding 
 the taunt.
 
 THE OLD JEW AND HIS VICTIM. 117 
 
 * It was ruin — ruin of the direst kind ; ruin of 
 tody and soul ! ' 
 
 The old man showed his teeth, and stretched 
 his fist across the table. ' Philip Gartly, you may 
 call it what you like ; but if I were to take a man 
 out of the position in which you were, and show 
 him the Garth estates, with their rich pasturage 
 and their woodland glades, and were I to say, 
 "All this shaU be made yours by my crime," and 
 were I able to prove discovery impossible, do you 
 think he would not snap at my offer ? Man alive ! 
 there are not ten men in England who would 
 not!' 
 
 The look in the old man's face, when he said 
 this, was fiercely exultant. 
 
 * There^s no use questioning what I say, Philip 
 Gartly. It is this dread of discovery that keeps 
 men each in his right place. Hang up a desirable 
 bauble before a man's eyes, and he would deny his 
 salvation to lay hold of it, but — ' he sneered, ' he 
 might not risk his position in society. I have 
 done both of these for you,^ he cried again, and 
 snapped his fingers as he went on. ' I have denied 
 the one, and lost the other, and I care that ! for 
 neither.' 
 
 Gartly was horrified. ' I would to God, 
 Eichards, that I had never seen either you or 
 Garth ! I thought, when I first listened to your 
 insidious whisperings, that you were interesting 
 yourself on my account, for I did, indeed, believe 
 the estates were mine by right of heritage ; but it 
 .makes me laugh when I think of it, now that I
 
 118 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 know 5^ou so well/ and he made a sorry attempt 
 to smile. 
 
 ' You shall know me better yet ! ' said the 
 miser^ from behind his teeth. 
 
 ' Have you no remorse ? ' 
 
 * Has the devil any ? ' 
 'Sometimes, I almost think he must.'g 
 
 * Then I have none ; so don't expect it. We 
 both went shares in the crime, and we must equally 
 share the profit. Your portion is luxurious ease 
 and wealth, mine — mine, Philip Gartly, do jou 
 hear ? ' he cried, for his visitor's eyes were wan- 
 dering. 
 
 a hear.' 
 
 * Mine is to gain money ; to extort it from 
 you ; and the greater difficulty I have in getting 
 it, the greater mj' pleasure when it is gained ! 
 You understand me, Gartly, I owed your father 
 a grudge, and I don't love his son — I hate him ! 
 If you were to ofier the whole wealth of your vast 
 estates for that hidden will, I would say, No ! But 
 I shall hold it over your head, so long, as I live, 
 for the purpose of getting money out of you. The 
 deeper your misery, the merrier my laugh ! ' 
 
 During this the mind of the visitor seemed to 
 wander, but when he caught the last sentence he 
 looked for a moment, scornfully, on the Jew ; then, 
 without a word, took up the bill and wrote his 
 acceptance. This done, he tossed it back. Rubens 
 folded it up carefull}^, and chuckled ; but Philip 
 Gartly remained silent, evidently engaged in deep
 
 THE OLD JEW AND HIS VICTIM. 119 
 
 contemplation of his position. His face, though 
 dissipated, was thoughtful and sad, as if there 
 was yet something of a good heart within, battling 
 with the evils of his life. There was only one 
 way, he felt, in which he could free himself from 
 his false position with the world, and be rid of his 
 tormentor; but then, that would be at a great 
 sacrifice. His guilt known, he should certainly 
 be punished, unless he fled; his friends would 
 spurn him ; and she — well, there were some tender 
 traits in Gartly too ! 
 
 ^ Who has been putting all this cant about 
 degradation and ruin into your head ? It is some- 
 thing new,' said the miser, jauntily. But Gfartly 
 answered not a word. 
 
 ' I guess it all,' he continued,, satrricaUy ; 
 ' some pretty wench has stolen his heart from him, 
 and he thinks that he isn't good enough for her ! 
 Poor, dear man ! ' 
 
 Gartly lowered his face, and kept biting his lips, 
 whde Eubens continued, sneering ^vith a diaboli- 
 cal grin on his wrinkled features. ' Young, devil- 
 me-care Philip Gartly, once upon a time, did not 
 look upon love and marriage as inseparable ; and, 
 perhaps, for convenience he may do the same again.' 
 
 The old reprobate was scarcely allowed to 
 finish his sentence, for Gartly sprang instantly 
 upon him, and shook him. as he would have done 
 a cat. 
 
 *Eascal! say another word, and I'U strangle 
 you ! '
 
 120 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 The miser, in his strong grasp, was livid with 
 terror ; and he prayed for mercy. 
 
 * Why should I not strangle you ? ' cried 
 Gartly, as a fearful thought flashed through his 
 brain. * What an easy thing it is to do/ he 
 thinks, still looking into the miserable face of the 
 man who quivered in his grasp. 
 
 ' Why should I not strangle you ? ' he cried 
 again, setting his teeth and debating with himself, 
 still sinking his knuckles deeper into the throat of 
 the wretch. * You, who have neither love for 
 Grod nor one of his creatures ! What right have 
 you to live ? Mercy ! ' repeating his victim's at- 
 tempt at ejaculation, and sinking his knuckles 
 deeper still, * To whom did you ever show mercy? 
 IN^one now, none now ! ' 
 
 A filminess came suddenly over the starting 
 eyes, and the miser's lips were fast becoming black ! 
 At sight of this the savage mood of Gartly 
 changed; he shook fearfully, and allowed the 
 almost lifeless form to fall upon the iron box. 
 
 If you have dared, with bated breath, to.overlook 
 some awful precipice ; if jou have ever ventured, 
 in the moment of supreme passion, or in the straits 
 of necessity, to the brink of an act that would 
 have secured for you the contempt of your fellows 
 and the ban of society ; in turning back you may 
 have experienced something of Philip Gartly's 
 relief when he knew the narrow escape he had 
 made of beins: a murderer ! 
 
 By and by, the wretch showed signs of re-
 
 THE OLD JEW AND HIS VICTIil. 121 
 
 covery ; the first of wliicli was an attempt to em- 
 brace the iron safe on which he lay. 
 
 When he was sufficiently restored, Gartly 
 ordered him to get up, which he did, quaking 
 with fear. 
 
 * 'Now, you old wretch, show me to the door ; 
 and remember the lesson you have got ! ' 
 
 Rubens, glad to get quit of him without more 
 ado, caught up the lamp, and tottered into the dark 
 passage, followed by the man. 
 
 Before shutting the door upon him, the old 
 miser advised him, ironically, by way of a parting 
 kick, to lay his confession before the world and 
 leave the country ; a thing which he thought 
 Philip Gartly would hardly do. But this was no 
 new thought to Gartly, and as he walked away 
 along the street, he was exceeding sorroicful, for he 
 had great 2)ossessians. 
 
 It was strange that these two men — partners 
 in the same crime, each thought that he was a 
 tool in the other's hands ; but such is always the 
 case where a guilty co-partnery exists. In. his 
 own mind, old Eubens charged Gartl}^ with in- 
 gratitude, for, by this crime, Gartly was a gainer 
 in every way, while he himself seems to have been 
 a loser in name and fame. Still the old man did 
 not mind this so much, for it afforded him the 
 means by which to gratify, in some degree, his 
 inordinate lust for gold. Depraved though he 
 was, Rubens was heartily ashamed of this love of 
 money, and to taunt him with it was to sting him
 
 122 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 him to the quick ; and it was by reason of this 
 shame that he led Gartly to believe that the crime 
 was concocted, and carried out, merely through 
 revenge, and on account of the grudge which he 
 had borne his father. 
 
 It was not the heinousness of his oSence which 
 made Philip Gartly deplore it; it was not that it was 
 an outrage on the instincts of morality ; but that 
 there still hung over his head the chance of the 
 world's finding it out, disquieting his soul, and 
 hindering him from the full enjo^nnent of his ill- 
 got gains. 
 
 Old Eubens, now that his visitor was gone, 
 felt very much relieved, but as he sat himself on 
 the iron box he still shook from fear. 
 
 'More ingratitude,' he muttered, wiping the 
 perspiration from his face. * Ingratitude all the 
 world over. He did not call me icretch and rascal 
 when he had need of me ; no, no, these words 
 were not in his vocabulary then. I was a gentle- 
 man — his fellow, but now that the land is his, 
 by my crime, he turns upon me as a thing to spit 
 upon ! So like the flower — ' and he looted very 
 like a flovv^er, indeed, sitting there, on his safe, in 
 all the beauty of matted hair of dirty grey. * So 
 like the honied flower, attracting all around those 
 garden bees that feast upon its luxury, but when 
 its lusciousness is gone they pass it coldly by to 
 feast upon some better-favoured flower.' And he 
 rocked his miserable body, whining as if he con- 
 sidered himself a martyr of the higher order.
 
 THE OLD JEW AXD HIS VICTIII. 123 
 
 * Ha^ lia ! ' he cried, on hearing a knocking at 
 the door. ' There's Sally,, now.' 
 
 Without taking the lamp this time, he went 
 to the door, and inquired who knocked. He was 
 answered by a plaintive voice, — a woman's. 
 
 * That is not Sally's voice — ' he whispered to 
 himself, ' and yet I know it^ surely.' 
 
 As he opened the door, a woman swept past 
 him into the room, and fell upon her knees in the 
 middle of the floor. Eubens hurriedly locked the 
 door, and rushed in after her. Her pale, thin 
 face, and large, imploring eyes called forth no 
 sympathy from the breast of the miser ; and as 
 she raised her clasped hands he caught her fiercely 
 by the arm. * For what are you here again ? ' he 
 shrieked, then paused, biting his lip. 
 
 ' Mercy, father ; mercy ! ' 
 
 * Mercy ! ' he exclaimed^ using her roughty, 
 ' I thought that I had sent you forth before, and 
 dared you to return ! You are no more my child ; 
 you crossed my purpose once ; — you are a stranger 
 now ! Oh-h-h ! ' he groaned through his teeth, 
 * you left your father ' for a miserable, penni- 
 less cur ; and now that you are adrift^ without a 
 coin, you come to me, — me, whom you have 
 wronged! Pll turn you out into the night, I 
 shall ! A curse upon you and your husband, dead 
 though he be ; go to his friends, and they will 
 feed you ; go, and they 'U clothe you ! ' 
 
 The girl sobbed loudly as she heard her 
 father's curse, and his derision was hard to bear.
 
 12 4< PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Her face ^vas beautiful, but careworn ; an ex- 
 pression unusual for one apparently so young. She 
 had married against her father's will, a year before ; 
 and, of course, the old storj^, her parent cast her off, 
 and would no more recognize her as his child. 
 Seven months after their marriage, the husband 
 died, leaving her penniless; and this was the 
 second attempt she had made, since then, to enlist 
 her father's sympathies. She conjured him, for 
 the sake of her mother's memory, for the sake of 
 her child unborn, to relieve her dire distress, and 
 save her from a pauperis grave. But her entreaties 
 only served to increase the old man^s rage, and 
 in his passion he struck her on the cheek ! 
 
 ' Get you gone,' he cried, * and if you have the 
 hardihood to return to this place, it shall be at 
 your peril. Your child ! egad, you can take 3^our 
 unhatched brood to them who would care for it ! 
 And, know you this, that sooner than take you 
 back again, I would give shelter to the most — ' 
 
 She cried aloud for him to say no more, and 
 he caught her by the neck, and drove her from 
 the room, with a curse that made her shudder, 
 into the cold wet night ! 
 
 When he returned, he was crackling the joints 
 of his fingers and repeating the most abomin- 
 able curses. 
 
 After a while he was again roused by a knock- 
 ing, and he went to the door. It was Sally this 
 time : no other than Miss Sarah Traynor. 
 
 *Well, Sarah,' said the old man, chuckling.
 
 THE OLD JEW AND HIS YICTIAT. 125 
 
 * I am so glad j'ou have come ; I thouglit you liad 
 forgotten.' 
 
 ' "V\Tiy, you old reprobate, I ain^t behind time, 
 am I ? ' ' 
 
 ' !N"o, no,' tie cringed, ' not at all. But I was so 
 impatient to hear from you.' And lie laid bis 
 crooked fingers familiarly on ber shoulder, with 
 a repulsive smile. 
 
 '' Hands ofi", you old cat ! ' and she started from 
 him, as if even she felt his touch degrading. 
 
 * Why, Sarah,' with his brows clouded, ' why 
 do you start when I but touch your shoulder ? ' 
 
 By way of reply, she gave vent to a loud, 
 coarse laugh, and said something about ' blisters ; ' 
 at which Eubens puckered his cheeks, and elongated 
 his lips, by way of an apology for appreciation. 
 Then they set to to business. 
 
 *!N"o,'' said Sally, in answer to a question, 
 
 * never so much as a nibble.' 
 
 The miser was evidently chagrined, and kept 
 muttering, ' To-morrow '11 tell, mj- girl ; to-mor- 
 row 'U tell ! ' 
 
 ' I don't know that,' she said. * I wouldn't 
 wonder but they'll never ofier a penny.' 
 
 * They must ; they must ! Do you mean to say 
 that if you were to ofier to decline to prosecute 
 they wouldn't stump up ? But be early in the 
 place, to-morrow, my girl, and give them every 
 chance ! To-morrow '11 tell ; to-morrow '11 tell.' 
 
 ' Wouldn't it be a great go if they didn't ofier 
 anything ? ' said Sarah.
 
 126 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 The old man set his teeth, and called j\Ir Alton 
 by a most hideous name. And paying no farther 
 attention to his accomplice, he sat back in a corner, 
 impotently biting his nails, muttering all the while 
 to himself, in his own abominable way. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A SCENE IX COURT. 
 
 By ordinary logic Robert Trevor must have 
 -slept well that night in the strange bed, for, long 
 before it was light, he had wakened out of his 
 fiftieth sleep. But he had not rested. It was as 
 if his spirit wavered between the real and the un- 
 real, gliding imperceptibly from things as they 
 are into the land of dreams, mingling with its 
 contorted shades and thinking its most insane 
 imaginations, till fancy clashed with reason and 
 suddenly collapsed — like the imprisoned bird that 
 strikes its head against the window pane, and 
 finds with a shock that the scope of its flight 
 is set round with realities. 
 
 That night he had perspired with the idea 
 that ho was again being made the unwilling ob- 
 ject of hugs, tight and maternal ; that he felt the 
 clammy touch of the woman all over his face and 
 throat ; and he was startled from his dream by 
 the hollowest of laug:hs. It was therefore with no
 
 A SCENE IN COURT. 127 
 
 small degree of relief that he awoke^ and he 
 laughed to find that his struggles had been with 
 the pillows only ; one of which was lying in- 
 gloriously in the centre of the floor, while another 
 was standing, bolt upright, at the foot of the bed, 
 with a scared expression, as if it looked to its 
 fellows for an explanation of the ^row/ 
 
 Bob got up and dressed, his clothes having 
 been brought to him comfortable and dry; he 
 adjusted his tie with greater precision than usual, 
 gave an extra touch to his hair, a sigh for the 
 want of his watch, and walked down- stairs. 
 
 He had never been in such a fine house before, 
 and its costly fittings and fine old furniture quite 
 took away his breath. Comparing this with the 
 little cottage at Tewton, he w^ondered that he ever 
 had the audacity to set foot in Esther Square, for 
 he was not less astonished than Aladdin was at 
 every tarn in the marvellous cave. The fact was 
 that he did not know whither to go, and he was 
 looking about, rather awkwardly, at the foot of 
 the stair, when Mary Alton came out and welcomed 
 him. The hero of romance to whom we have re- 
 ferred was not more perplexed when he saw the 
 fairy, than Bob was when this bright young girl 
 bade him good morning and ofiered him her hand. 
 He took hers, but was dumb with surprise. 
 
 At another time Mary would have laughed at 
 such awkwardness, but she tried to set him at his 
 ease by taking him into a room, saying that her 
 mother vrould come shortly.
 
 128 PEINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 ' She saj^s I ^have to be kind to you till she 
 comes ; and I'm sure I'll try, for you have been 
 kind to us. I don't know what it was, ,but we 
 were all so unhappy till jou came/ 
 
 Bob did not dare to look at her, as she kept 
 prattling away ; and when she asked him if he had 
 slept well, he had not quite recovered from his 
 awkwardness, for he answered — ■ 
 
 * Oh yes : very well — often.' 
 
 Mary smiled pleasantly, for she could not con- 
 ceive what he meant by ofien; but she had the 
 good sense not to disturb him by further question- 
 ing on that point. 
 
 ' Mamma says that you have not been long in 
 London ? ' 
 
 ^ No, Miss— Miss Alton ; this is only my fourth 
 day.' 
 
 The girl took his hand quite gently. ' We are 
 to be very good friends yet, and you must call me 
 Mary ; and, if you won't be angry, I should like to 
 call you Robert.' 
 
 ' Call me Bob. I like it better. They all call 
 me Bob,' he blurted. 
 
 ' Very well, Bob ; and you'll call me Mary.' 
 
 The frankness of the girl put Bob more at his 
 ease, and he ventured once or twice to steal a 
 glance at her fair face. 
 
 ' Mary is a very pretty name, I think,' he re- 
 joined, quite gallantly. '/ 1 don't know many girls, 
 but I think Mary is the prettiest name.' 
 
 ' Indeed ; do you think so ? I am fond of it
 
 f 
 
 A SCENE IN COURT. 129 
 
 myself, for it is mamma's name, "What is jouv 
 mamma's name, Bob ? ' But, as soon as she put the 
 question, she noted the tremor that passed over 
 his face. ' Oh, I am sure jou will forgive me,^ 
 she said softlj^ ; * I have never known what sorrow 
 is, and I never think to look for it in others. 
 But I know that it will make mamma love you all 
 the more/ and she began to change the subject, for 
 she saw that it was painful for the lad. 'You say 
 you know other girls — what are their names, Bob ? ' 
 
 * Well, really, I think I know just one other 
 girl, — her name is Maud.' 
 
 ' What a pretty name ! And it is of four 
 letters, too ; — two of them the same as mine, and 
 yet how different ! I am sure I would like to know 
 her.' 
 
 *■ But she is far away,' said Bob ; * miles away in 
 the country. And she is not — ' here he stopped, for 
 he was about to add that she was not so refined as 
 Mary. Already he had began to draw contrasts 
 between the two girls, and Maud's blunt, boisterous 
 manner had suffered in his estimation when set 
 side by side with the stately kindliness of Mary- 
 Then, there was the difference of age, — Maud was 
 younger, while Mary was older than he; and any- 
 body that knows anything of human nature in 
 boys, knows well that their preference does not 
 generally rest v/ith those younger than themselves. 
 Again, there was the charm of novelty, perhaps the 
 most effective over a boy's nature. Maud was all 
 very good, with her large, hazel eyes, her sun- 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 LroTvned skin, and clad in the simple garb of a 
 Tillage girl ; but bow different was Marj^ witb ber 
 eyes of light blue, her bright complexion, her 
 dazzling hair, and her lily hand, all of which 
 natural beauties were enhanced by the art of her 
 attire. Then there was the novelty of her sur-^ 
 roundings ; all this profusion of comfort was 
 suggestive of wealth and influence, and to put 
 himself on a level with such friends gave him 
 something to hope for, something to attain. Per- 
 haps we are driving rather quickly in leading you 
 to believe that all, or any of these thoughts passed 
 through Bob's mind at this time, but the error is 
 only one of chronology, i.for there is no doubt that, 
 when he was sitting close to Mary on that morn- 
 ing, feeling her soft hair glance upon his cheek as 
 they turned the leaves of a book together, in more 
 ways than one, Maud, as he said, was miles and 
 miles away. 
 
 When Mrs Alton joined them she greeted the 
 boy affectionately, and, indeed, she and Mr Beeds 
 and Mary seemed to vie with each othdr in offer- 
 ing him marks of kindness. 
 
 Mr Hendry did not put in an appearance at 
 the breakfast-table, but sent his apology to Mrs 
 Alton, who, to tell the truth, did not betray any 
 great regret at his absence. 
 
 Breakfast over, Mr Twentj^man Beeds and Bob 
 drove off together to be present at Mr Alton's ex- 
 amination, Mr Hendry again sending word that 
 he preferred following by himself.
 
 A SCENE IN COURT. 131 
 
 "WTien Mrs Alton stood on tlie steps to wish, 
 them Godspeed, her face, which was radiant with 
 hope, showed a bright contrast to her expression 
 of the previous night. Bob himself was in great 
 glee, but Mr Beeds, now that he had slept over 
 what evidence the lad was likely to offer, was not 
 so sanguine as he had been. Had it been the final 
 trial he would not have had the sKghtest difficulty, 
 but his desire was to bring the case to a conclusion 
 at once, and so save his client from being com- 
 mitted for trial on such a charge. Looking at 
 Bob's evidence with the eye of a lawyer, the more 
 he considered it, he saw that^ on the face of it, i^ 
 bore what was apocryphal and unlikely. However, 
 he believed that he would not improve his case by 
 asking an adjournment for the purpose of citing 
 such a questionable class of witnesses as those he 
 had been among the night before, so he determined 
 to risk the whole affair on the boy^s evidence alone. 
 
 When Bob was put into the witness-box and 
 sworn, he felt very timorous, nor was his com- 
 posure increased by the manner in which the Kttle 
 man on the bench blew his magisterial nose and 
 looked fierce. 
 
 ^ What is your name, boy ? ' 
 
 ' Robert Trevor.' 
 
 ' Which it is, and no doubt,' cried a thin, in- 
 tensely comical voice from the court, ' for he's my 
 lodger, and I'm proud ! ' 
 
 And the sensation which this created found its 
 climax in a burst of laughter, when Mr Peter
 
 132 PPJXKLE AXD HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 Prinkle, in reply to tlie indignant question of the 
 magistrate, shouted excitodlj-, 
 
 * I'm Peter Prinkle, sir ; and it's a free country ! ' 
 
 * Why don't you remove him ? ' cried the 
 magistrate. ' Take him away ! ' and he was be- 
 side himself with rage. 
 
 * Which yoa'U not ! I'm a free-born Briton, 
 — first saw light at Putney ! Go it ! ' he cried, 
 by way of encouragement to Bob^ ' don't be 'fraid 
 of^mf' 
 
 If an individual in the Stranger's Gallery were 
 to shy his hat at the Speaker's head^ during the at- 
 mospheric calm of a turnpike debate, the act would 
 not create a more profound sensation than that 
 which ^Ir Prinkle caused. Even the officials were 
 powerless by reason of their astonishment, and 
 when Peter bobbed his head and shook his fists 
 excitedly, they joined with the audience in the 
 violence of its laughter. 
 
 * Will no one remove him ? ' cried the magis- 
 trate, thundering on the bench. • ^ He is a lunatic ; 
 take him out of court. ^ 
 
 In a moment the excited book-keeper was 
 hoisted from his feet, and from his last appearance, 
 as he kicked out his legs over the heads of the 
 people, he resembled an immense lobster waving 
 its feelers in the air. 
 
 * Stop,' he said to one of the officers when they 
 had got him out, and he was standing trying to 
 catch back his breath. ' I'll be quiet now ; but I 
 couldn't help it, I was so excited that I thought
 
 a'sCEXE IX COUET. 133" 
 
 the top of my lieaci was coming off I ' And tliey 
 good-naturedly let him out to take a turn in the 
 open air. 
 
 In the court this incident, seeminGflv, had the 
 effect of prejudicing the case, for Bob was subjected 
 to a most rigorous examination, in which, to a cer- 
 tain point, he maintained the most perfect consist- 
 ency. "While he was in the box, Sarah Traynor, 
 who had been accommodated with a chair, heard 
 answer after answer with the utmost anxiety de- 
 picted in her face, and when he spoke of seeing the 
 gentleman enter the railway carriage in which, he 
 deponed, he had left the woman, the blood came 
 and went on her cheek. 
 
 It was only, as we have hinted, to a certain 
 point, however, that Bob maintained consistency. 
 Hitherto his answers had been ready and clear, but 
 suddenly he became agitated, his thoughts wan- 
 dered, he paid less attention than formerly to the 
 questions put, and consequently his replies were 
 confused and wide. On account of this, his ex- 
 amination was made doubly severe, so severe indeed, 
 that the boy was well-nigh breaking down. Sarah 
 observed all this with lively satisfaction, while Mr 
 Beeds, on his part, was greatly puzzled and put out. 
 
 There was one in the audience who could un- 
 derstand the boy's agitation, — a woman, and she 
 rose quietly, and left the court. Throughout the 
 whole case she had kept her dark eye fixed on Bab, 
 and although her interest was as deep as Prinkle's, 
 .it did not find the same expression.
 
 134 PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 It was Katlierine Trail. 
 
 Wlien the lad was first caught by her eye, he 
 shook visibly, for he was startled b}" seeing her so 
 unexpectedly ; and, while she remained, there were 
 a thousand conjectures passing through his mind 
 with regard to her appearance there. 
 
 After she had gone he tried hard to concentrate 
 his ideas, so^that, in a little while, his replies were 
 prompt and clear as before. When asked to iden- 
 tify Mr Alton, he refused ; his recollection of the 
 man he had seen at the station not being so vivid 
 as to allow him to speak positively' . 
 
 When he had described the woman, and the 
 manner in which she had hugged him, as minutely 
 as he could, he was abruptly asked: 
 
 ' Is that the woman of whom you speak ? ' 
 
 Bob looked full, for an instant, on Sarah 
 Traynor, who at this juncture became pale and 
 agitated. 
 
 *It is — the same,^ he replied. 
 
 ' Now, are you certain of this ? Have you no 
 doubt as to her identity ? Hemember^ you are on 
 oath, and this is a grave question.^ 
 
 * I have none,' he replied firmly. 
 
 * Your oath, remember, is of an awful nature ; 
 and if you have the shadow of a doubt you must say 
 so. Your answer, as you have given it, may lead to 
 a serious charge against this lady ; and, if untrue, 
 makes you liable^ yo^iig though you be, to be 
 committed for perjury, which is one of the most 
 despicable of crimes, and, as such, calls down one of
 
 A SCENE IN COUET. 135 
 
 the most severe punishments which the law can 
 inflict. Think what depends on your answer.' 
 
 Bob again turned impatiently towards Sarah, 
 and pointed — ^ That is the woman.' 
 
 At this there was a slight murmur of approba- 
 tion from the audience, whose sympathy had been 
 evoked by the dejected appearance of the prisoner, 
 and Mr Beeds smiled ; but the woman, aU trem- 
 bling with agitation, hid her face in her hands and 
 breathed heavily. But his examination was not 
 yet concluded. 
 
 ' JN'ow, look at her : is there nothing changed 
 about her ? Is her di-ess the same as then ? ' 
 
 Bob, who partook somewhat of the general ex- 
 citement, was not careful enough, or he would 
 have noticed that the dress was different, and he 
 answered sharply, 
 
 * The dress is the same.' 
 
 His inquisitor, on hearing this answer, looked 
 round the court with a smile of triumph : the 
 woman raised her face for a moment, with e\'ident 
 surprise, gave a sharp, unnatural giggle, and im- 
 mediately covered it with her hands again. 
 
 This reply, so unwarily made, rendered the 
 whole of Bob's evidence useless, and it would have 
 materially damaged Mr Alton's case, had the fol- 
 lowing incident not occurred. 
 
 Sarah Traynor, in pulling out her pocket-hand- 
 kerchief, accidentally dropped upon the floor a 
 small piece of dirty, crumpled paper, which an 
 officer of the court stooped to Kft. !N'oticing the
 
 136 PRIXKLE AND HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 movement, and to what it was directed, her anxiety 
 threw her off her guard, and she uttered a sharp 
 cry while she violentty seized the man^s arm, tore 
 the paper from his fingers with a wrench, and was 
 in the act of conveying it to her mouth when her 
 arm was stayed. Foiled in this, she flew in anger 
 at the officer's face, and began conducting herself 
 so outrageously that she had to be restrained by 
 sheer force. 
 
 * Show me that paper,' demanded the magis- 
 trate. 
 
 It was handed up to him, and the woman hid 
 her face in her dress and cried aloud. 
 
 ' Ha ! T\Tiat have we here ! A pawn-ticket 
 for a watch ! What of this, woman ? ' 
 
 Bob's face brightened up suddenly, as an idea 
 flashed upon him. * Is it a silver one, sir ? I lost 
 one on the day I came to London ! ' 
 
 'You did?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. It was an old silver one, — half of 
 one hand broken off ! ' 
 
 The magistrate put on his spectacles, scanned 
 the ticket more narrowly, and handed it to an 
 officer. 
 
 ^ Get a warrant made out : I'll sign it : and 
 brinor the watch into court.' 
 
 This was speedily done, and the officer de- 
 parted. 
 
 ' Have you the number of your watch, Master 
 Trevor ? ' 
 
 Bob fumbled in his waistcoat-pocket for some
 
 A SCENE IN COUET. 137 
 
 time, turned it inside out, and tore off a card wliicL. 
 was sewed in the lining. 
 
 ' Here is tlie number, sir. My aunt sewed it 
 in my pocket tlie day before I left home.' 
 
 * Very good, my boy : this will do.' 
 
 During the time they bad to wait. Bob was 
 flushed with anxiety ; but the cloud seemed lifted 
 from Mr Alton, for he smiled, and chatted with Mr 
 Beeds, who chuckled as only a successful lawyer can. 
 
 By and by^ the messenger returned, accom- 
 panied by the broker, who handed the watch up 
 to the bench. 
 
 There was perfect silence in the court while the 
 magistrate took off his spectacles, cleaned them 
 with his handkerchief, elaborately re-adjusted 
 them on his nose, and began comparing numbers. 
 This seemed no easy matter, for he went through a 
 variety of movements, all of which were anxiously 
 followed by the audience. He looked at one num- 
 ber, then at the other ; took off his spectacles and 
 carefully cleaned them again ; after which he blew 
 his nose authoritatively. Then the spectacles were 
 taken off once more, and with them he tickled the 
 point of his nose, till the audience were out of 
 patience. At last he laid the watch on the one side, 
 and the card on the other, delivered himself of one 
 or two comprehensive ' grumj)hs,' and then gave 
 vent to the following magisterial declaration : — 
 
 ' This case, from the beginning, has been a 
 painful one ; both from the nature of the charge, 
 and on account of the respectable position which
 
 138 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Mr Alton holds. Cases of this sort have, of late, 
 I am sorry to say, been frequent, — so frequent, 
 indeed, that I felt in duty bound to deal with this 
 charge most rigorously. My action in this matter 
 has, I know, been criticised somewhat severely — 
 at least what was meant to be severely, and I have 
 been made the target of abuse by more than one 
 newspaper editor.' This was uttered with the most 
 ineffable contempt. * But I am proud to say that 
 I am above heeding such things, — I am supremely 
 indifferent to them, and I am ready to assure the 
 world that my judgment is not to be influenced by 
 anything that may emanate from a corrupt press ! 
 I would not have remarked upon this had the pre- 
 sent case not taken such an unexpected turn, that 
 will, in some weak-minded persons' eyes, seem to 
 favour the views which these newspaper editors 
 have expressed, in what I might call — ' 
 
 * 'Zactly what I say, sir ; and I^ve said it all 
 along I ' interrupted the same comical voice as 
 before. ' And Peter Prinkle was right — so he was 
 — and no denying ! ' 
 
 This emphatic interruption, so suddenly made, 
 created a most tremendous commotion in the 
 court, which was not at all allayed by the ridicul- 
 ous figure the indomitable Mr Prinkle cut, as he 
 boldly, excitedl}', and above all — ludicrously, ges- 
 ticulated defiance at the little man on the bench. 
 
 * How has that fellow got in ? It is his second 
 interruption ! ' he cried, in a towering passion. 
 * Commit the lunatic ! '
 
 A SCENE IN COURT. 139 
 
 ' Lunatic, sir ! lunatic ! Be's well to contract 
 that word, or — or—' But Mr Prinkle was caught 
 up again, and, while he was being carried out^ he 
 shouted to the magistrate that he might look out 
 for an action for what he called ' deformation of 
 character/ 
 
 On silence being restored, the apologetical 
 speech was brought to an abrupt termination. 
 ' The numbers are the same. The case has broken 
 down. Mr Alton may leave the court : ^ and im- 
 mediately on uttering these three sentences, the 
 magistrate vacated his seat and dropped out of 
 sight, amid the applause of the audience. 
 
 Warm congratulations passed among our 
 friends at this unexpected quashing of the affair, 
 and the austere Mr Hendry lifted up his heart in 
 thanks to Providence that the good name of the 
 firm should yet remain inviolate. Prinkle was 
 severely admonished and allowed to go. Bob 
 signed the charge-sheet against the woman for 
 the theft of the watch, for which crime she suf- 
 fered a period of imprisonment. iN^othing was 
 said about the more heinous crime of perjury, 
 which certainly would not have been the case had 
 there been a public prosecutor in the land. 
 
 It was a happy meeting at Esther Square, 
 made the more pleasant by Mr Hendry's de- 
 parture for Manchester. The dismal gloom which 
 had pervaded ]S"umber Three was now dispelled ; 
 everywhere were light and happiness. Bob was 
 regarded on all sides with demonstrations of kind-
 
 140 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 ness; Mr Alton showed by tlie warmtli of his 
 manner towards him, how deeply grateful he 
 was; 3Ir Twentyman Beeds chuckled and said 
 they would make a man of him yet ; Mrs Alton 
 wept over him, out of sheer joy, and kissed him ; 
 while Mary stood back and admired him, wait- 
 in o- till her own time should come. It came in 
 the evening, when they were sitting alone in a 
 window recess. She put her hand into his, call- 
 ing him ' Dear Bob,^ and thanked him ever so 
 much. All his embarrassment was gone ; he felt 
 the soft hair tingle on his cheek again, and, from 
 that time forth, he conceived in his heart some- 
 thinor like love for Marv Alton. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HE IS A WISE SOX WHO KNOWS HIS OWN FATHER. 
 
 Bob very soon began to take an interest in 
 Mr Woodrow's business, and although ^Ir Alton 
 had offered to take him into his employment, he 
 refused, preferring to continue in the service of 
 his friend. 
 
 The extreme boyishness which had manifested 
 itself on his entering upon London life, began to 
 give way to a manner apt and intelligent : the 
 service that he had done Mr Alton having forced 
 on his mind the fact that, however seemingly in-
 
 HE IS A WISE SOX WHO E:X0W5 HIS OWN FATHEi:. 141 
 
 significant the sphere may be in which an indi- 
 vidual moves, a world of responsibility, the extent 
 of which no one can estimate, lies upon him ; that 
 no one can possibly bo independent, and that the 
 happiness and well-being of humanity rest, with 
 no gentle stay, on each individual action. 
 
 A little lever is a powerful thing in ma- 
 chinery ; and so are little actions, good and bad, 
 in the movements of every-day life. The smallest 
 may be the power that sets the whole machinery 
 a roaring. Cause works upon effect — as wheel on 
 wheel, gathering with each revolution a momen- 
 tum which may appal us, bringing into its resist- 
 less power machinery with which we thought it 
 had no connection ; so on, and on. And as life 
 draws to its close, when our influence for good or 
 bad shall have relapsed into the feebleness of 
 second childhood, we may look around with plea- 
 sure on the good that our little acts have done, or 
 turn aghast from the wreck and ruin wrought, in 
 the shape of broken friendships and of lacerated 
 hearts. 
 
 Bob, probably, did not, as yet, comprehend the 
 whole philosophy of action influencing action^ but 
 he saw plainly that, boy in the world of London 
 though he was, he had an individual work to per- 
 form. He was well pleased with what he considered 
 he had already accompKshed ; he knew the good 
 that he had done for Mr Alton and his family ; and 
 the knowledge of this, besides inspiring him with 
 pride — one of the noblest feelings of our nature.
 
 142 PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 whicli It were insolent to call pardonable, imposed 
 upon him. a responsibility which tended to elevate 
 rather than to depress. 
 
 In his surroundings now, Bob was extremely 
 fortunate, but there was one thing that clogged 
 his spirits and depressed his mind to a painful 
 degree. I^ever once since leaving Tewton, with 
 the exception of that day in the court, had he 
 seen his aunt Katherine Trail; and the mys- 
 terious way in which she had appeared to him at 
 that time, had impressed his mind more as a 
 dream than a reality. In spite of Mr Woodrow's 
 having informed him that she had left Tewton, he 
 had written, the week after, to the old place ; but^ 
 after many daj^s and nights of anxiety, he got the 
 letter returned to him through the dead-letter 
 office, with the remark written across the envelope, 
 ' Gone : no address.' Then, thinking that Mrs 
 Clayton might be cognizant of her whereabouts, 
 he directed himself to her ; but that lady replied, 
 in a kind letter, that his aunt had left Tewton 
 shortly after his leaving for London, that no one 
 knew anything about her, and led him to under- 
 stand that her departure was but a perpetuation 
 of the mystery in which her advent and residence 
 had ever been involved. In sending this letter, 
 Mrs Clayton enclosed a postscript from Maud, in 
 which the little creature sent her kind, kind love ; 
 and Bob thought it was very good of Maud to re- 
 member him, but it awakened in him no other 
 feeling, except, perhaps, a mental contrast be- 
 tween her and Mary.
 
 HE IS A WISE SON WHO KNOWS HIS OWN FATHEE. 143 
 
 Foiled in these efforts to discover his aunt, 
 Bob, after a considerable time, determined to ask 
 Mr Woodrow about her. He would have done 
 this sooner, but there was a something in his 
 master which he could not imderstand. His 
 manner towards him was different from that 
 towards the others in the office ; when he talked 
 with him, which was seldom — at least during 
 business hours, it was with a sort of restrained 
 kindness, the same as if he would fain step out of 
 his position as master and treat the lad as a friend. 
 If he thought that he had, for a moment, been 
 unusually kind, he would immediately restrain 
 himself and treat the lad coldly, — so coldly, indeed, 
 that Bob often wondered if he had offended him. 
 Never, since the first day, had the name of 
 Katherine Trail passed between them ; and if Bob 
 attempted indirectly to bring it forward, 3Ir 
 Woodrow was certain to ward off the subject, 
 sometimes in a very clumsy way. This disposi- 
 tion, however,, did not hinder him from interest- 
 ing himself in the lad ; and he frequently iimted 
 him out to his house, where, in a bower in the 
 garden, thej^ would spend the fine evenings over 
 the backgammon board, in which game Mr 
 Charles Woodrow was great in his calculation 
 of the chances. 
 
 Had Mr Woodrow, some fifteen years ago, 
 given as much consideration to his chances in the 
 great game of life, and pla^^ed accordingly, he 
 would now have been a happier and a better man. 
 But he strained at gnats and swallowed camels.
 
 144 PKIXELE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 For, wliile in the paltry game of backgammon lie 
 would sit for a time deep in the calculation of his 
 chance before he made the slightest move, he had, 
 to his cost, in that greater game of life in which 
 the board is the world, the men — not little bits of 
 ivory — but flesh and blood, sensitive to wrong and 
 apt in resentment, made, in the whirl of a grand 
 passion, a terrible move, and left the issue in the 
 hands of fate. The move was made, and every 
 move has its consequence. This resulted in the 
 unhappiness, yea, the wretchedness, of more than 
 one, and had it never beeli made (although this 
 may seem trivial), Eobert Trevor would not have 
 required to put the question which he did, one 
 evening when they were in the bower together. 
 
 Mr Woodrow being more than usually frank. 
 Bob took courage to refer to the prolonged ab- 
 sence of his aunt, and from the very nature of his 
 feelings on the subject, the inquiry he made was 
 abrupt. In a moment his master was rigid and 
 stern, but Bob was prepared for this. 
 
 * Do you remember what I said to jou on the 
 first day I met you in the office ? Did I not tell 
 you, then, that it was for your good that these 
 things should be kept from you ? ' 
 
 ^.^ * I recollect, sir. You did,' he answered stoutly. 
 
 * And was that not enough ? ' he demanded, 
 throwing the dice-box from him and starting to 
 his feet ; * must I be made to repeat myself ? ' 
 
 * I have a right to know, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed ! ' he replied, stooping to pick up
 
 HE IS A WISE SOX WHO KXOWS HIS OWN EATHEE. 145 
 
 the box ; and he continued calmly, as he closed the 
 board and lifted it from the table, by way of hinting 
 that he could dispense with the boy's company now : 
 
 ' If I have laid aside my authority as your 
 master, for the purpose of advising you as a friend, 
 I may have reckoned that you had intelligence 
 enough to appreciate the act. But I see I have 
 been mistaken, so it may be well for your future 
 prospects that you should not forget, when you 
 address me, that what may be reasonable when put 
 respectfully in the form of a request, may be no- 
 thing short of impertinence when demanded as a 
 right ; ' and, so saying, Mr "Woodrow left him 
 standing alone. 
 
 Bob was dumbfounded by this stern reply, 
 but, when he began to think more calmly as he was 
 walking hoDie, he felt that he had made a mistake. 
 What right had he to make such a demand from 
 Mr AYoodrow ? And it slowly dawned upon him 
 that, while favours received may constitute a right 
 of expectation, they can never be made the basis 
 of an indignant demand for more. It was pretty 
 sharp experience, no doubt, but he was the better 
 for it ; and if he were ever to broach the subject 
 to his master again, he would do so in a more be- 
 coming way. But he tried to bauish the whole 
 affair from his mind, and although the want of 
 knowledge with regard to his parentage was irk- 
 some and hard to bear, he determined to brave it ; 
 and, as the months passed by, he cast off the memory 
 of Katherine Trail. This may have been a very 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 14G PPJXKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 natural thing for liim to do, seeing that he himself 
 had evidently been cast off, but it aroused an evil 
 spirit in his nature which was never afterwards 
 wholly eradicated. 
 
 Deep hate in a bo}^, or even cynicism or sour- 
 ness of disposition, is inimical to the happiness of 
 his after life. Any or all of these may manifest 
 themselves in the conduct of a man, but it is 
 possible that they may be carried off again, like a 
 distemper in the blood, by the strong current of his 
 being. But with a boy it is different, for in his case 
 the very springs of life are polluted, and although 
 the stream, if allowed to flow undisturbed, may 
 seem pure and clear, it only requires a little irri- 
 tation to make it thick and repulsive as before. 
 
 In the course of eight months Bob had ceased 
 to think of her, but at the end of that time, when 
 letters began to arrive at the office for Mr Wood- 
 row addressed in the handwriting of Katherine 
 Trail, all his old anxiety was revived. 
 
 One day ^Ir "Woodrow was seated in his private 
 room, when Bob entered with a letter, and handed 
 it to him. 
 
 ' Here is a letter, sir, from my aunt.' 
 
 * How do 3^ou know it is ? ' he asked, crushing 
 it up in his hand. 
 
 ' I know it from the handwriting.' 
 
 * Well, supposing you do,' said Mr Woodrow, 
 in a tone of agitation, rather than of anger. ^ What 
 is that to you ? The letter is for me.' 
 
 ' I know^ sir^ it is,' replied Bob, meekly ; ^ but
 
 HE IS A WISE SON WHO KNOWS HIS OWN FATHER. 147 
 
 I should like to know where slie is. I should so 
 like to see her ! ' 
 
 ' It is mere curiosity which makes you wish to 
 see her/ he said dryly, cramming the letter into 
 his pocket. ' What good would it do you ? ' 
 
 * Oh, sir ; what harm would it do ? ' 
 
 * Much, probably. You do not know how much. 
 But 3'ou should curb this spirit of curiosity, 
 Bob.' 
 
 ' It is not curiosity,' he cried eagerly. * It is 
 anxiety ! She is the only relation I have ever 
 known ; why does she stay away so long ? Why 
 have I not been allowed, like other boys, to know 
 more about myself? Why have I been reared in 
 a cloud, and made to breathe the air of mystery 
 all my life I Surely I am old enough to keep a 
 secret regarding myself : why is it held from me ? 
 Other boys have parents, or their graves ; I have 
 neither ! Oh, Mr Woodrow,' he cried, as the tears 
 streamed down his cheek, ^ if you only knew what 
 I have endured on account of this, jou would tell 
 me all ! My ignorance of my parents has become 
 a by-word with many, and, sir, it is hard to bear. 
 Tell me, where are my father and mother ? If they 
 are dead, jou might, at least, tell me so ! ' 
 
 The poor lad clasped his hands over his face, 
 but the tears he tried to hide came trickling from 
 between his fingers. Mr Woodrow was much 
 moved, but beyond an unnatural pallor in his fea- 
 tures and a nervous twitching at the corner of his 
 lips, nothing could be discerned.
 
 148 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 He rose and laid his hand kindly on the boy's 
 shoulder. 
 
 '■ Bob, you may see your aunt soon ; but not 
 now/ 
 
 * I would give anything to see her/ he said,, 
 looking up with red eyes. 
 
 * I know you would : I know you are affection- 
 ate. But it is necessary you should wait. There 
 are many matters/ he continued nervously, *of 
 which you must be kept in ignorance, both for 
 your own sake, your aunt's, and others'. You 
 may know of these by and by, but meanwhile you 
 may rest assured that your aunt is safe, and 
 although she drinks in every word I tell her re- 
 garding you, loves you more dearly for the manly 
 part you played only a few days after coming to 
 London, and longs day and night to see you, she 
 denies herself the fulfilment of her wish, because 
 she knows it is for your good. Let this matter- 
 rest for a while, and return to your work like a 
 good lad. If there is anything upon which you 
 would seek a parentis advice, come to me, and I 
 shall do my best. Bob, to fill the part.' 
 
 Mr Woodrow's language, though kind, was 
 sufficiently decided to let him know that he must 
 still remain groping in the dark, without a single 
 ray of light to guide him. Perhaps there was still 
 a touch of love in these tears which Bob let fall, 
 but the rich pathos of his voice was not brought 
 out till he referred piteously to his having been 
 reared in a cloud, and made to breathe the air of
 
 HE IS A WISE SON WHO KNOWS HIS OWN FATHER. 149 
 
 mystery all Ms life. That was tlie one idea with 
 him now, and his strong desire to see his aunt was 
 not from any love he bore her, but that he might 
 assert his right with her, and demand that, so far 
 as his parentage was concerned, the mystery should 
 be cleared awa}". This was what he was prepared 
 to wrestle for, and delay made him desperate. 
 
 The days passed by, but not without their 
 amusement, for it was impossible to bring that 
 profoundly pompous, timbre-voiced philosopher, 
 ]Mr Peter Prinkle, and that representative of the 
 "Pope's Eje '' debating club, Master Victor Cole, 
 together, without striking fire. Perhaps the idea 
 of flint and steel is too strong for our purpose ; for 
 the coming into collision of these two was more 
 like that of the acid and the alkali resulting in a 
 'phizz.' Yictor had an argument for everyday 
 in the year, and Mr Prinkle was never loath to 
 engage him, it mattered not how sublimely ignor- 
 ant he might be of the question under discussion. 
 Yictor, on the other hand, had always something 
 to say for his own side, nor would he mind dis- 
 carding the principles of logic altogether, so long 
 as he could turn Mr Prinkle' s head or irritate his 
 temper, otherwise graphically described by Yictor 
 as ' setting his lordship's pot a boiling.' Generally 
 speaking, this was easily done, for the lad culled 
 the choicest flowers of argumentative rhetoric from 
 the gin-inspired debates of that august assemblage 
 which graced the " Pope's Eye " with its presence 
 and patronage every Tuesday and Friday night.
 
 150 PRINELE AXD HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 These debates in the office were, indeed, just an air- 
 ing of those of the '^ Pope's Eye,'' andgid^ wanted 
 the gingling of glasses and the ruffing of feet to 
 make them identical with the originals. 
 
 Nothing was too vile or degraded for Peter 
 and Victor to enter upon, — they discussed the 
 conduct of workhouse guardians side by side with 
 other impostures and the social evil : nothing was 
 too wide, — ^they would quarrel OA'er the Represent- 
 ation of the People, and they had been known to 
 wax warm on a Budget ; nothing was too frivolous ; 
 nothing was too holy or exalted for them, — they 
 fired broadsides at the immaculate Church. Victor 
 would have put his thumb on the House of Lords ; 
 and had, once or twice, shocked the loyal nerves 
 of Mr Peter Prinkle by daring to look askance at 
 Hoyalty itself. 
 
 ' Now, now/ cried Victor, one day when they 
 were arguing on one of the latter subjects. ' There 
 ain't no use in talking that way. Say wot you 
 like, there ain't no more rhyme nor reason in the 
 'Ouse of Lords ! ' 
 
 •'How d' ye make that out?^ he inquired shrill}^, 
 as if his own title of Lordship were other than one 
 of courtesy. 
 
 * How do I make that out ? Why, it's as clear 
 as day -light. But it ain't for me to bring up argy- 
 ments agin its existence : 'cos you stick up for it, 
 well — you oughter to have argyrnents to back it. 
 
 ' ISTo, no,' said Prinkle, with forced composure, 
 * you must accept things as they are, as right, tilL
 
 HE IS A WISE SON WHO KNOWS HIS OWN EATHEE. 151 
 
 you can show reasons why they're wrong. It 
 would be a tottley different thing if I was proposing 
 to 'rect a House of Peers where there never was 
 one before. But we have one abeady ; ay, and a 
 good one too, — and — if it's to be done away with, 
 — tell me why ? ' 
 
 * AYhy ! why I ! why ! ! ! In course why ! II3', 
 you are a stoopid ! ' cried Yictor, fairly cornered. 
 
 * Oh, I understand you, Yictor Cole. I know 
 what you are ! You call names when you lose 
 your wits. There's a lot of your kind. They're 
 as thick as berries. But you'll not anger me : I 
 can smile at you with calm contempt, just as the 
 House of Lords might do at your company with 
 the beery brains as meets in the " Pope's Eye ! " ' 
 
 Yictor was one of those, a very common sort, 
 who can give but not take. * I'll shy a bottle at 
 your head,' he cried ; for the shaft had gone home 
 and he was vexed. 'So just mind what you're 
 about, Mr Pr inkle.' 
 
 The book-keeper was not at all afraid, indeed 
 lie was pleased that he had roused the lad. 
 
 * There you are again, Yictor,' he exclaimed 
 importantly. 'You would treat me in the same 
 fashion as you would the House of Lords — you 
 would throw obloquy on the face of dignity and 
 virtue ! But you can't reach as high : no you 
 can't ! I wouldn't have spoke so plaiuly if you 
 hadn't called me a stupid. I've no ill-feeling to- 
 wards you, Yictor Cole, so you may be quite happy 
 so far as that goes ; but, without any disrespect, it
 
 152 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 strikes me that the devil's in you fellows of the 
 *' Pope's Eye " for a lot of ill-contented growlers 
 who would attempt to demolish any institution 
 they can't affect ! ' 
 
 Victor was about to reply to this, but a gentle- 
 man entered at this moment and inquired for Mr 
 Woodrow. Prinkle^ all in a fluster, stepped for- 
 ward and intimated that he had been out for some 
 time ; and on the gentleman's making further in- 
 quiry as to where he might be founds, he seemed 
 to have ' another place ■' on his brain, for he blandly, 
 and most innocently, informed the visitor that Mr 
 Woodrow might be found in the House of Lords. 
 
 * M}^ eye ! ' cried Victor, chuckling when the 
 gentleman had gone. * You've got yourself into a 
 pretty fix now, Mr Prinkle. Mr "VVoodrow 'II 
 think j^ou^ve took to chaffing his friends, so he will ! * 
 
 'What d'ye mean?' 
 
 ' Sending them to the 'Ouse of Lords, of course.' 
 
 ' Bless my soul ! I quite forgot what I was 
 saying,' and Mr Prinkle became sorely distressed, 
 till he was consoled by the thought that it would 
 have been much worse had he directed tim to the 
 *' Pope's Eye." 
 
 On communicating this to Victor, it was re- 
 sented. * Oh, you must have your dig at the 
 " Pope's Eye ! '' But you don't know anything 
 about it, Mr Prinkle. That's wot you always do 
 when I brings up a argyment ; you shirk it ; you 
 stick up an Aunt Sally of j^our own to knock it 
 down ; 3'ou always go off the main line into a lye.*
 
 HE IS A WISE SOX WHO KXOWS HIS OWX FATHER. 153 
 
 ^ow, 3Ir Prinkle had no acquaintance with. 
 railroad teclinicalities, and lie naturally thought 
 "that Victor was attempting to impeach his veracity. 
 
 ' T\e stood a lot from you, Victor Cole, but I'll 
 not stand to be called a liar by no man ! Mind 
 that ! I refer to Trevor if I haven't answered 
 your argument fairly. It's not for me to bring 
 Tip arguments in favour of an institution like the 
 House of Lords : if you want to abolish it, it^s for 
 you to bring up arguments against it. I refer to 
 Trevor, and if he says I am wrong, I've lots to say 
 in its favour.'' 
 
 This was about the fiftieth time that Bob had 
 been referred to since the morning. 
 
 'You will persist in referring to me. 3Ir Prinkle. 
 I don't want to enter into any of your disputes ; 
 but, surely, if you wish to stand up for the House 
 of Lords you can easily find arguments enough.' 
 
 This was decisive, for although Bob was the 
 youngest of the three, he was most respected. 
 
 * Well — ' began Prinkle, turning round on 
 Victor with a sagacious air. 
 
 ' "WeU, wot ? 
 
 ' Just wait. Don't be in such a hurry, or you^ll 
 knock all the arguments out of m}' head.' 
 
 Victor here insinuated, with a vexatious twist 
 of his eye, that he would consider himself a 
 precious sight cleverer if he were able to knock a 
 few in ! 
 
 ' Now, don't say that, Victor/ expostulated 
 Prinkle, mildly ; *■ that isn't the way to carry on
 
 154 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 an argument — it's descending to abuse, so it is. 
 Isn't it, Trevor ? ' 
 
 Bob made no response, and Victor, discarding 
 all work, turned round on bis bign stool towards 
 Mr Prinkle, so tbat tbe two sat facing eacb otber 
 like redoubtable cavaliers, fully equipped with 
 lances, (rulers,) in case of an emergency. 
 
 * Well, I^d like to Imow — ' shouted Victor, 
 putting spurs to bis stool, and brandishing bis 
 weapon, ' wot's the difference between argyment 
 and abuse, so I would ? ' 
 
 * There's all the difference in the world,' as- 
 serted Prinkle, entering with apparent zest on the 
 mimic fight. 
 
 ' No more difference,^ replied Victor, couching 
 his ruler, and putting some spirit into his stool. 
 * !N^o more difference nor there's between speaking 
 a untruth and telling a lie. Look ^ere,' he cried^ 
 bringing the ruler precipitantly upon his horse's 
 head. * It^s six o' the one, and arf-a-dozen on the 
 other. Wen we gets up a argyment^ don't I 
 knock down wot you say ? — Don't I jest ! ' he re- 
 peated, with another thwack. ' And don't you try 
 to pay me back in the same style ? — You thiak 
 I'm not right, and, in course, I think you^re 
 wrong?' 
 _*Yes; well?' 
 
 * Well, there ain't no use in pursuin' the sub- 
 ject further ; ain't it just a roundabout way of one 
 calling t'other a liar ? ' 
 
 Prinkle felt that he was incompetent to answer
 
 HE IS A WISE SON WHO KNOWS HIS OWN FATHEE. 155 
 
 this, and Victor was so well pleased witli liimself 
 that he scampered about on his stool, as if he were 
 showing off the fine action of his charger. He 
 reined in, by and by. 
 
 ' But we're a wandering^ from the ^Ouse of 
 Lords, Mr Prinkle, and in the language of that ere 
 'ouse, yer lordship '11 be kind enough as to bring 
 forward yer lordship^s dog.' 
 
 ' What dog ? ' 
 
 ' Yer argyment, in course.' 
 
 Mr Prinkle was silent for a minute^ and he 
 kept pulling at the lobe of his left ear, as if he 
 would have got it between his teeth, and altogether 
 he looked as if his reasons were not so plentiful as 
 he could have desired. 
 
 'Well, Victor,' he said, at last, 'you won't 
 deny that it contains the wisdom and intelligence 
 of the country.' 
 
 At this the lad brought up his shoulders about 
 his ears, and stretched out his legs, as if he would 
 have turned himself into a note of exclamation. 
 * Wisdom and intelligence of the country ! ' he 
 ejaculated. ' No more nor it contains its youth and 
 beaut)^ ! I'll be blowed if six on them all would 
 ever 'ave seen Parliament if they hadn't been born 
 haristocrats ! ' 
 
 * But they toere born aristocrats,' returned 
 Prinkle, firmly, ' and to be proprietors of large 
 estates ; and haven't they a right to represent 
 these estates in Parliament ? ' 
 
 * No more nor I would if I stole a county !
 
 156 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 How was it tliey came by their estates ? ' and he 
 battered away most unmercifully. ' How was it 
 there ever was dooks and lords at all ? Search up 
 the pedigrees of some of them chaps, — pedigrees 
 as go further back than Trevor's, and I'll be blowed 
 if you don't find that the way they was made 
 dooks and lords, was because some king or other 
 had been too-famil'er-like with their relations be- 
 fore they was born ! It ain't pretty to hear, may 
 be; but it's true! "Wot's the difierence between 
 him as has had the misfortune to be born only a 
 man, and him as was born a dook ? Stick a pin 
 into the one and then into th' other ; it '11 have 
 wery much the same efiect, only the one swears 
 bad — th' other worser ! ' 
 
 This was evidently a slip from the *^ Pope's 
 Eye," and in all likelihood we would have got more 
 of it, had not a letter been handed lq, and Victor 
 unhorsed himself in a jiffy. 
 
 Mr Prinkle had instractions to open letters in 
 his master's absence, and he received this one from 
 the hand of Victor, who bowed absurdly, with 
 many obsequious genuflections. 
 
 * A letter, yer lordship, for Mr Woodrow.^ 
 As Prinkle opened it ostentatiously, he ex- 
 postulated with Victor for calling him ^ lordship/ 
 ' The fact is,' he said, ' I don't like it.' 
 
 * That's right ! ' cried Victor, giving him a 
 hearty clap on the back. * Democrat to the back- 
 bone ! ' 
 
 ' Victor Cole ! ' he shouted, ^ keep your famil-
 
 HE IS A WISE SON WHO KNOWS HIS OWN FATHEE. 157 
 
 iarity for your equals. It^s all on account of my 
 stooping to argufy with the like of you, so it is ! ' 
 But the lad added insult to injury, by hinting 
 that it was only a collision between Lords and 
 Commons. 
 
 * I tell you, Victor, you'll be 's well not to call 
 me that again. I'm not to be bullied. I'm — I'm 
 — oh, dash it I ' he broke off, staring at the opened 
 letter. * Here's a go ! Here's a pretty go I 
 Hivins ! what's to be done ? ' 
 
 ' Halloa, what's up ? ' 
 
 * Up, up ! Bless me, it's from licr, and it's 
 marked private, too, and I never noticed it ! ' 
 
 * It /s a pretty go,' exclaimed Victor ; and 
 Prinkle cried again, 
 
 ^What '11 wedo?' 
 
 * Why didn't you notice the writing before 
 op'ning it ? ^ 
 
 * Notice the ^Titing ! Victor Cole, you'll be 's 
 well not to recriminate, and if j^ou've no better 
 comfort than to ask a man why he didn't lock his 
 stable after he 's got his horse stole, you may 's 
 well hold your tongue. I'm just as wide-awake 
 as 3'ou are, any day ; but j^ou're just like a lot of 
 sympathisers that come about when the milk 's 
 spilt, and damn you with a garrulity of ifs ! Dear, 
 dear me, what's to be done ? JN'otice the writing ! 
 How could I notice the writing when we was dis- 
 cussing the House of Lords ! ^ 
 
 * The 'Ouse of Lords ain't done us no good, 
 anyhoWj Mr Prinkle,' said Victor^ with an ugly
 
 158 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 twist of liis features, ' and, wot's more, instead of 
 lis abolisliing it, it stands a wery good chance of 
 being the means of abolisliing us.' 
 
 Prinkle was greatly excited ; lie seemed as if 
 he were being driven to his wits' end, for he 
 stamped up and down the floor, as if all the lords 
 and lawn-sleeves in earth, in heaven, or anywhere 
 else, were now powerless to avert the impending 
 catastrophe of his dismissal. While this was going 
 on, Eobert Trevor caught up the letter, for his 
 intense desire to ascertain all he could with regard 
 to Katherine Trail, made him careless whether the 
 act of reading was dishonourable or no. And 
 although the penmanship was sadlj changed from 
 what it was in the good old times at Tewton^ he 
 bad not a doubt that the missive was from her. 
 
 There were the same bold dashes in it, however, 
 so characteristic of the writer ; but in several 
 places the words were almost unintelligible, as if 
 the hand had staggered. 
 
 As Bob read it, his excitement was intense, his 
 brain throbbed painfully, and, now and then, a 
 certain dimness hid the characters from his eyes, 
 so that he had to stop more than once, and begin 
 anew. It contained more than he had ever hoped, 
 or cared to know ; and revealed almost all that 
 he had tried to comprehend during these weary 
 months that had lagged away, bringing no tidings 
 of her whom he had onl}^ known as his aunt. 
 
 The letter ran thus : —
 
 HE IS A WISE SON WHO KNOWS HIS OWN FATHER. 159 
 
 * 7, FJicebi'.s Court. 
 
 *This is an evil day. He lias found me 
 at last, but how — I cannot tell. He is worse than 
 ever ! Last night when he came in, he was 
 inhumanly drunk, and he kicked the furniture 
 and cursed fearfully. When I attempted to leave 
 the house, he flew at me, vowing murder. I 
 thought he would have done it, for he flung me 
 hea^-ily on the floor and knelt viciousl}^ on my 
 chest, as if he would have crushed the soul out of 
 my body. He did not do it, however, — I wish he 
 had ! — but when he allowed me to rise, I found 
 that I had a bruised brow,, five purple marks on 
 my throat, and a broken finger ! 
 
 'I know well what you will say. You will 
 tell me to obtain a decree of separation — but I 
 cannot do that. Look at the horrible exposure, 
 the disgrace of which would fall upon our child, 
 — a disgrace, rather than sufier which, I would 
 have every finger broken one by one, and my neck 
 twisted like a towel ! You think I am desperate ; 
 I am desperate ! And I would allow the lad's 
 spirit to consume itself with anxiety, rather than 
 that a blush should deepen on his cheek for my 
 shame ! 
 
 *^This morning I gave the wretch a little 
 money, and he went out for a short time, afibrding 
 me the opportunity of escaping ; so I am here in 
 my old quarters, where I intend remaining until 
 I shall be able to leave the country for ever. I 
 will call upon you to-night, when I shall tell you
 
 160 PPJXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 more. I liave risked sending this letter to the 
 office, not that I have forgotten your caution, but 
 in case you might have an engagement for to- 
 night, which, if you have, I hope you wiU break, 
 for my time may be short, seeing that there seems 
 a favourable opportunity for me within a week. 
 I would fain see the lad before I go away, but 
 after what you told me about the inquiries he had 
 made, I am afraid that it would be to risk too 
 much. I know it will be a severe wrench^ but it 
 is not the first, and I am ready to sacrifice mj^self 
 for his sake. I scarcely know what I have been 
 writing, for my mind is on the rack, and my body 
 is in a wild pain. 
 
 'K. T.' 
 
 When Bob had mastered the contents of this 
 extraordinary letter, he was almost paralyzed with 
 dread, and the abhorrent truths that seemed to 
 coil their slimy folds about his mind, took from 
 him all healthy feeling, and he was speechless in 
 his agony. 
 
 Mr Prinkle and Victor were too busy with 
 each other to notice his condition, and they were 
 inventing all sorts of methods by which to rid 
 themselves of the disagreeable consequences of 
 their carelessness. 
 
 * There ain't no use in bustin.-' our bilers about 
 it,' said Victor, with philosophic calmness. 
 ' Here's a box of matches,^ he cried, shaking some 
 into his hand. ' This is wot we'll do. Nobody 
 knows as it was ever here, 'cept the cove as
 
 HE IS A WISE SOX WHO KXOWS HIS OWN FATHER. 161 
 
 brouglit it. It's a werj^ simple thing for us to 
 deny ever 'avin' seen it : it^ll be a lie, no doubt, 
 but it's better than swap, any day. Here, Trevor, 
 fetch forward the docj'uient.' 
 
 Bob, thus applied to, made no response. 
 
 ' D'ye hear, Trevor ? ' 
 
 And he did turn, but his face was white, and 
 there was no colour in his compressed Kps. As 
 he fixed his unnatural gaze on Yictor, the lad 
 started. 
 
 ' Dash it I wot's wrong ? ' 
 
 Prinkle, whose attention was arrested by 
 Victor's cry, saw at once that there was some- 
 thing far from right ; and he bumped his head 
 as^ainst the door as he ran for water. 
 
 The water was got in time to save Bob from a 
 faint ; as it was, he looked pale and exhausted. 
 
 ' Put away these matches, Victor,' he said, in 
 a faltering voice. ' If you do as I tell you it may 
 be aU right yet.' 
 
 And, when he was able to speak with less 
 difficult}', he turned to the book-keeper. ' !Mr 
 Prinklcj you had better seal up this letter at once> 
 and lose not a moment in taking it to Mr "VVood- 
 row. He may be angry with you, but, of course, 
 you opened it by mistake, and as no one has read 
 it, there is little harm done.' 
 
 'But you have read it, Bob/ he demurred 
 gently ; and there was something of Katherine's 
 fire in the boy's eye when he answered — 
 
 * If you think there is the slightest chance of 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 PEIXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 your telling Mr "Woodrow that — give me the 
 letter ! ' lie cried, niaking a snatcli at it. 
 
 But Mr Prinkle laughed as he eluded him, 
 saying that he was only in fun, although, to be 
 sure, he did not like to tell the lie. 
 
 Again Victor proposed that burning was the 
 better plan. 
 
 Eut Trevor started. ' If j^ou burn that letter,' 
 he cried angrily, ^ you commit a crime. xVnd, be- 
 sides, it can do you no good ; for I shall at once 
 convej^ to Mr Woodrow the message it contains ! ' 
 
 But as Victor did not lay aside the matches. 
 Bob quietly prepared himself for going out. 
 
 * Where are you goin' ? ' Victor asked_, dog- 
 gedly. 
 
 * You shall know that to-morrow.^ 
 
 ' Stop, stop ! ^ cried Prinkle, nervously holding 
 him from going out. ' Grive it to me ; I'll take the 
 letter — Victor — dash it ! Give it to me ! I^m 
 master here, am I not ? ' 
 
 * Certainly you are,' replied Victor, handing 
 him the letter with an ironically deferential air. 
 * And a very important master jou are ! ' 
 
 ' !Xone of your imperence, please ; and don't 
 make no remarks on mx personal qualities. I'm 
 going to make a change in this office, so I am. 
 I've been too friendly with you, Victor, for some 
 time past; and I know that I've got nothing 
 but abuse for it. But I'll fix up a gulf between 
 us yet, and you'll be kept in your proper place. 
 JN^ot a word, sir ; I'm not to be mocked ! ' And
 
 HE IS A WISE SOX WHO KNOWS HIS OWN FATHER. 163 
 
 haying disposed of Victor, lie turned to Bob 
 kindly. ' You liad better go out into the open, 
 air, Trevor ; for I see you're pale and ill. I'll 
 start immediately for Mr Woodrow's^ and do ex- 
 actly as you've suggested.^ 
 
 But Bob, fearing lest the book-keeper^ if left 
 alone "^dtb Victor, migbt be dissuaded from follow- 
 ing the course be bad proposed, wisely remained 
 till be saw Mr Prinkle set out on bis mission; 
 and tben, wben tbe office was closed, be bimself 
 wandered away along tbe streets. 
 
 Tbe clocks were striking five, but be did not 
 direct bimself towards bis lodgings. Tbis was a 
 new errand of bis, and be went for tbe first time 
 in quest of bis mother. 
 
 Fortunately, it so happened that Mr Woodrow, 
 who bad left business somewhat early in the after- 
 noon for the purpose of attending to some private 
 matters^ was waiting at Tbe Bank for his omnibus 
 wben Mr Prinkle came up, and be at once stepped 
 forward to meet him. Tbe book-keeper immedi- 
 ately produced tbe letter, and was about to explain 
 how he had come to open it, wben luckily the omni- 
 bus appeared, and his master hurriedly placed the 
 letter in his pocket, and left him alone, — a prey 
 to bis own uneasy cogitations.
 
 CHAPTER XII, 
 
 MYSTERY A."XD MISERY. 
 
 Trevor hurried along, careless of every thing 
 tliat was passing around him. Having no money 
 in his pocket, he had to walk the whole distance ■ 
 to Mr Woodrow^s house, which was distant from 
 the office rather more than six miles. It 
 was a long way, but his determination to see 
 his mother would overcome a consideration such 
 as that. 
 
 On he trudged, jostling, in his carelessness, 
 the passers-by ; escaping narrowly from being 
 struck by cabs, here and there at the crossings. 
 They might run over him, and kill him, too, for 
 aught he cared ; he had no thought for that, he 
 was so sullen and depressed. 
 
 And well he might, for that letter, although it 
 had dispelled part of a mystery which had hitherto 
 stifled every inquir}^, had only shed a partial light 
 on his existence, which, while stimulating his 
 anxiety, served to show more clearly the depth of 
 his misery. * Our child ' he repeated to himself. 
 ^ Whose child ? ■' he asked. Could it be possible 
 that he was the son of that drunken wretch who 
 had ferreted out his mother and brutally assaulted 
 her ; that it was his father who had demanded of 
 her, * whose brat is that P ' ISTo, no ; that could 
 not be : the mystery was deeper still ! ' Whose
 
 MYSTERY AXD MISERY. 165 
 
 cliildV And lie tried hard to keep his thoughts 
 from Tvanderiug into another channel, but could 
 not. If it was only a suspicion it was a hor- 
 rible one, — especially to emanate from a son ; so, 
 inwardly struggling against himself, he hurried on. 
 
 By and by the streets became quieter, the 
 night was falling, now the houses straggled^ now 
 he was upon the open road. As he came within 
 a short distance of the house, his heart had just 
 commenced to flutter, when he saw, through the 
 dark, a woman leave an omnibus and hurry on 
 before him. It was Katherine — his mother ; and 
 recognizing her almost immediately, he broke into 
 a run ; but she was much nearer the house than he. 
 He tried to cry, but a choking sensation arose in his 
 throat, and his voice failed him. In a few moments 
 she had passed within the gate, and the boy stood 
 still, stung with disappointment, till he sat down 
 by the wayside and wept. 
 
 After a while, when his grief was, in some 
 degree, assuaged, the spirit of determination be- 
 came strong within him again, and he rose to his 
 feet. Scarcely kno-u^ng what to do, he wandered 
 lip and down before the house for a considerable 
 time, chafed and crossed by the ugliest of sus- 
 picions, and very wretched. He knew, as well as 
 any one, of her passionate, impetuous nature ; and 
 he judged rightly that it might rage with unna- 
 tural severity were he to insinuate himself into 
 her presence at Mr Woodrow's house. If his sus- 
 ,picions were correct, that would appear as if he
 
 1C6 PFJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 desired to flaunt her shame before her face. He 
 felt that he was in a terrible predicament, and he 
 stood at the gate, only a few yards from the lighted 
 windows, hesitating and trembling in his very 
 wretchedness. Yet it might be his last oppor- 
 tunity of ever speaking with the woman — his 
 mother ; a few kind words from her lips, before 
 she left the countr}^, were all he desired ; and for 
 a chance of these, he determined to risk her worst 
 displeasure ! 
 
 But, as he laid his hand upon the gate, the 
 door was opened. He quickly drew himself back 
 under cover of the hedge, and he saw his 
 mother and Mr Woodrow standing on the steps. 
 She took his arm, and they walked slowly round 
 into the garden behind. Listening could be no 
 crime in a case like this ; at any rate, the tempta- 
 tion was irresistible as it was unexpected; and 
 Bob did not attempt to combat it, but slipped 
 stealthily round on the outside of the hedge^ 
 watching their movements with breathless atten- 
 tion, and striving to catch as much of their con- 
 versation as he could. 
 
 For a while they walked up and down the 
 garden, but their conversation being conducted in 
 under- tones, the lad heard none of it. At last the 
 moon shone out more brightly from behind the 
 clouds, and they took shelter in the shadow of the 
 little summer-house, which was quite close to the 
 hedge. Trevor crept noiselessly along, under 
 cover of this, till he was only a few paces from
 
 MYSTEEY AND MISEEY. 167 
 
 them, then he stretched himself at its roots, whence 
 he could see them plainly and hear everything 
 that was said. 
 
 Katherine held a handkerchief to her brow ; 
 her face was wretchedly thin, and its shadows and 
 furrows were deepened into ghastliness b}^ the pale, 
 unhealthy light of the moon. She was greatly 
 changed since Bob had seen her last, and there 
 was now none of that wholesome yiyacity in her 
 conversation which once characterized it; she 
 spoke in a low voice of cold deliberation which 
 made the lad shiver to hear her, and her language 
 was that of a callous, hopeless, misanthropic soul. 
 What a change from her manner in the good old 
 times at Tewton ! Then, occasionally, it is true, 
 a cloud seemed to pass across her path, checking 
 her happiness, but now a thick darkness had settled 
 upon her being, dulling the energies of her life. 
 
 From their conversation, Bob could learn no- 
 thing on that point about which he was most 
 anxious. She had determined to go off to Aus- 
 tralia with a vessel sailing in a week. Mr Wood- 
 row urged her strongty against this course, and 
 advised her to try another seclusion in which the 
 man might never find her ; but she was obdurate. 
 8he said there was not a nook in England, she 
 believed, but in which, through time, the man 
 would surely search her out. It was painful for 
 Bob to listen to her tale of miser3^ It was bad 
 enough to hear such a story from an aunt, but 
 from a mother ! — hk mother, and sitting there, in
 
 168 PRINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 that lonely bower, witli a man seemingly involved 
 in tlie same mj'stery with herself ! ^Yas he a rela- 
 tion ? was he onty a friend ? what was he ? But 
 "Boh's thoughts became too much for him, his head 
 became giddy, the broken whispers in the bower 
 were weirdly, the faces were ghastly, the whole 
 scene was like a frightful night-mare, and so the 
 poor lad would have cried aloud, if he could have 
 burst the spell that bound him! As it was, a 
 lieavy moan escaped his lips ; he saw the occupants 
 of the bower rise and come towards him_, a moment 
 and he would have been discovered ; but, quick as 
 thought, he sprang to his feet, and with a cry that 
 shivered through the air, he fled far into the night I 
 
 * What is that ? ' shrieked Katherine^ help- 
 lessly falling forward on the earth. 
 
 Mr Woodrow bounded to the spot where the boy 
 had lain, but on account of the hedge intervening, 
 he could not see from whom the cry had proceeded. 
 
 ' AVhat was that ? ' gasped the woman, still 
 grovelling upon the ground. ' What was that ? ' 
 
 But Mr Woodrow was silent, for the cry was 
 more mj^sterious to him than it was to her. Lift- 
 ing her tenderly, he convej^ed her to the house. 
 Before entering she steadied herself upon the 
 steps for a moment, and turning her wretched face 
 on the cold_, bright moon, she threw up her arm 
 towards heaven with a cry that was wrung from 
 the very bitterness of her soul. * God ! what a 
 miserable woman am I ! ' 
 
 Mr Woodrow tried to soothe her, and when
 
 MYSTERY AND MISERY. 169 
 
 "he had led her into the parlour she sank upon a 
 sofa, andVith her face upon her knees, she moaned 
 heavily for a while. He himself was evidently 
 distressed, for he moved up and down the room, 
 not knowing what to do. Sometimes he would 
 stop and glance at his wretched companion as if he 
 would speak with her. But it was a while before 
 he spoke, and he did not refer to the cry again. 
 
 ' Katherine, must "you go ? Is there no hope ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' Xone.' 
 
 ' But what can you do, even should you make 
 your home in Australia ? You have no friends 
 there.^ 
 
 ' !N^or have I enemies,^ she cried exultantly. 
 
 * That is something ! But should I live there till 
 my hands are palsied and my hair grey, my home 
 it can never be. Everything that is dear to me 
 is here ; everything that is sacred — my boy — 
 my hope shall be here ; my heart shall be here — 
 not there.-' 
 
 ' Then icJii/ do you go ? ' 
 
 * Why do I go ! Xeed you ask ? Is it not 
 something to destroy the link that connects the 
 history of my child with that — that — the man 
 who did that ? ' she cried passionately, putting 
 forward her bruised brow and her bandaged hand. 
 
 * The man who did that ! the man who hunts me 
 — who robs me — who dogs me — and would fain 
 preach to my child^s face his mother's shame ! I 
 wronged the man. I wronged him grievously —
 
 170 PEIXKLE AXD HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 I own it. But is that a reason -why lie sliould 
 ferret for me — as for a rat ? — that he should turn 
 my child — the only blessing I have, into a curse ? 
 Come what will ; come a life of fuller misery ; 
 come starvation ; come death without friends in a 
 foreign land ; — the worst cannot move me, I am 
 bound to my fate ! What I have done, I have 
 done ; but Kobert Trevor shall never require to 
 shrink into himself with the knowledge that his 
 mother — oh, oh ! ' and she broke off, sobbing pain- 
 fully. * I have been bad, bad ! ' 
 
 Mr "Woodrow, in his distress, showed how he 
 felt his position. 
 
 ' Katherine/ he expostulated, with agitation. 
 ^ What is the good of these recriminations ! 
 Passion is worse than useless. Try to take things - 
 more calmly, it will be better for us all.' 
 
 * Passion ! ' she exclaimed. ' Do you taunt me 
 with my passionate nature too ? I might stand 
 it from him, Charles Woodrow, but not from you ! ' 
 
 ' Katherine, Katherine, I do not taunt you, I 
 advise you. It is all for the lad's sake that I 
 speak. It is better that we should talk of the 
 matter as calmly as we can. If j^ou are deter- 
 mined upon going I cannot detain you, my purse 
 is at your command ; but, for any sake_, let the past 
 rest if we cannot forget it ! Let us make arrange- 
 ments for your departure in a sj^stematic way ; 
 there is little time to spare.' And as she became 
 quieter, he continued : ' Of course I shall retain 
 Bob with me still. He has man}- good parts, he
 
 MYSTERY AXD ^ISEEY. 171 
 
 is apt and acquiring, and througL. time, should he 
 hold on in his present course, I have no doubt — 
 But why do you weep, Katherine?' he broke 
 off, laying his hand on her shoulder. * Do you 
 fear to leave him with me ? Hear me, Katherine, 
 — I shall be a father to the lad, ay, and a mother 
 too.' 
 
 ' You/ she exclaimed, looking up with a cold, 
 cynical face. ' You a mother to him ! TThat 
 feelings are yours compared with those of a 
 mother ? ' 
 
 But Mr Woodrow showed that the question 
 did not please him. ' What has he experienced 
 of the kind offices of a mother, these many months 
 since he came to London ? AVhat has he known 
 of a mother's love when he most required it ? ' 
 
 Katherine's passion dyed her face in an in- 
 stant. ' Do not taunt me with that I ' she cried, 
 starting to her feet. * You know as well as I do, 
 Charles "Woodrow, what are my reasons for hold- 
 insr aloof from the lad. You know well of the 
 trials I have endured, the miserable wretchedness 
 I have undergone^ all through these months. You 
 know the yearnings I have for him, and how I 
 have battled with them, jet you taunt me ! Oh ! 
 Charles, Charles,' she cried, with quivering lip, 
 * do not try to explain away what 3'ou have said ; 
 but believe me when I tell you, that, for a whole 
 year_, I have tried to crush back the mother^s spii'it, 
 inch by inch, within me ; I have tried to quench 
 the dearest yearnings of my heart, — but vainly
 
 172 PEIXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 tried ! I have crusliecl, quenclied neitlier ! ^ and 
 her Toice rose to a shriek. *I have maddened 
 them, I have inflamed them, so that, at this 
 moment, they burn within me like a hell ! ' 
 
 Mr "W^oodrow was greatly agitated ; he could 
 not look upon the wild eyes that were glaring at 
 him, so he shrank from their mad light and came 
 behind her, and laid his hand gently on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Back ! ' she shrieked, flinging him ofi*. ' Keep 
 back ! I am not the silly thing I once was. I 
 am a desperate woman now ! The time was when 
 I was little better than a toy in your hands, fit 
 only to be wheedled and cajoled — ' 
 
 ^Stop,' he said; and he spoke shortly and 
 quick, as if he were striving to curb himself. 
 ' Stop, Katherine ! You are desperately ungen- 
 erous. You are laying that to my charge which, 
 in your calmer moments, you know is not true. 
 We did fall — we fell together — but let them who 
 have overcome the same temptation, blame us. 
 You withheld your confidence from me at a time 
 when you ought not, and, unknown to me, you 
 took the one step that for ever precluded our 
 rising together again. I say this, not by way of 
 recrimination, but that you may think, Katherine, 
 before you reproach unjustly, or tamper with the 
 faith of a man who has never changed towards you.'^ 
 
 Well did Katherine know the truth of what he 
 said, and she moaned out in the midst of a storm 
 of tears. * Ah, it is easy for you to speak calmly ;
 
 MYSTERY AND illSEKY. i./'6 
 
 you who deny the existence of the soul, a heaven, 
 and a hell ! Could I deny all these I might be 
 calm ; but I cannot. Will you forgive me ? I 
 know that I have wronged you.' 
 
 * Yes, Katherine,' he said, taking her proffered 
 hands. * We forgave each other long ago.' 
 
 By and by, she came to herself again ; and 
 she explained how that the cry in the garden had 
 upset her, but further than this she did not refer 
 to it. It was well that Mr Woodrow had wisely 
 kept to himself the story of Prinkle's coming to 
 him with the letter, lest in the disordered state of 
 her mind she mi2:ht have been tortured with the 
 idea of the possibility of Bob's having seen it. 
 
 Katherine remained with Mr Woodrow, dis- 
 cussing her prospects abroad and the welfare of the 
 boy she was about to leave behind, till the clock 
 struck eleven, and she rose to go. During their con- 
 versation, which, latel}^, had been sober and calm 
 throughout, she had hinted once or twice at a fear 
 she entertained ; but it was only when they were 
 parting that she ventured to express it plainly. 
 
 ^ I have only one fear,' she said, ' for the lad ; 
 and it is — that, being brought into close contact 
 with you, and knowing the strange views you 
 hold, his regard for the little lessons I taught him 
 on the Sunday evenings at Tewton may — ' 
 
 * Is that all you fear ? ' 
 ' It is.' 
 
 ' Then it is groundless.' ' And as Mr Woodrow 
 continued, his face changed, and there was a rigid
 
 174 PEI^^KLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 solemnity in every feature. ' I env}^ too much, the 
 state of the man ^Yh.o can believe that he is 
 possessed of an immortal soul, which, shall outlive 
 a short season of suffering and sin, to try to dis- 
 suade him from such belief. I have not laughed 
 at the religion of those who are blest with greater 
 faith, than I ; but, on tbe contrary, I have watched 
 with respect and admiration the faith of many 
 Christian men. 'No, no,' be said, as a mecbanical 
 smile passed from his face, ' the lad is safe. For 
 once a man believes tbat he is possessed of an im- 
 mortal soul, bis faith becomes a matter of dear 
 life, and he were an idiot, indeed, who would barter 
 it for such a vasrue distrust as mine.' 
 
 Katherine was satisfied with this, and shortly 
 afterwards, she drove off in a cab to her obscure 
 lodgings in the city. 
 
 Mr Woodrow retired to bed, but not to rest. 
 All through the night he kept thinking of the 
 good old times in ^N^orthumberland, when he lived 
 with his godfather Sir George Gartly of Garth ; 
 when he had no care and no sorrow ; when he 
 knew Katherine as a dark-eyed, dark-haired, 
 high-spii'ited beauty ; when he loved her with an 
 ardour that had been fatal to his happiness and 
 hers ; when he could not marry her until the 
 baronet's death, when all his estates were to have 
 been willed to him ; when Katherine would not 
 wait, but joined herself in haste to a rival. He 
 remembered, too, how that the baronet died and no 
 will could be found, although every search was
 
 THAT FACE WHICH YTAS SO BEAUTIFUL. 175 
 
 made ; how that Katherine^ shortly before the birth 
 of her boy, fled from her husband and threw her- 
 self on his protection ; how that the man fell, and 
 deeper fell, into every dissipation ! So 3Ir Wood- 
 row lay awake, all through the night, and little 
 wonder ; for, out of the past, there came strange 
 memories^ wild and weirdly, like a moaning from 
 the tombs ; and, in the present, there was the 
 harrowing din of that machinery which had been 
 set a moving fifteen years ago. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THAT FACE A^TIICH WAS SO BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 UxBER a sky that is fast becoming troubled, 
 from which the moon is gradually receding into 
 liaze ; across fields^ soft with recent rains ; skirting 
 along dark ugly hedge-rows, which loom uglier 
 and larger in the thickening mist ; Eobert 
 Trevor runs, halting never, in his aimless flight. 
 Sometimes stumbling, darting away from decrepit, 
 stunted trees that move in the wind like so many 
 embodiments of evil, borne on by his excitement, 
 fearing much, and dreading every shape, starting 
 as he again thinks he hears that cry which 
 answered his from the garden, the poor lad holds 
 his way until exhaustion lays her fingers upon 
 him. He stops short in the middle of a field.
 
 176 PEINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 for he feels that his limbs are stiiff; and he looks 
 around^ but he has no idea of the locality ; his 
 watch has stopped — he knows that from its silence ; 
 the perspiration is clammy and cold upon his 
 back and forehead ; and, as he sees, far away, the 
 red reflection in the sky, he begins to understand 
 that a considerable time must have elapsed since 
 he began his flight. 
 
 Across -that field and through another, in hope 
 of stumbling on a highway, he drags on in his 
 weariness, when he is attracted by the rumbling 
 of a carriage, and he sees, about a couple of hundi^ed 
 yards distant, the lamps flickering through the 
 dark. He immediately turns in the direction of 
 the light, and, climbing over a hedge, he jumps 
 upon an open road. After walking a short dis- 
 tance he comes to a fallen tree projecting from the 
 field_, and fearing, yet feeling compelled to rest, he 
 sinks down completely exhausted. 
 
 Left out so far in the night, fatigued and , 
 jaded, without a companion, not even the ticking 
 of his watch, his excitement cools down, and a 
 superstitious nature is left to work its grotesque 
 will. Although nothing of the kind is there,, he 
 sees, out in the middle of the road, under the 
 shadow of a tree, a bower ; although no one is 
 near, he watches two dark forms that are moving 
 within it ; although there is no sound but the 
 sighing of the wind, he listens to the weird 
 whisperings of the two ; he hears snatches from a 
 story of a mysterious perpetuation of sin ; and he
 
 THAT FACE WHICH WAS SO BEAUTIFUL. 177 
 
 hears also his own name mentioned often, often, 
 in the muttering of a well-known voice. Suddenly 
 the moon sails from behind a cloud, and the lad 
 clasps his hands upon his eyes, to hide from him 
 a woman's pale face, with the concentration of 
 fifteen j'ears wretchedness thereon, made more 
 ghastly by the sign that the stranger of Tewton 
 had been avenged ! 
 
 Shivering still, with his hands over his eyes, 
 the poor lad hears the howling and the moaning 
 of the wind ; he removes them^ and he sees the 
 uneven hedge writhe itself into hideous shapes ; 
 the trees twist and bend and throw their great 
 arms up towards heaven as if in agony ; he sees, 
 far away, where the city lies in the night, and he 
 thinks of the wretchedness that is in it, the disease, 
 the crime, the malice, the sights of loathing and 
 of sin ; and when he thinks of these, and of the 
 desperate cries of the lost ones eternally rising out 
 of the depths, the lurid flame that hangs over 
 London — through which the dark clouds are fly- 
 ing, serves but to finish the picture which has 
 arisen in his mind of that place from which the 
 smoke of their torment ascendeth for ever and 
 ever ! 
 
 * My eye ! 'Ere you air — a reg'lar Dick Yit- 
 tington a roostin' on his vay to London ! S'help 
 me, but you air a fragile cove to be doing an 
 outing at this time of day ! Wot's in the wind, 
 my cheery ? ' 
 
 Bob starts at this sudden interruption of his 
 
 VOL, I. 12
 
 178 PRINKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS, 
 
 reverie, and quakes witli fear when lie sees, 
 leering down upon him, a large, slouching, 
 strongly-built, blackguard-like man. 
 
 'Wot's the row? Wot's the time o' day?' 
 growls the fellow, bending over him with his great, 
 dirty, knarled fingers on his knees. ' Whereas 
 your ears, my dovey ? 'Ere now, tell me, wot's 
 the clock ? \ 
 
 Bob does not answer, for he can hardly realize 
 the man's presence there, on the lonely road, but 
 sits timidly looking up in his face. Sharply, he 
 makes a movement to be ofi". 
 
 ' Now, now, you ain't a goin' ava}^ like that ! ' 
 intimates the man in a fierce whisper, laying his 
 hand rudely on the cufi" of his neck. ' Friends 
 ain't so easily met with on a lone road like this. 
 Can't you be civil ? Wot's the time ? ' 
 
 The fellovv''s intention is very evident, and Bob 
 cries piteously. ' Let me go, sir, do ! I am but 
 a poor lad. Let go my coat, sir ; do let me go ! ' 
 
 ' ]^ow, now ; don't try to soften my waistcoat 
 with them tears. JSTov/ will you be quiet ? ' he 
 whispers hoarsely, wrenching him the more 
 tightly ; but Bob still cries, and implores him to 
 let him go. 
 
 The fellow fears the noise, and determines 
 doing his work shortty. Bob is as helpless as a 
 chicken in his hands, and Vvdthout more ado the 
 man wraps the folds of his greasy coat about the 
 boy's head, and rudely tears the watch from his 
 pocket. Getting possession of this he releases
 
 THAT FACE WHICH WAS SO BEAUTIFUL. 179 
 
 liim_, andj by way of return, administers a stunning 
 slap to his left clieek. ' That's for your want of 
 civility.' Another on the right, ' And that's for 
 luck ! ^ immediately disappearing in the dark, 
 leaving the boy stupefied with fear and stricken 
 to the earth. 
 
 The wind rises high as the night wears on ; 
 the dark clouds chase each other across the face of 
 the sky ; the hedges rustle, and chafe^ and moan 
 again ; the trees shake their arms and creak, as if 
 they were menacing the tempest for stripping off 
 their leaves. It is such a night, indeed, as would 
 have been loved by those evil genii in the stories 
 which, long ago, used to make us bur}^ our heads 
 in the bed-clothes and wish devoutly that sleep 
 would come and make us oblivious to the ghostly 
 rumbling in the chimney. 
 
 Bob still rests beside the fallen tree ; the night 
 has no fears for him now : the worst that can be 
 done has been done ; everything and everybody 
 seem to have been conspiring to crush his young 
 spirit, and they have well-nigh succeeded ; it were 
 useless, he thinks, to struggle on, for whither can 
 he go ? What can tempt him back to London — 
 there, in the distance, lying under the lurid sky ? 
 Is his mother there ? Yes, — but he fears too much 
 to tread the forbidden ground. Is his father there? 
 Likely enough, — but who is he ? Are his office 
 companions there ? Yes, — but their senseless 
 taunts sink deeply in his heart. 
 
 These, and many other thoughts, goad him
 
 180 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 almost to desperation, and lie thinks it were better 
 to lie down beside tbe old tree, and become like it 
 — cold, stiff, insensible, dead, — than to face such 
 misery again. Anon, a better angel rises within 
 him ; and he thinks of the sweet TOimg face that 
 has hovered so often above him in his dreams, 
 shedding a ray of light into the darkness of his 
 soul. Mary.'s generous, sympathetic eyes are 
 looking down upon him now, giving him some- 
 thing to hope for, something to love. Their mag- 
 netic influence draws up the tears from the wells 
 of his heart ; his case does not appear so desperate 
 after all ; and so, with renewed courage, he buttons 
 his coat about his neck, and trudges on towards 
 the city. 
 
 woman's eyes, what a wonderful power 
 do ye wield, indeed ! Power to distort every 
 incident, and to turn our lives to bitterness itself ! 
 Power to draw us from the deep abyss of miserj^, 
 and place us in the pleasant light of love ! 
 
 London is yet a long way off; the night is 
 unchanged, only the rain is now beginning ta 
 fall heavily ; imaginary ghosts and more practical 
 prowlers are abroad ; now and then, a figure is to 
 be met with, all wrapped up against the inclement 
 weather, bestowing, as it passes, a glance of sus- 
 picion on the boy, — a suspicion not the more 
 gratifying that it is mutual. The prospect is very 
 gloomy, and Bob feels his spirit sinking within 
 him once more. 
 
 Away in the distance he sees a light which is
 
 THAT FACE WHICH WAS SO BEAUTIFUL. 181 
 
 stationary, and he presses on towards it with less 
 -faltering step, hoping to come upon an out-house, 
 or anything else, in which, out of the rain, he 
 might take shelter until the morning. 
 
 By and b}', he comes upon a row of neat little 
 <;ottages, and it is an end window in the first of 
 these from which the light is streaming. The 
 screen is drawn slightly to the one -side, and he 
 looks in. It is a kitchen ; everything is in its 
 place, and the walls are whitewashed and clean. 
 Before a cheerful fire he sees, sitting in the arm- 
 chair, all wrapped up in a blanket, a female whose 
 face is delicate and attenuated, in whose eyes the 
 fire seems to light up a glow which is not natural ; 
 on the far-off side of the hearth, an elderly woman 
 -clad in russet wrapper and snow-white cap ; and, 
 nearest him, an old man with silvery hair, bending 
 over a big book that is on his knee, from which 
 lie is reading, apparently for the benefit of all. 
 The scene is a picture which Bob spends some 
 time in contemplating, for it is a pleasant change 
 from the writhing shadows and the fluttering 
 leaves. 
 
 He taps gently at the door, but there is no 
 answer. He taps again, and it is opened by the 
 old man whom he had seen. 
 
 * Well, boy ? ' he asks, bending down to look 
 .at him. 
 
 * Would you please to tell me, sir, how far I 
 ■ am from London ? ' 
 
 The old man, struck by the soft voice and
 
 182 PRINKLE AND HIS TEIEXDS. 
 
 honest face of the lad, makes a sign to his wife, 
 and she comes and stands by his elbow, looking 
 down curiously at Bob ; and saying that he surely 
 does not intend going all the way to London to- 
 night. 
 
 * Are you alone ? ' 
 
 * All alone/ he answers. 
 
 * But are .you really going all the way to- 
 night ? And such a night, too/ she adds, looking 
 past him at the rain that is now falling in torrents. 
 Bob hesitates to answer, for he would fain ask a 
 lodging for the night. 
 
 * Go you into the house, John,' she says to her 
 husband, ' and keep Mary company while I speak 
 with the boy.' 
 
 She repeats her question. ' Are you going all 
 the way to-night, child ? ' 
 
 * I must. I have no money, and I have no- 
 where to rest between this and home.' 
 
 ^ But the roads are dangerous,^ she urges 
 kindly, drawing him over the door-step out of the 
 rain. 
 
 * I know they are,' he murmurs sensitively. * I 
 have been robbed already : — I have lost my watch. 
 It has been long in the family, and I am very 
 sorry ! ^ 
 
 She hearkens to the story of the robber}^, 
 soothing him with short sentences of kind com- 
 miseration ; and when it is finished, she wipes the 
 rain- drops from his cheeks and asks his age. 
 
 * Fourteen years,' he says.
 
 THAT FACE WHICH WAS SO BEAUTIFUL. 183 
 
 'Have you a father and motlier?^ she asks 
 kindly. 
 
 But this brings up before Bob the recollection 
 of all his troubles, and he bursts into a flood of 
 tears. 
 
 The motherly sympathy faii'ly overflows with- 
 in the woman now, and she lavishes her compassion 
 upon him, when she remembers how that her own 
 little boy would have been fourteen years old — 
 had he lived. He is drawn into the house, and 
 the door is shut. 
 
 ' Dry up your tears, my little man,' she says, 
 kneeling and doing it herself ; — telling him kind- 
 ly, too, how she had not meant to hurt his feelings. 
 
 He is taken into the kitchen, and his wet coat 
 is replaced by a warm, thick shawl. The woman 
 bids him sit upon the fender to be near the fire, 
 and gives him to understand that she will not 
 allow a boy like hiin to tramp to London, on a 
 night like this, so long as she has a mother^s heart 
 within her, and a roof above her head. 
 
 Good woman, thou shalt be repaid, both here 
 and hereafter ! Here, because thou shalt have the 
 happy consciousness of having opened thy door to 
 one who was needful of th^^ charity : hereafter, 
 because a great Recorder sits, jotting, from day to 
 day, the story of our lives, who shall not refuse 
 thee an entrance by His door w^hen thou shalt 
 have gone, lonely and shelterless, through all the 
 dark, dark way ! 
 
 Bob sits on the fender, and recounts the story
 
 184 PRINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 of how lie came to this place, keeping out, as much 
 as possible, what regards his mother. During its 
 narration he keeps looking up at the radiant 
 countenance of the invalid whose eyes follow him 
 throughout with much sympathy. 
 
 He has an interest in the face. It is not new 
 to him. He has seen the same sympathetic eye 
 before ; but although the face is different, — for the 
 one he had seen had not the same gentle smile 
 which shines on this like a blink of heaven, — the 
 features are the same ; and he tries to recognize it 
 in the shadows of his remembrance, but cannot. 
 
 He learns from the mother that Mary is in a 
 decline. He has heard of consumption before, and 
 he has often asked himself how it is that the 
 victim cannot be cured when the disease is gener- 
 ally known so long before death, and he has 
 wondered why it is that relatives make no stir, but 
 seem to wait quietly for the inevitable end. But 
 he has never seen a victim of the dread malady, 
 and he asks himself the question, as he looks upon 
 Marj^'s gentle face, * Must you die too ? ' Mary, 
 looking down on his wistful e^^es, seems" to divine 
 the question. 
 
 * You are very young. Have you seen any one 
 like me before ? ^ 
 
 Bob mistakes her meaning, for she refers to 
 her malady. 
 
 * Oh 5^es,' he replies gently. * I have seen one 
 very like you, indeed, but not half so beautiful.' 
 
 She smiles. ' Do j^ou think I am beautiful ? *
 
 THAT FACE WHICH WAS SO BEAUTIFUL. 185 
 
 'Oh yes/ says the boy, quite rapturously, 
 bending forward with his hands upon his knees. 
 
 * You are very beautiful — almost like an angel ! ' 
 
 ' I am almost an angel/ she smiles. ' And I 
 shall soon be one.' 
 
 In looking at her face, he almost forgets his 
 troubles. Her answer opens up to his warm 
 imagination a world to which he has given but 
 little heed before, and he wonders what sort of 
 pleasant land that must be in which the good 
 angels dwell. 
 
 ' Would you like to live here much longer ? ' he 
 asks, adding from the very goodness of his heart, 
 
 * I know another Mary, and she is very good.' 
 
 The invalid smiles, and he repeats his question. 
 
 * JSTot as I am,' she replies, ' but if I were 
 -stronger I should like to live for a long time.' 
 
 He is astonished. ' Why, is it not a happy 
 land to which you are going ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; happy, happy,' she says, 'very happy 
 indeed,' and she continues, while the light of that 
 land of which she speaks seems to shimmer on 
 her cheeks and set her eyes a glowing. * But if I 
 were strong, I could go about and try to make 
 others as happy as myself.' 
 
 Bob is quite enchanted with her soft, sweet 
 voice. 
 
 * But you are making others happy,' he says, 
 
 * very happy.' 
 
 Mary shakes her head, doubtfully. 
 
 * But you are, though. I know you are,' he
 
 186 PRmKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 repeats positively. ' You are making me iiappy. 
 I am so tappy that I could sit and look at you all 
 my life ! ' 
 
 Bob is becoming quite enthusiastic in bis 
 admiration for tbe dying girl; and as be looks 
 upon ber interestedly^, be is raised so far above bis 
 sorrows tbat tbey are quite forgotten. 
 
 * But do you feel any pain in going away ? ' 
 be asks. 
 
 At tbis, a grieved expression settles on tbe 
 beautiful face, and Mary falls to thinking, as she 
 stretches out ber arm, and lays ber tapered fingers 
 upon ber mother's. 
 
 ' Yes, there is only one thing — only one thing, 
 mother. I should so like to see my poor sister 
 before I die ! ' 
 
 Oh, the tenderness of these words ! The old 
 man bends his head sorrowful^, while the agitated 
 mother draws her chair nearer to her daughter, 
 and tries to comfort ber. 
 
 ^ Don't speak of Lizzie, child. That is all past 
 and gone.' 
 
 ' No, mother,^ she replies gently, ^ not gone. 
 Ever since she went away I have praj^ed for the 
 dear girl every hour of my life. She is not lost. 
 God will touch ber heart. She will come back. It 
 may be when I am dead. But God is good, and 
 He will bring ber up beside me when I am gone.' 
 
 Bob perceives that be has touched a tender 
 chord, and be is sorry for it; but he does not 
 understand. Both parents are weeping silently,.
 
 ME PEINKLE DEEAMS A DEEAM. 187 
 
 and Mary's eyes are fixed thoughtfully upon tlie 
 fire, but she does not weep. 
 
 It is time to retire ; but before doing so, the 
 old man kneels by his chair, the mother kneels, 
 Bob kneels, and a prayer for the one that is lost, 
 fraught with the deepest tenderness and love, is 
 wafted up to Him who knows our frailty, that she 
 might, through His grace, be brought back to the 
 purer path again. 
 
 Bob retires to the little bed that is given him, 
 thankful for it ; and his very soul is moved for 
 the sorrowful, good old man, as he bids him, with 
 a heavy heart, ' Good-night.' 
 
 The light in the room is extinguished; but 
 the little lad still sees the beautiful face of the 
 dj^ing girl, with a glory round it, in the dark ; 
 and he tries to call up to his remembrance at 
 what time he can have seen that other face which 
 is not half so beautiful but so like. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 MR PRINKLE DREAMS A DREAM. 
 
 We are afraid that IMr Peter Prinkle, when he 
 went home to his wife at night, after he had, to all 
 intents and purposes, deceived his master in the 
 matter of Katherine's letter, would have doubted 
 very much the wisdom of Lord Bacon's saying
 
 188 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 that tlie mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure. 
 One thing was certain, that his experience was 
 directly the opposite of this ; for, in his peculiarly 
 wild imagination, he believed that in promising to 
 deceive Mr Woodrow he had taken the first step 
 in a downward course, that he had opened the 
 flood-gates of all that was evil in his nature ; and 
 no doubt his memory went back to the literature 
 of his boyhood, and he was visited by the ghost 
 of the lad whose career of wickedness had been 
 inaugurated by a falsehood, and brought to an end 
 by the tightening of the hangman's rope. Strange 
 it may seem, but in all Mr P'Mnkle's recollection 
 he could not charge himself with a single lie, 
 and for that very reason his remorse at this time 
 is not at all likel}^ to meet with due appreciation 
 on the part of a general reader. Whether this 
 one was to be found out or no, he found that he had 
 measured his moral length on the ground ; and he 
 did not try to palliate his offence, although he had 
 hinted to ^ell that it was all through keeping 
 lodgers, when he asserted that, much as he liked 
 Robert Trevor, he could not help thinking that 
 he had brought a strange fatality on their home. 
 * I don^t know what it is,^ he said, ' but there^s 
 a mystification about that boy which I don't like. 
 He's not like other boys ; he doesn't go in for fun, 
 and all that sort of thing, — in a healthy way, you 
 know. And although he's been in the house with 
 us for more nor a year, we don't know no more 
 about him than if he was Melkissydick ! ^
 
 MR PRINKLE DREAMS A DREAM. 189 
 
 ^ But, Peter dear, it is not necessary we should. 
 He was sent to us by Mr "Woodrow, and I^m sure 
 he would not have recommended him if there had 
 been anything wrong.' 
 
 * Well, that's all very true, and I don't want 
 to make any insinuations^ but I do think there's a 
 likeness between — ' 
 
 ' Hush^ hush,' she interrupted, with a certain 
 playfulness in her manner. * You mustn^t think 
 of that ! We have no right to say any such thing.' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps we haven't ; but still one can't 
 help thinking that Mr — ' 
 
 ' Come, come, now.' 
 
 ' Well— hang it ! It's not his fault. The boy 
 must have had a father ! ' 
 
 * Fie, Peter,' she smiled. 
 
 * Oh, you may fie from Middlesex to York,' he 
 replied, with a decided wink and a series of nods, 
 * but Peter Prinkle knows v*^hat he's about, just as 
 well as any man ! ' 
 
 As this was a matter of satisfaction and faith^ 
 dear to her husband, Nell did not try to controvert 
 the statement, but changed the subject by express- 
 ing astonishment that the lad had not yet come 
 home. 
 
 * God bless me ! ' cried Peter. * And it's past 
 nine o'clock ! ' 
 
 * Come, come ; you mustn't use words like 
 these. It's not right. It is a very bad habit.' 
 
 * Habit or not habit, !N'ell ; it's a very handy 
 way of getting off the steam. And when I say
 
 190 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 demit, hiess me, or God hiess me, I don^t mean any 
 tarm, and it's no more evil in me tlian it's sin 
 for a steam-engine to whistle ! ' 
 
 * I don't say y/lietlLer it is evil or no/ she re- 
 plied ; * but it is certainly a very bad habit, and, 
 you know, I want my husband to be a gentleman 
 in demeanour, as I am sure he is one at heart.' 
 
 There was a naivete in this remark which made 
 the tear start to Prinkle^s eye before he knew it. 
 
 ' "Well, Nell dear, I^m sure you don't wish that 
 more than I do ; for I always try to be worthy of 
 you. For the last few months Pve been thinking 
 that the time was soon coming when I would be 
 able to put you in the position of a lady — and 
 there's not a lady in the land deserves better ; — 
 but here, I've had a disappointment again. I know 
 I'll not be able to look Mr "Woodrow in the face 
 after telling him that lie, and if Robert Trevor 
 should not come home to-night I am sure to be 
 found out. Then — I know what'll happen. I'll 
 be dismissed with ignominy, and not having a 
 character I'll be brought down to poverty. Keep- 
 ing a lodger is bad enough, but it'll be nothing 
 to wandering about the streets, begging from door 
 to door, naked with nothing on ! ' 
 
 Had it not been for the apparent distress in 
 which her husband was, Nell would have laughed 
 at such fears ; but she moved forward and sat be- 
 side him, whispering to him affectionately, while 
 she tried to take his hands from his face. The 
 change had come very quickly over him, for a
 
 MR PRINKLE DREAMS A DREAM. 191 
 
 minute ago lie was lively and liappy, and now he 
 was crjang like a child and shaking like a leaf. 
 
 ' Oh, Nell/ he cried, while he put his arm about 
 her neck, and turned his weary face to hers. 
 ^ You must forgive me, for I can^t help it. Let 
 me go away to my bed, and don't speak about Bob, 
 for it agitates me. I haven't been well all day, 
 especiall}" since I saw that letter — and — and — Oh, 
 Nell, forgive me ! ' and he burst into a storm of 
 tears. * I — I can't help it — and — I'm afraid that 
 the pains are coming into jrj head again.' 
 
 His wife tried all she could to soothe him while 
 she assisted him to bed, but he seemed far from 
 well, and her heart misgave her. 
 
 When she had made him comfortable she re- 
 turned to the kitchen, leaving the room-door open, 
 so that while she sat by the fire waiting till Bob 
 should come, she might keep her eye on her hus- 
 band at the same time. So, while she is sitting 
 there, counting the weary hours that pass bringing 
 no tidings of the lad, we shall take the opportun- 
 ity of casting a retrospective glance on their previ- 
 ous history, and of seeing if there is any explana- 
 tion of the strong affection that links these two so 
 difierent in every way. 
 
 Theirs had been a chequered life, and long ere 
 this Mr Peter Prinkle would have ended his with 
 a halter, or been confined for a lunatic, had he not 
 been blessed with such a patient, noble wife. The 
 daughter of a soldier, born and bred in Gibraltar, 
 imbued with that spirit of regularity and endur-
 
 192 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 ance which characterized her father's profession, 
 'Nell was admirably adapted for her destined 
 sphere. Shortly after her arrival in England, 
 some seven years past, she became acquainted with 
 Mr Prinkle, then a good-looking man of thirty, 
 engaged in a respectable business of his own, from 
 which he realized enough to keep him in easy cir- 
 cumstances and have to spare. Although Nell had 
 not yet completed her twentieth year, an affection 
 sprang up between them, which soon ripened into 
 love. They were married under the most auspi- 
 cious omens, and for the first year lived most hap- 
 pily, with nothing but the blue sky of prosperity 
 overhead. Their friends, their store, and all that 
 was good,, were on the increase, so that the year 
 went round merrily, and pleasantly, as the pro- 
 verbial marriage-bell. 
 
 But with a crash, a large firm in the trade gave 
 way, and this caused many other minor houses to 
 totter to the verge of bankruptcy. Prinkle's was 
 among these. Loss came upon loss with terrible 
 effect, and his creditors having got wind of it, 
 made a run upon him for cash. Bravely, with 
 the assistance of N'ell, did he bear up for a while. 
 He cried for time, but in vain. A few weeks of 
 dreadful excitement and anxiet}^ — they were soon 
 pastj — and Peter Prinkle was brought to the door^ 
 a ruined man ! 
 
 Their resources closed, and where were their 
 friends ? Prinkle bemoaned his altered position 
 much, more especially when he thought of jS'cll
 
 ME PEIXKLE DREAMS A DEEAM. 19^ 
 
 Laying been taken from a pleasant home to share 
 the sorrows of his poverty. But for this, he could 
 have braved all the misfortunes that came upon 
 him ; and, in spite of the way in which she cheer- 
 fully adapted herself to their reduced circum- 
 stances, he continued moody and sad. 
 
 * Why, Peter dear,' she had said, ' you should 
 try to be happy. There are good days in store for 
 us yet ; and it may be you'll love your wife the 
 better,, when out of the days of renewed prosperity 
 you look back to times like these.' 
 
 * Nell,' he had answered, — 'IS'ell, there is no use 
 in trying to be happy ; for I shall not be happy, nor 
 will I rest, till I have put you in a better position 
 than you were before. It is one consolation to 
 think that, in all my trials, you have sustained 
 the dignity of your love ; and that I, though sorely 
 pressed, have not verged by the shadow of a hair's- 
 breadth from the line of honesty ! ' 
 
 This was a proud boast to make ; and to one of 
 his nature there was something extremely trying 
 in the fact that, by the misdemeanor of another, 
 he had been brought down to the ditch of bank- 
 ruptcy, as many an honest man has been, to find 
 his level among liars, and cookers of books, and 
 knaves of every sort. All that Nell . could do to 
 rouse him was in vain ; he sank into a deeper state 
 of melancholy ; and by and by, the pains came 
 into his head, and he was stricken with brain-fever. 
 In these circumstances Nell was brought to severe 
 straits, for, besides requiring to take in whatever 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 ■work she could get, she had to look after her house- 
 hold affairs, and attend to her husband. At times, 
 daring her absence — for she had to go out to seek 
 the means of life — Peter became so delirious that 
 strong men were called in to hold him. He 
 would then stare wildly at the strangers as they 
 stood around him, and he would curse fearfully ; 
 but in the yery height of his madness, while he 
 writhed in their strong grasp, he would set up 
 wild cries for IN^ell — his good wife Nell, as he 
 called her, — believing that they had taken even 
 her away. And it was only when she came back 
 again that he would relapse into the feebleness of 
 a child, and a ray of reason would shine through 
 his fevered eye. For weeks and months he was 
 confined to bed, sometimes insensible, sometimes 
 delirious, till at last the fever left him, and his 
 sanity returned. But he rose, weak in body and 
 in intellect, altogether a changed man ; he rose 
 to what he has been since this history began — 
 sometimes pompous and suspicious, sometimes 
 simple and confiding, but always fractious, witless, 
 inquisitive, and even generous Peter Prinkle. 
 
 But now the morning has began to dawn, the 
 weary night has passed away, bringing no tidings 
 of Bob. Fearing to disturb her husband Nell had 
 rested in her chair, and with the morning she had 
 renewed hope, for Peter had slept soundly and well. 
 
 While she was breaking up the fire, Mr 
 Prinkle raised himself in his bed and rubbed his 
 «yes.
 
 MR PEINKLE DREAMS A DREAM. i\)b 
 
 * Bless me, Nell ; have you been long astir ? ' 
 ' OL. yes, I've been up for a long time.' 
 
 * Was I speaking in my sleep ? I think I 
 must, for I've bad tbe most extraordinary dream 
 as ever a mortal dreamt.' 
 
 ' Ko,' she said, with a smile ; for there was a 
 certain comicality in the manner of her husband. 
 * You slept like a top.' 
 
 ' I'm glad of that ; for last night I thought as 
 if my head was going to bursty but it's all right 
 now, and I'm strong and well. Has Bob come 
 home yet ? ' 
 
 On answer being made in the negative, he 
 cried, ' Mercy on us ! ' and with more vivacity 
 than grace, he flourished out of bed. 
 
 * Good gracious, NeU ; that's my dream come 
 true ! I'll be found out — I know I shall. But 
 then Mr "\Yoodrow won't be there to-day, for you'll 
 remember that he never comes to business the day 
 after receiving one of these letters.' 
 
 Nell did not betray any anxiety lest it might 
 encourage her husband to do the same in the su- 
 perlative degree. \0h, yes ; but you must not 
 fear. Bob is sare to return. He would have been 
 away all night without letting us know, you recol- 
 lect, when he went to Mr Alton's.' 
 
 * Quite true, Nell ; but if he doesn^t come back 
 to-day, it'll just he like keeping the sword of Da — 
 (well, I won't mention the name in case you might 
 think I was swearing) — hanging over my head,' 
 and Mr Prinkle laughed quite heartily at his con-
 
 196 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 siderate repression of the name of the Sicilian 
 tyrant. 
 
 'But you don't ask about my dream, Nell? 
 Just hearken to it/ and he composed himself seri- 
 ously and began. 
 
 * Well — you know, I dreamt that all of a sud- 
 den the office was changed into the garden of 
 Eden ; and who do you think I was turned into ? 
 — not Adam, but Eve ! ISTow, Nell, you're not to 
 laugh, for there's nothing extraordinary in that. 
 Bless me, I once dreamt that I was a ploughed 
 field ! Well — you know — I don't know what came 
 over me, but I did something wrong, and of course 
 I was turned out of the garden. I don't know 
 who turned me out, but when I came back and 
 wanted to get in again, who should I see, with 
 great flaming swords, and dressed up like angels, 
 but Mr Woodrow and Victor Cole ! Now, I was 
 very sorry that they wouldn't let me in ^again ; 
 but — just fancy Victor Cole an angel ! — I sat 
 down in front of them and laughed outright. 
 Victor got angry and flashed at me with his sword, 
 but I jumped back: and — what do you think? — I 
 saw, sitting up a tree, as comfortable as you like, 
 Eobert Trevor, flapping his wings and whistling 
 like a canary ! ' 
 
 Nell was amused, and her husband added — 
 
 * I don't think there's a mortal man living in 
 the universe as could have dreamt that dream but 
 myself; and the best of it's lost in the telling. 
 Now, Nell, it'll be rather a predicament if it comes 
 true.'
 
 MR PRINKLE DREAMS A DREAM. 197 
 
 ' Yes ; but I don't think it will. Bob is likely 
 to be here in time for breakfast.' And she tried 
 to set his apprehensions at rest. 
 
 However^ that meal was made ready and dis- 
 patched,, and stiU there were no tidings of the lad. 
 Mr Prinkle showed that his feelings had began to 
 work again, for he sat gloomily by the fire and 
 made frantic efforts to get the lobe of his ear be- 
 tween his teeth. He pronounced against all false- 
 hoods, small and great ; he launched out in dis- 
 approbation of lodgers in general, and Bob in 
 particular ; and when it was time to go, he but- 
 toned his coat with much precision, asserting 
 finally, in language which, though strong, the 
 most fastidious will recognize as quite legitimate 
 in its connection, as if suggested by the association 
 of his dream, that ^ nothing of all this would have 
 
 happened if Adam hadn^t played that d d 
 
 stupid trick in the garden of Eden ! ' 
 
 Xell could not refrain from smiling when she 
 saw him make for the door. ' Don't you think 
 you had better put on your boots ? ' she asked. 
 
 ^ Tut, bless my soul ! ' he cried. ' I quite forgot.' 
 ****** 
 
 The fresh rays of the morning sun have pierced 
 the panes and filled the little room with light. 
 Robert Trevor's rest has been refreshing, and 
 when he awakes, if the expression of thankfulness 
 is not on his lips, it is in his heart and in his eye. 
 His sleep has been pleasant and undisturbed, for 
 these two faces have been floating over him in his
 
 198 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 dreams, and tlie one still casts a beauty over all liis 
 thoughts, while the other imparts to his reflection 
 a kind of mystery which is fascinating. 
 
 The morning is bright and beautiful; the 
 country is fresher for the tempest of the night ; 
 nature is sweet and rosy ; while, all around, the 
 birds are singing and flitting joyfully from bush 
 to tree. Bob lingers over the prospect from his 
 window, contrasting the aspect of all he sees, with 
 the dark and the slush and the wind of the pre- 
 vious night. 
 
 The kind old woman is up and about already ; 
 her husband has gone to his morning's work, for 
 the great world has risen from its repose. He 
 goes into the kitchen and meets his benefactress 
 there. He thanks her for the kindness she has 
 extended to him, but, not content with what she 
 has already done, she desires him to partake of a 
 bit of breakfast she has prepared. 
 
 Before going, he asks for Mary; but she is 
 still in bed. She rests far into the day now, for 
 she is becoming weaker and weaker. But he 
 reiterates his wish to see her, and the mother con- 
 ducts him into the girl's room. She is not asleep, 
 and as she observes him she stretches forth her 
 delicate hand, and Bob takes it into his own while 
 he tells her he is going away. And as he sees her 
 face again, he falls a wondering as to where he 
 can have seen that other which was so like. 
 
 Mary hopes that he will come back to see her
 
 MR PEINE LE DEEAMS A DEEAM. 199 
 
 Oil yes; Bob will come back again, often; 
 for she has such a beautiful face, he tells her 
 pleasantlj^, that he can hardly bear to go away. 
 
 * Besides/ he says, ' you have opened up new 
 thoughts to me. There was only one who ever 
 spoke to me as you have done.' 
 
 ' And I think,' she says, raising her eye-brows 
 as she smiles, * I think I could guess who that 
 other one was.' 
 
 * No ; I don't think you could.' 
 
 ' It was that other Mary to whom you referred 
 last night. You see, Bob, that I can remember 
 little things ! ' And she is amused at his embarrass- 
 ment, for the lad is blushing deeply. 
 
 'No,' he replies, perhaps wondering that he 
 should be surprised into the confession. ' 'No, it 
 was not that other Mary — although she, too, is very 
 good. It was long ago, and the girl's name was 
 Maud.' 
 
 ' Long ago ! why, you speak like an old man.^ 
 
 ' "Well, I am very old since a jeav ago.' And 
 he is further confused when he remembers what 
 Catherine had predicted in that time past. 
 
 * And was this Maud a good girl ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; she was better than all the rest.' 
 And Bob feels, when he is looking into these 
 beautiful eyes, that he could tell nothing but the 
 truth, even although it should be at the expense of 
 Mary Alton. 
 
 * I used to know her before I came to London, 
 and I write to her still, but it is so long a time
 
 200 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 since I have seen her, that I almost forget now 
 what she was like.' 
 
 * But you should go and see her.' 
 
 * I cannot : I wish I could ; for when I am 
 weary with the cares that have come upon me, I 
 often think that Maud could cheer me, and help 
 me to bear them better than I do. I used to be 
 good before I knew what it was to be bad, but I 
 don't think I shall ever forget what Maud said 
 when I left her.' 
 
 * "Will you tell me what she said ? ' 
 Perhaps, Bob had in his heart that feeling 
 
 which he could not yet define, that there are scenes 
 and sayings valuable only to him whose memory 
 retains them, upon which the light of day may not 
 dwell, for when he attempts to answer her, his 
 heart rises to his mouth. 
 
 * I — I am sure there is not much I would not 
 tell you, Mary : but I — I — ' He can proceed no 
 further, for the tears choke him. 
 
 Mary puts her hand upon his shoulder_, and 
 says to him kindly — ' Well, Bob, never mind. 
 But see that you don't forget Maud, for little as I 
 know about her, I am sure she will not forget you.' 
 
 This comes upon the lad with something in it 
 of the nature of a rebuke, for what has he been 
 doing these last thirteen months but steadily for- 
 getting the little girl whom he had always meant 
 to love ? 
 
 StiU Bob likes this Marj^ for the kindly way in 
 which she treats him ; she gives him much sound
 
 MR PRINKLE DREAMS A DREAM. 201 
 
 advice whicli is received hj Mm gratefully, for lier 
 manner towards him, and the interest with which 
 she regards him, are totally different from any of 
 his past experience in London. 
 
 But the girl is becoming tired, and he retires 
 a pace from the bed-side; he is going away, and his 
 heart is fuU. 
 
 Mary looks as if she were sleeping, and as he 
 contemplates the beautiful and resigned face,, he 
 hesitates on the floor^ turning his soft hat outside 
 in as if struggling with an impulse. Softly he 
 draws near to her, and bending forward he lets a 
 kiss fall gently on her brow. A smile of conscious- 
 ness gathers upon the delicate features, and with 
 this reflected on his heart, and large tears in his 
 eyes, he turns away from the room. The mother 
 sees him to the door, and a sincere wish for his 
 welfare goes with him as he passes into the cold 
 world again. 
 
 Yes, it is a cold world for him ; for no sooner 
 has he turned from the communion of bright faces 
 with whom he could have lingered, than he is con- 
 fronted with the realities of life, and as he wanders 
 en towards the city, it seems as if he were awaking 
 from a pleasant dream. Yet, he believes, he will 
 face his trials in a different spirit, for the counsels 
 of this girl, and the hope she has given him, have 
 led him to look at life from the vantage-ground 
 of Faith. She had said to him that if he tried to 
 do what was right, there was a Providence above 
 aU which would bear him onward. This idea was
 
 202 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 new to him, but enougli that it had emanated from 
 Mary ; for was it likely that a girl so full of love 
 and so near death should believe in anything that 
 was false or delusive ? 
 
 When Bob arrives home he is met by l^ell, 
 profuse in her expressions of gratitude for his safe 
 return. Hitherto, he has had ver}^ few secrets 
 from the good woman, and now that he is in 
 such an open temper, he sits with her b}^ the kitchen 
 fire, relating minutely, but with much simplicity, 
 all that has happened to him since he left the office 
 on the preceding day ; dwelling particularly on 
 the conversation he had with Mary, depicting witk 
 a touch of ardour the beauty of her dying face, and 
 telling, too, of that other face he has seen before, 
 * which,' he says again, ' was not half so beautiful, 
 but so like.' 
 
 JSTell listens to his story with much interest, 
 and as the incident of the garden is described, 
 she thinks that she can bring together — perhaps 
 vaguely — many of the scattered fragments she has 
 heard related with regard to the boy's life. She 
 says nothing of this, however, to Bob, but sympa- 
 thizes with him in his troubles, advises him how to 
 act, and when he is starting again on his mission 
 to Phoebus Court she receives from him a faithful 
 promise that he will return home that night what- 
 ever should be his success. 
 
 Before going in search of his mother, he directs 
 himself to the office. Mr Woodrow has not been 
 there as yet, and the book-keeper, who has been
 
 ME PEINKLE DEE AM 3 A DREAM. 203 
 
 worried and fretted by the incidents already re- 
 corded, is quite beside himself with excitement 
 when the lad makes his appearance. 
 
 ' God bless me ! — Bob ! ' and, in his haste to 
 grasp his hands, he jumps from] his high-legged 
 stool right into a waste-paper basket at his feet, 
 and the next minute is sprawling on the floor. 
 When he rises he is furious with Victor. 
 
 ' Demit, Victor^ what d'ye mean ? Don't make 
 no excuse ! I know you put it there on purpose.' 
 
 Victor, of course, denies this, but Mr Prinkle is 
 so delighted with the lad's return that he drops 
 the discussion with a most unparliamentary esti- 
 mate of Victor's veracity, and while he is enthu- 
 siastically shaking Trevor to pieces he flounders 
 on through his paradisiacal dream. 
 
 *Yes — like a canary, sir — by George, like a 
 canary ! You needn't laugh, for it's quite true, and 
 I didn't take it out of my head either — not a 
 word of it ! ^ 
 
 ^ It is very wonderful, Mr Prinkle.' 
 
 * Just what I told my wife ! Nell, says I, I 
 don't believe there's another being in the living 
 universe as could have dreamed that dream but 
 myself ! ' 
 
 Mr Prinkle is full of glee. A great load has 
 been lifted, as he says^ ' from the shoulders of his 
 mind.' And now that he is without apprehension, 
 — out of the wood, so to speak, — he thinks he 
 might halloo. 
 
 ' Mind you, Bob,' he remarks, with a glance at
 
 204 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Victor, ' although. I tell you I saw Victor dressed 
 up like an angel, you mustn't suppose that he 
 was anything resembling one ; for with the square 
 mouth and goggle eyes he has, he wasn't anywise 
 improved as a spirit. Indeed^ when I look back to 
 my dream, I don't think they could have selected 
 a better figure to set up at the gate of the garden 
 for the purpose of frightening people away ! ' 
 
 * Go on, Mr Prinkle,' sneered the lad referred 
 to. * You're on your high horse to-day ; but I could 
 fly a kite in your face as would make you rear ! ' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, Victor ! and be respectful 
 to your superiors ! ' 
 
 * Yes/ — says the lad, * when I meet them.-' 
 But jMr Prinkle is too much delighted to take 
 
 offence ; he plaj^fuUy pinches Bob to see if it is 
 not his ghost, frisks about him like a kitten, and 
 winds up a long and ridiculous speech of congratu- 
 lation with another fling at Victor. 
 
 ' Altogether/ he says, *' it was a most extraor- 
 dinary dream ; but I'm so glad that this office isn't 
 a garden ! that I'm not turned into a woman ! and 
 — and that Victor is no more an angel than ever ! ' 
 
 ' Wich is imperence of you to say so,' cries the 
 lad. 
 
 But Mr Prinkle heeds him not, and hugs Bob 
 uncomfortably. He is so pleased that his appre- 
 hensions of beggary are dispelled, and he breaks 
 forth in his usual Scriptural strain, and rejoices 
 * that Bob was dead and is alive again, was lost and 
 is found.' But while the ebullition of gratitude in
 
 THAT OTHER FACE. 205- 
 
 the parable sounded the death-knell of the fatted 
 calf, Mr Prinkle suggested a more humane con- 
 viviality, by his throwing a coin at Victor, de-, 
 manding that he should fetch a brimming quart 
 from the ' Dragon.' 
 
 In ten minutes afterwards, Mr Charles Wood- 
 row's jDrivate room is made to witness a strange 
 desecration ; for Mr Prinlde has perched himself 
 on his master's desk, and with his legs in the air 
 and a pewter pot in his hand, much to the amuse- 
 ment of the two youths, he is rollicking and 
 
 * A-canna-no : a-cauna-uee, 
 Little brown jug, but I love thee I ' 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 THAT OTHER FACE WHICH WAS NOT HALF SO 
 BEAUTIFUL, BUT SO LIKE. 
 
 * To-night we'll wander through the streets, and note 
 The qualities of men.' — Antony and Cleopatba. 
 
 The lamps are lighted in the streets ; the sun 
 has long since disappeared beyond the bricks of 
 London; and with it ten thousand resolutions, 
 made since the morning, have died away; ten 
 thousand souls, depressed with care or fired with 
 passion, are hurrying under the cloud of night to 
 the various resorts of misery and dissipation. The
 
 :206 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 under circle of Society is whirling round with its 
 giddy motion ; the pavement is made a nuisance 
 by the swaggering of listless youth, among whom 
 the rude jest is rewarded by the joyless laugh ; and 
 there are myriads of those whose mission it is to 
 lighten up our homes with their smiles, to shed a 
 ray of heaven into our hearts, to smoothe with their 
 soft influence .the wrinkles from the brow of care, 
 — wandering in this dark disquietude, cursed and 
 cursing, jeering and despised. 
 
 Within a brilliantly-lighted entrance, through 
 the long passage of which is borne the swell of 
 orchestral music, — interrupted at times by the 
 loud roars of applause, stands, leaning against a 
 painted pillar, one of the many — a slender sylph - 
 like girl, with a pale, dejected face. As she gazes 
 on the tiled flooring with a tender, weary eye, 
 what may the scenes be that are passing through 
 her miind ? Is she wandering in fancy, through 
 the sins and repentances of a chequered past ? or, 
 does she see, in the dim retrospect of childish years, 
 a happy home, a doting father, and a yearning 
 mother, the sister to whom she nestled in her 
 purity, and the friends who sought the pleasure 
 and hospitality of her home ? Yes ; she thinks of 
 these. She ponders over the many changes which 
 may have taken place since then. Does the mother 
 still mourn over the frailty of her child ? Is the 
 good old man, her father, still alive ? And then, 
 too, her sister. It is a recollection of the sweet, 
 delicate companion that calls up a relic of the past
 
 THAT OTHER FACE. 207 
 
 into her ej^es ; she wonders — does the dear girl 
 still languish for the touch of her sister's hand ? 
 or, has she, at last, entered that heaven which 
 lighted up her eye in the days which now seem so 
 very long ago ? 
 
 To-night there is nothing more peculiar in the 
 appearance of those who come and go, than there 
 is on any other night ; for there are the same un- 
 wholesome-looking characters, swaggering, swear- 
 ings rude, and riotous. There is the ne'er-do-well, 
 with his sunken shoulders and his shuffling gait, 
 elbowing the student, with his sickly cheek and 
 burning eye ; there is the young commercial, with 
 his bantam strut and vulgar tongue, carrying a 
 price-list of buttons in his face ; and there is the 
 poor clerk, in his shrunken breeches, trying to for- 
 get his obligations and the tortures of his life, 
 while he puffs away the proceeds of his last two- 
 pence in the shape of a bad cigar. There they 
 come and go, and there is not a gentleman in the 
 lot ! Many of them — nearly all, stop jauntily to 
 chaff the poor girl as they pass, but she is silent ; 
 and they little think that, even in that strange 
 place, from the nature of her thoughts, she is 
 nearer Heaven than they ! 
 
 The rain has been drizzling for a while ; and 
 by the time the clock strikes nine, the wind has 
 risen high. Just as the last stroke of the hour is 
 heard, a young lad comes in from the street, all 
 buttoned up in a great-coat, and his cheeks are 
 fresh and glowing with the wet. Evidently he is
 
 208 PRINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 not a hahitue of the place, for he looks up and 
 around him with an air of uncertainty. The girl 
 is startled by his appearance, and she eagerly 
 watches his procedure, through the veil which she 
 has just drawn over her features. 
 
 He seems to experience some difficulty in de- 
 termining whether he should enter or no ; but at 
 last he makes up his mind, and is marching to- 
 wards the hall, when the thinly-clad watcher steps 
 quietly forward and detains him by the arm. The 
 boy stops, somewhat startled by the interruption, 
 and asks what is meant. 
 
 ' Did I not tell j^ou, a year ago,' she whispers 
 close to his ear, ' that this was not a place for 
 you ? Nor is it now. Come back ! ^ 
 
 * I won't,' he answers. ' Let go my arm.' 
 
 *0h, lad,^ she cries, straining her eyes at 
 him through her veil, * do you not remember 
 me?^ 
 
 ' I do not remember you,^ says Bob, somewhat 
 churlishly, 'but I remember the circumstance. 
 Let go my arm — the people are looking.' 
 
 This is too much for the tender-hearted girl. 
 She had at least expected some expression of 
 gratitude, however small, for the kindness she had 
 manifested, when, thirteen months ago, she carried 
 him helpless in her arms from this very spot. It 
 is too much, and for a moment she presses her 
 hand on her eyes to dry the tears that have dropped 
 on her torn veil. But she holds him eagerl}', and 
 implores again * Come back.'
 
 THAT OTHER FACE. 209 
 
 He tries to shake her off. ' But I am older 
 since then/ he says. 
 
 ' Older ! This is not a place for you ; nor 
 shall it be, though a hundred mortal years should 
 pass over you ! ' 
 
 Bob, who has been wandering about the streets 
 for the last four hours in search of Phoebus Court, 
 is in a fractious temper, and he shows it. 
 
 ' Then, if it is not a place for me, how can it 
 be one for you ? ' 
 
 Surely this is a climax, for if he had struck 
 her he would not have been more unkind. She 
 drops her hold in an instant, and burying her face 
 in her handkerchief, she turns away as if the 
 words had gone to her heart. 
 
 Bob is touched, and approaches her holding 
 out his hand. ' Will you forgive me ? I did not 
 intend to hurt your feelings.' 
 
 * You mean/ she repKes, starting back, ' that 
 you did not think I had any ! But one's degrada- 
 tion must be deeper than mine, and her feelings 
 sunk lower, before a taunt like that will fail to 
 reach them ! ' And then, changing her voice, 
 and throwing out her arms imploringly _, *Will 
 you not come back ? You know it is a bad place, 
 for I saw you struggling with yourself. Are there 
 no friends you would pain_, did they see you here ? 
 Come back ; you know I am right.'' 
 
 The earnest plaintiveness has a visible effect 
 on Bob. He thinks he can hear a voice so like it 
 in the ringing of his ears ; the saintly face of 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Mary, v/itli the smile slie wore that morning, rises 
 distinctly in his mind ; and by these unseen powers 
 he is compelled to follow in the steps of the stranger. 
 It must not be thought that Bob had deliber- 
 ately put himself in the way of wickedness, for 
 this was altogether an unexpected temptation. 
 Since leaving the office, with its inmates — Prinkle 
 and Victor, deciding a wager who could drink most 
 stout, the loser to pay — he had wandered hither 
 and thither in an unsuccessful search for Phcobus 
 Court, every turn making him see more clearly 
 the folly of taking his directions from such an one 
 as Mr Peter Prinkle. The passers-by knew no- 
 thing of the place, and he was sent from one police- 
 man to another. This was weary and heartless 
 work ; and as he was lagging on in his embar- 
 rassment he unexpectedly found himself under 
 the glaring entrance from which he had been 
 carried something like a year before. He had never 
 seen it since, for during the time that had inter- 
 vened he had carefully eschewed the place — not 
 out of any dislike to the entertainment offered, but 
 from a repugnance to view the spot where he had 
 shown the chicken heart. He was a year older 
 now ; and that period having been passed amid 
 the contaminations of the city, he had learned to 
 w^nk at many things that would have shocked 
 him once, and to enjoy an entertainment that had 
 then made him ashamed. He was, however, 
 diverted from his purpose by the plaintive requests 
 of the unfortunate girl, who_, although hanging on
 
 THAT OTHER FACE. 211 
 
 in one of lier old haunts, was greatly changed from 
 what she used to be ; indeed, could Bob have 
 known how closely this change was linked with 
 his first experience of London life, he might have 
 realized the depth of fervour with which she now 
 entreated him. True, this change had not yet 
 fully manifested itself in her outward life, alth-ough, 
 indeed, she was already removed one step from the 
 degradation in which our history found her, but 
 it was working surely in her nature, and it must 
 be remembered that, as in the world's afiairs^ so it 
 often is in the human heart, 
 
 ' Tlie mills of God grind slowly — ' 
 
 * I can't understand/ he says, when they come 
 into the street, ' why it is you keep me from going in ? ' 
 
 ' My reason is simple,' she replies, in a deter- 
 mined voice, laying her one hand upon his arm 
 and pointing back with the other. * In that place, 
 among the audience or from the stage, I have only 
 heard one sentence savouring of the teaching with 
 which I was taught, and that sentence was spoken 
 by you.' 
 
 *Well,' he rejoins, giving his shoulders a 
 shrug, * I don't want to hurt your feehngs, but, 
 surely, if it is not a place for me it is hardl}' one 
 for you.' 
 
 Again she wipes the tears from her eyes, at- 
 tempting to speak with the same self-possession, 
 but her agitation cannot be concealed. * It is not,' 
 she answers. ' And, will you believe me ? since
 
 212 PRINKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 the night I first saw jou I have not set a foot 
 within that hall ! ' 
 
 Bob is incredulous. 
 
 ' It is the truth I tell you/ she cries ; ' nor 
 should I have been there to-night, were it not that 
 I was waiting one who is very dear to me/ 
 
 Somehow or other that sentence seems to choke 
 her, and the full flood of her sensitive nature comes 
 forth with the sobs which she tries to stifle. Bob 
 cannot understand this, and fearing lest her man- 
 ner should attract attention, he turns into a quieter 
 street. 
 
 But the girl stops. ' If you are going home, 
 this is not your way.' 
 
 He is surprised at her abruptness, but answers 
 that he is not going home just yet, as he has a 
 message to deliver at Phoebus Court ; and he asks 
 her^ with a show of indifierence, if she knows any- 
 thing of the locaKty. 
 
 ' Yes,' she tells him. * It is near where I live. 
 The rain is ofi". We shall be there in forty minutes.' 
 
 And as they walk along more briskly^ the girl 
 keeping a pace or two in front of him. Bob be- 
 comes interested in her, and tries again to draw 
 her into conversation. 
 
 * Mind you,' he says, * although jou have suc- 
 ceeded in taking me away from that hall, I don't 
 think there is any harm in such amusement.' 
 
 ' You don't ! A year ago you thought there 
 "was.' 
 
 ' But, I teU you, I am a year older since then.'
 
 THAT OTHER FACE. 213 
 
 She laughs dryly at this, '"N^Hiat if you are ? 
 Its immorality remains unchanged. Then, you 
 fled from it in horror. It has not been elevated to 
 your standard, have you been lowered to lU 
 standard ? Answer that.' 
 
 * Well,' he stammers, * I don't know whether 
 it is the one or the other ; but you must acknow- 
 ledge that there are scenes which ought to be 
 withheld from a lad of one age, but ma}^, without 
 harm, be open to one more advanced in years or 
 experience.' 
 
 * Ha ! ' she cries, quickly catching him up. 
 '■ There you are mistaken.^ And, as she continues, 
 she seems to throw off all her sensitive nature_, for 
 she becomes bold, buoyant, and even careless in 
 her gesticulations, and so loud in her language 
 that Bob inwardl}^ congratulates himself that they 
 are walking in a quiet street. She is never at a 
 loss for a word ; sentence after sentence comes 
 rolKng, without an effort, from her lips ; and in 
 stating her argument she is free and proud, as if 
 she were mistress of her ideas, while the tone and 
 modulation of her voice sound quite ftimiliar to his 
 ear — a fact which rouses his curiosity, as her face 
 is still hid. 
 
 * A year older, you say ! "Well, in deference 
 to your venerable age, I suppose I must state an 
 argument. Attend,' she says, laying her hands to- 
 gether. * It is a fallacy — dangerous as it is popular, 
 — to suppose that a place like that which we have 
 just left, which is bad for children, may be less
 
 214 PRmKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 evil for grown men. "What is a man but a develop- 
 ment of the boy ? — a development of each of his 
 characteristics save that of his comparative purity ? 
 If that could be developed too, then there might 
 be some reason in pleading increased age as an 
 excuse for such indidgences. To the pure all things 
 are pure, and it follows that, to the less pure, all 
 things must_, in the same degree, be less pure also. 
 By this course of reasoning, which I believe to be 
 the correct one, that place of passion and excite- 
 ment is as dangerous, if not more so, to the man 
 as to the boy/ 
 
 Bob's astonishment at the manner in which the 
 girl speaks, probably keeps him from following 
 her ideas so closely as he might otherwise have 
 done ; and he interrupts her slowly. ' I do — not 
 understand — one — single word you are saying ! 
 Did you get all that in a book ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; — in the truest of all books — the book of 
 experience ! But you don't understand me, you 
 say ; — then I'll be plainer.' And_, as she continues, 
 she places her arm in his. ' I remember once, — 
 when I was a little girl, reading one of those books 
 which are full of evil, whose authors are excused 
 by some very good people on account of the 
 times in which they wrote, — when my father, seeing 
 what I read, tore it rudely from my hand, telling 
 me in a stern voice that I was not old enough to 
 read such a book. Well, I was astonished and 
 deeply hurt at the time, for I was half through 
 with it already — thrilled with a high interest in the
 
 THAT OTHEE FACE. 215 
 
 lierOj and, I say honestly, witliout experiencing one 
 impure thought. Years after that — not knowing 
 where to draw the line between being " too young," 
 and " old enough," I took the book from its shelf 
 and read it from the beginning. But this time I 
 was thrilled with a deeper fascination; and I 
 dreaded lest I might be discovered. I knew then 
 what I did not know years before : I knew that it 
 was full of impurity : my very cheeks glowed with 
 the knowledge of it : and from that day to this I 
 have felt the bitter effects of it in my heart.' 
 
 Bob is greatly astonished at finding the woman 
 to be so different from what he had expected, for 
 her words command the attention of the head, 
 rather than what might have been expected — the 
 sjTnpathy of the heart, 
 
 * You are very clever,^ he says. ' Have you 
 read many books ? ' 
 
 * Yes. By the hundred.' 
 
 * What class of books ? ' 
 
 ' All classes. From Tupper to Yerulam ; from 
 Paine to the Bible ! ' 
 
 * Indeed,' he exclaims, not recollecting any but 
 the last. * Then you must be very learned too ! ' 
 
 ^ I have not the learning, in my own sphere, 
 that a little mouse has in his.' 
 
 ' AYeU — at any rate — if you have little learniDg 
 you have less vanity, or you would not have 
 said so.' 
 
 * My bo}',^ she replies, with a matronly air, 
 * you make a mistake ; for I have the vanity of
 
 216 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Lucifer ! — it is my besetting sin. You may not be 
 too young to try to form opinions, but you should 
 allow another year or two to pass over your bead 
 before you express them so freely. Any boy 
 might have seen, from the' manner in which I 
 speak to you, that. I am vain — vain to the bone ! ' 
 Bob means to resent this correction, for he tells 
 her flatly that he does not think that her reading 
 has done her much good. At this the girl seems 
 hurt, for she again presses her hand upon her eyes. 
 
 * Hush — hush, you are unkind ! ' 
 
 And the very tremulousness of her voice seems 
 to arouse Bob's better nature, too. 
 
 'I am not; and you know it,' he answers 
 boldly. ' What was it that prompted you to detain, 
 me at the door of that hall P Was it not an in- 
 stinct for good ? I know it was ; and the same 
 spirit that moved you then, compels you now, 
 whether you speak it out or no, to acknowledge 
 that the life you lead is a life of sin ! Now, now ; 
 you are too sensible to think me unkind, so don't 
 outrage your feelings by sa5dng it. You have done 
 me a good turn ; let me try to do the sam6 for you. 
 Why don't you go home ? Is it not — but stop ; 
 where are you flying to?^ he cries, laying his 
 hand upon her as she makes a movement to be off'. 
 
 * I cannot remain with you if you speak in that 
 manner. It makes me shudder. Stop, for God's 
 sake ! ' she implores^ with much agitation. ' I will 
 not hear you, — it makes me ill ! ' 
 
 But Bob's blood is up, and he is determined that
 
 THAT OTHER FACE. 217 
 
 he sliall speak plainly to the girl ; for the convers- 
 ation lie had with Mary, that morning, flashes 
 across his recollection, and he realizes his oppor- 
 tunity for doing good. Yet he scarcely knows how 
 to act; he is in a quandar}-, and mutters some 
 common-place apologies to the girl, when a 
 thought is given him, and he quickh" puts his arm 
 in hers. * Come ; and I shall tell you a story.' 
 
 ^^Tiether or no she accepts this as a renuncia- 
 tion of the subject, she walks along with him 
 peaceably and desires him to speak on. 
 
 Trevor begins to tell the story of yesterday's 
 adventures, which, already, on account of his sus- 
 tained excitement, are rapidly receding into the 
 past ; and he does so for the purpose of showing to 
 the unfortunate girl what might be the picture of 
 her own life ; and, if so be, touch that part in her 
 heart which is not yet beyond the influence of 
 good. The story is told with much simplicitj^, the 
 more efiective, perhaps, on account of the circum- 
 stances of its narration, and the girl is interested 
 beyond any expectation of his. This in itself 
 stimulates his enthusiasm, and Mary loses nothing 
 by his delicate portraj^al of her, although he fin- 
 ishes his description thus — 'but I cannot tell you 
 what she was really like ; she wasn't pretty — she 
 was beautiful ! So beautiful, indeed, that no one 
 could paint her picture faithfully, unless her ovm 
 eyes were to be transferred to the canvas, for there 
 was a depth of goodness in them that was never 
 in paint ? Well, you know, when she mentioned
 
 218 PEINELE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 the name of her lost sister^ it wasn^t as if she had 
 newly begun to think of her, but just as if all her 
 previous thoughts had been about the girl, and it 
 was only then that she relieved herself by speak- 
 ing out her name and by giving utterance to her 
 own hopes regarding her. While she did this a 
 cloud seemed to fall on the faces of the father and 
 mother, but there was no cloud on the good girl's 
 face, for it shone up more brightly than before. I 
 don't know what made it light up so beautifully, 
 but I am sure — ' 
 
 * Yes — well ; what did she say ? ' and the girl 
 but feebly conceals the agitation that is shaking 
 her whole frame. * Go on. What did she say ? ' 
 
 Trevor then repeats faithfully the words of 
 Mary, for they are graven on his heart. ^ Well, 
 the good girl looked not on the father or the 
 mother, but away through the fire, as if she were 
 speaking to some one beyond it. "Wot gone, 
 mother,'^ she said, " not gone. Ever since she went 
 away I have prayed for the dear girl every hour of 
 my life : she is not lost : God will touch her heart : 
 she will come back. It may be when I' am dead, 
 but God is good, and he will bring her up beside 
 me when I am gone ! '^ ^ 
 
 During the narration of this the girl has been 
 trembling violently, and murmuring inaudibly ; 
 but when he has finished, her excitement gains the 
 mastery over her, and, with a sweep of her arm 
 that makes Bob stagger to the wall, she strikes 
 her hand upon her brow, and cries with admiration.
 
 PHCEBUS COURT. 219 
 
 * 3Iy life, for words like these ! Mary, Mary ! 
 God bless thee, and make me even as thou art ! ' 
 
 A gleam of intelligence instantly shoots across 
 the countenance of the lad. In a moment he has 
 torn the veil from the girl, and that other face is 
 before him. 
 
 * Lizzie ! Lizzie I ' 
 
 But he cries only to an empty street of dingy 
 houses which seem to crowd down upon him in 
 his bewilderment ; for the girl has gone — silentlj" 
 — as a shadow that is lost ! 
 
 CHAPTER XYL 
 
 PHCEBUS COUET. 
 
 * Day and night my toils redouble, 
 Never nearer to the goal ; 
 Never — never does the trouble 
 Of the wanderer leave my soul.' — "Woedswoeth. 
 
 By and by, the excitement which Lizzie's in- 
 explicable departure had occasioned, begins to sub- 
 side ; the houses settle back into their wonted 
 dingy austerity, and Bob reaKzes the loss of a 
 glorious opportunity for doing good, — the duty of 
 which Mary had so warmly inculcated upon him, 
 — an opportunity for good which, if successfully 
 used, would have healed up the only wound in the 
 dying girl's heart, and lighted up the little por- 
 tion which yet remained of her mortal life. iS'o- 
 thing would have suited the boy's inclination so
 
 220 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 well as to have been tlie means of accomplisliing 
 chis ; to have restored the unfortunate girl to the 
 blighted home ; to have made Mary happy with 
 the knowledge that, invalid though she was, and 
 isolated, in a manner, from the outer world, a mes- 
 sage of peace and good- will, begotten of God in her 
 own heart, had been carried into the very depths 
 of London, and had there reclaimed that wander- 
 ing soul, which, above all others, is the subject of 
 her prayers, morning, noon_, and night ! 
 
 Baffled in this, he is in a weary mood. 
 
 There will be no Phoebus Court for him to- 
 night, he thinks. He must be far away from it, 
 for, had not the girl said that it was only some 
 forty minutes walk ? and he has already been an 
 hour in her company. It is late, and he remem- 
 bers his promise to !N"ell, knowing that she will be 
 anxious for his return. His head is racked with 
 pain. And well it might, for the extraordinary 
 scenes through which he had passed, were such as 
 might have taxed the nerves of a more robust 
 constitution, and tried the strength of an older 
 reason. But one more trial awaits him yet, and 
 he has just enough of strength left to carry him 
 to it. 
 
 He has proceeded only a few paces, when, on 
 the other side of the street, farther along and under 
 the light of a lamp, he sees a dark figure turned 
 towards him as if watching his movements. It 
 looks like that of the girl who has left him, and 
 his first impulse is to go straight up to her ; but
 
 PHCEBUS COURT. 221 
 
 fearing that she might be scared by his doing so, 
 he walks on as if he had not seen her. As he comes 
 opposite her she evidently believes that she is ob- 
 served, for she gKdes on before him, quickly and 
 noiselessly, always keeping the breadth of the street 
 between them. Following her in this manner, up 
 one street, along another, and up again, he tries to 
 make towards her without showing any haste or 
 anxiety in his gait. But when he quickens, she 
 quickens ; when he goes slower she does the same, 
 always contriving to maintain her distance ; so he 
 is interested, and wonders, no doubt, what is to 
 happen next. Nor is he long kept in suspense, for 
 the girl stops at a corner, and is gazing up on the 
 wall as if to make out the name of the street. A 
 few more hurried paces and the excited youth is at 
 her side ; — but lo, she is gone — silently as before ! 
 
 With a bound, Bob is on the spot where she 
 had stood, but as he looks along the street, under 
 the low light of the lamp, he sees her flitting 
 hastily away. His eyes turn instinctively to the 
 wall on which she had gazed so intently ; the ex- 
 planation is before him, and his heart thumps wildty 
 on his sides as he reads in plain black and white, 
 the name—PHCEBUS COURT ! 
 
 In an instant the whole of his feelins^s undergo 
 a revolt, and the poor girl and all her connections 
 are pressed out of his mind by that large, looming 
 anticipation of meeting his mother, which fills him 
 with dreadful thoughts boding little good. 
 
 If Bob would take time, which he does not, to
 
 222 PEINKLE AXD HIS FSIENDS. 
 
 look around, a single glance would show him a 
 closely-built square of tall and dingy houses, 
 possessing just enough of their by-gone character 
 to suggest a general appearance of respectability 
 run to seed. The numbers on the doors are either 
 much obliterated or entirely gone ; so, as he is 
 likely to be some little time in finding Number 
 Seven, we shall exercise one of an author's privi- 
 leges and enter before him. 
 
 From a dark and narrow lobby we turn into a 
 scantily-furnished apartment on the left, in which 
 two women are seated before a blazing fire, with a 
 table between them on which are scattered a 
 number of tea-things overtopped by an ominous 
 black bottle ; while on the floor are strewn bits of 
 packing cord, paper, et cetera, suggesting that the 
 packing of these two corded boxes in the corner 
 has just been completed, and that the packers are 
 stimulating themselves from the aforesaid tea-cups 
 and bottle, previous to their commencing work 
 upon that other box which is still empty at their 
 feet. The one woman is a short, waddling little 
 body, with a vaguely ugly face on which a redis- 
 tribution of colour would be advisable, seeing that 
 a redundancy of complexion on the tip of her nose 
 has reduced the rest of her countenance to a state 
 of pale beggary. The other is more remarkable. 
 Her figure is slight, but tightly knit ; her face is 
 coloured deeply, — it ma}^ be with excitement and 
 hard work, it may be with the heat of the fire and 
 the genial warmth of stimulants ; but more likely
 
 PHCEBTJS COURT. 223 
 
 to be all put together, for it is very red, and the 
 fire dances brightly in her eye. As if by neglect, 
 a short lock of dark hair rests loosely on her brow, 
 — in reality it is designed to conceal a bruise ; while 
 her little finger and left wrist are strapped up in 
 a handkerchief ; but the pain that these wounds 
 may occasion does not change the determined 
 aspect of her lips. It is Katherine — much de- 
 pressed by the prospect of going abroad so soon, 
 and wearied by the protracted inquisitiveness of 
 her companion, who has been badgering her for 
 some time while they were working. 
 
 * Well,' says the landlady, placing her hands 
 upon her knees and watching Katherine slyly. 
 ' Well, I've heard tell on warious motives as made 
 people leave this old country to go to Australy, but 
 none on them was good. Some there be as leaves 
 it for debt ; some 'cos their characters is gone ; some 
 'cos they can't get no work ; and some 'cos they Ve 
 done a bit of work wich the 'thorities wonH per- 
 mit on, in case they be put to the wheel as is like 
 the road to Hiven — mighty hard steppin' and no 
 nearer the top when alPs done.' 
 
 * Stop,' cried Katherine, striking the table im- 
 patiently. * You have prated to me long enough ! 
 It is no use, for I shall not tell you why I am 
 leaving England. All that you require is that 
 I pay you my board. Leave me to my own 
 thoughts : my mind is too fully occupied to attend 
 to your inquisitive snivelling ! ' 
 
 * Lah ! I declare, Miss. But there warnH no
 
 224 PKIXKLE AND HIS FEIEXDS. 
 
 needcessity for flaring up like that ! I was only 
 making a few hobservations, and, bless my 'art ! 
 if a sboe does pinch, it ain't no reason wliy the 
 wearer should kick out and let everybody know ! ' 
 
 * Will you be quiet ! ' And Katherine's eyes 
 flash fire. 
 
 * Lah, if that's goin' to be the border of the 
 proceedings^so — so,' she says, rising and holding 
 the bottle to the light. ^Hev it's goin' to be 
 mutiny I'll just stop the supplies.' And she locks 
 the spirits in a cupboard, comes back to her seat, 
 and shakes her angry fists at Katherine. ' And I 
 ain't agoin^ to be called a snivellin' and a parater 
 by one as might be worse nor either for ot anybody 
 knows ! I ain't agoin' to be called names by one as 
 is afraid to tell her own ! I ain't agoin' to be, Miss : 
 no I ain't ! ' 
 
 The shade deepens upon Katherine's face, but 
 she controls her temper and changes her tone. 
 Beaching over her hand by way of conciliation, 
 she says, * I have been hasty. Miss Dibbs, but if 
 you could only know of the 'exciting scenes through 
 which I have been made to pass, I am sure you 
 would pardon those little freaks of temper. My 
 strength, both of bodj- and of mind, has been taxed 
 to its utmost. Lately, I have slept little, I have 
 been so tortured by the prospect of leaving all that 
 is dear to me in England, for a land which can 
 never be my home, in which I shall wander on and 
 on — I don't know where ! ' 
 
 'Yes, Miss,' observes Miss Dibbs, stiffl}'.
 
 PH(EBU3 COUET. 22 5 
 
 * Austral y^s big enoug]i_, hev it ain't wery enticing 
 to wander in. But tliere^ll be friends to be got in 
 it, and henemies too, for tliey alius go together^ 
 Excuse me, Miss ; but if one may believe lioccular 
 hevidences, somebody's English lienemies ain't 
 overpoweringl}^ gentle.' 
 
 Katherine hastily covers her bruised hand, but 
 controls herself. ' IN 0/ she answers; ' they have been 
 unkind to me here. My brow is bad, I suppose ? ' 
 
 * It ain't pretty.' 
 
 * Does it look as if it will leave a mark ? ' 
 Miss Dibbs is softened by the milder tone of 
 
 her companion. She rises to examine the wound, 
 and thinks to soothe her b}^ saying that it will be 
 almost invisible. 
 
 ' Almost ? ' she cries. 
 
 ' Yes ; not much.'' 
 
 * Xot much ! This is worse than I expected — 
 it is unbearable.' And she asks for a glass. 
 
 Miss Dibbs moves towards the cupboard. 
 
 ' jJ^o, no. Is ot that glass — at least not yet. 
 DonH you think, Miss Dibbs, dear, that we have had 
 enough — at least till bed-time ? ' 
 
 The lodging-house keeper likes to be called dear 
 Miss Dibbs, and shows her gratitude. ' Just as j^ou 
 please, my dear. I'll leave it on the table, — ^just 
 as it pleases you.' 
 
 * Thanks, very much.' And Katherine goes to a 
 small mirror hanging on the wall, surveys her face 
 for a minute, then returns to the table. It is evi- 
 dent that she has a cravino: after what is in the 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 PEI^^KLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 "bottle, for slie stands by the table debating with, 
 berself, and eyeing Miss Dibbs stealthily, for she is 
 ashamed. 
 
 ' You are very kind. Miss Dibbs, dear ; but I 
 don't think we should pack that other box to-night, 
 you look so tired. Perhaps some of this would do 
 you good.'' And, so sajdng, she poured into a cup a 
 quantity of spirits for the Dibbs, and' into another 
 a like libation for herself. ' I knovv" it has been of 
 great service to me during these last few days ; it 
 makes one forget all sorrow, and it deadens pain.' 
 
 * Quite right, dear, it's the best blessin' of 
 Providence — to 'em as like it.' 
 
 * I think so,' murmurs Katherine, turning her 
 back quickly on her companion while she raises the 
 cup tremulously to her lips. ' I think it is.' 
 
 The draught is deep, and the flush upon her 
 countenance is darker than ever when she sets down 
 the vessel empty. Stubborn vanity is in her dark 
 eye ; shame burns in her veins, tingles on her 
 cheeks, and sets her ears a ringing. Miserable 
 woman, indeed ; no pleasant rumination can that be 
 which fixes her gaze as she seats herself b}^ the fire ! 
 
 Spirits tickle the ruling passion ; that of Idiss 
 Dibbs is curiosity. She watches Katherine nar- 
 rowly for a little while, then comes softly behind, 
 bends over her, resting her hand on her shoulder, 
 and attacks her in her most persuasive style. 
 
 * I wager. Miss, you are gazin' at the face of 
 some of yer friends in the fire. It's wery good for 
 the himagination w'en one fire in one's hinside
 
 PH(EBUS COUET. 227 
 
 looks out at another fire on one's outside. Ain't 
 it wery, deary ? ' 
 
 ' Yery/ she assents. 
 
 'And one's friends does come up before the 
 himagination, don't they ? ' 
 
 ' They do/ 
 
 ' Wery pecooliar, ain't it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yery.' 
 
 But she is not making the progress she woidd 
 like. ^ I wonder now^ wot sort of friends you do see ? 
 They might be relations, perhaps ? ' 
 
 Katherine is becoming impatient. ' It is quite 
 possible,' she replies shortly. 
 
 ' Perhaps they are relations, then ? ' 
 
 ' They are.' 
 
 'Oh, indeed. Perhaps parents — father and 
 mother ? ' 
 
 ' I have seen them often, lately : but they are 
 both dead.' 
 
 ' Deary me ! What a pity ! ' she whines. 
 ' Perhaps there was a husband, too ? ' 
 
 Katherine, at this, turns fully round, flashes her 
 large fierce eyes on those of the Dibbs ; but the 
 latter does not budge. 
 
 ' Perhaps there was a husband, too I ' she re- 
 peats calmly. 
 
 ' No. I never was married — to a man I ' 
 
 * To a man ! ' thinks Miss Dibbs. ' ]\Iost hex- 
 traordinar' woman ! I wonder wot she would have 
 married if it hadn't been a man ; ' and she hesitates 
 putting the next question in her programme, for
 
 ,/ 
 
 228 PRIXKLE AXD HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 she has an idea that, from the last answer she got,.. 
 it will touch upon very delicate ground indeed... 
 After a few preliminary coughs, she summons up 
 courage to whisper something into Katherine's ear, 
 and the effect is instantaneous. 
 
 ' What ! How can you ? ' she cries^ springing 
 to her feet. * Do you think that, because I do not 
 choose to givB jou. my real name, I have no cha- 
 racter ? Do you think, because I am alone here, 
 that you can pester me with your foul insinuations ? 
 Look here : — I have a secret, and I mean to keep 
 it. You have tried to bait and coax it from me in 
 every way, — but in vain ! E/Omember that, although, 
 I have winked at this on account of your vulgar 
 nature and your miserable breeding, if you attempt 
 to lay your fingers on that which is most dear to me 
 — my woman's honour, you shall not do so with, 
 impunity ; for, weak as I am, there is enough of 
 desj)eration left in these arms to make you sorry 
 for it ! Now have a care of what you say, after this, 
 for, as sure as death, Pll keep my word with you.' 
 
 Miss Dibbs has heard much in her day, but 
 never anything like this; and she sees plainly 
 from Katherine's face^ which is literally spotted 
 with rage, that every word of her angr}^ speech is 
 meant ; and furthermore, she thinks that as her 
 lodger pays her well, it would be foolish to tempt 
 her to greater lengths ; so she whines out an apo- 
 logy, with a sting in it, however. 
 
 * I 'umbly beg your pardon, Miss ; but I didn't 
 say as you had a child. I only asked out of per-
 
 PHOEBUS COUET. 229 
 
 liteness, bless you : and if you had put the same 
 question to me wich I put to you, wot you call the 
 miserable breeding wich I was bred to, wouldn't 
 have let me hanswer you in that 'ere outrageous 
 style of speakin' ! And/ she whimpered, as the 
 door-bell rang loudly^ * it^s wer}" painful wen it's 
 one's own drink as makes one's friends turn on 
 one's own self in that 'ere way ! ' Saying this, the 
 Dibbs wipes the tear from her bleared eye and turns 
 to answer the bell, while Katherine, weak with 
 passion, again sinks into her seat before the fire. 
 
 Bob's visit bids fair to be inopportune, for at 
 present his mother is goaded to exasperation by the 
 manner in which her sin is ever^ brought before 
 her. She thinks that no sin was ever punished 
 like hers, with a punishment that has now extended 
 over fifteen years. But either she fails to remem- 
 ber the simple precept with which, years ago, she 
 had sought to guide her boy, that to confess a sin 
 is to deprive it of its sting ; or she has allowed her 
 pride, which is a nobility in some people and offen- 
 sive in others, to become so unhealthy as to minis- 
 ter only to her baser nature. 
 
 At first Bob's entrance is disputed by the 
 Dibbs, but after she begins to understand that his 
 errand refers to something regarding which he re- 
 fuses to enlighten her, her curiosity gets the better 
 of her, although it is against Katherine' s express 
 injunctions that she opens to any one. He enters 
 with an agitation approaching to giddiness. In 
 .his heart he has an intense dread that something
 
 230 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 fearful may result from this intrusion — for intrusion 
 lie feels it to be. He has seen her in a rage before, 
 which in his boyish eyes, somehow or other, seemed 
 to lift her from the ground. He knows, too, of the 
 terrible impulse which at times had electrified her 
 arms and made her strike, with all her strength, 
 regardless of consequences, it might be the furni- 
 ture, the hard stone wall, or even the face of a man ; 
 and it is with a sigh of relief that he observes her 
 back is towards him, and he momentarily pauses 
 on the threshold, uncertain whether to face the 
 worst or turn away. 
 
 Xatherine, in her abstraction, unconscious of 
 the presence of any one, allows a long, heavy sigh 
 to escape her ; it passes from the mother into the 
 tender heart of the son, and he is drawn towards 
 her silently. Tremulously, silently, and solemnly, 
 he lays his hand] upon her shoulder — ^how omin- 
 ously cold does he feel the touch ! and^ looking 
 into her face with those wide, weird eyes, he mur- 
 murs, for the first time, and tenderly as if it had 
 been lisped by baby lips, the one word — 
 
 'Mother!' 
 
 What a magic is in that word ! How often has 
 it touched the heart of the scapegrace when every 
 other influence has failed to reach it ! How often 
 has it melted to tears the brutal soldier in a far land, 
 who, without remorse, has crushed beneath his iron 
 heel the pale face of a prostrate foe ! How long, 
 and how often, has it been the theme of minstrels 
 in every land ! How often has it fired the slow 
 blood of the dullard, and inspired the boor with
 
 PH(EBUS COURT. 231 
 
 somewliat of tlie feeling and action of the poet I 
 A}^ and how many young wives, whose first ex- 
 periences of wedded life have been a wretched scries 
 of disapj)ointments, have felt, if they would only 
 tell, a rush of new life in every vein w^hen for the 
 first time, the laughing lips of a first-born were 
 framed to speak the mystic word ! 
 
 In considering these, one should expect that 
 Xatherine would have clasped her son to her heart 
 with that afiection which is said to be stronger than 
 all ; that she would have overcome her pride, and 
 have done that which was in her power — turned 
 what she had hitherto looked upon as her greatest 
 curse into her highest blessing ; that she would have 
 heard v.ith pleasure the word whose potent influ- 
 ence could stiil the storm that had well-nigh 
 wrecked her soul ! But no : she does not. The 
 pride which holds prisoner her maternal love, as- 
 serts its strength^ and widens into a great gulf the 
 distance between mother and son ! 
 
 At first she looks at him with a half- dubious, 
 half-abstracted air, but when she observes the 
 pains shooting across his pleading face, she com- 
 prehends that her son is before her. With a wild 
 rage she is swept from her seat, and the boy who 
 would have rushed to her arms is kept from her 
 by the intensity of her burning eye ! 
 
 In his anguish he cries, ' Speak, speak to me, 
 mother ! * 
 
 And surely it is the mother^s nature that 
 struggles within her for mastery, for she places 
 her knuckles on the table and shivers from head
 
 232 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 to foot, as if two contending passions "had taken 
 possession of her. She is dazed. ' I — I — I am 
 not your mother/ she says. * It is a mistake.' 
 
 Here, Miss Dibbs, who has appeared on the 
 scene, while she wipes her mouth with a towel, 
 makes a gratuitous observation on the ' hinstability 
 of all 'uman charack-ters whatever.* 
 
 * I tell you I am not his mother ! Some one 
 has played on his credulity,' she cries. * I am not 
 your mother, boy. I am not even j^our aunt. You 
 were an orphan, and I nursed you ! ' 
 
 Bob is crying piteously. ' Don't make it worse, 
 ■mother,' he implores ; ' don't cover it with — what 
 is not true.' 
 
 At this, Katherine's passion seems to master 
 her, for she makes a sudden movement as if to 
 strike ; but Miss Dibbs interposes. 
 
 * Wot ! Would you strike a lad whose eyes is 
 your eyes, and whose face is 3'ours ? I'm ashamed 
 on you ! ' 
 
 It would be difficult to describe the mad laugh 
 that escapes from Katherine on hearing this. She 
 staggers back to the wall. Her tongue is so parched 
 that she cannot articulate, and her eyes wander to 
 iind fro, for she cannot look steadily upon her son. 
 
 * Go — go on,' she mutters bitterly. ' You 
 charge me with a lie. You — you do it well. It 
 — is very kind of you to do so after all my care 
 of you in — in Tewton. I — I told you then that a 
 year in London would make a change in you ; 
 but — no, I did not think it would be so great — ' 
 
 Bob goes down on his knee, and pleads with
 
 pn(EBUS COURT. 233 
 
 Tier not to answer him in such a way ; but she con- 
 tinues. ' !^[ot so great that you — kind-hearted boy 
 that you were, would have turned against me more 
 unkindly than the rest/ 
 
 He moves nearer to her. ^ If I have been un- 
 kind I am sorry for it, — I did not mean to be so. I 
 will call you aunt, I will call you anything, but 
 only speak some kind words to me, for it is very 
 seldom that I hear them now. You are going 
 abroad — won't you let me go with you ? As your 
 nephew if you will, — only let me go ! You will be 
 among strange places, and stranger people ; take 
 me with you; we shall live as happily as we did at 
 Tewton, and I may be able to requite you, in a 
 little way, for the good I have received at your 
 hands : — at least, I know I would try ! ' 
 
 This was the pouring out of a genuinely filial 
 heart, but Katherine's must be shrivelled up, for 
 she hears him as if she heard him not. He 
 attempts to take her hand, but she roughly shakes 
 him off. 
 
 * Mother, mother,' he implores piteously, * speak 
 to m.e kindly, or my heart will break ! I know 
 you have suffered much.-* 
 
 ' I have not suffered,-* she cries. 
 
 * Oh, I see it in your hand and face ; — and I 
 know it is love for me that makes you deny it.' 
 
 This stings Katherine to the quick ; and before 
 Hiss Dibbs could interpose, she strikes him in the 
 iace ! 
 
 That blow, in Eobert Trevor, struck out for 
 ever the love of a son for his mother, and annihil-
 
 234 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 ated, in a moment, all filial honour, all pitj^, and 
 all fear ! As by a magic touch, the fountain of 
 his tears is dried up, and he rises with calm dignit}" 
 to his feet. Not a single word does he speak, not 
 a look does he bestow on her who is nothing to him 
 now. But he turns away, with a face like marble, 
 and cold as his heart. Miss Dibbs, silent with 
 amazement, stands aside to let him pass. 
 
 As he mechanically opens the street-door, the 
 atmosphere rushes on his face and relaxes the strain 
 that has kept him firm. Once into the street he 
 leans for support upon the wall; but in a few 
 moments the houses whirl round him in a giddy 
 revolution, he begins to lose all consciousness, and 
 the lights move past him and grow dim. He 
 staggers to his feet again, but his strength is gone ; 
 and with a backward stumble he falls — not upon 
 the hard pavement, but into Lizzie's arms extended, 
 to receive him ! 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 ah! lizzie. 
 
 * Merciful God ! have I fellen so low ? 
 And yet I was once like the beautiful snow ! ' 
 
 SlGOUKNET. 
 
 "We do not intend to lay before our readers 
 anything lil^e a minute history of Lizzie's life
 
 235 
 
 previous to the point at wliich she makes her 
 appearance on these pages, — a few remarks will 
 serve our purpose. She was born in a certain 
 village, about twenty miles to the south-east of 
 London, and it was her fortune, or misfortune, to 
 be reared by stern but exemplary parents, from 
 whose teaching she learned to look upon Christian- 
 ity more as a code of rules by which a Kfe should 
 be governed, than a light which would draw a life 
 by its own attractive powers. The evils of this 
 were soon manifested in her disposition,, which 
 was one more likely to be influenced by love than 
 law. At an early period she betrayed a strong desire 
 for literature, in the gratification of which she 
 indulged herself in secret, on account of an idea 
 her mother entertained that books were not a 
 pastime for girls in her humble sphere. This 
 secrecy naturally precluded the possibiKty of her 
 course of reading being interfered with — with a 
 view to direction; so that whatever book she 
 could lay her hands upon she read, it mattered 
 not whether its contents were wholesome or un- 
 wholesome, its aim true or false. From many of 
 these books, regarding which she has already 
 given an opinion of her own, she began to imbibe 
 strong desires and unsettled notions, whose in- 
 fluences were gradually manifested in her daily 
 life. At first she began to look upon many of her 
 country companions with a species of contempt, 
 to fret under the restrictions put upon her by con- 
 scientious parents, to look upon the routine of
 
 ^36 PRINKLE AXD HIS FraEXDS. 
 
 houseliold work as sheer drudgery^ unworthy of 
 one whose soul had been inflated by romance, and 
 had followed, enthralled by brilliancy and wit, the 
 adventures of heroes, whose acts, in spite of the 
 genius which records them, should banish their 
 names from every home. Then there came a 
 desire to see more of life, to mix with the world ; 
 and this grew upon her so rapidly that she deter- 
 mined to leave her friends for the purpose of 
 shaping a course for herself among the depths and 
 shallows of London life. Knowing that she would 
 never win her parents' consent, she went off quietly 
 and alone. For the space of two days she endea- 
 Toured to find employment among the large ware- 
 houses in the city, but failing in this, and having 
 no resources, she returned to her own home. Then 
 the distraction of the parents gave place to indig- 
 nation ; the stern father denounced her with the 
 terrors of judgment,, while the mother imputed to 
 her crimes which she had not committed, and 
 charged her so freely with the infringement of laws 
 which she had not broken, that Lizzie "vrould have 
 left the house again, and at once, had not Mary 
 taken her pleadingly by the hand and directed her 
 thouo-hts to One whose love she seemed to have 
 
 o 
 
 despised. For a while this had considerable effect, 
 for she took kindl}^ to home and parents, and 
 evidently gave up all her desire for a more excited 
 life, which would have been well, had it continued. 
 Her reading had the natural effect of making her 
 appear more intelligent than her neighbours^
 
 AH 1 LIZZIE. 237 
 
 whicli was the more galling to some of tliem, that 
 Mary, once or twice, spoke proudly of ' her clever 
 sister.' Their jealousy soon found vent in spiteful 
 language ; the worst possible construction was put 
 upon her short visit to London ; and her name 
 passed lightly from lip to lip. It was impossible 
 that Lizzie should remain in ignorance of this for 
 any length of time ; — she saw it in the eyes, and 
 heard it in the gibes, of those who had once been 
 her most intimate friends. Firmly she tried ta 
 bear up against it, but in vain : her sensibility 
 was irritated, and then her heart was hardened. 
 Without seeking advice, or telling any one — not 
 even her sister, she scraped together the little 
 money she had, bundled up a few of her clothes, 
 and early in a bright morning in June, long before 
 anybody was abroad, she took her departure from 
 home. Xext day she reached London, after which 
 her story will be best told in the fewest words. 
 In a few days she succeeded in getting what she 
 had long wished — a situation in a millinery estab- 
 lishment, and in this verj- third-rate place she 
 was brought into contact with worse than giddy 
 girls, who led her, almost imperceptibly, into the 
 saddest walks of life. Her parents tried all in 
 their power to find her, but after a month's un- 
 availing search, with hearts well-nigh broken, 
 they gave up their house and came to the place 
 where we have met them, thinking, perchance, 
 that their reproach might never be known. This 
 led Lizzie, in her turn, to lose sight of them, so
 
 238 PEINKLE Ai^D HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 that when we consider the length of time, almost 
 three years, that has elapsed since she left her 
 father's house, and how that during her sojourn 
 in the city she had heard no news whatever with 
 regard to her family until that night, we need not 
 be astonished that she should be so desirous of 
 keeping her eye on the lad. But there was another 
 feeling which^drew her to Bob. The impression 
 made upon her heart that night in which she first 
 met him had never been effaced ; the simple in- 
 nocence he manifested then, contrasting boldly as 
 it did with all she had ever seen before in such a 
 place, had moved her profoundly, and had led her 
 to recall the time when the same foul language 
 which pained him would have caused her to shudder 
 too ; nor during all these months that followed, 
 had the return of finer feeling, which these 
 thoughts occasioned, ever left her. Even the mad 
 gaiety which at times had intoxicated her mind 
 with a furious, unnatural pleasure, had lost its 
 power to mitigate the despair which soon began to 
 darken around her ; the gay mask but feebly hid 
 the revolting conscience within ; and even the 
 soiled gaudery, peculiar to her class, was laid aside 
 for a simpler and less ostentatious style of dress. 
 Y/Tien these feelings began to affect her, she 
 thought of returning home ; but even if she had 
 known the place to which her parents had gone, 
 the very sternness of their character precluded all 
 hope that she would be received with an open 
 door, much less with open arms. So as time went
 
 AH ! LIZZIE. 239 
 
 "by^ she gradiiall}' shrunk back into lier cloud of 
 sin, nerveless, listless, and wretched — yet with a 
 vague idea that all was not lost ! Often,, in her 
 most wretched moments^ when, without friends, 
 without house, without money, and without bread, 
 she turned to hold communion with her own soul, 
 her imagination, cultivated as it was with romance 
 and poetry, presented her with a vision which, 
 though indistinct, led her to believe in a better 
 life yet awaiting her. She saw — or thought she 
 saw — the merest glimmer of a light beyond the 
 darkness that surrounded her, which ever and 
 anon grew bright, and pierced with a" *lane of 
 beams ' the thick clouds that surrounded her, and 
 she would then see the radiant features of her 
 sister Mary smiling her onward to the heaven 
 which was beyond. 
 
 In parting from this outline of Lizzie's history, 
 we believe that we have laid before our readers the 
 history, character, and ideas of thousands who at 
 this moment are feeling thoroughly wretched in 
 the life they are leading, yet make no effort to 
 free themselves from the grievous slough into 
 which they are sunk^ but are content to hope on, 
 vaguety, that the end will surely come. 
 
 After Lizzie had guided Bob through a laby- 
 rinth of streets to Phoebus Court, and seen him, 
 from where she halted in a dark corner, enter one 
 of the houses, she had lingered near at hand for his 
 return — not that she had any intention to speak 
 to him again, but because a strong feeling kept
 
 1^ 
 
 240 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 her there. Contrary to expectation, she had but 
 a short time to wait before he staggered out, when 
 on observing his untoward gait she had hastened 
 to his side, in time to save him from falling. 
 
 But in a little while^ he was able to walk with 
 her assistance to a place where his forehead was 
 bathed and his lips were wet with wine. This 
 seemed to revive him a little, but it was a consider- 
 able time before he was able to stand alone ; and 
 even then^ his lips and cheeks lost none of their 
 ashy paleness, and beyond a sickly smile of grati- 
 tude that soon passed from his face, he gave no 
 sign of recognition to Lizzie. The anxious girl 
 chafed his cold hands, striving to bring back the 
 blood that had left them white, called upon him to 
 speak, but he only gazed on her with a vacant 
 stare, as if some inexplicable S23ell enthralled him. 
 Lizzie was terrified with this perfect change,, for 
 he gave no answer to her inquiries as to where he 
 lived. Luckily she remembered the address which 
 Victor had given the cabman on that other me- 
 morable night, and she took Bob by the arm and 
 repeated it. His only answer was a motion as if 
 he would walk along. Reassured by this, Lizzie 
 put his arm in hers, which he gripped tightly, 
 and led him along as rapidly as possible, so that 
 he might be lodged safely with his friends before 
 any other more decisive illness should befall him. 
 She soon gave up trying to make him speak, for, 
 when he did heed her questions, he rolled his eyes 
 painfully, as if he vainly attempted to concentrate
 
 AH ! LIZZIE. 241 
 
 his reason on wliat she had said, or muttered some 
 words which were utterly unintelligible to her. 
 This made her the more uneasy, and she shunned 
 the busier streets, for when they crossed one noisi- 
 er than the rest, or when a Tehicle was driven 
 past. Bob would cling frantically to her arm as if 
 he feared to lose her in the noise. Yet, as if to be- 
 guile the time, or, perhaps, to feel the companion- 
 ship of her own voice, Lizzie ventured a remark, 
 now and then, to all of which the lad was utterly 
 oblivious with the exception of one. This was 
 when she stopped at the corner of a street, and 
 said, while she pointed up, ' That is vrhere I live.' 
 
 This had a startling effect on Bob, who shook 
 upon her arm for a second or two, then looked 
 fixedly on her face as if he were trying hard to 
 recall an incident to his memory. 
 
 Then he smiled, while he shook his head 
 gravely, and muttered, ' 'No, no. It was not up- 
 stairs I went : — and not in London.' 
 
 Lizzie, for the moment, could not understand 
 him, and repeated that that was all the house she 
 had. 
 
 A gleam of intelligence — the first, came into 
 his eyes as he looked upon her. ' Yes, you are 
 right,' he said. ' Yours is the other face.' 
 
 Lizzie was still puzzled,, and, fearing to wait 
 longer, she tried to draw him on, when suddenly 
 he turned from her, and gazed steadily on the 
 house. His face became paler, more rigid, and 
 intensely solemn. The girl was in a great dread 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 lest sometliing was about to happen, and she re- 
 newed her efforts to draw him along. But he 
 turned upon her, and the rigidity of his white 
 features relaxed into the saddest of sad smiles, as 
 he murmured — 
 
 ' Ah — Lizzie ! ' 
 
 These two words, though but the fragments of 
 a broken mind, came from the boy's lips with a 
 slow, melancholy cadence, in which a gentle tone 
 of reproach was blended with the deepest tender- 
 ness ; and into the poor girl's heart they fell, as 
 soft as snow-flakes, melting there. 
 
 In a moment Trevor had forgotten them ; but 
 Lizzie, never ! 
 
 By and by, she arrived at Prinkle's door with 
 her burden ; for by this time Bob had become 
 singularly helpless, and she was greatly fatigued. 
 
 The door was opened by Nell, who, seeing the 
 condition of the boy for whose return she had been 
 waiting anxiously, caught him at once in her arms 
 and carried him in. She did not speak to Lizzie, 
 but expected that she would follow. It was Bob 
 who noticed her absence first, and his old energy 
 revived within him as he struggled to the door, in 
 time to see the back- turned face beneath the lamp. 
 He called upon her with a wild cry to return, but 
 she fled the faster and disappeared. Again he 
 cried ; and his reason seemed to go out after the 
 voice that rang along the street, for, a moment 
 later, the last ray of consciousness flickered out of 
 the lad's brain, and at Nell's feet he fell heavily 
 as if dead.
 
 243 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 MAUD CLAYTOX. 
 
 Oh, how sweet it is to dream, ' 
 
 When our hair is growing grey, 
 Of the sunny time of youth ; 
 
 How we ronip'd the livelong day, 
 And we skipp'd across the meadow's lea, 
 
 Or hid among the hay ! 
 
 It is a fine, mellow evening at Tewton ; tlie 
 sun has gone down, but ttie golden tints have not 
 yet faded from the western sky. The shades have 
 just began to deepen among the trees of Mrs Clay- 
 ton's garden, in which that good lady herself is 
 walking in the full enjoyment of a Kentish twilight ; 
 and widow though she be, she is humming one of 
 those songs that invariably call up before the mind 
 of a thoughtful listener, pictures of the olden time. 
 In a little while, a merrier voice is heard, and 
 Maud dances in from the garden-gate, as spright- 
 ly as ever, with flowers in her hand and hair. 
 Seeing her aunt she bounds towards her, and like 
 a happy girl, she waves the flowers in her face, and 
 holds up her cheek to be kissed. 
 
 * Well, Maud,^ says the aunt, ' I was afraid 
 that you had been so fascinated hj the people at 
 the Grange, that you were going to remain a^vay 
 from your old aunt for ever.' 
 
 ' Am I late ? ' 
 
 * Late ! ' cries Mrs Clavton, with much good
 
 244 PRINKLE AND HIS FPJEXDS. 
 
 nature. * It is nearly seTcn, and you promised to 
 
 return by six.' 
 
 ' Did I ? But you are not angrj^ ? ' 
 
 ' No, no, child.' And she pats lier fondty. ' I 
 
 am onlj^ too glad tliat you have enjoyed yourself.^ 
 
 * Ah ! but how do you know I have ? ' 
 
 * I see it.' 
 'AYhere?' 
 
 * In your face.' 
 
 * Indeed,' she replies with an arch smile. ' Then 
 I must learn to govern my face so that it won't 
 tell tales.' 
 
 ^ Child, child,' she remonstrates laughingly, 
 * don't say that. Children should never feel in the 
 heart what they are afraid to show in the face. 
 If these are the sentiments you imbibe at the 
 Grange, I must — ' 
 
 ' Stop, stop,^ cries Maud, jumping up as if to 
 get at her aunt's mouth. ' You^ll make me sorry 
 if you say that.^ 
 
 * Then I won't. So give me your hand, and 
 we will go in while you tell me about all the fun 
 you have had. "Were there many there ? ' 
 
 * Lots.' And Maud occupies the space between 
 them and the door by rattling over a string of 
 names — all boys, however, whom she had met at 
 the Grierlys' of the Grange. 
 
 * But you don't mean to tell me,^ exclaims Mrs 
 Clayton, as they enter, *that you were the only 
 girl there ? ' 
 
 * Oh no. There were lots of girls too. But
 
 MAUD CLAYTOX. 245 
 
 YOU know I can't be bothered with, girls — there's 
 no spirit in them like what is in the boys.' 
 
 * Indeed, Miss Maud, you are improving. I 
 wonder what your next sentiment will be ? ' 
 
 The happy little girl does not mind this mild 
 reproof a bit ; but she tears the petals of a flower, 
 and sings, ' Heigho ! I wish I were a boy ! ' 
 
 ' "Who gave you the flowers ? ' 
 
 ' Guess.' 
 
 * Frank Grierly?' 
 
 ' jSTow, how did you know, auntie ? ' 
 
 * I suppose that no mere visitor would dare to 
 make so free with Mr Grierly's flowers. But the 
 garden must be in a miserable state if all the girls 
 are decked as you are.' 
 
 *But they are not. 'Nov did they help him 
 like me ! ' 
 
 Mrs Clayton manifests some curiosity regarding 
 the services her niece had rendered. 
 
 ' Oh,' she replies with a ringing laugh, ' I 
 tumbled a boy, and sat on him, while Frank 
 drummed his ears ! ' 
 
 'That was very wrong. What was it all 
 about ? ' and Mrs Clayton, like a natural woman, 
 first gives her verdict and then proceeds with an 
 investigation. 
 
 ' Well — you see,' explains Maud, ' we were 
 all playing at hide-and-go-seek in the barn, and it 
 so happened, that nearly always, Frank Grierly 
 came to hide in the same corner with me — for he 
 said I knew all the rare places better than he
 
 246 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 did. Well, one time we were in a hole in tlie liay 
 when a big, coarse boy — Harry Ealston — you know 
 him, tried to get in beside us ; but Frank didn't 
 want him, as the hole was too small for three. 
 Eeally it was, aunt ; and I'm sure we should have 
 been smothered ! Well, Ralston became angry, 
 and said some things about Frank and me which 
 weren^t true, and then he threw some hay-seeds in 
 Frank's face. They didnH go into his eyes — ^but 
 they might have done, which Frank told him 
 kindly, and asked him not to do it again as it was 
 dangerous. Well — you know, Ealston didn't 
 mind him a bit, but came again, when Frank 
 wasn't looking, and threw a whole handful into 
 his eyes.' 
 
 ' Did they all go in ? ' interrupts the aunt, with 
 a mock show of seriousness. 
 
 * Not all, but nearly. But that does not make 
 Ealston a bit better ! It must have been very 
 painful, for Frank held his hands on his eyes 
 firmly for a long time, and when he took them off, 
 his cheeks were all wet ! ' 
 
 'Did he cry?' 
 
 * Frank cry ! ' she exclaims indignantly. ' No, 
 he didn't. The others thought he did, but I 
 knew better ; it was only the irritation of the seeds 
 that made the water come ! But this was not all, 
 for the boy Ealston began to jeer him, so I couldn't 
 bear it any longer, and I pidled him down on a lot 
 of hay, and sat on him, and called to Frank to come 
 and punish him. But he would not come, at first.
 
 MAUD CLAYTON. 247 
 
 for he did not wish, to quarrel with his guest ; but 
 as soon as Ralston began to pinch and scratch 
 me in tr3dng to get up, Frank got angry and 
 drummed his ears ! But/ she adds, ' I lost one of 
 my garters among the hay.' 
 
 ' And you ought to have lost them both, for I 
 scarcely think it was your place to have inter- 
 fered. I'm sure none of the other girls would have 
 done it ! ' 
 
 ' And so am I — quite sure,' she replies, drawing 
 up her little figure heroically, ' for they all sided with 
 Ralston and said that I was a bold little monkey.' 
 
 * Andj pray, what did you say to that ? ' 
 
 ^ I just told them that I would rather be a bold 
 little monkey than a cowardly one.' 
 
 Mrs Claj^ton hints that such language might 
 not please the girls. 
 
 ' They may be angry if they like/ returns 
 Maud, with spirit. ' I don't care a pin for them 
 so long as I can keep in with the boys ! ' 
 
 * You are a sad girl,' muses her aunt. 
 
 But the spirited child makes no reply, and she 
 laughs_, swings her hat by the strings, and sings 
 again * Heigho ! I wish I were a boy ! ' 
 
 * Come near to me, Maud. You tell me that 
 Ralston said some things about you and Frank 
 which weren't true — what were they ? ' 
 
 In an instant, all the spirit goes out of the 
 child ; her hands hang listlessly by her side, and 
 she blushes like a rose. 
 
 ' What were they, Maud ? '
 
 248 PPJXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 ^He — lie — said tliat Frank had been kissing 
 me/ 
 
 'And Tras it not true ? ' she asks, drawing the 
 trembling child kindly to her knee. ' Was it not 
 true, Maud/ 
 
 The little bosom heaved, as she tried to keep 
 back her sobs. ' IN" — n — no, — at least, not then/ 
 
 ' But after?v'ards, Maud ? ' 
 
 * Y — y — yes. Only once. But you are not to 
 be angry with him, aunt, for I'm sure he could not 
 help it, and it was only a little one ! ' 
 
 ' My good Maud,-* cries Mrs Clayton, clasping 
 the child to her breast_, and winding the little arms 
 about her neck. * You are my dear girl ; and you'll 
 take a kiss from your old aunt — all the same ! ' 
 
 Maud brightens up at once ; and for a while 
 the aunt is lost in fond contemplation of the sunn}^- 
 faced girl of twelve, likely enough trying to con- 
 ceive^ in her own way, what the future of her 
 little life may be. 
 
 But they are attracted by hearing footsteps on 
 the gravel, and Maud is at the window with a 
 bound. 
 
 * I declare it is Frank ! What can he want ? ' 
 Mrs Clayton hastens out to admit him ; and 
 
 shortly afterwards returns with a blithe-faced, 
 curly-headed boy, about Maud's own age, — perhaps 
 younger. 
 
 ' ^ow, my fair queen,^ begins the aunt, with all 
 the good nature of a woman who can stoop with 
 pleasure to the enjoyments of a child, 'here is a
 
 MAUD CLAYTON. 249 
 
 gentleman who, by all the recognized rules of 
 chivalry, may claim, through the merits of his 
 mission hither, the honour of knighthood at your 
 gracious hand/ 
 
 Maud, who is transported into the atmosphere 
 of story-books at once, calls upon Frank to ap- 
 proach, which he does laughing. 
 
 ' Your message, sir ? ' 
 
 There is evidently little or no romance in him. 
 * T\e brought your garter/ he blurts out. ' I found 
 it in the hay-loft, but I've broken the clasp ! ' 
 
 ' Shocking, Master Grierly ! How did you do 
 that?' 
 
 * I was trying it on, when — ' 
 
 ' Oh, you fellow ! ' shouts the innocent. * Pll 
 punish you for that ! ' and she immediately catches 
 him by the ear, and despite his painless howls^ she 
 runs him round the room, out at the door, and 
 dov»'n to the gate, when she administers to him a 
 smart slap on his back, and sends him forth. 
 ' That's your knighthood ! Now, go home ! ' which 
 he immediately begins to do ; looking round, how- 
 ever, as if he would fain remain longer subject to 
 the little queen. 
 
 Maud reaches the door, when she stops for a 
 moment, and then runs quickly back to the gate. 
 Mounting it, she calls loudly to Frank. ' You are 
 not angry, are you ? ' 
 
 * Of course not,' he cries. f 
 'That's right. Good night. Many thanks. 
 
 I did it all for fun.-* And she returns to the
 
 250 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 house, romping and singing right merril}', as if 
 nature had designed her for nothing else than 
 laughter and song. 
 
 Mrs Clayton had an idea that decorum in 
 children is not a good thing, and in the case of 
 Maud, for whom she cherished a maternal affec- 
 tion, she attempted to curb none of that playful- 
 ness and impetuosity which have been manifested ; 
 her reproofs were given rarety, and never harshly. 
 Maud thrived under this wholesome government ; 
 — how could a child do otherwise, unless her dis- 
 position were absolutely evil, or she had been born 
 a more original sinner than the rest ! She learned 
 to place unlimited confidence in her guardian, to 
 keep a heart as open as the day. But better than 
 that, if you could have followed her up to her 
 little bed that night, you might have smiled to hear 
 her thank Grod, with all childish simplicity, for the 
 pleasant fun she had had at the Grange ; how that 
 He was to bless all her companions — more especi- 
 ally those whom she liked the best, naming them 
 one by one, so that there might be no mistake ; and 
 you might have been touched, too, by the earnest 
 way in which she pleaded a Father^s blessing and 
 care for the boy — not naming him — who had once 
 been her chief companion, but had long since gone 
 to live in the city. 
 
 We know that there are mothers who will 
 look upon Mrs Clayton's seemingly lax form of 
 government as injudicious, and likely to spoil the 
 child for after years ; and there are maiden aunts
 
 MAUD CLAYTON. 251 
 
 wlio will go to a further degree, and point with a 
 sensation of horror at the familiarity evinced by 
 Maud in her manner of conferring the honour of 
 knio^hthood on Frank ; — mothers and maiden aunts 
 who can find delight (if that term be not too ex- 
 uberant) in the silent nursery ; who can check 
 every appearance of youthful fervour as a surgeon 
 would cauterize an excrescence, and are respon- 
 sible for that outrage on human nature — a prim 
 dame of twelve ! 
 
 Mrs Clayton was heartily proud of her niece, 
 and never did a mother look with more profound 
 fondness on her offspring, than did this good lady 
 upon Maud, when she lingered over the child's 
 bed, the morning following the incidents we have 
 just recorded. Probably the extra romping which 
 her visit to the Grange had entailed, and the 
 unwonted excitement which she must have under- 
 gone among so many of her own age, had acted 
 upon her somniferously, for, when her aunt went 
 up to the attic at seven o'clock^ she was still asleep ; 
 and we think that any of you would have paused, 
 as Mrs Clayton did, to contemplate^ ere disturbing, 
 the picture of innocence which lay on the bed 
 before her. 
 
 The sheets had all the freshness, and white- 
 ness, of the petals of a lily, and seemed to cling 
 with sympathetic purity to the breast, and nestle 
 fondly under the arms of the Kttle sleeper. Her 
 face was beautiful at any time, but then it might 
 have inspired you, as it did the warm-hearted
 
 252 PRIXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 woman, witli that mellow pleasure which, makes a 
 tear trickle to the cheek, to have seen the uncon- 
 scious smiles chase each other across the sunny- 
 countenance on the very verge of wakefulness, from 
 which fell, in bright luxuriance, and spangled on 
 the pillow, the long ringlets of yellow hair. Mrs 
 Clayton kissed her, and Maud awoke. 
 
 * Oh, auntie ; it is you.-* 
 
 ' Yes, my child. Yesterday's work has tired 
 you, I think. You have slept well.' 
 
 Maud laughed brightly. ^ Have y^ou been long 
 in the room ? ' 
 
 * A few minutes.' 
 
 ' "Was I smiling ? ' 
 
 * Why do you ask ? "Were you awake ? ' 
 
 * Oh no ; but_, I declare,, I was dreaming about 
 3'esterday. We had such fun.^ And she sat up 
 in her bed, and recited with all the flow of childish 
 spirits, the incidents of yesterday, which would 
 have no charm for a reader, unless the prattle of 
 a child's voice could be heard throughout. 
 
 * Ay, ay ; and you liked Frank Grierly better 
 than all the others ? ' 
 
 * Of course I did,' she replied frankly. There's 
 none of them so pleasant as Frank ; but, I'm sure, 
 I could not have stood half he did from that boy 
 Ralston.'' 
 
 * Perhaps he was afraid of him,' suggested Mrs 
 Clayton, slj'ly. 
 
 But Maud was slightly hurt at this. ' Oh — 
 now, aunt, you don't mean what you say.' But
 
 there was no necessity for her saying more, for 
 Mrs Clayton took her round the waist, and charmed 
 a\Yay any doubts that might have remained. 
 
 * I am afraid, Maud,^ she said teasingly, after a 
 bit, ' that if a certain lad were to return to Tew- 
 ton, after having been so long away, he would not 
 find such a warm corner in mj girl's heart as — ' 
 But she stopped at once, when she saw that she 
 had touched upon a hidden spring, for the colour 
 faded out of the child^s cheek. Maud's eyes were 
 filling fast, and she wound her arms round the neck 
 of her aunt, and slowly bore her down till their lips 
 met ; — then there was silence for a little while. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MRS CLAYTON IS PREVAILED TPON TO WEITE. 
 
 There are those among our readers, no doubt^ 
 who have perused the foregoing chapter with a 
 sense of weariness, and with an idea that such 
 small matters as that of the quarrel in the hay-loft, 
 might judiciously have been relegated to the writer 
 of children's story-books, to whose province it may, 
 at first, seem to belong ; but when we remember 
 that the character of the grown man or woman is, 
 generally speaking, but a development of the traits 
 of the child, the incident to which we have referred 
 may be accepted by those who intend to continue
 
 254 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 our history, as showing forth, in a very marked 
 degree, those strokes of character which were 
 manifested more emphatically by Maud in after 
 years. 
 
 Since Bob left Tewton, a correspondence had 
 been kept up between him and Mrs Clayton, that 
 good lady wishing to exercise as much beneficial 
 infiuence on "his young life as lay in her power. 
 She knew well of the temptations that the city 
 would afibrd, and seeing that he was deprived of 
 the security of a home, she felt it to be her duty 
 to counteract these as much as possible. Many a 
 time she had invited him to Tewton, but invariabl}^ 
 she got the same answer, that his master would 
 rather that he should not think of visiting Tewton 
 again. Mrs Clayton had an idea of the mj'stery 
 that surrounded his mother, and believed that this 
 restriction imposed upon him by his master was 
 but an injunction of Katherine's, so she left off 
 inviting him, but gave him to understand that he 
 should always find an open door at her little 
 cottage. 
 
 Maud could not be expected to understand 
 these repeated refusals as did her aunt, and this 
 was the cause of many a sorrowful misgiving to 
 her. Often, when all her fun and froKc had de- 
 parted with the day, she had sought the seclusion 
 of her bed, there to unburden her heart of all that 
 depressed it, by weeping herself to sleep. 
 
 The correspondence had hitherto been sustained 
 with becoming regularity on both sides, but owing
 
 MES CLAYTON IS PEEVAILED UPON TO WPJTE. 255 
 
 to some inexplicable cause Mrs Clayton had already- 
 been kept waiting for a reply to her last letter for 
 more than a fortnight beyond the usual time. Our 
 readers will, however, understand that this was on 
 account of Robert's illness : — the lad's life has been 
 despaired of, nor has his intelligence yet returned. 
 
 The silence affected the aunt less than it did 
 Maud, who began to fear the worst — that Bob had 
 become tired of them, that he had got too many 
 new friends in London to miss those whom he had 
 left behind, and that he intended to drop the 
 correspondence altogether. These fears had caused 
 the girl no ordinary anxiety, although she had 
 endeavoured to restrain her feelings in the presence 
 of her aunt. 
 
 ' I wonder, Maud,' says Mrs Clayton, looking 
 up from her sewing, * why Bob does not reply to 
 my letter. I should have had an answer long ago.' 
 
 Maud comes to her side at once, and the feelings 
 which have been working all day strive hard to 
 master her, but she keeps back her tears although 
 she answers not a word. 
 
 ^ Let me see, child ; when did I write to him ? ' 
 
 ' Twenty-five daj^s ago,' she answers promptly. 
 
 ' It is too bad,' rejoins the aunt, ' but, of course, 
 he may be from home, or he may be ill.' 
 
 A tremor passes across the child's face, and 
 seeing this, Mrs Clayton lays aside her sewing 
 work, and clasps her affectionately. * Cheer up, 
 Maud ; you are a sensible girl. Let me have your 
 advice. What is to be done ? '
 
 256 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Maud is reassured by lier aunt's pleasantry. 
 * Hadn't you better give him another trial ? ' she- 
 suggests. 
 
 *" How do you mean ? * 
 
 ' Try him again.' 
 
 * Try him, child ! — try him in what ? ' 
 
 ' Write to him, and ask what is wrong.' 
 
 * Ah^ I see. You suspect he is well, and only 
 tired of writing ? ' 
 
 Maud is silent. 
 
 * Is it so ? Do you think he wishes to throw 
 us off?' 
 
 * I don^t know,' she replies softly _, ' but, some- 
 how or other, I think it would be far better to 
 write to him again. At any rate, it can do no 
 ha rm.' 
 
 Mrs Clayton is always eager to bring out the 
 opinions of her niece. ' But,' she questions, ' if it 
 is really that he is tired of us, don't you think it 
 would show a very great want of spirit were I to 
 persist in writing to him ? ' 
 
 * Only once, aunt. Only once.' 
 
 *Not if you think it would show 'a want of 
 spirit.' 
 
 * Oh, auntie ; I wouldn't ask you if I did.' 
 'Well, you had better do it yourself. I think 
 
 you might write a fair letter now. You had better 
 try.' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Then why do you ask me to do a thing which 
 you yourself would not ? '
 
 MR PEINKLE EEPLIES. 257 
 
 ' Ah, it is different ; ' and Maud smiles while she 
 blushes. 
 
 ' ^Vhy, child ? ' inquires her aunt. 
 
 ' Well — 5"ou know — he might think it strange 
 of me. But you are an old woman.' 
 
 'Thank you. But I beg your pardon, Miss 
 Maud, I am not an old woman.' 
 
 'Oh yes : in compa»ison with him or me, you are.' 
 
 Mrs Clayton laughs. 'But what has that got 
 to do with it ? ' 
 
 ' Well — you see — he can't think it mean-spirit- 
 ed coming from you.' 
 
 ' ^Y\iJ so ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know : but if an old man were to write 
 to me, I would feel very proud.' 
 
 ' You would, would you ? But if Bob should 
 not reply to my second letter, what would you say ? ' 
 
 At the very thought of this, Maud's lip quivers, 
 but she answers, ' I don't know now, but we had 
 better wait and see.' 
 
 It was, however, agreed that Mrs Claj^ton should 
 write another letter to Bob, which she did, and it 
 was carried to the post that same evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MR PRIXKLE REPLIES. 
 
 Immediately after we took leave of Bob, he was 
 carried b}- Xell to his bed, and a doctor was sent for. 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Mr Prinlde, upon whom this mission devolved, had 
 been asleep for several hours^ and on account of the 
 quantity of stout he had imbibed in the office, his 
 slumbers were deep and strong. 
 
 * What's up ? ' he grunted, as ISTell strove to 
 rouse him. ' AVhat's up ? ' 
 
 She repeated that Bob had been brought home 
 very ill, and that a doctor must be sent for. 
 
 * Send Bob,' he hiccoughed. 
 
 ' But he is ill, Peter ; he is very ill,' she said, 
 looking down seriously upon her husband, whose 
 face was wreathed in tipsy smiles. 
 
 * W — well, don't blame me. It's not my fault.' 
 ' But he may die.' 
 
 * Y — YQTj likely ; ' and he rolled himself round 
 with a yawn. * Get 'm to put it off till th' morning.' 
 
 * Oh, Peter, how can you speak like that ? He 
 looks very like death ! ' 
 
 And he turned himself again, and asked, with 
 a strangely comical face, * An — an — how does he 
 look?' 
 
 It was evident that he could not realize the 
 gravity of the case, for he sat up in bed with his 
 ^vhite cowl drawn over his eye^ and leered good- 
 h.umouredly at his wife. 
 
 'Look y'ere, Nell. Y — you're a fine woman. 
 B — est of your species ! ' 
 
 * Oh, Peter ; I cannot hear you talk like that, 
 "when, perhaps, the boy is dying for want of a 
 doctor ! ' 
 
 Prinkle was verv much tickled at the idea, for
 
 MR PPJNKLE EEPLIES. 259 
 
 lie screwed up Ms round, fat face with comic gravity, 
 and ejaculated, ' Die for want of a doctor ! Let him 
 do it. It'll be a p — precedent : — th — thing never 
 happened before ! '' 
 
 [N'ell was used to this, for on all such occasions, 
 when he had imbibed more stout than was good for 
 him, he was in the habit of turning everything to 
 ridicule. She made a movement of impatience, but 
 her husband only hiccoughed again, and looked 
 funny. 
 
 * It's no use, l^ell, g — getting into a row about 
 it. T^ call a doctor's an expeditious, but wery ex- 
 pensive mode of dyin' ! ' 
 
 At this moment, a wailing cry from Robertas 
 room hurried Nell away. Peter was serious in an 
 instant, and jumped out of bed ; and the trousers 
 which had been lying inanimate on a chair, the 
 minute before, were skipping about in search of 
 shoes, which, in their turn, were soon clattering 
 along the street. 
 
 The doctor pronounced Bob's to be a very bad 
 case, and enjoined the utmost quiet. 
 
 Mr "Woodrow called the following day, ordered 
 that everything should be done for the boy's com- 
 fort at his expense, and returned again, four days 
 after, with Katherine. 
 
 These few days had wrought a great change in 
 the appearance of the woman ; her shoulders were 
 bowed down ; her clothes liung loosely on her 
 person ; her hands shook ; but there was the same 
 inflexibility stamped upon her lips. Iler haggard
 
 260 PRINKLE AND niS FillENDS. 
 
 face and furtive manner impressed Mr Prinkle so 
 emphatically tliat he afterwards mentioned to iN'ell 
 that she looked like a woman w^ho might make 
 short w^ork of her sorrows. 
 
 Katherine, in spite of argument and entreaty, 
 had stubbornly held to her resolution of going 
 abroad, and her visit to Bob at this time was one 
 of farewell. It might have been better for her had 
 she gone without seeing him^ for she never forgot 
 the last look she had of his pale face. 
 
 She had been in his bed-room for some time 
 while he slept, and Mr Woodrow, who did not 
 wish to protract the visit, motioned her away. At 
 this she stepped forward and kissed her son's brow ; 
 but his eyes opened, large and ghostly, as she 
 raised her face from his, and he put out his hand, 
 upon her cheek and pressed her from him. 
 Katherine had informed Mr Woodrow of her inter- 
 view with Bob, but this significant gesture of his 
 confirmed him in the belief that she had not told all. 
 
 Three days after this, the miserable woman 
 was on the sea, and she was not the less. miserable 
 that she had begun to suspect the prudence of her 
 determination when it was too late. 
 
 At the Prinkles' Bob continued in the same 
 condition ; his memory was entirely gone, and he 
 uttered nothing but a few incoherent sentences, now 
 and then, which had the curious efiect of tickling 
 Mr Prinkle's risible faculties. On being remon- 
 strated "with, that gentleman excused himself by 
 saying, ^If you think I am laughing at Robert
 
 MR PEIXKLE REPLIES. 261 
 
 Trevor, you're mistaken ; for I was just putting 
 myself in his position and wondering what a 
 comical chajD I must have been when I was under 
 the cloud. And, besides, even if I had been laugh- 
 ing at him, it wouldn^t have hurt him, and it's 
 better to laugh than cry. 
 
 In the mean time, Mr Prinkle had made a full 
 confession to Mr TToodrow — not forgetting his 
 dream — of the false part he had played with re- 
 gard to Katherine's letter, and his master had let 
 him off with a gentle reprimand. Such a relief was 
 this to the book-keeper's mind, that he remarked, 
 with exultation, to Xell, that it was almost worth 
 telling a lie if only to enjoy the peace of mind 
 that comes after a confession ! For a whole fort- 
 night, nothing happened which in any way dis- 
 turbed the serenity of his soul, and the decorum 
 of his office life was very much like the pattering 
 of small rain after the storm has passed away. 
 The past excitement had evidently sobered Victor 
 also, for he went about his work with an assiduity 
 that astonished his superior ; and these two realized, 
 for the time being, the blessedness of brethren 
 who dwell in imity. Prinkle^s peace of mind was 
 almost entirely in Yictor^s power. A significant 
 gesture, — such as mournfully rubbing the top of 
 his head, a nickname or an insinuation, would act 
 as a spark to tow and set the whole of his lord5ihip's 
 mental fabric in a blaze. On the other hand, if 
 the lad chose to flatter him, and stroke his back 
 metaphorically, he would relapse into the utmost
 
 262 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 good-nature and purr to him like a cat. Victor's 
 decorum at this time was therefore a matter of 
 gratulation to Prinkle, but there v/as yet another 
 thing that tended to promote his felicity. Through 
 the kindness of Mr Woodrow, a servant was hired 
 to assist in household work while Nell nursed Bob 
 in his illness. This handmaiden was old and 
 dumpy, ill-natured and ugly ; and^ although the 
 rotundity of her figure was almost mathematically 
 perfect, she ate, at every meal, — so Mr Prinkle said 
 — ^ as if she never intended to stop till she would 
 roll off her chair in a globule of fat ! ' Neverthe- 
 less, our ambitious book-keeper delighted in her as 
 a step in the right direction, namely, of making 
 Nell a lady. He made as much of her as possible, 
 sent her upon every conceivable errand, made her 
 serve as a butt to his expletives, caused her to act 
 as a boot-jack, at least half a dozen times a day, 
 when, invariably, at the end of each performance^ 
 she would ostentatiously loathe the mud on her 
 flabby palms with the long-drawn monosyllable 
 ' Gah-r-r.' 
 
 But when Mrs Clayton's second letter for Bob 
 arrived, the equanimity of Mr Prinkle was dis- 
 turbed. He had an idea that she would be in 
 suspense for the boy's reply, and if her mind was 
 at all constituted like his, she would be filling it 
 with every fantastic apprehension of evil, and 
 going out of her senses generally. Mr Prinkle's 
 sympathetic nature led him to think how he might 
 avert such a catastrophe, but he was in a difficulty
 
 MR PRINKLE REPLIES. 263 
 
 how to act, seeing that he was not positive that 
 this letter was from Mrs Chayton, for the reason 
 that Maud herself had addressed it, and it was 
 sealed with a graven device instead of the usual 
 thimble. Had the envelope been merely gummed 
 a judicious application of damp might have suf- 
 ficed, but Mr Prinkle's honesty revolted at the 
 idea of breaking wax. So^ laj^ing the matter before 
 his wife, he said, ' What am I to do, In ell ? I think 
 it is from her, but I don't know.' 
 
 ^ Open it and see.^ 
 
 Prinkle was horrined. * What ! would you 
 have me, when I have just got my head conveni- 
 ently extracted from the lion's mouth, calmly go 
 and stick it in again like a common ass ? D'ye 
 think I haven^t got enough of putting my nose 
 into other people^s letters, bless my soul ! Go to 
 Solomon and read how a burnt child will dread the 
 fire, and — and — dash it, what are you laughing at — 
 is it at me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no,' said ^s'ell, quite calmly, continuing 
 her occupation of washing out some cups ; * not at 
 you, but at what you say.' 
 
 * Then that's just the same thing ! In fact, it's 
 worse, for you are laughing at Divine revelation ! 
 And, mind you, I don't think it's right to carry 
 on a conversation about sacred things when one is 
 drying dishes. The two things isn't compatible 
 with each other ! ' 
 
 ^Hush, hush, — not so loud. You'll disturb 
 Bob.'
 
 264 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 ' What do I care for a thousand Bobs ! Fni 
 not going to cut and trim my temper because there's 
 a lodger in the house ! "' 
 
 Nell had a coaxing way of arranging the 
 oollar of her husband's coat, and many a time did 
 she calm his ruffled temper, when he, poor unsus- 
 pecting man, thought she was merely smoothing 
 out his collar. . If a wife has a pleasant face and a 
 pair of good eyes, the plan is well worth a trial. 
 
 Prinkle, however, was rather dubious about it 
 this time. 
 
 * Oh yes. You want to get round me that way 1 
 It's no use ; / know what's change for sixpence.' 
 
 ' l^ot at all, Peter dear ; only you are mis- 
 taken in attributing that proyerb about the burnt 
 child, to Solomon. Even if it had been among 
 liis, it would not have required Divine revelation to 
 put it there.' 
 
 ' Why wouldn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Because it is the most natural observation in 
 the world.' 
 
 * IN'ell, pause, and hearken to me. You should 
 not try to make light of the Proverbs — don't look 
 into my eyes like that ! — as you seem to do. No 
 doubt, it's quite true that they are nearly all of them 
 quite natural observations,, but it required some- 
 body to make them first : — woman, — Nell, — dash 
 it ! Don't look at me like that — you make me wink ! 
 Then you know — dear — bless my soul ! I see there's 
 no use arguing with a woman, for if she doesn't get 
 in at the head she'll make a hole in the heart ! '
 
 ME PEINKXE EEPLIES. 265 
 
 iN'ell had gained her point, and she laughed 
 pleasantly. 
 
 ' Well, well, Peter ; if you had a face like that 
 always, I think I might marry you over again ! ' 
 
 * Oh yes,' said Prinkle, slipping his arm about 
 h.er waist ; ' but there would require to be two at 
 that bargain, and I'm not very sure how I would 
 act ! You see, when I come to ask you for advice, 
 you make me do that which vrould give me trouble 
 again ; whereas — well, I won't say anj^ more, for 
 3'ou are a good lass ; ' and he kissed her affection- 
 ately. 
 
 * I'll tell you what to do ; ^ and she laid her hand 
 upon his arm. * Take the letter to Mr Woodrow, 
 and ask for his instructions regarding it ; and, 
 while that relieves you of all responsibility, it is 
 sure to please your master.^ 
 
 Prinkle, who was now in his best humour, at 
 once saw the advisableness of this, and he kept dall}^- 
 ing with Kell in a manner which showed that he, at 
 least, had not forgotten his first love. In view of 
 the lapse of time since they were wedded, this 
 billing and cooing may seem strange, but it must 
 be kept in mind that Prinkle and Nell had no 
 children ; and, let the explanation be what it ma}', 
 it is an undeniable fact that, in childless homes, — 
 although the happiness is, by no means, so perfect 
 or intense, — the manners of courtship are not so 
 soon allowed to fall into the same desuetude as they 
 are in the case of Kvelier homes and more cheerful 
 hearths.
 
 266 PEINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 On that morning, just as Mr Prinkle was about 
 to start for tlie office, he regarded his wife with 
 one of those enduring looks in which auection, 
 admiration, and honest pride, are blended ; and, 
 having kissed her again, he left with an ejacula- 
 tion that came from the depths of his heart. 
 
 * 'Nell, you're a brick ! ' 
 
 If that implied something that was well formed, 
 that could warm, that was eminently calculated to 
 support, then Nell was essentially a brick ; and, 
 moreover, that one brick which all along had kept 
 the tottering fabric of Mr Peter Prinkle from 
 tumbling to the ground. 
 
 Mr Woodrow opened the letter, which contained 
 little more than an expression of uneasiness on 
 account of the writer's former letter having 
 remained unansvrered, and told Mr Prinkle to 
 reply to it. 
 
 * I am glad,' he said, * that you thought right 
 to bring it to me, for in that you did well. You had 
 better drop Mrs Clayton a note at once, and let 
 her know that Bob is ill ; but you need not specify 
 what is wrong, for that might alarm her unneces- 
 sarily. And, by-the-bye, you need not say that 
 you opened the letter, but that you judged it was 
 from her — from the postmark.' 
 
 ^ Yes, sir,' he replied primly ; ' it's not likely I'll 
 say I opened the letter, for, I beg jour pardon, sir, 
 that w^ouldn't be true. And you know, sir, I have 
 made up my mind never to open another party's 
 letter and never to tell a lie, which, with the aid of
 
 ME PEINKLE EEPLIES. 267 
 
 Providence, I intend to do. Xow, sir,' lie argued, 
 * if I said I opened that one it would just be as bad 
 as doing it, and it would be telling a lie at tbe same 
 identical time : wbich the long and the short of it 
 would be, sir, killing two stones with one bird ! ' 
 
 ' Yery, very true, Mr Prinkle ; and y — ery 
 well expressed. A capital sentiment, and I hope 
 you may stick to it.' 
 
 ' ^Yhich I intend to do, sir,' he cried triumph- 
 antly. But, with a sicklier voice, ' that is to say, 
 if the temptation does not prove too strong, which 
 we must always make allowance for.' 
 
 Mr Woodrow turned upon his heel to hide the 
 smile that this proviso of Mr Prinkle' s had pro- 
 voked, and the book-keeper, quite elated with the 
 way in which he had spoken up to his master, 
 betook himself to his accustomed seat in the office. 
 
 Our friend was satisfied that this was a most 
 momentous crisis in his historj". Mr Woodrow 
 knew him too well to trust the slightest portion of 
 business correspondence to his pen, for if his ima- 
 gination were once brought to play, mischief itself 
 could not set bounds to his vagaries. It was 
 different, however, with the office books, for the 
 little figuring that was required partook more of 
 the nature of mechanical than imaginative work, 
 and was therefore comparatively safe in his hands. 
 From this incident Mr Prinkle gathered that his 
 master^s confidence in his powers was about to be 
 extended, and he ranked it amonc^ other si2:ns that 
 had preceded it within the last few days, as tending
 
 268 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 to accomplisli that much-desired result — the only 
 real hope of his Kfe — that of making Nell a lady. 
 His wife was the only being, in heaven or on the 
 earth, that Mr Prinkle ever thought of worshipping, 
 and so great was his idea of her that he believed 
 in [a Providence that took especial pleasure in 
 causing everything to work together for her good. 
 
 With an air of weighty responsibility he took 
 his seat at his desk, began arranging his writing- 
 materials, shifting his blotting-pad hither and 
 thither, smoothing it with his palms, changing his 
 pens, examining his ink-horn, and imparting, by 
 his dignified touch, a degree of indi^ddual import- 
 ance to each utensil. Yictor, who sat curiously 
 surveying all this fuss, mildly suggested that 
 * things was surely looking up.' 
 
 But Prinkle was not in a mood to be trifled 
 with, so he hinted, rather tartly, to Victor, that 
 when he wanted an observation of his he would 
 signify his desire. 
 
 * Oh indeed, Mister Prinkle, but when one sees 
 a chap of your age taking to playing at houses with 
 his blotting-pad and ink-bottle, hobservations will 
 rise quite spontaneous.' 
 
 ' Victor, you are an ass ! ' cried the book-keeper 
 snappishly. 
 
 ' P'raps I am, sir. I've been so long in a crib 
 w^ith one that I almost think as I'm gettin' a little 
 tha.t way in my natur'.' 
 
 ' Lord, Lord ; who ever stood anything like 
 this ! Victor Cole, I ask you, what do you mean by
 
 MR PEINKLE REPLIES. 269^ 
 
 all this? "Why do you take a pleasure in torturing 
 me?' 
 
 ' I don't, Mr Prinkle. It was you that com- 
 menced it.' 
 
 * Well, perhaps it was. But because Mr Yf ood- 
 row does begin to trust me with a share of his cor- 
 respondence, is that a reason why you should b& 
 so impertinent as to hint that the look of things 
 does have an upward tendency ? ' 
 
 ' Bless your heart, Mr Prinkle ; it was all out of 
 congratulation that I said such a thing. Wictor 
 Cole ain't a brute or an ogre that he can see the 
 advancement of his friends without being moved. 
 I've got feelings, sir : I've got feelin's.' And by 
 the mock faltering of his voice he betrayed Mr 
 Prinkle into an anomalous gush of forgiveness 
 and self-reproach. 
 
 ' I forgive you, Victor — it was all my faulty — but 
 don't please do it again ; ' and then he fell to think- 
 ing of what he should write. But Mr Prinkle 
 was in a quandary, for it must be confessed that it 
 would have puzzled a much more experienced cor- 
 respondent than he, to convey the message of his 
 master within the limits that were imposed. First 
 of all, he was to inform Mrs Clayton that he had 
 not opened her letter, but that he had suspected 
 its contents ; then^ he was to give her some intelli- 
 gence regarding Bob, yet he was on no account to 
 state what was wrong with him. The difficult}- of 
 the case was so obvious that the book-keeper's 
 ideas found vent through their favourite channel,
 
 270 PPJXKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 when lie tliouglit that this was a case of Egyptian 
 bondage^ and that his master had commanded him 
 to make bricks while he withheld the requisite 
 straw. 
 
 Mr Prinkle hemmed and hawed for a time, 
 shifting uneasily on his seat, until he summoned 
 up courage to address Victor. 
 
 ' I say, Victor — hem — hem ! I — I — IVe got a 
 deuce of a letter to write— an — and I don't know 
 what the mischief I am to do. It's my opinion that 
 Mr Woodrow couldn^t do it himself, and that's the 
 reason he's given it to me. Now — tell me this : — 
 If you were to reply to a letter, the inside of which 
 you were supposed never to have seen, what icould 
 you say ? ' 
 
 ' Cod, Mr Prinkle,' exclaimed Victor, ' that's 
 a poser ! ' 
 
 ' Poser ! Dash it, I think it's an impossibility ! ' 
 and he was so greatly encouraged by the lad's 
 sympathy, that he became quite confidential. ' The 
 fact is, I was sort of proud at first when Mr Wood- 
 row gave it to me, but I'm beginning to think 
 that I've got the present of a white elephant and 
 don't know what to do with it. I'm very uncom- 
 fortable, I can teU you.' 
 
 ' How would it do,' suggested Victor, ' if you 
 were to say that you smelt the contents ? That's 
 the only way out of it as I can see.' 
 
 But the beauty of this idea did not present 
 itself to Mr Prinkle's mind. 
 
 * "Well, Victor,' he said, ' i£ I was going to de-
 
 MR PEINKLE REPLIES. 271 
 
 mean myself by addressing a lady after the manner 
 of an idiot to an idiot — it might do. But as Mrs 
 Clayton is in the full enjoyment of her senses, she 
 would think that I was a fool, or that I thought 
 that she was one ! Dash it — it's a mix up alto- 
 gether, and I wish I had never seen the letter/ 
 And he shied his pen, like an arrow, so that it 
 stuck in the wall at the further end of the office. 
 
 When he had picked it up again he seemed to 
 grow quite reckless, for he said, ' I don't care. It's 
 not likel}' that I'll ever see her, or that she'll ever 
 see me ; and as Mr TVoodrow'U never be a bit the 
 wiser for it — Pll just write whatever comes first 
 into my head — and Hivin help us all ! ' 
 
 Yes, Heaven help us aU ! — if Mr Prinkle per- 
 sists in his determination ; for the first thing he did 
 was to stick his pen in the gum-bottle instead of 
 that of the ink. 
 
 ' Bless my soul ! ' he cried. ' That's a bad be- 
 ginning ! Victor — you duffer — how do you ad- 
 dress a woman ? ' 
 
 ' Yer ladyship^ — in course.^ 
 
 * Oh, no. That's too aristocratic. She would 
 think I was codding her. There's nobody but 
 dukes and duchesses gets that name.' 
 
 The lad gave a violent shrug to his shoulders, 
 and * didn't see as why any other woman shouldn^t 
 get the same respect paid her so long as she be 
 decent. Put down " Yer ladyship.-" ' 
 
 Prinkle thought that " Madam " was better. 
 
 In a moment, Victor got off his seat^ and began
 
 2 72 PEINKLE AND HIS FKIEXDS. 
 
 strutting tlie floor like a well-stiffened flunkey^ 
 heaping a variety of ridicule on tke '' Madam.'' 
 
 * A cup of tea, madam ? Hi've called the coach, 
 madam, hand it honely waits master's pleasure, 
 who has goned to the droring-room to fetch his 
 gold 'unting- watch wich he's left on yer hundred- 
 pound pianer, madam ! ' 
 
 ' Stop, Victor ! For Hivin's sake don't make 
 me angry. I've got " madam " down.' 
 
 * Hah ! ' he cried, ' and vf on't jou never let 
 her up for ever so long ? ' 
 
 ' Tut, Victor ! Don't cod. Be serious, man ; 
 come on, what'U we say next ? ' 
 
 The incorrigible thus appealed to, bethought 
 himself a little, and with a tantalizing twitch at 
 the corners of his lips, suggested that as it was a 
 lady he was writing to, he ought to please her 
 by sticking in a bit of poetry, when Mr Prinkle 
 jumped from his seat and cut him short by throw- 
 ing his blotting-pad and other articles at his head ! 
 Had Victor irritated him further, the book-keeper 
 must have got into such a rage as would have 
 brought Mr Woodrowon the scene, so he hinted that 
 that was past a joke, and he collected the utensils 
 and laid them before Mr Prinkle. This kindlj^ 
 act surprised him into the best possible humour. 
 
 Lightly come and lightly go, was the character- 
 istic of Mr Prinkle's passion, but it will readily be 
 agreed that such unexpected flights, and equally 
 sudden collapses, must affect the mind quite as 
 severely as the sudden transitions from heat to 
 cold affect the outer frame.
 
 MR PRINKLE REPLIES. 273 
 
 When lie again sat down to his letter, all 
 Ms mental faculties were in a jumble, and for 
 two hours his eyes glittered excitedly over his 
 work. He would cross his legs one way and then 
 another ; get up and stand on the foot-bar of 
 his stool while he conned over what he had 
 written, and then sit down again with a thud. 
 He would stick his pen into the mucilage instead 
 of the ink, and mutter an imprecation over the 
 miscarriage ; and once, indeed, he brought down 
 his palm, and flattened on the paper an irreverent 
 fl}^ that happened to wend its solitary sacrilegious 
 way across the face of his efi'usion. Alas ! small 
 scion of the muscidce, thy life and death are but a 
 type of certain little men — brought into this world, 
 God knows where ! for purpose^ God knows what I 
 assuming different forms ; emerging from obscurity 
 at times to irritate, more easih' killed than caught ; 
 straining forbearance ever ; thy memory beholden 
 to the manner of thy death ! Repose, sad fly, for 
 thou at least hast left thy mark upon one page of 
 time ! 
 
 When Mr Prinkle had finished his letter, and 
 taken off the stain that marked the murder of the 
 fly, quite forgetful, by reason of the protracted 
 excitement, of his quarrel with Victor, he took it 
 up in his hand, and not a little proud of the com- 
 position, read it off with all the gusto of an embryo 
 author. But, as much of the absurdity and 
 ridiculousness of this epistle lies in the manner in 
 which it was written, we elect to give it as it came 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 PRmKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 from Mr Prinlde's hand, rerhatim et literatim. It 
 ran as follows : 
 
 * Madam ! 
 
 ' If you think that / opened your letter 
 
 your mistaken ! No, Madam, the events of the 
 
 last few daj^s which has quite took away the 
 
 breath out of- the Subscriber have been such as 
 
 shall make that Gentleman for the remaining 
 
 period of my Lotted Life D.Y. take good care and 
 
 think a few times before breaking a Seal ! The 
 
 breaking of the whole Dollop of Seals in the 
 
 epistle to the Revelations — you see Madam that I 
 
 know my Bible — was nothing to it ! ! It was 
 
 enough to make the hair stand on the top of your 
 
 head if you have any which I have Not for I have 
 
 been bald on the top ever since coming out of the 
 
 cloud. I am not at all sorry for this for it is 
 
 pleasant to recollect that if Providence made bald 
 
 heads and little boys he also made Bears ! ! ! First 
 
 as I was saying One which was one of our number 
 
 went into a fit and that was Robert Trevor — then 
 
 he went out again — I mean out into the open Air, 
 
 and youU hardly believe me Madam but he did 
 
 not come in all that night which consisted of the 
 
 regulation number of hours but was an eara to me. 
 
 I dreamt a most miraculous vision that night as I 
 
 lay an toast on my trubbled couch which has 
 
 stuck to me ever since wondering what is below 
 
 it^ For I may be wrong Madam but I always 
 
 think that there is something below dreams. That
 
 MR PEIXKLE EEPLIES. 275 
 
 Vision beat anj'tliing iu the Apolycapes or anj^- 
 tliing in any of the rest of the Scriptures en- 
 cluding the Yalley of Dry Bones I might say to 
 Sticks. Then Bob went out again after having 
 come home and did not return till very late at 
 night. Perhaps you will be astonished that an 
 obscure bookkeeper like myself should no so much 
 about the Bible, but it is the secret of all our 
 greatness and I only wanted to show j'ou that 
 humble as I am I know among other things that 
 the Cave of Adullam is not in Ameriky and that 
 there is a difference between the spirits in j^rison 
 and Bonded Stores. Mr Robert Trevor has been 
 under a cloud ever since which is bad enough to 
 them as nose anj^thing about it. These circum- 
 stances and events Madam has led me to determine 
 that if ever I open another letter as is not ad- 
 dressed to me I'll be — (Here is a word scraped 
 entirely out) very far left to myself which I have 
 the honour to be 
 * Madam, 
 
 ' The humblest of 3-0 ur servants 
 
 ' Peter Prixxle.' 
 
 ' 2s ow, what do you thinlc of it, Victor ? ' 
 he exclaimed. ^ Isn't it quite a gem in its 
 way?' 
 
 The boy, who had been listening most atten- 
 tively, vaguely nodded approval, but vras not a 
 little tickled with its stjde. 
 
 •' But, don't you think there's a dash of humour
 
 276 PRTNKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 in it, Victor?' and the book-keeper held it out 
 complaisantly at the stretch of his arm. 
 
 * My werdict is that it's altogether wery good,, 
 and all over with dashes.' 
 
 ' But don't you think that this about the Seals 
 and the Valley of Dry Bones is especially good,, 
 and shows some learning ? ' 
 
 *It looks wery well,' he replied critically, 'but 
 I hain't got much knowledge about the Seals, and 
 know nothing of the bones whatsomever. Wot 
 about the Walley ? Was it a shimmetry ? ' 
 
 * Oh, it's in the Bible,^ he explained benignly. 
 ' Then it's wery good. But ^vas it a shimmetry ? ' 
 ' Oh, it's a story about a prophet that saw all 
 
 the bones coming together, and standing up like 
 men.' 
 
 Victor was incredulous. ' Was it dead men ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, of course.' 
 
 ' And didn't he bolt ? ' he inquired in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 * No — why should he ? ' 
 
 * But ain't it all a whopper ? ' 
 
 * Certainly not.' 
 
 * Then, all I've got to say is, that the prophet 
 must ''a been a wery bully cove 1 ' 
 
 ' What ! ' cried Prinkle, in consternation. ' Is 
 that a way to talk about Divine things, Victor ? 
 Do you know what you are doing ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing wrong, I expect.' 
 
 * Nothing wrong! Why, you are blasphemous !' 
 
 * Ah, you get along. I ain't to be took in by
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 277 
 
 you. You're one of the chaps as sins by yard- 
 lengths and reproves by inches. Wot's the woman 
 you're writin' to ? Is she a young 'oman^ a wife, 
 or a widow ? ' 
 
 * She's a widow. But what for ? ' 
 
 * Why, if she's a widow you must tell her you 
 are a married man.' 
 
 ' Indeed. Why so ? ' 
 
 * But you must. 'Cause I wouldn't wonder if 
 she took a fancy to you from your writin'.' 
 
 Mr Prinkle was not, b}^ anj means, impervious 
 "to flattery ; and in his present excited state he 
 thought that it might be well to guard against 
 any such contingency, so he clapped in the in- 
 formation by way of a simple postscript. ' P.S. I 
 am a married man.^ 
 
 Thus was the precious epistle indited and sent 
 •ofi', without having been submitted to the cor- 
 rective eye of Nell. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 rXDER THE CLOUD. 
 
 ' Eeason, my son, 
 Should choose himself a wife.' — Shakespeaee. 
 
 In the matter of letter- writing, it will be re- 
 marked that Mr Prinkle's is essentially a st^de of 
 Lis own. True, there is a certain obscurity in his
 
 278 PKINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 diction which, might, in his own time, have been 
 considered as damaging to the reputation of a cor- 
 respondent, but had he lived a few years later 
 he would have seen this fault elevated into a virtue 
 by our poets, our philosophers, and the more 
 protean of our statesmen. On the other hand, 
 observe the poetry — not the less beautiful that it 
 is brief — with which he describes his recovery from 
 an illness as ' coming out of a cloud,^ — it is posi- 
 tively refreshing ! Then, though of course it was 
 more adapted for his own time than for ours, what 
 an excellent rebuke is given to those who would 
 flaunt their private affairs in the eyes of men, by 
 the exquisite simplicity of his postscript — ' I am a 
 married man.' It v/as judicious, and even kind of 
 him, too, to convey this delicate piece of informa- 
 tion to Mrs Clayton, thereby to check any fond 
 hope which his letter might have awakened in the 
 heart of a passive widow. 
 
 In \iew of all these excellencies it may sur- 
 prise the reader to learn how the effusion was 
 treated. She read and re-read it, and shortly 
 came to the conclusion that the writer was a 
 lunatic ! 
 
 ' I had no idea of this,' she said, half to herself 
 and half to Maud, as she crumpled up the docu- 
 ment in her hand. * Bob told us often enough 
 that they had great fun with him, that he said 
 such outrageous things. I own that I was in- 
 credulous, but I would believe anything after this. 
 He must be a downright madman.'
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 279 
 
 Maud spoke very little, for the fact is she 
 scarcely knew whether to laugh or cr}-. 
 
 * Something has happened to Bob/ continued 
 the aunt ; * he is ill or — or — what can it be ? 3Irs 
 Prinkle must be an extraordinary woman to allow 
 a letter like that to leave her house. What is to 
 be done, Maud ? ' 
 
 Maud did not know. ' Only,' she said, ' there 
 is one thing clear ; and that is, it is no fault of 
 Bob's he has not answered you.' 
 
 * I'll tell you what I'll do,' said Mrs Clayton. 
 * I have an idea that the lad is seriously iU, and 
 there is no saying what may happen if he is left to 
 the care of this madman and his precious wife. It 
 is a shame that his aunt should have left him so 
 long in London when he most required her care I 
 But he must not be made to suffer for that, so 
 to-morrow I'll go myself and ascertain what is 
 what.' 
 
 On hearing this resolution, Maud's eyes bright- 
 ened up with delight, and she put her arms round 
 her aunt's neck, and called her a dear old thing ! 
 
 ' Yes I shall,' repeated Mrs Clayton. ' And if 
 I meet that man, 1^11 give him a lesson in letter- 
 writing that he wonH forget in a hurry.' 
 
 Bat Maud still kept her arms fondl}^ round her 
 aunt, and smiled on the stern face as if she were 
 waiting till its indignation should subside. 
 
 * What is it, Maud?^ 
 
 And the girl hesitated, but inquired diffidently 
 if she might be allowed to go^ too ?
 
 280 TEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 ' No/ replied the aunt, somewhat short! j\ ' It 
 is better that jon should remain where you are/ 
 
 Maud, though evidently disappointed and 
 pained, urged her request no further, but crept 
 closer and hid her face in her aunt's neck. 
 
 But Mrs Clayton had a tender heart, and she 
 noted the dejection into which her niece had fallen ; 
 so, before going to bed, she went up to the little 
 attic and opened the door. 
 
 All was dark, but she asked quietly, ^ Are you 
 asleep, Maud ? ' But the only answer she got was 
 a sob from the pillow. 
 
 Then the good woman went nearer, and kissed 
 the wet cheeks. * Maud, child, I shall put off for 
 a day, and we shall both go.' 
 
 For a moment the moon shone brightly on the 
 pair, and Maud said, ' Oh, auntie, I am so glad ! 
 For if I were lying ill and like to die, if I could 
 see any one who would bring up to my mind the 
 happiness we used to have, I am sure it would be 
 the first thing to make me well again ! ' 
 
 And all through the night Maud dwelt, in fond 
 anticipation, on her meeting with Bob, wondering 
 what he would be like and how he would receive 
 her ; and she lifted up her thoughts in praise to 
 God for having put such kindness into the heart of 
 her aunt. 
 
 Mrs Clayton kept her promise with Maud, and 
 on arriving in town, decided to stay with their 
 London friends for the space of a week. Each day 
 during that time did the}- make a j)oint of driving
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 281 
 
 io the Prinkles' for the purpose of seeing Bob^ but 
 the lad's malady bad so prostrated bis faculties tbat 
 be was denied the gratification of recognizing bis 
 old friends. 
 
 At times, bowever, wben Maud lingered by bis 
 l)ed-side, a smile would flit across bis emaciated 
 features, and be would work witb bis fevered band 
 in bers, as if memorj^, for tbe time, bad returned 
 like an angel visitor to cbeer bim ; but in all bis 
 babblings be spoke no words of recognition. ]\Iaud, 
 it may be imagined, was deeply moved by tbis, 
 tbe pbase of life being entirely new to ber, and so 
 utterly different from wbat sbe, in ber fond way, bad 
 expected. We bave already seen bow tbe little 
 girl could participate in tbe boisterous fun of ber 
 own age, but to see tbe soft sad eyes filling over 
 wbat disease bad left of ber dear companion, sbowed 
 tbat, young as sbe was, she bad a heart tbat could 
 weep with those who wept, as well as rejoice witb 
 those who did rejoice. 
 
 Mrs Clayton was agreeably disappointed T\ith 
 the bouse and the Prinkles generally. Instead 
 of finding, in Nell, tbe careless, good-for-nothing 
 wife she expected, she was led to think of her the 
 more highly each time they met ; and even Mr 
 Prinkle, with all bis oddities and absurdities, and 
 in spite of the prejudice which his mad effusion had 
 created, sbe began to reckon as a very passable, 
 though somewhat extraordinary individual. 
 
 A little observation, on the part of Mrs Clay- 
 ton, made plain to her that Prinkle was regarded
 
 282 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 by jN'ell more as a child than as a Imsband ; that she 
 cared for him as such, humoured him as such^ and 
 advised him with all the gentleness of a mother ; 
 she endured his eccentricities with an unquestion- 
 able grace ; without the aid of flattery — to which 
 we have seen he was so very susceptible, she 
 changed his frets into smiles and charmed him on 
 through life. 
 
 Mrs Clayton soon learned to love this woman 
 for the admirable nature she displayed, and could 
 not help remarking what a change it would make 
 in thousands of families, where the wife is infinitely 
 superior to the husband, were every woman to suit 
 herself to the man she had wedded, so well as 
 jN"ell had done to hers, instead of carping and fret- 
 ting and grumbling in an ill-concealed spirit of 
 contempt which has oftentimes made wife and 
 husband the joint laughing-stock of a community. 
 
 It is an undeniable fact that girls marry for 
 better and never for worse ; and, though perhaps 
 in a less degree, men are liable to the same charge. 
 By the young, marriage is regarded more as the 
 legal consummation of a natural passion than the 
 solemn contract which it really is ; and it is notable 
 that those unions are by far the happier, which have 
 been preceded by a calm, affectionate courtship, 
 instead of that delirious, delicious passion which 
 commonly goes by the name of Love. When a man 
 is excessively in Love he is helpless ; he is careless 
 of his business ; he cannot think — he can onlj^ chew 
 the cud — in absence of his adored ; his passion
 
 UNDEE THE CLOUD. 285- 
 
 utterly precludes him from forming a correct 
 estimate of its object, wliicli lie can only contemplate 
 in the maze of a gigantic, absurd hyperbole. Yet, 
 this is the frame of mind in which he rushes into 
 matrimony, — that contract which, above all others, 
 should be the result of calm reflection and just 
 deliberation ! The same characteristics belong 
 equally to the other sex. Therefore, you girls, 
 before you take the solemn yows upon you, con- 
 sider what you would do were your husband to turn 
 out painfully different from what you anticipate ; 
 he may not be a Prinkle — but he may be worse. 
 You do not choose to anticipate ? then_, God help 
 you ; for this passionate flame will go out, and if 
 you have no other more substantial fuel to feed the 
 fire, you shall be left shivering over the embers of 
 a burnt-out honeymoon ! 
 
 * Dash it,' said Peter to IS'ell one night when 
 they lay in bed, ' we're having a lively time of it ! 
 Our house isn't the dull thing it used to be : — it's 
 more like the Academy on Opening Day. There's 
 Mr Woodrow — ^Ir Beeds — Mr Alton and his wife 
 and family of one — there's Mrs Clayton and that 
 bright little thing of a niece — and there's the doctor 
 — all in one day — Bless my soul ! ]N'ell,' he said, 
 
 * ]Js^ell — are you sleeping ? — I wonder how many of 
 them'll visit us when Bob is better ? ' 
 
 But there was no reply from the pillows. 
 
 * She's tired, poor thing. Heigjio,' he yawned, 
 
 * I've seen 'em all, and there's not as good a one as 
 my wife in the lot ! Mr Beeds is a jolly fellow.
 
 284 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 though. I like him. He's of the right sort. Mr 
 Tweiityman Beeds — what a funny name ! Twent}' - 
 man — I wonder they didn't call him — Thirtyman ! ' 
 And Prinkle yawned once more, gave a tug at the 
 clothes, and went to sleep. 
 
 •5f -x- ^ ^ ^ 
 
 By and by, the cloud which had settled upon 
 the boy, for so long, began to give signs as if a 
 little while and it would all clear away. His 
 utterances gradually became more coherent, and, 
 though he spoke but little, he would listen with 
 evident intelligence to the conversations which took 
 place around his bed. All his friends, of course, 
 were overjoyed at the prospect of his returning 
 sanity : Nell's heart swelled with the thought that 
 Bob would yet be spared ; Mr Twentyman Beeds 
 chuclded and rubbed his hands with undisguised 
 delight, which was heightened by the prospect of 
 his being able to grapple with the mystery out of 
 which the lad's illness had sprung. But no one 
 manifested more enthusiasm than our friend Peter 
 Prinkle. He would sport about the bed with the 
 soft spring of a cat ; listen at a distance with open 
 jaw, and his funny little eyes manifesting a decided 
 inclination to j ump out of their sockets ; wring his 
 nose almost to the twisting of it off j and, when he 
 felt that he could control his delight no longer, he 
 would rush blindly into the kitchen, bang himself 
 down into a chair, menace the ceiling with his legs, 
 and laugh so heartity, that his eyes, as if not to be 
 behind in showing their enjoyment, would spurt
 
 UNDEPw THE CLOUD. 285 
 
 out tears and perform a little caper of tlieir 
 own. 
 
 One evening, after Bob had been more than 
 usually clear-beaded in bis conversation witb aS[ell, 
 Prinkle was manifesting bis exuberant deligbt, — 
 much to the admiration of the oleaginous little 
 servant — by lying on his back on the kitchen-rug^ 
 tossing a chair-cushion on his elevated soles, and 
 performing other acrobatic feats, when the door 
 opened — just wide enough to admit a shaggy head 
 deeply seated in the snowy folds of a professional 
 cravat. 
 
 With one spring he was upon his feet, — ' Mis- 
 ter Beeds, upon my soul ! ' 
 
 * May I come in ? ' 
 
 * Come in ! hang me, if you stay out, I'll slam 
 the door and have the head of you ! ' 
 
 To obviate any such inconvenience as this Mr 
 Twentyman Beeds stepped lightly in. 
 
 ' How is the boy ? ' 
 
 ' The boy,-' he cried, ' is as right 's the mail, sir : 
 the cloud has cleared away and left a fine night ! ' 
 
 Mr Beeds, not at once comprehending Mr 
 Frinkle's metaphorical language, shook his um- 
 brella, sending the rain from it in sprays. 
 
 * Call that a fine night ; do you ? It is pouring, 
 sir!' 
 
 ^ Let it pour for ever and ever, sir ; there's corn 
 in Eg3'pt. The boy is safe ! ' 
 
 Mr Beeds drew himself up rigidly, in a moment, 
 fixed his eyes cunningly upon Mr Prinkle, and
 
 286 PPJNKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 slowly directed the point of his umbrella to his 
 breast, — ' In — deed ; — you don't say — so ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, I do, sir. He's been quite another 
 fellow all day. He is just the same, sir, as if he 
 had never seen a doctor ! But, come in, sir ; come 
 into the room, sir, an — and you'll see for yourself, 
 sir.' 
 
 Mr Beeds intimated that he had better throw 
 off his overcoat and go in dry. In a moment Mr 
 Prinlde was jumping about him, pulling and tug- 
 ging at the shoulders and sleeves of his coat. 
 
 ' Eas}^ Mr Prinkle ; easy. You'll break my 
 back ! ' '^ 
 
 ' All right, sir,^ he jerked ; ' I forgot. A lawyer's 
 l)ack is more brittle than his heart.' 
 
 *Not a bit,' he replied, turning to face him. 
 * It is only a little more easily got at.' 
 
 Mr Prinkle laughed at this till the tears stood 
 in his eyes, and Mr Beeds, amused, lifted his coat- 
 tails and stood with his back to the fire. 
 
 * You're a most extraordinary lawyer,' cried 
 Prinkle in his delight. ' So funny, sir, you almost 
 redeem your profession ! ' 
 
 Mr Beeds twisted his eyebrows into a very 
 curious expression. ' Why, you seem to have a re- 
 pugnance to lawyers as well as to doctors ? ' 
 
 Mr Prinkle again laughed merrity. ' Indeed I 
 have, sir. They're quite on a par. The lawyer 
 shakes his client till he is an invalid, and the 
 doctor physics the invalid till he is a corpse ! That's 
 my opinion.'
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 287 
 
 ' And a very ghastly one it is/ 
 
 * But still, sir, it is my opinion,' said Mr 
 Prinkle, as if it were enough to leave his observa- 
 tion on that pedestal alone. 
 
 Mr Beeds still retained his comfortable position 
 before the fire, while his eyes, with a very comical 
 expression_, followed the springy movements of Mr 
 Prinkle, who was busying himself in the cupboard, 
 evidently in search of refreshment. 
 
 * You don't drink, I suppose ? ' he cried, hold- 
 ing up a bottle to the light. But before giving Mr 
 Beeds time to reply he had filled up an egg-cup 
 with the spirit. 
 
 * Drink, Mr Beeds. It's only an egg-cup. It's 
 the first thing I could lay hands upon.' 
 
 *Mis-ter Prinkle, the thirsty soul despiseth 
 the vessel for what it contains. Your good health, 
 sir.' And he quafied it. ^ But don't xjou drink ? ' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' Drink, sir ! I should think I do. IVe been 
 drinking ever since I was a baby : — ever since I 
 was so high.' And he lifted up his foot some six 
 inches from the floor. 
 
 Mr Beeds pleased him much by laughing at 
 this. ' You are very funny, Mr Prinkle. You, 
 yourself, ought to have been a lawyer.' 
 
 * x^o, Mr Beeds ; no ! I could be anything, — 
 but I couldn't be a lawyer.' 
 
 * Couldn't you overcome your distaste so far ? ' 
 ' It's not that, sir ; it's not that. I could be a 
 
 doctor, because I know nothing whatever about
 
 288 PRINKLE AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 medicine. I could l)e a clergyman, for I have tlie 
 morality of Caesar^s wife. I could be anything, sir^. 
 but no — not a lawyer.^ 
 
 ' Why so, 'Mv Prinkle ? ' 
 
 ' A very simple reason, sir. Because Tm a divil 
 to blush when I Inww Tm in the wrong. ^ 
 
 ' Ha, ha,^ laughed IMr Beeds, heartily. * Then, 
 in spite of j'our morality, you are in the wrong 
 sometimes ? ' 
 
 * Yes, sir, I confess it. Peter Prinkle is not a 
 paragon. He may be a parallelogram, but he's 
 not a paragon.' 
 
 * You are just like the rest of us in that way ? ' 
 ' Indeed I am, sir.' 
 
 * Well, I would haye thought you were the in- 
 carnation of Yirtue.' 
 
 * Is it the essence, sir ? ' 
 
 * Something like that.' 
 
 'You see, sir, I always like to know the mean- 
 ing of a word when it applies to myself. But, 
 lord, sir, I'm anything but the essence of Yir- 
 tue — I'm the very opposite. I'm Yirtue very 
 much made down with Yice. But I'll say this for 
 myself ; I always try to do what is right, but — ' 
 
 ' — to use your favourite text-book, when you 
 would do good, evil is present with you.' 
 
 *Presactly so, Mr Beeds. Y^e are all, even 
 the best of us, from the head of the crown to the 
 soles of the feet, covered with wounds and bruises 
 and — and other petrifactions.' 
 
 ' Putrefactions^ Mr Prinkle, putrefying sores.'
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 28^ 
 
 'Now, tliis was treading on his favourite corn^ 
 for if anything displeased Mr Prinkle more than 
 another, it was a correction of this sort, as he 
 prided himself on his knowledge of the Holy Scrip- 
 tures. 
 
 * Very well,' he replied impatiently. ' Putre- 
 factions, or putrefying sores, if you will. But you 
 knew what I meant.' 
 
 ' Certainly I did. But that is no reason why I 
 should not correct you.'' 
 
 'But it is personal, sir, and impertinent.' 
 ' Come, come, my dear fellow ; if I w^ere to cor- 
 rect a man in his grammar I might be guilty of 
 an impertinence ; — that depends on circumstances, 
 however. But I hold that, when a man — it mat- 
 ters not who or where he is — makes a misquotation, 
 I have a right to correct him. The words he then 
 uses are not his own, they belong equally to every- 
 bod}', and it is a duty which authors impose upon 
 posterity to see that their language be not garbled 
 but quoted aright.' 
 
 * That is all very good,' replied Prinkle, with a 
 smile, for he saw that he was in the wrong, ' but 
 there's one thing I can say for mj^self, and it is 
 this. There's lots of educated people who use 
 the right words and yet it is difficult to compre- 
 hend them, while I, even when I use the wrong 
 ones, can always be understood by children — and 
 even by lawyers when they like.' 
 
 Mr Beeds, judiciously thinking that it might 
 irritate his friend unnecessarily to continue this 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 PRTNKLE AXD HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 style of conversation, inquired if tlie woman had 
 ever returned who had brought Bob home on the 
 first night of his illness. Mr Prinkle assumed a 
 most mj'sterious air, and replied in the negative. 
 
 ' Ve-ry curious/ mused the lawyer. 
 
 ' Ye-ry curious/ chimed Mr Prinkle. 
 
 This was the first time that the subject had 
 been broached b^ween them ; and while Mr Beeds 
 stood with his eyes thoughtfully fixed on the floor- 
 ing, Mr Prinkle, as it were^ hung on his lips, in 
 expectation of hearing a lawyer's opinion with 
 regard to the mystery, while his hands shook, by 
 reason of momentary excitement, by his side, and 
 the demon of inquisitiveness kept watch at the 
 corners of his eyes. 
 
 * "Wh — what's your opinion, Mr Beeds ? ' 
 He looked up. ' ^Yhat is j^ours ? ' 
 
 * The same as yours,^ he replied promptly. 
 'I have none.' 
 
 Prinkle caught the lawyer's hand and slapped 
 it in ecstasy. ' By Hivins ! I was sure of it. 
 !N^either have I ! ' 
 
 At this moment they were interrupted by K'ell, 
 who, having heard the excited voices, sought the 
 cause. She kindly saluted Mr Beeds, who received 
 her as he would have don e the most courtly lady 
 in the land. 
 
 ' I am glad you have come, for poor Bob is so 
 much better that he has been referring to jo\x, by 
 name, all day long/ 
 
 * In-deed,' replied the little lawyer, while his
 
 UXDER THE CLOUD. 291 
 
 «ye glistened. ^ I am so glad lie has remembered 
 me.' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' put in Mr Prinkle. * And he has 
 remembered me too, for to-daj^ he laughed at me 
 and called me " Lordship." You must know/ he 
 said, tapping him confidentially in the ribs, ' that 
 that is a term of respect they have for me in the 
 office. Sometimes I don't like it,' he added in an 
 undertone, ' but the fact is, sir, I was so glad he was 
 getting back his memory that I laughed till I cried 
 again. You won't believe me, sir ; but nobody 
 knows what it is to come out of the cloud, except 
 those who have been in one.' 
 
 * Indeed. In-deed,^ muttered Mr Beeds. ^ Has 
 he made any reference to the night on which he 
 was taken ill ? ' 
 
 Nell, to whom the inquiry was addressed, 
 beckoned significantly, and whispered, ' You had 
 better come in and hear.' 
 
 They entered the sick-room together, and Mr 
 Prinkle followed on tiptoe. 
 
 On seeing Mr Beeds, Bob made an effort as if 
 to rise from the bed, but failing in this he stretched 
 out his hand and smiled. 
 
 The lawyer took it. 'Do you know me, Bob ? ' 
 
 * Oh, yes, I do. I have wearied for you, but 
 you did not come.' 
 
 ' I have been here frequentlj', my boy ; but you 
 were so ill.' 
 
 * And did I not recognize you ? ' 
 ' I think not.'
 
 292 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 After a pause, the lad looked up timidly. ' And. 
 were you angry ? ' 
 
 Mr Beeds only pressed his hand gently, and 
 looked down upon him with a tender smile that 
 was reflected in his face. 
 
 * Have I been long ill ? ' 
 
 * Many weeks.' 
 
 * TVeeks ! ' he exclaimed tremulously. ' And 
 has an}^ one else been here to see me ? ' 
 
 * Almost everj^body.' 
 
 Then he seemed to think for a while. *Has 
 she called ? ' 
 
 ^ What she ? ' inquired the lawyer. 
 
 * Lizzie — you know.' 
 
 Mr Beeds shook his head, while Prinkle stood 
 right on his tiptoes in expectation. 
 
 *The other face — ' he explained^ somewhat 
 impatienth'. * Lizzie — Mary's sister — oh! — you 
 know.' 
 
 At this, Mr Prinkle hung his body half way 
 over the rail at the foot of the bed, and stared as 
 if he stared for the last time. His comical appear- 
 ance tickled Bob intensely. 
 
 * Look, Mr Beeds,' he cried, pointing. ' Look 
 at him. His lordship is very funny. He's a funny, 
 funny man.' 
 
 Xow this was rather trying to Prinkle^s temper. 
 
 * Just mind who j'ou're calling names, young 
 man ! ' 
 
 * Hush, hush,' cried his wife and I-lv Beeds in 
 a breath.
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 293 
 
 'No, but I won't hush, for nobody. I won't 
 be insulted in my own house. Hang it — ^ 
 
 But before the uncertain-tempered man could 
 say more, they had bundled him out of the room, 
 in the midst of an angry expostulation. 
 
 When they returned to the bed-side, Bob again, 
 referred to Lizzie, and proposed that they should 
 go and see her, as he said, ' To-day.'' 
 
 ' No, not to-day, Bob,^ said Mr Beeds. ' We shall 
 ^ait till you are well again, and then we shall go.' 
 
 * All right. I wish I were well again.' 
 
 And the large, strange eyes of the invalid wan- 
 dered away from his companions, and rested on the 
 wall. 
 
 In the midst of some great solitude, on the 
 mountain- side or in the dead stillness of a ruined, 
 house, when all the air around you seemed to throb 
 in unison with each pulsation of your heart, and 
 your thoughts were wide and free; out of the 
 waste of fancy has there not arisen the idea, — 
 startling and keen ; — I have thought these 
 thoughts, I have lived this life before — in some 
 strange world — long ago, and far away ? Then, if 
 the mental amnesty of a moment — too infinitesimal 
 for our appreciation — makes such a gulf as this 
 between the present and the most immediate past, 
 how unutterably strange must the sensation be 
 when returning reason first illumes the vacant 
 walls, and the dank vapours of the tenantless 
 brain are lifted by the rush of memory, coming in 
 upon it sweet and pleasant as a gentle breeze.
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 DISAPPOINTME^qX. 
 
 ' From her lodging, poor and bare, 
 And high, up in the smoke-dim air, 
 "With cheerless heart and aimless feet, 
 She desaended to the street.' — Cokxhill MagazikEo 
 
 In a fortnight more, Bob was so far advanced 
 in convalescence that he proposed to Neil that they 
 should take a drive together. At first she de- 
 murred at this proposal, but on account of his en- 
 treaties, and considering thafc he had been sitting 
 up for more than a week, and might possibly be 
 the better of carriage exercise, she consented. 
 
 There is no time in which the human mind is 
 so susceptible to the beauties of nature, as when 
 one, who has been confined to bed for a lengthened 
 period, comes out, for the first time, to breathe the 
 fresh air of heaven. How great a change is the 
 broad world from the narrow confines of the sick- 
 room, and how exhilarating the balmy breezes 
 after the drugged atmosphere in which disease has 
 been ! Bob experienced these pleasures to the 
 full, when he drove into the country, with Nell 
 seated beside him in her Sunday best. The birds, 
 he thought, never sang so sweetly ; the trees, 
 decked with their luxurious autumnal tints, struck 
 his eye with beauty that was intense ; he had 
 never noticed the lights and shades sporting on
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 295 
 
 the green sward before ; everything below, and 
 above, and around, wrought in his heart a peculiar 
 charm, and even the flowers that peeped over the 
 hedge- rows from the gardens, seemed to nod him 
 a welcome and be joyous that he had come out to 
 look upon their radiant splendours once more. 
 
 Their route was one which Bob knew well ; in- 
 deed, it was at his particular request that they had 
 taken it. He had an aim in this, of which Nell 
 was quite unconscious, until, after having driven 
 several miles into the country, he called upon the 
 driver to stop at a cottage that stood by the vray- 
 side. In a moment, Nell recognized the place from 
 Eob's description of it, and his design in taking a 
 drive in that direction flashed across her mind. 
 Fearing lest any excitement might check his con- 
 valescence, she was about to remonstrate with him 
 for stopping here, when Mary's mother, who had 
 been standing by the door, recognized her friend, 
 and immediately rushed out, got upon the carriage- 
 steps, and embraced him warmly. 
 
 ' Oh_, but you have been long in coming I ' she 
 cried, vehemently, quite disregarding the presence 
 of Nell. ' You said you would return soon. Why 
 didn't you come ? ' 
 
 * The lad has been very ill,' interrupted Nell ; 
 and she hurriedly beseeched her, in a whisper, not 
 to excite him. In a moment, the woman checked 
 her vehemence,, and smoothing his hand upon her 
 palm, she looked up fondly on his pale, thin face. 
 
 ' Oh, but we've wearied,^ she cried ; ' for my
 
 296 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Mary has called for you niglit and day. Come in 
 and see her, for I know it will make her glad/ 
 
 Nell had some compunction in assisting him 
 to alight, but judged rightly that it would cause 
 him more excitement to refuse compliance than to 
 allow him quietly. So they followed the woman 
 into the house. 
 
 ' Softly/ whispered the mother ; ' for she is very 
 weak, and the end is coming.' 
 
 As yet, Bob had not spoken a single word — his 
 feelings were too intense for speech ; and as the 
 old woman led him by the hand into the chamber 
 wherein her daughter lay, he was trembling like a 
 leaf. Mar}^, on being apprised of his visit, turned 
 her face towards him and stretched forth her 
 hand. 
 
 The beautiful face acted with a magical effect 
 on Bob ; it recalled to his mind the fearful scenes 
 through which he had passed on that eventful 
 night. The sister's face was before him ; and, un- 
 able to restrain himself, he pressed the proffered 
 hand to his breast, bent down upon Mary's face, 
 and murmured * Lizzie — Lizzie.'' 
 
 On hearing this, the mother was equally unable 
 to control herself ; she sent forth a cry of anguish, 
 and falling on Nell's shoulder, she sobbed, * It is 
 the name of my j)oor, lost child ! ' 
 
 For a minute or so there was nothing said, till 
 Mary put her arm about Bob's neck and kissed 
 him twice. 
 
 ' Ah, you remember her,' she said. ' We spoke
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 297 
 
 of her that night you were here — and that night 
 I dreamed of her.' 
 
 And she began to relate her dream, in a clear 
 small voice that was sweet as the far-away 
 tinkling of silver bells. * I thought that I 
 -was dying. My father, my mother, were by my 
 bedside, and 5^ou were there. The light faded out, 
 and the shadows of death fell thick upon me, when 
 I saw that Lizzie was not. Through the darkness I 
 ^as led by one whose face I could not perceive j 
 iDut my companion, I felt, was no stranger, either 
 to the road or me. In a few moments I was in 
 the hollow of a great light. It was peopled by 
 forms of transcendent beauty. I had never seen 
 faces like these faces, nor heard voices like these. 
 And, as I was wondering much and fearing, I saw my 
 sister — beautiful with more than her own beauty, 
 but still my sister — step from a brilliant throng and 
 €ome towards me. But, as her name quivered on 
 my lips, the vision faded, the pleasant voices were 
 silent, and I awoke in the darkness of my room.-' 
 
 Somehow or other, the light seemed to die 
 away from her face with her words. 
 
 Bob could say nothing. Kell was glad to hide 
 her eyes in her handkerchief, and the mother 
 sobbed afresh. 
 
 * Mother, mother,' cried Mary, in a tremulously 
 sinking voice ; ^ she is not a lost child. My trust 
 is sure ; my hope is in God.' And the exhausted 
 girl sank into a quiet state that was like sleep, 
 ^^vhile the three glided from the room.
 
 298 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Tliis yisitj short as it was, exercised a powerful 
 effect on Bob ; it stimulated him to exertion ; and^ 
 as he drove home that afternoon with Nell, he 
 told her all he could about Lizzie, and determined 
 that, with the assistance of their good friend the 
 lawyer, no time should be lost in searching out, 
 and bringing back to her home, the fallen sister, if 
 it might only be to gladden the eyes of Mary ere 
 her death. 
 
 Nell's fine, womanly nature was fairly roused 
 by what she had just seen and heard ; she did not 
 advise Bob^ as many a good woman would have 
 done, to let the matter alone, clinching her advice 
 with the adage that you cannot touch pitch with- 
 out being defiled ; no, she rose superior to all such 
 cowardice ! A human soul was at stake, and she 
 determined to lend what aid she could, to brins: 
 back the one that was lost. 
 
 A few days were allowed to elapse,, however, 
 before they acted on their determination ; so that 
 Bob's chances of danger might be less. At last, 
 Mr Twentyman Beeds was got, and they laid the 
 whole matter before him. The lawyer, from the 
 time it was first mentioned, manifested consider- 
 able interest in the case, but when he had mastered 
 its details, he was full of impatience to prosecute 
 the search. 
 
 We have already noticed the antipathy of Mr 
 Beeds to embark, even by way of subscription, in 
 any of those grand schemes which have for their 
 object the wholesale reformation of mankind, and.
 
 DISAPPOIXTMEXT. 299 
 
 it is tlierefore with pleasure that we lay before 
 our readers some further evidence to show that he 
 was not wholly devoid of Christian charity, that 
 he could devote his time and trouble, and spare no 
 expense, in the seeking out of one poor soul. If 
 this same spirit inspired the hearts of our bene- 
 volent, and what we call our charitable men, while 
 those grand missionary schemes which, in spite of 
 many detractions, are still an honour to our 
 country, would flourish more successfully than 
 heretofore, we would have fewer white, emaciated, 
 little faces wandering about our streets in quest 
 of bread, fewer criminals in our jails, and our 
 streets would be made less hideous from the vice 
 and infamy that stalk abroad. It is a matter of 
 astonishment to strangers that, while our own 
 country stands first in the world for liberality in 
 the support of missionary enterprise, few countries 
 can equal it in the proportion of pauperism and 
 infamy which is its curse. The reason is not far 
 to seek. The comfortable, easy-ozy Briton has a 
 vague way of interpreting the word Charity, so 
 that the term charitable is applied to the man 
 whose name figures reasonably often in those sub- 
 scription-sheets that are known and read by all 
 men, while, in reality, there is, generally speaking, 
 as little charity in the signing of a cheque for 
 such a purpose as there is the spirit of devotion 
 in a showman's dog counting his beads for the 
 delectation of gaping rustics at a country fair. 
 Charity is Love in its highest sense. It is not a
 
 300 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 duty, it is an impulse. And if British. Charity 
 were British Love, we should have much more 
 earnest exertion in its cause than we now have ; 
 in a little while the whole phase of society would 
 be changed ; the vice and pauperism which are 
 rampant would be laid low ; the social degradation 
 of a certain class would be more a thing to 
 wonder at than a thing to mourn ; and our 
 countrj^ would stand out as an example to the 
 world of what British Love can do. 
 
 Let us follow the good-hearted little lawyer in 
 liis own charitable work. It may be remembered 
 that Lizzie, on the night she had taken Bob from 
 Phoebus Court, had pointed out to him, at the 
 corner of a street, the house in which she resided. 
 The name of the place was then imprinted on the 
 lad's mind with a vividness which even his pro- 
 tracted illness had not effaced. He knew it per- 
 fectly, and one afternoon he and Mr Beeds drove 
 into the street, and leaving the carriage at a con- 
 venient point, they strolled leisurely up to the 
 door. It was opened by an emphatically fat 
 woman, who trailed her feet about as with an effort. 
 
 In reply to their inquiries, she said that she 
 did keep lodgers, ' but none on them went by the 
 name of Lizzie.' 
 
 This was discouraging af first ; but on Bob's 
 describing the attire of the girl they wanted, she 
 exclaimed, with much aj)prehension, * Why, that's 
 3Iari(?;" ! But she's gone away.' 
 
 * Away ! Where has she gone ? ' cried Mr Beeds.
 
 DiSAPPoixT:y:EXT. 301 
 
 ' Ay, sir, slie^s gone awa}'. And wot's more, 
 none of us can tell as where slie^s gone to. She's 
 been a week away, and for two mortal days afore 
 she left, she sat in her own room writin^ and tearin' 
 bits of paper, and would, on no manner of per- 
 swashun, take no meat ! ' 
 
 ' Most extraordinar}' I ' muttered the lawyer. 
 *" ^Ve have come with a friendly message. Can 
 I see her room ? I shall paj^ you well.' 
 
 ' Ah, sir,' she said ; ' I wouldn't ask no pay- 
 ment, I'm sure, if it was for the giii's good. She 
 paid me the rent of her room, as reg'lar as the 
 clock, an' I alius had money of her own beside me. 
 She was better than the run of her kind, sir ; an' 
 I'd be wery glad to show you her room, but she's 
 locked the door and took the key away. She 
 alius locked her room when she went out, sir, an' 
 wouldn't allow nobody in except herself. Indeed, 
 sir, she was a good girl to me.' 
 
 ' Did you know the manner of her life ? ' 3Ir 
 Beeds asked, with a searching glance at the 
 woman. 
 
 'Indeed I didn't, sir; for I never asks no 
 questions at my girls, so long as they pays me 
 reg'lar for their rooms and brings in no visitors. 
 I knows as she's been working in a warehouse, 
 and since she came to me she's kept ccJmpany only 
 with one man. But come in, sir ; for it don't go 
 to the credit of the 'ouse to stand at the door a 
 talkin' to men.' 
 
 At this^ Mr Eeeds and the boy entered ; the
 
 302 PEINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 former with, a shrug of his shoulders when he 
 thought of the questionable character of the 
 threshold which he crossed. 
 
 After some parleying with the woman, a lock- 
 smith was got, and the room was opened. The 
 little chamber and its contents took Mr Beeds with, 
 a strange surprise ; and, if before he had seen the 
 place he had a desire to search out the unfortunate 
 girl, that desire was heightened now. Whatever 
 had been his conceptions of Lizzie^ s character from 
 what Bob had narrated regarding her, he must 
 have felt, when he looked round that little apart- 
 ment, that he had fallen far short of comprehend- 
 ing the nature of the girl with whom he had to 
 deal. Was she vicious ? — are the plays of Shak - 
 spere, and Pope's Essay on Man, the companion- 
 books of those whose souls are full of vice ? Was 
 she irreligious? — does an open, well-thumbed 
 Testament bespeak the irreligious mind? Was 
 she without all Christian faith ? — is a crucifix on 
 the wall an evidence of that ? Then, was she 
 frail ? — ay, she was frail ! But if Mr Beeds could 
 place piece to piece the thousand fragments of 
 paper that lie strewn upon the floor, he would have 
 some idea of the struggles that had torn the 
 woman's heart, by the painful retrospects and cries 
 of anguish that are there ! 
 
 * Strange: strange,' he ejaculated, at every turn. 
 
 ^ Ay, she was strange,' cried the woman. ' A 
 most extraordinar' girl was Marier. When she 
 was ill for a month, and in the ^ouse, she sewed
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 303 
 
 that bit o' work ; an' slie was alius singing of them 
 lines, when she thought as nobody heard her.' 
 
 The bit of work was a sampler hanging on the 
 wall, in which were sewed the lines — 
 
 * I live lor those who love me, 
 
 "Whose hearts are kind and true, 
 For the Heaven that smiles above me. 
 And the good that I can do. ' 
 
 * Ay, sir ; she told me as these might not be 
 the right words of the poem ; but she was alius 
 sajin' that the ^ole of the Testament was in them 
 four lines.' 
 
 Mr Beeds was greatly perplexed, and, indeed, 
 began to doubt that this was Lizzie's place after 
 all. But Bob was sure of it. 
 
 He turned upon the woman. 
 
 'Now, my good woman,' he said, ^if this girl 
 should not be found, it may involve you in some 
 serious difficulties, so you had better be open with 
 me. I am a lawyer, and I have been engaged to 
 find this girl, and find her I must ! I wish to 
 make as Kttle noise about it as possible, but you 
 may rely upon it, that, if j^ou are not frank with 
 me, I shall call in the aid of the authorities. I hope 
 you understand me.' 
 
 The idea of calling in the authorities was any- 
 thing but a comforting one to the woman. * Oh, 
 sir ; never was a p'lice in this 'ouse, an' if it would 
 do Marie /• any good, I'll tell you all as I knows on.' 
 
 * How long has she been lodging here ? '
 
 304 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Nigh ten montlis ago, she came to me in a state 
 of starvation, an' prayed, for God's sake, to be taken 
 in, wich I'm sure I did, sir ; an' she was with me 
 for more nor three weeks afore ever I saw her 
 money. I know she was a trying to pick herself 
 up then — and she got a place — wich she's kept 
 ever since.^ 
 
 * How did she conduct herself ? ' 
 
 ' She came and went like the rest on them, but 
 was never away for more nor a night at a time 
 — and that was seldom, too. That young man, as 
 I spoke of, saw her home to the door every other 
 night ; an' she alius told me as she was to be 
 married on him ; but, sir, I know'd better than she 
 that he was one of the worst ! ' 
 
 *IIow do you mean? Hovf did you come to 
 know this ? ' 
 
 * 'Cos, sir, I hearkened at the door one night ; 
 and I heard him tell her that he loved her ever so 
 much, and would be sure to make her his wife ; 
 and, poor silly thing, she believed him, although 
 in the wery next breath he arx'd for the loan of 
 money 'cos he was 'ard up ! Oh, sir ; you needn't 
 be surprised, for that's a precious old dodge, and 
 it succeeds a'most in every case — for them girls 
 has alius more heart than head ! There's hundreds 
 of men as lives on the affections of them women, 
 gettin' money from them as long as they ■'ave it, 
 an' v/hen they ain't got none, they throw them like 
 sucked oranges to the street ! It ain^t pretty to 
 hear about your own sex, sir, but it's true ! ''
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 305 
 
 Mr Beeds was anxious to learn how the matter 
 ended. 
 
 ^Just as it alius does, sir.^ And here the 
 woman commenced crying. ^ One night, about 
 eights days gone, she came into this 'ouse cr34n' 
 as if her heart was a goin^ to break ; with her eyes 
 and cheeks as red as burnin' coal, jabberin' and 
 talkin' to herself. I know'd then that it was all 
 up ; that she had found out at last the man as was 
 goin' to 'ave married her was a liar and a thief, 
 and that he was only making a trade of her love. 
 After this she lay in her bed, for two days, cryin' 
 off and on ; an' then she got up and wrote at that 
 'ere desk — I don't know what she was a writin' of 
 — but she wouldn't take no meat; tearin' paper, as 
 3'ou see, sir, till after two days, she went out with- 
 out her bonnet, at twelve o'clock at night, and I've 
 never seen nor heard more on her since. That's 
 the God's truth, sir, and the 'ole of it, as I'm a 
 livin' woman, and as sure as I believe that the 
 spirit of Marier is lookin' down on me now ! ' 
 And saying this, she sank upon a seat, and sobbed 
 h3'sterically. 
 
 * Great Heavens ! ' cried the lawyer, as a light 
 flashed across his mind. ' You don't believe she 
 has — ' 
 
 * Indeed I do,' she cried. * And I haven't been 
 able to open a paper for fear of seein' it in print ; 
 nor I wouldn't have opened this 'ere room by my- 
 self for a mint o' gold ! Try the desk, sir ; try the 
 desk, and see what she's been writin'.' 
 
 VOL. I. 20
 
 o06 PRINKLE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Mr Beeds threw it open at once, for it was- 
 unlocked. 
 
 A sheet of paper was lying there, filled with 
 writing, and he caught it up. But as the first 
 words met his eyes, a spasm shot across his face, 
 blanching it in a moment, and the paper fell to 
 the floor. 
 
 ' Bob,' he said, vainly striving to calm himself. 
 ' Bob, you had better go back — home — with the 
 carriage. 1 shall go alone and find her.' 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 JOMN CHILDS AND SON, PKIXTERS.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 042032877 
 
 5^^^^ 
 >^^^^<