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IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN 
 
 j 
 
 3 M or r I. 
 
 KATHARINE LEE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 ''A WESTERN -WILDFEO-WER," "IN THE ALSATIAN MOUNTAINS," ETC. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 L X I) N : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 33itbltsl)fvs tit (Dvainari) to fyn ftlajrsUi tijr ©item. 
 
 1 884. 
 
 {All right* reserved.') 
 
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. 
 

 IN LONDON TOWN, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 David Evekest was the only son of a 
 widowed mother, who, however, was not 
 altogether to be pitied on account of 
 her widowhood. Colonel Everest had 
 certainly done his best to make his 
 decease bearable to his wife, by making 
 her life spent with him as unbearable as 
 debt, indifference, and drinking could 
 make it. He had not been a good 
 husband, but nevertheless she made him 
 an excellent widow, and did her duty by 
 his memory as ably as she had exceeded 
 
 VOL. I. 1 
 
Z IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 her duty in her endeavours to lecture him 
 into a hetter state of behaviour. 
 
 The Colonel had not taken kindly to 
 lecturing — perhaps few husbands do — and 
 he had given his wife little opportunity 
 for the use of her powers in that direction, 
 until either his ill fate or his good provi- 
 dence laid him low with a broken arm, 
 and then it is to be feared that Mrs. 
 Everest made up for lost opportunities, 
 and disburdened her mind of the accumu- 
 lated lectures of years. Whether the 
 lectures hastened the mending of the 
 broken bone or not, the Colonel was soon 
 off to the war again, no whit improved in 
 manners or morals either; and his wife 
 was left with her little five-year-old son 
 to brood over her words herself, if she so 
 choose, for it was certain the Colonel 
 would not. 
 
 The next news of him was in that 
 column of the Times that was so eagerly 
 read in those Crimean War days by English 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. .i 
 
 wives and mothers. Colonel Everest was 
 dead, and his wife was a nearly penniless 
 widow of six and twenty. 
 
 She had one near relation in the world, 
 and only one, and that was a brother, 
 many years older than herself. There had 
 been a quarrel between Colonel Everest 
 and him with regard to money matters, 
 and she had taken her lover's part, and 
 married him in spite of brotherly counsel. 
 
 The Eeverend Theophilus Burney was 
 as ignorant of women as a man born of 
 woman can be, but he was not nearly so 
 much offended at his counsel being dis- 
 regarded as he was grieved for his sister's 
 fate. After the marriage he made an 
 offer of reconciliation, but the new bride 
 was too proud to let even his eyes see her 
 humiliation, and she refused his offer 
 coldly, whereupon it had not been 
 renewed ; for Theophilus, though a 
 clergyman, and a good man, was but 
 human, and the refusal angered him. 
 
4 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 She thought of this refusal as she sat 
 with the open Times before her in her 
 dismal lodging in London (the Colonel 
 had not been lavish with regard to money 
 matters). She told herself with a little 
 fierce gesture that she would never go 
 back to be pitied and condoled with, and 
 even as she said it she thought with a sigh 
 of the comfortable Devonshire rectory. 
 
 Perhaps if time had been given her she 
 would have gone back, with the words of 
 the prodigal not on her lips, but in her 
 heart ; but time was not given her. The 
 very day after the news of her husband's 
 death was in the Times, a well-remem- 
 bered footstep made a sound of stumbling 
 on the steep London stairs, and Mrs. 
 Everest was in her brother's arms before 
 she well knew he was in the room. 
 
 She cried when he kissed her, cried as 
 she had not done even when the bad news 
 first came to her, and every tear smote 
 her brother's heart. He begged and 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 5 
 
 implored her to forgive him, as if, indeed, 
 he had been the transgressor. So keenly 
 did her grief smite him that he believed 
 he was, and ever after alluded to the 
 break in their intercourse with the 
 sincerest shame. He was overjoyed when 
 she consented to go back with hirn, as 
 after some little demur she did ; and he 
 made a solemn promise that the boy, 
 young David, should be to him as his own 
 son, and he would be as a father to him. 
 
 When the mother cried again at this, 
 Theophilus was remorseful and penitent, 
 fearing he had been arrogant and rough 
 with a bereaved woman's holiest feelings. 
 He apologised, and said such things of 
 the departed Colonel as his tender heart 
 suggested, and in course of time even 
 came to believe them, and echoed his 
 sister's sentiments as to the worth of 
 the dear departed. 
 
 But the world is censorious, and sadly 
 suspicious ; not all the mourning, the 
 
6 IN LONDON TOWN, 
 
 cambric and crape, displayed by the widow 
 really took anybody in except her un- 
 suspicious brother. Even little David 
 looked oddly at his mother when he 
 heard her "mention her dearest husband. 
 David was very inconvenient to the 
 widow for the first few months of her 
 new life at the Kectory. 
 
 But memory at five years old is not 
 always very retentive. A donkey, a 
 puppy, a poultry-yard, trees and fields 
 soon drove inopportune reminiscences 
 from David's mind. He roamed about 
 the leafy lanes, and through the fields, and 
 passed through the usual hair-breadth 
 escapes that seem necessary to the career 
 of a small boy. 
 
 He went to school at rather a late age. 
 This w r as not because of his mother's 
 fears and scruples, for she was not much 
 troubled by them, but because his uncle 
 could not bear to give up teaching him 
 Latin and Greek. Mr. Burney was a 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 7 
 
 scholar, a Fellow of his college, and 
 a more than ordinary lover of ancient 
 learning. Perhaps it would be more 
 correct to say mediaeval learning, for, 
 though a good classical scholar, his real 
 interest lay in the study of comparative 
 liturgiology — a subject less known, and 
 perhaps less interesting to the world at 
 large than any other. 
 
 Possibly it w 7 ould be wrong to say that 
 the study of liturgies was the object of 
 Mr. Burney's life ; he would certainly 
 have denied it if any one had asked him 
 the question. But then he would have 
 found a difficulty in answering any such 
 question at all : life had glided along 
 with him in so serene and gentle a 
 manner that he had never yet paused to 
 review it. He had, perhaps, a hazy idea 
 of some day really facing the matter, and 
 resolving what he would do with himself ; 
 but he passed into white-haired old age 
 before that day ever came, and he had 
 
8 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 almost forgotten that such a thing as 
 the possibility of a career had ever 
 existed. 
 
 He was very happy in having the boy 
 to teach. Had not David and his mother 
 come to live at the Eectory, Mr. Burney 
 might, in the course of the next twenty 
 years or so, have considered the question 
 of getting married, and so providing 
 himself with a companion. Their pre- 
 sence saved him from the exertion of 
 thinking of such a thing, and he never 
 even contemplated the possibility. He 
 would have liked to have kept the boy at 
 home altogether and poured all the secret 
 stores of his learning into the lad's 
 attentive ears, but his mother interfered. 
 
 It was Mrs. Everest's darling wish that 
 her son should follow in the footsteps of 
 his father — at least, that was what she 
 said, and part of it was true, for she really 
 did wish him to go into the army. So 
 David was sent to school, and his uncle 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 9 
 
 made laborious notes out of all the books 
 he read, to impart them to his favourite in 
 the holidays. 
 
 It is not too much to say that the 
 uncle looked forward to David's holidays 
 fully as much as that young scholar him- 
 self did. In point of fact, he was the 
 most excited of the two when the lad's 
 long lanky form appeared in the Eectory 
 gateway. David took his coming home 
 very quietly — was rather reticent, indeed, 
 about his school-days in a manner that 
 somewhat surprised his relations, until 
 the half-yearly report arrived, and that 
 explained matters a little. 
 
 The rector was less distressed by it 
 than Mrs. Everest was. Acts of lawless- 
 ness and outbreak she could have forgiven ; 
 a love of play would have pleased her as 
 well as a love of books ; if the lad had 
 neglected his studies for cricket or 
 boating, she would have embraced him. 
 David's indifference to sports had always 
 
10 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 been a grief to her. But the report made 
 mention of one sin only, and that the 
 crying, most inexcusable sin to Mrs. 
 Everest in all the world — laziness. 
 David, when questioned, owned to it 
 quite naturally. He had hated getting 
 up in the mornings, doing lessons before 
 breakfast, working all the day, going 
 for walks, drilling, and the enforced 
 games ; he disliked having to do things 
 when he was told, and at stated times ; 
 and in the most unblushing manner con- 
 fessed to having eluded such unpleasant- 
 nesses by the best means in his power. 
 
 The rector shook his head and looked 
 sorrowfully at his favourite, and for the 
 sake of discipline he had better have 
 directed his eyes somewhere else, for the 
 sight of the lad's long- desired face caused 
 a triumphant smile to break out over his 
 own, and for the life of him he could not 
 keep down a little chuckle of delight. 
 
 Mrs. Everest heard it, of course, and 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 11 
 
 turned upon him in the full magnificence 
 of her outraged propriety and maternal 
 displeasure, and — it is a sad thing to 
 say of a beneficed clergyman — the rector 
 turned and fled, or, more correctly speak- 
 ing, shambled into his study, and gently 
 fastened the door behind him. 
 
 Mrs. Everest, left alone with her pro- 
 digal, questioned him sternly, the more 
 sternly because she detected him in a 
 partially developed movement to follow 
 in the footsteps of his departing uncle. 
 Perhaps if she had been wiser she would 
 have let him go ; bat what energetic 
 woman ever lost an opportunity of ex- 
 pending some of her superfluous energy 
 upon an idle man, or even boy? Mrs. 
 Everest's energy having had nothing 
 better than her brother and the parish to 
 expend itself upon lately — two notoriously 
 unresponsive objects — had been turned 
 back upon herself in a very dangerous 
 manner. Her piety, which was the most 
 
12 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 usual form for it to take, had become a 
 thing most awful to her brother and the 
 household. David's return and his mis- 
 demeanours was a perfect godsend to 
 them all, except to David himself. 
 
 He bore it very well, though; too well. 
 In fact, he was so hopelessly unconcerned 
 about the whole matter, his mother's 
 lecture included, that she was goaded 
 into giving him a full half-hour extra ; 
 but not even that produced any visible 
 effect upon him. He answered all her 
 questions, and acknowledged all his faults, 
 and nodded a cheerful acquiescence to 
 all the probable calamities and fearful 
 consequences she predicted for him in 
 his earthly career, and seemed in no way 
 dismally affected by the picture of a 
 fearful hereafter that would in all likeli- 
 hood follow upon a wasted and misspent 
 manhood. Not a line lengthened in his 
 round face, not a tear dimmed his blue 
 eyes, as his mother passed from one dread 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 13 
 
 vision to another ; not a sign escaped 
 him of any impatience, save now and 
 then a half-wistful glance at the closed 
 study door across the hall. He was 
 quite cheerful up to the end, when his 
 mother, driven to the extremity of rage 
 and despair, herself burst into a flood 
 of tears such as she had been desirous 
 of raising in him. 
 
 " Don't cry, mother," he said, putting 
 his arm about her neck and kissing her. 
 " I'm all right ; there's nothing the 
 matter to make you cry." 
 
 " You are a hardened, wicked, un- 
 grateful boy ! " cried Mrs. Everest, in 
 indignation. " You have no fear of God 
 or man before your eyes. Don't come 
 near me ! " and the little lady swept past 
 him in a fury, and up the stairs into her 
 own room. 
 
 The breakfast-room had been the scene 
 of this display, for the post had arrived 
 in the middle of the meal. David glanced 
 
14 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 after his mother as she passed him in her 
 anger, and made a step as if to follow her, 
 but the imperious little gesture of her 
 hand and head stopped him, and left him 
 standing beside the breakfast-table. In a 
 meditative manner he laid his hand upon 
 a jam-pot; the spoon was beside it. 
 David did not inconveniently hurry him- 
 self, but in a little while an empty pot 
 stood where a full one had been ; and 
 David, with a sigh of content, put a hand- 
 ful of radishes in his pocket, and turned 
 leisurely towards the study door. 
 
 " Ah, my boy!" said the rector, in a 
 cheerful voice, as David came into the 
 study; then, remembering that the lad 
 was in disgrace, he shook his head and 
 ejaculated, "Ah, dear, dear, dear!" in a 
 manner intended, doubtless, to be very 
 sorrowful, but that in reality was brimful 
 of delight and pride. 
 
 The boy nodded, but did not speak — his 
 mouth was full, though his heart was not 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 15 
 
 — bat a gleam of fun came into his eyes, 
 and, sad indeed to relate, this young 
 sinner shut one of them, and looked in a 
 knowing manner upon his aged relative 
 with the other. 
 
 The boy's coolness after the trying 
 interview to which his uncle knew he had 
 been subjected for the last hour and a 
 half, was so irresistibly delightful to the 
 old man that he laughed outright. In 
 his soul he admired and envied the lad 
 who could wink and munch radishes 
 with perfect absence of all emotion after 
 a scene, the like of which would have 
 made him ill and low-spirited for days. 
 He laughed and rubbed his hands ; but 
 his wavering sense of duty came back 
 to him, and he shook his head longer 
 than before, and said as gravely as he 
 could — 
 
 " David, David, I did not expect this 
 of you." 
 
 " You have got some new books," was 
 
16 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 David's answer after — shall we say it ? — a 
 temporary residence of his tongue in one 
 of his rosy cheeks ; " let's have a look 
 at them ! " 
 
 " Ah ! ha ! you haven't forgotten the 
 old favourites, I dare say, Davie. Yes, I 
 have a few notes here that will interest 
 you, and a new hook or two. Yes, yes ; 
 we have not heen quite idle while you 
 have been away, Master Davie, What do 
 you say to this for a manuscript copy of 
 the Syriac St. Mark? Ha, ha, ha! " 
 
 " Jolly ! " was David's somewhat inap- 
 propriate answer in a manner in strong 
 contrast to his former easy indifference, 
 and, to his uncle's astonishment, the lad 
 seized the book and, in a stumbling, 
 blundering manner, but with a certain 
 knowledge of his subject, read the first 
 few lines. 
 
 The old man jumped up in his delight, 
 and almost knocked over the boy in his 
 joyful embrace. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 17 
 
 " Davie, Davie, why this explains the 
 report ! Oh, my dear lad, why didn't 
 you say at once you had been learning 
 Syriac ? " 
 
 " Oh, I haven't been learning it regu- 
 larly," said David, rather sheepishly, but 
 with a grin of pleasure at the old man's 
 delighted surprise. " I took your old 
 Syriac grammar with me, and looked at 
 it at odd times, that's all." 
 
 " That's all ! " cried the rector, " that's 
 all ! My dear lad, how happy you have 
 made me ! Here have I been puzzling 
 my old brains over this manuscript, and 
 not getting ahead very much with it after 
 all, and now we can work together. 
 Only " — and here he stopped and looked 
 doubtfully at his nephew — " my dear boy, 
 it would have been so much better for 
 you to have begun with Hebrew, which 
 would have helped you so well in Syriac 
 afterwards. Dear, dear! I wish you had 
 mentioned it to me." 
 
 VOL. I. - 
 
18 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " But there are no liturgies in Hebrew," 
 objected David ; " and I thought it would 
 be so useful to get at the Monophysite 
 ones in the original." 
 
 " Well, there are the Jewish liturgies, 
 after all," said Mr. Burney, thoughtfully; 
 " but even if you do not regard those, it 
 would not be wasted, for you might have 
 helped me with my pet idea of the con- 
 nection between the Breviary offices and 
 the old Temple services. We might have 
 read the Treatise Berachoth together." 
 
 "All right," said David ; " I'll go for 
 Hebrew next half. I say, uncle, how 
 jolly easy this manuscript is to make out ! 
 What fun we'll have ! " 
 
 Mr. Burney made no reply, unless a low 
 laugh and a rub of the hands might be 
 considered as such. He was too pleased 
 and proud to speak. He had passed one 
 of the most miserable hours of his life 
 in the study after breakfast, while the 
 lecture was being administered to David. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 19 
 
 He had longed to be with the lad and 
 to comfort and uphold him in the ordeal, 
 but he knew from past experience that 
 his presence was worse than useless 
 on such occasions, and only added fuel 
 to his sister's flame. Then his own 
 disappointment about the boy had been 
 very keen. He had thought so highly 
 of his abilities and had taken such pains 
 wuth his education, that he had fully ex- 
 pected to see him come back staggering 
 under a load of prizes. He had spent 
 whole days in dreaming of David's fame 
 as a great scholar, and the report seemed 
 to have dashed all his hopes to the 
 ground. His extravagant joy at David's 
 very moderate acquaintance with Syriac 
 was evidently the result of the sudden 
 revival of all his hopes and dreams; he 
 scarcely knew how to contain himself 
 at finding his idol even more worshipful 
 than before. 
 
 They were sitting together, huddled 
 
20 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 up over the precious manuscript, eagerly 
 deciphering it, and oblivious of all the 
 world beside, when the study door opened, 
 and Mrs. Everest came in. 
 
 She had dried her tears and composed 
 her manner, but the red lids gave a fierce 
 look to her keen eyes, and the lines about 
 her mouth and forehead were fixed with 
 a grim determination. 
 
 Her brother trembled when he looked 
 up and caught sight of her face ; then, 
 remembering the change that had taken 
 place in his own mind about David, pro- 
 ceeded eagerly to ease her troubled spirit. 
 
 " My dear Charlotte," he began, " you 
 will be delighted to hear that the report 
 — we — I mean, we are all mistaken, my 
 dear ; we ' ' 
 
 " Of course," said Mrs. Everest, bitterly, 
 " I always am mistaken about David; I 
 always have been. Of course, I have 
 never understood my son." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Charlotte, you will be 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 21 
 
 as delighted and surprised as I was. 
 What do you think David has been 
 learning ? " 
 
 " Not his lessons," interposed his 
 mother, sternly. " Hebrew, or some 
 fantastical nonsense, I dare say ; but not 
 his lessons." 
 
 " Well, but, Charlotte, really a very 
 good guess of yours. Not Hebrew — I may 
 say in one w T ay I wish he had ; it would 
 have been very useful — but what do you 
 say, my dear, to Syriac. Keally, consider- 
 ing the time he has been at it, his know- 
 ledge of it is wonderful, quite wonderful; " 
 and Mr. Burney laid a loving arm on his 
 nephew's shoulder, and glanced from him 
 to his mother as who should say, " I 
 won't praise him before his face, but he 
 is a lad to be proud of." 
 
 " Syriac!" exclaimed Mrs. Everest, 
 and the tone of her voice made Mr. 
 Burney start, there was so much com- 
 pressed scorn in it. " And, pray, can you 
 
00 
 
 IX LONDON TOWN. 
 
 tell me what is the use of his learning 
 Syriac ? " 
 
 " Use ? Oh, immense use, my dear. He 
 can help me to read this manuscript, which 
 has been a dreadful puzzle to me ; the 
 subject of Syriac liturgies has yet " 
 
 " Syriac liturgies ! Theophilus, I am 
 astonished at you. And, pray, was David 
 sent to school to study Syriac liturgies ?" 
 
 "Why, no, Charlotte; no, no, perhaps 
 not," replied Mr. Burney, feebly. He 
 was obliged to answer, though he delayed 
 it as long as he could, for she fixed her 
 eyes upon him until he did so, and he 
 felt himself growing hot and cold under 
 her gaze. " Why, no, perhaps not ; 
 but " 
 
 "But he was sent to learn Greek and 
 Latin, I suppose, and that he has not 
 done. Theophilus, you are encouraging 
 that boy in vice and idleness, and ridicu- 
 lous foolishness." Mr. Burney became 
 perfectly limp, and looked appealingly at 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 23 
 
 David. " And if you encourage him in 
 this absurd manner, he will be fit neither 
 for this world nor the next. David, why 
 did you not attend to your classical 
 studies ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, I did," said David, slowly; 
 " I did heaps of Latin, but somehow they 
 were always down upon me for it. I 
 don't think they knew much about 
 Latin." 
 
 "David, how dare you speak in that 
 manner ? ' ' 
 
 " Well, they didn't, mother. Why, look 
 here, Mr. Eoss — that's the classical 
 master, you know— dropped down upon 
 me for using liber are with ah, only the 
 other day, and I told him he had better 
 read the Lord's Prayer, and he didn't 
 seem to like it." 
 
 "You impertinent boy " began Mrs. 
 
 Everest, when her brother interposed. 
 
 " But, Davie, my dear lad, Mr. Eoss 
 w T as quite right in saying that it was not 
 
24 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 usual in good Latin — at least, in good 
 classical Latin, though even Cicero cer- 
 tainly does use it once or twice. I 
 imagine that the ab, or rather a in the 
 Lord's Prayer, as in other places in the 
 Vulgate, is due to the influence of the 
 original Greek euro, which is, as you 
 know, the kindred word." 
 
 " Theophilus, you are only encouraging 
 him/' 
 
 " My dear, I fear I have been to blame 
 in drawing his attention so frequently to 
 mediaeval Latin instead of the classics." 
 
 " I think the classics are awfully slow," 
 said David, before his mother could speak 
 again. " Virgil isn't to be compared to 
 Bernard of Morlaix. And there w T as 
 another thing, the stupid verses one had 
 to write. They dropped down upon me 
 again when they gave us hexameters on 
 the death of Ceesar, and I sent up twenty 
 rhyming dactylic ones in Bernard's style." 
 
 "Leonines!" cried old Mr. Burney, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 25 
 
 his whole face lighting up with delight ; 
 " Leonines ! Why, my dear lad, they are 
 about as difficult as any Latin metre can 
 be ! To think," he added, with a chuckle, 
 " of the lad's choosing leonines. You 
 haven't got them about you, have you ? " 
 he asked anxiously. 
 
 " Eeally, Theophilus, this is disgrace- 
 ful," said Mrs. Everest. " You are 
 deliberately encouraging him. What can 
 you expect of a boy who goes and writes 
 
 leonines when he is told to write 
 
 What are the other things called ? " 
 
 " These leonines are hexameters," said 
 David, as he pulled a piece of paper out 
 of a pocket-book and gave it to his uncle. 
 " There, uncle, there they are." 
 
 " Theophilus, do I understand you are 
 going to read them?" demanded his 
 sister, wrathfully ; but they did not pay 
 any attention to her, for they were deep 
 in the verses. 
 
 " Good, good," muttered Mr. Burney, 
 
26 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " very good, Davie ; " and he was pro- 
 ceeding to discuss the verses, when Mrs. 
 Everest, nnable to contain herself any- 
 longer, snatched the offending paper from 
 his hand, and, declaring that she did not 
 know which of them was the worst, and 
 she would soon put a stop to that state of 
 things, left the room in a towering rage. 
 
 They looked after her as she went. 
 
 " They were very good verses," said 
 the uncle, thoughtfully; " hut surely, 
 Davie, there was a false quantity in the 
 fourth line." 
 
CHAPTEB II. 
 
 David went back to school, after his holi- 
 days were over, considerably strengthened 
 in his Syriac, and with a glimmering of 
 the rudiments of Hebrew in his mind. 
 He had enjoyed his holidays very much, 
 far more than his mother had done. It 
 is needless to say she did her best to keep 
 him out of his uncle's study; she was 
 always wanting him to drive with her, or 
 walk with her, or read to her, or do some- 
 thing for her that involved absence from 
 her brother. David submitted patiently 
 to it for a few days, but then he began to 
 have long absences from the house, and 
 was difficult to find. His mother spent 
 
28 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 half her time hunting for him, but she 
 never found him, for she never looked in 
 the hay-loft, where the lad lay comfort- 
 ably enough, w T ith his books beside him. 
 His uncle knew where to find him, and 
 many a pleasant hour did the two culprits 
 spend together among the hay. 
 
 David was a trying son for a mother 
 whose ideal of a gentlemanly education 
 consisted chiefly of the study of classics 
 and field sports. David would have none 
 of these things ; he would not even play 
 cricket with the sons of the neighbouring 
 gentry, but preferred to ramble about the 
 country in long solitary walks, or to lie 
 about in the fields with a book in his 
 hand. He was not morose or unsociable, 
 as his habits seemed to imply. On the 
 contrary, he preserved an unvarying 
 cheerfulness of face and speech that 
 nothing could destroy — lectures, homilies, 
 upbraidings, nothing moved him ; he was 
 as serene and happy under them as he 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 29 
 
 would have been under a shower of 
 praises and caresses, perhaps more so. 
 
 " You don't seem to care whether you 
 are praised or blamed," she said to him 
 with bitterness one morning, when she 
 had been trying her utmost to rouse in 
 him what she called " a proper ambition." 
 
 " Why, no, mother," he answered, "I 
 don't know that I do. Why should I ? " 
 
 " You are a wicked, graceless boy," 
 she replied, her anger getting the better 
 of her prudence. " I should like to know 
 what you mean to do with yourself." 
 
 " I should like to do nothing," he said 
 gently; " but I suppose I shall have to 
 find something to do when I am older. I 
 w^ould rather lie in the fields and eat 
 apples than anything else." 
 
 " Have you no ambition ? no desire to 
 be great and useful in your generation ? 
 Oh, David, you cannot mean that you 
 have no sense of duty ? " 
 
 " Is it my duty to be great?" he 
 
30 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 asked. "I hope not, I am sure. It 
 would be a great bore." 
 
 There was nothing to be done with 
 him but to send him back to school. 
 Mrs. Everest made the going back as 
 humiliating for him as she could by 
 making him the bearer of a long letter to 
 the head-master, in which his faults were 
 all set down, with a few extra ones of her 
 own imagining, combined with a request 
 that the counsels of the wise and the rod 
 of correction might not be spared to her 
 erring son. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that David 
 relished either a flogging or a lecture 
 more than other boys, but he seemed to 
 have a wonderful stock of cheerful 
 patience in his system. Possibly the 
 contemplation of his uncle had done 
 much to bring this about. Mr. Burney 
 had a hard time at his sister's hands — 
 all the harder because he knew that she 
 did what she did from a real sense of duty 
 
IX LONDON TOWN. 31 
 
 and a sincere desire to benefit him. But 
 Mr. Burney suffered keenly, and David 
 from his youth up had seen it, and had 
 arrived at the philosophical conclusion 
 that it was better to make the best of 
 things than the worst of them, and that 
 after all it did not very much matter. 
 
 David's imperturbability had raised a 
 terrible havoc in Broodleigh Bectory, for it 
 drove his mother into a frenzy, and she 
 in turn worked it off upon the household. 
 Mrs. Everest was the important person in 
 the household, Mr. Burney a mere sufferer. 
 Mrs. Everest was not satisfied with ruling 
 her brother's domestic matters ; she also 
 managed his parish for him, and would, if 
 she could, have ordered the ways of all 
 men in it. She vehemently opposed 
 everything that was not of her bringing 
 about. She would turn away a servant 
 who had become engaged to a young 
 man without asking her advice, and would 
 even endeavour to regulate the farmers' 
 
32 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 supply of cider to the haymakers. There 
 was nothing she w 7 ould not interfere with, 
 and so of course, when the squire of the 
 parish died, Mrs. Everest was in the house 
 at the time, and ordered the funeral 
 feast. 
 
 The squire had lately lost his wife, and 
 many said that grief for her loss had 
 hastened his own end. Mr. Burney had, 
 in his innocence, ventured upon this as a 
 safe remark to make to his sister, and 
 had been considerably astonished by the 
 contempt with which it was received, and 
 the information that the squire was far 
 too sensible a man to worry himself into 
 his grave for the sake of a silly, insignifi- 
 cant woman like the late Mrs. Betterton. 
 Mr. Burney was not a sufficiently keen 
 observer of human nature to understand 
 what his sister meant, or rather wished to 
 hide ; but the squire's housekeeper, after 
 being, as she expressed it, " worrited to 
 death about the linen list and the stores " 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 33 
 
 by the officious little lady, had given as 
 her opinion " that poor dear master 
 wasn't the fool that some would think, to 
 choose the grave instead of Mrs. Everest." 
 
 However, the squire was gone, and his 
 wife was gone, and all they had left 
 behind them was the estate, some three 
 thousand a year, and one little girl to 
 inherit it all. 
 
 The question of what was to be done 
 with the little girl was solved on the 
 reading of the squire's will. By that Mr. 
 Burney and a distant cousin of Mr. Bet- 
 terton's were left as executors and 
 guardians of the child and property, with 
 the request that she should reside with 
 one of them. 
 
 The cousin, being a bachelor and a man 
 about town, was extremely anxious that 
 the young lady should reside with Mr. 
 Burney, and the rector being by no means 
 averse to, and his sister being very much 
 in favour of the plan, it was arranged 
 
 VOL. I. 3 
 
34 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 easily enough, and Fanny Betterton 
 became an inmate of Broodleigh Bectory. 
 
 All this happened during David's 
 second term at school, so when he came 
 home for his next holidays he found 
 Fanny occupying the place of daughter to 
 his mother. 
 
 For some reason best known to herself, 
 Mrs. Everest was very gracious to her 
 son, and more than gracious, even 
 motherly to the orphan. She did not 
 even allude to his liturgical and linguistic 
 studies, but in some inexplicable manner 
 David found that he had very little time to 
 bestow upon these pursuits. She did not 
 persecute him, and worry him, and harass 
 him as she had done in the last holidays, 
 yet he had even less time to himself. 
 
 It not being David's habit to vex his 
 soul with inquiries into the springs of 
 human action, he soon resigned himself to 
 his circumstances, and submitted with a 
 good grace to be driven about by his 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 35 
 
 mother, and sent out to walk with 
 Fanny. 
 
 David, being only fourteen at the time, 
 was not sufficiently grateful for the bless- 
 ing of female companionship that was 
 thus liberally bestowed upon him ; he 
 ought to have been a few years older to 
 have thoroughly enjoyed a long ramble in 
 quiet country lanes with a pretty girl and 
 an heiress. Nothing but his inherent good 
 nature, and a kindly feeling towards one 
 so lately bereaved, kept him from grum- 
 bling a good deal. As it was, he could not 
 restrain his feelings while with his uncle. 
 
 " What do girls want to tramp up and 
 down a lot of muddy lanes for ? It can't be 
 any fun to them, what do they do it for ? " 
 
 Mr. Burney only shook his head. He 
 never got beyond that in delineating 
 female character; it was an awful and 
 inscrutable mystery to him, and he pre- 
 ferred to let it remain so. 
 
 There was a great deal of church-going 
 
36 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 in Broodleigh parish, or more correctly 
 speaking, Eectory, for nobody ever went to 
 church on week-days, except the Rectory 
 family, and the old woman who rang the 
 bell; but Mr. Burney had been in his 
 youth a fervent admirer of Keble, Pusey, 
 and other lights of the English Church 
 of that time, and had instituted a daily 
 service in Broodleigh immediately on his 
 entering upon the living, and it is con- 
 jectured that it never occurred to him 
 to take it away again. "Without being a 
 Ritualist— for Ritualism, properly speaking, 
 had not developed in his time — he kept 
 up a very careful ritual of his own, which 
 consisted of slight but to him very im- 
 portant ceremonies, of which the parish 
 had never yet discovered the existence. 
 
 David had been a member of the choir 
 ever since his coming to Broodleigh, and 
 of late years had performed the office 
 of " server " at the celebrations of the 
 Sacrament, and knew the mysteries of 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 37 
 
 the " High " version of the English ritual 
 to a hair's breadth. His uncle's studies 
 had interested him from an early age, and 
 he was never happier than when trying to 
 work out some much disputed point of 
 early rite. 
 
 Yet with all these tastes and habits 
 David was not a religious boy. He seemed, 
 so his mother said, to be absolutely with- 
 out the sentiment of reverence ; not that 
 he talked exactly irreverently, and cer- 
 tainly not blasphemously or profanely, but 
 to him the Christian mysteries were much 
 on a level with the early Egyptian ones, 
 and produced no more devotion in him 
 than those did. 
 
 "You have destroyed the boy's soul 
 with your wicked, irreverent inquiries," 
 Mrs. Everest would complain to her 
 brother. "It is perfectly awful to think of 
 drawing a young boy into those artifices 
 raised by Satan to destroy our souls." 
 
 " My dear Charlotte, there can be 
 
38 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 nothing dangerous in ancient Christian 
 rites." 
 
 " Are they not 'Roman, Theophilus ? 
 How can you say they are not dangerous ? 
 It is just what they are — crafty, insidious, 
 soul-destroying. Compiled by Jesuits, I 
 have no doubt." 
 
 " My dear, Jesuits were not instituted 
 
 until " 
 
 " Oh yes, of course I know nothing 
 about the matter. I only know that 
 David has no more sense of religion in 
 him than a young Hottentot has." 
 
 " Charlotte, I think you are mistaken. 
 David is as interested in religious matters 
 as it is possible for a boy to be — indeed, 
 much more so than most boys." 
 
 " In religious matters, yes ; that is what 
 I complain of. He has no religious feel- 
 ing whatever. I do believe he considers 
 the Papists are just as good as we are." 
 
 " They have an infinitely more interest- 
 ing service-book," said David, without 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 39 
 
 looking up from the book he was read- 
 ing. 
 
 " There, Theophilus ! do you hear that? 
 ' A more interesting sendee-book.' That 
 is just the way young souls are ensnared ; 
 and you encourage him, positively en- 
 courage him, in his blasphemy and irre- 
 ligion. But there, 1 know what all you 
 Oxford men are," etc. 
 
 When it came to this, Mr. Burney 
 bowed his head before the storm and 
 hurried away. He had long ago given up 
 all attempt at arguing the merits of the 
 question with his sister. It was one of 
 the sorest points in her life that she could 
 not bring him to her way of thinking in 
 religious matters, and force him to abjure 
 the Tract arian movement and all its ways. 
 
 After an encounter, or rather an attack, 
 of this sort, Mrs. Everest's piety was a 
 very oppressive thing to all men. She 
 fell into a habit of sitting with an open 
 Bible in her lap, and a Concordance by 
 
40 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 her side, to which she would refer in 
 such an intensely interested manner, that 
 the least observation would have to be 
 repeated several times before she could 
 hear it. In the evenings she would study 
 a volume of sermons with great assiduity, 
 and insist on reading aloud select passages 
 in a grieved and pathetic voice, as though 
 she had been personally insulted, but was 
 too good to take any notice of the affront. 
 The slightest allusion made by anybody 
 else to church or religious matters would 
 be instantly checked as profane. When 
 the attack was very severe, she would 
 even hold a private Bible-reading in the 
 breakfast-room for the female servants in 
 the afternoon, and would gather the 
 members of the household about her for 
 hymn- singing before prayers in the 
 evening. 
 
 As Mrs. Everest made it a point never 
 to be pleased with anything or anybody 
 during one of these visitations, and con- 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 41 
 
 sidered any kind of cheerfulness as a 
 personal affront, there was a good deal of 
 consternation whenever the beginning of 
 one of these dispensations was visible. 
 
 At about the height of an unusually 
 prolonged attack of this sort, which 
 occurred when David was sixteen, she 
 announced her wish to her son that he 
 should become a clergyman. 
 
 " I have long ago given up all hope of 
 your following in the footsteps of your 
 dear father, " she said pathetically. 
 " After being blessed by such a husband, it 
 is doubtless for my good that a rebellious 
 son has been accorded to me. I might 
 have been lifted up above other women 
 
 if But it is no use talking of it, 
 
 David. I know that my wishes have 
 never had the slightest effect upon you 
 from the time you came under my 
 brother's influence, and I have never 
 complained. It is natural that a widowed 
 and sorrowing mother cannot have much 
 
42 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 influence over a headstrong youth, so I 
 make no complaint and urge no wish ; but 
 I suppose it is quite a settled thing 
 between you both that you go into the 
 Church — and really it seems to me that it 
 is about the only thing you are fitted 
 for." 
 
 " Well, I hardly know, mother," said 
 David, a little uneasily. He had no wish 
 to discuss his future prospects with his 
 mother in her present state. " There is 
 time enough yet to think of it, is there 
 not ? " 
 
 " That is always the way with you 
 young people. ' Time enough,' and in a 
 few days you may be in your grave." 
 
 " Well, in that case it isn't worth 
 while to decide upon any other career for 
 me, is it, mother?" he answered good- 
 humouredly. 
 
 " David, David ! how can you speak 
 w T ith such levity ? How often have I 
 begged and implored you to think really 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 43 
 
 seriously of your situation — to rouse 
 yourself to some proper ambition, and 
 endeavour to lead a useful and godly life ? 
 You are getting a man now, David ; you 
 must think of what you are going to do. 
 Neither your uncle's nor my means will 
 admit of your going to college " — David 
 w T inced : he knew his mother had not a 
 penny but what came to her from her 
 pension, and his uncle's living was only 
 three hundred and fifty pounds a year — 
 " so that is quite out of the question — in 
 fact, never has been in it." 
 
 David put his hands in his pockets and 
 leaned against the mantelpiece. From 
 his face no one w r ould have known that 
 the conversation was of any moment to 
 him, but in reality it put a stop to all the 
 plans he had ever formed for himself; 
 they were not many, it is true, but such 
 as they were they had been very pleasant 
 to him. 
 
 " Well, you do not say anything," she 
 
44 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 said rather snappishly, as she waited for 
 his answer. 
 
 " I have nothing to say," he replied. 
 
 " Nothing to say as to how you must 
 manage to get ordained somehow? " 
 
 " I shall not he a clergyman. I will 
 not go into orders by the back door. 
 Uncle Theo would not wish it ; you would 
 not yourself," he added, turning round 
 and facing her. 
 
 This, in Mrs. Everest's ordinary state, 
 was quite true ; it was only when suffer- 
 ing from an attack of nervous religion 
 that she ever even contemplated her son's 
 doing anything of the kind. His direct 
 answer had the effect of bringing her 
 rather more into her usual frame of mind, 
 but she nevertheless replied — 
 
 "It is a blessed life, and the mere 
 
 question of a degree of man's giving " 
 
 w T hen David interrupted her with — 
 
 " We need not talk of that, mother ; 
 it is quite out of the question. Even if I 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 45 
 
 could go to college, I should not wish to 
 be a clergyman ; it is not a life I care 
 about." 
 
 Neither, in truth, did Mrs. Everest care 
 about it for her son ; but she only said — 
 
 "I am scarcely surprised, David, that 
 your studies have unfitted you for enter- 
 ing into the ministry of the Church of 
 England. Doubtless you will prefer the 
 1 more interesting service ' of the Eomish 
 Church. To see my son a Papist will 
 indeed bring down my grey hairs with 
 sorrow to the grave ; " and Mrs. Everest 
 put her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 David turned to leave the room, feeling 
 that he had had quite enough of the 
 present conversation. 
 
 " I shall never desert my uncle's faith," 
 he said, at the door ; and then he went 
 out, and away into the woods. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 David heard no more of his " going into 
 the Church," as his mother expressed it, 
 in direct defiance of her brother's ex- 
 postulation — 
 
 "But, my dear Charlotte, the boy has 
 been in the Church ever since his baptism, 
 and it is therefore obviously impossible 
 fur him to re-enter it. The question of 
 his taking holy orders is quite another 
 thing." 
 
 " Oh, fiddle ! " said Mrs. Everest, con- 
 temptuously, and there the matter ended. 
 
 In the next holiday after this con- 
 versation, David unexpectedly introduced 
 a companion into Broodleigh Rectory. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 47 
 
 This was a shy, awkward lad of about 
 eighteen, with a nervous impediment in 
 his speech and a timid, uncertain air 
 about him, as if he were in a perpetual 
 state of embarrassment to find that he 
 existed. He did not seem at all the sort 
 of boy for David to fraternize with, still 
 less to make a friend of, for he was neither 
 clever nor well-read, and did not attempt 
 to show the smallest interest in David's 
 pursuits, except a kind of admiring 
 wonder at all he did or said. 
 
 " I c&nnot understand your making a 
 friend of that shy, stupid little creature," 
 said Mrs. Everest to her son, after she 
 had relieved her mind upon the subject 
 of his bringing this lad unannounced and 
 unasked to the Kectory. 
 
 " Well, I don't know that I have made 
 a friend of him," answered David, thought- 
 fully ; " it never occurred to me to do so. 
 But, you see, he has no home, only an 
 uncle who pays for his schooling ; and he 
 
48 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 is going into the Civil Service, and there 
 being an interlude of a month between 
 his appointment and now, and as he had 
 no place to go to unless he stayed on at 
 school, why, I thought he had better come 
 back with me." 
 
 " Eeally, David, you are too provoking. 
 What are we to do with him here, and 
 dear Fanny in the house, too ? " 
 
 " Oh, he will be all right," said David, 
 coolly ; " he and I can go about together. 
 He won't be in yours or Fanny's way, 
 and it will be much nicer for him than 
 being at that dismal school. You see, 
 he has no friends anywhere ; his uncle is 
 a surly old miser." 
 
 "Is the uncle wealthy, a man of position, 
 David?" 
 
 " Well, no, I believe not ; he is a 
 timber merchant. Fowler thinks his 
 trade is very bad, and that he is going to 
 smash pretty soon. If so it is lucky for 
 Fowler that we have got him here." 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 49 
 
 " Well, really, David," said Mrs. 
 Everest, rising and going out of the room 
 in her indignation, " I call it a very 
 pretty thing indeed, that you can't find a 
 better companion to associate with than 
 a bankrupt tradesman's nephew. You 
 have not even the sense to choose your 
 friends properly. You are no better than 
 a baby ! " 
 
 " But he isn't my friend particularly," 
 said David, as his mother banged the 
 door after her. 
 
 He was rather surprised at the temper 
 she showed about the affair, but soon 
 settled in his mind that it was only a 
 little idiosyncrasy peculiar to women and 
 mothers, and went in search of the un- 
 conscious object of maternal wrath. 
 
 Master Fowler was certainly a rather 
 awkward guest. His natural nervousness 
 was much increased by Mrs. Everest's 
 sepulchral manner, which she put on 
 exclusively for his and David's benefit. 
 
 VOL. I. 4 
 
50 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 His stammering under this evidence of 
 her displeasure was a thing at once so 
 awful and so complicated that it covered 
 everybody in the room with confusion 
 whenever he essayed to open his mouth — 
 everybody, that is, except David, who 
 would calmly go on with his breakfast or 
 dinner as if nothing was happening. 
 
 This unfortunate defect of speech was 
 a great trial to Mrs. Everest. She began 
 by trying to help him over his worst 
 places and to do his talking for him, but 
 as she never hit upon what the poor lad 
 wanted to say, that plan was a failure. 
 She could not wait patiently upon him 
 as David did, so she gradually fell into 
 treating him as a deaf and dumb person, 
 and conveyed to him by signs her desire 
 of knowing if he wished for any more 
 tea, etc. ; and on these terms they got on 
 better than might have been expected. 
 
 However, he went to London at the 
 end of a month, and soon afterwards 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. bl 
 
 David went back to school, and in course 
 of time rose to be the head of that 
 society. 
 
 It is to be feared that he set but an 
 exceedingly indifferent example to the 
 lads below him. He was always late, and 
 alwa} 7 s, the masters said, lazy ; but that 
 his nncle refused to believe. Though his 
 school was a private one, the head boy 
 was supposed to be a sort of watch-dog of 
 the masters, as far as looking after the 
 other boys were concerned. David never 
 eame up to this standard of perfection, 
 consequently was idolized by the boys, for 
 he never took any notice of them, and 
 was considered by the " Principal " as the 
 worst head boy he ever possessed. 
 
 David was not so sorry to leave school, 
 as some boys are said to be. He frankly 
 expressed his hatred of the place from 
 first to last. Even his uncle could not 
 but admit that as a schoolboy David was 
 ft decided failure, and, but for his mother's 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
52 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 Insistence, would have taken him away 
 after the first year. She, good lady, was 
 determined by hook or by crook to make 
 her boy the boy she wished him to be. 
 She was angry when her brother pointed 
 out to her the lad's cleverness in his own 
 branches of learning. She only wished 
 him to learn what " other gentlemen 
 learn." Even his steadiness and gravity 
 angered her ; she would sooner have seen 
 him sow his wild oats than do no 
 husbandry at all. She wanted her son 
 really to be what she had believed her 
 husband to have been when she married 
 him, and, like many mothers, she treated 
 her son as a sort of jelly that could be 
 run into her own mould by a judicious 
 amount of squeezing. 
 
 So David was kept at school until he 
 was a great lanky lad of eighteen, with 
 legs too long for his body, and arms too 
 long for his shoulders, and a forehead 
 that was too big for either, and a patient 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 53 
 
 cheerfulness that was in excess of every- 
 thing, and a laziness to correspond. 
 
 Our poor David w 7 as not beautiful to 
 men's eyes at this time of his life, still 
 less to women's. The period of budding 
 hair upon the manly cheek is rarely 
 regarded with favour by the gentler sex. 
 David had a good deal of hair upon his 
 face for his age, but it unfortunately 
 arrived in patches, and hair in patches is 
 perhaps less satisfactory to the eye than 
 no hair at all. 
 
 What he lacked in hair upon his face 
 was, however, made up to him on his 
 head. He had a mane of thick, waving, 
 dark brown hair as fine and soft as silk, 
 and — horror of horrors to his mother — he 
 would not keep it cut ! 
 
 Perhaps one needs to be a British 
 officer, or the wife of one, to appreciate 
 fully what this meant to Mrs. Everest. 
 Everything that was low, disreputable, 
 and "foreign" belonged by right to the 
 
54 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 man who wore long hair. She nearly 
 shrieked when she saw her son come 
 back from school, and her first remark 
 w r as a command to go to the barber's. 
 
 David did not say he would go, and he- 
 did not say he would not go ; but he did 
 not go until his mother carried him off 
 there herself, and stood over him while 
 he submitted to the operation. 
 
 " He is the most obstinate boy in all 
 the world," she said to her brother in the 
 evening. 
 
 " Charlotte, you are indeed mistaken; 
 there is not a trace of obstinacy in him." 
 
 " You tell a mother that she does not 
 know her own son ! " 
 
 The rector was not equal to the retort 
 that very few mothers do, but he shook 
 his head in gentle deprecation, and sidled 
 back to his study ; and for once Mrs. 
 Everest was left rightful victor of the 
 field. 
 
 The question of David's career was now 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 55 
 
 being very seriously discussed by every- 
 body in Broodleigh Eectory except that 
 young gentleman himself. Perhaps he 
 had not outgrown his earlier ambition of 
 lying in the fields and eating apples all 
 day, that being the only desire he had 
 ever expressed about his future, for he 
 certainly mentioned no other. 
 
 " He is only fit to be married ! " his 
 mother exclaimed to herself in bitterness, 
 when every possible profession had been 
 suggested to him, and he had acknow- 
 ledged that he did not care about any of 
 them ; but she was too discreet to make 
 her thought public. 
 
 Mr. Burney was by no means in such a 
 hurry to choose a profession for David as 
 his mother was. He enjoyed having the 
 lad at home with him so much that he 
 dreaded any allusion to his leaving him 
 again ; and as David struggled out of 
 " hobbledehoyhood " into manhood, and 
 his beard arrived in all its unshorn silken 
 
56 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 splendour, Mrs. Everest gradually said 
 less about the matter. 
 
 When Fanny Betterton came back 
 from school "for good," as she expressed 
 it, David's beard had just become present- 
 able to feminine sight, and though he 
 was still too long for his breadth, he was 
 anything but an unattractive object to a 
 girl's eyes. 
 
 So at least Miss Fanny thought when 
 she saw him on the platform of the little 
 country station, waiting for her. Twelve 
 months will do a good deal for a lad of 
 nineteen, and Fanny had not seen him 
 for that period. He handed her into the 
 pony-carriage politely enough. David 
 had never been awkward in his manners 
 to women, only sometimes blunt in his 
 speech — a much lighter offence to a 
 woman than uncouthness of demeanour. 
 David's manner to what, it must be 
 owned, he considered the feebler sex, was 
 a mixture of tender protection and in- 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 57 
 
 Voluntary deference ; and few girls are 
 proof against that combination, especially 
 when accompanied by deprecatory glances 
 from a pair of fine blue eyes. 
 
 Before Fanny had arrived at Broodleigh 
 Eectory, which w r as five miles from any 
 station, she had quite changed her mind 
 with regard to the anticipated dulness of 
 the life there. She did not acknowledge 
 even to herself that it w r as David who 
 had -wrought the change in her, but 
 probably if it had been Mr. Burney who 
 had driven to the station for her, she 
 w T ould have regretted her parlour-boarder 
 life at Exeter as keenly then as she did 
 two hours before. 
 
 There was a good deal of fuss at the 
 Eectory over Fanny's coming home, all 
 produced by Mrs. Everest, of course. 
 One might have thought her a dis- 
 consolate mother welcoming back a 
 long lost and dearly loved daughter, 
 instead of a guardian's sister receiving 
 
58 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 a girl she had seen not many months 
 before at school in Exeter. (Fanny's 
 last holidays had been spent with school 
 friends.) Mrs. Everest embraced her 
 most effusively, called her her dear 
 daughter, declared she had been miser- 
 able without her, etc., and in all respects 
 behaved as an afflicted parent might have 
 done under other circumstances. 
 
 Fanny was pleased and grateful for 
 the embraces and the fuss ; both were 
 pleasant to her. The new furniture in her 
 room, the late dinner, all in honour of 
 her, were delightful after school life. She 
 put on her wdiite muslin and blue ribbons 
 in quite a flutter of spirits, and in the full 
 consciousness of being really grown up, 
 and a person of importance. 
 
 Fanny, thongh not precisely a beauty, 
 was certainly not the opposite. She was 
 a tall girl, and plump with that soft white 
 plumpness that one often sees in a certain 
 Teutonic type of woman. Her com- 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 59 
 
 plexion was very pink and white ; her 
 cheeks dimpled when she smiled; her 
 eyes were blue, rather expressionless, of 
 a pale colour, with fair eyelashes and 
 rather fat, white lids. She had light hair, 
 not quite yellow enough for flaxen, hut 
 too light to he called pale browm; and 
 was altogether a good-looking, sweet- 
 tempered, pleasant creature, a trifle dull 
 perhaps, but gentle and womanly in her 
 ways. 
 
 " The perfection of a daughter-in-law r ," 
 thought Mrs. Everest, as David took her 
 in to dinner ; and as that good lady had 
 but one son, her sentiment needs no 
 explanation. 
 
 It certainly was pleasant to have a girl 
 in the house, and David and his uncle 
 were agreed about that; but was it pos- 
 sible that part of the pleasantness was 
 the knowledge that now 7 they never had 
 to face the mistress of the house alone at 
 meals ? The thoughts of men are some- 
 
60 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 times base. Did David and his uncle 
 recall the grim stoniness of those family 
 banquets, and the deluge of words that 
 came after them ? 
 
 Fanny was bright and. cheerful, not 
 gay or witty, but pleasantly companion- 
 able and thoughtful for those about her. 
 She cut the morning paper for Mrs. 
 Everest, and warmed the rector's slippers 
 for him, and performed innumerable little 
 offices in the course of the day for every- 
 one except — and this was a notable 
 exception — David. 
 
 " You never offer to run and fetch my 
 hat for me, Fanny," he said to her one 
 morning, when she had just equipped the 
 rector for morning service. 
 
 " Oh, you can fetch it yourself," she 
 said, laughing. 
 
 " So Uncle Theo did before you came 
 back. Are you going to help everybody 
 except me, Fanny ? " 
 
 " You are big enough to help yourself." 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 61 
 
 " I may be big enough, but I am dread- 
 fully weak. You don't know r bow weak I 
 am. I have outgrown my strength, I 
 have really, and nobody believes it except 
 Uncle Theo. I know I am beautiful and 
 good, but I am not strong." 
 
 Fanny had looked grave at the begin- 
 ning of his speech, but she laughed at its 
 conclusion. 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it," she said. 
 
 " What ! Not that I am good and 
 beautiful ? You ask Uncle Theo ; and as 
 for weakness, I declare I have hardly 
 energy enough to crawl about the house 
 sometimes, only one does not like to 
 be always complaining." And David's 
 voice and eyes became remarkably ex- 
 pressive. 
 
 Fanny was a little puzzled by him ; he 
 really did look very slight and thin for 
 his height. She began secretly to pity 
 him, and as she watched him day after 
 day and noticed a certain weary air about 
 
62 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 hini, she began by degrees to do the little 
 things for him that she did for the others; 
 and, indeed, waited upon him with such 
 assiduity that the young scamp had a 
 considerably luxurious time of it, and 
 enjoyed himself very much. 
 
 Life at Broodleigh Eectory was not 
 exciting; it was, in fact, as dull as any 
 country life can be. Mr. Burney, though 
 on good terms with all his neighbours, 
 was intimate with none of them. He 
 never visited anywhere out of his own 
 parish, and rarely there. The clergy of 
 the neighbourhood were all of a different 
 school of theology from his, and re- 
 garded him with disapproval, not to say 
 aversion. There was never anything like 
 a collision between Mr. Burney and his 
 clerical brethren, for Mr. Burney always 
 kept out of the w r ay of such possibilities ; 
 but Broodleigh Eectory was not open to 
 the brethren in the sense that other 
 clerical houses were ; there was no cordial 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 63 
 
 intercourse with it, and but very little 
 formal. 
 
 Now that Mr. Betterton was dead, and 
 the manor-house shut up, there was no 
 resident gentleman in the parish, save the 
 rector, so David and Fanny were thrown 
 pretty much on each other for society — a 
 position of affairs that David sank quietly 
 into as he sank into most things that he 
 could not avoid. 
 
 Wisdom had, out of the ordinary run of 
 things, come to Mrs. Everest with length 
 of years. She no longer strove to entice 
 or steal her son away from his uncle's 
 study. She let him spend as much time 
 there as he pleased, without remon- 
 strance, until David gradually fell into a 
 habit of finding that he needed fresh air 
 in the afternoon ; and Fanny was gene- 
 rally ready for a walk about the same 
 time. 
 
 "All things work together for good!" 
 said Mrs. Everest piously to herself as 
 
64 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 she watched her son and Fanny walk 
 down the lane together, and with a sigh 
 of genuine satisfaction the good lady 
 turned to the third volume of the last 
 new novel that had reached Broodleigh 
 some two years after its publication. 
 (Mrs. Everest had not had a religious 
 attack since Fanny had come back.) 
 
 A Devonshire lane on a sunny day in 
 early spring, when the primroses are 
 starring the red earth, and a tender 
 flutter of building birds is stirring among 
 the soft green of newly-opened leaves, 
 makes a good place for a young man to 
 think of love, especially if he has a fair, 
 sweet girl beside him who responds to his 
 every look and word, and looks and feels 
 as if the earth were made for happiness. 
 David would never have a better oppor- 
 tunity in all his life for falling in love, 
 nor a surer one for getting it returned ; 
 but David was one of those unfortunate 
 people who, somehow, never seize on the 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 65 
 
 right opportunity : he let this one go 
 by, and the whole story of his life was 
 thereby altered. 
 
 Being, as usual, quite unconscious of 
 there being any necessity for him to do 
 anything, he sauntered by his companion's 
 side down the leafy lane, enjoying himself 
 very much. Country sights and sounds 
 were always pleasant to him ; they were 
 doubly pleasant now after a hard morn- 
 ing's work at Hebrew. Sad to say, David 
 w r as thinking far more of his Hebrew than 
 of his companion. 
 
 Yet he was pleased to have Fanny with 
 him ; he found her useful to talk to. Her 
 mind being a perfect blank with regard to 
 any of his special studies, he could pour 
 freely upon it his own theories and re- 
 marks. He was sure of never being- 
 contradicted, or snapped up by somebody 
 else's theory, which latter is a sore trial 
 to all young students. He could expound 
 by the hour to the bewildered Fanny, and 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
66 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 frequently talked himself quite round to 
 the other side of the question he had 
 started from — a fine exercise for his 
 intellect, and one that made him very 
 careful of making up his mind on any 
 subject with which he was not thoroughly 
 acquainted. 
 
 And as to Fanny — well, what did it 
 matter if David talked about Hebrew or 
 Syriac, or went into the vexed question 
 of early Christian schisms and heresies ? 
 it all went in at one of her soft white 
 ears, and out at the other. But she had 
 the sight of David's face, and the con- 
 sciousness of holding his entire attention 
 the whole time. There are worse vehicles 
 than Hebrew or early heresies, for con- 
 veying love. 
 
 So David talked to his heart's content, 
 and Fanny listened, and both were happy. 
 But, alas ! when they came to the end of 
 the long lane they were no nearer to- 
 gether than they were before ; only David 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 67 
 
 was quite satisfied about a point in the 
 history of the Ephesine family of liturgies, 
 and Fanny had made up her mind to 
 have pink feathers instead of blue in her 
 new bonnet. 
 
CHAPTER IY. 
 
 Moke than a year went by : David was 
 past twenty-one, and Fanny was past 
 nineteen. They w T ere quite old enough, 
 in Mrs. Everest's opinion, if not actually 
 to get married, at least to talk of doing 
 so ; and, so far, not a word had been 
 breathed on the subject. 
 
 Of course this was David's fault, and a 
 very serious fault it was in his mother's 
 eyes. A young woman with three thou- 
 sand a year, a good house and estate, 
 who is pretty and pleasant, and ready to 
 say "Yes," does not generally come in 
 the way of a penniless young man more 
 than once in his life. Here was the girl, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 69 
 
 the estate, and the love, and David made 
 no more sign of being sensible of the 
 benefits before him than if he were deaf, 
 dumb, and blind. He was clearly a son 
 framed to agonize a mother's heart. 
 
 He was ready enough to talk to Fanny, 
 and Mrs. Everest had for some months 
 derived great comfort from his doing so ; 
 but that was before she knew what he 
 talked about. When she heard of the 
 Hebrew and Syriac, and the early rituals 
 and heresies, she was angry, and told her 
 son that girls did not care to be talked to 
 on such subjects. 
 
 "Fanny doesn't mind," said David, 
 composedly. " I told her to tell me if 
 it bored her, and she never has ; and she 
 is a capital creature to talk to, for she 
 never remembers anything, so I can talk 
 over a subject as often as I like. Some 
 of my most valuable discoveries are due 
 to Fanny's deliciously mal a proj^os re- 
 marks; she muddles everything up, and 
 
70 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 asks the most surprising questions. She 
 is awfully good practice for a lecturer to 
 begin upon." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you propose 
 to give lectures, David ? " 
 
 " I don't .know, mother. I suppose I 
 must do something some day, and I rather 
 like talking." 
 
 u Then, why don't you talk to Fanny of 
 something she likes ? " 
 
 " Oh, she doesn't like anything very 
 much ; she is just as pleased with Syriac 
 as anything else. Girls don't have in- 
 tellects." 
 
 " Girls have likes and dislikes." 
 
 "Fanny hasn't." 
 
 " Yes, she has ; she likes you." 
 
 u I dare say she does." 
 
 " You don't seem to care much." 
 
 " No ; why should I ? I have always 
 been under the impression that we liked 
 each other very well." 
 
 "David,, I do really believe you care 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 71 
 
 more for your uncle's horrid books than 
 for that sweet girl." 
 
 " Of course I do. Fanny is very nice, 
 but she is not nearly so interesting as 
 liturgies." 
 
 Mrs. Everest had a very bad attack of 
 religious depression after this, and the 
 lives of all persons in Broodleigh Rectory 
 became burdens to them for a week. At 
 the end of that time she put away her 
 commentary, and took to letter-writing, 
 and was very mysterious and serious for 
 some time. 
 
 One day, when Mr. Burney and David 
 were just leaving the breakfast-room for 
 the study, she desired them to remain, as 
 she had something of consequence to say 
 to them. 
 
 Fanny was just going away, but Mrs. 
 Everest begged her to stay also ; and 
 when they all sat staring at her and 
 wondering what was coming, she, with 
 much solemnity, began her explanation 
 of her rather mysterious conduct. 
 
72 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " What I have to say relates chiefly to 
 my son," she began, in a whining voice ; 
 " the unhappy turn which his studies 
 have taken can be no secret to any one 
 here. The Word of God is no longer 
 considered sufficient light for his path, 
 or guidance for his heart. His mind has 
 been filled with the pride of knowledge, 
 and the lust of so-called learning has 
 taken hold of his soul. For years I have 
 striven against this unhappy tendency, 
 but in vain. The knowledge that puffeth 
 itself up against the Word of Life will not 
 be moved by the tears or entreaties of 
 a widowed mother." Here Mrs. Everest 
 put her handkerchief to her eyes, and her 
 audience looked and felt extremely un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 This desirable state of things having 
 been reached, Mrs. Everest put her hand- 
 kerchief away, and proceeded in a brisker 
 tone. 
 
 " But it is not of my troubles that I 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 73 
 
 wish to speak. May none of you ever 
 know the anguish of a mother's heart 
 over an erring son ! " 
 
 " There is only one of us eligible for 
 the position, mother," interrupted David, 
 good-humouredly, " so don't let us harrow 
 up poor Fanny's feelings prematurely." 
 
 " Your levity, David, when any serious 
 subject is broached, is one of the severest 
 trials of my life. You have no sense of 
 reverence for the Anchor of our faith, so 
 how should you have for your mother ? 
 But I will not complain. I have borne 
 my burden in silence, and so I trust to 
 do unto the end, when the thoughts of all 
 hearts shall be revealed." 
 
 " Could you not anticipate that a little, 
 mother, and tell us what we are gathered 
 in council for now. It's rough on poor 
 Fanny to keep her here to listen to a 
 recitation of my sins." 
 
 " Fanny, I am well aware, David, would 
 sooner hear you praised than blamed." 
 
74 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 Here Fanny blushed, and David looked 
 kindly at her. Perhaps the glance softened 
 his mother, for she proceeded in a milder 
 tone — " As I am sure we all would. The 
 question now is, David, what do you 
 mean to do with yourself? " 
 
 " To do my duty in that state of life 
 unto which, etc., and what that state of 
 life is I haven't the faintest idea." 
 
 " The old answer, David; no ambition, 
 no desire for right." 
 
 " Why, my dear Charlotte," interposed 
 Mr. Burney, " you have now heard the 
 lad say he wished to do his duty ; and as 
 for ambition, why we must qualify our 
 title to ambition by good hard work first, 
 and Davie is working, has worked very 
 hard indeed. Be ally, the progress he has 
 made lately is astonishing, quite astonish- 
 ing." 
 
 " In Hebrew, I suppose?" said Mrs. 
 Everest, contemptuously. 
 
 " Well, yes ; in Hebrew. In Hebrew, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 75 
 
 certainly, though as far as our special 
 subject is concerned, he knows quite 
 enough for the purpose. I was thinking 
 of Coptic at the moment, and the wonder- 
 ful way in which he is tracing out the 
 Oriental origin of the Mozarabic and 
 Gallican Sacramentaries." 
 
 " Just so. I have heard of nothing but 
 your popish liturgies for years. Much 
 good may they do you ! " 
 
 " Coptic, my dear Charlotte, is not 
 precisely popish. So far from being so, 
 the liturgy of that Church has been con- 
 sidered heretical by " 
 
 " Don't tell me about your Coptics, 
 Theophilus. Answer me, are they Protes- 
 tant?" 
 
 u Why, no, my dear; they were " 
 
 " Very well, that is enough for me. 
 They are Eoman and soul-destroying. I 
 desire to hear no more about them. I 
 can only feel that it is a special mercy 
 that you have never, either of you, yet 
 
76 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 deserted the Protestant Church of our 
 nation for the ' damnable doctrines ' of " 
 
 «Sh— sh— sh!" said David; "ladies 
 present." 
 
 " David!" said his mother, fiercely, 
 " you are enough to make any woman 
 wild with you. Why don't you listen to 
 what I am going to say ? " 
 
 " I was only thinking of Fanny's feel- 
 ings," said David, meekly. 
 
 " Feelings! A great deal you care for 
 anybody's feelings. You are an abandoned, 
 heartless, wicked boy, lost to every sense 
 of reverence or right ; and now, when I 
 am trying all I can do to further your 
 happiness, against all my own wishes, you 
 thwart me at every turn." 
 
 " My dear mother," said David, gently, 
 " I really beg your pardon ; I was only 
 joking." 
 
 " That is what I complain of, David. 
 You are always joking. Will jokes help 
 you on your death-bed ? Ah, David, when 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 77 
 
 it is too late you may remember your 
 mother's words." 
 
 David sighed. It would certainly not 
 be for want of maternal counsel that he 
 would forget them. The sigh cheered his 
 mother up. 
 
 " Now, here," she said, pulling a letter 
 out of her pocket, " is a communication I 
 received this morning from the Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer, offering you, on account 
 of his old friendship with me in happy 
 years long past, a nomination to the 
 Eegistered Statistics Office." 
 
 "Eh, eh?" said Mr. Burney ; "Civil 
 Service ! A very good thing, my dear Char- 
 lotte, but quite unsuited to our dear boy. 
 Davie's learning and studies would be 
 quite thrown away on registered statistics 
 — positively thrown away." 
 
 " Of course you object to everything I 
 propose for my son, Theophilus. I quite 
 expected that. Every effort that I make 
 for him you invariably thw r art. Why is 
 
78 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 not David following his blessed father's 
 footsteps now, and serving his country as 
 a Christian man and a gentleman should 
 do ? Why, I ask, is David not doing 
 this?" 
 
 " Because I have no fancy for righting," 
 said David, seeing the limp and distressed 
 condition of his old uncle. " You need not 
 bring Uncle Theo into that, mother. If 
 I had joined the army I should have 
 deserted, I dare say. Now, about this 
 proposal." 
 
 Mr. Burney groaned. He did not know 
 much of the Civil Service, but he knew 
 enough of it to feel very certain that his 
 beloved pupil was eminently unsuited 
 for the humdrum routine work, the 
 captiousness of superior officials, the 
 general rush and potter that distinguish 
 so many branches of that unremunerative 
 service. 
 
 Mrs. Everest knew this quite as well as 
 Mr. Burney, perhaps better, and she by 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 79 
 
 no means concealed the unpleasantness of 
 the position from her auditors. Indeed, 
 so melancholy a picture did she draw of 
 the life, that the poor old rector retired 
 into his study at the end of the conversa- 
 tion in a most abject condition of despair. 
 David would have followed him, but his 
 mother beckoned him upstairs into her 
 room. 
 
 " You have heard what I have said, 
 David. I considered it was my duty to 
 place all the disadvantages of the offer 
 before you. I would not mislead my own 
 son with false hopes. But, David, you 
 must accept this offer." 
 
 " I don't quite see the necessity, 
 mother." 
 
 "I know you do not, that is why I 
 have brought you here to speak to you in 
 private. Did it ever occur to you what 
 we have to live on ? " 
 
 " You have a pension, and Uncle Theo 
 has his living and fellowship." 
 
80 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " And what have you ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 "Quite so. Now, David, your uncle is 
 an old man, and a failing man. Don't 
 interrupt me, I know my brother better 
 than you do. My pension is not enough 
 for me to live on, let alone keep you upon. 
 Your uncle's income dies with him. Noiv, 
 do you see why you must accept this 
 offer ? " 
 
 David stood thoughtfully leaning 
 against the mantelpiece. It was autumn 
 w r eather, and the scent of the late violets 
 in the garden was wafted in at the open 
 window ; there was a sound of busy rooks 
 cawing in the old elm trees outside. 
 Everything around him spoke of the 
 peaceful country that he loved. He 
 wanted a few moments to consider the 
 plan before him, though, even then, he 
 knew he must adopt it ; but David did 
 not like to be hurried, and he wanted to 
 review calmly his position. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 81 
 
 His mother took his silence wrongly, as 
 she always did. 
 
 " I did not believe that my husband's 
 son would ever even have contemplated 
 being a burden upon his mother," she said 
 haughtily, after a few moments. 
 
 For the first time in his life David 
 answered his mother rudely. 
 
 " Have it your own way," he said. " I 
 don't care what becomes of me;" and 
 with this he walked out of the room and 
 down the stairs. 
 
 He stopped at the study door and 
 went in. The old rector was sitting in 
 his accustomed place, but he was not 
 reading. His elbows were on the table 
 among his scattered papers, and his head 
 upon his hands. He looked up as David 
 came in. 
 
 "It's all right, Uncle Theo," the lad 
 said in a husky voice, as he put his arm 
 on the old man's shoulder. " I shall get a 
 British Museum reading-ticket, and now 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
' 82 
 
 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 I shall be able to find out all about the 
 Ephesine Liturgies." 
 
 " God bless you, my boy," answered 
 Mr. Burney, gazing with moist eyes into 
 the lad's face. " It will be a dreary part- 
 ing, Davie." 
 
 " But think of the Ephesine Liturgies," 
 said David. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Harcourt Street, Bloomsbury, is one of 
 the dismallest of the dismal streets in 
 that eminently dismal quarter. The 
 houses are tall, narrow, and ricketty, 
 grimed with dirt within and without, and 
 most of them have broken out into an 
 eruption of bills in the windows, an- 
 nouncing that apartments are to be let 
 — these being the very last things that 
 any healthy, sane person would be 
 desirous of taking in such a locality. 
 All the houses are shut in by corroded 
 iron railings that seem unable to bear 
 up against the weight of soot that rests 
 upon them. The steps are all worn away 
 in groves and holes. Bells are generally 
 
84: IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 detached from their handles, and the 
 paint peels from the doors. The side 
 walks seem the exclusive property of the 
 children, who quarrel and scream and 
 loiter there at all hours of the day, and 
 most of the night. French laundresses, 
 milliners, dress and stay makers occupy 
 a good many of the lower floors at the 
 eastern end of the street; but towards 
 the west, Harcourt Street is eminently 
 respectable, and devoted chiefly to taking 
 in and doing for young men who do not 
 dine at home. 
 
 These desirable inmates are, however, 
 not always to be obtained, and landladies 
 often have to put up with inferior game. 
 In No. 16, Harcourt Street, there was at 
 present only one specimen of the superior 
 sort — a mild young man, with light hair 
 and short sight, who came there regu- 
 larly every afternoon at ten minutes past 
 four, and shut himself up until ten 
 minutes to nine the next morning, and 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 85 
 
 never took anything but tea, bread and 
 butter, and rashers — a very model of a 
 lodger. Mrs. Dodds felt that if she could 
 secure another like hirn for her empty 
 first-floor, she might indeed look for 
 happiness in the future. Her second- 
 floor was occupied by an artist. Mrs. 
 Dodds did not approve of artists. She 
 knew of artists who had no respect for 
 the natural feelings of a landlady on 
 quarfcer-day ; but this artist, who was 
 a middle-aged woman, had hitherto 
 "obliged" Mrs. Dodds with great regu- 
 larity. So, though that worthy lady 
 regularly lashed herself every week into 
 a state of smothered ferocity in case of 
 non-payment, she had always so far 
 received her money. But there was yet 
 another floor — the attics, or third-floor. 
 There was a nice skylight in the large 
 room, as Mrs. Dodds pointed out to any 
 possible lodger, and if there was no other 
 window in the little room, why, you 
 
86 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 could leave the door open; there was 
 light enough in the hig room for two. 
 The roof of these rooms w r as sloping at 
 the sides, and the little room was nothing 
 more than a closet hoarded off from the 
 larger one. Both were damp, dingy, 
 hare, and cold, and as comfortless dwell- 
 ing-places as could well he found. 
 
 Some years ago they had heen taken 
 by an old gentleman and his daughter. 
 They would only w r ant them for a short 
 time, the old man said — a few days, at 
 most a few weeks; the}^ were in tem- 
 porary distress, and should soon have- 
 their affairs all settled. They would 
 bring a little furniture just for the time ; 
 it was a mere temporary arrangement^ 
 anything would do. 
 
 So two stump bedsteads, a table, and a 
 couple of chairs, and one or two little odds 
 and ends had been sent in, and the old 
 man and his daughter took possession. 
 
 He was rather a tall, thin man, and he 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 87 
 
 seemed of a fidgety, excitable disposi- 
 tion. Mrs. Dodds felt herself justified in 
 asking for a fortnight's rent in advance 
 before she came to terms about her 
 rooms. 
 
 The little girl who was with him w r as 
 a plain, sallow child, with large deep 
 brown eyes of a reddish tinge, and 
 flaming red hair — a stern, quiet-looking 
 child, utterly unlike her fidgety, restless 
 father. Somehow or other Mrs. Dodds 
 felt more reliance on the child than she 
 did on the father. 
 
 They had stayed on in the dismal 
 attics, day after day, week after week, 
 year after year, the old man ever talking 
 of going, the girl rarely speaking to any 
 one. No additional comforts had been 
 added to their rooms ; very little food 
 was consumed in them ; and scarcely ever, 
 except on Sundays and in the evenings, 
 was a fire lighted there, even in the 
 bitterest weather. 
 
88 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 The old man generally went out every 
 morning and did not return until night, 
 yet he did not seem to have any situation, 
 for sometimes he would stay at home for 
 a week together, and then he spent all 
 his time in arranging vast quantities of 
 papers that he always had strewn about on 
 the table. What the girl did with herself 
 all day nobody knew, and nobody cared, 
 at any rate, for some years. "When the 
 little artist came to live on the second 
 floor, one human being, at least, took 
 some interest in the forlorn child. Miss 
 Hatchard, with the free-and-easiness 
 common among the brethren and sisters 
 of her craft, often left her door open, and 
 went on with her work, regardless of the 
 possibility of prying eyes invading her 
 sanctum. Standing before her easel and 
 painting briskly away, the little woman 
 now and then noticed a childish figure 
 glide slowly down the stairs and pass her 
 door. It was a red-haired, slight figure, 
 
IX LONDON TOWN. 89 
 
 clad in a poor gown, and childish enough 
 to linger in passing and steal a glance in 
 at the open door. But the little figure 
 never turned its head, never looked at 
 the streak of sunlight that fell upon the 
 landing floor, never betrayed by the 
 slightest sign any consciousness of there 
 being any door there at all. 
 
 Miss Hatchard began by being a little 
 amused, and ended by being somewhat 
 piqued. She was a lonely woman, and 
 would have been glad of even a friendly 
 greeting from the passing girl. Besides, 
 she argued with herself, " It ain't natural 
 for a girl not to be curious about 
 nothink." She put her easel close beside 
 the door with a showy picture upon it, 
 and left it there while she stood back a 
 little. The girl took not the slightest 
 notice. 
 
 " Hello ! " said Miss Hatchard. 
 
 The girl stopped. 
 
 "Did you speak? " 
 
90 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "Fond of pictures, ain't you?'* said 
 Miss Hatchard, waving her paint-brush. 
 " Most girls is. Step in and look around, 
 if you like. You w r on't hinder rne. Lor, 
 if I was going to be hindered by that 
 I shouldn't do much." 
 
 Bather to Miss Hat chard's surprise, the 
 girl did walk in, and very deliberately 
 walked round the room, looking at the 
 various half-completed works of art that 
 lay there. 
 
 " Fond o' pictures ? " asked the artist. 
 
 " No," said the girl. 
 
 "Lor!" said Miss Hatchard, a little 
 taken aback by the cool directness of the 
 reply. " What are you fond of, then ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said the girl calmly. 
 
 " Well, I never ! " ejaculated Miss 
 Hatchard, pausing, with her brush up- 
 lifted in the air. " Well, I never ! Do 
 you like that picture ? " she continued, 
 as the girl paused before the easel. 
 
 " No," she said ; " it's badly drawn." 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 91 
 
 "Well, however do you know that?" 
 retorted the artist, a little affronted. 
 
 The visitor made no reply, save b}~ 
 unbuttoning the sleeve of her dress and 
 baring her arm. 
 
 " There," she said, "look at that. My 
 elbow is not like yours in the picture." 
 
 Miss Hatchard looked and sighed. It 
 was only too obvious that the uncivil 
 young visitor spoke the truth. 
 
 " I will stand here and let you alter it, 
 if you like," the girl said; "that is, if 
 you think it is w T orth w r hile getting it 
 right." 
 
 "Worth wiiile ? Of course it is," said 
 the little artist. " That's very obliging 
 of you to stand ; for, between you and 
 me, I can't afford a model very often, 
 and am obliged to do my figures out of 
 my own head." 
 
 The girl made no reply, and Miss 
 Hatchard painted away industriously for 
 some little time. The girl held her arm 
 
92 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 as steady as a rock. It was a smooth, 
 well- shaped arm, a little too thin — the 
 girl was too thin everywhere ; she looked 
 only half nourished, which was really the 
 case. Miss Hatchard noticed the colour 
 of her skin — a clear cream colour, not 
 white, not even very fair, but with no 
 warmth of colour about it ; it looked 
 almost bloodless in its waxen hue. 
 
 " I never see no such colour as yours 
 before," she said, while she squeezed 
 some Naples yellow upon her palette. 
 " You ain't white, nor you ain't yeller, 
 nor brown, nor red. I never see no such 
 colour. You ain't got no mulatter about 
 you, have you? " 
 
 For an, instant a little red flush came 
 into the girl's cheeks, and her eyes 
 brightened, but the colour faded directly, 
 and she said — 
 
 " No ; I am English and Italian." 
 
 " Why, Eytalians is mostly brown, as 
 I know 'em," responded Miss Hatchard, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 93 
 
 as she put her head on one side and gave 
 a dab at her canvas. " If you wouldn't 
 be particular to a minute, I'd paint your 
 neck in, so as to get the right shade. 
 As I was a-saying, Eytalians is generally 
 brown, when they ain't Christian white 
 people dressed up like foreigners; but 
 you ain't no brown in you ; and your 
 'air — why, it's as red as red ! " and Miss 
 Hat chard worked on in a ruminating 
 manner. 
 
 "What's your name?" she asked at 
 last. 
 
 " Fiametta Thorold." 
 " Lor, what a funny name ! " 
 "It w r as my mother's," said the girl, 
 not without a little stiffening of the neck. 
 " Ah! " said' Miss Hatchard. "Foreign 
 names do sound sing'lar. Now, my 
 name's Mariar. I dessay that sounds 
 sort o' odd to you." 
 
 " I know the Italian form of it pretty 
 well," said the girl, smiling for the first 
 
94 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 time ; " and I think that is prettier than 
 the English form." 
 
 "Ah, I dessay," said Miss Hatchard, 
 in a tone of commiseration. " No doubt 
 you cling to your own ways ; but your 
 par, he ain't Eytalian, is he ? " 
 
 "No; he is English." 
 
 " And what's his trade? What do he 
 do, I mean, to get his living?" Miss 
 Hatchard explained, in consideration of 
 the young foreigner's probable lack of 
 acquaintance with English idioms. 
 
 " He has no trade," said the girl scorn- 
 fully ; " he is a gentleman." 
 
 "Lor! well, I shouldn't ha' thought 
 it," said Miss Hatchard, simply. "And 
 why ever don't he do something, my 
 dear, to get a nicer 'ome for you than a 
 attic ? " 
 
 "Because he is a fool," said Eiametta, 
 quietly ; " because he throws good money 
 after bad, and because he believes in old 
 things instead of new ; because he is an 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 95 
 
 aristocrat, and will not soil his hands 
 with toil, though he would steep his feet 
 in the blood of the people, and think 
 that no disgrace. But he will not work, 
 neither will he let rne work." 
 
 Miss Hatchard stared at her young 
 friend over her palette in a manner ex- 
 pressive of the most profound astonish- 
 ment. " Well, I never! " she ejaculated 
 feebly. 
 
 " Yes," said Fiametta, still holding her 
 arm in its required position, and speaking 
 as calmly as if she were discussing the 
 weather — " Yes ; my father considers him- 
 self the rightful heir to a large property. 
 I don't believe he is, myself; but he 
 thinks so, and so he tries to prove it. 
 He has been some years about it now, 
 and I suppose he will go on so until he 
 dies." 
 
 " But what do you live on now ? " 
 
 "What he makes when he can tear 
 himself away from his papers, and deeds, 
 
96 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 and pedigrees, by copying in the British 
 Museum; and I believe we have a few 
 pounds a year from some share or some- 
 thing he was not able to sell when he 
 disposed of the rest of his property." 
 
 " But suppose he dies, what will you 
 do, my dear ? " inquired the little artist, 
 with genuine concern in her tones. 
 
 Fiametta shrugged her shoulders ; then, 
 letting her arm drop, said, " Work. I 
 am tired of standing now." 
 
 "Well, I am very much obliged to 
 you," said Miss Hat chard, gratefully. 
 " Will you stop and have a bit of dinner ? 
 I am just a-going to begin. Biled pork 
 and greens." 
 
 Fiametta hesitated. 
 
 " I can't ask you back again," she 
 said, " and I don't believe in charity. I 
 will neither give it or receive it. It is 
 demoralising alike to both." 
 
 "Lor, this ain't charity!" said Miss 
 Hatchard, sweeping her paints from one 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 97 
 
 corner of the table. " Why, you've been 
 standing for me to eighteenpenny worth, 
 and your dinner won't cost that. Sit 
 down ; " and Fiametta sat down. 
 
 VOL 
 
CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 The young gentleman before referred to, 
 who occupied Mrs. Dodds's ground-floor, 
 was none other than Mr. Frederick 
 Fowler, David's old schoolfellow. His 
 quiet and regular habits have already 
 been mentioned. He always came straight 
 back from the British Museum, where he 
 was a " junior assistant," to Harcourt 
 Street, and he spent his evenings all 
 alone with his books. 
 
 In person Mr. Fowler was a slightly- 
 made young man, with rather stooping 
 shoulders, and an uncertain kind of 
 walk, as though he were afraid of com- 
 mitting himself by taking too decided a 
 
IX LONDON TOWN. 99 
 
 step in anything. He had thin sandy- 
 coloured hair, that hung in a limp way 
 down the back of his neck, and was too 
 modest to assert itself anywhere on his 
 face. His eyes were supposed to be of a 
 pale blue ; but as Mr. Fowler, partly from 
 shyness, partly from a vague effort to see 
 better out of them, invariably kept them 
 all but entirely closed when speaking to 
 anybody, their colour was at best a matter 
 of conjecture. 
 
 Mr. Fowler served his country between 
 the hours of nine and four, and very 
 unprofitable service he found it. For the 
 magnificent income of one hundred and 
 twenty pounds a year, rising by tens to 
 two hundred and fifty, his country re- 
 quired Mr. Fowler to pass seven hours 
 a day in an underground cell, badly 
 lighted and worse ventilated, and very 
 indifferently heated, in company with a 
 large collection of miscellaneous and ex- 
 tremely evil-smelling specimens of Palaeon- 
 
100 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 tological Conchology and of various other 
 Palaeontological, Archaeological, Prae-his- 
 torical, Entomological, and a few other 
 'ological curiosities and remains, real and 
 supposed. 
 
 Mr. Fowler being of an exceptionally 
 meek and lamb-like disposition, he was 
 never known to make any complaint of 
 either his country or his luck ; but, as 
 he did not express any satisfaction either, 
 it is possible that he found the subjects 
 too dismal for contemplation. 
 
 Mr. Fowler had very few acquaintances 
 and no friends. His poverty and his 
 shyness, the unfortunate impediment in 
 his speech, and his studious habits, all 
 combined to render him a lonely man. 
 He was on speaking terms with a few 
 other junior assistants as friendless as 
 himself, and outside the Museum he had 
 no acquaintances at all, unless, as seemed 
 very unlikely, any of his old schoolfellows 
 should meet and recognize him. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 101 
 
 This being the case, Mr. Fowler's per- 
 turbation of mind may easily be imagined 
 when one winter morning, as he was 
 pursuing his customary labours, a childish 
 voice said at his elbow, " Oh, if you 
 please, are you Mr. Frederick Fowler? " 
 
 It was a timid voice, with a half 
 pathetic, half bewildered cadence in it, 
 and it astonished Mr. Fowler quite as 
 much as if one of the " specimens " before 
 him had taken to itself legs and walked 
 away. 
 
 " And, if you please," the voice con- 
 tinued, " can you tell me anything about 
 palseontological conchology ? " 
 
 The question was such a very unusual 
 one, and the voice was such a very un- 
 common one in that department, which 
 ladies do not generally beautify by their 
 presence, that Mr. Fowler was quite 
 taken off his guard, and, instead of reply- 
 ing in a vague and uncertain manner, as 
 he would have done if he had time to 
 
102 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 reflect, he said in about thirty seconds in 
 what was a great hurry for him. 
 
 " Oh dear, no ! I am the last person, 
 or one of the last, you should ask about 
 such a thing." 
 
 "But the attendant said you were Mr. 
 Frederick Fowler, and cousin Tom cer- 
 tainly said you were in the Pakeonto- 
 logical Conchology Department ; and this 
 is it, is it not? " 
 
 " Oh yes, this is it," said Mr. Fowler, 
 his native bashfulness again deserting 
 him at the enormity of the supposition. 
 " B-b-but that is just the very reason 
 why." 
 
 "I don't understand," said the young 
 lady, looking at Mr. Fowler with a pair 
 of widely opened blue eyes that had as 
 little guile in them as a baby's. 
 
 " Oh, it's simple enough," said Mr. 
 Fowler. " You see, specialists are not 
 required here, except in very few cases ; so 
 of course if a man understands any one 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 103 
 
 subject pretty well he must necessarily 
 be put into quite another department." 
 
 The young lady shook her head and 
 looked still more puzzled. 
 
 "I really thought," she said at last in 
 a plaintive voice, " that I should only 
 have to come here and ask you, and you 
 would tell me all about palseontological 
 conchology." 
 
 There was silence for the space of a 
 minute or two after this, and for the first 
 time in his life Mr. Fowler wished that 
 he did understand some of the mysteries 
 of his department. 
 
 " Is it very difficult ? " the young lady 
 asked. 
 
 " I — I really don't know," stammered 
 Mr. Fowler, his original bashfulness 
 having come over him in the interval 
 of silence. 
 
 "I don't know what to do now," the 
 young lady said sorrowfully. 
 
 There w r as another space of silence. 
 
104 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "I — I — at least, that is, I think it is 
 possible, at least, I know a man in the 
 library who could tell you all about it," 
 said Mr. Fowler, turning crimson at the 
 audacity of his proposal ; "if you would 
 like, that is, if you wanted to know.' , 
 
 "I don't want to know in the least," 
 said the young lady, " only aunt says I 
 have not the slightest aptitude for general 
 information, and so I must take up a 
 special subject ; and as Greek and 
 mathematics and political economy are 
 rather commonplace now, she chose this 
 subject for me. I don't want to know 
 anything about it at all." 
 
 "But — but," said Mr. Fowler, in an 
 agony of shyness, yet impelled by a power 
 he had never known before to continue 
 the conversation, " are you obliged to 
 learn things you don't want to ? " 
 
 The girl looked at him with a wonder- 
 ing expression in her baby eyes. 
 
 "Oh yes," she said solemnly. "It 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 105 
 
 would be dreadful not to have a part in 
 the higher education of women. Aunt 
 says I must go to Girton next year, and 
 I must get up a special subject in the 
 mean time. I wish it wasn't something 
 that had such a long name. What is it 
 about, do you know ? " 
 
 Mr. Fowler moved uneasily from one 
 foot to the other, then, looking nervously 
 round the corner of the partition to make 
 sure that none of the superior officials 
 were within hearing, he said in a whisper, 
 " I — I am not quite sure, but I think it's 
 about shells." 
 
 " Oh, that might be nice ! " cried the 
 girl. " Shells are pretty." 
 
 " But these have all been buried such 
 a long time that nobody is quite sure 
 what they are," said Mr. Fowler, in a 
 dubious tone. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the young lady with a 
 shade of disappointment coming over her 
 pretty face. 
 
106 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 In a minute or two she looked up and 
 asked — 
 
 "Have you got any special subject, 
 or do you go for general informa- 
 tion ? " 
 
 Mr. Fowler reddened to the tips of his 
 toes and the roots of his hair. 
 
 "I — I know a little," he stammered; 
 " at least, that is, I have w-w- worked 
 very hard at Anglo-Saxon. " 
 
 " Then why don't you do Anglo-Saxon 
 here ? " inquired the girl. 
 
 Mr. Fowler shook his head modestly. 
 
 " Oh no, that would never do," he 
 said; "all the traditions of the place 
 would he upset. No ; the man who does 
 the Anglo-Saxon is the b-b-best musician 
 we have in the place. His knowledge of 
 musical manuscripts is something wonder- 
 ful." 
 
 There did not seem to be anything 
 more to be said after this, yet neither of 
 them seemed disposed to break off their 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 107 
 
 interview. At last, after many blushes 
 and considerable perturbation of mind, 
 Mr. Fowler asked — 
 
 " Ex-ex-excuse me, but what subject 
 do you like best — for study — that is, I 
 mean," he hurriedly explained. 
 
 " Oh, you'll tell some one if I say what 
 it is, or laugh at me," said the girl, 
 raising her childish eyes to his face. 
 
 "N-n-no; never. I couldn't think of 
 such a thing. I — I never laughed at 
 anybody in my life," said Mr. Fowler, in 
 dismay at the bare accusation. 
 
 "Well, then," said the young lady 
 sinking her voice, " it's — but I'm sure 
 you'll be disgusted — it's plain sewing." 
 
 "No, really, is it?" said Mr. Fowler. 
 " W-w-why, how very charming ! — at 
 least, I mean, so nice, you know." 
 
 "And you are not shocked?" said the 
 girl. 
 
 " Oh dear, no ; not in the least. It — 
 w r hy it's so delightfully useful, you know 
 
108 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 — feminine ; and — and it's quite charming, 
 I think." 
 
 Such enthusiasm had never been roused 
 in Mr. Fowler's breast before. He blushed 
 again to think of it, yet somehow it was 
 exquisite pleasure to have those blue eyes 
 looking up at him, as if his opinion really 
 did matter. 
 
 "I am so glad you think so," she said 
 with a little sigh. " I never mention it 
 at my aunt's, where I live, because I 
 disgusted so many friends by owning to 
 it once. All the women I know boast 
 that they wouldn't know how to use a 
 needle if they had one, except in crewel 
 work. It's one of the degrading burdens 
 that man, the tyrant, has fastened upon 
 woman, they say. It makes me quite 
 ashamed to be able to sew neatly, for it 
 shows how dreadfully far off I must be 
 from emancipated, free, glorious woman. 
 Now and then, for a treat, I go upstairs 
 and lock my door and hem a pocket- 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 109 
 
 handkerchief. I always pretend I buy 
 them ready hemmed, you know." 
 
 "Dear me, now I think.it aHogether 
 so delightful of you ! " said Mr. Fowler, 
 rendered desperate by the light in the 
 blue eyes. " Why, there is nothing I like 
 so much as to see ladies sewing; it's — it's 
 so delightfully domesticated, you know." 
 
 The girl shook her head again ; it was 
 a very small pretty head, with a blue 
 bonnet on it of a deep artistic blue that 
 contrasted well with the sunny waving 
 hair that was drawn back to a knot below 
 the bonnet. 
 
 " You are looking at my hair," she said. 
 " I know it's not fashionable, but I do so 
 hate to see hair in a mess. Aunt wants 
 me to cut mine, but I won't; I like it 
 smooth best." 
 
 "Oh, so do I, ever so much best!" 
 cried Mr. Fowler, in an irrepressible burst 
 of enthusiasm. 
 
 "But it isn't right to be domestic or 
 
110 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 very neat," she said, with a little sorrow- 
 ful shake of her head again. " Women 
 ought to breathe the same air of free, 
 public life as men ; not be cramped like 
 something — I forget what — in low do- 
 mestic life. 
 
 Mr. Fowler was on the point of flinging 
 himself, body, soul, and spirit, into a 
 passionate disavowal of these sentiments, 
 when he was interrupted by the arrival of 
 a tall, thin, angular-looking lady, in a 
 gown of saddest green ; a long cloak of a 
 deeper shade hung from her shoulders. 
 
 " Helen!" she said, " come quickly 
 with me. Mr. Daffy the poet is walking 
 about just outside, and I do so want 
 you to admire his dear, sweet, delicate, 
 interesting face." 
 
 " Oh, aunt, this is Mr. Fowler, and he 
 has been so kind, he is " 
 
 " Yes, oh yes ; Tom's schoolfellow. So 
 glad to meet you ; quite too kind of 
 you. You will come and see me on my 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. Ill 
 
 evenings — Thursdays. I think I have a 
 card; yes. Miss Markham, Tom Mark- 
 ham's aunt, you know, your old school- 
 fellow. So too kind of you. Now, my 
 sweet child, really — so many thanks, good 
 day. We shall see you on Thursday." 
 
 And the tall lady swept away with her 
 niece in charge under a parting salute 
 of disconnected sentences, leaving Mr. 
 Fowler in a state of bewilderment and 
 excitement, hitherto unprecedented in 
 his existence. 
 
 He sat down and thought for the next 
 hour or two over the extraordinary cir- 
 cumstance that had befallen him. At 
 first he could think of nothing but the 
 childish glance of those blue eyes. He 
 was conscious of nothing but a vague, 
 delicious sense of having been appealed 
 to by those blue eyes in a way that no- 
 body had ever appealed to him before. 
 Mr. Fowler was by no means a vain 
 young man, and he turned chilly at the 
 
112 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 fearful presumption of supposing that so 
 delightful and lovely a creature had really 
 cared twopence-halfpenny for his opinion 
 on anything. 
 
 Mr. Fowler walked hack to Harcourt 
 Street that afternoon in a. very perturbed 
 state of mind. For the first time in his 
 life he forgot his umbrella, and, what was 
 still more significant, he did not remem- 
 ber his loss. "When Sarah Ann brought 
 him his tea, she found him buried in a 
 deep and gloomy scrutiny of the hearth- 
 rug ; but he started and blushed in a 
 guilty manner, as if he had been caught 
 doing something he ought not to have 
 done. 
 
 That same evening Mr. Fowder went 
 out and bought a new pair of boots, two 
 sizes too small for him ; also some gloves, 
 superfluities of civilisation whose absence 
 he had never noticed before. The next 
 day he had his hair cut, and was measured 
 for a new suit of clothes. On Saturday 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 113 
 
 he bought a hat. On Sunday he went 
 to church three times, to three different 
 "West End churches. Mr. Fowler was 
 ignorant, and did not know that ladies 
 of the type of Miss Markham are often a 
 great deal too advanced, and have far 
 too much superior knowledge, or think 
 they have, to go to church at all ; so he 
 missed seeing the object of his adoration, 
 for it may as well be said at once that 
 Mr. Fowler was desperately, foolishly, 
 honestly, supremely, and altogether in 
 love. 
 
 Three more dreadful days to drag 
 through before Thursday. Mr. Fowler's 
 soul sank within him as he made a 
 mental calculation of the number of hours 
 and minutes that must elapse before he 
 saw " Helen" again. During these days 
 he would come into the hall at ten 
 minutes to four, and walk nervously up 
 and down until the hands of the clock 
 over the Grenville library pointed to the 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
114 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 hour. Then he would rush forward, and 
 deposit his key with the gold-laced at- 
 tendant at the entrance, and go down the 
 steps and away to the park as fast as the 
 new boots could take him. 
 
 Here, again, Mr. Fowler's knowledge 
 of men and manners was at fault. Ladies 
 like Miss Markham have, or imagine they 
 have, far too much to do to frequent the 
 haunts of the mere fashionable world 
 and sit and look at the fashions. There 
 is no fashion for them but the fashion of 
 eccentricity. 
 
 Thursday came, as usual, directly after 
 Wednesday, and at nine o'clock in the 
 evening Mr. Fowler gave a modest little 
 knock — he was quite incapable of pulling 
 the bell too — at Miss Markham' s door. 
 
 He was dreadfully taken aback by the 
 door being flung wide open before he 
 could get his hand back again. 
 
 u There must have been somebody 
 there waiting on purpose," thought the 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 115 
 
 terrified little man. " I never knew any- 
 thing so alarming." 
 
 In a considerably bewildered state Mr. 
 Fowler was ushered into a large, dimly 
 lighted drawing-room on the first-floor, 
 filled with people, who were all talking 
 loudly together. The room was rendered 
 dim and indistinct by the dark green of 
 its walls and the number of curtains that 
 seemed to be everywhere. After a hurried 
 greeting from Miss Markham, who had 
 to welcome a string of people coming 
 after him, Mr. Fowler found himself 
 gradually edged away into a corner behind 
 an ottoman. 
 
 When he had sufficiently recovered his 
 scattered senses; he looked about him for 
 Helen ; but she was nowhere to be seen. 
 The room was so full of people that she 
 might well be there, though invisible to 
 him, and he stood waiting patiently in 
 his corner until she should appear. 
 
 Nobody seemed to notice him at all. 
 
116 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 The ladies on the ottoman gossiped— we 
 beg their pardon, discussed in a cheerful 
 manner such light subjects as the state 
 of the existing land laws, and how much 
 better they would be with their improve- 
 ments added, or they demonstrated to 
 some neophyte the inestimable advantages 
 that would accrue upon an extension of 
 the electoral franchise. When they 
 washed to unbend and descend to the 
 level of mere ordinary intellects, they 
 talked of current literature and its in- 
 fluence upon the masses. 
 
 Mr. Fowler could not help hearing their 
 conversation, and they did not appear to 
 have the slightest objection to his or any 
 one else's doing so, for they all talked 
 at the top of their voices. 
 
 Mr. Fowler was rather confused by 
 what he heard, and his soul sank lower and 
 lower. A horrible sense of his own utter 
 incapacity to sustain for five minutes the 
 sort of conversation to which he listened 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 117 
 
 overcame him. What should he do if 
 that adorable creature, with the heavenly 
 blue eyes, asked him for his opinion on 
 the existing land laws ? From his personal 
 experience he had no reason to believe 
 there were any. He felt that he would 
 not show to much better advantage 
 should she engage him in conversation 
 respecting the extension of the franchise. 
 He actually did not know if he had a 
 vote or not. What would she think of 
 him? 
 
 He edged away to another corner, 
 hoping that in that part of the room he 
 might hear subjects with which he was 
 more familiar talked about ; but he was 
 even worse confounded there. Everybody 
 within hearing was violently airing his or 
 her condemnatory opinion of the Married 
 Women's Property Law. This being 
 Mr. Fowler's first introduction to the 
 knowledge that such a law existed, he 
 felt utterly crushed by the appalling 
 
118 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 amount of ignorance he laboured under. 
 He began to think of retiring from the 
 presence of so much learning, and as his 
 eyes wandered towards the door, they 
 met those well-remembered blue eyes on 
 a voyage of discovery too. 
 
 To his dying day Mr. Fowler never 
 knew how he did it ; but all at once he 
 was beside the owner of the blue eyes, 
 and was holding her hand, but only for a 
 moment. He was much too modest to 
 do more than give it a conventional little 
 grasp, and then he dropped it. 
 
 " I am so glad you remembered to 
 come," said Helen, looking at him in the 
 same innocent way as she had looked at 
 him in the dingy, dusty museum. " I 
 was afraid you would forget all about 
 it." 
 
 " I — I that is, I have n-n-n-never 
 thought about anything else," Mr. Fowler 
 stammered forth ; and then covered him- 
 self with confusion, as with a cloak, in his 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 119 
 
 fear at having said something he ought 
 not. 
 
 But the blue eyes only sought his in a 
 little inquiring sort of way, and Helen 
 said — 
 
 " I think there are some chairs in that 
 window, and I am so tired." 
 
 " Oh, so am I. I mean — that is, 
 d-d-d-dreadfully tired before you — at 
 least, I — I was just now;" and in an 
 excess of agony Mr. Fowler stepped upon 
 Helen's dress, and drew a few yards of 
 frilling off it in his endeavours to dis- 
 entangle his feet. 
 
 " Oh, it doesn't matter a bit ! " cried 
 that young lady, as, blushing and stam- 
 mering and desperately miserable, Mr. 
 Fowler made elaborate failures at an 
 apology. " We can sit down here, and 
 I will pin it up. I can mend it myself, 
 you know," she added in a lower tone ; 
 " and it will be so nice." 
 
 The chairs that Helen had indicated 
 
120 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 were two cleverly placed low seats in the 
 recess of a window, partly shaded by 
 some curtains. Once out of the full 
 observation of the talking crowd, Mr. 
 Fowler recovered himself a little, but not 
 sufficiently to open a conversation. The 
 talk to which he had been listening, 
 and his unlucky stumble, had effectively 
 driven for the time even his mother 
 tongue from him. After an interval of 
 some minutes, during which his com- 
 panion was as silent as himself, he 
 managed to pull himself together, and 
 ask in a hesitating manner — 
 
 " I — I s-s-s-suppose you are very much 
 interested about the 1-1-1-land laws, Miss 
 Helen ? " 
 
 The blue eyes were raised in childlike 
 wonder to his face. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " she said, with something 
 like a pout, "you are just one of them 
 after all, then. I did hope that you did 
 not care for all those things. I thought 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 121 
 
 you were going to be somebody nice for 
 me to talk to." 
 
 " Oh, I — I assure you!" cried Mr. 
 Fowler, wildly, " I — I don't know any- 
 thing at all ab-b-b-bout the subject, only 
 I thought, of course, you must." 
 
 "No, I don't; I hate it all. I don't 
 care what the laws are, or who makes 
 them, so that they will leave me alone." 
 
 " No m-m-more do I. I — I am so 
 glad you don't." 
 
 "You don't know anything about the 
 higher education of women either, do 
 you ? " asked Helen, a little doubtfully. 
 
 " I — I assure you I d-d-d-didn't even 
 know they had any," responded her 
 admirer ardently. " I — I think all women 
 ought to be like you, Miss Helen. I — I 
 do indeed. I— I adore plain sewing ; I 
 do, really." 
 
 "Hush!" said Helen; then bending 
 forward a little, she said, " Hush ! but my 
 name isn't really Helen, and I should like 
 
122 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 you to call me by my real name. I was 
 christened Nellie, after poor dear mamma, 
 w T ho is dead ; but aunt said no woman 
 who ever did anything for the honour and 
 dignity of her sex ever was, or could be, 
 called such a silly, frivolous name. She 
 said there had been grand, majestic, 
 queenly Helens, a glory to their woman- 
 hood, and so she always calls me Helen, 
 in the hope, I suppose, that I may do 
 something dignified some day; but I never 
 shall, I know, and I like Nellie so much 
 better." 
 
 " Oh, so do I ! " rapturously exclaimed 
 Mr. Fowler. "I think it is the lo-lo- 
 loveliest name in all the world." 
 " Then you will call me Nellie ? " 
 Mr. Fowler was on the point of protest- 
 ing, with all the emotion of a bursting 
 soul, that to do so would afford him more 
 delight than all the other joys of life 
 rolled into one, or of using some other 
 equally fervid expression of the same 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 123 
 
 kind, when he was prevented from saying 
 anything at all by the interposition of a 
 manly form between himself and the 
 object of his attentions. 
 
 " Oh, Helen, dear!" said the new-comer, 
 coolly, "your aunt is looking for you, I 
 think. She sent me for you. How awfully 
 hot this corner must be ! You look quite 
 rosy." 
 
 Certainly it must have been very warm 
 there, for not only was Helen's face of a 
 rosy red, but Mr. Fowler's was literally 
 scarlet ; yet Helen protested, as she 
 was led away upon the stranger's arm, 
 that she was not hot, not at all hot. 
 For one moment Mr. Frederick Fowler 
 thought of rushing after that young man 
 and felling him to the ground, rescuing 
 the young lady from him, and flying with 
 her light form in his arms down the 
 stairs and out into the night. The next 
 moment he took out his pocket-handker- 
 chief and wiped his brow, and drew 
 
124 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 further back into the recess of the 
 window. 
 
 Who was this objectionable stranger ? 
 Mr. Fowler felt sure that the owner of 
 the loveliest name in the world had not 
 wished to go with him, for she frowned a 
 little as she went away. He had called 
 her " Helen " — there was great comfort 
 in that; he had been asked to call her 
 " Nellie," and she had looked at him 
 as she made the request. Was it pos- 
 sible ? No ; her eyes must have that 
 sweet look in them always. He was a 
 fool ! And so in alternate bliss and 
 wretchedness Mr. Fowler passed an un- 
 quiet hour. 
 
 The entrance of light refreshments, 
 borne on trays by servants, caused a 
 temporary rearrangement of the company, 
 and in the moving about Mr. Fowler 
 saw for a brief instant the one young 
 lady of his thoughts. She was at the 
 further end of the second drawing-room, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 125 
 
 sitting beside an elderly man, who ap- 
 peared to be talking to her of some- 
 thing that did not particularly interest 
 her ; for Mr. Fowler could have sworn 
 (only he never did swear) that he saw 
 her eyes move towards the corner he 
 was in. 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation he rose 
 and glided between the intervening ladies 
 and gentlemen straight up to her side, 
 and, without stopping to think of what 
 he was about, for he would most certainly 
 have faltered and stammered if he had, 
 he said — 
 
 " Miss Nellie, what can I have the 
 pleasure of bringing you ? " 
 
 " Thank you, I will take a sandwich," 
 said Miss Nellie. 
 
 And then, when Mr. Fowler, all in a 
 glow of excitement and delight, brought 
 the sandwich to her, the old gentleman, 
 seeing very plainly that he was not 
 wanted, did as all old gentlemen should, 
 
126 
 
 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 and moved out of the way. Whereupon 
 Nellie's eyes turned to the vacant seat in 
 such a very unmistakable manner that 
 Mr. Fowler promptly sat upon it. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Mks. Evekest accompanied David to town 
 at the end of December, when he went up 
 for his examinations. Mr. Burney had 
 made a faint offer of doing so, but was 
 quenched by an allusion to his Sundays, 
 and the opinion that they would spend all 
 their time in the British Museum and 
 forget all about the examination. This 
 remark was fraught with so much truth 
 that the rector blushed as if he had been 
 detected in some unlawful act, and thus 
 further provoked his sister into stating 
 her belief that what he wished was for the 
 boy to fail, and a guilty conscience here 
 asserted itself so overpoweringly that Mr. 
 
128 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 Burney's sole method of war, retreat, 
 was alone open to him. 
 
 For reasons of her own, Mrs. Everest 
 was determined her son should not fail, 
 and even sent him for three weeks' 
 cramming to a celebrated coach. Whether 
 by his means or in spite of him is not 
 known, but David did pass his examina- 
 tion, and was formally appointed. 
 
 Mrs. Everest, as she had found the ap- 
 pointment and the tutor for her son, also 
 found his lodgings. While David was with 
 his tutor, she traversed miles of dismal 
 streets with that object. She was difficult 
 to please, but she was pleased at last ; for 
 Harcourt Street combined within its 
 precincts all the undesirablenesses that 
 had existed separately in all the other 
 streets she had visited. It was old and 
 dirty, noisy yet dull, swarming with 
 children, and overrun with costermongers, 
 hand-organs, and cats. 
 
 Mrs. Everest tried two or three houses 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 129 
 
 in the street, but Mrs. Dodds, at No. 16, 
 exceeded all the other landladies in acidity 
 of aspect and shrillness of voice, so Mrs. 
 Everest promptly engaged her vacant 
 first-floor, and, with an energy that 
 characterised all that worthy lady's pro- 
 ceedings, heat down Mrs. Dodds's terms 
 to the very last; halfpenny, thus preparing 
 a very cordial reception for her son. 
 
 David did not seem quite so much dis- 
 gusted with the shabby, dirty little rooms 
 as his mother had expected. He said 
 they would do very well, and then ap- 
 parently dismissed the subject from his 
 mind. 
 
 " Never mind," she thought to herself. 
 " He may pretend he does not care at first, 
 but I know he will hate the constant 
 noise and fuss, and the dirt and untidi- 
 ness — brought up as he has been he cannot 
 fail to do so ; and he will hate the regular 
 hours, and that fussy chief clerk, and 
 those silly young men ; and I am sure 
 
 VOL. I. 9 
 
130 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 he will not get his meals nicely. He 
 will soon be tired of it all and come home 
 disgusted, and then— dear Fanny ! " 
 
 So Mrs. Everest settled herself com- 
 fortably in the corner of the first-class 
 carriage on her way home, and congratu- 
 lated herself at having at last found the 
 right way to treat her wayward son. If 
 he would not be amenable to reason, and 
 do what his mother knew was for his own 
 happiness, he should taste by bitter ex- 
 perience that there are worse lots in life 
 than to marry an heiress and be a country 
 gentleman. 
 
 She smiled as she thought of the dirt 
 and shabbiness of the dreary little sitting- 
 room ; and the very next day went up with 
 Fanny to the Hall, and threw the windows 
 of the drawing-room open, and contrasted 
 in her own mind David's room and these 
 spacious, handsomely furnished apart- 
 ments, and was very well pleased with her 
 plans. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 131 
 
 Bat what is dirt to a scholar ? That 
 graceless David actually revelled in it. 
 He gloried in finding his papers in the 
 morning exactly as he had left them over- 
 night. It was a state of savagery that he 
 enjoyed. It never gave him a qualm of 
 disgust that his muddy boots reposed on 
 the sofa, or his pipes among the bread 
 and butter on the sideboard, or that dirty 
 teacups remained for days upon his mantel- 
 piece. His room speedily became the den 
 that scholars delight in, and David sat 
 within it and grubbed among his dusty 
 papers, and devoured his books with his 
 meals, and w T as as free and happy as 
 possible. 
 
 There was one great thing about 
 David's lodgings that Mrs. Everest had 
 overlooked — they were not more than ten 
 minutes from the British Museum. David 
 went from his office straight to the read- 
 ing-room every day, and stayed there 
 until it closed. Our hero never troubled 
 
132 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 himself about the morrow, but enjoyed 
 the present in a way that would have 
 saddened his mother's soul had she but 
 known it. 
 
 David, therefore, became one of the 
 regular stream of readers that pours into 
 the great round room every day, and, 
 like the majority of them, took very 
 little heed of his fellows. Yet some of 
 them were well worth the looking at. 
 Perhaps as curious a collection of 
 humanity comes out through the swing 
 glass doors at the closing hour as can 
 be seen in any part of the globe. East 
 and West, savage and sage, jostle each 
 other. Great scientists and needy penny- 
 a-liners ; lights of history and compilers 
 of sixpenny sermons ; wonderful old fogies, 
 each with one particular craze more as- 
 tounding than those of his fellows; young 
 ladies who go to read novels, and to look 
 at old fashion-books ; students of every 
 subject under the sun; and astonishing 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 133 
 
 old ladies, who manage to pick up a living 
 — they only know how — by doing odd 
 jobs of copying, and finding out the 
 authors of hymns and quotations. Last, 
 not least — for, alas ! there are many of 
 them — the men who have been barristers, 
 clergymen, scholars, gentlemen — God only 
 knows what they are now ! — who, day 
 after day and year after year, hang about 
 the great room, and copy, and compare, 
 and make notes, and do any odd jobs 
 that any one will give them for a few 
 pence. They get shabbier and shabbier. 
 In the winter their pinched, drawn faces 
 are dreadful to see. They come with the 
 first opening of the doors, and painfully 
 drag themselves away the very last at 
 night. The place is home and warmth 
 and light to them. What becomes of 
 them when they go out in the bitter, 
 fog-laden air is a problem to puzzle the 
 tender-hearted. They are well known by 
 sight to the more respectable readers, 
 
134 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 who generally prefer taking seats at a 
 little distance from them, for reasons 
 better imagined than described. 
 
 David being a new-comer, and one 
 never disposed to observe his neighbours 
 nicely, had on several occasions taken 
 a seat beside a very good specimen of 
 the class we have referred to. He was 
 an old man, with a grey beard, and 
 rather long grey hair that fell over his 
 greasy coat collar. He had light-blue 
 eyes, red and wrinkled about the lids, 
 and inclined to wateriness at the corners ; 
 a haggard, hungry expression of face 
 that would have been fierce if there 
 had been more power in it. He stooped 
 a good deal, and had very nervous, rest- 
 less, long claw-like hands. His clothing 
 had originally been a good black cloth 
 suit — it must have been a good one 
 to have held together during the years 
 that it had appeared in the reading-room ; 
 it was very shiny, very greasy, very 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 135 
 
 frayed at the edges now. Contrary to 
 the habits of most of his confreres, he 
 wore a wisp of yellow shirt-collar at his 
 neck; but his boots were so old, so 
 patched, so broken, that it was a marvel 
 how he kept them upon his feet. 
 
 Tradition spoke of his having come 
 there in the same garb many years ago. 
 He had been very bright and hopeful 
 then, and had been apt to talk of his 
 estates in the country, and the handsome 
 reward he would give to any man who 
 would find a certain certificate or deed 
 for him. By degrees he talked less ; now 
 he rarely spoke to any one, but continued 
 his ceaseless, restless comparing and 
 shifting and turning of papers. 
 
 David and he might have sat beside 
 each other for ten years and become no 
 better acquainted, but for a trifling acci- 
 dent. The old man had been angry and 
 querulous at some little mistake made by 
 an attendant, and had spoken roughly to 
 
136 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 the man. He was subject to these little 
 outbreaks of temper, and they were gene- 
 rally passed by unheeded ; but this was a 
 new attendant, and one not sufficiently 
 trained in patience for the ways of the 
 place. He answered the old man, and a 
 little quarrel ensued, which ended in the 
 attendant's applying to a pale, fair-haired 
 young man with a book in his hand, who 
 happened to be passing by at the time. 
 
 " Mr. Fowler," the man said, " stop a 
 minute, sir, please. You hear what I am 
 a-being called ? " 
 
 " I — I have no authority to interfere," 
 stammered the little man, nervously ; 
 " you should apply to the s-s-s-superin- 
 tendent ; " and he was just gliding on his 
 inoffensive way when David looked up. 
 
 " Why, Fowler! " he exclaimed. " Is 
 Saul also among the prophets ? Why, 
 how came you here in the middle of all 
 these books ? " 
 
 " E-E-E-Everest ! " stuttered Mr. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 137 
 
 Fowler. " Well, I am delighted ! How 
 very ch-ch-ch- charming, to be sure; " and 
 he modestly held out his hand an inch 
 or two. 
 
 David seized it and grasped it. 
 
 " Not taken to literature, have you ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " I — I am an as-as-as-assistant here, 
 junior assistant," replied Mr. Fowler. 
 " C-c-come and see my place, won't you? 
 I left the P-p-probate Court and came 
 here f-f-four years ago." 
 
 " Of course," said David, rising. " But 
 what about our friends here ? " he added, 
 pausing; for both the old man and the 
 attendant were apparently waiting for 
 them to say something. 
 
 "Oh, it's a-a-all right," said Mr. Fowler. 
 " Jacobs, better get what Mr. Thorold 
 wants. He is a n-n-new hand, sir; you 
 must excuse him," he added to the old 
 man, as the young one went off. 
 
 " New hand," muttered the old man. 
 
138 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " He is insolent, insolent. Because I 
 have an old coat on, they all think they 
 may insult me with impunity. As if a 
 gentleman has not a right to wear an 
 old coat if he likes. Insolent, insolent ; 
 they are all in a cabal against me. But 
 I will be even with them one day — even 
 with them one day. I'll make it a 
 matter for parliamentary inquiry. As if 
 a gentleman might not wear an old coat ! 
 A coat does not make a gentleman ! " 
 
 And they left the angry old man 
 muttering to himself. 
 
 " Curious old fellow," was David's 
 remark. 
 
 " Y-ye-yes. He is very much to be 
 pitied, I believe," said little Fowler, 
 unlocking a private door in the wall, and 
 ushering his companion into what looked 
 like a series of immense iron cages filled 
 with books, and piled one above the other 
 for several stories. " He lodges in the 
 same house that I do, and has a little 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 139 
 
 girl. He is, or thinks he is, heir to 
 some property, I believe. This is the 
 i-i-iron work, you see ; my place is through 
 here and down below. I — I — I really 
 am delighted to see yon, Everest." 
 
 David nodded. 
 
 " You must look me up," he said. 
 
 Mr. Fowler blushed with delight. His 
 visit to David's home had been the only 
 visit he had ever made in his life. He 
 had not been a clever boy at school, and 
 though he was some years older than 
 David, the latter had been ahead of him 
 when he left school; besides this, David's 
 half-contemptuous kindness, being the 
 only kindness he had ever received, had 
 made a lasting impression on Mr. Fowler, 
 and he regarded David as among the 
 cleverest and kindest of mankind, and 
 had often longed to meet him again ; but 
 he had not heard anything of him since 
 his visit to Broodleigh, for David never 
 answered letters if he could help it. 
 
140 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "I — I — I shall be most happy," he 
 stammered. " M-my address is No. 16, 
 Harcourt Street. If you will come and 
 see me, I — I shall be only too delighted ! " 
 
 David laughed as he leaned against 
 Mr. Fowler's table. 
 
 " That is rather a joke," he remarked, 
 "for I am lodging in No. 16, Harcourt 
 Street." 
 
 " Y-you don't say so ? Well, that is 
 delightful!" 
 
 "Just so," said David; "and our 
 friend the patriarch makes us a cheerful 
 trio. What do you do down here ? 
 Play at pitch and toss with the speci- 
 mens, or be an amateur Adam and name 
 the stones of the earth and the shells of 
 the sea?" 
 
 "Oh dear, no!" cried Mr. Fowler, 
 quite aghast. "I am only a j-j-j -junior, 
 you know. I register the acquisitions, 
 and do very little classification." 
 
 " It must be a lively lot of acquisitions, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 141 
 
 to judge from the specimens, " said David, 
 looking with an air of great disgust upon 
 a heap of odds and ends of natural history 
 on the table ; and he seated himself upon 
 what might, or might not, have been a 
 valuable relic of the prae-Adamite period. 
 
 " E-e-excuse me, Everest, my dear 
 fellow," cried Mr. Fowler, in an agony of 
 apprehension, as David stretched out his 
 long legs, " b-b-but I — I believe — I am 
 afraid, that is, that — that is a most in-in- 
 interesting specimen of — of palaeozoic 
 fauna." 
 
 " It must be dead by this time," 
 observed David, soothingly, " so I can't 
 hurt its feelings." 
 
 " I — I dare say, my dear fellow ; b-b-but 
 it might get us into all sorts of complica- 
 tions. There was a man here once — a 
 v-v-very nice fellow — and a friend came to 
 see him, and most u-un-unfortunately he 
 sat down upon a case of b-b-butterflies, 
 and of course they all s-s-smashed directly ; 
 
142 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 and the man who was in charge m-m- 
 mended them, and did it very cleverly, I 
 as-as-assure you, b-b-but somehow he got 
 the wr- wrong wings on to the wrong 
 bodies, and it m-m-made quite a sensation 
 in the e-e-entomological world — until they 
 found out what had happened." 
 
 " Well, I have no enthusiasm about 
 antediluvian oysters," said David, getting 
 up ; " but if you could tell me anything 
 about liturgies, now that would be in- 
 teresting." 
 
 " I — I — I don't know anything about 
 them myself," said Mr. Fowler, " but 
 there is a m-m-man in the Manuscript 
 Department who knows all about them. 
 He generally catalogues modern state 
 papers. I — I — I can introduce you to 
 him." 
 
 " Thanks," said David; " but I have 
 made his acquaintance already. The 
 Superintendent of the Eeading-Eoom 
 knows everything in the world except 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 113 
 
 liturgies, and this man knows all about 
 them, so they form an encyclopaedia 
 of useful knowledge between them. But 
 I must go off now. I'll look you up 
 to-night." And David departed to his 
 books. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Oh, Miss 'Achard, Mr. Heverest's com- 
 pliments, and he'll be glad to know if the 
 coffin is nearly nailed np." 
 
 This from Sarah Ann, who, with a 
 grimy apron before her mouth, opened 
 the artist's door, and thrust her head in 
 one February evening. 
 
 " Lor ! " said Miss Hatchard. " Well, 
 I never ; a coffin ! I suppose it's 'is fun, 
 though I can't say I see much fun in 
 coffins myself; but there, I must pack 
 these pictures to-night. Tell him " 
 
 But Sarah Ann was gone, not consider- 
 ing it her business to carry messages from 
 the second-floor lodger. 
 
 "I suppose nailing is disturbing jest 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 145 
 
 over your head," sighed the poor little 
 woman; " but, then, what can I do ? If 
 I don't send off these pictures to-night, 
 Moses won't take 'em, I'm sure." 
 
 " Shall I go and tell him we shall not 
 be very long ? " asked Fiametta, who was 
 kneeling on the floor beside a half-finished 
 packing-case. 
 
 " Well, if you would, my dear. If you 
 don't mind, that is." 
 
 "I don't mind a bit," said the girl, 
 rising. "I shall rather like it. What 
 business has he to complain of noise ? I 
 dare say he does nothing but idle his 
 time. He is a gentleman, I suppose. If 
 he came up here and helped, it would be 
 some good ; " and Fiametta carried her 
 flashing head down the stairs. 
 
 She did not knock at the door. She 
 considered it derogatory to do so. So 
 she opened it in her decisive manner, 
 and, without advancing a step, she re- 
 marked— 
 
 VOL. i. 10 
 
146 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "I have come to tell you that the 
 artist who lives upstairs is obliged to 
 pack up some pictures to-night ; and if 
 you don't like the noise and have nothing 
 to do, you had better go out until it is 
 over." 
 
 David looked up from his book and 
 gazed at the girl in the doorway in some 
 surprise. Perhaps the laughter in his 
 eyes angered her ; for she said — 
 
 " I am not surprised at any gentleman 
 laughing at women who have hard work 
 to do. I expected that ; but we can't 
 stop our work to suit your dainty ears." 
 
 " So you take me for a gentleman," 
 said David, sweetly. " You have a very 
 quick perception to find that out at once. 
 But, like the rest of your sex, my dear, 
 you do not draw a truly logical deduction 
 from that premise. If you have any hard 
 work to do, I shall come and help you 
 do it." 
 
 The girl blushed, and a curious baffled 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 147 
 
 expression came into her dark solemn 
 eyes. She looked a little uncomfortable, 
 and evidently did not know what to say. 
 Seeing him rise and come towards her, 
 she turned abruptly, and shut the door 
 after her and ran upstairs again. 
 
 " He says he is coming to help," she 
 exclaimed, breathlessly, to Miss Hatchard. 
 " But that was only a polite lie ; aristocrats 
 always lie to women." 
 
 " So they do, my child," said David, 
 as he came to the top of the stairs. 
 " They tell them they are angels; we 
 know better, don't we ? Madam, I am 
 rejoiced to hear that I was in error about 
 the coffin. If you will allow me to help 
 you nail up that box, I think it will be to 
 the advantage of all parties. Your sex 
 is admirable in many ways, but sound 
 carpentering is a privilege of the stronger 
 animal called man. Oblige me with the 
 hammer." 
 
 " Well, I am sure," observed Miss , 
 
148 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 Hatchard, considerably mystified by the 
 stranger's address — "I am sure I am 
 very much obliged ; my nails never do go 
 in straight.'' 
 
 "For the simple reason, my dear 
 madam, that neither you nor any other 
 woman ever hit a nail, physically or 
 metaphorically, on the head. Now, let 
 us set to work." 
 
 And they did set to work, and a vast 
 amount of packing and nailing was ac- 
 complished under David's direction and 
 assistance. When the last case was 
 securely finished, Miss Hatchard tendered 
 her thanks. 
 
 " I am very glad to have been of use to 
 you," he said. " Any time that you want 
 anything done, except painting a picture, 
 I am at your service — even to speaking 
 the truth, Miss Fiametta," he said, turn- 
 ing to the girl, for he had learnt her 
 name. 
 
 She blushed and looked confused. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 140 
 
 " All men tell lies," she said. 
 
 "So, Heaven be praised ! do all women," 
 said David, seriously. "It is a privilege 
 of the human race ; without it we should 
 be no better than the beasts. Good 
 evening, ladies ; " and he went down- 
 stairs. 
 
 "What a very odd little girl!" he 
 said to himself. " The daughter of the 
 one-coated patriarch who does not wash, 
 I suppose, and as full of fads as he is. 
 I like that sturdy little artist ; there is 
 no affectation of superiority with her. 
 She is the genuine article, as the Creator 
 made her, and has stuck to it." 
 
 " What a affable young man ! " was 
 Miss Hatchard's comment, as David went 
 into his room ; " and sich a gentleman ! " 
 
 "Why do you consider it is c affable ' 
 in a strong young man to come and help 
 two women do hard man's work ? I think 
 it would have been brutal of him if he 
 had not come. If he had been a working 
 
150 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 man who was going to be paid for it, you 
 would not have considered him ' affable.' 
 It is just because he sets up for belonging 
 to a superior race that you do as every- 
 body does, and bow down before him, and 
 say, ' Oh, how amiable and good of you 
 to deign to cast a glance upon us poor 
 creatures ! Bah ! If Moses had sent a 
 man to pack those pictures, you would 
 not have thanked him." 
 
 " Well, I dunno. You see, he would 
 have been paid for it," said Miss Hat- 
 chard, dubiously ; for the girl's fiery 
 speeches always made her a little nervous. 
 
 Fiametta bit her lip. 
 
 "And this man ought to have been 
 paid for it," she said. 
 
 " Oh, you couldn't offer him no money," 
 said the artist, aghast. " He is a gentle- 
 man ; he would be insulted. I wouldn't 
 say so to 'im for the world, and so kind 
 as he was ! " 
 
 " He was not kind; it was only his 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 151 
 
 common duty," persisted Fiametta, 
 changing her ground. " But he ought 
 to be paid, or he will think he has con- 
 ferred a favour upon us." 
 
 " Well, so he has," responded the elder 
 woman, as she took two teacups out of a 
 cupboard. " I ain't above taking favours. 
 Stay and have a cup o' tea, child ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Lor, don't be so contrariwise." 
 
 "I didn't do the packing, and I won't 
 have the tea." 
 
 " Well, do it out o' friendliness, then, 
 to keep me company ? " 
 
 " No, Miss Hatchard," said the girl, 
 and there was a touch of sadness in her 
 tone, " I won't do that either. I can't 
 ask you back, and I have not done any 
 work for you to-day. Let me keep the 
 only thing I have got;" and she went 
 oat, and shut the door after her. 
 
 " If I had that there father of hers," 
 said Miss Hatchard to herself, as she 
 
152 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 flourished the knife with which she was 
 catting bread and butter, " I'd. — I'd — I 
 dcrnno what I wouldn't do to 'im. Keeping 
 that 'ere fine girl hanging around with 
 no meat, nor no clothes, nor no nothink, 
 and all because of his fads and fancies. 
 Oh my, if I had the fashioning of 
 'im ! " and Miss Hatchard sliced off a 
 tremendous round of bread, as if it had 
 been the offending Mr. Thorold's head. 
 
 She sat over her tea a long time. Her 
 studio was a shabby, bare little place, 
 uncarpeted and uncurtained. There was 
 an easel, and a table covered with paints, 
 and scraps of paper, and nails, and bits of 
 dry crust, and all manners of odds and 
 ends. There were one or two chairs, and 
 some rough boxes, and rolls of paper, 
 and old canvasses, and unfinished draw- 
 ings, and rough sketches were piled in 
 the corners and fastened on the walls 
 and stacked under the table. There was 
 nothing picturesque or beautiful in the 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 153 
 
 place. It was a mere workshop, where 
 very ordinary work was ground out of a 
 very ordinary little woman at a remark- 
 ably cheap rate. 
 
 Miss Hatchard designed wall papers, 
 patterns for chintzes and cretonnes, all 
 very third and fourth rate. Now and 
 then she painted panels for the Christmas 
 card kind of furniture that was just coming 
 in fashion, or designed Christmas cards 
 themselves, or inferior cheap stained 
 glass. All she did was very ordinary and 
 cheap, yet as good as she could make it ; 
 and perhaps in all London there was not 
 a busier, brighter, more helpful, con- 
 tented, underpaid little woman than Miss 
 Hatchard. 
 
 She thought a good deal about the girl 
 who had left her. She had little time to 
 bestow on the wants or fancies of any 
 girl. Her own hard life was quite enough 
 to occupy her attention, yet she did 
 spend a good deal of time thinking about 
 
154 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 Eiametta. Nay, she did better than that, 
 she helped her. Silver and gold had she 
 none, but such as she had she gave her. 
 
 It was a good deal for the solitary, 
 brooding child to have the studio to come 
 to after the dreadful garret, where so 
 much of her existence had been passed ; 
 it was still more for her to have Miss 
 Hatchard's bright little presence, and to 
 hear her kindly chatter. Her grammar 
 might not be above reproach, her pro- 
 nunciation was very far from correct ; yet 
 she was, on the whole, a most excellent 
 companion for the morbid girl. She 
 would get nothing morbid from the artist. 
 
 Now and then when she had a figure to 
 paint, Fiametta stood for her, and when 
 she had done this, she consented to par- 
 take of a meal as payment for the same, 
 but otherwise she would never so much 
 as break bread in the little room. 
 
 Miss Hatchard had many a time de- 
 bated within her mind the advisability of 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 155 
 
 her attacking the stronghold, that is to 
 say, encountering Mr. Thorold, and trying 
 to persuade him to allow the girl to do 
 what she most desired, namely, to work 
 for her living ; but hitherto she had 
 not done so. She was not fond of inter- 
 fering in other people's affairs, but pity 
 for the lonely, wasted life was urging 
 her on. 
 
 To-night the unusual sadness in Fia- 
 metta's voice had decided her. She knew 
 the girl was hungry, and had been hungry 
 all day, for her father had left no money 
 behind him that morning. He w T as out 
 late that evening. Was it possible that 
 the girl would have to go hungry to 
 bed? 
 
 Miss • Hatchard could not bear the 
 thought. She set her door a little open, 
 and sat and listened. It was dark. She 
 heard a slow, heavy footfall at the foot of 
 the stairs ; she knew the step, it was old 
 Mr. Thorold's. She waited until he came 
 
156 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 to the landing outside her room, and then 
 opened the door wide and confronted him. 
 
 "If so be as I shouldn't hinder you 
 with Fiametta's supper," she began, " I 
 should like a word with you, sir." 
 
 " Eh, who is it ? " he said, peering into 
 the dusk. " Is it Miss Hatchard ? " He 
 had heard a little about her from his 
 daughter, but had never spoken to her 
 before. 
 
 " Yes ; it's me," said the owner of the 
 name. "Will you step in? Now, look 
 around 'ere. I've a decent roof over my 
 head — two roofs, t'other second back across 
 the landing — enough to eat and enough to 
 wear, and a shillin' or two over some- 
 times, though that's not often ; and who 
 'ave I got to thank for it ? Myself ; that's 
 all about it, that is. I works for myself 
 and am beholden to nobody. Now, what 
 I can do another can do, perhaps better. 
 I don't hold myself up for no pattern, but 
 what I do say is this 'ere, if I can do this, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 157 
 
 that fine girl of yours can do the same 
 and better.' ' 
 
 The old man had stood listening with 
 some surprise to this little address ; he 
 had not understood the drift of it before 
 the last sentence, and that angered him. 
 
 "And you compare my daughter, the 
 child of a long line of illustrious ancestors, 
 to you" he said; " Miss Thorold, the last 
 of an old house, to a fifth-rate painter in 
 a garret ! " 
 
 "It ain't a garret," interposed the little 
 woman, eagerly. " Lor, Mr. Thorold, 
 don't be put out like: I don't mean no 
 comparisons, but I do say as a girl with 
 health and strength is better a earning of 
 her own livin' than being dependant." 
 
 " Miss Thorold is not dependent," said 
 her father, angrily. " She, we, are in 
 temporary difficulties just at present — mere 
 temporary difficulties. Miss Thorold is a 
 young lady of property, of family. You do 
 not understand what you are talking 
 
158 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 about. Miss Thorold work ! Impossible, 
 ridiculous ! " 
 
 " It ain't impossible for her to starve," 
 said the artist, bluntly. 
 
 He trembled, and looked wildly about 
 him as if in terrified search for something 
 that he feared. 
 
 "No, no," he said, huskily; "it will 
 come before then. I am on the right 
 track, the right track now. But women 
 have no patience, no patience at all. Has 
 she been complaining to you ? " he asked 
 fiercely. 
 
 " Lor, no," replied Miss Hatchard; "she 
 don't never make no complaint about 
 herself — about herself in particular, that 
 is. She ain't quite what you might call 
 contented. 'Ow should she be, bein' in 
 idleness all her days ? " she added 
 astutely. 
 
 " She will soon have plenty to do, 
 plenty to do," said the old man, turning 
 to go up the narrow garret stairs. " The 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 159 
 
 management of a large estate is not an 
 easy task, and she must learn to do it, for 
 she will be my sole heir. Everything I 
 have will go to her. But she must have 
 patience, patience," and he went on 
 muttering until he was hidden by the 
 winding stairs from Miss Hat chard's 
 view. 
 
CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 David's work at his office was not of a 
 very laborious nature. He was supposed 
 to be there at ten in the morning ; but as 
 David breakfasted at that hour, he found 
 it more convenient to get there at eleven 
 instead. This was not quite in accord 
 with the traditions of the place, so he 
 encountered some opposition on the part 
 of the superior officials before he could 
 get it established as a habit. But David's 
 imperturbable good temper and easy 
 nature stood him in as good stead in 
 this crisis as in many an encounter with 
 his mother. What was the use of rating 
 a man who smiled in a lovable manner at 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 161 
 
 every reproof, and acknowledged his errors, 
 and promised amendment with the same 
 cheerfulness that another man would take 
 an extra holiday, and immediately after- 
 wards would convulse his hearers with 
 laughter at some quaint remark or 
 humorous anecdote? It was not in the 
 nature even of officials to carry on that 
 sort of campaign many weeks, and 
 gradually they fell into the habit of all 
 good chiefs, and winked at what they 
 knew they had better not see. 
 
 This point being comfortably estab- 
 lished, David found out what was the 
 average amount of work done by the men 
 in his room, and performed his share. He 
 discovered that a great deal of attention 
 was paid to the sharpening of pencils and 
 the neat arrangement of papers in the 
 mornings. After that some figures were 
 added up, and deducted from, and turned 
 upside down and inside out, and frac- 
 tioned, and divided, and halved, and 
 
 VOL. I. 11 
 
162 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 quartered, and put through all the facings 
 that figures are capable of, preparatory to 
 being presented to the admiring gaze of 
 the general public. 
 
 There was an impression in the office 
 that the most intense anxiety prevailed 
 in the public mind with regard to the 
 weighty subject of registered statistics, 
 and that somehow or other the British 
 lion would roar in a very awful manner if 
 these interesting columns of figures were 
 not duly presented for his approval. The 
 author of this ingenious tradition has 
 never been discovered, but if he had been 
 a tribute of respect ought certainly to 
 have been paid to his memory, for doubt- 
 less it was his beneficent invention that 
 kept many a young and promising civil 
 servant's intellect unimpaired by this 
 semblance of an interest in the awful 
 contortions of figures that were daily pre- 
 sented to him. 
 
 David, who had about as much natural 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 163 
 
 love of figures as a torn cat has for a 
 terrier, was a good deal bored at first with 
 his work. Antiquaries are seldom good 
 mathematicians ; the combination is not a 
 happy one. Mathematics may surely be 
 considered an exact science; while anti- 
 quarianism, besides not being a science at 
 all, is so notoriously inexact that no two 
 members of the profession have ever been 
 known to agree on any one subject since it 
 was first invented. Therefore David was 
 not happy among figures. 
 
 Yet he was not unhappy either. That 
 wise and beautiful fiction about the British 
 public, it is true, failed to touch him one 
 little bit. David cared no more for the 
 British public that it did for him. He had 
 actually no love even for the great un- 
 washed section of it. He had only one 
 feeling about them, namely, that he wished 
 they would keep away from wherever he 
 was; thus he was no politician, for all 
 shades of politicians love, or say they love, 
 
164 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 the dirty three quarters of humanity. So 
 he derived no comfort from that source, 
 but his comfort came from outside his work. 
 He positively revelled among the books in 
 the British Museum. He read them there 
 all the time he could, and read his notes of 
 them at home in the evenings, and worked 
 out most beautiful and interesting details 
 about the connection between the obscure 
 Ephesine family of liturgies and the 
 Hispano-Gallican service books, as ex- 
 emplified in the Mozarabic rite and the 
 fragments of the ancient use of France, as 
 well as a theory of his own, highly in- 
 teresting and grandly original, on the 
 subject of the primitive form of liturgy 
 established by the apostles before their 
 separation, evolved from a comparative 
 study of all extant modes of Christian 
 worship. If these things will not console 
 a man for playing hide and seek with 
 figures for five hours a day, that man must 
 indeed be dead to human joys. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 165 
 
 So Mrs. Everest's well-meant efforts 
 failed ; and David was happy, very happy, 
 and wrote snch letters to his uncle that 
 the old man seemed to have taken out 
 a new lease of life, so proud was he of 
 his nephew. And as for Fanny, David 
 thought no more about her in the 
 way of love than he did of his uncle's 
 sermons. Yet he did think of Fanny, 
 too. Even liturgies and statistics do not 
 make up for the lack of fresh air. Country 
 bred David found the foggy streets and 
 Stirling rooms oppressive in March, after 
 three months of London life. In the 
 evenings after he came back from the 
 Museum he felt the need of fresh air. 
 The nearest place where an imitation of the 
 sort was offered to the public was Eegent's 
 Park, and thither David used to go after 
 he had finished his tea in the evenings. 
 
 He had never objected to solitary walks 
 in the country, indeed, Fanny's enforced 
 presence had greatly bored him at first, 
 
166 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 but of late, as we know, he had found her 
 a very useful grindstone on which to 
 sharpen his wits. He would soon have 
 got used to walking hy himself in quiet 
 lanes, no doubt, but the crowds that throng 
 every part of the Eegent's Park at sunset 
 made him feel more lonely than ever. 
 He could not think with a stream of 
 people constantly passing him, but he 
 could talk if he had anybody to talk to. 
 He tried asking little Fowler for a night 
 or two to accompany him, but Mr. 
 Fowler's one idea of conversation at pre- 
 sent was the perfection of the divine 
 Nellie, and David found that, on the 
 whole, he preferred loneliness to the nine 
 hundredth repetition of the goddess's at- 
 tributes, so but for an accident he might 
 have walked his walks to the lonely end. 
 
 He met Fiametta as he was coming 
 out of his room one glowing evening in 
 March. She had been out to post a letter 
 for Miss Hatchard, and was looking pale 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 167 
 
 and heavy-eyed, as though she had been 
 crying. 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear ? " said 
 David to her, kindly. He always treated 
 her as a little girl, arguing from the 
 masculine premise that any female who 
 wore frocks over the tops of her boots 
 must be a little girl, however tall she 
 might be. 
 
 " Nothing is the matter," said the 
 girl. 
 
 " Now we can talk face to face. You 
 told me I was a liar, you remember; 
 permit me to insinuate that you deviate 
 from the truth. You know you have a 
 headache ; I can see it in your eyes." 
 
 The girl's eyes flashed as he said this. 
 It was curious to watch the sudden 
 lighting up of the dark, sullen caverns 
 and the equally rapid disappearance of 
 the wrathful brilliancy. 
 
 " It is nothing to you if I have," she 
 said. 
 
168 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " Well, no ; and mine is nothing to 
 you," said David, with a sigh, half turn- 
 ing to go down the stairs. " I was 
 hoping you would help me get rid of 
 mine. I suffer frightfully from headache ; 
 
 but there, it's nothing to Good 
 
 evening, Miss Fiametta ; " and David's 
 blue eyes gave a mournful glance upwards 
 from under their long lashes. 
 
 Fiametta hesitated. She had passed 
 him, and was standing some few stairs 
 above him. She saw the pathetic look, 
 as David intended she should do. She 
 paused in her upward movement, and 
 a swift rush of red dyed her face. She 
 seemed uncertain what to do. 
 
 "I was just trying to crawl out for a 
 little," said David, gently. "I feel the 
 want of fresh air so frightfully here ; but 
 the streets and parks are so full of people 
 it makes me melancholy to go among 
 them by myself, and being melancholy 
 increases my headache. But in London 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 169 
 
 nobody cares to take pity on a stranger. 
 Good night." 
 
 Fiametta came down a step or two. 
 
 " Have you nobody to go with you ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "No, nobody at all," he answered 
 
 mournfully; "unless " He smiled 
 
 and looked up. 
 
 "I will come if you like," she said 
 hastily. 
 
 He took her hand and tucked it under 
 his arm. 
 
 " That's right," he said ; " come along." 
 
 "You have taken me in," she said, 
 trying to get her hand free. "I don't 
 believe you have a headache at all. You 
 are insulting me ; " and she struggled to 
 get away from him. 
 
 " Upon my word and honour," he said, 
 stopping in the street, and laying his 
 other hand upon hers that was still within 
 his arm, while he looked straight into her 
 eyes, " I shall be sincerely obliged to you 
 
170 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 if you will come for a walk with me. I 
 am really lonely, and I should like your 
 company, my child." 
 
 She blushed again, but looked him 
 steadily in the face. 
 
 " Won't you be friends with me, little 
 girl ? " he said tenderly. 
 
 " You don't really want me for a 
 friend," she said. " What good can I be 
 to you ? I am poor and friendless ; you 
 are a gentleman, with rich relations and 
 friends and money. I am not rich, and 
 would not be if I could." 
 
 " Neither am I?" he said. " Shall I 
 tell you about my people ? " 
 " If you like." 
 
 " Very well, then. Here beginneth the 
 first chapter of the history of David. 
 Ahem ! Excuse me, my dear, old habits 
 are not easily broken ; for many years I 
 have read the first and second lessons at 
 morning service. Well, to continue, 
 I will tell you all about me, and you 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 171 
 
 shall tell me all about you." And David 
 and his new friend were among the last 
 to leave the inner park that evening 
 before the gates were shut. 
 
 " Where ever 'ave you been, Fia- 
 metta?" said Miss Hatchard, coming out 
 of her studio in the dusk of the spring 
 night, as she heard the girl coming up 
 the stairs. 
 
 " For a walk in the park with Mr. 
 Everest," replied the girl, pausing before 
 the door. 
 
 "Lor! Well, I never! Did he ask 
 you to go ? " 
 
 " Do you suppose I should have gone 
 otherwise? " 
 
 " Well, no ; I don't suppose you would. 
 But what did he ask you for ? " 
 
 " Because I happened to be on the 
 stairs when he was going out, and he 
 wanted somebody to talk to; anybody 
 would have done." 
 
 Miss Hatchard looked inquisitively at 
 
172 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 the girl. There was not a trace of colour 
 or embarrassment upon her face. 
 
 " Lor ! " ejaculated that lady ; " and 
 what 'ull your par say ? " 
 
 " What he likes. I am old enough to 
 choose my own walks and my own com- 
 panions. Besides, he will consider that 
 Mr. Everest is the only person in the 
 house who is really fit to speak to me. 
 Don't you know that he is a gentleman, 
 and I am a lady? " 
 
 " Yes ; but then your par may say 
 that for a young gent and a young lady 
 to go walking about ain't " 
 
 "Bah! " said the girl, with such disgust 
 in her tone that it made the little artist 
 jump. Fiametta slowly lifted her hand, 
 and a glitter like steel came into her 
 Italian eyes. "Do you see," she said, " if 
 by keeping my hand up for a second I 
 could save his or any aristocrat's head from 
 the noose — which is more ignominious 
 than the block — T would bring it down 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 173 
 
 so ; " and she let ifc fall on the banisters 
 with a blow that made the crazy rail 
 rattle. Then, without waiting for a 
 reply, went rapidly upstairs into the 
 garret. 
 
 Her father was sitting there turning 
 over and over his scraps of paper upon 
 the table, and jotting down notes in the 
 corners of them, and being generally 
 employed in making himself believe he 
 was busy. 
 
 " Fiametta, my child, I am getting on 
 now, getting on. We shall soon estab- 
 lish our claim now, my dear. 5 ' 
 
 " I have no claim," she said, " on any- 
 body, but on the earth for room, and the 
 sky for air, and from others the right and 
 the means to live." 
 
 " Ay, ay," he answered, not listening 
 to what she said, "we are getting on 
 now, getting on. Yet, Fiametta, we will 
 deal tenderly with your cousin, deal 
 tenderly. He has kept us out of our 
 
174 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 inheritance and turned his face from us ; 
 he has low blood in his veins ; his father 
 married beneath him, poor fellow, so he 
 cannot help it. We will show that we 
 are of the good old stock by our mag- 
 nanimity ; we will deal tenderly with 
 him, deal tenderly." 
 
 " I will deal tenderly with no man who 
 has oppressed the ignorant and poor," 
 said the girl fiercely. " I will deal 
 tenderly with no man who has usurped 
 the common earth of his brethren and 
 piled up riches with other men's lives. 
 Such men do not deserve to live." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " chuckled the old man. 
 a There speaks her mother's child — no 
 forgiveness in the Vercelli line. Hatreds 
 handed down from father to son, and 
 father to son. From old Michele Yercello 
 down to his great-great-grandson the feud 
 with the House of G-onzaga went on. Ah, 
 it is a fine thing to go back to our 
 ancestors in that way, and to account for 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 175 
 
 things that in common people would only 
 be accidental or eccentric. Ha ! a fine 
 thing, a very fine thing. So you will 
 not be tender to our cousin. Eh, my 
 Fiametta?" 
 
 "No," she said, "I will not. I will 
 be tender to no man. The days for 
 tenderness are past." 
 
 " A fine girl, a fine girl, but with a 
 little craze in her head," he said, looking 
 after her as she went into the inner garret 
 and shut the door. " That comes from 
 her mother's family, too, poor thing ; the 
 Vercelli were always a little excitable. 
 There was never anything of that sort 
 with the Thorolds — never; always a 
 clear-headed, practical race — always ; " 
 and the old man fell to brooding over his 
 papers again. 
 

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 2 
 
 31 
 
 
 
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 £* 
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 CHAPTER X. 
 
 David found his walk with Fiametta so 
 agreeable that the following evening he 
 determined to repeat the experiment. 
 With this intention he presented himself 
 in Miss Hatchard's studio, and asked to 
 be allowed to come in and look at her 
 pictures. Permission, of course, was 
 readily granted, and David was soon 
 ensconced in the only easy chair in the 
 apartment; while the little artist made 
 the most of the remaining light, and went 
 on with her work of designing a wall 
 paper from a very melancholy specimen 
 of draggled ivy that stood in a jug on 
 the table. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 177 
 
 Miss Hatchard was not much delighted 
 to see her visitor. She had been much 
 struck by David's appearance on the 
 night of his first introduction of himself 
 to her ; he had interested her from the first 
 moment, but not altogether pleasantly. 
 She seemed to have some haunting recol- 
 lection of his face, yet she was perfectly 
 certain that she had never seen him 
 before ; but every now and then some 
 glance of his sleepy eyes, or some ex- 
 pression about his mouth, would send a 
 thrill of recollection through her. Having 
 plenty of time to think, she pondered 
 over it a good deal, but she could in no- 
 wise remember anything that afforded 
 a clue to the mystery ; and to-night, as 
 he sat leaning back in her easy chair 
 in full enjoyment of his laziness, she 
 was so impressed by his resemblance 
 to some one whom she remembered 
 that she could not help asking him a 
 question. 
 
 VOL. I. 12 
 
178 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "You ain't never been in London 
 before, 'ave you ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Not since I was a very little boy," 
 he replied. 
 
 " Ah, then, I can't have met you any- 
 where ; it seems, too, as if I'd seen you 
 before." 
 
 "It is your artistic conception of the 
 beautiful realized," said David, languidly. 
 " By the way, what has become of 
 that little red-haired girl I saw here 
 before?" 
 
 " She ain't so little ; she is almost as 
 tall as you," said Miss Hatchard, not 
 altogether pleased at her visitor's w^ay 
 of speaking of the girl she had such an 
 affection for. " Besides, she is past six- 
 teen, and, lor, when I was sixteen I was 
 a woman ! " And Miss Hatchard sighed 
 heavily, as if the recollection of some 
 great trouble occurred to her. 
 
 " She wears short frocks," said David, 
 " so she must be a little girl. Also she 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 179 
 
 is a little girl in her ways. Do you know 
 where she is to-night ? " 
 
 " Gone out, I believe," said Miss Hat- 
 chard, shortly. 
 
 " Ah," said David, with a gentle sigh, 
 looking out of the window, "it is a fine 
 night for a walk, but I am very comfort- 
 able here. I really think that, on the 
 whole, an open window high up is just as 
 good as going out. May I stay here a 
 little while ? " 
 
 " Of course you may, and glad of your 
 company," responded Miss Hatchard, 
 completely vanquished by David's tender 
 melancholy. " Are you sure you're 
 comfortable ? " 
 
 "Very, thank you. There is one, only 
 one, other addition that could possibly be 
 made to my comfort at the present 
 moment. I am very happy looking at 
 you paint and talking to you, but — 
 but " 
 
 "I know what you mean," said the 
 
180 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 artist, laughing; -''it's tobaccer you're 
 after. Lor, I don't mind smoke. Bless 
 you, I ain't been able to see across this 
 room sometimes when young Moses drops 
 in about a panel or two." 
 
 " Miss Hatchard, from this moment I 
 am your slave. You are the only sensible 
 woman I have ever met. With your kind 
 permission I will light my pipe ; " and 
 David did so, and for a few moments was 
 too thoroughly occupied in enjoying it to 
 offer any further remarks on any subject. 
 But it was not in David's nature to 
 remain silent long when he had a woman 
 to talk to. He liked talking to women 
 at this period of his existence better than 
 to men, his uncle excepted. Women had 
 few theories of their own to oppose to 
 his, and David did not like being con- 
 tradicted, and if they were bored they did 
 not show it so readily as men did. But 
 to-night he was not inclined to talk of 
 his work so much as of himself. 
 
IX LONDON TOWN. 181 
 
 " My respected mother," he said be- 
 tween the whiffs of his pipe as he watched 
 the smoke curl lazily about him — " my 
 respected, I may say, venerated mamma, 
 has an insuperable objection to tobacco. 
 I do not know how it is, but most worthy 
 mammas appear to labour under an hallu- 
 cination that tobacco is injurious to their 
 offspring." 
 
 11 1 suppose because it so often leads to 
 drink," said Miss Hatchard, putting in 
 the leaves of her spray, " and drink, you 
 know, ain't good for nobody." 
 
 "I don't know about that," said David. 
 " What is the cause of most of the 
 poverty of our great towns ? Drink. 
 Well, suppose the working man did not 
 drink, did not get out of work, did not 
 get imprisoned, did not die young, — what 
 would become of all the steady men who 
 now get good wages and thrive ? The 
 market would be overstocked, price of 
 labour would go down. It would be an 
 awful thing." 
 
182 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "Lor!" said Miss Hatch ard, pausing 
 in her work, " I never thought o' that." 
 
 " No more you never ought," said the 
 philosopher with the pipe, " because it's 
 humbug." 
 
 This unexpected reply gave a little 
 check to the conversation ; for Miss Hat- 
 chard felt mystified, and David was too 
 lazily enjoying himself to say anything. 
 Presently he began — ■ 
 
 " Our young friend with the red hair." 
 
 " It ain't so red," interposed Miss 
 Hatchard. "When the sun gets it it's 
 quite golden." 
 
 " Ah, that's how it is with you artists, 
 you see beauty in everything," sighed 
 David. " Nobody ever discovered before 
 that I was an incarnation of the beauti- 
 ful, though, in justice to my own intellect, 
 I must say I always had a faint idea of 
 the sort myself. Happy artist ! Can't 
 you teach me to see that red hair is 
 golden?" 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 183 
 
 Miss Hatchard looked queerly at him, 
 but did not answer. 
 
 " Then," pursued David, meditatively, 
 " I might even come to regard freckles 
 as beauty spots, and a lanky figure as 
 truly graceful. Won't you teach me ? " 
 
 " There ain't no need for you to learn," 
 said Miss Hatchard. " You're a quiz, 
 you are. 'Ave you got any sisters ? " 
 
 " No ; I am the last of my race. Melan- 
 choly, isn't it ? — at least it would be if I 
 had a i race ' like our friend Mr. Thorold. 
 I am an only son, the pride and joy of my 
 mother, of course. On second thoughts, 
 though, I have a sort of sister, only she 
 is not a sister — a ward of my uncle's. 
 Two tender flowerlets brought up beside 
 a running stream — you know the style 
 of thing — all simplicity and innocence. 
 You can imagine what she is like from 
 me, only I excel in beauty as she excels 
 in intellect." 
 
 "I suppose you mean you're lovers," 
 
184 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 said Miss Hatchard, who was a good deal 
 puzzled by David's manner of expressing 
 himself. 
 
 " I am too innocent to know what such 
 things mean," said David, knocking the 
 ashes out of his pipe. " I should say 
 she couldn't help being in love with me, 
 should not you ? " 
 
 Miss Hatchard laughed. 
 
 " You are the barest-faced piece of 
 conceit I ever see," she exclaimed. " But 
 I suppose she is," she added, looking 
 rather anxiously at her guest, as though 
 she was very desirous of getting a true 
 answer to her question. 
 
 " We were made for each other," said 
 David between his teeth, in the full enjoy- 
 ment of his pipe, and leaning back at full 
 length in the chair; " destined by the 
 hand of a beneficent Providence for each 
 other. The beautiful economy of nature 
 abhors a vacuum, so as I have no money 
 she endows me with three thousand a 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 185 
 
 year. As I before remarked, I bring 
 beauty and grace. The union would be a 
 very happy one. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 " Well, money is very 'andy," said 
 Miss Hatchard, slowly, "very 'andy; but 
 I 'ope you ain't going to marry her for 
 that alone." 
 
 "Didn't I tell you we were made for 
 each other, connected by the holiest 
 bonds of childhood's associations? She 
 and I have picked primroses together. 
 Once we robbed a neighbouring straw- 
 berry garden. She habitually laced my 
 boots for me, and once — blessed and 
 ever-to-be-hallowed memory — she blacked 
 them." 
 
 " Lor, why didn't you do it yourself? " 
 ejaculated the artist. 
 
 " The circumstances were peculiar," 
 said David, thoughtfully. " We were 
 going for a drive with my mother, and 
 were in our best rig, of course. With 
 the habitual carelessness of childhood, I 
 
186 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 went into the garden and rilled my 
 pockets with gooseberries. The ground 
 was damp. The result may be imagined. 
 Maternal wrath was on the horizon. 
 She, like a good angel, got the black- 
 ing brushes, and averted the disaster. 
 I am sorry to say that a light silk dress 
 suffered in the encounter. If these tender 
 reminiscences don't bind two ardent and 
 youthful souls together, what will ? " 
 
 "And when are you going to be 
 married ? " inquired Miss Hatchard, 
 dubiously. 
 
 " The Lord forbid ! " said David, sitting 
 bolt upright, and almost dropping his 
 pipe, and gazing with horror-struck 
 features at the little artist, who had laid 
 aside her brushes and palette, and was 
 sitting opposite him in the dusk. 
 
 " Lor, I suppose you mean to be 
 married some time," responded Miss 
 Hatchard, rather amazed. 
 
 David slowly rose, knocked the ashes 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 187 
 
 out of his pipe, held out his hand, and 
 said in a slow, pathetic voice — 
 
 " Good night, Miss Hatchard. Don't 
 let the weight of your cruel words keep 
 you awake in the night hours. For 
 
 me Ah, well, good night. Nothing 
 
 short of Sanscrit will do for me after 
 this." 
 
 " Oh dear, I didn't mean nothin'," said 
 Miss Hatchard, quite conscience stricken. 
 
 "I know you did not," said David, 
 tenderly, pressing her hand. " It's my 
 misfortune in being so delicately organized. 
 I shall come again, if you will allow me, 
 some other night. Good night." And 
 with a forgiving smile upon his suffering 
 features David left the room. 
 
 " I can't make that young man out 
 noways," said Miss Hatchard, rubbing 
 her nose with vexation. " Howsoever, 
 one thing is clear — he is engaged to that 
 young /ieiress, little as he likes to own to 
 it. Oh, why is men so deceitful ? Why 
 
188 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 couldn't he say straight out there's a 
 young woman and I loves her, instead of 
 talking all 'is nonsense about recollections 
 and such like. One thing I will look out 
 for — that dear girl shan't be took in by 
 him ; she shall be put up to 'im. Oh, if 
 it weren't for they deceitful men how 
 happy women could be ! " and Miss 
 Hatchard was lost in painful reminiscences 
 until she was startled by a knock at her 
 door. 
 
 " Come in," she cried; and Fiametta 
 entered. 
 
 " Lor, my dear, I am glad you are 
 come. Wherever 'ave you been all the 
 evening ? ' ' 
 
 " For a walk," said the girl. " I didn't 
 want Mr. Everest to think I waited for 
 him to ask me again, so I went out before 
 he came in." 
 
 " And right you are, my dear," said the 
 little woman, delighted. " For Mr. 
 Heverest has been here all the evening, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 189 
 
 smoking ; and he came up here after you, 
 I am sure. Oh, my dear, the ways of men 
 is awful wicked and deceitful ; but I 'ave 
 found him out in time." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Why, jes this 'ere, my dear: don't 
 you be took in with his speeches and his 
 glances and all that, for he don't mean 
 nothink by it. He is engaged to a young 
 lady down at 'is 'ome ; a rich young lady, 
 with three thousand a year ; so don't you 
 mind nothink of what he says to you. 
 Oh, my dear, you are young, and do be 
 warned in time." 
 
 The little woman was quite excited ; she 
 clasped her thin hands, and the tears stood 
 in her little keen eyes as she glanced into 
 the girl's face. 
 
 " What do you take me for?" asked 
 Fiainetta, scornfully. " Do you think I 
 cannot speak to a young man without 
 thinking of love ? Do you think I am 
 such a poor dolt as to believe in that worn- 
 
190 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 out old delusion called love ? I despise 
 any man or woman who tells me that he 
 or she is in love. I don't believe it exists. 
 It is all of a piece with religion and pro- 
 perty and class rights, and belongs to the 
 ages of man's darkness and ignorance. 
 Don't even talk to me of such lying 
 fallacies." 
 
 " Oh, Lor ! " cried the artist ; " oh, lor, 
 my dear. Wherever did you get such 
 'orrid, sinful notions ? " 
 
 Fiametta smiled contemptuously. 
 
 " From books I have read, and meetings 
 I have attended," she replied. " Do you 
 suppose because my father will not let me 
 work that, therefore, I have been idle in 
 every way? Do you suppose I have 
 walked about the streets and seen the 
 scenes that I have seen for nothing ? 
 Have I not seen what men and women 
 have been driven to in this city by the 
 greed of those above them ? Don't I know 
 the police courts, and the refuges, and the 
 

 IN LONDON TOWN. 191 
 
 low haunts of London, where my brothers 
 and sisters are hounded and persecuted 
 and hunted down to death by those above 
 them? Oh, and when I know all this, 
 you come and talk to me of love ! There 
 is no love in the world ; it has been 
 crushed out by greed and crime and 
 wealth. Oh, it will never return in your 
 time or in mine ! " And, overcome by 
 the passion in her heart, Fiametta sank 
 her head upon her arms, and turned and 
 leaned against the door. 
 
 Miss Hatchard stood amazed in the 
 middle of the room. She had never had 
 the faintest idea of the real state of 
 Fiametta's mind. She had treated her 
 muttered complaints and general discon- 
 tent as the natural results of her poverty- 
 stricken life. She had never guessed at 
 the thoughts that surged in the girl's 
 mind, and that made even the sunshine a 
 blackness to her, because it shone on the 
 evil and the good alike. 
 
192 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 She looked at Fiametta as she stood 
 leaning against the door, with one arm 
 across her face, as a child shields its eyes 
 from the gaze of a curious passer-by. She 
 was trembling with emotion ; and a sob, 
 half womanly, half childish, burst from 
 her lips. It was difficult to know how to 
 treat her — whether to scold her and to 
 send her to bed, or to soothe and pity her. 
 Miss Hatchard choose a middle course. 
 
 " I dunno how you can stand there and 
 say such things," she said gravely. "I 
 know as you've 'ad a rough time of it, no 
 money, nor fun like girls like to have ; 
 but ye've no right to say there's no love 
 in the world, w T hen you think of what your 
 father is doing for you, night and day." 
 
 Fiametta slowly dropped her arm ; she 
 was very white, and her eyes shone like 
 stars. 
 
 " He does not do it for my sake," she 
 answered ; " he would do the same if I 
 were dead. He has the pride of race in 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 193 
 
 his heart ; he loves his family name, if he 
 loves anything. I am but a peg to hang 
 a name upon. Don't you know that he 
 has made his will, and that when the 
 estates come to me, which they never 
 will, my husband is to take my name ? " 
 
 " Lor ! " said the artist ; " well, he is a 
 far-seein' old gent, to be sure. But ye're 
 very hard upon him, Fiametta, to say as 
 he don't love you." 
 
 " I am glad he does not," said the girl, 
 shortly; "it would only be one more 
 wrong in the world if he did ; for to love 
 any one person in particular defrauds 
 humanity of another little portion of that 
 general love that all men should have for 
 each other. To love one person means 
 that you will sacrifice others for that one 
 person's benefit. It is wicked even to talk 
 of such a thing." 
 
 " Go to bed with you ! " said the little 
 artist, tartly; " and I wish I was your 
 ma, to give you a good whipping for 
 
 VOL. I. 13 
 
194 
 
 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 talking of what you don't know nothink 
 about." 
 
 "I know that I will never love any- 
 body," said the girl, shaking her red mane 
 defiantly, as she marched out of the room. 
 " Never, never, never ! " 
 
CHAPTEE XL 
 
 Mk. Fowlek was standing in the portico 
 of the British Museum one day in April, 
 feeling as melancholy as a good little 
 man with a firm faith in Providence can 
 feel. He had had a very trying day. 
 A superior official, and a very awful one, 
 had come down with all his eloquence on 
 our poor little friend's head that day, and 
 had made things very uncomfortable 
 indeed for him. The threat of having his 
 rise of pay stopped was sufficiently awful 
 in itself, and the knowledge that a few 
 more of these scenes would end in dis- 
 missal nearly frightened him to death. 
 And for the life of him Mr. Fowler could 
 
196 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 not discover what he had done wrong. 
 He had a vague idea that he had sent in 
 his work as usual, and had had it returned 
 a perfect network of scratches ; but what 
 the scratches were for, or where he had 
 been wrong, he failed to discover, for the 
 chief having summoned him into his own 
 room, Mr. Fowler passed through a period 
 of annihilation with such success that his 
 very stammering forsook him, and he 
 came out perfectly speechless and devoid 
 of all power of recognition of anything. 
 
 After an hour or two's quiet he re- 
 covered sufficiently to feel how miserable 
 he was, and that it was four o'clock. So 
 he changed his coat, and put on his hat, 
 and crawled dejectedly out into the portico 
 to find that it was raining heavily. 
 
 In his present despondent state, Mr. 
 Fowier did not care whether he got wet or 
 not ; but habit obliged him to pause and 
 open his umbrella, and as he did so in a 
 somewhat absent manner, he took a young 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 197 
 
 lady's bonnet off on one of the points. 
 So fearful a catastrophe as this brought 
 him to his senses in no time, and in a 
 perfect agony of blushes and contrition 
 Mr. Fowler turned to stammer out his 
 apologies, being far too much overcome 
 by his position to see whom he addressed. 
 
 " Oh, it doesn't matter a bit, Mr. 
 Fowler ! " said a sweet, fresh voice, that 
 sent a thrill through him ; " the bonnet is 
 not hurt in the least." 
 
 " M-m-miss Nellie," stammered Mr. 
 Fow]er, " I n-n-n-never was so pleased 
 — so miserable ; I m-m-mean, I am most 
 delighted to see you." 
 
 " I have been in the reading-room," 
 said the girl ; " and, oh, it does make my 
 head ache so ; and isn't this rain horrid, 
 just when I w r ant to go aw T ay ? " 
 
 In his soul Mr. Fowler blessed that rain 
 as he never had blessed any work of nature 
 before ; but he was human enough to 
 say— 
 
198 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " V-Y-very horrid; but it will c-c-clear 
 in a few minutes, I have no doubt. " 
 
 Nellie pouted, and looked at the clouds. 
 
 " Will it ? " she said despairingly. 
 
 " I — I — I am sure of it," gasped Mr. 
 Fowler. " But won't you come in out of 
 the d-d-d-damp ? " 
 
 " Yes," said she, sighing. "I suppose 
 I ought to go and improve my mind by 
 looking at something somewhere. What 
 do you think is the least improving thing 
 I could look at here ? " 
 
 Mr. Fowler pondered deeply. 
 
 "I should say," he replied reflectively, 
 " humming birds ; they don't do anything, 
 you know." 
 
 " Oh yes, and they are pretty," said 
 Nellie, enthusiastically. " Do let us look 
 at those, only you will promise not to 
 tell me anything about the ' species,' or 
 their horrid names ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly not ! " cried Mr. Fowler, 
 all his troubles gone, and feeling in a 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 199 
 
 perfect ecstasy of delight as he went up 
 the broad, white steps to the Natural 
 History galleries with his pretty com- 
 panion. The superior officer and his 
 manners w T ere quite eclipsed by the fair- 
 haired girl in the blue bonnet. 
 
 "Oh, they are pretty!" Nellie ex- 
 claimed, as they stood before one of the 
 cases containing Mr. Gould's beautifully 
 arranged groups of humming birds ; " they 
 realty look as if they were flying — don't 
 they? and the leaves and flowers and 
 everything ! " 
 
 "Th-they are b-b-b-beautifully done," 
 said her companion. 
 
 " Wouldn't they be sweet in a bonnet," 
 sighed Nellie, as she moved on to another 
 case. " I wanted one in a bonnet 
 once, but aunt would not let me have 
 it. She belongs to a society for pre- 
 venting the destruction of birds for 
 fashionable purposes, or something of that 
 sort. But she has fowls for dinner, and I 
 
200 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 don't see that that is any better— do 
 you ? " 
 
 " N-n-no," said Mr. Fowler, who would 
 have agreed to anything on earth that 
 Nellie said, except that the rain had 
 stopped. She did declare once that she 
 thought the sun had come out ; but the 
 rash young man perjured himself deeply 
 on the spot, and so they spent at least an 
 hour in wandering about the galleries and 
 chatting together, till at last Nellie de- 
 clared she must go, whether the rain had 
 stopped or not, or she would be late for 
 dinner, and that would make her aunt late 
 for a meeting that evening. 
 
 " W-what sort of meeting ? " asked Mr. 
 Fowler, who had become very nearly at 
 his ease by this time. 
 
 "I am not sure if it's anti-vivisection, 
 or a debate on the necessity for abolishing 
 the House of Lords," returned his com- 
 panion. " I know it's something I don't 
 care a bit about, and I shall have to go 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 201 
 
 and listen to lots of long speeches. I 
 don't want to vivisect anybody; and the 
 only lord I ever saw, took the chair at a 
 meeting at our house once, and I never 
 saw such a fuss in my life as everybody 
 made of him. I thought aunt would 
 have gone crazy when she found he really 
 was coming, and all the other women 
 nearly fought to get introduced to him ; 
 so I don't see what they want to abolish 
 the House of Lords for." 
 
 " Must you go ? " asked Mr. Fowler. 
 
 "Oh yes, I must," she replied, shaking 
 her pretty head. "Aunt says I am 
 criminally indifferent to all the burning 
 questions of the day; but I don't see 
 what good I should do by being in- 
 terested in them; however, I suppose 
 I shall be some day, if I go to meetings 
 enough." 
 
 " I — I — I hope you won't be," said Mr. 
 Fowler, earnestly ; " I — I hope you 
 won't be." 
 
202 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 cl Oh, you ought not to say that," she 
 said gravely. " I am very glad you don't 
 think me wicked not to care ; but you 
 ought not to encourage me in it, I am 
 afraid." 
 
 " You're so m-m-m-much sweeter as 
 you are," said Mr. Fowler, frantically. 
 The audacity of this shameless avowal 
 kept him miserable for days afterwards. 
 
 Nellie blushed; that blush alternately 
 filled Mr. Fowler with bliss and rage 
 the whole night through. Then she 
 smiled, and said — 
 
 " Oh, I must go; but I have enjoyed 
 the humming birds so much. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 " Good-bye," he replied. He was 
 plunged into the depths of misery by his 
 presumption and the thought of her 
 departure. 
 
 They went out into the portico together. 
 The sun was shining brightly, and all 
 traces of the rain clouds were past. Once 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 203 
 
 in the portico, it suddenly occurred to Mr. 
 Fowler that he might walk to the gate 
 with his companion. He did so in silence ; 
 but as 'they reached the iron portals, Nellie 
 turned to him, and, in a horror-stricken 
 voice, exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh, what can I say to aunt about this 
 last hour? I have learnt nothing, abso- 
 lutely nothing ! " 
 
 Mr. Fowler gazed helplessly into her 
 eyes. 
 
 " S-s-say you were talking to me," 
 he faltered, " telling me about your 
 m-m-m-meetings." 
 
 Nellie's face brightened. 
 
 " Oh, that will just do ! " she cried ; 
 " but, then," she added, " aunt will think 
 you are bound to be interested in them, 
 and will send you heaps of papers about 
 them. She will want you to join societies. 
 Oh, you will have a frightful time ! " 
 
 "N-n-not at all," said Mr. Fowler, 
 rapidly. "I — I shall enjoy going to 
 
204 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 any meetings where y-y-you go, Miss 
 Nellie." 
 
 Thus that unlucky young man plunged 
 headlong deeper and deeper into the 
 abyss. He had scarcely come up again 
 in time to receive Miss Nellie's grateful 
 smile, and to take her hand in his for one 
 brief delicious instant, when she was 
 gone, and he was plunged down deeper 
 than ever, and reduced to a state of semi- 
 lunacy by a combination of rough chief 
 and bewitching womanhood. 
 
 Nellie must have accounted for her 
 hour in a manner very satisfactory to her 
 aunt, for the next day a huge bundle of 
 papers was delivered by the postman to 
 Mr. Fowler's address at the Museum. 
 The messenger in the hall gave them to 
 him as he came out at four o'clock, and 
 Mr. Fowler's heart beat high and fast 
 as he recognized a lady's handwriting 
 on the wrapper. 
 
 The papers consisted of slips reprinted 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 205 
 
 from newspapers and magazines, leaflets 
 on anti-vivisection, anti-vaccination, anti- 
 drink, anti-aristocracy, anti-sense, anti- 
 e very thing that the mind of man can 
 conceive and the energy of woman try to 
 oppose. 
 
 They did not trouble Mr. Fowler very 
 much ; he cared infinitely more for the 
 wrapper than the papers. He kept them 
 all religiously as coming more or less 
 from Nellie, but he did not feel interested 
 in their contents, knowing perfectly well 
 that she did not care about them either ; 
 but he pored over her scrap of writing 
 that evening until he became a few 
 degrees more bewildered than he was to 
 begin with, and was only roused from his 
 reverie by David knocking at his door. 
 
 " Got any lights?" said that hero. 
 " They have a wonderful cat here, who 
 consumes my matches every day. I wish 
 you would secure her for your specimens. 
 I am sure her interior would afford an 
 
206 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 interesting study. Halloo ! what have 
 you got to do with anti- vivisection ? I'll 
 make a present of this cat to the president, 
 and lay you anything you like that he 
 will change sides after a fortnight." 
 
 " Why, Everest, m-m-my dear fellow, 
 what has put you out so to-night ? " 
 
 "That cat," said David. "She has 
 eaten half a pound of tea, two eggs, a 
 box of sardines, some tooth powder, the 
 aforesaid matches, two bottles of beer, 
 and a cake of soap since yesterday. Such 
 animals ought not to be allowed to live. 
 They prey upon the human race to an 
 extent that is not justifiable." 
 
 "Ah, I see," said Mr. Fowler, simply, 
 " you have no 1-1-1-lock on your sideboard. 
 I had none when I came, and afterwards, 
 when I had one put on, I did not find 
 things any better. But I have a c-c-c-cup- 
 board in my room, and I find things keep 
 all right there, only the lock is always 
 getting out of order." 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 207 
 
 " I examined my sideboard," said David. 
 " They don't tamper with the lock ; they 
 have a much simpler plan. The back is 
 hollow, and they just lift it out and 
 abstract from there." 
 
 " Dear me, w-why that accounts for my 
 missing things even when I 1-1-1-locked 
 the doors," said Mr. Fowler, in astonish- 
 ment. " Well, how very ingenious people 
 are, to be sure ! Now, I should never 
 have thought of that." 
 
 " What are those papers for?" asked 
 David. " Pipe-lights ? " 
 
 " Oh dear, no," said Mr. Fowler, 
 reddening ; " th-th-they are most interest- 
 ing, I assure you. I — I — I think of 
 attending some of the meetings. I — I — I 
 — I am very much interested in these 
 subjects." 
 
 " Faith," said David, calmly, " has 
 been admirably defined by an intelligent 
 school-girl as the faculty for believing 
 that which we know to be untrue. 
 
208 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 I believe you, therefore, Fowler, of 
 course." 
 
 " W-w-w-well," said Mr. Fowler, turn- 
 ing to such a deep crimson that the whites 
 of his eyes were quite startling by con- 
 trast, " I — I don't know much ab-b-b-bout 
 them, but I have no doubt they are 
 interesting. Th-th-the fact is " 
 
 " That a goddess will be present. I 
 quite follow you, my dear boy ; go on. 
 I can sleep quite comfortably under it 
 now." 
 
 " I — I — I really mean to go," said Mr. 
 Fowler. " W- won't you c-c-c-come too, 
 Everest ? I — I am sure you will n-never 
 laugh again." 
 
 " I can quite imagine that," said David, 
 seriously. 
 
 " N-n-no, no ; I mean laugh at her 
 again. Everest, you really are so very 
 quick." 
 
 " My dear boy," said David, taking his 
 pipe from his mouth and looking earnestly 
 
IN LONDON TOWN, 
 
 209 
 
 at his companion, " I never laughed at 
 women yet. They are far too serious 
 elements of discomfort to be treated with 
 levity." 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 14 
 
CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 "Will you, won't you, will you come 
 and see the sunset ? " said David to 
 Kametta one evening, not long after he 
 had been in Miss Hatchard's studio. 
 
 "I don't care about sunsets," she 
 answered. 
 
 " Then you can look at me instead, 
 and watch the rosy glow from the west 
 illumine the stately splendour of my ex- 
 pressive features. I am sure it will repay 
 you the trouble of coming." 
 
 " It would not be any trouble to come," 
 she said dubiously; "but I don't see 
 why I should minister to your pleasures. 
 You do nothing for other people." 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 211 
 
 She made a melancholy picture as she 
 said this in her soft young voice. There 
 was a troubled look, that belonged to 
 fretted middle age rather than to girl- 
 hood, in her dark eyes. They seemed to 
 have no light from within, but to lie like 
 pools in a deep cavern, waiting for some 
 radiance from without. The creamy tint 
 of her cheeks had not even the faintest 
 flush of rose, her dark eyes, her lips, and 
 her tangled mass of crisp, burning hair 
 alone had any warmth of colour in them. 
 Any one better acquainted with girls than 
 David would have seen promise of rare 
 beauty in her oval face and long thin 
 figure. She was at her most awkward 
 age now, but even in spite of this she was 
 not absolutely ungraceful ; though her 
 short lilac cotton frock and her cheap 
 ill-fitting boots put the very worst pos- 
 sible construction upon her undeveloped 
 figure. 
 
 David only saw in her a brooding, 
 
212 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 unhappy girl, who had a wretched life 
 of grinding poverty and helpless pride ; 
 an awkward ungainly girl, with no grace 
 of manners or speech, and no knowledge 
 of the ordinary courtesies of life common 
 among gentlefolks — a complete contrast 
 to well-bred Fanny, with her drawing- 
 room graces. David was sorry for her; 
 he felt a kind of protecting pity for 
 all helpless things, though he rarely con- 
 cerned himself much about them ; but it 
 suited him to make friends with this girl, 
 for he honestly believed that he might 
 brighten her life for her a little, so he 
 systematically took no notice of her rude 
 speeches, but continued his efforts to 
 amuse her. 
 
 " You do nothing for other people," 
 she had said, and had looked down upon 
 him with her soft sad eyes. 
 
 David did not often question the ex- 
 pediency of his wishes. He did not do 
 so now, when he came up the steps 
 
IX LONDON TOWN. 213 
 
 between them, put his arm round her 
 waist and kissed her. 
 
 "You ridiculous little girl! " he said. 
 " How can I do anything for anybody if 
 you thwart me in my very first efforts ? 
 Here am I trying to improve your health 
 and spirits, and you check me at every 
 turn. You will never have any success 
 with your pupils if you treat them in that 
 way." 
 
 She had blushed hotly and quickly 
 when his lips touched her cheek, but 
 the red faded away as rapidly as it had 
 come. 
 
 "You had no right to do that," she 
 said, with something of a tremble upon 
 her lips. 
 
 " Yes, I had, every right," said David 
 the undaunted. " Are we not all brothers 
 and sisters ? " He knew her socialistic 
 tendencies, and turned them to his own 
 account in the most unblushing manner. 
 " I thought " — with a tender reproach in 
 
214 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 his tone — "that you and I might be 
 really that best of all possible things — 
 perfect friends, without any nonsense of 
 flirtation or that sort of thing." And he 
 paused for a reply. 
 
 She was silent for some time, looking 
 up into his face as he stood beside her 
 with something of the fear of a hunted 
 wild animal in her beautiful eyes. Gradu- 
 ally the fear gave place to a wistful yearn- 
 ing that was half reproach, half longing ; 
 but she did not lower them, only looked 
 into his eyes as a light slowly gathered in 
 her own. David could bear it no longer ; 
 he stooped and kissed her lips. 
 
 " You agree, dear little friend?" he 
 said. " Now let us go for our walk." 
 
 She turned and went silently upstairs. 
 
 " Will she come downstairs again ? " 
 thought David, as he waited for her. 
 " Eeally, girls are moderately interesting^ 
 after all." 
 
 And David was so absorbed by the 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 215 
 
 profundity of his new discovery that 
 Fiametta was standing beside him before 
 he noticed her. 
 
 " I am ready," she said. 
 
 " Eh, so you are. I must get my 
 hat." And they went down the stairs 
 together and out into the streets. 
 
 They did not say much while they 
 crossed the dull, dusty squares and 
 monotonous respectable streets of Blooms- 
 bury, where the air felt as if it had passed 
 through the lungs of half London before 
 it got there. After they crossed the 
 Eusfcon Koad and came into the low, 
 dirty streets on their way to Cambridge 
 Gate, Fiametta remarked — 
 
 " I wonder if aristocrats ever come into 
 streets like these, and what they feel 
 when they do." 
 
 " Just what I do," said David, — " a 
 yearning to get out again. What else 
 should they feel ? They have noses like 
 other people, you know." 
 
216 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 Fiametta glanced scornfully at him. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose they all talk in that 
 cold, sneering way of others' sufferings, as 
 you do." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if they do. You 
 see l other people,' that is, people outside 
 one's acquaintance, don't concern one 
 much." 
 
 " They ought," said the girl vehe- 
 mently. " The misery and suffering of 
 other people ought to affect you." 
 
 "Why?" asked David. 
 
 " So that you might help them. Help 
 to hreak down the awful harriers that are 
 raised between the rich and the poor, to 
 do away with the tyranny of the strong 
 over the weak, to help forward the time 
 when all men shall be equal, when there 
 shall be no rich and no poor ? " 
 
 "With an equal redistribution of pro- 
 perty every Saturday night," said David. 
 " Well, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad 
 thing. I should run through all mine in 
 
IX LONDON TOWN. 217 
 
 the week, and come up for a fresh supply 
 on Saturday. It would save one a great 
 deal of trouble ; for married men with 
 large families it would be a boon and a 
 blessing. Go on, my dear ; this is very 
 instructive." 
 
 "You are mocking me!" she cried, 
 turning upon him with a flash of anger. 
 " You are cruel and scoffing." 
 
 "Not at all," said David, tucking her 
 hand into his arm; "but you must 
 remember that I have been brought up 
 among the upper classes, at least my 
 uncle, poor old fellow, is a gentleman of 
 good family. Don't despise him for it ; it 
 was managed absolutely without his con- 
 sent being asked ; he can't help it. So 
 you must make allowances for me, you 
 see. Here we are at the park. Now we 
 will find a nice grassy place, and I will 
 smoke, and you shall instruct." 
 
 After some trouble they discovered a 
 little knoll on the western side of the 
 
218 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 great walk, that w r as tolerably free from 
 intruders. And here they settled them- 
 selves, Fiametta sitting on the grass 
 looking towards the west, with the sun- 
 light turning her hair into rippling gold, 
 and David stretched at full length beside 
 her. 
 
 The hum of feet and voices, and the 
 multitudinous sounds of the great city 
 were in the air, but a blue haze hovered 
 among the trees, and lay over the villas 
 of St. John's Wood, and seemed to cut 
 them off from the streets. Overhead the 
 sky was golden and orange, and the sun 
 was sinking into a hazy nest of dull 
 crimsoned smoke in the west. 
 
 " Well," said David, after along silence, 
 " it's pretty comfortable, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, with a long sigh. 
 " And why should I be comfortable when 
 there are thousands of people there " — and 
 she waved her hand towards the east — 
 " toiling, and miserable, and wretched? " 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 219 
 
 " My poor little dear," said David, 
 raising himself on his elbow and looking 
 into her face, " why do you have such 
 thoughts?" 
 
 " I can't help them, and I wouldn't if I 
 could." 
 
 "You would rather be miserable?" 
 asked David. 
 
 " No," she said, angrily, " no ; I would 
 rather every one was happy. You know 
 what I mean." 
 
 " You would rather, for instance, that 
 I was happy than miserable." 
 
 " I don't care for you in particular. I 
 mean that every one ought to be happy, 
 and it is wicked for a few people to be 
 happy when millions are full of wretched- 
 ness. I wish that you were unhappy, 
 very unhappy ; for then you might care a 
 little for others' misery, and so help to 
 make things right." 
 
 " You will make me unhappy before you 
 have done," said David, reproachfully. 
 
220 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "I wish I could," she exclaimed vehe- 
 mently. 
 
 " By George ! I think you will if you go 
 on like this," he returned, as he resumed 
 his pipe. And then they both fell to 
 watching the sun sink slowly down into 
 the west. " Well, do you feel satisfied ? " 
 asked David, as the last of the crimson 
 clouds faded into purple. "You have 
 spoilt a splendid sunset for me, and taken 
 all the flavour out of three pipes of 
 tobacco. Very well for a beginning." 
 
 Another of those quick painful blushes 
 dyed the girl's face. 
 
 "I did not mean to do that," she 
 faltered. 
 
 " To-morrow night," said David, " I 
 shall only smoke two pipes, the next 
 night one, the night after I shall sigh 
 very heavily, on the following night with 
 good luck I shall groan, by the end 
 of a week I shall be able to weep. You 
 have a very promising pupil." 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 221 
 
 Her dark, solemn eyes looked so 
 reproachfully at him that he did what he 
 ought not to have done, and stooped 
 under the shadow of the trees and kissed 
 her again. 
 
 "I don't mean that either," he said. 
 " We won't talk nonsense any more. 
 Shall I tell you some more ahout my 
 home in Devonshire ? " 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 And so he told her of the old Kectory, 
 the tall trees that shadowed it, the roses 
 that crept about its windows, the flowers 
 in his mother's garden, the deep green 
 lanes, and the flowery meadows. Fia- 
 metta had never been in the country, and 
 her quick imagination was fired by his 
 descriptions. He noted the effect they had 
 upon her, how they drew her out of her 
 morbid self-communings, and prolonged 
 his bright account until they reached the 
 door of the house. 
 
 " I did not know anything was like 
 
222 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 that," she said with a sigh, as they went 
 up the stairs. 
 
 " Come out to-morrow night and I will 
 tell you some more," said David ; "it 
 will make you so delightfully miserable 
 by contrast, you know, that it will be 
 criminal in you to resist. "What — won't 
 you wish me good night ? " 
 
 "No," she said angrily. "You are a 
 scoffer ! " And she vanished up the 
 stairs, all the memory of his bright 
 pictures of country life driven away by 
 his banter at the end. 
 
 She would not stop at Miss Hat chard's 
 door and speak to her, as she generally 
 did when she came in, but went straight 
 up into the garrets. 
 
 Her father was there as usual, sitting 
 at the little table with his papers before 
 him. He took no notice of her coming 
 in until she had placed some bread and 
 cheese on a plate beside him for his 
 supper, and then he bade her go to bed, 
 for it was late. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 223 
 
 "I will go down and sit with Mr. 
 Everest while you take the candle into 
 your room," he said. "It is the last we 
 have, so put it outside the door when you 
 have finished with it." 
 
 "Mr. Everest," she repeated; "what 
 do you know of Mr. Everest ? " 
 
 The old man shuffled his papers about 
 nervously, and stammered a little in his 
 answer. 
 
 "I— I, well, that is, Mr. Everest— oh 
 yes, my dear, I met him in the Museum 
 one day. He reads there very regularly. 
 A very intelligent young man, a young 
 man worth cultivating. Don't forget 
 about the candle, my dear." 
 
 " Mr, Everest reads when he comes in," 
 said the girl. " You will hinder him if 
 you go down." 
 
 " I shall not stay a moment. I have a 
 question I want to ask him. I have been 
 clown once to-night, but he was out. 
 Good night, my love, God bless you." 
 
224 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 And the old man shambled out of the 
 apartment. 
 
 Fiametta stood looking thoughtfully 
 after him. She could not understand her 
 father's anxiety to go downstairs, neither 
 did she quite see why David, if he knew 
 her father, had never told her so. She 
 remembered that he had not shown any 
 wish to talk about him when his name 
 had been casually mentioned in the 
 course of their conversation. On the 
 other hand, she did not consider that her 
 father was a sufficiently interesting person 
 for David to express much curiosity 
 about him, so she thought no more of the 
 matter, for the memory of her own 
 wrongs, in the shape of his mocking 
 speeches, kept her eyes burning and her 
 pulses hot for a long time after her father 
 had come back again. 
 
 Mr. Thorold's errand to David's room 
 was capable of two interpretations, neither 
 of which, fortunately for Fiametta's peace 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 225 
 
 of mind, occurred to her. A broken-down 
 old man, whose best years have been 
 spent in pursuance of a delusion, with no 
 friends, no money, no prospects, is reduced 
 to one of two things — to starve, or to 
 borrow. The workhouse, the onty other 
 possible refuge, was not even in the 
 question to such old men as Mr. Thorold. 
 So much of the gentleman was left in 
 him still that he could borrow, for he 
 believed that in some not very remote 
 future he could repay shillings by pounds, 
 but to accept alms was just as impossible 
 for him as to explore the interior of 
 Africa. Even the borrowing was not 
 pleasant, though, as he repeated over and 
 over to himself as he groped his way 
 down the dark stairs, any gentleman may 
 be in temporary difficulties and obliged to 
 call upon his friends for pecuniary as- 
 sistance ; but so little did he like the 
 task, that his manner was of the most 
 offensive nature when David opened his 
 
 VOL. i. 15 
 
226 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 door in answer to his knock. He tried 
 by the lordliness of his air, poor old man, 
 to do away with the extreme lowliness of 
 his errand. 
 
 " I ha — called, ha," he said, "in fact — 
 I have wished." 
 
 "Pray come in," said David, divining 
 his visitor's errand at once. " I am just 
 going to have supper; will you join 
 me?" 
 
 "I am. obliged to you. No, I thank 
 you. I dined late." 
 
 " Oh, you had better," said David, 
 good-humouredly, not in the least taken 
 in by this very transparent He. " Anyhow, 
 have a glass of beer ? " 
 
 " None, I thank you. In fact, it was a 
 mere matter of business I called to see 
 you about — a mere temporary accommo- 
 dation. I am on the right track, the 
 right track at last, Mr. Everest," said the 
 old man, suddenly dropping his imposing 
 air, and looking anxiously for some con- 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 227 
 
 firmation of his doubting hopes into the 
 younger man's face. 
 
 " Of course, of course," said David; 
 " no doubt you are." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly," he assented, 
 again resuming his offensive tone of 
 patronizing importance; " not the least 
 doubt about it. But a set of low fellows — 
 attorneys, low fellows, who are obliged to 
 drain and squeeze every penny they can 
 out of their superiors, — these grasping, 
 low fellows, why, they drain a man before 
 he comes into his property. They will do 
 nothing, absolutely nothing, my dear sir, 
 without money." 
 
 " Which means," said David to him- 
 self, " that my friend the patriarch has no 
 money to buy his breakfast with." But 
 he listened in silence. 
 
 " You have seen my daughter? " said the 
 old man pompously. " That young lady, 
 sir, has in her veins some of the best 
 blood of the Italian nobility. My wife was 
 
228 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 a Vercelli. You know my family ? Is it 
 not, I ask you, a monstrous thing that that 
 young lady should be the prey of a low 
 gang of grasping attorneys ? Incredible ! ' ' 
 
 " So it is," said David, " very. Can I 
 be of any assistance to you ? " 
 
 The old man looked eagerly at him. 
 There was a hungry light in his bleared 
 eyes, a ghastly expression on his haggard 
 face, his long iron-grey hair mingled with 
 his rough beard over his greasy patched 
 coat. He was as little like the heir to 
 a great estate as can well be imagined ; 
 and David, for one, had never believed he 
 had a shadow of a claim. 
 
 " I have no money," he said, laying his 
 long claw-like fingers on the table, " none 
 at all." He was trembling with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Have a glass of beer, do ! " said David. 
 " Odd thing, you know, I have been with- 
 out money too. It's a common com- 
 plaint. Your daughter, by the way, has 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 229 
 
 a charming remedy for all those diseases, 
 though I can't say I have completely 
 mastered the details of her scheme yet. I 
 only know it holds out delightful hopes to 
 lazy men, like myself." 
 
 Mr. Thorold had taken the glass of beer 
 that David pressed upon him, but he 
 sat with it in his hand, thinking. The 
 light had vanished out of his eyes as it 
 was wont to do out of his daughter's — 
 completely and suddenly like the light 
 of a lamp blown out. His head was 
 pushed slightly forward, his shoulders 
 bowed. When he spoke again it was in 
 his usual high-pitched, trembling voice. 
 
 " They scoff at me because I am poor," 
 he said. " How should a man be otherwise 
 than poor when he is unlawfully kept out 
 of his property ? I say unlawfully. James 
 Thorold has no claim, not the shadow of 
 a claim. Was not John Thorold the elder 
 son, and did he not go abroad and marry ? 
 Yes ; I know he married. They have no 
 
230 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 right to say he died a bachelor. I will 
 prove it. He is my ancestor. How am 
 I a Thorold if he did not marry ? They 
 are liars and robbers all together, every 
 one of them, from James back to Eobert, 
 John's younger brother ; but I will prove 
 it yet — prove his marriage in spite of 
 them all." And in his weak, nervous ex- 
 citement he half rose, forgetting the glass 
 he held in his hand. 
 
 " Put it inside your coat instead of 
 out," said David, checking its overflow. 
 "It's clear waste of the gifts of Provi- 
 dence to wash a coat with beer." 
 
 The old man looked confusedly at him. 
 
 " I will prove it yet," he said. 
 
 " Of course you will," replied David. 
 " Have some supper ? " 
 
 The question seemed to recall his 
 wandering faculties. 
 
 " No, no," he said. " I came about 
 something; " and he looked helplessly at 
 David. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 231 
 
 " To be sure," said David, cheerfully. 
 "Done trie same thing myself" — which 
 was a lie. " Will a sovereign be any use ? 
 Sorry I can't say a note, but it's near the 
 end of my financial month. They pay us 
 in the middle of the month, which is a 
 most confounded arrangement ; for one 
 always feels that the calendar month is 
 the orthodox one, so one is ridiculously 
 liable to run out of one's coin in the early 
 days of the new one." 
 
 Again that swift, sudden light rushed 
 into the old man's eyes as he saw the 
 gleam of the gold upon the table, and he 
 stretched out his trembling hand towards 
 it ; but he drew it back, and, looking with 
 an affectation of carelessness for his hat 
 which he had put on to come downstairs, 
 remarked — 
 
 " Ah, you are very good. A mere 
 temporary assistance. Twenty per cent, 
 is always my principle." 
 
 " Oh, don't bother about that," said 
 
232 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 David, carelessly. " Very glad to be of 
 any use to you." 
 
 " Excuse me, but I — ah, really cannot 
 accept this loan as a favour; not as a 
 favour." And the old man laid the 
 money, with much dignity, on the table. 
 
 David would have laughed had the poor 
 old figure before him been a whit less 
 pathetic in its feeble pride and wandering 
 intellect ; as it was, he felt kindly dis- 
 posed to the poor shattered gentleman. 
 
 " The favour is on my side," he said 
 gravely, with a bow. 
 
 The old man returned the courtesy 
 with something approaching to a real 
 stateliness of gesture ; but he marred its 
 effect completely by turning, as he came 
 to the door, and saying — 
 
 "I am on the right track, the right 
 track now." And so saying disappeared 
 on the dark landing. 
 
CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 Mk. Fowler was sitting alone in his little 
 sitting-room the day after he had escorted 
 Nellie Guthrie through the Natural History 
 Departments of the British Museum, and 
 was thinking with all his might and main 
 about her, when a card was brought to 
 him bearing the name of " Mr. Thomas 
 Mario w " upon it. 
 
 " You did not recognize me, nor did I 
 you," said the owner of the card, following 
 Sarah Ann into the room. " But Miss 
 Guthrie and Miss Markham were speaking 
 of you last night, so I thought I would 
 hunt you up. They gave me your private 
 address at the Museum." 
 
234 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " M-Marlow, how do you do ? I — I — 
 I am delighted to see you," stammered 
 Mr. Fowler, faintly, as he endeavoured, 
 by some inward process, to pull himself 
 together. Then as the visitor advanced, 
 and he recognized the cool stranger who 
 had carried Nellie from him on the night 
 of the party at Miss Markham's house, his 
 brow contracted — darkened would be the 
 proper word, if Mr. Fowler had not been 
 too fair and his eyebrows too light for 
 the expression to be appropriate. 
 
 The stranger did not appear to notice 
 it, but stood with his back to the mantel- 
 shelf, and his hands in his pockets, as 
 coolly as if he were the owner of the 
 rooms, while Mr. Fowler sank somewhat 
 helplessly upon a chair. 
 
 "I — I " began Mr. Fowler; "really 
 
 you came upon me so unexp-p-p-pectedly 
 that I — why, I haven't seen you since I 
 left school." 
 
 " No," responded his visitor. " You 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 235 
 
 left before me, I think. I went to Cam- 
 bridge from there, where I did pretty well; 
 in fact, was third wrangler." 
 
 "Dear me, how very extraordinary!" 
 said Mr. Fowler. 
 
 "Not at all. Why?" 
 
 Mr. Fowler's stammering became so 
 hopeless that his visitor gave np attempt- 
 ing to understand him. 
 
 "It's a pity you haven't given up that 
 habit of yours yet," he said. " I remem- 
 ber it was very much against you at 
 school. By the way, what are you doing 
 now?" 
 
 "I — I — I am an as-as-ass- " ("You 
 always were," muttered the visitor) " as- 
 sistant in the British Museum," gasped 
 Mr. Fowler at last. 
 
 " That's a poor thing, isn't it ? " said 
 Mr. Marlow. Then, without waiting for 
 an answer, " I am a professor of sociology, 
 and also lecturer at Newton, the women's 
 college." 
 
236 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " Why, dear me, how you have got 
 on ! " said Mr. Fowler, surprised into 
 straightness of speech, since his recollec- 
 tions of Tom Marlow were of his being 
 the stupidest boy in the school. 
 
 " Yes," said his visitor carelessly ; "it 
 was examinations that did it. I have 
 a wonderful power of cram, Fowler, and 
 that is what makes a man get on nowa- 
 days. Now you, I remember, took a 
 long time over your work, but you never 
 forgot any of it." 
 
 " Oh dear, no ! " cried Mr. Fowler. " I 
 shouldn't think of forgetting anything 
 I ever learnt." 
 
 Mr. Marlow shrugged his shoulders and 
 changed the conversation. 
 
 " I saw you talking to a little cousin of 
 mine the other night," he said ; " a nice 
 little girl, Helen Guthrie. If she hadn't 
 got such an awfully baby face she would 
 do very well." 
 
 "Hasn't M-m-m-miss Guthrie any 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 237 
 
 parents ? " Mr. Fowler asked, feeling 
 suddenly very hot. 
 
 "No," said the visitor, examining the 
 toe of his boot with great deliberation ; 
 " she is entirely dependent on her aunt. 
 She is a nice little girl, but weak, and 
 dreadfully ignorant. I have been talking 
 to my aunt about taking her in hand 
 myself, and coaching her a little. To 
 tell you the truth, Fowler, I rather like 
 the little thing. Weakness isn't a bad 
 point in a wife." 
 
 Mr. Fowler could only gasp. This 
 dreadful announcement took away all his 
 present consciousness for awhile. He was 
 not certain that he did not mutter, " Oh 
 dear, yes," or " certainly," or some such 
 remark ; but when he came to himself, 
 Mr. Marlow w T as explaining the system of 
 education he intended pursuing with his 
 cousin. 
 
 Mr. Fowler listened as in a dream. 
 Shortly afterwards, when his visitor took 
 
238 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 his leave, he laid his head, with his 
 spectacles still on, upon the round table, 
 and allowed his feelings to overcome him. 
 
 What could exceed the misery of Mr. 
 Fowler for the next two or three days ? 
 When it is stated that the particularly 
 awful chief before mentioned sent for 
 him, and administered another awful 
 reprimand, and that Mr. Fowler came 
 out from his presence actually feeling 
 that he didn't care, any intelligent reader 
 will discover that his case was very bad 
 indeed. 
 
 In fact, if it had not been that Nellie 
 Guthrie, when returning from a friend's 
 house in Tavistock Square, had found 
 that the shortest way to Weymouth 
 Street was across the top of Bloomsbury 
 Square just at ten minutes past four, 
 when by the merest accident in the world 
 Mr. Fowler met her, a very dark tragedy 
 might have closed over the poor little 
 man's career. His work for the last few 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 239 
 
 days had been absolutely atrocious, but 
 by the kindness of one or two humane 
 superiors had been kept from the awful 
 chief ; but that sort of thing could not go 
 on for ever. There must be an end of it 
 some day, and Nellie Guthrie was the 
 end of it. 
 
 Mr. Fowler would not have seen her, 
 of course. He was not good at seeing 
 people in the streets. In the first place, 
 he never expected to see any people that 
 he knew, and, in the second, he could not 
 see them if they were there, for his range 
 of vision was decidedly limited ; so it was 
 Nellie who spoke first. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Fowler." 
 
 " Eh ? Oh, dear me!" cried the little 
 man. " W-w-why, Miss Nellie ! " 
 
 "I have been seeing some friends — 
 at least, a friend," said Nellie, with a 
 blush. 
 
 That blush completed Mr. Fowler's 
 misery ; it only wanted that to end all 
 
240 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 things for him. But though a cold 
 despondency settled down upon him that 
 seemed to curdle every drop of blood in 
 his body, he was man enough to say — 
 
 " I — I hope I may congratulate you, 
 Miss Nellie." 
 
 What was his intense surprise to see the 
 young lady before him burst into tears. 
 She did it very quietly, and put up her 
 handkerchief at once ; but Mr. Fowler, 
 short-sighted as he was, did see the tears, 
 and as she hurried on he turned and 
 walked beside her. 
 
 "I didn't think you would have said 
 that," she said, looking at him reproach- 
 fully as she dried her eyes. 
 
 Mr. Fowler was absolutely beside him- 
 self ; he would, if left to his feelings, have 
 extemporized a war dance upon the pave- 
 ment in his agony, but decorum held 
 him for her own, and he only grasped the 
 handle of his umbrella the tighter, and 
 allowed a cold shiver to run down his back. 
 
IX LONDON TOWN. 241 
 
 " Oh, I did not think you would have 
 cared," continued Nellie, dabbing her 
 eyes in the way that ladies do when they 
 want to avoid disturbing their complexions 
 by traces of grief. " I didn't even know 
 you knew, and I am sure I thought you 
 would not have cared." 
 
 " Miss Nellie, what do you take me 
 for?" cried Mr. Fowler in agony. 
 11 D-d-do you think I have no feelings 
 at all?" 
 
 "I didn't think you had feelings of 
 that sort," she answered gravely; and Mr. 
 Fowler only w 7 ished that the sewer trap 
 over which he was walking would open 
 and let him down. 
 
 " It's bad enough to have aunt and her 
 friends and cousin Tom reproaching me 
 over it, and now you will do the same. 
 Oh dear, it is horrid ! " and again the 
 handkerchief was in requisition. 
 
 A gleam of something, not daylight, 
 but a very murky radiance as from a 
 
 VOL. I. 16 
 
242 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 long-neglected lantern, filtered slowly into 
 Mr. Fowler's soul. 
 
 "I — I — I don't understand," he faltered, 
 almost choking himself with the effort. 
 
 " What ! Don't you understand," she 
 exclaimed, turning upon him with the 
 handkerchief still in her hand, " that I 
 have been up for the Cambridge local, 
 and, oh dear, failed? I dare say you 
 thought I should pass. It was very kind 
 of you, I suppose, to take it for granted 
 that I should, and so congratulate me. 
 But I haven't. I am not in it at all." 
 
 A gleam of triumph lit up Mr. Fowler's 
 face. Tom Mario w had failed ! If his 
 enemy had been before him at that 
 moment, he would have smiled the smile 
 of the scornful over his vanquished head 
 — to such a pass may a good man be 
 brought by the witchery of a fair face 
 and a childish voice. Mr. Fowler was 
 a good man and a Christian, but the 
 spirit of the Psalmist was strong within 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 243 
 
 him as he felt how righteous a thing it 
 was that the designs of the ungodly 
 should come to nought, or something to 
 that effect. 
 
 Nevertheless he was rather in a 
 dilemma, for he could not very well 
 explain to Nellie what her cousin had 
 stated to him as to his designs about her. 
 Moreover, a conflict still raged in his 
 soul. Who was the friend at whose 
 mention she had blushed ? Gloomy fore- 
 bodings filled him again as he stammered 
 out — 
 
 " I — I — really — well, I s-s-s-suppose 
 your friends " 
 
 " I haven't any friends," said Nellie, 
 sadly ; " they are all aunt's friends. She 
 has quantities of friends. They tolerate 
 me, but oh, they disapprove of me 
 dreadfully." 
 
 " Nobody could do that," said Mr. 
 Fowler, enthusiastically. 
 
 " Oh, but they do," she replied, shaking 
 
244 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 her head ; " and now I have failed in this 
 horrid examination it will he worse than 
 ever. I suppose I shall have to try 
 again." 
 
 " Oh m, no ; don't ! " cried Mr. Fowler. 
 
 Nellie opened wide her pretty eyes. 
 
 14 Why, you just began to congratulate 
 me ! " she said in surprise. 
 
 "I— I— indeed I didn't," gasped Mr. 
 Fowler, eagerly. " I — I — I n-n-n-never 
 thought of such a thing, I assure you." 
 
 This statement not at all tending to 
 decrease the width of Nellie's eyes, Mr. 
 Fowler took a headlong plunge into his 
 future prospects, and emerged a very 
 different man from what he was when he 
 went in. Indeed, he was so precipitous 
 in his career that he left his stammering 
 behind him, and never paused to take it 
 up until he came out an engaged man. 
 
 "I tried to congratulate you because 
 of what your cousin Tom said to me a 
 few nights ago," he explained. " I believe 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 245 
 
 he loves you, and I naturally supposed 
 you returned his affection. Miss Nellie, 
 if you can tell me you do not do so, I 
 shall be the happiest man alive." 
 
 Nellie began to walk very quickly, 
 almost to run, in fact. Her face was 
 very rosy, and her eyes very bright, but 
 she kept them hidden under her long 
 lashes, not even giving a glance at her 
 companion, who hurried on beside her. 
 Mr. Fowler could not bear the suspense 
 long. 
 
 " Miss Nellie, is it true ? " he cried. 
 "No," she said, turning away her face 
 from him, and quickening her pace until 
 he could scarcely keep up with her. 
 " No, it isn't true a bit." 
 
 They had passed the Museum, and she 
 had turned haphazard up Gower Street, 
 not seeming to mind where she went, and 
 of course Mr. Fowler followed her. There 
 were a good many people in Gower Street, 
 as there generally are between four and 
 
246 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 five every day ; and the sight of a pretty 
 agitated girl flying along at her topmost 
 speed, followed by a little panting man 
 in spectacles with an umbrella, was calcu- 
 lated to awaken curiosity in the minds 
 of the pedestrians. It is to be feared 
 that comments the reverse of compli- 
 mentary were passed upon Mr. F owner's 
 character and habits, but that gentleman 
 was, for the first time in his life, entirely 
 superior to any considerations of propriety 
 or decorum. 
 
 On they went, Nellie first, and Mr. 
 Fowler half a yard behind her. The 
 giii's face burning with girlish shame, 
 the man's crimson with excitement and 
 hard walking. 
 
 But even a girl's powers of endurance 
 when running away from her lover have 
 a limit, and Nellie came to a full stop 
 as they reached the railings of Uni- 
 versity College grounds. So suddenly, 
 indeed, did she stop, that it was but little 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 247 
 
 short of a miracle that Mr. Fowler's hat 
 and spectacles did not fly off into the 
 road ; but he jerked them back into their 
 places, and inquired abruptly — 
 
 " Miss Nellie, why do you run away 
 from me ?" 
 
 "I am not running away from you," 
 she answered, beginning to walk slowly 
 beside the railings, and pretending to be 
 deeply absorbed in the sight of some 
 students hurrying out at the college 
 doors. "I suppose the classes are just 
 over now ? " 
 
 " But you did run away from me. Oh, 
 Miss Nellie, Miss Nellie, have I offended 
 you?" 
 
 "No," said Nellie, hanging her head 
 and minutely examining the buttons of 
 her little glove. 
 
 " Then — oh, Miss Nellie, do you think 
 you could care about me as — as well as 
 your cousin Tom ? " 
 
 " I don't care about cousin Tom," said 
 
248 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 Nellie, with a pout. " 1 don't care about 
 him a bit." 
 
 " Then could you ?— do you ? Oh, Miss 
 Nellie, could you care about me ? " 
 
 They had come to the lodge gates. 
 Just beyond them are some posts on the 
 pavement, posts between which only one 
 person can pass at a time ; but Mr. 
 Fowler in his ardour was oblivious of 
 such small considerations as space, and 
 probably would have tried to get through 
 the same space as his lady-love, or to 
 collide the intervening post, if she had 
 not stopped and turned a little towards 
 him. 
 
 " I think I could," she said; and then 
 she moved on with her eyes downcast 
 and her face rosier than ever; and a 
 group of lads who were behind her pushed 
 between the posts and rushed hallooing 
 on their way back from school. 
 
 It is not a mere figure of speech to say 
 that Mr. Fowler was too happy to speak. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 249 
 
 Words could not have been wrung out 
 of him at the present moment for any- 
 thing under the sun. He was literally 
 stunned by the glow of life and happiness 
 that came over him. He had never felt 
 that there was anything particular in life 
 until that moment, and he hardly knew 
 how to bear himself in the revelation that 
 had come to him. Fortunately they were 
 in a place where nothing was required of 
 him but a mechanical motion of his legs. 
 There could be no embraces, no pretty 
 speeches outside the Gower Street Metro- 
 politan Station at a busy hour in the 
 afternoon. He could not even have 
 offered her his arm with any comfort in 
 the midst of two conflicting streams of 
 people. So he remained silent without 
 offence, and they walked on together into 
 the Euston Eoad. 
 
 Here, of course, there was a continuous 
 stream of foot-passengers, omnibuses, and 
 carts. The " season " was at its height, 
 
250 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 but the season does not make much 
 difference to the Euston Eoad. Our two 
 lovers turned to the east and walked 
 towards Euston Square, for no reason, 
 probably, than that by so doing they 
 avoided crossing the road. 
 
 The shrubs behind the grimy railings, 
 in the strips of gardens that line the road, 
 were as dusty as a London spring could 
 make them. Shabbily clad men and 
 women passed by ; dirty children, rumbling 
 waggons, everything around spoke of 
 struggling London lower middle-class life, 
 where there was no refinement, no loveli- 
 ness, no beauty, no enjoyment. 
 
 Suddenly the girl spoke. 
 
 " Oh, isn't that beautiful? " she cried, 
 and she pointed to a tall building beyond 
 the trees of the square — a tower and 
 pinnacles, and turrets of a soft pink tint 
 lying full in the afternoon sun against a 
 great bank of low white cumulus cloud. 
 
 It was only the Midland Eailway 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 251 
 
 Station ; but to the girl at that moment 
 it looked as beautiful as the Duomo at 
 Florence, or the Campanile of St. Mark 
 at Venice. 
 
 " Very beautiful," said her companion, 
 looking into her face. 
 
CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 Nellie did not go back to her aunt's in 
 Weymouth Street until six o'clock that 
 evening. Fortunately that good lady 
 was too much occupied, in company with 
 some other ladies, in organizing a meeting 
 for the representation of women at local 
 vestries, to be much interested in know- 
 ing how her niece had passed the after- 
 noon, so she only greeted her with — 
 
 " Good gracious, child, how warm you 
 look ; and you must get your dinner how 
 you can, for we have finished ; and Tom 
 will be here directly to take us to the 
 Mile End Parliament, by special per- 
 mission ; so be quick." 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 253 
 
 "I don't want to go to Mile End," 
 said Nellie. " And, oh, aunt, I want to 
 speak to you." And tears came into the 
 girl's eyes. 
 
 " Oh, my dear child, I can't possibly 
 stay now. I have all the estimates of 
 the Billingsgate fish supply to go over, 
 and " 
 
 " But we haven't anything to do with 
 Billingsgate," said Nellie, a little fret- 
 fully. 
 
 " But I have" said Miss Markham, 
 tumbling over some disordered piles of 
 papers on the table before her. " Phi- 
 lippina " — to one of her friends — " have 
 you a pencil ? Every woman has a public 
 duty to perform in these days of parlia- 
 mentary indifference. Oh no, Philippina, 
 those belong to the School Board papers ; 
 they have got mixed somehow. But it is 
 no use explaining to you, Helen ; you 
 have no appreciation of your privileges as 
 a woman of the nineteenth century." 
 
254 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "Miss Guthrie," said the Philippina 
 before mentioned, who was a short person 
 with a snub nose, and a high metallic 
 voice, " appears to me to have not yet 
 grasped that all-important and funda- 
 mental principle, that man is woman's 
 moral, mental, and physical inferior." 
 
 " No, I am sure I haven't," said Nellie, 
 with such spirit that her aunt stopped in 
 the middle of untying a bundle of papers 
 with the string in her mouth, and stared 
 at this revolt on her niece's part in un- 
 feigned surprise ; " and what's more, I 
 don't want to, and don't mean to ! " 
 And quite overcome by the events of the 
 afternoon, Nellie walked out of the room, 
 and banged the door after her. 
 
 " Lucilla," said Philippina (Miss Mark- 
 ham's baptismal name was Lucy) — 
 " Lucilla, this will not do." 
 
 "I am sure I don't know what has 
 happened to the child," said Miss Mark- 
 ham, going on with her papers. " She 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 255 
 
 has always been — well — indifferent to 
 true principles, but never openly rebellions 
 as she is now." 
 
 " She is obstinate, unreasonable, and 
 contumacious," said her friend. " In 
 these days of women's dawning freedom it 
 is of the utmost importance that every 
 woman should feel and exercise her 
 immense power properly. This girl must 
 be checked, Lucilla." 
 
 " Well, I am sure I have done my 
 best," returned Miss Markham. " As for 
 lectures, meetings, discussions, debates, 
 courses, I am sure no girl in London has 
 heard more." 
 
 " I am of opinion," said Philippina, 
 firmly, " that there is a young man in 
 this case." 
 
 " It can't be anybody but Thomas 
 Marlow, then," returned Miss Markham, 
 " and he is safe enough; and I am sure 
 I wish he had the training of her instead 
 of me. Her mother was just the same. 
 
256 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 I never could do anything with her ; and 
 with the same sort of baby face that all 
 the men like." 
 
 " Men," said Philippina, viciously, 
 " have no taste in female beauty. Look 
 at your style, Lucilla ! I do not say it 
 out of flattery, as you know, but how 
 infinitely superior was your intellectual 
 cast of face to your sister Helen's babyish 
 pink and white and dimples. Yet no 
 man has ever asked you to marry him ; " 
 and Philippina looked admiringly at her 
 friend. 
 
 "I don't know that," said Miss Mark- 
 ham, so very snappishly that her strong- 
 minded friend looked and felt extremely 
 surprised. " I am not bound to tell every- 
 body whether that has happpened or not." 
 
 "J," said Philippina, drawing herself 
 up majestically, " am proud to say that 
 no man has ever presumed to insult me 
 in such a manner. Others may think 
 differently. Lucilla, mark my words, a 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 257 
 
 man is at the bottom of this conduct of 
 Helen's." 
 
 "Then it must be Thomas Marlow," 
 said Miss Markham, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 And then both ladies worked themselves 
 into a state of partial frenzy over the 
 Fishmongers' Corporation, and did such 
 wonderful things w T ith estimates and 
 figures, that no man would have recog- 
 nised the deductions as having the 
 remotest connection with the original 
 sources of information. 
 
 Meanwhile Nellie had gone up into her 
 room and refreshed herself by the luxury 
 of a good cry, and made an obstinate 
 determination in her breast that no 
 power on earth should drag her to any 
 meeting in company with Tom Marlow 
 that night. So when in due course of 
 time Miss Markham called " Helen ! 
 Helen! " from the foot of the stairs, she 
 took no notice, except to assure herself 
 that her door was bolted. 
 
 VOL. I. 17 
 
258 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " Can't you go and knock at her door ? " 
 she heard her cousin Thomas ask her 
 aunt. 
 
 " Oh dear ! and we are so late ; and my 
 boots not laced ! and, oh dear ! where can 
 my gloves be ? Jane," to the housemaid, 
 " run up and ask Miss Helen if she has 
 seen them, and do tell her to be quick." 
 
 "I am not coming," said Nellie, in 
 answer to the servant's knock and 
 message. " Tell aunt I don't want to go, 
 and I am tired, and I have not seen her 
 gloves." 
 
 " She must come!" screamed Miss 
 Markham, as she tied on her bonnet at 
 the foot of the stairs, outside her own 
 bedroom door. " Tell her we are waiting." 
 
 "I am not coming," said Nellie, 
 obstinately. And with this message the 
 servant came down. 
 
 Miss Markham looked in consternation 
 at the professor of sociology standing 
 beside her. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 259 
 
 " I will wait for her," he said quietly. 
 ** Leave me to manage her, aunt." 
 
 " Oh dear ! but what shall we do without 
 you?" exclaimed Miss Markham, ex- 
 citedly. 
 
 "You can take my card," he said, 
 giving her one. " I have no doubt that 
 Helen and I will follow immediately. In 
 point of fact," he said, lowering his voice 
 to meet her ear alone, " I am not sorry 
 that this has occurred. I rather want a 
 little talk with her. We will follow in 
 a hansom. You understand?" And he 
 nodded mysteriously towards Philippina, 
 who testified her disapproval of the pro- 
 ceedings by stalking downstairs in a 
 majestic manner. 
 
 "Oh yes, I understand, quite!" cried 
 Miss Markham, much flurried. " But, oh 
 dear ! I wish you hadn't mentioned it just 
 now ; after those estimates, and with this 
 question of the manhood suffrage coming 
 on to-night, I am quite flurried. But 
 
260 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 there, Philippina is waiting; I shall see 
 you again soon." And Miss Markhani 
 bustled down the stairs and into the cab 
 at the door. 
 
 Perhaps the expression on Mr. Marlow's 
 face, as he leant over the balusters and 
 watched them well out of the house, was 
 not altogether complimentary to the two 
 high-minded ladies who were the objects 
 of his gaze, for he muttered, as he 
 turned to go up to the second-floor, where* 
 Nellie's and his ow T n rooms were, the 
 words — 
 
 " Fussy old maids! Thank goodness, 
 she hasn't an atom of their sort of 
 nonsense about her." And then he 
 knocked at her door. 
 
 " Who is that ? " asked the young lady 
 in very unangelic tones. 
 
 " Aunt Lucilla and Miss Jiggers are 
 gone to Mile End. Come down and sit 
 in the balcony in the back drawing-room." 
 
 " I am tired," said Nellie, shortly. 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 261 
 
 "Well, you can rest there. Beally, 
 Helen, this conduct is most undignified 
 and babyish. I expected better things 
 from you." 
 
 " Then you had no reason to," said 
 Nellie. " I am going to lie down, and it 
 will be very unkind if you disturb me." 
 
 Mr. Thomas Marlow pondered for a 
 little while. He had never been thwarted 
 by his pretty cousin before, and her con- 
 duct to-night came with rather a shock 
 upon him. 
 
 " They are all alike," he said to him- 
 self; "obstinate as mules. Well, I did 
 not think so of her. Helen ! " he said 
 aloud, "you can have no idea how 
 extremely silly your conduct is. Come 
 out at once ! " 
 
 "I shan't," said Nellie. "You have 
 no right to order me." 
 
 "I hope to prove to you," said Mr. 
 Marlow, setting his teeth and preparing 
 to descend the stairs, " that I have the 
 
262 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 very best right ; for the present, good 
 evening. 7 ' 
 
 " Good evening," said Nellie, a little 
 ashamed of herself; "I hope you will 
 enjoy the meeting." 
 
 " Won't you come ? " he said, pausing ; 
 for he detected the softening of her tone. 
 
 " No ; really I am tired," she said; and 
 with that Mr. Thomas Marlow had to be 
 content. 
 
 He had an interview with his aunt that 
 evening that resulted in a very satisfactory 
 arrangement for himself; and he further 
 manipulated Miss Markham's " engage- 
 ments " for the next day, so as to allow 
 of her giving Nellie an hour in the morn- 
 ing, and so preparing her mind for an 
 interview with himself in the afternoon. 
 
 What was that worthy lady's surprise, 
 when, in answer to her homily on Thomas 
 Marlow's virtues and accomplishments, 
 Nellie burst into tears, and confessed all 
 the story of yesterday afternoon's doings^ 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 263 
 
 winding up with a petition to her aunt to 
 see Mr. Fowler, who was going to call 
 there that evening. 
 
 "It is quite impossible, Helen," said 
 Miss Markham, " quite impossible that I 
 can either see or speak to that young 
 man, and it is equally impossible for you 
 to do so either, more so in fact. You 
 have behaved in a — in a — I hardly know 
 how to express it — in a disgracefully un- 
 womanly way, Helen ! " 
 
 " 1 didn't," Nellie sobbed. " What else 
 could I do when he told me he loved 
 me ? " 
 
 " You should never have allowed it to 
 come to that," said her aunt, severely. 
 " Any woman with the least sense of her 
 position can always stop any presumption 
 of that sort." 
 
 "But if I liked him it wasn't presump- 
 tion," said the girl, arguing for her lover 
 as she best knew how. " Oh, aunt ! he is 
 much — much better than I am." 
 
264 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " Nonsense," said her aunt, sharply; 
 " he is nothing of the kind. You are the 
 most ungrateful woman I ever saw, Helen. 
 You might just as well have been created 
 a man. And after all the trouble I have 
 taken with you, really this is too much ! " 
 And Miss Markham rose in great vexation 
 and walked to the window. 
 
 " Oh, but, dear aunt," said Nellie, 
 timidly following her, " I am not un- 
 grateful to you ; not a bit. And oh, aunt, 
 you do want me to be happy, don't you ? " 
 
 " I want you to be sensible, and free, 
 and to enjoy the glorious privileges you 
 were born to ; not to be the slave of a 
 low, selfish creature like man, who will 
 degrade you to the level of a mere 
 domestic machine for his comfort." 
 
 " But you want me to marry Tom," 
 said Nellie, with her blue eyes rounding, 
 as they always did when she was puzzled 
 or surprised. " Shouldn't I be a domestic 
 drudge just the same, then ? " 
 
IX LONDON TOWN. 265 
 
 "No!" snapped her aunt. "Thomas 
 lias noble ideas about women ; he assigns 
 them their right position in the world. 
 You know how he labours for their cause. 
 It would be a privilege for you, who are 
 so weak, to work with him. As Thomas's 
 wife you might obtain a proud position in 
 -the world of science or politics." 
 
 " I am quite sure of one thing," said 
 Nellie, resolutely putting her handker- 
 chief in her pocket, and giving it a little 
 pat, as if to assure it she was not going to 
 wipe away any more tears with it, — " I am 
 quite sure of one thing — that I shall be 
 Tery much less of a mere domestic drudge 
 as Frederick's wife than Tom's ; and, what 
 is more, I don't care if I am his drudge. 
 I would rather mend his shirts than go to 
 sleep under Tom's lectures. I shall be 
 much happier making things nice for 
 Frederick than echoing all Tom's high- 
 flown talk. You must give me up, aunt ; 
 for I shall never be a clever woman." 
 
266 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 "You shall never so debase yourself 
 with rny consent," said her aunt, angrily. 
 " If you don't know how to take care of 
 yourself, I shall take care of you. I posi- 
 tively forbid you to speak to Mr. Fowler 
 again." 
 
 " Oh no, dear aunt, I must do that ! " 
 cried the girl, clasping her hand. " Please 
 don't say that ! " 
 
 "It's for your own good, Helen," said her 
 aunt, preparing to leave the room. " Now, 
 don't cry, you silly child. Tom is coming 
 to see you this afternoon, and he will 
 explain things much better to you than I 
 have done. There's Philippina calling 
 me to go to Doctor Alice Freeman's about 
 a vaccination case. Now remember, 
 child, you must see Tom, and must not 
 see that dreadful young man. Oh, Helen I 
 how can you like a man who stammers ? 
 There, good-bye, child; now don't cry ! " 
 And Miss Markham bustled away. 
 
 " I'll never speak to that horrid Tom 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 267 
 
 again ! " sobbed Nellie, as she went up to 
 her own room. "And oh, how disap- 
 pointed dear Frederick will be this after- 
 noon ! To compare him to that horrid 
 Tom! " 
 
CHAPTEK XY. 
 
 David, coming in with Fiametta in the 
 twilight of the May evening, was some- 
 what surprised at being jostled in the 
 doorway as he was fitting his latch-key 
 into the hole by Mr. Fowler, and still 
 more so at that gentleman's brushing 
 past him with a dismal groan upon his 
 lips, and dashing into his own room with 
 a reckless disregard of every one's feelings 
 or corns. 
 
 "What can have happened to old 
 Fowler ? " thought David. " This is not 
 the way that decorous little bird usually 
 flies home to roost, I trust. It looks rather 
 like hydrophobia. Good night, my dear," 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 269 
 
 he said to Fiametta. " It will sustain me 
 in my interview with my poor friend to 
 know that if he bites me I shall make you 
 miserable, as you have made me to- 
 night." 
 
 " It will not make me miserable," she 
 replied; "and why should Mr. Fowler 
 bite you?" 
 
 " Because the bitten likes to bite. It 
 must be hydrophobia. Did you notice 
 the foam on his lips ? No ? Well, good 
 night, my child. As this may be our final 
 adieu, our last meeting in this sublunary 
 sphere, let's have a kiss ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I will not," she said, drawing 
 herself up. "It is quite unnecessary to 
 friendship to kiss." 
 
 "Well, when you see me going down 
 the street on all fours, barking at the 
 children, and behold my stiffened, gory 
 corpse borne home on a public-house 
 shutter, you w T ill feel miserable to think 
 you refused me my last request. It is a 
 
270 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 consolation to me to give you that plea- 
 sure. Good-bye, my child, God bless 
 you — ahem, I beg your pardon — Hu- 
 manity and the votes of the majority be 
 with you. Adieu ! " And David vanished 
 behind Mr. Fowler's door. 
 
 He found that poor little man in the 
 hollow of his armchair, with his knees 
 drawn up and his face upon them, while his 
 arms hung down perfectly limp on each 
 side. His hat and spectacles were on the 
 floor, and from his lips came at intervals 
 a long, labouring groan. 
 
 " Halloo ! " said David, stopping to view 
 the wreck before him. " Is it a case of 
 c If she be not fair to me, what care I 
 how fair she be ? ' Cheer up, old fellow ! " 
 
 But Mr. Fowler did not cheer up at 
 all ; he only shook his head and moaned 
 more dismally than ever, while his fingers 
 tapped the legs of the armchair in the 
 rhythm of despair. 
 
 " You haven't been turned away from 
 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 271 
 
 the hulks, have you?" asked David, 
 seriously. The hulks being his designa- 
 tion for the commodious underground 
 cellar in which Mr. Fowler served his 
 country. 
 
 " N-n-n-no," said Mr. Fowler, dismally; 
 " worse than that ! " 
 
 " Oh, come, that's nonsense!" said 
 David, heartily; "it couldn't be w r orse 
 than that. What is a bundle of foolish- 
 ness bound in pink and white compared 
 with a man's profession and his bread 
 and butter?" 
 
 "Everest," said Mr. Fowler, looking 
 up with a very white face, and lips that 
 trembled with excitement, "I — I — I'll 
 thank you not to speak in that way." 
 
 " Certainly not, Fowler; certainly not. 
 We will call her an ethereal spirit. Per- 
 haps she has gone out — vanished, collapsed 
 — like an air balloon." 
 
 " E-E-Everest," said Mr. Fowler, 
 suddenly jumping up — " E-E-Everest,you 
 
272 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 are a very good fellow, I know ; but I — I 
 really — you must withdraw those expres- 
 sions." 
 
 "Which one? ' said David, quietly; 
 " the last? Certainly." 
 
 " Y-y-you're insulting me ! " gasped Mr. 
 Fowler, frantically. " Y-y-you insult 
 me ! " 
 
 " Sit dowm," said David, catching the 
 unhappy little man by the shoulders and 
 forcing him into a chair. " Now, then, 
 cool down, and tell me what is the 
 matter." 
 
 " Oh, Everest ! " moaned Mr. Fowler, 
 forgetting all his indignation under 
 David's firm tones. " Oh, Everest ! she 
 is gone just at the very moment I 
 thought I had her ! " 
 
 "Like the nimble. Ahem, T won't 
 hurt your feelings, Fowler. The wicked 
 flee when no man pursueth ; but she 
 hadn't that excuse, for you did pursue to 
 some tune up Gower Street yesterday — at 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 273 
 
 least, so Crockford told me in the British 
 Museum to-day. Oh, Fowler ! Fowler ! " 
 
 " B-b-b-but Everest," said Mr. Fowler, 
 reddening, and looking extremely con- 
 fused, "th-th-that was all right, I assure 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, of course it was," replied David, 
 coolly; "it always is in these cases* 
 Go on." 
 
 " I-i-it's her aunt," stammered Mr. 
 Fowler. 
 
 " What the deuce has her aunt got to 
 do with it ? You don't want to marry 
 them both, I suppose ? " 
 
 " C-c-certainly not," said Mr. Fowler, 
 redder than ever. " My dear Everest, 
 how can you think of such things ? ' ' 
 
 "I don't see what else the aunt can 
 have to do with it," said David, yawning. 
 " Hurry up to something interesting, my 
 boy ; I don't care a twopenny blank 
 about the aunt." 
 
 " Oh, but, indeed," said Mr. Fowler, 
 
 VOL. I. 18 
 
274 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 very earnestly, " the aunt is a most 
 important person, extremely so ; in fact, 
 she has been a sort of m-m-mother to 
 Nellie," he added with a gush. 
 
 " There can only be one sort of 
 mother," said David, authoritatively, "and 
 that's the genuine article. No other sort 
 is worth a cent." 
 
 " W-w-well, but she has always taken 
 care of her — supported her ; in fact, 
 N-n-nellie has no means of her own 
 at all." 
 
 " Oh, now I see what you mean," said 
 David. " Very sensible of you, Fowler, 
 highly so. My advice to you is, marry 
 the aunt instead. You won't know the 
 difference in twelve months' time, but you 
 will have the coin." 
 
 "E-E-Everest," stammered Mr. Fowler, 
 m great indignation, "h-h-how dare you 
 ever say such a — think such a monstrous 
 thing. M-m-money to be compared to — 
 to— to Miss Guthrie ! " 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 275 
 
 " Ah," said David, thoughtfully, " no, 
 you are right ; woman couldn't stand 
 the comparison ; " and he glanced mis- 
 chievously at his companion. 
 
 Mr. Fowler was almost majestic in his 
 indignation; he rose, and would, no doubt, 
 have delivered a cutting speech had his 
 impediment in that article allowed him 
 to make any headway at all. As he was, 
 he was thrust back again by David. 
 
 " What a hasty fellow you are ! " he 
 said. " You will be murdering somebody 
 one of these days. Why didn't you let 
 me finish my sentence ? How can you 
 compare a goddess or an angel with 
 vulgar dross? That impatient spirit of 
 yours don't allow a fellow to do himself 
 justice in his remarks.'' 
 
 "I — I — I really b-b-b-beg your pardon," 
 said the little man, gazing rather help- 
 lessly at David; "but I — I really thought 
 you were ch-ch-ch-chaffing me." 
 
 " Another time think before you speak, 
 
276 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 or rather, in your case, speak before you 
 think ; it will save you a lot of wear and 
 tear to your tongue and your mind. 
 Now to return to our muttons. Take 
 notice that I do not mean this as apply- 
 ing to Miss Guthrie, who may neverthe- 
 less be a lamb, for all I know. Now, 
 Fowler, what the holy blazes is all this 
 shindy about ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't, my dear Everest, don't be 
 annoyed," gasped Mr. Fowler, alarmed 
 by his friend's sudden change of tone ; 
 and then, as briefly as he could, he re- 
 cited the events of the last two days. 
 " And T-t-tom Marlow was there to-night 
 with her, I dare say," groaned the un- 
 fortunate little man. " The servant would 
 not admit me, and said there was no 
 message beyond that neither Miss Mark- 
 ham nor Miss Guthrie could see me. 
 Oh, David, what shall I do ? " 
 
 " Do ? Sing the song of Miriam. 
 1 Thou in Thy mercy hast led forth the 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 277 
 
 people which Thou hast redeemed,' as 
 the authorized version hath it. A burnt 
 child dreads the fire, and I suppose a 
 singed Fowl would be in the same pre- 
 dicament. Or, if you don't like this line 
 of conduct, which is what I strongly 
 advise, do the guitar and stiletto business 
 — marry the girl and cut Tom. But you 
 must be prepared, then, to take the con- 
 sequences, which may be serious in the 
 extreme to everybody concerned." 
 
 " Y-y-you don't really think," said Mr. 
 Fowler, his eyes shining with delight — 
 " y-you don't really think th-that I could 
 rn-m-marry her, do you ? " 
 
 " Human nature is capable of any 
 foolishness," said David, sententiously ; 
 " so of course you can do that. I don't 
 advise it, mind, and haven't the slightest 
 doubt in the world that if you do you 
 will live to repent it, unless a beneficent 
 Providence carries you off in your honey- 
 moon, which, like the restoration of open 
 
278 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 penance, is a thing much to be wished, 
 but little to be expected." 
 
 " I — I — I have a hundred and eighty 
 pounds a year, rising by tens," said Mr. 
 Fowler, thoughtfully, " to two hundred 
 and fifty. "We could live here, couldn't 
 w r e ? and, when one comes to think of it, 
 Everest, it can't cost much more to keep 
 two than one." 
 
 " That depends on which one," answered 
 David. " A wife, for instance, may cost 
 four hundred a year, and the husband 
 one — at least, I know that is about the 
 proportion observed at home with my 
 mother and uncle. So if you cost now 
 a hundred and eighty, your wife will 
 require at least six hundred. Ketire 
 gracefully while you may, Fowler — hand 
 upon your heart, low bow — lay it all on 
 Providence, who has not seen fit to 
 reward your merits as He ought. Curtain 
 falls, and you are w r ell out of it." 
 
 "I — I — I am sure," said Mr. Fowler, 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 279 
 
 his face one large beaming smile, " that 
 you are joking now, Everest. You are 
 a good fellow, but you don't know Nellie. 
 Wh-wh-why, we should be happy together 
 on a crust of b-b-b-bread and cold water. 
 W-w-we said so only yesterday after- 
 noon/' he added, with a blush. 
 
 " Oh, well," said David, rising and 
 going to the door, "if you have come to 
 that, it's no use my talking any more. 
 You may command me to the extent of 
 rope ladders and a special licence, Fowler ; 
 but spare me, oh spare me, any speechify- 
 ing then or now ! A. C, id est ' after 
 compliments,' as the Oriental translators 
 head their official documents. A. C. 
 Good night, old boy." 
 
 " There's a pretty mess that poor fellow 
 has got himself into," thought David, as 
 he went up to his own room. 
 
 He paused on the landing to listen if 
 he could hear Fiametta talking to Miss 
 Hatchard in the studio. As he did hear 
 
280 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 her, he went up to the second-floor and 
 knocked at the door. 
 
 " Lor, whoever can that be ? " he heard 
 Miss Hatchard say. " Come in," she 
 called out. 
 
 "Sorry to intrude," said David, " but 
 knowing Miss Fianietta's peculiar tastes, 
 I came up to give her a dismal piece of 
 news. I hope it will keep you awake 
 nicely/' he added, looking at the girl. 
 
 " Lor, what is it?" said Miss Hatchard. 
 " You ain't," she added with a chuckle, 
 " going away from us, are you ? " 
 
 "No; it's not so bad as that," said 
 David; "but the fact is, that I have 
 just heard that a friend of mine is 
 about to mentally and morally commit 
 suicide." 
 
 " Lor save us ! " cried the artist, 
 " whatever for ? " while Fiametta looked 
 away from him in her corner by the 
 window. 
 
 There was only a single candle in the 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 281 
 
 room, and the window was wide open, and 
 over the uneven roofs and between the 
 chimney-pots of the opposite houses, 
 which were lower than these, a faint 
 primrose was still lingering in the sky. 
 The girl's head stood out dark against it 
 as she sat by the open window, leaning 
 a little forward, as her habit often was 
 when thoughtful or tired. She had a 
 white dress on to-night, a dress of many 
 washings and long life ; it was tight and 
 scanty for her, and clung tightly about 
 her round arms, and showed every curve 
 of her slim figure. She had lately taken 
 to gathering up her hair into loose plaits, 
 which she wound round her head after 
 the manner of Italian women. They 
 suited the pure oval of her face, and their 
 crisp curliness still surrounded her brow 
 like a halo. 
 
 For the first time, as David looked at 
 her sitting there against the sky in the 
 twilight, with the faint gleam of the 
 
282 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 candle shining upon her white dress 
 and ruddy hair, he felt a strange un- 
 easiness grow up within him. 
 
 "Is she a woman, or a child?" he 
 asked himself. " She is not like anything 
 I have ever seen." And so absorbed was 
 he by her appearance, that he forgot to 
 answer Miss Hate hard's question as to 
 what this calamity was all about. 
 
 Her sharp little eyes spied him out, of 
 course, and she was mischievous enough 
 to wait and let him get out of his in- 
 evitable confusion as best he might ; for 
 she saw that Fiametta was ignorant of 
 his gaze, but was looking with a weary 
 look in her dark eyes at the leaden 
 east. 
 
 But Miss Hatchard was mistaken if she 
 thought David was going to be confused 
 about anything. He simply pointed 
 towards the still figure in the window, 
 and said, moving his lips only, to the 
 artist — 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 283 
 
 "Paint her." 
 
 "For yourself?" she answered in the 
 same noiseless way. 
 
 " No ; as Freyja waiting for Odur." 
 
 " She would never wait for any man," 
 said the artist, firmly. 
 
 There was a look in David's eyes as he 
 answered her which produced a curious 
 effect upon Miss Hatchard. She turned 
 to a violent crimson, and her hands in- 
 voluntarily clenched themselves, while he 
 answered — 
 
 " Time alone will show." And with 
 this novel remark he turned and went out 
 of the room. 
 
 " I know him now ! " cried the little 
 woman, passionately, letting her clenched 
 fist fall upon the round table until the 
 tin candlestick clattered again. " I know 
 him now, and who he is. Oh, that I 
 never saw it at first ! " And Miss 
 Hatchard threw her arms above her head 
 in an attitude worthy of despair. 
 
284 IN LONDON TOWN. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said Fiametta, 
 slowly turning. " Is Mr. Everest gone ? " 
 
 " Yes, he's gone," said the little woman, 
 bitterly. " Gone, oh yes, he is gone ; 
 but he will soon be back again, I 
 know." 
 
 " Well, why should he not ? " said the 
 girl, rising. " I must go to bed now, 
 Miss Hatchard ; I am tired." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear!" cried the 
 artist, clinging with both her hands round 
 the girl's shoulders. " You ain't fond of 
 him, are you ? Don't tell me you are. 
 I couldn't bear it." 
 
 " Fond of him ! " said the girl. " What 
 do you mean ? No, of course I am not. 
 I haven't it in me to be fond, as you call 
 it, of any one. I couldn't if I tried. I 
 am sure if I was going to love any one 
 I should love you. There, don't be 
 absurd, Miss Hatchard ! Good night." 
 
 " Good night," said Miss Hatchard; 
 and the girl went away. But it was 
 
IN LONDON TOWN. 285 
 
 anything but a good night for Miss 
 Hatchard. " If I had only a known," 
 she repeated to herself over and over 
 again, as she paced her bedroom floor for 
 many hours that night, " who he was, 'e 
 should never 'ave darkened these doors. " 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, 
 
 LONDON AND BECCLES. G. C. &" Co. 
 
I.