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 SOPHY, 
 
 OR THE ADVENTURES OF A SAVAGE. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 ' Wlien we were girl and boy together, 
 We tossed about the flowers, 
 And wreathed the blushing hours 
 Into a posy green and sweet. . . .' — T. L. Beddoes. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 Some fifty or sixty years ago, Henry Faiintleroy, 
 banker, was hanged for forgery ; and a few d^^s 
 after this melancholy event, in an old country house 
 in the south of England, a beautiful young lady, whom 
 even the gir/of sleeves and unbecoming headgear of the 
 period failed to disfigure, was reading aloud an account 
 of his execution from one of the leading journals. 
 
 Her chief listener was a man so much older than 
 r^ herself that he might have been taken for her father, 
 nay, his antiquated style of dress might even have 
 misled a stranger into believing that he was a genera- 
 tion further removed from the girl who sat at his feet, 
 _ crumpling the newspaper in her pretty hands. But 
 one of those hands (the left one), besides a diamond 
 and emerald ' hoop ' (a hoop which in those days went 
 all round the finger, causing exquisite pain whenever 
 ;the hand was cordially squeezed — the reason, perhaps, 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 N^
 
 2 Sophij, or 
 
 why modern jewellers have abandoned this manner of 
 setting), was adorned with a wedding-ring ; and the 
 young lady was, in reality, the wife of the old gentle- 
 man, who, with his knee-breeches and frilled Jabot, 
 looked like a living impersonation of some one of the 
 portraits in Rousseau's Nouvrlle Jleldise^ or Voltaire 
 himself resuscitated. Her other unsuspected listener 
 was a little boy of some seven years of age, with tawny 
 hair otit straight across his forehead, and lapping doA\Ti 
 on each side of his face like the ears of a King Charles's 
 spaniel, which animal he very much resembled, with his 
 great dark ej^es and short baby features. All at once, 
 this child, stopping in the midst of his play, knocked 
 down the castle of wooden bricks which he had been 
 raising with such care, and rimning towards the pretty 
 lady, buried his fluffy head in her black satin apron, 
 and burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 * What is the matter, Godfrey ? ' demanded she, in a 
 sterner voice than that in which young mothers are 
 wont to address an only child, whilst the old gentleman 
 walked quickly towards the bell, which he rang several 
 times. 
 
 The little boy was still weeping, but this action on 
 the part of Mr. St. Clair — such was the name of the 
 old gentleman — recalled him apparently to reason, and 
 holding up his head, \q answered, in a subdued voice, — 
 
 ' T don't know, mamma.' 
 
 ' You do not liuoic .^' repeated Mr. St. Clair, looking 
 at him flrmly but benevolently. * Are you unable to 
 give any reason for this sudden outburst?' 
 
 * Indeed I cannot tell,' persisted the little boy. * I 
 cannot tell what made me cr}'.' 
 
 ' Nothing is without a reason,' said Mrs. St. Clair ; 
 and she then added, making a movement with her knee.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 3 
 
 ' lift up your head, dear ; your tears are dripping all 
 over my apron, and will spoil it;' and, indeed, the 
 apron seemed too pretty to spoil, as it was embroidered 
 with rosebuds and forget-me-nots in floss silk. 
 
 * There is a cause for everything that exists in the 
 imi verse,' said the boy's father. 
 
 ' Indeed I don't know Avhat it was,' repeated little 
 Godfrey, now no longer sobbing. 
 
 * I am sorr}", Godfrey, that you should add falsehood 
 to passion,' said Mrs. St. Clair, sternly. 
 
 * Search your mind, Godfrey,' urged his father, 
 with mild insistence ; and he then added to his wife, 
 in a lower voice, * It is very important to the ultimate 
 success of our sj^stem, that we shoidd inquire into both 
 cause and effect, and thus endeavour to strike at the 
 first fell germ of rising evil.' 
 
 * If I did say,' pleaded the little boy, as though 
 after a sudden resolution, * you would be sure to laugh 
 at me.' 
 
 * And supposing that we laughed, it could only be 
 because you were deserving of ridicule,' answered his 
 father, sententiously. 
 
 * The desire to escape being laughed at springs gene- 
 rally from an inordinate self-love,' added Mrs. St. Clair. 
 
 * Well, then,' said the child, firmly, * when mamma 
 began reading about the person that was hung, I didn't 
 listen ; but next I did listen, and then I got to pity 
 him, and to be sorry for the bad thing he did ; and 
 then I thought p'raps he didn't mean to do it, and 
 wouldn't do it again ; and then I thought, whether he 
 was good or not, it was a dreadful thing that they 
 should kill him ; and when I heard that he was called 
 " Fauntleroy," it was such a pretty name that I couldn't 
 help crying. This is the real truth.'
 
 4 Sophy ^ or 
 
 ' You are fretful and excitable,' said Mrs. St. Clair. 
 ' Perhaps he is not well, and ought to have something 
 to take Y ' she added, appealing to the superior wisdom 
 of her husband. 
 
 * No,' muttered the old gentleman, who, after ad- 
 justing his glasses, had scrutinised his son's face as 
 though he had been some curious specimen in natural 
 history ; ' the child seems to be in excellent health.' 
 
 • This man was a forger,' said Mrs. St. Clair, again 
 addressing herself to the boy ; ^ and it was quite right 
 that good people should hang him. Murderers^ forgers, 
 and all had men, always are hanged ; ' and she looked 
 significantly at her husband. 
 
 'Not alwaj'^s, not always, my dear,' rejoined he. 
 * Before the young wx must always be careful to be 
 just, guarding against any misstatement of facts 
 .... But to return to the point : — You did not 
 know this man, Godfrey, and you cannot therefore 
 pretend to any affection for him. Were you to weep 
 at the dowTifall of some hero I would join my tears 
 to your o^\^l ; but in this instance your emotion can 
 only proceed from a morbid sentimentality. And as 
 to the sound of his name having been, as I confess it 
 was, euphonious, he would have deserved your sym- 
 pathy as much, supposing him to have been a worthy 
 person, had he inherited a more ordinary surname. 
 This episode confirms me in my opinion that yours 
 is a nature, my dear boy, capable of leaving a reality 
 for a shadow.' 
 
 * Like the dog in the fable ? ' asked the little boy. 
 ' Oh, I shall try not to, papa.' 
 
 * One cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's 
 ear,' murmured Mrs. St. Clair, in an aside to her 
 husband.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 5 
 
 ' I don't know, my dear/ he replied. ' I know 
 that such is your opinion. Time, however, will show. 
 I believe that one can.' 
 
 The boy continued to hang his head, feeling that 
 he was reproved, though the reason for his reproof 
 was not quite so clear to him. Another moment, and 
 the butler, entering in reply to the bell, demanded what 
 were Mr. St. Clair's orders. 
 
 * Be good enough, Jamieson, to send Mary Parker 
 here,' said the old gentleman ; and very soon Godfrey's 
 nurse presented herself at the door. She was a good- 
 natured-looking woman, with a wide mouth, a florid 
 complexion, and honest eyes. 
 
 * Another inexplicable fit of crying, Mary,' Mrs. 
 St. Clair said, pointing to her son. 
 
 * Indeed, ma'am, I'm sorry to hear it,' returned 
 Mary Parker, looking at Godfrey reproachfully. 
 
 ' He has done nothing deserving of blame in itself,' 
 Godfrey's father explained. * But, believing, as we do, 
 that the first step towards improvement consists in the 
 exercise of self-control, we are constrained upon the 
 present occasion, for the good of our boy, to inflict 
 some small punishment. Godfrey, you are relegated 
 to your nursery, nor will you be permitted to come 
 down stairs during the evening. Every extravagant 
 exhibition of emotion may be controlled, and the hidden 
 promoter of it resisted. Besist, and strength will 
 come ; — this is the lesson I have endeavoured to im- 
 press upon you all — is it not, Mary ? and I trust I 
 have done so in a manner incapable of offending even 
 the most susceptible of my household.' 
 
 * You have indeed, sir,' answered Mary, in a grate- 
 ful tone ; and then, turning to Godfrey, she said, 
 kindly, * Perhaps you will come along with me, sir?'
 
 6 Sophi/, or 
 
 The boy needed no further bidding, and, taking 
 his nurse's hand, he passed out from the presence of 
 his parents, pondering, as he went, upon their trite 
 copy-book sayings. 
 
 Hardly had the swing-door, which divided the 
 entrance-hall from the servants' apartments, closed, 
 when Mary Parker's manner underwent a sudden 
 change. Covering her young charge with kisses, she 
 broke forth at once into the language in which tender 
 women are wont to address little childi'cn ; and finally, 
 after a thousand foolish words and promises, she in- 
 sisted upon carrj'ing him all the way up the steep 
 stone stairs, at the head of which his nursery was 
 situated, on her entrance into which she again com- 
 menced hugging and fondling him, and doing all in 
 her power to efface from his mind the remembrance 
 of the parental teaching. 
 
 Some time before Godfrey's usual bedtime upon 
 this evening, Mary Parker, expecting, probably, a visit 
 from Mrs. St. Clair, had placed him in his little cane- 
 sided crib, peeping through the manifold holes in which 
 he coidd see her as she passed to and fro setting his 
 nursery in order for the night. Whilst she was par- 
 taking of supper in an adjoining room, he used, when 
 the days were long, to lie awake watching the gray 
 square of twilight through the two windows, across 
 which were the five wooden bars set there to protect 
 his tender years. 
 
 The dark Scotch firs at the further end of the 
 flower - garden used to sway their heads slowly and 
 mournfully in the evening breezes, each one seem- 
 ing to him an old friend who was saying ' good 
 night,' with a face full of s}^npathy and benevo- 
 lence. For to little Godfrey the black fir-trees pos-
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 7 
 
 sessed faces. Profile after profile seemed to peep down 
 at him from the window as he lay there dreaming 
 awake in his little cane-sided crib, the outline of each 
 one of them generally taking the wrong curves, like 
 the head of George III. upon a spade guinea, where 
 every line of the face is made to bulge outwards ; 
 whereas, as most people know who have had anything 
 to do with ' High Art,' a well-regulated profile ought 
 to curve in an exactly contrary direction, if, indeed, it 
 curves at all : for, probabl}'^, it would be disposed at first 
 in a series of sharp, square little angles, to be finished 
 off afterwards with one of Nature's neatest chisels. 
 
 Amongst the branches of these old friends, God- 
 frey's lesser, though more noisy, acquaintances, the 
 rooks, had built themselves nest after nest, during 
 many generations of men. Judging by their noisy 
 and excited cawings, and by the frequent disturbances 
 and rearrangements that took place long after the 
 little boy fancied that they were comfortably settled 
 for the night, their lives could not have been altogether 
 free from discord. They seemed contented, however, 
 on the whole ; nor could a nouveau richCj who had 
 hired one of the manor-houses in the neighbourhood, 
 and who thought that a rookery would look respectable, 
 induce any of them to remain with him, though, be- 
 sides providing them with ready-made nests, he had 
 tied raw meat to his tree-tops, and scattered grain 
 at the foot of them. The cunning birds * ate and 
 were filled,' but declined to roost where they had 
 supped, and remained constant to the gnarled groves 
 of Dallingridge. On this evening, there seemed to 
 be an unusual commotion amongst the black-feathered 
 colony — the parent birds whirling oftener than was 
 their wont over the gray chimney-stacks of the old
 
 8 Sophy^ or 
 
 house, followed by the young ones with their shriller 
 voices ; and, by reason of it, Godfrey was kept awake 
 until nearly nine o'clock, by which time Mary Parker 
 had finished her supper, and he could see her seated 
 at the table in the middle of the room, mending a pair 
 of his socks, close to the tail of the great white rocking- 
 horse. It was now that he heard, as usual, a dull 
 thudding sound just outside the nursery -door, accom- 
 panied by the murmur of gruff voices, and the tread 
 of hobnailed boots. This he knew proceeded from 
 Joe Crosby and John McBean — gardener and leaf- 
 sweeper, respectively — in the act of filling the large 
 wood-basket ; and he knew that when the filling was 
 accomplished, John McBean would come into the 
 nursery, to say good night to Mary Parker, and to 
 drink a fflass out of a black bottle which she used to 
 bring forth from the cupboard, — for this was what 
 happened every night, although he was sometimes too 
 sleepy to see it. With John McBean (an honest 
 red-haired Scotchman, imported from Mr St. Clair's 
 northern estates — for he had property in Scotland as 
 well as in England), there came into the nursery a 
 mingled odour of mould, clay-pipe, and corduroy, 
 which would even linger there some time after his^ 
 departure ; but to Godfrey, who was too young as yet 
 to be fastidious, this was only the well-known aroma 
 of honest John McBean, and he liked it. 
 
 After sitting down for a while at the table until 
 he had finished what Godfrey innocently looked upon 
 as water — and, indeed, it was of the same colour — 
 John used tenderly to embrace Mary Parker, with 
 whom he had * kept company ' for many years, and 
 take himself off ; nor was there anything singular, to 
 Godfrey, in this proceeding : he was at an age when
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 9 
 
 %chat is, seems to be identical witli iclint ougJit to he, and 
 to him the advent of John McBean was alwaj-s a 
 pleasurable circumstance. 
 
 On this particular evening, when lie felt restless 
 and low-spirited, be was more than usually gratified 
 at perceiving tbe presence of bis old friends — for to 
 bim tbese simj)le people were friends indeed ; and bad 
 any one asked bim at tbis period of bis life wbo were 
 tbe two persons be loved best in tbe world, be would 
 almost certainly bave answered, * Mary Parker and 
 Jobn McBean.' 
 
 He now called out to tbe former of tbese two, and 
 asked ber to 'make bim go to sleep,' — wbicb meant 
 tbat sbe was to lean over bim, patting bim on tbe 
 shoulder, and whispering and crooning soft things 
 until be was too sleepy to hear them. Mary Parker, 
 it is true, was only a plain red-faced countrywoman, 
 with rather a thickset figure ; but to Godfrey sbe was 
 tbe representative of warmth, womanhood, materiTity, 
 and consolation. Her form seemed to bis bead to be 
 * soft all over,' Avith no hard points or angles ; and 
 though ber dress was generally only of rusty-black 
 merino, at any rate be was never chided for spoil- 
 ing it, when, as now, be laid bis tawny head upon 
 her bosom, and endeavoured to compose himself to 
 sleep. 
 
 ' You are so kind,' be said to ber timidly, ' that 
 sometimes I think you ought to have been really a 
 mamma. Had you ever a little boy of your own ? ' 
 
 But instead of answering him, Mary only drew 
 bim closer to her heart, and Godfrey saw tbat sbe 
 was in tears. 
 
 Seeing a ' grown-up person ' cry, somehow inspired 
 bim with a very uncomfortable sensation, which par-
 
 10 Sophy ^ 
 
 or 
 
 took partly of awe, partly of surprise, and partlj^ of 
 a nervous inclination to laugh, wliicli soon had the 
 effect of banishing his own sadness. 
 
 * Perhaps,' he thought, ' she has got a headache or 
 a toothache ; ' or, could it be, he asked himself, that, 
 though she was so much older than he was, she had 
 been naughtj', and that this had made her shed 
 tears ? He had always been taught that people who 
 did wrong were invariably unhappy. He felt himself 
 in the presence of a mystery — something he could not 
 quite understand ; and as he was wondering about it 
 he fell asleep. 
 
 "WTiilst little Godfrey was snugly ensconced behind 
 the cane walls of his crib, the following conversation 
 was taking place downstairs in the drawing-room. 
 Mr. St. Clair began it by remarking anxiously, — 
 
 ' I am really alarmed at the extreme sensibility 
 of that child, since I cannot but foresee that a 
 nature, thus prone to receive impressions, may be in 
 danger of garnering up tares as well as wheat.' 
 
 ' It was a most extraordinary circumstance that he 
 should sj^mpathise with a criminal,^ said Mrs. St. Clair, 
 with a shudder. * I declare to me it seemed quite 
 ominous ! ' 
 
 *Now 3'ou know, my dear,' returned her husband 
 reproach full}^ ' that by saying this you are assmning 
 the fallacy of my favourite theory ; a theory based, 
 I am convinced, upon principles both of Wisdom and 
 Humanity.' 
 
 * You mean your theory of counteracting natural 
 and inherited tendencies by a system of education, 
 arranged specially for each individual case ? ' inquired 
 Mrs. St. Clair, pandering rashly to the old man's love 
 of recapitulating his opinions.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 11 
 
 ' I do,' he answered ; * and with Godfrey the system 
 I intend pursuing is this : Primo — towards ourselves 
 as his parents, it is important that we should inculcate 
 a sense of respectful submission ; he must never, what- 
 ever may be the circumstances, venture to think even, 
 of questioning our decision ; but to arrive at this end 
 it is not my intention to make use of harshness. I 
 would rather that he should feel the calm force of an 
 indomitable will, crushing and pushing him, as it were, 
 towards the accomplishment of our design/ . . . 
 
 * But is it not also to be conjectured that he him- 
 self may develop an indomitable will ? ' interrupted 
 Mrs. St. Clair ; ' joined, perhaps, to fiery and un- 
 tamable passions ? It would be only natural.' 
 
 * Maybe,' replied her husband. * And yet what 
 avail culture, refinement, and the teachings of moralit}^ 
 if they may not successfully combat and triumph over 
 any such evil tendencies ? You speak of these tenden- 
 cies as " natural :" are they not, perhaps, entirely arti- 
 ficial? The result, rather, of the unnatural state of 
 our ow^n society ? Let us fight the world, then, with 
 its own weapons, bringing Art to bear upon Art, and 
 scouting Nature where, at the outset, Nature has been 
 the least invoked and consulted.' 
 
 'As you say, dear, of course.' (Like Franken- 
 stein, Mrs. St. Clair felt that she had called up a 
 superior force.) * And yet the whole thing is only an 
 experiment.' 
 
 * A successful one, hitherto,' answered her hus- 
 band, with satisfaction. 'I think, Eliza, you will at 
 any rate admit this. I have looked at that child as 
 though through a microscope ; I have studied his 
 every movement, and analysed the impulse that 
 prompted each thought, word, and action ; and,
 
 12 Sophy ^ or 
 
 honestly, I can find no cause either for complaint or 
 disappointment ; and I say this from no sentimental 
 feeling, such as so often ohscures the better judgment 
 of a person of ripe years, where children, the types of 
 innocence, are concerned : I say calmly and dispassion- 
 ately, after much observation, and \vith some surprise, 
 that I can detect no vice in him whatsoever.' 
 
 ' Could one be really vicious, do you think, at seven 
 years old ? ' inquired Mrs. St. Clair. * Would not the 
 bad qualities develop later ?' 
 
 * I believe we should even now perceive them,' re- 
 plied her husband. * My unfortunate brother Francis 
 had, even at that early age, developed in some measure 
 almost all those evil tendencies which have since lured 
 him on to destruction, like ignesfatui; for, at ten years 
 of age, besides refusing to pray, he was already opposed 
 to capital pimishment, and advocated republican prin- 
 ciples of government. What is he now ? Alas ! we 
 know only too well. An infidel, a radical, and a 
 homccopathist ! A judgment is falling upon him, 
 however ; he is becoming blind.' 
 
 * One has always heard,' said Mrs. St. Clair, with a 
 pretty little shudder, * that he was a very objectionable 
 person. Oddly enough, though he is living so near 
 us, I have only seen him once in the distance ; he was 
 sitting upon the beach at Southcrbourne, eating shrimps. 
 He is decidedly good-looking.' 
 
 * That it was my misguided brother I have not the 
 slightest doubt, Eliza, since you tell me what was his 
 occupation. Eating shrimps upon a public beach at a 
 fashionable watcrlng-jilace ! Yes ! ... It was always 
 his delight to fiy in the face of societj^, and outrage 
 all the most sacred of its established laws. His is a 
 very terrible example. When one considers the re-
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 13 
 
 sponsibilities of parents, one wonders how any one can 
 voluntarily accept so important a trust/ 
 
 'Yes, indeed, dear,' cut in Mrs. St. Clair. 'And 
 yet surely nobody need marry unless they like ? ' 
 
 'Except with some special object in view, it is in- 
 deed marvellous that they should,' replied her husband. 
 ' You know, Eliza, why I married you ? ' 
 
 ' I do, dear,' said Mrs. St. Clair, quite placidly : ' in 
 order that you might have a child who would cut out 
 your brother and his children, if he ever had any ; for 
 his little girl was not then born — the brother who was 
 an infidel, a radical, and a homoeopathist at seven.' 
 
 'Not at seven^ dear,' interposed her husband. 'Above 
 all things let us endeavour to be truthful. 'Twould be 
 fatal to Godfrey's eventual regeneration were he to hear 
 his mother making so serious a misstatement. I was 
 alluding just now to \h.Q present tendencies of my miser- 
 able brother.' 
 
 'And their bearing upon the present case, dear,' 
 said Mrs. St. Clair, ' if one is to be really correct.' 
 
 ' With Godfrey under our eyes, then,' continued 
 the old man, 'I need not remind you of the object 
 that we have in view, and you know the jealous interest 
 with which I shall watch the progress of his moral and 
 mental culture.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but now, with regard to his real education, 
 do you consider that Mary Parker is intelligent enough 
 to be his constant companion ? His mind is forward 
 for his age ; he can really read and write very nicely.' 
 
 ' The example of Mary Parker,' began Mr. St. Clair, 
 again deviating from the subject, ' will show you how 
 much may be done by constant precept joined to the 
 wholesome occupation of correcting another. When 
 Mary committed her youthful indiscretion there seemed
 
 14 Sophy ^ 
 
 or 
 
 every danf^cr that her moral character would degenerate ; 
 for j^rief, thou<;h it may ennoble and purify a superior 
 intellect, acts frequent!}', with persons of a less robust 
 mind, in a contrary direction ; and you may remember 
 that, after the death of her baby, Mary showed a decided 
 inclination for the absorption of stimulants — the curse 
 of so many of her class/ 
 
 ' Of this she is quite cured, dear — at any rate for 
 the present,' said Mrs. St. Clair. * And John McBean, 
 too, is much improved. Heally,' she added, with a 
 little laugh, ' our house will end by becoming a kind 
 of reformatory.' 
 
 * And this will show you,' continued her husband, 
 prosing on, ' the advantages of example and moral 
 training. You know my ideas upon religion. . . . 
 You know the importance I attach to established 
 forms. It is true that I would employ religion 
 merely for tonic and drastic purposes ; but, then, I 
 am one of the privileged few who can separate and 
 reflect upon cause and effect. The igtioraiit have need 
 of Christianit!/ ; above all, it is of value to them,- 
 spiritually, that they shpuld contemplate, in their 
 mental twilight, the conception of eternal punish- 
 ment ; and, should you for one moment doubt the 
 salutary effect of a persistent moral training upon 
 a human being, I must beg you to turn your at- 
 tention to the vegetable kingdom, where you will 
 observe many plants of the most noxious and poisonous 
 nature rendered harmless, nay, even edible, by judicious 
 pruning and delving, combined with removal to a fresh 
 soil, which is often artificially ])rocured. There are 
 several varieties of the potato-tribe, for instance.' . . . 
 
 But here Mrs. St. Clair, becoming impatient, inter- 
 rupted suddenly, —
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 15 
 
 * Don't you think, dear, that, as it will be some 
 time before Godfrey will go to school, it would be a 
 ffood thine: to have a tutor for him — some one who 
 would read with him and teach him languages ? ' 
 
 ^Ilad you been more patient, Eliza,' said Mr. St. 
 Clair, * I should have told you that this notion had 
 already occurred to me. I was, in fact, actually leading 
 up to it.' 
 
 'Let me see. Who is there?' cut in his wife. 
 'Mr. Pettigrew, the new curate, wouldn't do, of 
 course, though my friends at Bath, who recommended 
 him, said that he was very clever and estimable ; but 
 we couldn't have him without offending his Rector, 
 Mr. Hornblower, who, as he takes pupils, will, of 
 course, think himself the most fitted.' . . . 
 
 ' Hornblower is an old fool ! ' interrupted Mr. St. 
 Clair, with vivacity. He was always glad, in the 
 presence of his wife, to call attention to the Rector's 
 intellectual shortcomings ; for Mr. Hornblower, though 
 barely his own age, was already beginning to show 
 signs of mental degeneracy. ' But he is a good crea- 
 ture ; and, though Godfrey would probably learn but 
 little, that little would be of the right sort, for Horn- 
 blower is a sound Churchman. Of Pettigrew I know 
 nothing.' 
 
 * He is a very clever person, I am told,' said Mrs. 
 St. Clair ; * but beyond this I, too, know nothing. In- 
 deed, I don't know why I mentioned his name ; for I 
 felt sure you would be afraid of offending Mr. Horn- 
 blower.' 
 
 *0f offending Mr. Hornblower?' repeated the old 
 gentleman, looking at his wife with an expression of 
 incredulity. * / afraid of offending that old donkey ? 
 Really, Eliza, I am ignorant wherein I have so far
 
 IG Sophy ^ or 
 
 incurred your contempt as that you should suspect me 
 of such an absurdity ! Why, he is not a man one can 
 offend ; and even if one could .... I own I cannot 
 imagine myself in so unusual a state of mind as that 
 I should be afraid of offending old Hornblower ! * 
 
 ' Well, at any rate, dear, / am afraid of offending 
 him. JIo might be too stupid to imderstand a slight, 
 but I believe his family would make themselves very 
 unpleasant. It is true that Mrs. Hornblower is bed- 
 ridden, and that one never sees her ; but there is 
 Mary Anne, who will never marry now, for she must 
 be considerably over fort5^ I am told that she once 
 tried very hard, years ago, to marry you, and that she 
 has been very spiteful about it ever since, sajdng she 
 only cared for your money, and that now she is wiser, 
 she would not take you at a gift. But, still, I dare say 
 her father will be the best person for Godfrey.' 
 
 * Mary Anne Hornblower said that, did she ? ' ex- 
 claimed Mr. St. Clair, with a sudden fire in his eye. 
 ' Aha ! that was what she said ! * and he appeared as 
 though he was controlling himself with an effort. 
 
 * She is a spiteful creature,' returned his wife ; ^ but 
 her father, as you say, is a good-natured old idiot, and 
 Avill do very well, I am sure, to teach Godfrey.' 
 
 * And why, Eliza,' cried the old man, turning the 
 tables suddenly, * am I to submit to seeing the boy 
 instructed by this old donkey? Am I to sacrifice 
 Godfrey's future simply because j'^ou are afraid of 
 offending a bedridden old woman and a hideous old 
 maid ? So Mary Anne Hornblower said, did she, that 
 she would not now take me at a gift !'.... 
 
 * I would certainly far rather have her for my friend 
 than my foe,' remarked Mrs. St. Clair, whose long blue 
 eyes wore an expression of veiled trimnph. * By-the-
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 17 
 
 by, did I dream it, or did you tell me, that Mr. Petti- 
 grew had once been chaplain to a gaol ? ' 
 
 ^I did not tell you it,' answered her husband. 
 ' Has he ? So much the better if he has ; but I know 
 nothing about him/ 
 
 * Well, then, I shall consider it a settled thing that 
 Mr. Hornblower reads with Godfrey ; not quite yet, 
 of course, but a little later? Is not this your wish, 
 dear ? ' 
 
 ^My wish ! ' exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, with irritation. 
 ' My wish ! Not the very least in the world ! Really, 
 Eliza, there are moments when you are particularly 
 dense ! It is the last thing that I should wish, now 
 or ever ; particularly when close at hand there seems 
 to be another man exactly fitted for the purpose.' 
 
 ' And who may that be ? ' inquired his wife, inno- 
 centh^ 
 
 'AYhy, Pettigrew, of course. A highly-cultivated 
 man ; a young man ; a man accustomed to control and' 
 counteract all lands of moral and mental obliquities 
 in this prison where he has been chaplain ; a man most 
 strongly recommended by your friends at Bath.' 
 
 ' Oh, I had forgotten him ; and besides, now I think 
 of it, I don't believe he would undertake it. I believe 
 nothing would induce him to come.' 
 
 ' "Why not ? For what reason should he refuse if 
 we make it well worth his while ? At any rate we can 
 but ask him.' 
 
 Mrs. St. Clair did not say anything more ; but her 
 previous words must have had some influence vdih. her 
 husband, for, six weeks after this time, the Rev. Felix 
 Pettigrew was engaged, in the intervals of his profes- 
 sional duties, to read with little Godfrey, and to instruct 
 him in the first rudiments of his classics. 
 
 VOL. T. ' c 
 
 r^o
 
 18 Sophy ^ or 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 But, jDertiaps, before continuing, it will be as well to go 
 back some years, and to look into the earlier history of 
 Mr. Erskine St. Clair of Dallingridge (the pedantic old 
 gentleman with the pretty wife and the little boy), and 
 his only surviving brother, Francis. That they came 
 of an old and illustrious famil}^ all those who may have 
 studied the annals of ' the lordly line of high St. Clair ' 
 will already have divined, for from this noble Scotch 
 stock the St. Clairs of Dallingridge were lineally de- 
 scended. They had had a French cross, a Spanish 
 cross, and even an Irish one ; whilst Dallingridge Park 
 had come to them at the time of the Commonwealth 
 throuo-h an English heiress, who had married a 
 younger son of the Scotch house ; but they were 
 St. Clairs for all that, and were very proud of their old 
 name. 
 
 Erskine and Francis were only half-brothers, and by 
 reason of the disparity in their ages they might -per- 
 fectly have been, instead, father and son ; for the 
 former was the elder by some twenty-eight years, so 
 that he was now at least sixty-five years old, whilst 
 his half-brother was not yet thirty-seven. In appear- 
 ance and in disposition they were altogether as dis- 
 similar as in their ages ; and as they had developed 
 different tastes and opinions, their s}^npathies, never 
 very congenial, had been drifted still further asunder 
 by time and circumstance. 
 
 Erskine St. Clair, the elder brother, was a fair, 
 slenderly-built man, bearing no trace in his physio- 
 gnomy of the Moorish eyes and strongly-marked brows
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 19 
 
 wliicli were supposed to have been introduced into the 
 family by a Spanisli great - grandmother, and which 
 Francis had decidedly inherited. His figure was 
 * dapper ' rather than athletic or symmetrical, and he 
 affected an antiquated style of dress, which, whilst 
 it endowed him with a certain amomit of seeming 
 originality and distinction, made him appear to belong 
 to quite another historical epoch — an artificial epoch of 
 shirt - frill and shoe - buckle, of formal carriage and 
 stilted address, with which his younger brother, who 
 had identified himself with modern progress and re- 
 form, could feel no sympathy whatsoever. 
 
 Had these two men not happened, unfortunately, 
 to have been brothers, they might, perhaps, have 
 mutually restrained each other's failings and exag- 
 gerations, remaining at the same time upon tolerably 
 friendly terms ; but, forced as they were by the ties of 
 blood and vicinity to rub perjDetually against eaclk 
 other, the friction had gradually established a raw, 
 and at the time of which I am now writing they had 
 become the bitterest of foes. Several causes, besides the 
 difference in their ages and opinions, had worked to- 
 gether to produce this estrangement. For instance, 
 when, some years ago, Erskine St. Clair had con- 
 templated representing the neighbouring borough of 
 Southerbourne in the Tory interest, it had been 
 mortifying to his sense of ^the fitness of things' to 
 be plaj^fully informed by his yoimger brother that he 
 intended opposing him on the side of the Liberals ; 
 and indeed, his address, issued from the neigh- 
 bouring farm of Little Stillingfleet, where he had 
 taken up his abode, was so fine a specimen of political 
 eloquence that, though he could hardly have hoped for
 
 20 Sophy ^ or 
 
 anything save the defeat ho experienced, it stamped 
 him in the public mind as a young man of genius and 
 promise, who might one day achieve greatness, although 
 his opinions were so strangely at variance with those 
 then in vogue with English country squires. 
 
 Then, again, the very fact that Francis should have 
 lived at Little Stillingfleet at all, was in itself a source 
 of annoyance and complaint to Mr. St. Clair of Dalling- 
 ridge. When his father, the old Squire^ had married 
 for the second time (late in life, and when there seemed 
 to be no reason whatever for his so doing), the act had 
 struck Erskine as being foolish and aggravating in the 
 extreme ; but when, in addition to this, he presumed so 
 far as to become the father of Francis, and, moreover, 
 to desire to saddle the estate with him as well as with 
 his second wife, this sense of his folly and of his aggra- 
 vating conduct took the form of ill-judged words, and 
 still more intemperate letters. 
 
 Erskine St. Clair had obstinately refused to sign 
 any agreement for providing for this second family ; 
 and to punish him, as was supposed, for his insubordi- 
 nation, the father, at his death, had willed away, to his 
 second son, all the unentailed property of which he had 
 lately become possessed, including the snug farm of 
 Little Stillingfleet, originally a part of the neighbouring 
 estate of Poynings Abbey, and which was only separated 
 from Great Stillingfleet (the last farm on that side of 
 the Dallingridge propert}') by a shallow hazel-copse, 
 and a privet-hedge with a rickety gate. 
 
 Looking over this gate, the long, low, whitewashed 
 farmhouse could be distinctly seen, with its three pointed 
 o-ables, covered in summer with many-coloured climbing 
 roses, and only showing its dark oaken cross-beams and
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 21 
 
 rafters in the naked winter season. Eound about it 
 were clustered its trim straw-stacks and hay-ricks, its 
 byres and its barns, looking like so many chessmen set 
 up in the midst of the rich green pasture-lands, which 
 stretched on northwards until they joined the broad 
 acres of Sir Peckham Hickathrift, of Poynings Abbey. 
 This, then, was the second reason (apart from his first 
 offence of being born at all) which had alienated the 
 friendship of Erskine St. Clair from his only brother. 
 But the ' last straw ' to a whole camel-load of ill-feeling 
 was added a few years later, when, scorning the voice 
 of popidar opinion, Francis St. Clair actually ran away 
 with, and married, a beautiful gipsy- girl, with whom 
 he disappeared for some years from the eyes of civilised 
 man, leading, so rumour insisted, a wild nomad life in 
 Eastern lands, and becoming, so far as society was con- 
 cerned, to all intents and purposes a dead man. That 
 he was not one, however, was proved by the fact that 
 he still continued from time to time to draw his allow- 
 ance in due form from the county bank ; and at last, 
 after some seven or eight years of wandering, his 
 only female retainer — an honest countrywoman, who 
 took care of the house of Little Stillingfleet — re- 
 ceived an intimation of his projected return ; whereat 
 she and all the farmhouse gossips in the neigh- 
 bourhood had become intensely excited. It was 
 confidently expected that Francis St. Clair would 
 make his appearance in what was popularly called 
 *a caravan' — that is to say, a covered gipsy-cart, 
 furnished on the outside with rough wicker - work 
 baskets, green brooms, door-mats, and kettle-holders ; 
 and on the inside with a black-browed and slatternly 
 smala, consisting of bold-looking women and shock-
 
 22 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 hojulcfl bahlcs, whose squalling was usually accom- 
 panied by the yelping of sundry ill-favoured mongrel 
 curs. 
 
 But in whatever form of conveyance they might 
 present themselves, the advent of these interesting 
 Bohemians was looked forward to with no small degree 
 of curiosity, which increased considerably as the day 
 approached which had been fixed ui:»on by 'Mr. Frank' 
 for his return. Being in total ignorance as to the point 
 of the comjDass whence this eccentric family would 
 journey, it seemed for some time doubtful which would 
 be the most favourable spot to select as a point of ob- 
 servation ; but it was at last suggested by one shrewder 
 than his neighbours, that as there was but one lodge- 
 gate leading into the estate of Little Stillingfleet, this 
 entrance would be the place at which they had better 
 post themselves ; and here it was, consequently, that a 
 little knot of them were gathered together on the after- 
 noon of the expected arrival. 
 
 After they had waited some hours, during which 
 time every approaching vehicle had been keenly scru- 
 tinised, a dark speck appeared upon the far white 
 expanse of turnpike-road, seeming no bigger at first 
 than the 'little cloud' seen by the servant of the 
 prophet, and every eye was immediately strained in 
 the direction whence it was seen advancing. On, on 
 it came, growing every instant larger and more dis- 
 tinct, accompanied by a cloud of dust, which blew all 
 to one side of the road, and vanished over the hedge 
 like smoke. 
 
 But, disappointment ! it turned out to be nothing 
 more nor less than the four-o'clock coach from London, 
 which had somehow managed to arrive a little before
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 23 
 
 its time ; and, upon this prosaic discovery, tlie baffled 
 gossips withdrew their gaze from the despised thing, 
 and began to scan the distant line of white turnpike- 
 road in an opposite direction. What, however, was 
 their surprise when, at this very lodge- gate of Little 
 Stillingflcct, the great swinging, lumbering, dust- 
 covered London coach, came suddenly to a stand- 
 still, and Francis St. Clair, * clothed and in his right 
 mind,' to all appearance — that is to say, dressed very 
 much like anybody else — and looking as handsome as 
 ever, sprang lightly down from his seat by the side of 
 the driver. 
 
 ' How d'ye do, Stubberfield ? How d'ye do, Nelus ?' 
 said he, nodding, as he recognised some of his old 
 friends amongst the assembled rustics ; and, without 
 more ado, he walked carelessly round to the left-hand 
 door of the coach, where a female passenger handed 
 him, out of the window, a small bundle of plaids, and 
 another still smaller bundle, which squeaked a little, 
 as it was evidently somewhat ruthlessly awakened, and 
 opened upon the beholders a pair of very large black 
 eyes. This second bimdle was Francis St. Clair's only 
 child — a daughter — the sole issue of his marriage — 
 whose mother had died, but a few months ago, in 
 giving her birth, and who might one day have become 
 the possessor of Dallingridge Park, had not Erskine 
 St. Clair, anxious that the old place should not pass to 
 what he considered so degenerate a race, married almost 
 immediately after his yoimger brother. He had united 
 himself to a very pretty young lady of eighteen, whose 
 acquaintance he had made at a fancy-fair at Bath ; and 
 the arrival of Godfrey upon the scene, a year or two 
 afterwards, had effectually done away with the future
 
 24 Sophy, or 
 
 l^retensions of any possible gipsy-cousins; for, notwith- 
 standing that Francis had married before Erskine, his 
 little girl was not born until Godfrey was about five or 
 six years old. 
 
 Taking possession, then, of these two bundles, 
 Francis St. Clair walked briskly do^vn the hilly road 
 to the white farmhouse with the pointed gables ; and 
 here it was that he had resided, oft' and on, ever since 
 — leading his own life, dreaming his own dreams, and 
 associating no more than he could help with his neigh- 
 bours, who were most of them somewhat curious to 
 know what the object of his life and of his dream- 
 ing really Avas. Several strange stories naturally got 
 afloat, which were afterwards either toned down or 
 exaggerated, according to the wisdom or credulity 
 of the first hearers. It was suspected that some 
 mysterious scheme for the eventual regeneration and 
 reorganization of Europe and the East was what oc- 
 cupied chiefly his thoughts and his energies ; for, 
 during his eight years of married life, he had travelled 
 much in Eastern countries, and had come back 
 impregnated, like so many other Englishmen be- 
 fore him, with the subtle fascinations of Oriental 
 life. It was known that, besides having been created 
 a Turkish Bey, he had great influence with the 
 Sublime Porte ; he had been sent on a private mis- 
 sion to the Vladikaj or Prince-Bishop of Montenegro, 
 and he had since foregathered with many high-poised 
 functionaries and politicians, as well as with revolu- 
 tionary leaders and celebrities — saviours and reformers, 
 perhaps, in the eyes of their disciples — who flash 
 from time to time across the political horizon, leaving 
 behind them a trail luminous, it may be, but often
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 25 
 
 sadly bespattered with gore. Nay, some of these 
 had even penetrated to the sjdvan shades of Little 
 Stillingfleet ; and it was by no means an unusual oc- 
 currence for the London coach to set down at the 
 lodge-gate fierce-eyed Circassian warriors, whose long 
 moustaches, and picturesque leggings, delighted and 
 astonished the honest chawbacons ; Avhilst Polish 
 princes, Italian Carbonari, and 'rightful heirs,' dis- 
 possessed of their inheritance, became, as it were, mere 
 * drugs in the market,' being sent down by the dozen, 
 whenever (as Mr. St. Clair's * London correspondent ' 
 informed him) they were considered 'dangerous,' and 
 required the tranquillity and salubrity of the country. 
 
 But Godfrey knew nothing of these strange kins- 
 folk ; their very existence had been carefully con- 
 cealed from him, although they were living so near 
 that, by going up into the high meadows where the 
 mushrooms grew, and looking over the ricketj" five- 
 barred gate in the privet-hedge, he might almost hspve 
 droj)ped a pebble straight down upon the snug home- 
 steads of Little Stillingfleet, which lay smiling in the 
 hollow beneath. And indeed not only Godfrey's father 
 and mother, but most of their very orthodox and strait- 
 laced neighbours, avoided the place as though it had 
 been accursed ground, since by man}^ of them one of 
 the current rumours was conscientiously believed, — 
 namely, that Mr. Francis St. Clair and his daughter 
 went about wearing very little in the way of clothes, 
 and worshipped the devil. 
 
 And now, when I have said a few words respecting 
 the Rev. Samuel Hornblower and his new curate, the 
 Rev. Felix Pettigrew, I shall pass on to the continua- 
 tion of my narrative ; but, as these two persons are,
 
 26 Sophy ^ or 
 
 in some measure, involved in it, I feel bound, before 
 proceeding, to describe them superficially. 
 
 Taken individually, they might be regarded as 
 tj-pical clergymen of opposite opinions, which opinions 
 nowadays would probably, in the case of the Rector, 
 have taken an aggressively * Evangelical ' turn ; whilst 
 his curate might, perhaps, have given more decided 
 expression to those Hitualistic leanings which were 
 lurking secretly in his bosom. The times were young, 
 however, for those changes of form and dogma which 
 have come upon us lately with gigantic strides ; 
 and, as neither Mr. Hornblower nor Mr. Pettigrew 
 had ever arranged their ideas in any definite form, 
 they did not consider it necessary to assume one to- 
 wards the other that attitude of animosity and menace 
 so common now between brethren of the same cloth. 
 
 Samuel Hornblower, tall, burly, and upright for his 
 years, was a heavily-built man, who rode at least sixteen 
 stone, and loved his midday meal and his bottle of old 
 port at dinner. His mind was hardly in the same 
 robust condition as his body, although this fact may 
 have been nowise owing to his sixty-seven years ; for 
 Erskine St. Clair was wont to say that he had been a 
 young fool before he was an old one, and that he had 
 never had two ideas in his head since he was an infant 
 in arms. He was a married man ; but as his wife was 
 a person of inferior birth and education, she had very 
 seldom been permitted to appear upon the scene, 
 and having now become a helpless invalid, she had 
 been put away somewhere in a back-room, and nobody 
 ever thought about her at all. 
 
 It was Mary Anne Hornblower — the only daughter 
 of this marriage — a spinster of some forty years of
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 27 
 
 age — who took tlie management of lier father's house, 
 and was in reality the only motive-power in the estab- 
 lishment. She it was who entertained his guests when 
 they came to call at the Rectory, receiving them in the 
 prim drawing-room, where everything was either placed 
 carefidly upon a woollen mat or mider a glass case. 
 It was in this room that she would be discovered 
 upon their entrance, engaged in drawing or stencil- 
 ling, in modelling wax so as to look like flowers, or 
 leather so as to resemble carved wood ; for she was 
 positively bristling with minor modern accomplish- 
 ments ; whilst in the background lurked a harp of 
 formidable dimensions, shrouded in a spectral covering 
 of brown holland. 
 
 And yet it could not be said that, in order to 
 pursue the artistic relaxations of life, she neglected 
 any of its more serious duties. In an upper chamber 
 she used secretly to manufacture under - garments 
 for the poor children of the village, which, wh^n 
 completed, would gladden the heart of many an 
 indigent cottager. The red-worsted shawls worn by 
 nearly all the old women in the neighbourhood were 
 knitted by her, and she reigned supreme at such 
 benevolent institutions as soup kitchens, boot clubs, 
 and school feasts ; for her father, though a good- 
 natured man on the whole, seldom troubled himself 
 about the poor, and left their interests entirely in 
 Mary Anne's hands, who, as he used to say, was 
 capable of becoming anything in the parish, 'from a 
 midwife upwards.' 
 
 He himself was generally to be seen riding about 
 the country on a fat cob for his own amusement, or 
 basking in his garden whenever the weather was
 
 28 Sophy ^ or 
 
 wami, reading the sporting newspapers. His dislike 
 to parochial visiting was only confined to visiting the 
 poor ; so that he was constantly in the habit of paying 
 his respects to the o^viicrs of Dallingridge Park and 
 Po^Tiings Abbey, presenting himself usually at or about 
 the luncheon -hour, for one of his chief delights was to 
 feed in the society of persons who considered themselves 
 his betters. 
 
 On these occasions he was generally full of anec- 
 dotes, or rather, he was full of the only two anecdotes 
 he ever related, and which he had related so often that 
 the whole neighbourhood knew them perfectly well by 
 heart, and had long ceased to consider them in the 
 light of anecdotes at all, paying no more attention to 
 them than is paid to the distant burring of a barrel- 
 organ at a London dinner-party, to which everybody 
 tries not to listen. 
 
 Knowing that the establishment was conducted 
 upon very eccentric and unorthodox principles, that 
 the house was generally filled with 'Jews, Turks, and 
 Infidels,' and divining that the fare was primitive, and 
 the wine scarce (for Mr. Francis St. Clair joined to his 
 other foibles that of being a water-drinker), Mr. Horn- 
 blower had never turned the nose of his trusty cob in 
 the direction of the flesh-pots of Little Stillingflcct, 
 though its owner had more than once remarked inno- 
 cently to 'his little daughter, * I almost wonder whj^ old 
 Hornblower never comes do^^^l our way now : he used 
 to be very kind to me when I was a boy ; ' and this may 
 have been true, but then that was before Francis St. 
 Clair had put himself outside the pale of good society 
 and the Church. 
 
 Of Mr. Pettigrew it will not be necessary to say
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 29 
 
 mucli, as lie will figure oftener than the Hector in these 
 pages, and will consequently have opportunities for 
 developing and revealing himself. His personal ap- 
 pearance formed a decided contrast to that of Mr. 
 Hornblower. He was a pale and delicate - looking 
 j-^oung man of nearly thirty, with refined features ; 
 the faults of his countenance consisted chiefly in a 
 somewhat contracted line of brow, a general absence 
 of shade, and the poorness and weakness of the ej^es, 
 which seldom looked any one straight in the face. Be- 
 sides being almost an eyeless man, he was also, to all 
 intents and purposes, lipless ; that is to say, there 
 was not the slightest difference in colour or texture 
 between the faint lines which indicated the position of 
 his mouth, and the waxen pallor of the surrounding 
 space. This pallor, which might have made him 
 appear interesting to those who regarded it as the 
 possible result of the midnight vigil, or of a warfare 
 constantly waged against 'the world, the flesh, and the 
 devil,' di(f^ot apparently proceed from these causes. 
 His health, judging by his appetite, was excellent; and 
 his parochial activity showed that he must have been 
 possessed of a constitution capable of enduring per- 
 petual fatigue. 
 
 He smiled seldom; and when he did so, his smile 
 was of a forced and mechanical kind, as though in 
 obedience to the pulling of some invisible Avire, causing 
 a momentary relaxation of the compressed lips, and 
 displaying a white and substantial row of grinders, so 
 evenly planted as to suggest, at first, a suspicion of 
 Ai't rather than Nature, and giving to the lower por- 
 tion of his coimtenance a somewhat carnivorous ex- 
 pression. So faded and insignificant, indeed, was this
 
 30 Sophy, or 
 
 countenance, that it seemed as though Nature, after 
 she hud limned and coloured it, had taken uj) a 
 sponge, and endeavoui'ed, as far as was possible, to dab 
 out her handiwork, leaving only the shai*]), clear-cut 
 nose in profile, and in full face, these same white teeth, 
 and his gold spectacles, so persistently worn that they 
 a2)pcared almost to have become a feature. When 
 alluding to his o^\^l stature, Mr. Pettigrew always 
 described himself as being ' of the middle height ; ' 
 but this would, of course, dejoend upon the nmnber 
 of feet assigned to the two extremes. He was pos- 
 sessed of a harsh, grating voice, which sounded 
 peculiarly discordant in the sensitive ears of the little 
 boy, who experienced in his tutor's presence a sense 
 of discomfort and constraint, which he was unable, 
 at this period of his life, satisfactorily to explain. 
 With all Godfrey's craving after knowledge, he 
 woidd have jDreferred a thousand times the society of 
 Mary Parker, whose conversation, although homely 
 and ungrammatical, was interspersed with quaint 
 saws and curious county folk-lore, delightful to his 
 young mind, and in which there lurked, often, the 
 first germ of some grand truth. However, it was only 
 from ten o'clock until midday that Godfrey was taught 
 by his imcongenial mentor, imless it pleased him, as it 
 sometimes did, to make, instead, an assignation for the 
 afternoon, when the boy would call for him at his 
 lodgings in the village, and accompany him on his 
 parochial rounds, drinking in, the while, the wisdom 
 that fell from his lij^s. 
 
 But this continual intercourse had not the effect of 
 arousing any attachment in the boy. 
 
 * He's like a stuffed man,' he explained to Mary
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 31 
 
 Parker, as a reason for liis indifference to his tutor. 
 * And lie seems wound up with a key like my coach 
 and horses/ 
 
 And, indeed, the harsh grating voice of the curate 
 was not imlike the whirring sound made by a mechanical 
 toy when it has nearly run its appointed course, and is 
 in want of re- winding. 
 
 After Godfrey had studied for a year and a half 
 under Mr. Pettigrew he had made, however, very great 
 progress, and he was even more advanced than some of 
 the bigger boys who were reading under Mr. Horn- 
 blower at the Rectory ; for besides the classical education 
 which he imbibed from the curate, his father, having 
 lived a great deal abroad, had been able to instruct him 
 in French and Italian, and he could now read and speak 
 both these languages with a certain degree of facility. 
 Nevertheless, it was a sorrow to him that he could not 
 feel more affection for his instructor, or rather, his 
 instructors, for the cold and formal manner adopted 
 towards him by Mr. St. Clair, seemed as uncongenial 
 as the more pardonable severity of his tutor ; and, 
 during these early j^ears, there was some danger of 
 his becoming rather too sad and contemplative, had 
 it not been for an unexpected happiness which came 
 ere long to brighten and cheer his melancholy child- 
 life. 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 When Godfrey was about twelve or thirteen years 
 of age, and well primed by his pastors and masters with 
 all manner of goodly knowledge, there came upon him 
 an inexpressible longing after some living object where-
 
 32 Sophy ^ or 
 
 upon ho might lavish the pent-up affection of his 
 strangely desolate youth ; for although his exemplary 
 parents seemed to be for ever anxious about his physi- 
 cal comfort and moral well-being, he had never received 
 at their hands any of those foolish fondnesses which, 
 even if they are not always appreciated by the children 
 upon whom they arc bestowed, are missed and hungered 
 after by those to whom they have ^been denied. The 
 fault, if there was one, did not certainly lie with the 
 boy ; for his father, Godfrey had always entertained 
 the deepest reverence ; whilst his mother, who seemed 
 to his youthful eyes beautiful as an angel, he could 
 have adored, as the higher spirits are adored by the 
 faithful, had she ever deigned to encourage by word or 
 deed the outpouring of his ingenuous heart. 
 
 Mrs. St. Clair, however, was the last person in the 
 world to encourage effusiveness of any kind, particu- 
 larly in a child. 
 
 There are some women, gentle and amiable, it may 
 be, in themselves, in whom the maternal instinct does 
 not exist ; and as Nature has evidently left it out of 
 their compositions, it would be as unjust to blame them 
 for it as for any other omission she may have made. 
 As a rule, mothers may be classified under three 
 headings, each of which may be again split and sub- 
 divided. 
 
 First, there is the foolishly-fond mother, who, be- 
 sides adoring and spoiling her own children, is in love, 
 indiscriminatel}', with all the little ones in the world, 
 and becomes, by reason of this unreasoning fondness, a 
 universal and inveterate baby-kisser, and the stor}^- 
 tellcr and sweetmeat-purveyor of whole families of 
 youngsters.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 33 
 
 Then there is the mother whose peculiar form of 
 selfishness prompts her to love and deal gently with 
 her own offspring, to the ferocious exclusion of the off- 
 spring of other people, who straightway become to her 
 only as so many ' brats/ ' imps/ and * torments/ filling 
 her with repulsion and disgust should they happen to 
 be malformed or ill-favoured, and exciting her jealous 
 indignation if they appear to others to be either more 
 beautiful or more intelligent than her own. 
 
 Lastly, there is the mother who seems to have be- 
 come one by some strange accident or mistake ; who 
 gazes with surprise and aversion upon all babies, espe- 
 cially upon her own ; who would be afraid to touch one 
 of them ; and who does not like being left with one 
 alone in a room — mistrusting it as something weird 
 and elfin, and never feeling quite sure, even w^hen it is 
 asleep, of what it may take it into its head to do next. 
 Fearing to exasperate it, she abstains from displaying 
 any open sign of animosity ; and this pent-up sense o^ 
 constraint, widening and broadening with the years, 
 develops gradually into a feeling of positive aversion : 
 for Nature, perverted, deals always in exaggerations, 
 nor will Time often vouchsafe to supply what she has 
 carelessly forgotten at the outset. 
 
 It waste this last type of maternity that, judging by 
 appearances, Mrs. St. Clair of Dallingridge seemed un- 
 consciously to belong. She had evidently a rooted dis- 
 taste for children, and everything that appertained to 
 them. It is true that she frequently addressed Godfrey 
 as ^ dear,' and that she even permitted him to embrace 
 her, both before breakfast and at his bedtime ; but 
 any one looking on upon these occasions would 
 have realised at once that she was merely submit- 
 ting, from a stern sense of duty, to what was to her a 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 3-4 Sophy, or 
 
 superfluous and disagreeable form. She would turn 
 aside her well- cut profile in such a way as only to pre- 
 sent a portion of her small car to the boy, her lips 
 growing compressed the while, and her brows con- 
 tracted, whilst the whole expression of her countenance 
 seemed to say as plainly as words, * Since it has to be 
 done, for Heaven's sake let us get it over as soon as 
 possible ! ' 
 
 Godfrey himself had noticed this, ever since he was 
 of an age to notice anything at all, and he one day re- 
 marked innocently to Mary Parker, — 
 
 'When I kiss mamma she makes a face as if she was 
 smelling a bad smell, and shrinks away as / used to 
 when I was little, and when you used to soap my 
 face/ 
 
 In answer to this, Mary (who was a genuine speci- 
 men of the unreasoning and indiscriminate lover of all 
 children) only broke forth into affectionate and sympa- 
 thetic words, as she always did uj^on the slightest pro- 
 vocation. 
 
 She was tying on her bonnet, and Godfrey was 
 going to accompany her as far as the dairy, which was 
 situated some way from the house, on a lately-acquired 
 piece of ground, divided by the turnpike-road from the 
 rest of the park. Before starting, however, he had occa- 
 sion to replace a book in the drawing-room, and, find- 
 ing his parents alone there, he ventured to make known 
 to them the unaccountable void which seemed widening 
 in his heart. 
 
 * Mamma,' he said timidly, for he always approached 
 his mother with feelings of the deepest awe and admi- 
 ration, ' sometimes I can't help feeling a little lonely. 
 Might I have something to amuse me ? '
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 35 
 
 * Have you not your books, Godfrey ? ' demanded 
 his father, looking up at him from the newspaper over 
 his spectacles. 
 
 ' Yes, papa — I know — but I meant something «//i"^,' 
 explained the boy. 
 
 ^I fancied,' said his mother, in a somewhat ag- 
 grieved tone, 'that you were getting so attached to 
 your pony.' 
 
 ' Yes, so I am, mamma. I am very fond of him ; 
 but then he lives in the stables. I mean something 
 that I could have always with me, that I could nurse 
 and pet — something bigger and more intelligent than 
 a white mouse or a gold-fish. Tom Hickathrift had a 
 very large black dog when he was at Mr. Hornblower's, 
 and then he was onl}^ twelve and a half.' 
 
 ' That dog is sure to go mad and bite,' answered 
 Mrs. St. Clair severely, 'and then Tom Hickathrift will 
 die in the most dreadful agonies.' ^ 
 
 * "Will he ?' asked Godfrey anxiously, concerned for 
 the welfare of his friend, the only hope of Sir Peck- 
 ham Hickathrift of Poynings Abbey, who had just left 
 the neighbourhood for Eton. 
 
 ' And if Tom Hickathrift goes mad,' continued his 
 mother, ' that is no reason why you should too. Let 
 me see ; what animal is there, dear, that would not bite 
 or scratch, and that would live in this climate without 
 giving trouble, and that wouldn't eat the white mice, or 
 the gold-fish, or my love-birds ? He doesn't seem to 
 care for guinea-pigs.' 
 
 ' "We will consider,' answered Mr. St. Clair gravely. 
 * This will be no easy matter.' 
 
 ' To be sure, there is a hedgehog ! ' Mrs. St. Clair 
 murmured pensively.
 
 3G Sophy ^ or 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I would rather not have that, thanks ! ' 
 exchumed the boy, ' for I'm sure just as I fi;ot to be 
 fond of him, he would roll himself up in a ball.' And, 
 indeed, it seemed to him as if everybody, except Mary 
 Parker, behaved somewhat after this fashion. 
 
 ' I have solved the question,' said Mr. St. Clair, in 
 an oracular voice ; and then, as Godfrey looked at him 
 ' with wonder- waiting eyes,' he added benignantly, 
 * You shall have a tortoise, my boy. It does not bite, it 
 possesses very little feeling or vitality ; most of the 
 jxar it is torpid, and you can carry it about in your 
 pocket like a brickbat.' 
 
 But Godfrey departed from the presence of his 
 parents without feeling very much happier at the 
 prospect of this unemotional consoler, and his life 
 seemed to him as desolate as ever. 
 
 Mary Parker, after she had left the dairy, took 
 her return-way by a circuitous route, in order that 
 they might pass through the little wood, in the 
 centre of which, curiously enough, was situated the 
 church. The church thus romantically placed was of 
 extremely ancient origin, having been erected so long 
 before the invention of coaches and carriages, that 
 it could only be approached by a narrow footpath 
 traversing the shady surrounding grove of oaks, alders, 
 and hornbeams. Its interior, which had remained in 
 precisely the same condition for several centuries, was 
 well worth a visit ; but as the good old English 
 custom of keeping churches hermetically sealed and 
 locked during weckda}'s prevailed here as elsewhere, 
 Mary Parker and her young charge coidd not have 
 entered it had they desired to do so. They passed 
 by the porch, therefore, and took their way slowly
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. . 37 
 
 throiig'li a portion of the burying- ground, the boy 
 loitering behind, from time to time, in order to 
 add to the bunch of wild flowers which he held in his 
 hand. 
 
 The churchyard, ' where the departed peasants mixed 
 with clay,' seemed, at this period, to be almost exclusively 
 the resting-place of the poor ; for, save that, three or 
 four of the older monuments, gray and crumbling, bore 
 the names and arms of some of the leading local fami- 
 lies, it was undulated only with upheaved osier-bound 
 mounds, for the most part without either head- stone or 
 foot-piece. Since the days, however, of which I am 
 writing, the neighbouring watering-place of Souther- 
 bourne has become fashionable, and visitors, on the 
 look-out for the picturesque, have discovered this 
 quaint little ]S[orman church, the situation of which, 
 embedded in woods, and unapproachable by wheels, 
 delighted their cockney imaginations, and inspired 
 them with the desire to baptize, to marrj^, and, eventfi- 
 ally, to bury their dead, in this romantic and secluded 
 spot. In an incredibly short space of time, monument 
 after monument has arisen, garish with paint and gild- 
 ing, and looking for all the world like so many gaudy 
 mushrooms. Here may be seen, now, every species of 
 debased funereal decoration — cruciform, pasty-form, 
 castellated — priggish urns, reminding the beholder of 
 soup-tureens, and smart polished obelisks of shining 
 red granite, which shoot up pertly, amongst many 
 other vulgar emblems of life and immortality. A 
 master-stonemason, with his men, has established him- 
 self in a temporary shed hard by, where he turns off 
 prim fashionable tombstones by the dozen ; and were it 
 not that
 
 38 Sophy, or 
 
 * The grave's mouth laughs unto derision 
 Desire and dread, and dream and vision, 
 Delight of heaven and sorrow of hell,' 
 
 and that the dead possess 
 
 * No place for sound within their hearing,' 
 
 the whirring of circular saws, the hainjnering of 
 mallets, and the scratching and chipping of chisels, 
 together with the singing, whistling, and jesting of 
 these artificers, would surely disturb the silent neigh- 
 bours for whom they are labouring so cheerfully. But 
 as yet the ruthless colony of new- dead had not invaded 
 this quiet corner, or thrust their company upon its 
 humbler occupants, ploughing up their mouldering 
 coffins, dispersing their garnered bones, and giving to 
 this once rustic * God's acre ' the appearance of a 
 public tea-garden. 
 
 Here, then, at this time, remote and shut away 
 from all the jarring discords of the world, 'the rude 
 forefathers of the hamlet' slept, each in his humble 
 osier-bound bed. They were a little company of 
 friends, too, could they have made answer to some 
 manner of military roll-call; and many of them lay 
 at the feet of their earthly masters, hard by the more 
 important tombs. ' Tom,' ' Dick,' and ' Harry,' boon 
 companions in the tap-rooms of the Harrow and the 
 Black Horse — men smock-frocked, hale and hearty, 
 handy with hoe and pitchfork — wearers in life of 
 the low-crowned black-beaver hats, now almost ob- 
 solete, and addressed, once, by their farm -servants 
 as ' Master,' having exchanged their hats for a chin- 
 band, and their smocks, broidered in chain-stitch and 
 honeycomb-pattern, for a shroud, waited here patiently 
 * in the blessed hope of a joyful resurrection.' * Master '
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 39 
 
 Adds, ' Master ' Gladwish, 'Master ' Brett, and ' Master ' 
 Skinner — all great men in their day — slept here side 
 by side, even as they had laboured in life, their resting- 
 place unmarked by stock or stone ; but Godfrey knew 
 well where they were each one of them buried, although 
 they had no names written over them (according to the 
 new fashion, the initial letters are all painted in in 
 red), and would say, pointing with his finger, ' There's 
 Master Adds, there's Master Gladwish,' or, ' There's 
 Master Brett that was gored by our new bull before 
 he had chains fastened to his nose,' &c. ; for to him 
 each green mound possessed an individuality, and 
 Death having for him no terrors, he used to run over 
 the names quite cheerfully : in fact, this was one of 
 his favourite walks. 
 
 *The nuts grow so much bigger here in autumn 
 than anywhere else,' he remarked to Mar}^ Parker, 
 looking up at the hazel bushes on the confines of the 
 burying- ground, which displayed as yet only th*eir 
 waving tassels of ' lambs' tails.' * And look how green 
 the grass is ! I am glad those poor sheep are allowed 
 to come in and eat it.' And indeed the grass was 
 much greener here than in the meadows beyond. 
 
 * Yes, it do look beautiful and peaceful, to be sure,* 
 answered Mary, with tears in her eyes. ' And I do so 
 love to see sheep and lambs feeding in a churchyard.' 
 
 * So do I,' said Godfrey. * But look what a funny 
 little grave that lamb is climbing on to, just between 
 Master Adds and Tom Brett ! I never noticed it before.* 
 
 Mary was weeping now in good earnest. 
 
 * Don't, Mary, don't ! ' cried the boy. * I am sure 
 they're all very happ}^ and comfortable here.' 
 
 ' Yes, dear, I know,' she answered. * And they 
 will all rise up some day, and be as beautifid as
 
 40 Sop It y, or 
 
 angels ; and they're angels now, too. Let us sit down 
 here and rest/ 
 
 * I can't understand liow they can be here and there 
 too/ said Godfrey, pointing to the clouds. 
 
 'All, but they are, dear, somehow,' said Mary. 
 
 * I know they are t/icre,* said the child, again looking 
 up. 
 
 ' And I feel that they are /icre, too,' said Mary, 
 looking down sadly at the little mound. ' It's all a 
 great mystery.' 
 
 'It just fits into my back,' Godfrey remarked, 
 establishing himself against the tiny grave. 'Poor 
 little thing ! I suppose it was a baby ?' 
 
 ' I suppose it was, dear,' answered Mary, still 
 weeping. * Just you run on home,' she added, pre- 
 sently, ' and I'll soon catch you up. There's the key 
 of the gate in the wall; and in case you get there 
 first, leave it ajar with a stone, and mind you don't 
 cross over the road before you've looked to see that 
 there isn't a cart coming.' And with this she gave 
 Godfrey a key, which fitted one of the smaller entrances 
 in the park wall. 
 
 * I'll leave these here,' he said, as he rose to depart ; 
 and he placed his nosegay of nodding fox-gloves and 
 bluebells upon the little mound. He Avas glad to have 
 the chance of running home, for, child though he was, 
 he at once perceived that Mary Parker was about, for 
 some reason or another, to indulge in ' a good cry,' and 
 he was afraid that his j^resence embarrassed her. 
 
 * Bless you ! bless you ! you are a dear boy ! ' she 
 exclaimed, as she embraced him suddenly. 'I really 
 do believe you are the best boy in the world.' But 
 he hardly heard this concluding remark, he was already
 
 the Adventures of a Savage 41 
 
 bounding off homewards, with a sensation akin to one 
 of relief. 
 
 After leaving the churchyard, he ran on for some 
 distance through the wood, his mind still musing upon 
 the great mysteries of life and death ; and as he 
 switched the j^oung leaves from the overhanging hazels, 
 his thoughts were strangely at variance with his boj'ish 
 and light-hearted action. 
 
 When he came to the stile separating the wood 
 from the high-road, he perceived, coming from the 
 direction of Southerbourne, which was about five 
 miles distant, a heavy four-horse waggon, half hidden 
 in a cloud of dust. It was so far off that he could easily 
 have crossed over the road before it approached within 
 a dangerous distance ; but, joy, as he looked and 
 listened, a delightful tinkling sound broke upon his ear, 
 which told him that it was drawn by ' bell-horses,' and 
 he could not resist the temptation of waiting until he 
 had seen it pass. He was fully prej)arcd to cross o^ier 
 as soon as it was out of sight ; but, as Fate would have 
 it, no sooner had it arrived opj)Osite the stile, than the 
 carter, with many exclamations, adjurations, and crack- 
 ings of his whip, understood only by his handsome, 
 iron-gray, scarlet-tasselled team, stopped the waggon, 
 which was filled full of new hop-poles, and began to 
 remedy something which had gone amiss with the 
 harness of one of the leaders. In this carter, Godfrey 
 at once recognised an old friend — Abel Reynolds, now 
 in the service of Sir Peckham Hickathrift, but who 
 had been born and bred on the Dallingridgc estate ; 
 and, upon glancing down at the side of the waggon 
 near to where the drag was suspended, he read, 
 sure enough, in white letters on a blue ground, ' Sir
 
 42 SojjJuj, or 
 
 Thomas Pcckluim Ilickathrift, Baronet, M.P., Poyuings 
 Abbey,' and tben followed the names of post-to^^^l and 
 county. This fidly accounted for the deep-mouthed 
 bells ; for it was the custom in this part of England, 
 as it may be, perhaps, elsewhere, for the owners of abbey 
 lands to decorate their teams with bells and tassels. 
 
 Abel Keynolds, a fine hale young waggoner in a 
 smock-frock, corduroy trowsers tied round the knees 
 with string, and a black-beaver hat, the brim of which 
 looked as though it had been gnawed by rats, had 
 just relighted his pipe previous to starting, when, per- 
 ceiving Godfrey, he greeted him respectfully, at the 
 same time asking whether he could give him ' a ride/ 
 
 * Along o' missy there,' said he ; and he pointed to 
 some one who sat embedded amongst the hop-poles, and 
 whom the boy had not yet remarked. lie glanced up 
 now, and saw, seated in a cleft towards the further side 
 of the waggon, a very strange-looking little girl, holding 
 in her arms a beautiful white cat. Godfrey never 
 knew whether it was the remarkable countenance of 
 this child, or an irresistible desire to pat the white 
 cat, which made him fling to the winds Mary Parker's 
 recent injunctions, and brave the probable displeasure 
 of his parents, by availing himself of Abel's polite 
 offer. Certain it is that he had climbed nimbly in at 
 the back of the waggon before the carter had time to 
 assist him. * Crack ! ' went the brass-moimted whip ; 
 once again were exclamations and adjurations uttered 
 by the waggoner, but with a different meaning now, for 
 off went the powerful iron-gray horses, the merry sound 
 of their jangling bells delighting the heart of Godfrey, 
 who found himself sitting quite close to the little girl 
 with the white cat. She had at first seemed surprised, 
 and ahnost frightened, at his sudden appearance ; but
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 43 
 
 this expression on her face soon yielded to one of calm 
 indifference, very unusual in so young a child, and she 
 continued to stroke and fondle her cat in dignified 
 silence. 
 
 * Put me down at the next lodge-gate, please,' God- 
 frey had said to the carter upon climbing into the 
 waggon. He began to Avonder now what he should say 
 to the strange little girl, and he commenced looking her 
 over attentively, with the view of judging, if possible, 
 from her appearance, what subjects would be likely to 
 interest her. 
 
 But now^ a great surprise aw^aited him. 
 
 This little girl, w^ho, w^th her pretty face and 
 shoulders protruding from amongst the hop-poles, had 
 seemed to him to resemble some beautiful fairy 
 princess, was, now that he came to examine her, 
 meanly and poorly clad ; or rather, she could scarcely 
 be said to be clad at all, for the flimsy skirt she 
 wore was so short and tattered that it hardly de- 
 scended to her kne'es. Her feet and legs were bare, and 
 her hair, which was long and wavy, hung loose about 
 her naked sunburnt shoulders, seemingly little kempt 
 or cared for. In fact, everything about her dress, or 
 rather ?n^dress, led him to suppose that she w^as merely 
 some poor little beggar-maid, whom the good-natured 
 Abel had conveyed out of charity upon part of her foot- 
 sore journey, and to whom he might himself ajopear 
 quite in the light of a young Cophetua, — w^hence, per- 
 haps, her look of mingled terror and surprise when he 
 had leapt into the place beside her. With this notion, 
 he was just on the point of searching in his pockets 
 for some small change, when the strange look of 
 dignity in her dark eyes caused him to hesitate, and 
 he resolved, before committing himself, to question
 
 44 Sophy^ or 
 
 her a little, with the hope of finding out who and what 
 she was. 
 
 Children arc often far more shy and self-conscious 
 than their elders ; and it was, therefore, not without 
 considerable inward emotion that Godfrey, having 
 decided upon breaking the ice, demanded politely of 
 his little companion whether she would give him per- 
 mission to stroke her cat. 
 
 * Yes, you may stroke him,' she answered, in a very 
 gentle and refined tone. * He likes to be scratched just 
 above his tail and over his eyebrows;' and she lifted 
 the white cat on to Godfrey's knees. 
 
 ' How old are you ? ' he inquired now, emboldened 
 by her kind manner. 
 
 * I am eight and a half,' she answered. * How old 
 are you ? ' 
 
 * I shall be thirteen next month — my birthday is on 
 the thirteenth.' 
 
 ' Mine is on the thirteenth, too,' said the little girl, 
 'only of a different month. That is an odd coin- 
 cidence, is it not ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; you use very fine words for your age,' said 
 the boy, smiling. He felt now as if they had been 
 friends for a long time. 
 
 ' I live with grown-up people, and I always read 
 grown-up books : perhaps that's the reason. I sup- 
 pose most children are very babyish ? ' 
 
 * I don't know many,' answered Godfrey. ' I haven't 
 got any brothers or sisters. You are the only little 
 girl I have ever seen close, except . . . except . . .' 
 he added, after a pause, * quite common children, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' / have no brothers or sisters either,' remarked the 
 little girl. ' Another coincidence ! '
 
 tJie Adventures of a Savar/e. 45 
 
 * Yes ; I'm sure we ought to be friends. And 
 now, do tell me, where do you live, and what is your 
 name ? ' 
 
 * My name is Sophy, and I live there/ pointing to 
 a distant belt of fir-trees, which looked black against 
 the pink evening sky. ' At least, that's the rookery 
 at Sir Peckham Hickathrif t's — the nearest place 
 to m}' home that you can see from here. My 
 home is rather too low down for you to see : it's 
 between there and here. And now, where do you 
 live yourself ? ' 
 
 ' I'm afraid I'm very near, indeed, to my home,' 
 said Godfrey, sadl3\ ' In fact, we are driving just out- 
 side the wall of it. I wish, I'm sure, it was further 
 off. I shall have to get down directly.' And he could 
 not help heaving a sigh. 
 
 As he said this a very strange expression came over 
 the face of his little companion. It was a look of 
 mingled horror and astonishment. ♦ 
 
 ' You live t/iere ! ' she repeated, excitedly. ' Oh, 
 how dreadful ! Then you come from the enemy's 
 country ! ' 
 
 * Where is the " enemy's country?" ' the boy asked, 
 opening his eyes. 
 
 ' There — here — inside this very wall ! ' answered 
 little Sophy, waving her bare arms towards the 
 boundary of Dallingridge Park. * We have a ter- 
 rible border-feud with them. Haven't you heard 
 about it P ' 
 
 ' About what ? ' asked the boy, bewildered. 
 
 ' The feud ; — I sometimes make incursions across 
 the frontier from the other side ; but I go, of course, 
 always armed to the teeth. It's very romantic and 
 exciting.'
 
 46 Sophy, or 
 
 ' I should think it must be : but, oh, here we are 
 at the lodge-gate ! I'm so sorry, just as you were 
 going to tell nic about something so interesting ! * 
 
 And, indeed, this strange little girl had begun to 
 interest him already. lie waited for the waggon to come 
 to a standstill before he tore himself from her side; but, 
 as either good or ill luck would have it, Abel EejTiolds 
 seemed to have forgotten all about his instructions, and 
 the gray bell-horses went steadily on imtil they had 
 passed the lodge-gate. Godfrey's heart failed him ; 
 and yet he thought, at last, that he had better call out 
 to him to stop, and he was about to begin saying good- 
 bye to Sophy, when she interrupted him by ex- 
 claiming, — 
 
 * He hasn't stopped there of his own accord, so let 
 him go on. It's kisDict.^ 
 
 ' And what's that ? ' asked Godfrey, who had never 
 heard the word before. 
 
 * It's a part of our religion,' answered the little 
 crirl : * and it means that it was meant bv the Fates 
 that Abel Eeynolds should go on.' 
 
 ' I'm really very glad he didn't stop,' said the hoy, 
 his conscience quieted by his companion's positive 
 manner. * I shall go on now as far as the Black Horse, 
 and then run home by the high mushroom-fields above 
 Great Stillingfleet.' 
 
 * Do you ever miss any of your mushrooms?' asked 
 his companion mysteriously. 
 
 * Not that I know of : but we never count them. 
 Why do you ask ? ' 
 
 ' Never mind — I won't say,' answered the little girl, 
 laughing. 
 
 ' You're very fimny, and different from other
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 47 
 
 people/ said Godfrey, smiling also. ' But I like you, 
 and I hope I shall often see you again.' 
 
 *Yes, and so do I like you, though you are my 
 enem}^ ; but then that's what very often happened in 
 ancient times. I read about it in old ballads. When 
 there were feuds and quarrels in families, the sons 
 and daughters nearly always fell in love. The Child 
 of Elle and Fair Emmeline fell in love, and a lot 
 more.' 
 
 * Did they?' asked Godfrey; and whether it was 
 that he thought the idea possible or impossible, he felt 
 certain that he was blushing, and he asked hurriedly, 
 in order to turn the subject, — 'At what time do you go 
 to bed?' 
 
 * Go to bed ! ' repeated Sophy scornfully. * The 
 Mussulman never puts himself between sheets ! ' 
 
 'Oh, no, of course not — I forgot!' (for he had no 
 wish to appear ignorant). 'But are you a Mussulman 
 — or perhaps,' he added, ' I ought to say a " Mussul* 
 woman?" ' 
 
 'No, I'm not exactly,' answered the little girl 
 vaguely. ' Father says we're in reality kind of early 
 Christians, only what makes us different is, that we 
 don't exactly believe in Christianity.' 
 
 ' How dreadful ! But who do you say your prayers 
 to ? In my geography it says a great deal about the 
 religions of different countries, — there are Protestants 
 (the only true religion, of course), Roman Catholics, 
 Presbyterians, Greek Church, Jews, Mahometans, 
 Buddhists . . . . ' 
 
 ' Oh, pray don't go on ! ' said little Sophy impati- 
 ently. ' I've never heard of most of those long 
 names.'
 
 48 SopJty^ or 
 
 * How dreadful ! ' exclaimed Godfrey again. * And 
 pray what kinds of religions hare you heard of ?' 
 
 ' I have heard people speak of Deists, Atheists, 
 Gnostics, and Agnostics, and the followers of the 
 Prophet,' answered the little girl. 'And father says 
 that though we go a great deal by the Koran and the 
 Zendavesta, Ave can't be exactly considered to belong to 
 any religion at all ; but on the whole he says he thinks 
 we may best describe ourselves as Agnostics, or else as 
 early Christians.' 
 
 'Oh, really! ' answered Godfrey, somewhat mystified. 
 * And who do you say yqwv prayers to ? . . . I suppose 
 to " Agnostic," ' he added, witli a sudden ' hapjjy 
 thought.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I never say my prayers to anybody. 
 Father says it doesn't at all matter, so long as one 
 does right.' 
 
 ' I don't believe there ever was such a god as 
 '' Agnostic," ' Godfrey remarked musingly, going over 
 in his mind the names of most of the mythological 
 deities he remembered. ' No, I'm quite sure there 
 wasn't an}^ such' a god anywhere.' 
 
 * I can't argue with you,' said the little girl, with 
 quiet dignit3\ ' Father said that I shouldn't meet 
 many people of our religion, because we are living 
 amongst idolaters.' 
 
 * What a shame of your father ! just as if we were 
 the savages that ate uj) Captain Cook I ' he added indig- 
 nantly, still thinking of his geography. 
 
 ' Well, they were quite right to eat him/ said the 
 little girl. ' I should have eaten him myself. Father 
 says the pale-faces only introduce smallpox and fire- 
 water amongst the poor savages and red Indians. How 
 would you like people to come to your comitry and take
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 49 
 
 it away, and give you instead only glass beads and ill- 
 nesses, and horrid things to drink ? ' 
 
 * Captain Cook would have introduced the Bible/ 
 answered Godfrey, with solemnity. 
 
 * Yes, I dare say he would,' rejoined Sophy warmly. 
 * Well, how would you like people to take your country, 
 and introduce the smallpox, and the Bible, and gin, and 
 brandy, and glass beads ?' 
 
 ' The Bible ought not to be spoken of with 
 those things. It's a book, and a very, very good 
 one.' 
 
 * Oh, is it?' said the little girl carelessly. *I've 
 never read it.' 
 
 ' Never read the Bible, and never said your prayers ! 
 Sophy ! ' and for the first time he called her by her 
 name. 
 
 * Father says he wouldn't have me read it on any 
 account, till I'm older ; but when I'm grown up, I 
 shall read that and several other books I mayn't read 
 now. I have my books given out to me to read ; but I 
 read others as well. I can read French books,' she 
 added proudly. 
 
 * You seem to be wonderfully clever for your age, and 
 to know a great many things, but you ought to know 
 others as well ; . . . you ought really to read the 
 Bible.' . . . 
 
 He would have said more, feeling as though the 
 mantle of the late Captain Cook had descended upon 
 him, had not Sophy interrupted him by exclaiming, — 
 
 * Really, from the way you talk, one would think 
 the Bible was the most wonderful book in the whole 
 world!' 
 
 ' Oh, so it is,' responded the boy eagerly. ^ It really 
 is ! Everybody says so ! Do read it ! Mr. Pettigrew 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 Sophy, or 
 
 says that if we don^ty wc shall go to hell ! I'll lend it 
 you/ 
 
 * How can I do what father would not like ?' asked 
 the little girl sirapl}-. 
 
 A new light now broke in upon Godfrey ; but he 
 did not know exactly how to put it into words. He 
 had been much struck at first with his little companion's 
 remarkable apj^earance : her large lustrous eyes, her 
 miusually thick and curling hair, and the sunburnt 
 hue of her complexion. He now fancied that he coidd 
 account for this, as wxU as for her father's peculiar 
 ideas. 
 
 * Is your father a white gentleman ?' he asked, 
 having arranged his words in a manner that would not, 
 he fancied, give offence. In some illustrious Oriental, 
 or noble savage, he felt he could readily forgive these 
 heterodox opinions. 
 
 ' No,' answered Sophy, after taking a good look at 
 her companion, * my father is not quite white.' 
 
 * Ah, I thought not ! ' Everything seemed clear to 
 him now. 
 
 ' He is a kind of light-pink colour, like j^ou,' for 
 she had been brought up to practise an unswerving 
 truthfulness. 
 
 * Oh ! ' w^as all Godfrey ventured to exclaim in reply, 
 for he could not help experiencing a sense of disap- 
 pointment ; and at this moment the waggon di-ew up 
 in front of the Black Horse. 
 
 Here Abel RejTiolds had a tankard of ale brought 
 out to him by the barmaid, whilst his gray horses 
 quenched their thirst at the wooden trough under the 
 sign-post, which bore the rough portraiture of their 
 sable relative. 
 
 Just as Godfrey was bidding his little companion
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 51 
 
 an affectionate farewell, an old and valued friend of his 
 own came staggering out of the inn door. This was 
 no other than John McBean, who, having a ' wee 
 drap' in his *ee,' was walking rather unsteadily. 
 Upon perceiving the two children, however, he seemed 
 to become suddenly sober, and, to the astonishment of 
 them both, he laid hold at once of Godfrey with a 
 herculean grasp, and lifted him by the coat collar out 
 over the back of the waggon, as though he had been a 
 kitten. The boy was too surprised at first to remon- 
 strate ; and before he had recovered his self-possession, 
 John McBean had hurried him through the white gate 
 at the back of the inn, leading to the high meadows 
 where the mushrooms grew in the autumn. But, first 
 of all, he had shaken his fist menacingly at the profile of 
 the waggoner, which was dimly to be perceived through 
 the diamond-panes of the low tap-room window, 
 exclaiming ominously as he did so, in his broad. 
 Lowland Scotch, ' Ah, Abel Rejoiolds, man ! It'll 
 be an ill day's wark ye've done the da}^ ! ' 
 
 Chapter IY. 
 
 Godfrey felt very sorry next day that he had been 
 unable to arrange another meeting with his little 
 friend, and he was also much provoked at the obstinate 
 taciturnity of John McBean, who, to all his questioning, 
 could only be induced to reply, — 
 
 * Ye'll knaw it a' in high gude time ; and yc'll no 
 say a word o' this, or ye'll have poor Mary in sair 
 trouble ; ' and then proceeded, after the manner of 
 c'dmost everybody else, to ' roll himself up into a ball, 
 like a hedgehog.'
 
 .2 
 
 Sophy, or 
 
 lie had sought tlie high meadows in the direction 
 of Great Stillingflcet, and looked over the gate at the 
 back of the ]Uack Horse, at the place where he had 
 last seen little Sophy's astonished face peering out 
 from amongst the hop-poles. Two carts and a miller's 
 waggon, filled with white sacks, were dra^\^l up in 
 front of the inn, but, alas, no bell-horses and no 
 Sophy ! 
 
 He listened for some time to the distant voices of 
 the tap-room topers, the clashing of pots and pans, and 
 the cackling of the fowls in the stable-yard, and went 
 away feeling somewhat depressed, little guessing that 
 had he peeped over either the five-barred gate or 
 through one of the clefts in the adjoining hedge, he 
 would have beheld the object of his search j)laying 
 with her white cat in the garden of the gabled farm- 
 house, which seemed only a stone's throw beneath the 
 wooded slope. He took, however, an exactly contrary 
 way, and, turning his back unwittingly upon what he 
 was so anxiously seeking (as both man and boy have so 
 constantly done before), he walked sadly home through 
 the new plantations of the upper park. 
 
 Perhaps it was only, after all, the longing for some 
 kind of congenial companionship, even that of a sister, 
 which made him wish to see once more his strange 
 little newly-made friend, with her bare feet and 
 tangled elf-locks ; but yet, with this longing, there 
 came also the knowledge that she was no sister of 
 his — that she was a stranger, wrapjoed in some curious 
 and impenetrable mystery ; and this was quite enough 
 to insure that, at any rate for some little while, she 
 would occupy his thoughts. As he entered the house, 
 Mr. St. Clair, hearing his footsteps, called out to him 
 from the library; and, upon obepng the summons, he
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 53 
 
 perceived his parents seated together in front of a 
 table, and wearing, each of them, an expression such 
 as one might suppose the judges to have assumed at 
 a Yehmgericht of the Middle Ages. 
 
 They were not going, however, to chasten or 
 reprove ; far from it. They were bent upon perform- 
 ing, in their cold mechanical fashion, every jot and 
 tittle of a parent's duty, part of which was to minister 
 to the harmless pleasures of their son, and to afford 
 him every legitimate method of relaxation, in order 
 that, by so doing, an impression of their care 
 and equity might stamp itself upon his youthful 
 mind. 
 
 With this object, they had applied that very morn- 
 ing to a naturalist at Southerbourne, who at once 
 provided them with what they required ; and the 
 presentation of the tortoise, which was contained in 
 a basket upon the library-table, was now about to take 
 place, not without a few aj^propriate words * to the ijee 
 of edifying.' 
 
 Mr. Pettigrew was sitting in a corner of the room, 
 engaged in turning over the leaves of a book, and he 
 thus appeared, as it were, to assist at, and give coun- 
 tenance to, the proceedings, without encroaching upon 
 the parental privilege. 
 
 * Wipe your boots, Godfrey,' Mrs. St. Clair began, 
 * and come here.' 
 
 'Where have you been, my boy?' inquired her 
 husband, in a tone of studied suavity ; delicacy of 
 feeling preventing him from putting forward at once 
 this new benefit, and hurling, so to speak, the tortoise 
 at his son's head. 
 
 *I have been towards Great Stillingfleet, papa,' 
 answered the boy. * I went as far as the end of the
 
 54 Sophy, or 
 
 park, and looked over the gate of the Black Horse, 
 and then came back.* 
 
 Both parents here exchanged rapid and significant 
 glances, whilst Mr. Pettigrew coughed rather uncom- 
 fortably. 
 
 'You said Great Stillingfleet, I think?' Mr. St. 
 Clair inquired, blandly. ' I ask, because there is an 
 extremely savage dog, I am told, at Little Stillingfleet ; ' 
 and, not altogether displeased with the evolving of this 
 * savage dog ' out of his inward consciousness, the old 
 gentleman glanced up with a somewhat arch expression 
 at his wife. 
 
 *Yes, papa; knowing Little Stillingfleet didn't 
 belong to us, I have never been so far, and have only 
 seen it in the distance.' 
 
 ' That is well,' replied the father. ' But what 
 made you go to the Black Horse ? It is a low public- 
 house. Alas, Mr. Pettigrew,' he went on, appealing to 
 the curate, 'when will these terrible curses disappear 
 from our midst ? The Black Horse and Harrow, both 
 of them so near to us — one, in fact, actually joining 
 the estate — have always proved a source of the greatest 
 temptation to our servants.' 
 
 ' You might catch some complaint there,' chimed in 
 Mrs. St. Clair, sharply, ' and then give it to the whole 
 house. I wonder you should like to go amongst low 
 drunken people.' 
 
 ' Boys will be boys, sir,' said Mr. Pettigrew, sigh- 
 ing, but preserving, in other respects, a strict neutrality. 
 He dealt largely in proverbs and wise saws, and usually 
 addressed Mr. St. Clair as ' sir,' in a spirit of genuine, 
 or mock, humility. 
 
 * I will not now enter iuto our reasons for desiring 
 you to confine your rambles to the inside of the park,'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 55 
 
 Mr. St. Clair continued. ' We have several, and 
 I do not think that anything in our past behaviour 
 towards you ought to warrant you in imagining that 
 they are unjust ones.' At this moment Godfrey's 
 attention was attracted towards the basket, whence 
 issued a strange scratching sound, ending now and 
 then in a dull thud, as if some heavy weight had 
 fallen to the bottom. Mr. St. Clair placed his thin 
 white hand upon one of the flaps of the basket, and 
 continued : ' But, as you are shortly going to exchange 
 home life for that of a school, where you will not be 
 permitted to enjoy the same amount of luxury iind 
 liberty as you enjoy here, we feel that we are in some 
 measure bound to minister to your pleasure and amuse- 
 ment whilst you remain with us, therefore I will refrain 
 from hampering you just now with any new restrictions. 
 It is with this view, also, and in order that you may be 
 made aware how anxious your mother and myself are 
 to provide you with every enjoyment of a legitimate 
 kind, that we have purchased for you this little animal. 
 See ! ' said he, with a wave of the hand, as he pro- 
 ceeded to open the basket, * it is perfectly harmless 
 and well-conducted, and we trust that you may derive 
 some pleasure both in tending it and in observing its 
 habits.' 
 
 At this juncture, the ' prisoner in armour,' who had 
 been for some time vainly endeavouring to crawl up 
 the side of the basket, achieved his object; but he 
 almost immediately fell over on his back upon the 
 table, where he lay with his feet beating the air, and 
 the under portion of his shell exposed to the company. 
 Godfrey looked at him at first without much enthusiasm, 
 wishing with all his heart that he had been a dog, or 
 even a guinea-pig ; but at last he took him up care-
 
 56 Sophy, or 
 
 full}', and, after examining him with curiosity, slipped 
 him into his jacket pocket, and was about to leave the 
 ai)artment, to show him to Mary Parker, when his 
 father recalled him, saying, — 
 
 * I think, my boy, it would not be inappropriate if 
 this afternoon 3'ou were to read, in your Natural His- 
 tory, some account of the curious little creature of 
 which you have just become the possessor. I believe 
 that you will find it classified under the head of the 
 Testudinatcv, or ' Shield Eeptiles.' You might thus dis- 
 cover traits, which would be of interest to you, relating 
 to its nurture, mode of living, &c.' 
 
 * It may have lettuce and green vegetables every 
 day, and once a-week raw meat, cut up into little 
 pieces about the size of a pea : it will also drink milk,' 
 said Mrs. St. Clair, reading from a paper of directions 
 which had been enclosed in the basket. * Its name is 
 ** Alexander,'* and it is about sixteen years of age.' 
 
 * Sixteen years old ! ' exclaimed Godfrey, in astonish- 
 ment, drawing from his pocket the tortoise, which 
 looked like a large struggling blackbeetle, and gazing 
 at it mistrustfully. * This thing sixteen years old ! 
 "VYhat, older than me ? ' 
 
 * One of the great advantages of selecting the tor- 
 toise as a domestic pet,' remarked Mr. St. Clair, pe- 
 dantically, ^ arises from the fact that its existence is 
 prolonged to a far greater extent than that of the 
 generality of God's creatures. Nay, unless some acci- 
 dent should by misadventure befall it, it will even live 
 longer than a man.' 
 
 * *' For the days of our age,' " murmured Mr. 
 Pettigrew, * "are threescore years and ten ; and though 
 men be so strong that they come to fourscore years, 
 yet is their. . . ." '
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 57 
 
 But liere Mrs. St. Clair was attacked by a severe 
 fit of coughing, which silenced the curate, by remind- 
 ing him that her husband had already arrived at the 
 allotted age. 
 
 ' ^' So teach us to number our days that we may 
 apply our hearts unto wisdom," ' ejaculated the old 
 gentleman piously. ' This, Mr. Pcttigrew, is my daily- 
 recurring prayer. And now, my dear boy,' he added, 
 turning to Godfrey", ^ to your afternoon studies.' 
 
 After repeating to Mr. Pettigrcw his Latin task, 
 reading aloud in English, and gleaning all the informa- 
 tion he could respecting the habits of the tortoise, 
 Godfrey had a good hour for reflection ere he again 
 presented himself before his parents. It was not his 
 privilege to dine with them ; but he used to remain in 
 the library until they had finished their dinner, after 
 which he would generally play a game of dominoes 
 with his father, and then retire for the night. Part 
 of one of the joassages selected by Mr. Pcttigrew ior 
 his reading upon this particular afternoon lingered 
 long afterwards in his mind, occupjdng his thoughts 
 for nearly the whole of the rest of the day. 
 
 It consisted of a long-winded dissertation upon the 
 evils resulting from an excessive love of approbation, 
 which the author proceeded to prove was contrary to, 
 and opposed to, the true spirit of Christianity. During 
 this reading Godfrey had felt his conscience prick him 
 more than once ; and he now asked himself whether the 
 unaccountable yearning of his heart for human sym- 
 pathy might not spring merely from a vain and ignoble 
 desire to be flattered and commended — a sentiment so 
 mean and despicable, that it was surely his duty to 
 root it at once from his bosom, casting it from him like 
 a poisonous weed. The passage occurred in the Essays
 
 58 Sophy, or 
 
 of John Fonsfrr (eleventh edition, p. 425), and ran as 
 follows : — 
 
 ' The good opinion of mankind, expressed in praise, 
 or indicated by any other signs, pleases us by a law of 
 the same order as that which constitutes mutual affection 
 a pleasure, or that which is the cause that we are gra- 
 tified by music, or the beauties and gales of spring. 
 The indulgence of this desire is thus authorised to a 
 certain extent by its appointment to be a source 
 of pleasure. But to what extent ? It is notorious 
 that this desire has, if I may so exj)ress it, an im- 
 mense voracity. ... A whole continent applauding 
 or admiring has not satisfied some men's avarice of 
 what they called glory. To what extent, I repeat, 
 may the desire be indulged ? Evidently not beyond 
 that point where it begins to introduce its evil acces- 
 sories — envy, or ungenerous competition, or resentful 
 mortification, or disdainful comparison, or self- idolatry. 
 But I appeal to each man who lias deeply reflected on 
 himself, or observed those around him, whether this 
 desire, under even a considerably limited degree of 
 indulgence, be not very apt to introduce some of these 
 accessories. ... In wishing to prohibit an ej:ccss of its 
 indulgence, he has perceived that even what had 
 seemed to him a small degree has amounted, or power- 
 fully tended, to that excess — except when the desire 
 has been operating imder the kindly and approved 
 modification of seeking to engage the affection of rela- 
 tions or a few friends.' 
 
 * Indeed,' the boy had said to himself, when he 
 arrived here, ^ this is all I w^ant ! and that they would 
 seem more like live people themselves, and not treat 
 me quite as if I was a machine ! ' 
 
 *But now,* continued the essayist, 'if the most
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 59 
 
 authoritative among a good man's motives of action 
 must be the wish to please God, it is evident that the 
 passion which supplies another motive ought not to be 
 allowed, in a degree that will empower the motive thus 
 put in force, to contest in the mind the supremacy of 
 the pious motive . . .' 
 
 * Ah,' thought Godfrey reproachfully, ' I am very 
 likely a vain horrid boy, wanting to be spoilt and flat- 
 tered, and I am discontented with papa and mamma 
 only because they are too wise to give in to me ! ' 
 
 And, by way of antidote, he set to work to think 
 upon all their care of him ever since the days when 
 he coidd first remember anything at all. Next he 
 called to mind their kindness in so promptly pre- 
 senting him with the tortoise, and he ended by asking 
 himself what thing it was that his evil heart led him to 
 imagine that they had left imdone. Perhaps he was 
 still hankering after and coveting Tom Hickathrift's 
 large black dog — the dog that * would be sure to go 
 mad and bite ' (as Mrs. St. Clair had said, no doubt in 
 a moment of keen maternal solicitude). From Tom 
 Hickathrift's black dog his thoughts passed on uncon- 
 sciously to Tom Ilickathrift himself, and then to his 
 family and their surroundings, which he began to con- 
 trast somewhat painfully with his own. Not that he 
 would liave preferred Poynings Abbey to his own 
 home, the home of his fathers, his dear Dallingridge, 
 which he loved with a love amounting almost to 
 idolatry. 
 
 It is true that the fine old Norman gateway at the 
 Abbey, the high battlemented wall with its festoons of 
 clinging ivy, the cool fish-ponds with their octogenarian 
 carp, and the scutcheoned banqueting-hall, once the 
 refectory of the monks, awakened far older historical
 
 60 Sophy ^ or 
 
 associations than did anything at Dallingridgc Park, 
 which possessed a Tudor house, but one which seemed 
 ahnost modern when compared to a building, great 
 part of which existed long before the Conquest. But, 
 all the same, Dallingridge was his home, the place 
 after his own heart, and he would certainly not have 
 changed houses with Tom for anything in the world. 
 Nor could he conceal from himself another fact, Avhich 
 must, he fancied, have been patent to everybody. 
 Taken merely as specimens of the human race, his own 
 parents were both apparently immeasurably superior to 
 the parents of Thomas Hickathrift, Avho seemed pos- 
 sessed of positively no personal attractions, and a very 
 limited proportion of intelligence, notwithstanding that 
 Sir Peckham had for some years represented the 
 borough of Southerbourne in Parliament, having suc- 
 ceeded Erskine St. Clair, Godfrey's own father. "Was 
 not their personal appearance, indeed, ridiculous in the 
 extreme ? Often and often had he watched, with 
 amusement, the arrival of Sir Peckham and his lady, 
 who, when they dined at Dallingridge, always insisted 
 upon entering the room arm-in-arm, the very footmen 
 who announced them choking the while with sup- 
 pressed merriment at sight of their long noses and 
 prancing gait. Yes, it did not require, Godfrey 
 thought, much perspicuity to perceive that his own 
 parents were immensely superior, as human beings, to 
 those of poor Tom ; but as regarded their treatment of 
 himself, in what degree were they, to speak truth- 
 fully, so very much ahead of Sir Peckham and his 
 high-featured lady ? 
 
 An uncomfortable memory, which he had often 
 tried to bury away from him, here thrust itself again 
 upon his mind, and he determined to meet and grapple
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 61 
 
 with it once for all, hoping to subdue it finally, as the 
 possible ancestor of the Hickathrifts, the celebrated 
 * Tom ' of the storj-book, had encountered and subdued 
 the bears and lions in the old time. This was the 
 memory which, somehow, seemed to bring with it a 
 sense of jealousy and bitterness. 
 
 Godfrey had gone three or four times with his 
 friend Tom, before his departure for Eton, to luncheon 
 at the Abbey, and on each of these occasions, though 
 Tom had only been absent at Mr. Hornblower's since 
 eleven o'clock that very morning. Lady Hickathrif t had 
 been discovered waiting for him at the entrance of the 
 ancient crypt (now used as the dining-hall), actually 
 panting and heaving with maternal solicitude, ready 
 to throw herself, like an expectant tigress, upon 
 her returning cub, whom she had each time pressed 
 passionately to her bosom. Yes, this woman, as severe 
 and irascible, to all appearance, as a colonel of di^agoons, 
 would fold Tom over and over again in her impatieflt 
 arms, and cover him with such noisy maternal kisses, 
 that they echoed down the low- vaulted crypt for several 
 minutes afterwards. 
 
 What a contrast was this fond and expansive wel- 
 come with his own return, when his beautiful mother 
 of the long blue eyes, of the fine clear-cut profile, of the 
 delicate shell-like ear, would invariably turn all these 
 three pretty things away from his admiring gaze, 
 giving utterance either to some trite copy-book saying, 
 or begging him in chilling accents to be sure to wipe 
 his boots before he approached her ! As if the im- 
 petuous spirit rushing headlong to meet the fulfilment 
 of its ideal coukl pause, without a sense of deep humilia- 
 tion and baffled purpose, to wipe its boots ! 
 
 Such, or some such, were the thoughts of this
 
 G2 Sophy ^ or 
 
 strangely nurtured boy, could lie have put tliem into 
 intelligible language, as be ascended the staircase wbich 
 led to bis solitary room at the top of tbe old bouse, 
 for be now no longer inhabited tbe cosey nursery 
 at tbe bead of tbe stone stairs. He could not belp 
 feeling sad and disconsolate, and, turning for comfort 
 to tbe unemotional tortoise, be was disappointed to per- 
 ceive tbat it bad already secluded itself for tbe nigbt. 
 He looked witb some bitterness at tbe bard, headless, 
 limbless limip before him, and retired to bed in no very 
 enviable mood ; whilst his last thoughts, could they 
 have been verbally interpreted, would probably have 
 taken the form of tbat portion of Scripture wherein 
 it is written, * What man is there of you who, if bis son 
 ask bread, will be give him a stone ?* 
 
 Chapter Y. 
 
 The first time that a j^outh or a maiden leaves bis 
 or her home must necessarily mark an epoch in the 
 life of both the one and tbe other. He or she may 
 (nay, probably will) return to it again, but not pre- 
 cisely as the same boy or the same girl. He or she, in 
 exactly the old mood and mind, will never again cross 
 the sacred threshold of home ; against this youth or 
 this maiden the well-known doors have closed for 
 ever ! 
 
 Several circumstances contribute to this irrevocable 
 transformation ; but perhaps tbe chief amongst them 
 arises from the fact tbat contact with the outer world, 
 and tbe mingling witb its various tj^es and individuali- 
 ties, whilst they may ripen, develop, and restrain, im-
 
 the Adventures sf a Savage. 63 
 
 perceptibly rub off some portion of that fresh, bloom 
 of innocence, of enthusiasm, and of hope, which, like 
 the soft do'SMi on the peach, or the gold-dust on the 
 wings of the butterfly, disappears, even after the most 
 delicate handling. 
 
 This change was about to happen to Godfrey St. 
 Clair. He was to go to school in about a week, and his 
 last daj^s were passed in making his preparations, and in 
 bidding a fond farewell to every nook and corner of 
 his beloved Dallingridge. He felt many regrets at the 
 idea of his departure, but he was also filled with new 
 hopes and ambitions ; and it must be confessed that, 
 with one or two exceptions, his heart ached more at 
 leaving the actual soil and roof -tree of his home 
 than any of its uncongenial occupants, notwithstand- 
 ing that fate bad willed that these should be his 
 parents. But there was one regret with which neither 
 home- soil nor roof- tree had anything whatever to do, 
 and this was the regret that he should never aga^n 
 have been able to catch even a distant glimpse of the 
 strange little girl, whose acquaintance he had made 
 amongst the hop-poles in Abel Reynolds's waggon. 
 Perhaps, he now thought reproachfully, he had not 
 looked enough for her. He had gazed down at the 
 byres, and barns, and hayricks of Little Stillingfleet ; 
 and determined, during these few remaining days, to 
 push his search to its furthest limits, he had even gone 
 so far as to penetrate some way into the adjacent hazel- 
 copse, braving the ferocious bandog to which his father 
 had alluded ; but he had hitherto failed to catch sight 
 either of her or her white cat. He felt somewhat dis- 
 heartened in consequence : but still the ' kismet ' of 
 Sophy's religion seemed ever to lead him in the same 
 direction.
 
 G4: Sophi/, or 
 
 * I live tlierCy slic had said, pointing with her little 
 simbiirnt hand to the dark fir - tree belt beyond^ 
 Poynin<»s Abbey on the crest of the hill ; and she 
 had then added that her home was too low down 
 to be seen from the road. Hence, her home must 
 be in a hollow, and hence the young heir of Dalling- 
 ridge found himself continually gazing from what 
 little Sophy, with her love of romance, had termed 
 'the encmj^'s country' at the low-lj'ing fields and 
 woodlands beyond its utmost boundary. Nor did the 
 old French saying, that everything comes to those 
 who wait, proA'e false upon this occasion; for, one 
 afternoon, as he was gazing dreamily over the five- 
 barred gate at the gabled farm-house and its out- 
 buildings beneath him, he was aroused from his reverie 
 by the sight of a little girl, who, at that distance, he 
 might not possibly have recognised, had it not been 
 for her cat, which, with its tail straight up in the air, 
 was following her like a dog, although from where he 
 stood it looked no bigger than one of his owti white 
 mice. She ajDpeared to be coming towards him, in the 
 direction of the hazel-copse ; and to vault lightly over 
 the five-barred gate, throwing to the four winds all 
 remembrance of the savage dog, was only the affair of 
 a moment He had not proceeded far when, having 
 struck into a green arcade of hazel-boughs, he heard 
 the bare feet of his little friend coming pattering to- 
 wards him, and, as she was either talking to herself or 
 to her cat, he was quite sure, before they actually met, 
 that he had not mistaken her identity. 
 
 The two children stood silently looking at each 
 other for some time, unable at first to find words in 
 which to express their delight and astonishment. At 
 last Sophy, who seemed by far the more outspoken of
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 65 
 
 tlie two, kissed Godfrey affectionately on both cheeks, 
 saying at the same time, — 
 
 * Oh, I am so glad to see you again ! I've thought 
 of you so often ! ' 
 
 * So have I,' answered the boy, unable, nevertheless, 
 to help feeling rather shy. ' I had no idea you lived so 
 near.' 
 
 * Oh, I thought I told you ! And I wondered why 
 you didn't come.' 
 
 ' You certainly did say that you lived " there, ^^ but 
 you pointed so — quite to the edge of the sky.' 
 
 *Ah,' said the little girl, sadly, 'manj^ people do 
 live there, I suppose, at the edge of the sky ! Where 
 do you suppose it leads to — to the happy hunting- 
 grounds ? ' 
 
 'To heaven, I should think,' answered Godfrey, 
 thoughtfully. * And, really, if it isn't very wicked to 
 say so, I should say I didn't wonder if you came from 
 somewhere near there ; you don't look like anything 
 earthly.' 
 
 * Don't I ? Well, to-day I fancied I looked very 
 earthly indeed. Look, there is earth all over my frock ; 
 but I am saving up my clean one for to-morrow, as I 
 am going to a Party.' 
 
 * Eeally ? ' exclaimed the boy eagerly. * I wish I 
 was going too.' 
 
 '■ I don't suppose that you know Janus and Nelus, 
 do you ? ' 
 
 * No ; who are they ? ' 
 
 ' Janus is our maid ; she once took care of me when 
 I was very young ; and she cooks for us now, and docs 
 a great many other things besides. Her real name is 
 ''Jane;" but I call her "Janus," because it sounds 
 better.' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 Sophy ^ 
 
 or 
 
 ' You seem to like fine-sounding names/ 
 
 * Yes, so I do ; and I like long words, and things 
 taken from other things.' 
 
 * Quo fat ions, I suppose you mean. And now tell 
 me who Nelus is.' 
 
 * Oh, he's our boy, as we call him. He does all sorts 
 of things, too. He carries the letters, and runs messages, 
 and helps to look after the cart-horses and cows, and 
 my cats. His real name is Cornelius Ford.' 
 
 * Nearly all the people about here have Christian 
 names taken from the Bible,' said Godfrey. 
 
 * Have they ? I told you I had never read the Bible,* 
 answered Sophy carelessly. ' Well, Janus and Nelus 
 are going to be married at last. They've " kept com- 
 pany " ever since Nelus first came to us, when he was 
 only eighteen, and he's only twenty-five now. Janus 
 is a very great deal older, but that didn't prevent her. 
 from falling in love. Thej^ have got a little girl 
 named Delia, but we call her " Deely " for short. 
 She's only six. Being so young makes her cry a good 
 deal.' 
 
 * I wonder,' said Godfrey, looking down tenderly at 
 his little companion, ' that Nelus should like to marry 
 any one so much older than himself.' 
 
 ' Father saj^s it always happens in these j^arts,' an- 
 swered the little girl. ' And when he gave Janus her 
 wedding-present, he told her she was an old fool. How- 
 ever, they'll stay on just the same; so it really won't 
 make any difference to us, except that father says we 
 can now put them both together in one of the attics 
 over the cart-horses — they used to have the two between 
 them — and then we shall have an extra room when 
 people come to stay with us.' 
 
 * Ah, yes ; that will be much more convenient, for
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 6 7 
 
 your house doesn't seem very large. But do you have 
 a great many people staying with you ? ' 
 
 ' Hundreds ! ' replied little Sophy ; and she then 
 added, correcting herself, ' Oh, no ! Of course, not quite 
 so many as that ! We have only the King of Poland 
 and the King of Spain staying with us now ; but there 
 are others coming next week, so we are rather hurrying 
 on the marriage.' 
 
 * What, other kings? And do they all sleep over 
 the cart-horses ? ' exclaimed the boy, astonished, call- 
 ing to mind the splendid apartments at Dallingridge 
 House, in which he had been told that a royal person- 
 age once slept, and thinking that, since then, monarchs 
 must have become strangely indifferent to comfort. 
 ^Are they really the ^prese^i^ kings ? ' he inquired. 
 
 * AYell, they are the r/^/^^/^f/ kings,' answered Sophy. 
 ' The kings that ought to reign, and that tvill reign some 
 day if father can make them.' 
 
 * Ah,' said Godfrey, feeling relieved, * I dare say one* 
 needn't take so much trouble about them. But, only to 
 think of you seeing so much grand company ! How 
 different you are from what I fancied you were at first ! 
 "When I first saw you, what do you think I fancied ? 
 I am almost afraid to say, for fear of offending 
 you.' 
 
 * People of our religion are never offended,' she 
 answered with dignity, ' unless it is at anything false 
 or wicked.' 
 
 * Ah, yes ; I forgot that you were different from us ! 
 Well, what do you think ? — Eeally, I hardly like to 
 say.' 
 
 * People's thoughts are so different,' said Sophy 
 dreamily, as she drew a curious pattern on the gravel- 
 walk with one of her bare feet. ' Father savs the in-
 
 68 Sophy ^ or 
 
 sides of our heads are as different as the oiitsides ; and 
 3^et there are some stupid creatures who want to force 
 us all to think alike ! * 
 
 * Your father must be a very extraordinary person.' 
 
 * Oh, if you only knew what he is ! ' exclaimed the 
 little girl enthusiastically. ^How great, how good, 
 how wonderfully clever ! ' 
 
 * Yes, I am sure he must be. But now I'll tell you 
 what I thought when I first saw you. Seeing you with 
 bare feet, and that, and with your frock torn (please 
 don't be angry), and no socks or petticoats, I thought 
 — I wondered — if your papa was quite a gentleman.' 
 
 * Oh, he is indeed ! ' Sophy answered eagerly. * Not 
 that such things matter much in our religion ; still, we 
 don't mind it. My father is of very good family.' 
 
 * I am glad of that,' said Godfrey ; * for I think it 
 is always nice to know that one is of good family. I 
 said the other daj' to my mamma, after I had been 
 looking at some of our old pictures, of grand people in 
 armour, and thinking of all the brave things they had 
 done, that I felt in my veins the blood of a thousand 
 generations, and so I really did ; but my mamma said, 
 rather crossly, that it was a good many to feel, as it 
 would carry one back quite forty thousand years — 
 supposing everybody had lived to be about forty — and 
 that would be long before God created the world ; and 
 I felt rather ashamed, for I didn't know it would have 
 gone back quite as far as that.' 
 
 * My mamma's family went back quite as far,' re- 
 turned Soph}', flourishing her arm so as to describe a 
 circle round the setting sun. ' She was a queen over 
 numbers of people of all nations, who are all of them 
 of such old family that the cleverest men in the world 
 can't say where they came from, or when they began.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 69 
 
 * Really ! ' said Godfrey, in astonisliment. ' I was 
 quite sure you were something very extraordinary. I 
 suppose she was enormously rich?' 
 
 ' Well, no ; that's just what she wasn't, and that's 
 what I can't quite understand : but father will explain 
 to me all about it some day. Sometimes, if I come in 
 softly, father, who is growing near-sighted, doesn't see 
 me, and I find him with his eyes filled with tears ; and 
 then I always go away again, for I know he is thinking 
 of her.' 
 
 ' I'm sure she must have been a very nice person,' 
 remarked Godfre}^, not quite knowing what else to 
 say. 
 
 *I hate your calling her "nice"!' exclaimed Sophy 
 impetuously ; ' it sounds so common ! She was a queen- 
 angel.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, of course ! ' said the boy, feeling a little 
 confused ; and he then added, in order to turn the sub- 
 ject, 'What is that large book you have under your 
 arm, with all those papers in it ? May I carry it for 
 you?' 
 
 * The papers are the history of my cats, which I am 
 writing myself.' 
 
 * Oh, do let me see it ! ' 
 
 *Not to-day. It's too late. The day after to- 
 morrow I will.' 
 
 ' The day after to-morrow ! May I really come 
 then?' 
 
 ' Yes, of course ; not to-morrow, because of the 
 Party.' 
 
 ' And then you promise me to read the history of 
 your cats?' 
 
 * I promise.' 
 
 * And now, what is the book ? '
 
 70 Sop/nj, or 
 
 ' It is called Gil Bias,' said Sophy, ' and it's lent 
 mc to tcacli me the manners and customs of the world, 
 and all the hard and funny things there are in it. I 
 will read you a little.' 
 
 The two children thereupon sat down near the 
 trunk of an old oak-tree, the lower branches of the 
 green hazels waving gently above their heads, and the 
 little girl commenced reading with a good accent from 
 the opening chapter of her book. 
 
 ***Blasde Santillane, mon jDere, apres avoir long- 
 temps port^ les amies pour le service de la monarchic 
 Espagnole, se retira dans la ville ou il avait pris nais- 
 sance. II epousa une petite bourgeoise qui n'etoit plus 
 dans sa premiere jeunesse . . . ." That's like Janus,' 
 said Sophy, breaking off, in order to show that she 
 understood what she had been reading. ^ S/ic's not in 
 her first youth either.' 
 
 ' Have you got very far in the book ? ' asked God- 
 frey, astonished at her erudition. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! I read a little every day, and I've already 
 got to the part where the Archbishop of Grenada turned 
 Gil Bias out of the house because he found fault with 
 his sermons. It was dreadfully unfair. He had liked 
 him very much before, and was always bothering him 
 to say what fault he saw in them, but of course poor 
 Gil Bias was afraid to say. But when he bothered him 
 still more, he said, one day, that he didn't think the 
 last one was quite so good as the others ; and this 
 made the Archbishop so angry, that he turned him out 
 in the most sudden and unkind way, telling him that he 
 wished him all sorts of prosperities with a little better 
 taste.' 
 
 * It was horribly unjust ! '
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 71 
 
 * Yes ; but father says it's just like life. It has 
 taught me, at any rate, always to praise Avhat other 
 people write, and never to be angry with those who find 
 fault with what I write myself.' 
 
 * Those are two very good things to learn.' 
 
 * Yes ; but I've learnt a great many other lessons 
 besides. For instance, supposing you were to offer 
 to give me a most beautiful ruby ring now, I shouldn't 
 take it.' 
 
 * Shouldn't you ? ' returned Godfrey, wishing with 
 all his heart that he possessed some jewel of the kind to 
 lay at the bare feet of his strange little companion. 
 
 * And why not ?' 
 
 * Because I should he afraid that it might he a false 
 one^ she answered. ' That's another thing I have 
 learnt from Gil Bias ! But listen ! I hear voices.' 
 
 * Perhaps,' said Godfrey, feeling alarmed at the idea 
 of being caught trespassing, 'it's the King of Poland or 
 the King of Spain ? ' • 
 
 ' Oh no, it isn't ! ' answered Sophy, in a whisper, after 
 she had stooped do^vn and peeped under the branches. 
 
 * It's only Janus and Nelus out courting. She's going 
 home now to lay the cloth for dinner. Look ! it's easy 
 to see that they're sweethearts ! ' added the little girl, 
 pointing. 
 
 'Why?' asked Godfrey again. It seemed to him 
 that he was learning a great many new things. 
 
 ' Oh, because they walk like that,' answered Sophy, 
 promptly. * All sweethearts walk like that about here. 
 Janus always walks first, and her face looks very red, 
 and shines, and she wears her best bonnet. And then 
 Nelus walks a good way behind, and w^histles, and 
 knocks the heads ofE the tall daisies, and generally
 
 72 Sophy ^ or 
 
 chews a piece of grass or straw. Look ! don't you see 
 them?' 
 
 And indeed, when Godfrey, stooping down very 
 low, peeped under the waving hazel branches, he 
 beheld the rustic lovers demeaning themselves pre- 
 cisel)^ in the manner described. They were evidently 
 going towards the house, and soon vanished out of 
 sight, without having perceived the two children. 
 
 * I will bring you something from their Party,' said 
 Sophy ; * for they're going to have a beautiful wedding- 
 cake, and all sorts of nice things.' 
 
 * About what time shall I come?' asked the boy, 
 eagerly. 
 
 * Oh, about the time you came to-day. I promise 
 to bring you something very nice.' 
 
 * Oh, I really don't care about that, except as 
 coming from you. But, Sophy ' — for here a sudden 
 doubt flashed upon him — 'would your father like 
 me to come, do you think? Since you talked so 
 much about ''enemies," and all that, I feel so afraid of 
 making you do anything wrong. "What did he say 
 when you told him you had met me in the waggon, for 
 of course you told him ? You saw the way John 
 McBoan dragged me away from you ? There must 
 have been some reason for it.' 
 
 ' Was that red-haired man John McBean ?' 
 ' Yes, the man who came out of the Black Horse. 
 But what did your father say about it ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I tell him everj^thing,' answered 
 Sophy, ' and I said, " Abel Beynolds brought me 
 home in his waggon, because it went faster than the 
 cart with Janus and Nelus. There was a boy in it, 
 part of the way," I said, *' and four beautiful bell- 
 horses." '
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 73 
 
 * But you didn't tell him my name ? All, Sophy, 
 that was only half telling ! ' 
 
 * I didn't know it then,' said the little girl, in a 
 contrite voice, * so how could I tell him ? It was only 
 to-day I knew you were called Godfrey.' 
 
 ^ Well, you must promise to tell your father next 
 time,' said the boy ; ' for I shan't like to come again 
 like a sneak or a poacher. But what did your father 
 say when he heard there was a boy in the wag- 
 gon?' 
 
 'He only said, *'0h!" and that was all I wanted 
 him to say ; and then he went on talking to the Great 
 Prophet about E-ussia, and the East, and the Tartar 
 hordes, and the battle between the Surs and the 
 Assurs. We're very busy just now stirring up the 
 Poles.' 
 
 * Oh, really ! But you will be sure and tell him 
 next time, won't you?' the boy demanded earnest^. 
 * You see my reason.' 
 
 But at this moment a bell was heard ringing from 
 the neighbouring farmhouse ; and little Sophy, ex- 
 claiming hastily, ' Oh, I must go now ! There is the 
 tocsin of the soul ! ' sprang away from him like a roe- 
 deer, as though to evade the question, and was soon 
 lost to view. 
 
 At the appointed day and hour he was again at 
 the trysting-place, and it was not long before he was 
 joined by Sophy, who came accompanied by her 
 white cat, and with her books and papers under her 
 arm. The July day had been oppressively hot ; but 
 now a fresh evening breeze had sprung up, and the 
 cool, shady hazel- copse, seemed to Godfrey the most 
 delightful spot in the world. 
 
 She at once commenced a glowing description of
 
 74 Sophy ^ or 
 
 the * marriage feast,' at which she had assisted on the 
 previous iiiorning. 
 
 ' It would have been such fun,' she said, after she 
 had described the personal a2)2)carance of the bride and 
 bridegroom, * only somehow I didn't care about it alone. 
 I wanted you to be there. I meant to have saved you 
 something, too, as I said — in fact, I really did save it. 
 It was a beautiful biscuit,' she added sadl}', ' with a 
 scalloped edge ; ' and, as though oppressed by some 
 painful memory, she looked down at her bare feet, 
 with which, following a childish habit, she commenced 
 drawing diagrams upon the gravel. ' I didn't like to 
 take away too muchy she said at last, still seeming a 
 little ashamed of herself, ' because they were going to 
 save what's left for the christening.' 
 
 ' What ! are they going to have a christening as 
 well?' asked the boy, astonished at such an excess of 
 dissipation. 
 
 * Yes ; Janus says they are going to have it some 
 time within the next month, but they haven't fixed on 
 the day yet, and that the hardbake and biscuits and 
 gingerbread-nuts won't be too stale, she hopes, to come 
 in. Only to think of the luck of some people — having 
 a baby directly, when other people have to wait whole 
 years ! ' 
 
 * Yes, they are very fortunate. And now go on 
 telling me about the Party.' 
 
 ' Well,' answered the little girl, somewhat reluct- 
 antly, '■ I had saved you a caraway.' 
 
 'What is a caraAvay?' Godfrey asked. *I have 
 heard of a '* Jibbaway," or some such name. He is an 
 Indian, and tomahawks people.' 
 
 * This is a biscuit,' said Sophy, ' called so because of 
 little black things stuck into it. It is round, and has
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 75 
 
 scalloped edges, and is most fi?i-licious ! And, really 
 and truly, I do assure you, I saved you one, and I took 
 one myself ; and tlien I ate mine, and then . . / and 
 here she blushed and hesitated. 
 
 ' Ah, I see what happened,' said the boy, smiling ; 
 
 * I suppose you ate mine too. Never mind ! ' 
 
 ^ No, that's what I really didn't do ! ' she protested. 
 
 * But I thought as I looked at it that it would be 
 so nice to eat half of it myself, and then give the other 
 half to you.' 
 
 ' So it would. It was a capital idea.' 
 
 'Wait till you've heard the end,' she went on 
 gloomily. ' Well, I ate half of it, and I saved the 
 other half, and I put it on a chair near the mat where 
 I sleep. But in the night I woke up to see if it was 
 safe ; and I put out my hand and felt it, and by that 
 time I was so hungry, that . . . ' 
 
 * That you ate that, too ?' suggested Godfi;ey. 
 ' Well, what does it signify ? I didn't really want it 
 in the least ! ' 
 
 * No, I didn't eat it all,' continued the contrite little 
 girl. ' I broke off half of it as neatly as I could, and 
 then there was a quarter left ; but in the morning, before 
 breakfast, I felt even hungrier than I did in the night.' 
 
 *And then you ate it quite all! I can guess all 
 about it. But please don't look so very unhapp}' ; I 
 didn't want it.' 
 
 * Well, I did eat it ; but I saved you this out of it,' 
 said Sophy, who, after searching in the pocket of her 
 one scanty garment, produced a very small piece of 
 paper, in which something precious seemed to be 
 enfolded. * It's a beautiful large caraway- seed,' she 
 said, presenting it to her companion. ' Take care that 
 it doesn't fall out.'
 
 76 Sophy, or 
 
 ' Thank you very much. You're a funny little 
 thing ! I shall not eat it, but keep it inside my watch- 
 case as a remembrance of you, whilst I'm away at 
 school ; ' and he slipped the tiny piece of paper into 
 his jacket pocket. 
 
 Sophy seemed relieved after this confidence, and 
 began skipping about and playing with her cat, ap- 
 parently in the highest possible spirits. 
 
 * Did you tell your father, Sophy, that you had met 
 me again yesterday ? ' Godfrey now inquired. He had 
 been wishing for some time to ask her this question, 
 but she had seemed always to evade it. 
 
 ' Yes, I did,' she answered, casting down her eyes. 
 ' Well, and what did he say ?' 
 
 * Perhaps if I told you, you might be offended, as 
 you are not one of us,' she answered doubtfully. 
 
 ' Oh no, I shan't be. Let me hear ! ' 
 
 ' Well, after coming in after the wedding yesterday 
 morning, and making my salaam, I said, " Father, I 
 saw a boy yesterday, and talked with him;" but father 
 hardly answered, and went on with his conversation 
 with the Great Prophet and the two Circassian Chiefs 
 who are stajdng with us . . . ' 
 
 ' They didn't lose much time in coming after the 
 wedding. I wonder you can find room for so many 
 people.' 
 
 ' Oh, they don't all sleep in beds,' replied Sophy, 
 *any more than I do. Most of them sleep on rugs 
 and mats, wrapped up in their war-blankets. Well, 
 when father had done speaking, I said again that I 
 had seen a boy, and he said it must be either Moses 
 Weller or Jesse Stubberfield ; but I said, " No," because 
 you were clean and smelt good, and wore Frank clothes,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 77 
 
 and that your name was *' Godfrey," and that I thouglit 
 you came from the enemy's country ; upon which he 
 only said, '* Oh, I suppose it must have been that poor 
 child that they're trying to bring up by clockwork;" 
 after which I salaamed again, and am here.' 
 
 *And by that do you suppose that your father 
 meant me ?' exclaimed Godfrey, shaking himself in 
 order to prove that he was not, at any rate, made by 
 clockwork. 
 
 * There, now, you are ofPended ! ' said the little girl, 
 sorrowfully. 'How easy it is to see that you don't 
 belong to our religion ! ' 
 
 * Really, Sophy,' rejoined the boy, still ruffled, ' you 
 are always talking about your religion, and I can't 
 find out that you have any ! You make fun of every- 
 thing, and seem never to be grave. Nothing seems 
 sacred to you. I wish,' he added thoughtfidly, ' that 
 you would some day go to church.' 
 
 * Why should I be grave?' asked Sophy, opening* her 
 large eyes. ' A little girl with no troubles, and such a 
 happy home ! And as for going to church, I'll go, 
 somehow, if you really wish it; though if it makes 
 one grave and unhappy, I would far rather stay away.' 
 
 ' It makes one serious, I think,' said Godfrey, ' but 
 not unhappy. It makes one know that one must 
 die . . .' 
 
 ' Well, surely that isn't a happy thought ! I know, 
 of course, that we shall all die some daj^, but I try to 
 think of it as little as possible. Father says that if 
 people were to be always thinking of it they would go 
 mad ; and the King of Spain said there was a proverb 
 in his country which says, " Neither Death nor the 
 Sun can be looked at fixedly." '
 
 78 Sophij, or 
 
 ' I think of it a good deal,' said tlic boy, sadly ; 
 * and I often wonder why Death came at all, and why 
 God allows it. It must be very horrid to lie cold and 
 alone underground. But we shall all awake, though, 
 when the last Trump sounds.' 
 
 * Father and I are going to be burnt when we die,' 
 remarked Sophy, firmly. ' That's settled. At any 
 rate we don't want to be buried in a churchyard. Per- 
 haps I shall be buried in a garden, or somewhere 
 here ; ' and she began digging a little hole with her 
 foot in the dead leaves. 
 
 ' Oh, dear Sophy ! please don't talk like that ! It 
 is really very wicked ! ' 
 
 Godfrey, at this time, was very devout, and fash- 
 ioned of the same stuff as that of which martyrs 
 and missionaries are sometimes made. Sophy, how- 
 ever, though apparently a heathen, as well as his 
 inferior in age, seemed to understand and sjTiipathise 
 with his feelings ; she assured him that he was merely 
 undergoing a phase. 
 
 * I know all these thoughts,' she said, kindly. 
 ' Most people have them when they are verf/ young ; 
 but they go off again. When I was a very little girl, 
 a woman came to help Janus, who sang hymns, and 
 talked to me about devils and angels, so that one 
 morning I woke up and cried, and was most dread- 
 fully frightened, because I fancied that I had heard 
 the Last Trump. But it was only a French gentle- 
 man who was stajang here, who had taken down one 
 of the large horns in the hall, and was trying to blow 
 it. My papa had arranged that Sir Peckham should 
 take him out with his beagles ; but he wouldn't go 
 without that large horn. It curled all round his body 
 like a sea-serpent; after that no one was allowed to
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 79 
 
 speak to me about sucli things : it made father very 
 angry.' 
 
 ' I can't understand your father/ said Godfrey, 
 thoughtfully. ' But don't let us talk any more about 
 these serious subjects. You remember you promised 
 me that you would read me the history of your cats.' 
 
 * This is only quite a rough copy,' said the young 
 authoress, looking bashful. 
 
 ^ Oh, do let me see it ! ' exclaimed the boy, holding 
 out his hand for the book. 
 
 * No, really you mustn't. I can't spell any hard 
 words yet ; and I have written it very untidily : be- 
 sides, I can tell you instead.' 
 
 ' Then please do,' said Godfrey ; upon which the 
 little girl began, — 
 
 *Well, the first cat was called "Job," and she . . .* 
 
 ' She ? Why, Job was a man ! ' 
 
 'Ah, well, I didn't know that,' explained Sophy, 
 apologetically. ' I happened to hear the name, and^ 
 thought it would suit my cat.' 
 
 ' Why, he's in the Bible ! ' said Godfrey. ' Fancy 
 your not knowing ! He had three friends . . .' 
 
 ' Yes, that was what I heard. " Job had three 
 friends ; " and so had she — other cats — a black cat, a 
 tabby, and a yellow cat. How they did screech and 
 fight, driving poor father almost mad, when he used to 
 be writing in the evening ! Then Janus said to Nelus, 
 when he came in for the letters, '' There's our cat's 
 three friends; drive 'um awaj', that's a good lad." 
 And Nelus said, ** They seem more like Job's com- 
 forters." I don't know what he meant : but as I was 
 searching for a name, she was called Job from that 
 day ; and when I told father he laughed.' 
 
 * Didn't he tell you Job was a man's name ? '
 
 80 Sophy ^ or 
 
 * No ; little things like that don't trouble him. 
 Well, this " keeping company " amongst the cats 
 ended, as it nearly always does end, in a marriage . . / 
 
 * Mary Parker and John McBean have " kept com- 
 pany " for fifteen years, and they are not married yet,' 
 remarked Godfrey, 
 
 * Well, anyhow, it ended in li it tens/ said the little 
 girl, in a tone calculated to cut short all objection ; 
 ' upon which their father, who had been till then a 
 base-born cat, was made a Serene Highness, and a 
 Count of the Holy Roman Empire.' 
 
 * A Count of the Holy Roman Empire ! ' 
 
 * Yes : I get these titles out of the newspapers.' 
 
 * I remember that you said you Avere fond of long 
 names. You certainly seem to know a lot of curious 
 things.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I try to learn as much as I can. I wish very 
 much to know everything ; and I think I s/iall in time. 
 All these three cats, Job's friends, came from Great 
 Stillingfleet.' 
 
 * I don't think there are any cats there now,' said 
 Godfrey. ' Only the old shepherd's dogs, Pompey and 
 Watch, and a hedgehog in the kitchen. I hate hedge- 
 hogs ; don't you ? ' 
 
 * ^o ; I like them very much. When that one 
 has young ones I've been promised one ; but it's 
 too prickly — nothing will marry it. But now,' she 
 added with emotion, ' I must tell you all about the 
 great tragedy. All these three cats took to poach- 
 ing and were caught in ** clams,"* and young Tom 
 Stubberficld — the son of Old Stubberfield, who is Sir 
 Peckham Hickathrift's head-keeper — nailed all their 
 
 * A word used in Kent and Sussex to designate a steel trap with 
 teeth, set for vermin.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 81 
 
 heads on the posts of the black gate at the end of the 
 pheasant-drive, and made their skins into caps for him- 
 self and his family. Would you like to come and look 
 at their heads ? ' 
 
 'No, thank you,' answered the boy courteously. 
 ' Some other time, j)erhaps ; to-day it is too late.' 
 
 ' Well,' continued Sophy, * in Cat History all this 
 is changed, just as my papa says all histories are 
 altered. There it is stated that he (the Serene High- 
 ness) and his companions were slain in a border-foray 
 by the Stubberfields. I forgot if I told you that he 
 was Warden of the Marshes ? ' 
 
 ' No, you didn't. What a lot of titles he had ! ' 
 
 * It is then stated that the two others . . .' 
 ' ^\Tiat, the black cat and the yellow one ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; you interrupt. It is then stated that the two 
 other comrades in arms fell upon one another when 
 inflamed with wine, and were so seriously w^oundec^ 
 that, being in a strange place, where their w^ounds 
 could not be dressed, they both of them died.' 
 
 'I suppose they killed each other, like the Kil- 
 kenny cats ? ' suggested the boy. 
 
 * Yes, they did. I never heard of the Kilkenny 
 cats. Who were they?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' answered Godfrc}^ ; ' but Mary 
 Parker constantly talks about them. They killed each 
 other, and nothing remained but their tails. I believe 
 they w^ere Irish.' 
 
 * Who is Mary Parker ? ' 
 
 * She was once my nurse, and now she stays on at 
 Dallingridge ; but she hasn't much to do. I like her 
 very much indeed. But do you go on about your cats.' 
 
 Encouraged by this, Sophy commenced reading 
 aloud from the book in her hand, though she would 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 Sopliij^ or 
 
 not permit Godfrey to look over lier shoulder, lest he 
 should see how phonetically most of the fine words 
 were spelt with which it abounded. 
 
 * ** Woe worth the while for the evil race of the 
 Stubberfieldiuses ! " ' 
 
 * Are those the Stubberfields ? ' 
 
 * Yes, they are spoken of in cat history as the 
 "Stubberfieldiuses." '* Woe worth the while for the evil 
 race of the Stubberfieldiuses ! A day will dawn when 
 the anger of the great goddess, which has been so long 
 burning against them . . ." ' 
 
 * Who is the great goddess ? ' 
 
 * Mey of course. You are always interrupting ! ' 
 ' Do go on ! How beautifully you do write ! ' 
 
 ' " May their vile offspring never pollute with their 
 degenerated presence the sacred ground of the Sophi- 
 rian Empire " (that means Stillingfleet) . . .' 
 
 * Called after you ? ' asked the boy. 
 
 ' Called after me, of course. How you do inter- 
 rupt ! ' 
 
 ' I don't think I should have called it the '' Sophi- 
 rian Empire." There is no " r " in '' Sophia." I think 
 it sounds rather bad; and "degenerated presence" 
 seems somehow almost too fine to be quite right.' 
 
 ' I shall not read you an}^ more of it ! ' exclaimed 
 Sophy, shutting up her book with apparent annoyance. 
 ' I can see that you have no soul ! ' 
 
 * Ah, you're just like the Archbishop of Grenada 
 in Gil BlaSy said Godfrey, smiling ; ' you won't let me 
 find a fault, however kindly.' 
 
 * It's because I am so ashamed of it,' replied Sophy, 
 colouring. 'It sounds all right to me till I am laughed 
 at, and then it becomes all nonsense, and I feel inclined
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 83 
 
 to tear it up. But it's a pity to make me feel this when 
 I work so hard.' 
 
 * I am very sorry/ said Godfrey, in a contrite voice. 
 * I could never write like it myself. It seemed to me 
 so good that I wanted it to be perfect. But do go on.' 
 
 * I will tell you, instead of reading it, as it is right 
 that you should know,' answered the little girl. * Well, 
 Job had three kittens : one was drowned, and the two 
 that were kept were called Minna and Brenda. Minna 
 strayed and never came back. I called her, and rattled 
 a saucer of milk against the steps for many a night, 
 but all in vain. Brenda was caught in a clam ; 
 but she dragged it home on her foot, and I undid it. 
 It was in the winter- time ; and one could easily see, 
 by her footmarks in the snow, that she had been 
 into Sir Peckham Hickathrift's wood to look at her 
 father.' 
 
 ' The Serene Highness ? The cat whose head is ' 
 nailed on the black gate ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Well, I put pounded alum into the wound 
 in her foot, and it soon got well ; and in a short time 
 she gave birth, amongst others, to the beautiful Fleada 
 (so called because she had fleas), who in time became 
 the mother of my lovely Spitfire, my king of cats ! ' and 
 she commenced embracing her white cat affectionately. 
 ' But really,' she added presently, * you have now done 
 such a funny, foolish, ridiculous thing, that I don't 
 know — no, indeed I don't know — how I can write it 
 do-SMi in Pussy-cat story ; ' and she began hugging and 
 kissing him anew. 
 
 ' What has he done ? ' Godfrey inquired, as he also 
 bent and stroked the white cat. 
 
 * Janus says that he's married his grandmother,' re-
 
 84 Sophij, or 
 
 plied the little girl gravelj^ ' And rcalh',* she went on, 
 addressing the unheeding culprit, ' if I had been a fine 
 young cat like you, iroukl I have been so benighted as 
 to tic myself up in such a silly way ! For shame, 
 Spitfire ! and you that might have done so much 
 better ! ' 
 
 Thus did these two children trip lightly and laugh- 
 ingly over the grand mysteries of life and death, 
 drawing their ingenuous conclusions from the result 
 of their own limited experience, and almost half 
 guessing, sometimes, the great riddle which can never 
 be but half guessed at last, and which has baffled alike 
 the fool and the philosopher. They asked themselves, 
 innocently, and wonderingly, whence sprang the first 
 vague intangible germ of what we, in our igno- 
 rance, have designated Life, — the great underlying 
 spirit of vitality, ever fresh and undaunted, pervading 
 and inspiring all Nature, and which we can neither 
 restrain nor reanimate. They asked too, as innocently, 
 the object and significance of that Other Power, winged, 
 scythed, and shrouded, represented, in the old time, by 
 the vicmento mori of the ancients ; the S2)cctre that, 
 strange to say, does not assist at many of our feasts, and 
 rightly, since who could ' eat, drink, and be merry ' 
 within sight of those hollow eyes and grinning jaws ? 
 
 Chapter YI. 
 
 "Whilst Godfrey is at school, undergoing the educa- 
 tion of most lads of his age, it may be necessary for 
 me, like another Asmodeus, to lift the roofs off one or 
 two of the houses in the neighbourhood of his home,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 85 
 
 tlie occupants of wliich will have more or less to do 
 with my story. 
 
 Like the local guide-books, I shall commence with 
 the Abbey, or rather with its inmates ; for enough 
 has already been said mth regard to its external 
 architecture to show the reader that it must have re- 
 sembled, to a certain extent, most other ancient abbeys 
 of the same epoch. 
 
 Sir Thomas Peckham Brambletye Satterthwaite 
 Twiselton Hickathrift, fifth baronet, was the present 
 possessor of Poynings Abbey, and of a very fine sur- 
 rounding property. He was also M.P. for the neigh- 
 bouring borough of Southerbourne, which he had 
 represented in the Tory interest ever since the re- 
 tirement of Mr. Erskine St. Clair. 
 
 Upon his succession to the family honours, there 
 had been a warm discussion amongst his friends as 
 to which one of his formidable Christian names wouM 
 be the most appropriate for him to adopt ; and ' Peck- 
 ham ' was at last decided upon by vote, his neigh- 
 bours fearing to crack their jaws by pronouncing 
 either of the three longest of his other names, and 
 yet thirsting for some change after the monotony 
 of two succeeding ^Sir Thomases,' with the prospect 
 of yet another in the future. 
 
 Before becoming possessed of Pojmings Abbey, 
 the family of Hiclcathrift had been revered as one of 
 the most ancient in the kingdom, having existed in 
 opulence (it was affirmed) ever since the days of the 
 Heptarchy, and, as many declared, even long before 
 that. In Sir Peckham, too, had merged and centred 
 the fortunes, pictures, plate, and armorial bearings of 
 several other well - kno-vvn and illustrious families, 
 which, save for him, would have become altogether
 
 86 Sophy^ or 
 
 extinct ; and, as a river becomes gradually swollen 
 through gathering force and volume from its tribu- 
 taries, one could not help fancying that he had acquired 
 positive ph^^sical width and breadth from thus sopping 
 up, as it were, and assimilating, nearly half the blue 
 blood in the county. 
 
 And, indeed, when he was seated at the end of his 
 hospitable board in the huge banqueting-hall at the 
 Abbe}', blazoned round with heraldic devices, and 
 l)anelled with the smirking and scowling portraits 
 of the absorbed, annexed, and departed Peckhams, 
 Brambletyes, Satterthwaites, and Twiseltons, it was 
 admitted upon all sides that he was about as good 
 a specimen of the fine old English gentleman as any- 
 body could ever reasonably hope to see. Ill-natured 
 people might have said, perhaps, that he was * fine ' 
 chiefly after the manner of a prize ox or Christmas 
 turkey ; for he was a man of enormous height, upon 
 whom, in later years, had fallen the curse of fatness. 
 He had given up hunting because no horse could be 
 found capable of carrying him, and shooting, because 
 his own legs had at last refused to perform their 
 arduous office, except under protest for short intervals, 
 and when aided by the support of a stout stick. His 
 face was so large that, with the exception of his nose, 
 his features seemed almost to be lost in space, and yet 
 there was enough flesh beyond them to have made 
 faces for several ordinary-sized mortals. 
 
 He possessed, however, the ' Hickathrift nose ' — a 
 nose deserving to be designated a * limb ' rather than a 
 feature, and which it seemed as though all the extinct 
 Peckhams, Brambletyes, Satterthwaites, and Twisel- 
 tons had conspired to swell to its present formidable 
 dimensions.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 87 
 
 It was strange that Sir Peckham, whose offspring 
 might be likely to inherit, or, at any rate, he subject 
 to, this stupendous member, instead of choosing, when 
 the time came for him to marry, a mate from amongst 
 the pug-nosed damsels of his county (and there were 
 many such), should have actually gone out of his 
 way to confirm and exaggerate his t}^e, travelling 
 several inches across the map of England in order to 
 perpetrate what little Sophy would have termed a 
 * border foray,' and bring back with him, from the 
 far North, a lady as tall as a Life Guardsman, and so 
 terribly ' nosey ' that she might almost have passed 
 for a half- starved sister of his own, for good Lady 
 Hickathrift was altogether as gaunt and bony as Sir 
 Peckham was the reverse. 
 
 It could not have been difficult to foresee, at the 
 outset, what would be the result should this lad}^ ever 
 become a mother. This event came to pass in the 
 course of a few years, and young Tom Hickathrift's 
 personal appearance fully realised the expectations of 
 those who had thought about the matter at all. 
 
 He came into the world with a magnified con- 
 centration of the family limb ; that is to say, although 
 in other respects an exceedingly handsome boy, he was 
 doomed to go through life looking like ^the Prince 
 with the Nose ' in the story-book, without the hope 
 that some day a fairy godmother might come forward 
 and relieve him of his burden. 
 
 He became so good-natured and pleasant, however, 
 as he grew older, his figure was so good, and he was 
 so tall and manly-looking, that somehow his nose (if I 
 may make use of such an absurd expression) seemed to 
 f/ro2v upon o)ic. One liked it better every time one saw 
 it, till, ha\Tng begun by forgiving it, one ended by
 
 88 SopJiy^ or 
 
 almost forgetting it altogether. Besides whicli, was it 
 not Thomas Ilickathrift's nose ; and woidd not Thomas 
 Ilickathrift become, a very few years after the opening 
 of this story, one of the most eligible young men in the 
 whole of England ? "Would he not, one day, be, in all 
 human probability, not only the owner of Poynings 
 Abbey, with its historic memories, but also of all the 
 broad lands, situated hard by and elsewhere, which 
 were now in the possession of Sir Peckham ? And was 
 not his family of such remote antiquity that no one 
 could be found learned enough to translate its motto — 
 doubtless the war-cry of some ancient and powerful 
 race — tall and stalwart as himself — who may have 
 walked about painted blue, reposing probably, after a 
 life of glorious achievement and unprecedented valour, 
 either in barrows or tumuli ? 
 
 Be this how it may, the ' Ilickathrift nose ' was 
 yery much respected ; and more that one fair lady, 
 when Tom came to man's estate, would not only have 
 been proud to call that nose her own, but would — if 
 the occasion had favoured her — have covered it with 
 as many garlands and caresses as were lavished by 
 Titania upon the imsightly head of the translated 
 weaver. But at this period Tom was merely an Eton 
 boy, having lately quitted his ancestral home for those 
 * distant spires,' and life, in the true sense of the word, 
 had not yet begun for him. 
 
 One afternoon, at about this time. Sir Peckham 
 suddenly burst into his wife's boudoir, where she sat 
 gaunt and rigid as a grenadier, working away vigor- 
 ously at a pair of canvas slippers. From their ele- 
 phantine proportions it was easy to divine for whom 
 they were intended. 
 
 'Raree-show! ' he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 89 
 
 as lie flung down a pamplilct upon tlie table (he al- 
 ways spoke in tlie abruj^t manner in wbicli we 'of tbe 
 modern time ' are wont to Avord a telegraphic de- 
 spatch). ' George Inn ! Aztecs ! ' 
 
 Lady Ilickathrift took up the pamphlet, the pink 
 cover of which was adorned by rough woodcuts, 
 representing two of the last descendants of an ancient 
 race. 
 
 'Indeed, my love, I am extremely sorry that our 
 dear boy is not here — he would have enjoyed looking 
 at these curious little creatures ! Are they, indeed, the 
 last of their kind ? Dear me ! how interesting I . , . 
 But they will, I presume, marr}% and thus . . . Ah, 
 I see that they are both boys — two youthful' priests — 
 " descendants and specimens of the ancient sacerdotal 
 caste, now nearly extinct, discovered in the idolatrous 
 city of Iximaya." ' 
 
 ' D d nonsense ! Jews ! Dwarf- idiots ! White- 
 chapel ! ' exclaimed Sir Peckham telegraphically. Its 
 wife, however, could read between the lines, though, 
 she generally interpreted his spasmodic utterances even 
 to herself, the result of having had to do so constantly 
 for the benefit of others. 
 
 ' Nay, love,' she now interposed, ' I can hardly be- 
 lieve they are as you say, Jew-dwarf-idiots from 
 Whitechapel. Indeed I cannot ! I cannot believe 
 that Mr. Green, of the George, would wish us to 
 countenance an imposture, knowing so well our position 
 in the place ! I feel certain, indeed, that he would 
 hardly have left this for our perusal, or invited us to 
 attend, if . . .' 
 
 Here Lady Ilickathrift broke off, being apparently 
 too much engrossed with the pamphlet to continue. 
 
 The history of these two last remaining Aztec
 
 90 Sophy ^ or 
 
 specimens was, indeed, toucliingly pathetic, and tlie 
 kind-hearted hidy felt a lump rising in her throat as 
 she perused it. 
 
 It appeared that an American coloured gentleman, 
 a missionary, who was deej^ly interested in the archi- 
 tectural remains in Mexico and Central America, was 
 once travelling in the province of Yera Paz, beyond 
 the Sierra Madre, when he came suddenly upon the 
 ruins of an ancient city of great magnificence, amongst 
 which, like Marius at Carthage, these two last con- 
 necting links between the Present and the Past sat 
 mourning over the decay of their former greatness. 
 After providing them with food, this benevolent gentle- 
 man made kno^vn to them, in the Maj^a language, the 
 saving truth which it was his mission to promulgate ; 
 and after listening to him with the greatest reverence 
 and attention, the two unfortunate youths resolved at 
 once to embrace Christianity-, and dej)art for ever from 
 a spot which must needs have been fraught with such 
 painful reminiscences for them. Mr. Barnum, with 
 his mermaid and woolly horse, had not yet sought 
 these shores, and so novel and touching an exhibition 
 as was now offered to Lady Hickathrift soon attracted 
 much attention both from scientific and ignorant sight- 
 seers. After a successful campaign in London, the 
 Aztecs were making a tour in the provinces, and hence 
 their arrival at the little toA\Ti of PojTiings, in the 
 centre of which was situated the entrance to the feudal 
 dwelling-place of the Ilickathrifts. But what appealed 
 particularly to the sympathies of the British public 
 was the fact that (as was stated in the pamphlet) the 
 money collected upon these occasions was to be spent 
 in 2:)rocuring for the * last descendants of the sacerdotal 
 caste ' a more enlightened education, and in strength-
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 91 
 
 oning and confirming them in that faith which they 
 had so wisely embraced. 
 
 * My love, it seems really highly interesting ! ' 
 Lady Hickathrift exclaimed, after she had perused the 
 greater part of the pink pamphlet. 'And I really 
 think we ought to patronise anything that will further 
 religion.' 
 
 * Too late ! Gout ! Ilornblower ! ' blurted out Sir 
 Peckham ; which meant, when interj)reted, that, be- 
 sides having a slight attack of gout, he had invited 
 the Hector of Dallingridge to dinner, and that after 
 his departure he feared it would be too late to assist at 
 the entertainment at the George. 
 
 * Then I shall certainly not go alone,' said his 
 devoted wife ; and she slowly left the room, in order 
 to make some slight change in her dress for the benefit 
 of Mr. Ilornblower. 
 
 ' I have put out your ladyship's " philimot," ' * said 
 Miss Peacock, her ladyship's maid, when she had gaiiied 
 the precincts of her dressing-room. ' And your lady- 
 ship's new turhand, with the yellow bird oi parorcdicc' 
 
 * Birds of paradise are always yellow. Peacock,' said 
 Lady Hickathrift, who prided herself upon instructing 
 while she commanded her abigail. 'You talk as though 
 the creature was dyed ! But only Mr. Ilornblower is 
 dining here to-night, therefore I shall not change my 
 coifoor.^ (Amongst other things. Lady Hickathrift was 
 excessively proud of her knowledge of French.) 
 
 * Ho ! what a disappointment to Mr. Green of the 
 George ! ' exclaimed Miss Peacock, aghast. ' And me 
 that thought the poor 'eathcns would like to look at a 
 bird that came from their owtl countries ! They all 
 
 * Feuille moj'te. A colour once in vog-ue, and thus pronounced 
 by the vulgar.
 
 92 Sophy, or 
 
 consider your ladyship sucli a first-rate dresser, that 
 they will come from far and wide and run their blood 
 to water when there's a chance of catching a sight. 
 However, Mr. Green must make up his mind to a 
 hempty 'ouse to-night ! ' 
 
 ' I see no reason, my good Peacock, why these 
 people should flock to see me,' rejoined Lady Hicka- 
 thrift, flattered nevertheless. 
 
 ^ Ho, my lady ! your ladyship is known to lead the 
 fashion about here ! ' replied Peacock reproachfully. 
 ' I do believe the Miss Spearinks have gone and himi- 
 tatcd 3'our ladj'ship's new turband already ! Ho them 
 Miss Spearinks ! anything like their hairs and graces I 
 never came in contract with ! However, they'll have it 
 all their own way to-night, and no mistake ! When I 
 went over just now to buy a i^iece of wadding to cover 
 your ladj^ship's busk, I heard the remark passed of 
 how 3^our ladyship was such a splendid dresser. " Her 
 ladyship," I said, " 'as not many tivilights, but she 
 have's little and good.'' ' 
 
 * I should imagine that I possess quite as many as 
 the Miss Spearings ! ' answered her ladyship, somewhat 
 nettled. * And, dear Peacock, do pray learn your o"\vn 
 language before you pretend to speak French ! It is 
 not *' twilight," it is " twalig/if," ' and she rushed 
 innocently from Scylla to Charybdis. 
 
 Lady Hickathrift was standing before her dressing- 
 table, occupied with some mysterious rite connected 
 with the toilet ; whilst, in order to economise time, 
 Peacock was standing behind her engaged in slightly 
 tightening the lace of what looked like a Poman 
 warrior's cuirass. She had not yet removed her head- 
 gear, which, with its nodding ribbons and plumes, 
 added the sublime element to the ridiculous. During
 
 tlie Adventures of a Savage. 93 
 
 this performance, in fact, and as she occasionally en- 
 deavoured to check any too sudden movement made 
 by her attendant by an admonitory stamp of the foot, 
 her ladyship, whose physiognomy was of a somewhat 
 equine cast, reminded one instinctively of a deter- 
 mined * crib-biter ' undergoing its grooming, or of a 
 sable-plumed hearse-horse being driven deliberately 
 with a stay-lace. 
 
 * She's terrible hargnmentious at times, and nags 
 haivfal !^ Miss Peacock had once confided to Mr. Green 
 of the George. 'But one can always come over her 
 with a little palaver ! ' Upon which Mr. Green had 
 * passed the remark ' that he should like to know where 
 that man or w^oman ever stcjd whom Miss Peacock could 
 not 'come over' by the charms of her person and of her 
 mind? 
 
 Upon the present occasion Miss Peacock, being- 
 anxious to go herself to the entertainment, and 
 anxious, therefore, that her ladyship should not re- 
 quire her at her u.sual hour of undressing, did so far 
 ' come over ' her mistress that she induced her to pro- 
 mise that she might perhaps go after all, and to array 
 herself in the dress, at once gorgeous and grotesque, 
 which it w^as her wont to wear at entertainments of the 
 kind ; and she shortly afterwards descended the broad 
 staircase leading to the banqueting-hall in all the 
 glories of her 'philimot' and blue turban, with the 
 tail of the bird of paradise, which had somehow got 
 awry, sticking up like the war-plmne of a North 
 American Indian. 
 
 Mr. Hornblowxr had only just commenced the nar- 
 ration of his second anecdote — which usually came after 
 the cheese — when Lady Hickathrift, who prided her- 
 self upon the courtesy of her manners, rose from her
 
 94 Sophy, or 
 
 cliair, and, seizing tlic hand of tlic Hector, began au 
 elaborate excuse explanatory of her early retreat from 
 the dinner-table. 
 
 * Good night, good night, dear Mr. Ilornblower,' 
 she concluded, courtesying after the old fashion, whilst 
 the form of the palpitating Peacock was seen hover- 
 ing in the doorway, carrying a richly - embroidered 
 Indian shawl. * Good night again, my dear Mr. Ilorn- 
 blower. Noblesse oblige, you know ! ' And with a second 
 courtesy she swept majestically out of the banqueting- 
 hall. 
 
 Xtacumbi and Upaxaelulah, the last of the Aztecs, 
 — or, as they were designated in the pink pamphlet, 'the 
 surviving remnant of an ancient and singular order of 
 priesthood called Kaanas, which had accompanied the 
 first migration of this people (the Iximayans) from the 
 Assyrian plains,' — were a weird and dwarfish-looking 
 couple, weak and wavering in their gait. Their heads, 
 too, were * fearfully and wonderfully made ; ' and it was 
 even surprising — according to the theory of the * sur- 
 vival of the fittest' — that brain, spine, and legs having 
 apparently struck work simultaneously, these unfortu- 
 nate young men should have survived at all to tell of 
 the departed glories of their race. 
 
 There was, however, a pathetic reason for their 
 debilit}'. ' Forbidden ' (the pink pamphlet explained) 
 *by inviolably sacred laws from intermarrying with 
 any persons but those of their own caste, they (the 
 sacerdotals) had dwindled down, in the course of many 
 centuries, to a few insignificant individuals, diminutive 
 in stature and imbecile in intellect. . . .' 
 
 They went through their performances with great 
 dignity and docility, but sadly, as with the apathy 
 of the fatalist; and it was easy to perceive that the
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 95 
 
 strange vicissitudes ttey liad undergone liad perma- 
 nently affected tlieir sjDirits, lending to every move- 
 ment an indescribable tinge of melancholy. 
 
 The tall ' sacerdotal ' — he was tall only by com- 
 parison, measuring some thirty-four inches in stature 
 instead of thirty, the height of his companion — did 
 indeed appear at moments to weary of the inexorable 
 destiny which compelled him thus, day after day, to go 
 through performances which must have seemed to j)ar- 
 take of the ignominy and monotony of the treadmill. 
 One would have fancied, from his expression, that his 
 proud sjDirit occasionally rebelled, and would no longer 
 brook such bitter humiliation, or else that the contrast 
 with his glorious antecedents oppressed him so pain- 
 fully that he Avas almost unable at times to j)roceed. 
 To find himself alone — save for one solitary companion, 
 mortal as himself — to be apparently in a chronic state 
 of debility, to have forsworn, in a moment of despera- 
 tion, the ancient faith of his fathers, and to be exhibited 
 thus in a common tavern, in a foreign land, was not all 
 this enough, and more than enough, to account for the 
 expression of languor and melancholy which overspread 
 the countenance of the elder of the two surviving * sacer- 
 dotal remnants ?' 
 
 Lady Hickathrift was greatly interested in the per- 
 formance. She occupied one of the best places in the 
 front row of chairs, as became her position, so that the 
 Miss Spearings — daughters of the local postmaster and 
 linendrajoer, newly established as milliners — who sat 
 immediately in her rear, by the side of Miss Peacock, 
 had ample opportunity for studying the strange forma- 
 tion of her imposing head-gear. 
 
 After singing several of their national songs, and 
 performing a limp and tottering sacerdotal dance, the
 
 96 Sophy ^ or 
 
 unfortunate young men went through one verse of an 
 English hymn, and the proceedings, so far as they 
 were concerned, terminated; though, before they finally 
 withdrew, they presented a few copies of their biography 
 to some of the most distinguished of the assembled 
 company. 
 
 It is needless to say that Lady Hickathrift was one 
 of the first to receive this interesting memoir, which 
 she accepted very graciously from the hands of the 
 taller of the Aztecs. 
 
 *Poor little manikin-pii^s ! ' exclaimed Miss Peacock, 
 as he presented her, secondly, with a coj)y of his history, 
 perceiving that, next to her mistress, she was the most 
 ridiculously attired female in the room, and probably 
 concluding, therefore, that she was a jDcrson of distinc- 
 tion, and so saying, she patted him on the head with 
 benevolent condescension. The unfortunate ^ remnant,' 
 however, had doubtless been unaccustomed for long years 
 to the familiarities of the fair sex, and his whole being 
 seemed suddenly to become flooded with soft emotions. 
 He was thinking, perhaps, of those lovely creatures 
 who once graced the now ruined halls of Iximaj^a, and 
 whose semblances, graven upon the ancient temples 
 and palaces of that historic land, proclaim that they 
 belonged to ' a microcephalous t}^oe of human organiz- 
 ation.' ^yhat a contrast to these temples, 
 
 ' grand and moss'd, 
 Mighty as any castle sung. 
 And old when oldest Ind was young, 
 With threshold Christian never cross'd,' ■**■ 
 
 must have seemed the assembly-rooms at the George 
 Inn at Poynings ; and how must Miss Peacock's sjon- 
 
 * Joaquin MUer.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 97 
 
 pathetic movement have affected the desolate heart of 
 the ill-fated young man ! As a proof of his emotion, 
 he suddenly reached out his hand with a movement 
 resembling- that of an ape, and clutching tightly 
 hold of the *tail feather' of Miss Peacock's bonnet, 
 endeavoured to draw her towards him, whilst the sur- 
 prise occasioned by so imexpected a demonstration 
 caused her to utter a shrill and piercing scream. But 
 in a moment the eagle eye of the Rev. Mr. Carver 
 (for such was the name of the American missionary) 
 recalled the wandering fancy of the infatuated ' sacer- 
 dotal.' He smiled faintly, gave a slight lurch forward, 
 passed his delicate hand hurriedly across his strangely- 
 shaped brow, and returning to the raised platform, in a 
 few seconds ' Richard ' — or rather * Upaxaelulah ' — was 
 * himself again.' 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Carver was a tall, thick-set, negro, 
 with a shining ebon complexion, flat feet, rolling eye^ 
 and a scrupulously clean tie and shirt-front. He had 
 accompanied the Aztec remnants during their pere- 
 grinations through Great Britain and Ireland, acting 
 towards them, according to his own accomit, in the 
 united capacities of cicerone, spiritual adviser, and 
 interpreter, whilst exercising over them the super- 
 vision of a parent. After the two youths had with- 
 dra^\'n, this gentleman did not disdain in his turn 
 to minister to the amusement of the company ; and it 
 became apparent that, besides being professedly an 
 earnest and exemplary Christian, he was an exceedingly 
 funny man, his religion not being of that kind which 
 fosters a morbid melancholy. 
 
 Having begun with anecdotes of a serious and 
 pathetic nature, relating to the cruel treatment by 
 American slave-owners of some of his own coloured 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 Sophy ^ or 
 
 brethren, of their extraordinary piety and powers of 
 endurance, &c., he proceeded to give several interesting 
 examples of the singular power of mesmerism, electro- 
 biology, and animal magnetism, powers which, he de- 
 clared, were only now in their infancy, but which 
 would become, some day, a staff in the hands of the 
 godly, and a dangerous weapon when wielded by the 
 emissaries of the devil. Having thus, in the first in- 
 stance, affected his audience to tears, and succeeded, 
 secondly, in arousing their keenest interest, he finally 
 proceeded to convulse them with laughter, by relating 
 to them ludicrous incidents of negro life, stories of the 
 most diverting and entertaining kind, and which might 
 yet be published on the house-tops, so free were they 
 from anything Avhich might have tended to shock or 
 scandalise the prejudices of the British provincial 
 female mind ; so that the whole audience departed 
 highly delighted with themselves, the Aztec remnants, 
 Mr. Carver, and the world in general. 
 
 Of course (as Mr. Carver himself admitted), like all 
 who have become prosperous through a rigid adherence 
 to duty and religion, he was not without his detractors. 
 These, however, were chiefly persons interested in rival 
 concerns — of the ^ spotted baby ' and * pig-faced lady ' 
 kind ; and it was not difficult to perceive that their 
 malice was generated by jealousy at his success. Some 
 of these evilly- disposed persons had even carried their 
 ' lying and slandering ' to such an extent as to declare 
 that Mr. Carver himself was the father of the said 
 ' remnants,' he having married early in life a Hebrew 
 lady of weak intellect, who had died shortly after 
 giving birth to the phenomena ; so that (reversing the 
 behaviour of the pelican in the wilderness) he was 
 actually preying, as it were, upon his own young !
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 99 
 
 'But then/ as Mr. Carver concluded by remarking, 
 *if we gave credit to half the evil reports we hear, 
 where, ladies and gentlemen, should we find an honest 
 man ? ' 
 
 A few moments before the assembly-rooms were 
 cleared, and just as Mr. Carver was collecting some of 
 the articles of which he had made use to illustrate 
 his experiments, one of his myrmidons pushed aside 
 the curtain through which the Aztecs had disap- 
 peared, and presented him with a note, telling him at 
 the same time that a messenger was waiting for an 
 answer ; and before the curtains closed a good-looking 
 young man, in the garb of a rustic, was seen for a 
 moment by the departing company. This was no other 
 than ' Nelus,' groom of the chambers and factotum to 
 Francis St. Clair of Little Stillingfleet, whose usually 
 beaming countenance — owing, no doubt, to his re- 
 cent marriage and to the impending christening — 
 wore a somewhat scared and harassed expression, 
 which the sudden glare of a well-lighted room after 
 a three miles' walk in the dark had perhaps helped 
 to intensify. 
 
 The note which was delivered to the missionary ran 
 
 as follows : — 
 
 * Little Stillingfieet, July \Q>tli, 1829. 
 
 *Mr. Francis St. Clair presents his compliments to the 
 Rev. — Carver ; and though he has not the pleasure of his 
 acquaintance, he writes to say that it would gratify him 
 extremely if he and the two interesting Aztec specimens now 
 under his protection could make it convenient to pay him 
 a visit of a few days at his house in this neighbourhood. 
 The great interest Mr. St. Clair has always taken in the 
 descendants of ancient races must be his excuse for making 
 this request without having had the honour of a previous 
 introduction.'
 
 100 ^ophy^ or 
 
 To this invitation Mr. Carver, without consulting 
 the Aztec specimens, immediately replied : — 
 
 'The Rev. Josiah Carver to Francis St. Clair, Esq. — 
 Yours to hand. Aztec specimens and self will be proud to 
 accept the hospitality of an English gentleman, and will 
 (d.v.) wait on Mr. St. Clair at his residence to-morrow, after 
 the morning representation.' 
 
 ' I don't like that '' d.v.," ' Francis St. Clair re- 
 marked when he received this answer. *Ten to one 
 the fellow is a scoundrel.' 
 
 Nevertheless, on the following afternoon Mr. 
 Carver, and the two last specimens of the ancient 
 sacerdotal caste, repaired to Little Stillingfleet in a 
 one-horse fly. 
 
 Chapteii YII. 
 
 * Francis St. Clair of Stillingfleet,' as he was 
 usually styled, in order to distinguish him from his 
 brother, resided at his farm very much after the 
 strange fashion to which his daughter had casually 
 referred whilst conversing with her new plaj^mate. 
 His habits were primitive, and his corporeal wants few. 
 As for his ambitions, they were so vast, and so impos- 
 sible of fulfilment, that — as extremes are said to meet — 
 he became in the eyes of the world at large one of the 
 least ambitious men upon the face of the earth — a man 
 who not only scorned the ordinary comforts and refine- 
 ments of life, but who had outraged almost every one 
 of its social laws, and thrown awa}" for ever his own 
 chances of success. I do not know whether he himself
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 101 
 
 looked upon his career as a failure, or if what the world 
 might have pronounced to be a success would have 
 seemed like a success to him. Living in a realm 
 teeming with the creations of a rich and vi\id imagin- 
 ation, he was less dependent than most other men upon 
 the actual realities of life, whilst whether he was sur- 
 rounded by luxury or squalor affected him but little. 
 He had associated himself with a small band of enthu- 
 siasts, who were one and all of them interested in the 
 mysterious cause for which he himself laboured with- 
 out ceasing — the grand j)olitical scheme of which the 
 ignorant outside world knew absolutely nothing, though 
 its ramifications were so numerous and complicated that 
 thc}^ were said to traverse and encompass the whole 
 continent of Europe, and a great part of the East, as 
 with a network of electric wires. One of the chief 
 drawbacks connected with 'the Great Cause' — as Mr. 
 St. Clair and his friends were wont to designate it— » 
 seemed to consist in its extreme vagueness, and hence 
 it was that those votaries whose precise minds insisted 
 upon a particular detail of its tenets, were generally 
 observed to withdraw in disappointment from what was, 
 apparently, too vast and intangible to be subjected to 
 ordinary laws, or even comprehended at all, excej^t in 
 the abstract. It was evidently a scheme which could 
 be better described by a wide flourish of the hand in 
 the direction of the far sunset, or b)^ sundry bold 
 sweeping hieroglyphics, traced with the point of a 
 walking-stick upon the gravel of a garden-path, than 
 by any of the words employed to convey ordinary ideas. 
 But whatever the ' Great Cause ' may have seemed to 
 others, it was a reality to Francis St. Clair, and to him 
 the horizon was golden with hope. He was, indeed, 
 pre-eminently hoj)eful by nature. Somewhere or an-
 
 102 Sop^iy^ or 
 
 other I liavc road a story about an economical couple 
 who, when grass was scarce, tied green spectacles on 
 the nose of their cow, and sent her out to graze upon 
 8ha\'ings. Francis St. Clair had, as it were, gone 
 through life in green spectacles, the greater portion of 
 mankind perceiving only dry shavings where he im- 
 agined fair pastures ; but then — as he would have been 
 almost sure to remember, before allowing any such 
 ignorant surmises to affect his peace — *the greater 
 portion of mankind ' do not themselves know sha'vdngs 
 from grass ! 
 
 He was at this time about two-and-forty years of 
 age, with a tall, lithe figure, and a keen, thoughtful face 
 of an Oriental type — an Oriental uncorrupted by indo- 
 lence and luxury, a child of the desert, an Ishmaelite, 
 inured to danger and fatigue, rather than a luxurious 
 inhabitant of Cairo or Stamboul. His countenance 
 wore all the dignity and calm of that of a benevolent 
 philosopher, the man whom nothing could surprise, 
 nothing disconcert, and whose temper no storm could 
 ruffle. It would seem as though the pageant of life 
 passed him by, with its mummers and masquers, whilst 
 he stood looking on at it from the wayside, taking no 
 part in the proceedings ; for, with regard to the smaller 
 things of existence, he had endeavoured to follow the 
 precept of Sainte-Beuve, ^Etrc et rester en dehors de tout* 
 — a condition which he had not arrived at without a 
 good deal of severe schooling. 
 
 On account of his unoi'thodox religious opinions, 
 which did not permit him to assist at anj^ performances 
 of public worship, Francis St. Clair was looked upon by 
 most of the neighbouring clergy as an Atheist ; for it 
 was then, as now, customary to brand with this appella- 
 tion all those persons whose minds, being constitutionally
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 103 
 
 unfitted to accept theories apparently irreconcilable 
 with reason and science, had either received tinder 
 protest, or contemptuously rejected altogether, such 
 great mysteries as the doctrine of Original Sin and the 
 belief in Everlasting Punishment. He was himself of 
 opinion that the fact of his wearing a beard — a great 
 rarity in these days — had given more offence to his 
 conventional neighbours than any of his theological 
 and jDolitical con\'ictions, either indicated or expressed ; 
 and, indeed, Mr. Pettigrew, the new curate, little fore- 
 seeing the present bearded condition of the Anglican 
 priesthood, and ignoring or forgetting many represent- 
 ations of sacred and holy persons, had gone so far as 
 to declare that, whenever he saw an individual who 
 did not shave he knew him by intuition to be an 
 Atheist ; and he added that he had only once been 
 mistaken. He did not condescend to mention the 
 name of this exception, who was, perhaps, merely 
 thrown in to prove the ride ; but it was evident, at 
 any rate, that he spoke from conviction. Francis 
 St. Clair, when these words were repeated to him, 
 could not but plead guilty to the beard, which he 
 had permitted to grow partly from indolence, and 
 partly in consequence of his failing eyesight, which 
 rendered shaving a truly arduous imdertaking ; for, 
 as his brother had once remarked, * a judgment ' was 
 falling upon him, and he was at the present time in 
 great danger of becoming blind. The growing of his 
 beard was, he admitted, a voluntary and determined 
 act of insubordination and unconventionality. As to 
 beliefs or unbeliefs, he denied that they were under 
 the control of the individual, and he therefore held 
 his conscience absolved from any of the consequences 
 which might accrue from his opinions. He contended
 
 104 Sojyhy, or 
 
 that these were based upon the dictates of reason and 
 the teachings of science ; and that, as neither reason 
 nor science remained at a standstill, he was at liberty 
 to vary and modify liis own private convictions as it 
 seemed good to himself, provided that he never in- 
 dulged in the impertinence of becoming a proselytiser, 
 *Lit'C and let live ' being the first commandment in his 
 decalogue. 
 
 One of the most appreciative of Shelley's recent 
 biographers* writes thus upon the subject of the poet's 
 spiritual convictions, — 
 
 ' He believed so firmly and intensely in his own 
 religion — a kind of passionate positivism, a creed 
 which seemed to have no God because it was all God 
 — that he felt convinced he only needed to destroy 
 accepted figments for the light which blazed romid 
 him to break through and flood the world with beauty. 
 Shelley can only be called an Atheist in so far as he 
 maintained the inadequacy of hitherto received con- 
 ceptions of the Deity, and indignantly rejected that 
 Moloch of cruelty who is worshipped in the debased 
 forms of Christianity. He was an xignostic only in so 
 far as he proclaimed the impossibility of soh'ing the 
 insoluble and knowing the unknowable.' 
 
 *With a difference,' these words were singularly 
 applicable to Francis St. Clair. The difference lay in 
 the fact that he never made any attempt to ' destroy 
 acccjDted figments.' He denied no more than he de- 
 stroyed, and deserved, by reason of his passionate love 
 of Nature, rather to have been called a Pantheist than 
 a disbeliever in the existence of the Deity. He was 
 sustained and sujiported in that loneliness enforced by 
 
 * John Addiiigton Sjmonds.
 
 tlie Adventures of a Savage. 105 
 
 the holding of opinions so greatly in the minority, by 
 a spirit of supreme toleration, which might even have 
 tempted him to exclaim with the Pharisee, * God, I 
 thank Thee that I am not as other men are ! ' were it not 
 for the humility engendered by the contemplation of 
 two great mysteries — the mysteries of Life and Death, 
 in the presence of which the wise man is even as the 
 fool. This Pantheistic love of Nature, resulting in a 
 horror of all that was false and meretricious, and 
 which rendered so odious to him the conventionalities 
 of society, had influenced him in all the most impor- 
 tant acts of his life ; and his marriage with the * gipsy 
 maid ' had, no doubt, proceeded partly from his ad- 
 miration of all that was genuine and sj)ontaneous in 
 woman. This marriage, though stigmatised by his 
 friends and relations as an unpardonable and irre- 
 parable error, had, contrary to their expectations, 
 turned out happily. Women are known to be woa- 
 derfuUy adaptive, and no mere absence of worldly 
 wisdom, or ignorance of the usages of fashion in the 
 maiden of his choice, would have offended the sensi- 
 bilities of the youthful enthusiast. He had started 
 prepared to forgive anything but that innate vul- 
 garity of mind which is not always the sure accom- 
 paniment of rags, any more than refinement can be 
 said to be that of soft raiment ; but he had found 
 nothing to forgive. 
 
 Sophy's mother had apparently belonged to that 
 very select and still diminishing contingent, the ari- 
 stocracy of the soul. He had moulded and educated her 
 into a woman after his own heart ; and the first grief 
 she had ever given him had been caused by her early 
 death. Since he had been left desolate, no other woman 
 had seriously engaged his sympathies, or played any
 
 106 Sophy ^ 
 
 or 
 
 active part in his life. ITc had devoted himself exclu- 
 sively to the furtherance of his mysterious political 
 scheme, and to the broader development of his spiritual 
 opinions, describing himself to those who would have 
 failed to comprehend any more complicated appella- 
 tions, by some such names as his little daughter had 
 caught up, parrot-like, from his lips, or occasionally 
 even, with certain mental reservations, as an ' Early 
 Christian who did not exactly believe in Christianity/ 
 
 On the second evening after the arrival of Mr. 
 Carver and the * Aztec remnants,^ Francis St. Clair 
 and his political mentor, * the Great Prophet ' of * the 
 Great Cause,' were seated together in one of the 
 centre rooms of the white-gabled farmhouse. Pro- 
 bably it had once been the sitting-room or parlour, 
 though in its present condition it bore more resem- 
 blance to an armoury, its walls being ornamented with 
 a variety of ancient British and foreign weapons, toge- 
 ther with many of the murderous implements made use 
 of in modern warfare. 
 
 The Great Prophet, at whose feet Mr. St. Clair 
 sat (politically), had not acquired his appellation by 
 reason of any phj^sical magnitude. Externally, he was 
 a jDerson of a mean and insignificant presence, and his 
 superioritj^ to the rest of mankind was evidently en- 
 tirely mental. He was lightly, nay, almost trans- 
 parently, clad in loosely-made garments of raw silk; 
 he wore a perpetual fez ; and, when walking abroad, 
 shuffled uncomfortably in thin heclless slippers, which 
 he was careful to remove before recrossing the threshold. 
 
 Most European languages were apparently familiar 
 to him, but it was his habit to employ the Oriental 
 idiom, and to speak, as it were, in parables. A mystery 
 himg seemingly over both his nationality and his age,
 
 the Adventui^es of a Savage. 107 
 
 whicli Mr. St. Clair was either indifferent to or liad 
 failed to penetrate. In conversation with the unin- 
 itiated he usually described him (with a flourish of 
 the hand towards the distant horizon) as "an Asiatic 
 mystic, acquainted with many of the keys of human 
 knowledge, who has explored the mysteries of the 
 Ansari in their hidden caverns, in whose possession 
 are the most recondite secrets of the Druses, and who 
 dwelt with the Yezedis, or devil -worshippers, and 
 witnessed their dark rites, previous to associating him- 
 self with our friends, the Turks of the Soofi heresy.' 
 After which ' the uninitated,' though awed and in- 
 terested, felt that they knew very little more of the 
 mystic's private history than before. 
 
 Upon the present occasion he was smoking, seated 
 cross-legged on a divan in the embrasure of the bay- 
 window, in front of which stood three suits of rusted 
 mediaival armour, which, propped up, as they were, 
 upon frames, presented a very lifelike and martial aspect, 
 giving to the room, from the outside, an appearance 
 of being filled with armed men. 
 
 Francis St. Clair, either out of compliment to his 
 much-honoured guest, or from a habit contracted in 
 Eastern lands, had assumed precisely the same posture 
 in the left-hand corner of the window-seat, where he 
 sat, apparently toying with some ancient flint lance- 
 points and arrow-heads, which had been lately exhumed 
 in the vicinity of Poynings Abbey. Sir Peckham 
 Hickathrift, knowing the passion of his eccentric 
 neighbour for all manner of antiquities, was in the habit 
 of sending him these implements, as an inexpensive 
 present, in relays, just as they were dug up, and there 
 was now a sufficient quantity of them at Little Stil ling- 
 fleet to have mended most of the surrounding roads,
 
 108 Sophy ^ or 
 
 could tliclr possessor have brought himself to em- 
 ploy them in so useful a maimer. Like the Great 
 Prophet, Mr. St. Clair wore the fez ; he had removed 
 his coat, and even his fine linen shirt was left open at 
 the throat, whilst his feet, like those of his little 
 daughter, were bare, his slippers being placed by the 
 side of the divan. All three windows were open, as 
 was also that of the room beyond, so that the Prophet 
 and his disciple had the satisfaction of knowing that 
 they were sitting in a direct current of air, a condition 
 of things which seemed to be somehow mysteriously 
 interwoven with the tenets of the Great Cause. 
 
 'Where is the ''fair Sophia"?' Mr. St. Clair de- 
 manded, looking up for a moment from the contempla- 
 tion of his arrow-heads. ' Sophia ' was by no means 
 ' fair ; ' he was merely quoting from the ' Ballad of 
 Lord Bateman.' Like his daughter, he was fond of 
 innocent and obvious quotations. ' Things taken from 
 other things,' as she had remarked to Godfrey. 
 
 Obedient to the clapping of hands, little Sophy 
 came running towards the window from the further 
 end of the garden. 
 
 'What is it?' she asked, as she vaulted lightly 
 upon the window-ledge close to where her father was 
 seated. 
 
 ' Where, Sophy, are our interesting guests, the 
 illustrious sacerdotals ?' inquired Mr. St. Clair, with a 
 certain melancholy playfulness. ' Where are " those 
 last living specimens of an antique race so nearly ex- 
 tinct"?' he continued, quoting now from the pages of 
 the pink pamphlet. 
 
 'They are in the kitchen- garden,' answered the 
 little girl, ' eating gooseberries with Mr. Carver. 
 When I came away, the biggest " sacerdotal " wasn't 
 feeling very well.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 109 
 
 * And naturally, my child, if ever since lie left us lie 
 has been plunging into these excesses ! Run back, 
 Sophia, and explain to Carver and "the illustrious 
 microcephali " the dangers attending a surfeit of the 
 British gooseberry ; yon, who are so fully competent to 
 write a treatise upon the deleterious effects of unripe 
 crab-apples and green sloes, warn these impetuous 
 Iximayans to desist ; when one is the last of one's race 
 it is impossible to be too careful of one's digestion — ch, 
 Sophia ? Ah . . . the child is off again ! ' 
 
 Francis St. Clair addressed this last remark to the 
 Great Prophet, and returned once more to the con- 
 templation of his arrow-heads. 
 
 Little Sophy delivered her message ; but instead of 
 returning to the house with the Aztecs and their 
 guardian, she wandered through the flower-garden and 
 over the rustic bridge until she found herself in the 
 midst of the hazel-copse. 
 
 In the morning she had been here also, for it was 
 Godfrey's last day at home, and he had promised that, 
 if jDossible, he would come and bid her good-bye. He 
 was not there, however, and she had gone away dis- 
 appointed. Now, she had a great wish to look again at 
 the place where she had seen her new pla^Tnate for the 
 last time. It was too late, however, to go very far ; so, 
 after looking sadly at the gnarled oak-tree with its 
 rustic bench, near to which she had read to Godfrey 
 from the pages of Gil Bias, she was about to retrace her 
 footsteps, when she observed Moses Weller, the youngest 
 son of the old shepherd at Great Stillingfleet, in the 
 act of climbing over the five-barred gate which separ- 
 ated the two jiroperties. He was calling out to her to 
 wait for him, and waving his arms like the sails of a 
 windmill. The little girl at once turned, and went to-
 
 110 Sophy, or 
 
 wards him, for he was an old acquaintance. With him 
 and his brothers she had often made spirited attacks 
 upon the bird's-nesting and cat-trapping Stubberfields, 
 on the other side, causing them to disgorge their iU- 
 gotten booty, and she regarded him as a firm ally, 
 notwithstanding that she had recently had a slight 
 misunderstanding with him upon the subject of his ill- 
 treatment of a toad. He was the bearer of a small 
 brown-paper parcel ; and telling her that it was sent 
 her by * young muster,' and that she was to open it im- 
 mediately, he thrust it hastily into her hand and re- 
 turned by the way he had come. The parcel was about 
 the size of an ordinary brick — one side of it seeming to 
 be rounded and slightly indented, whilst the other was 
 smooth and even to the touch. It was very nearly the 
 first present that Sophy had ever received, and notwith- 
 standing Moses's injunction to open it immediately, 
 she could not resist the temptation of revelling for a 
 little while longer in a state of blissful anticipation, 
 half fearful lest her treasure should vanish altogether if 
 she began to untie the string which enclosed it. Just 
 as her eager little fingers were busy with a somewhat 
 complicated knot, her father again summoned her after 
 his peculiar fashion ; and in order that the pleasures of 
 hope might be still further prolonged, she placed the 
 precious packet imder a fuchsia-bush not far from the 
 porch, and hastened into the house. 
 
 Upon entering the sitting-room, she perceived Mr. 
 Carver standing in the centre of the apartment in the 
 attitude of an orator or expositor. One of his large 
 black hands, with its white nails, and ornamented with 
 a diamond ring, was placed upon the head of Xtacumbi, 
 the smaller and younger ' sacerdotal,' who looked up at 
 him with the cowering expression of a performing ape
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. Ill 
 
 anxious to obey instructions. The elder and taller of 
 the Aztecs had fallen apparently into a comatose state 
 at the foot of an armchair, with his head resting upon 
 the seat. Mr. Carver had evidently been expounding 
 his theories relative to his interesting charges, and he 
 was now addressing himself to Xtacumbi and inviting 
 him to make his obeisance previous to retiring for the 
 night, for it was the custom of the * remnants ' to court 
 repose at a comparatively early hour. It was their 
 delight (Mr. Carver was also explaining) to sing at the 
 beginning and end of each day a few verses of a hymn. 
 Without performing this act of devotion, neither Up- 
 axaelulah nor Xtacumbi coidd have rested with a clear 
 conscience. 
 
 * Stand up, Xtacmnbi,' said Mr. Carver, in a firm 
 and very distinct tone, as he fixed his eyes in a peculiar 
 manner upon the trembling little creature. 
 
 * Xtacumbi is a very bright youth,' he continued, 
 turning to Mr. St. Clair. ^ But he is this evening in a 
 highly nervous condition. He places his hand to his 
 cheek in consequence of having suffered from an attack 
 of ear-ache. As for Upaxaelulah, he is downright sick 
 from the excitement he has undergone durino: this 
 pleasant and salubrious afternoon. Xtacumbi, you can 
 salute this gentleman and his family before retiring.' 
 
 But instead of doing as he was bidden, the ' sacer- 
 dotal,* either from carelessness engendered by fatigue, 
 or from previous association, began, in a faltering voice, 
 and with a strong nasal twang, to give utterance to 
 some strangely incoherent sounds, as though it had 
 been his wish to sing one of his national songs which 
 had escaped his memory. At last, however, he delivered 
 himself with difficulty of the first verse of the well- 
 known hymn which commences, —
 
 112 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 ' Not all the blood of beasts 
 On Jewish altars slain,' 
 
 although not until after Mr. Carver (taking advantage 
 of a moment when the Great Prophet had stooped to 
 adjust his chibook, and when Mr. St. Clair had turned 
 his clouded gaze once more in the direction of his 
 arrow-heads) had administered a vicious pinch to the 
 ear which the imfortunate youth had been so anxiously 
 protecting, at the same time jobbing him quickly 
 with his knee in the region of the stomach. Thus 
 encouraged, Xtacumbi commenced going through his 
 melancholy evensong of praise. The ' fair Sophia ' had 
 observed both the pinch and the movement with the 
 knee. 
 
 ' Poor little thing ! ' she whispered in her father's 
 ear. ' Look, he doesn't like doing it ! and look how 
 cross that horrid black man is to him ! Do tell him 
 not to go on ! ' 
 
 * My dear Mr. Carver,' said Mr. St. Clair, who was 
 even now beginning to be influenced by the opinion of 
 his daughter, ' this is " Liberty Hall." An Englishman's 
 home should be not only his own castle, but that of his 
 guests. Do, therefore, exactly what you all like best, 
 and pray follow whatever mode of worship is most con- 
 genial to your feelings and to those of these illustrious 
 young men ; but if, as I fanc}', this performance is irk- 
 some both to 3'ourself and to them, and is only gone 
 through in order to conform to what you may imagine 
 are our religious prejudices, I must beg of you to dis- 
 pense with it altogether. Perhaps it would relieve the 
 feelings of this promising youth could he be made to 
 comprehend that, as yet, we have identified ourselves 
 with none of the classified religious opinions of the day, 
 and that we are, therefore, unaccustomed to all outward 
 forms of worship.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 113 
 
 The expression of Mr. Carver's face during this 
 speech was, as the saying goes, *as good as a play.' 
 He replied, however, merely by a low bow ; and after 
 arousing the elder * remnant ' he left the room, in 
 order to preside at his charges' arrangements for the 
 night. 
 
 * The Aztecs are miserable impostors,' said Mr. 
 St. Clair, as soon as they had departed, addressing 
 himself to the Great Prophet, ' but Carver is a grand 
 study ! ' 
 
 'A strange interest attaches to the observation of 
 the difference of race,' answered the mystic. 'Allah is 
 all-powerful. To him belongeth dominion. He giveth 
 life and causeth death. He hath created both the little 
 and the great ! Yet even in the individual it is possible 
 to perceive that warfare between Sur and Assur which 
 still continues to wage without ceasing, as it will con- 
 tinue to do to all time ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, father ! ' interrupted Sophj^, for she had never 
 been cowed into silence in the presence of her ciders 
 like some children of her age ; * I like the little men, 
 but I can't bear that Carver ! He has such horrid 
 white nails ! ' And she shuddered in disgust. 
 
 'Allah!' rejoined Francis St. Clair, ignoring his 
 daughter's speech and inclining his head reverently, (or 
 his latest scientific substitute), 'is indeed great. Mr. 
 Carver, I should imagine, has already enrolled himself 
 amongst the host of the Assurs ? ' 
 
 ' Individual types, like events, revolve in cycles,' 
 remarked the Great Prophet, ' and arc continually 
 recurring. Good and evil, wisdom and folly: it is upon 
 these that the changes are perpetually being rung.' 
 
 ' By-the-by ! ' exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, suddenly 
 relinquishing his arrow-heads, ' was it not this evening 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 Sopliy^ or 
 
 that we were expecting the return of our embassage to 
 the Teuton Swine ? ' 
 
 ' It was indeed this evening/ answered the Prophet, 
 glancing up at the timepiece, ' and at about this very 
 hour. But the blow which is to convulse Christendom 
 will fall neither to-day nor to-morrow. . . .' 
 
 ' Hun, Sophia ! ' exclaimed the disciple, fearful lest 
 his little daughter should overhear some project for 
 meting out to the whole of Europe the fate which Guy 
 Fawkes once intended for ' King, Lords, and Commons : ' 
 ' run, my child, and see that the misguided Jane does 
 not again serve up for our supper the accursed flesh of 
 pig ; and impress upon her, furthermore . . . Ah ! ' he 
 added again, almost disappointed at the fleetness of his 
 willing messenger, * the child is gone ! ' 
 
 Sophy, indeed, needed no second bidding : she was 
 already panting with impatience to look at her present ; 
 and after delivering her father's message to Jane, she 
 slipped quietly into the garden and ran eagerly towards 
 the fuchsia-bush. 
 
 There lay the precious packet just as she had left 
 it, and seizing upon it hastily she carried it up to her 
 little room in triumph. Once there she could no longer 
 pause to untie the string, a pair of scissors was close at 
 hand, and in a moment Godfrej^'s present was displayed 
 upon the table. Sophy gazed at it for some time in 
 astonishment. The parcel contained the tortoise, 
 wrapped round in the paper of directions furnished 
 by the naturalist, whilst bomid tightly to its breast 
 was a New Testament in a black leather cover. 
 
 ' Oh, what an extraordinary thing ! ' exclaimed the 
 little girl, as * Alexander,' ovcrjoj^ed at regaining his 
 freedom, trudged off in the direction of a neighbouring 
 pin-cushion. ^ But I dare say I shall get very fond of
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 115 
 
 it in time.* And she tlicn turned to tlie contemplation 
 of the sacred volmne. *He was determined that I 
 should read the Bible somehow,' she remarked, smiling. 
 ' He is exactly like his friend Captain Cook.' 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 In the first early days of spring, before the waving 
 ^ lambs' tails ' were yet fully out in the hazel-copse, 
 and when the primroses and cuckoo-flowers wore still a 
 pale starved look amongst the dead leaves of a de- 
 parted year, Godfrey St. Clair came home to spend his 
 Easter holidays at his beloved Dallingridge. For the 
 very soil and air of his native place were dear to him : 
 and he even wondered at his own facility for really 
 loving what was, after all, only -blind, mute, deaf, anc^ 
 irresponsive. But it did not appear to be irresponsive 
 to Jiim. A thousand voices, understood by him alone, 
 seemed to welcome his home-coming. The fern was 
 as 5^et too young to shelter him ; but each tiny crook- 
 let that upraised its tender head was full of feathery 
 promise. The old beech-trees were clad only in their 
 mossy velvet hose, their branches being all bare, save 
 for a little green pennon waving at the tip of each 
 twig — every one of which was to Godfrey even as a 
 little banner of welcome. The garden-beds were 
 empty, except for their purple and golden regiments 
 of crocuses, and the little tufts of dark shining leaves, 
 amongst which were lurking the pink and azure 
 hypaticas. The white magnolia, leaning against the 
 southern wall of the old house, wore still its winter 
 garments of folded matting ; for though the sun was 
 warm at midday, the mornings and evenings were yet
 
 116 Sophy ^ or 
 
 smarting under the keen breath of winter ; but to the 
 returning schoolboy this was the breath of the winter of 
 his home, and he loved it. 
 
 The house, also, was filled with old inanimate 
 friends, over and above the live ones. 
 
 The grim portraits of ancient warriors, of gallant 
 cavaliers, and of smiling almond-eyed ladies, draped 
 . I e scanty garments of the olden time, looked 
 down upon him, as he fancied, with kind, approving 
 glances. The ancestor, however, for whom he felt the 
 most real sjTnpathy was represented in a portrait of 
 more modern date. lie was a captain of dragoons, 
 who had fallen at the battle of Culloden, after having 
 distinguished himself in circumstances of the greatest 
 difficulty and danger. Godfrey had been named after 
 this heroic great-uncle, who was an elder brother of 
 grandfather ; and it was impossible to look at the por- 
 trait without remarking the extraordinary family like- 
 ness which existed between the good-looking young 
 soldier, in the red coat, and powdered hair, and the 
 last male descendant of his ancient house. 
 
 As in the younger Godfrej^, the brow was low and 
 broad, the powdered hair contrasting happily with the 
 somewhat accentuated line of the dark eyebrows. The 
 eyes were wakeful, honest, passionate, whilst a look of 
 chivalrous daring, mingled with an emotional expres- 
 sion of tenderness about the lips, rendered the counte- 
 nance peculiarly fascinating. Godfrey had always been 
 very proud of this particular ancestor, and he felt for 
 him much more affection than most children would 
 have been capable of feeling for a mere piece of painted 
 canvas. He was proud, too, of the pretty ladies in 
 their low square-cut dresses of faded blue and dingy 
 white, with their wonderful head-dresses, their pearl
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 117 
 
 necklaces, and tlieir slender Vandyke hands ; and lie 
 was glad to think that he came of a family which (as 
 Erskine St. Clair was in the habit of affirming) had 
 always been celebrated for the possession of ^ beauty, 
 bravery, and brains.' 
 
 Is pride of birth, I wonder, like so many other 
 impressions which have been hitherto fostered and 
 revered, only a sham and a delusion after all, or is 
 there something really stimulating and ennobling in 
 the contemplation, from afar, of virtue upon which we 
 cannot reasonably plume ourselves, beauty not always 
 hereditary, wisdom in which we have had no part, 
 or of bravery often the result of mere accident, or due 
 to that indifference to death and disaster engendered 
 by the perils and uncertainties of * troublous times ?' 
 
 To Godfrey this contemplation seemed certainly 
 to have been both stimulatino: and ennobling;. These 
 rows of departed St. Clairs, looking out at him from 
 their gilded frames, were to him like friends and 
 mentors ; and he would have cowered before them in 
 bitter humiliation, had he considered that any thought 
 of his boyish heart was unworthy of so gallant an 
 ancestry. 
 
 His living friends (for Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair 
 behaved towards him more after the manner oi friends, 
 or acquaintances, than ordinary parents) had received 
 him with kind and condescending approval. His 
 mother had patiently submitted to his filial embrace, 
 whilst his father had seemed really gratified at the 
 progress he had made in his studies, and at the 
 improvement which even so short a time had made 
 in his appearance. 
 
 *The boy is growing extremely handsome,' he 
 remarked, after Godfrey had quitted the room. * The
 
 118 Sophy ^ or 
 
 likeness to my uncle, tlio hero of Culloden, is very 
 remarkable.' 
 
 * It is indeed/ replied his wife ; * it strikes me as 
 most extraordinary. We "svere quite right to call him 
 *' Godfrey." ' 
 
 Mary Parker, too, received the bo}' with every 
 kind expression of welcome. He had passed his 
 Christmas holidays in London, whither his parents 
 had repaired during the severest portion of the winter, 
 so that it was quite a long time since she had seen 
 him. She had no particular vocation now, her young 
 charge having grown, as she said, * too much of a 
 man ' for her ; but she stayed on at Dallingridge all 
 the same, mending the household linen and helping 
 the other servants, inhabiting now an almost subter- 
 ranean apartment below the level of the carriage-road, 
 and looking out upon a grassy bank which rose up 
 like the side of a dry moat and concealed the lower 
 range of windows from view. Godfrey used to visit 
 his former nurse by sliding down this bank, and 
 slipping in at the window (a mode of entrance which 
 was likewise perfectly well known to honest John 
 McBean) ; for he had not yet been long enough at 
 school to affect that contempt for all women-folk 
 which is generally expressed by the British school- 
 boy. 
 
 But there was yet another person with whom he 
 very soon sought an oj^portunity of meeting — his little 
 cousin Sophy, who received him literally with open 
 arms. She began by thanking him very much for his 
 double present. The tortoise, she said, was perfectly 
 well and happy. ' Nelus ' had bored a tiny hole in its 
 shell, to which she had tied a piece of string, and it 
 was now tethered out on the front lawn, opposite the
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 119 
 
 centre gable of tlie house. All tlie winter it had been 
 just like a dead body, but with the fine weather it had 
 returned to animation. 
 
 The j^[ew Testament she had not yet begun ; but 
 she w^as going to read it quite carefully after she had 
 finished Gil Bias, which had got on rather slowly in 
 consequence of all the reading and writing she had 
 had to do for her father during the short winter days, 
 and now that he was becoming ' so near-sighted.' 
 
 * I have done something, though, which I know 
 will please you,' she cried triumphantly. * But I don't 
 suppose you coidd guess what it is in a hundred years.' 
 
 Godfrey felt it w^ould be useless to try to do what 
 seemed so difficult. 
 
 * Do you give it up ? ' asked little Sophy. 
 
 * Yes ; I give it up.' 
 
 * Well, then, / have been to church ! However, J 
 will begin and tell you from the beginning. One day, 
 quite lately, w^hen I was wandering along by the side 
 of our river, that little stream that runs through the 
 garden, beyond the place where the bridge is, who 
 should I see but Janus ; she was walking along very 
 fast, in her best gown, and hiding something under 
 her shawl, pressed quite close to her. Altogether she 
 looked as if she was going to do something wrong.' 
 
 * How do people look/ asked the boy, amused, 
 'when they are going to do something WTong?' 
 
 * Oh, I don't know ! They walk fast, and look hot, 
 and put on their best clothes and very new thick boots, 
 which make a great deal of noise, and they look to the 
 right and the left and behind and before — at any rate 
 she looked like this. Father has always said that in 
 secret she was an idolater ; and it turned out that she 
 was going off to church on the sly.'
 
 120 Sophy ^ or 
 
 * Well, I don't see that there "was anything wrong 
 in that,' said Godfrey, looking grave. 
 
 ' Oh, you are not one of us ! But, at any rate, it 
 was very wrong of me to go with her.' 
 
 * And you did ? ' exclaimed the boy, his countenance 
 brightening. 
 
 ' Yes ; I insisted. In vain she tried to drive me 
 back. I ran along after her all the way to PojTiings 
 Church, making footmarks on the dusty road, just like 
 the savages in Robinson Crusoe.^ 
 
 * And did she let you go to church like that, with 
 no shoes and stockings ? ' 
 
 ' She would have stopped me if she could ; for she 
 asked me very often to go back, but I wouldn't. Just 
 before we got to the entrance of the to^^^l she picked 
 up a flint and pretended she was going to throw it at 
 me ; but I only took up another, a much bigger and 
 sharper one, and on I went. When I came into church 
 you should have seen the faces of the Dean and all the 
 people ! ' 
 
 ' I should think so, coming in like that, with your 
 bare feet ! Had you these dead leaves sticking in your 
 hair, I wonder ? ' 
 
 'Yes; I dare say I had; but let me go on. Patter, 
 patter I went do^\Ti the middle part of the church, 
 which felt so cold and smooth after the prickly road ; 
 but what do you think I was walking on all the time ? 
 Graves — hundreds of graves ! Nearly two thousand 
 dead bodies, they say, are buried under Po3^lings 
 Church — nearly all of them Hickathrifts. I read some 
 of their names as I went along.' 
 
 * One always heard that the Hickathrifts were a 
 very ancient family,' remarked Godfrey, and from his 
 manner the little girl perceived that he took no excep- 
 
 ion to the two thousand dead bodies.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 121 
 
 * Well,' she continued, ' on and on I went, following 
 Janus ; and when I looked up from the graves, lo and 
 behold, there were Sir Peckham, and Lady Hickathrif t, 
 and Tom, with his large nose — come home from Saturday- 
 till Monday — all looking at me in the greatest astonish- 
 ment from a square place, like a little room, with red 
 curtains and no ceiling.' 
 
 ^That is called a pew,' explained the schoolboy. 
 
 * I should think, indeed, that they icerc astonished ! ' 
 
 ' I would have said, " Grood-morning, Tom ; good- 
 morning. Sir Peckham," but they all looked so grave 
 and solemn that I was afraid to speak. Then Janus 
 sat down and covered up her face for a little while, and 
 I saw she had on her new drab-cotton gloves ; and I 
 did the same, only I peeped out of one eye, through 
 my fingers, and saw all the people just the same. In 
 fact I did like she did in everything. When she stood 
 up / stood up, and I sat down and knelt down and did 
 all the things quite right. Really it's all quite easy. 
 There was a ver}^ odd smell in church, partly of poor 
 people, and red baize, and old straw footstools, and 
 stuffiness.' 
 
 * Ah, it may be very easy to sit down and stand up 
 at certain places,' said the boy, severely. *But you 
 might do this, and yet not know tvJnj, nor understand 
 what was said. I should like to know whether you 
 understood the prayers or the sermon? ' 
 
 * I ought to have understood them,' answered Sophy, 
 
 * for they said over the same thing a great many times, 
 till I was quite tired of it ; and the droning, and buzzing, 
 and odd-smelling went on for some time, and the kneel- 
 ing down and getting up again, and the standing, and 
 then came the sermon.' 
 
 * I do hope,' said Godfrey, fervently, ' that it was a
 
 122 • Sophy ^ or 
 
 good one, and that it tauglit you something. I have 
 hoard my father say that the Dean is a little long- 
 winded ; but one oughtn't to mind the length.' 
 
 * Well, I could have preached a better sermon my- 
 self,' replied the little girl decidedly. */ understood 
 it all ; but I saw Janus and all the poor people looking 
 quite stupefied, and several of them went to sleep. In- 
 stead of giving them good advice, the Dean got up and 
 talked the greatest nonsense you ever heard. Even 
 Janus was obliged to own she didn't know what it was 
 all about.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Godfrey, * that you weren't either of 
 you paying proper attention.' 
 
 * I know that / paid proper attention, for I can re- 
 member every Avord of it, and I have thought a great 
 deal about it ever since. First of all, he said that he 
 was "the Good Shepherd ;" and then that he was " the 
 true vine;" and then, I think, he said he was "a 
 door ;" and when he had said it once, he said it several 
 times all over again.' 
 
 * He didn't mean /?»;i.sr//,' explained Godfrey. ' Those 
 were t}^3es.' 
 
 * So he told us. And next he said, " TsTow, what is 
 a door ?" but before I had time to answer him, he went 
 on and answered himself ; and this was w^hat he kept on 
 doing all through, asking ns questions, and then 
 answering them himself in his own way, and some- 
 times quite wrongly. It was so provoking ! ' 
 
 ' Sermons generally are preached in that waj^,' said 
 Godfrey. 
 
 ' Well, it's a way I don't think I could ever get to 
 like. It puts one so much out of temper. He said 
 that there were several kinds of doors, which, of course, 
 we all knew. Some were big, he said, and some were
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 123 
 
 small ; some Averc so narrow that only one person could 
 go through at once, and others were so enormous that 
 a whole army could ride under them on horseback ; 
 some opened with a latch, and some with a bolt, and 
 some with a key, and some w^ere alw^ays kept locked, 
 so that no one could pass in ; and others were always 
 left open, so that any one could go in who liked. 
 That was like his door. It was always left open, and 
 any one could go in, and yet they were so foolish that 
 they wouldn't ! Then, when he had said this once, he 
 said it all over again ; and then he began worrying 
 " the Good Shepherd " and the " true vine," just in 
 the way he had worried the door ; and then he said a 
 great deal more that no human being could make 
 " head or tail " of ; and then he covered his face with 
 his hands, and seemed ashamed of all the nonsense he 
 had been talking ; and then everybody did the same ; 
 and then Sir Peckham and Lady Hickathrift and Tom 
 came down from the little square room and walked out 
 first, and Janus followed, only she would let nearly all 
 the others pass out before her, from humbleness, which 
 was a great disaj)pointment to me, as I had something 
 to say to Tom ; but 'svhen I got outside he was just 
 going in at the Abbey gateway, and though he looked 
 round, I couldn't make him see me. And then the 
 whole thing was over, and I was very glad ; and Janus 
 and I walked home, and had boiled beef for dinner and 
 apple dumplings.* 
 
 Thus ended little Sophy's church- going for many a 
 long year. 
 
 Nor was it altogether surprising that, to a child 
 reared as she had been reared, a religious ceremony in 
 an ill-ventilated country church, and conducted by a 
 clerical dignitary possessed of very average powers of
 
 124 fSopIil/, 
 
 or 
 
 eloquence, should present nothing cither attractive or 
 inspiring. She had gone to it impelled by no high- 
 strung sentiment of reverential awe ; for, being abso- 
 lutely destitute of any inculcated spiritual predisposi- 
 tions, she could onlv look upon the whole ser\'icc in 
 the light of an entertainment, and as such, notwith- 
 standing its novelty, it was disappointing. It is true 
 that, whenever the fine old organ jDcaled forth, she 
 experienced a sensation which was new to her ; but her 
 untutored mind failed to connect it with any divine 
 yearning to hold conmiunion with her Creator. To 
 her it seemed merely a louder and more penetrating 
 kind of music than any she had hitherto heard, and as 
 such it surprised her somewhat awfully ; but it was 
 o)i/f/ music, and nothing more, just as the New Testa- 
 ment had seemed to her to be onli/ a book, to be named 
 — as she had named it — in the same breath as Gil Bias, 
 and to be read and criticised in the same spirit as that 
 in which she had read and criticised the autobiography 
 of the Spanish adventurer, without knowing that to 
 many such a proceeding would have seemed irreverent 
 in the highest degree. 
 
 But Sophy's nature was by no means irreverent. 
 ' According to her lights,' she reverenced and admired 
 all that aj^peared to her worthy either of reverence or 
 admiration : the w4de, green-billowed ocean, the pink 
 and golden sunsets, the ever-present spread of high 
 heavens, dappled — as now, in the spring-time — with 
 floating white clouds, blue and serene in the summer, 
 flecked in autumn with wild ' mares' tails,' and rent 
 with the voice of the tempest, or lowering in the dim 
 days of winter with leaden menace of white snow- 
 flakes. Further even than this had she strained her 
 childish gaze, and her wandering fancy would often
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 125 
 
 glide tliroiigli the little clefts and crevices in what 
 seemed the lower and more penetrable firmament, in 
 the vain and longing endeavour to catch some glimpse 
 of that mysterious Beyond — the * happy hunting- 
 grounds ' of the savage, the ' grand peut-etre * of the 
 sceptical philosopher. 
 
 * My religion seems a great deal bigger than yours,' 
 she said, in reply to Godfrey's reproachful comments 
 upon her want of devotional feeling. ' I don't believe 
 any church could shut it in.* 
 
 ' Ah, Sophy, that isn't indeed a sign that it's big. 
 x\ll religious people, in all parts of the world, go to 
 church ! In my geography ' 
 
 ' You are always talking about your geography ! * 
 exclaimed the little girl impatiently. 
 
 ' And you are always talking about your religion.' 
 
 * Yes, that is the difference between us,' said 
 Sophy sadh^ * Religion is a great deal bigger than 
 geography.' 
 
 * Geograj)hy is the whole world ! ' cried the boy 
 earnestly. 
 
 *Yes, but religion is this and ever}^ other world, 
 and the sea, and the sky, and beyond the sky ! Geo- 
 graphy is all mapped and measured, and named ; but 
 my religion is not ruled down or planned out. It's all 
 over the place ! ' and she waved her sunburnt arms in 
 the direction of the distant horizon. 
 
 * I suppose,' said Godfrey, in a tone of patronage, 
 ' that it is your father, and all these odd people that 
 stay with you, who fill your head with these curious 
 ideas. If the fellows at school heard you talk, how 
 astonished they would be ! ' 
 
 * Perhaps I shouldn't understand them either,' 
 answered Sophy. 'But, indeed, my father leaves me
 
 126 Sophy ^ or 
 
 very iniicli to myself. lie's obliged to do so, Laving 
 many other tilings to attend to besides me — things 
 having to do with the good of the whole world. And as 
 for the people who stay with lis, though they are all 
 very kind, they can't take much notice of me either — 
 they are all so much taken up with the Great Cause.' 
 
 * And what is the Great Cause ? ' 
 
 * Oh, it's a very Great Cause indeed ! ' answered the 
 little girl, with more hesitation than Godfrey was 
 prepared to expect ; ' though I am too yoimg, father 
 says, to understand it in all its bearings. It has some- 
 thing to do with Hussia, and with the Turkish bath, 
 and with the great Tartar Horde, and the battle between 
 the Surs and the Assurs, and with wearing very little 
 clothes. It's rather difficult to understand, but father 
 says that events " revolve in cycles," and that the 
 whole thing lies in a nutshell, and is as broad as it's 
 long.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said the boy, drawing a long breath. 
 * It seems rather complicated.' 
 
 * Yes. Still I'm certain it's right, for all the 
 people working for it are such wonderfully clever 
 people, whilst every one else seems so dull and stupid. 
 Nothing is new to them. They read of something, as 
 a new thing, in the papers, and then they can't help 
 laughing, for they've known about it for years and 
 years, only they never tell! This happens over and 
 over again.' 
 
 *I suppose we shall all hear of your father some 
 da}',' remarked Godfrey. * He is certain to leave his 
 mark on the age.' 
 
 * You will never hear of him ! ' exclaimed Soph}^ 
 with an air of triumph. 'That is just what he saj^s is 
 the best of it ! He wouldn't be heard of for worlds,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 127 
 
 for he says of himself that he's only a wire-puller, and 
 that wire-]3ullers are never seen or heard. Have you 
 ever been to a play ? ' she asked suddenly. 
 
 * No/ said Godfrey ; ' but I went once to a circus 
 at Poynings Fair.' 
 
 * So did I, and I have never been to a play either ; 
 but father says in a play there are several kinds of 
 people who have to be brought together before it can 
 go on at all. There are the people who sit in the seats 
 and look on, and who don't know what's going to 
 happen or come next. Then there are the actors, 
 dressed up so smartly, as kings and queens, wearing- 
 crowns, or as generals or judges ; but these, though 
 they do look so grand, can't move about as they like, 
 they're obliged to do as they're told, and to say par- 
 ticular things, or walk in a particular way. The 
 people clap their hands when they do all this well, and 
 hiss at them when tliey do it badly ; yet, after all, 
 father says, they are only puppets. But then there 
 are the people who write the plays which are spoken ; 
 and the prompters, who whisper to the kings and queens, 
 and tell them what they are to say ; and the scene- 
 shifters and the carpenters. These are never seen at all, 
 and the people in the seats don't clap their hands at 
 them ; and yet they manage everj^thing, and no play 
 could go on without them. Thej^'re like father and his 
 friends. Now do you understand ?' 
 
 * Yes, I think I see what you mean. It seems all 
 very wonderful.' 
 
 Whilst they were conversing upon these important 
 subjects, they had crossed the fields at the back of the 
 farm, and entered a long belt of woodland, towards the 
 middle of which the jn'opert}^ of Francis St. Clair 
 joined that of Sir Peckham Hickathrift, the division
 
 128 Sophy, or 
 
 being marked by a long, low, black gate, upon the two 
 posts of which were nailed the heads of several cats, 
 along with the bodies of stoats, weasels, and other 
 vermin which had been caught poaching 
 
 * Look ! there is the head of the Serene Highness !' 
 said Sophy, pointing to one of these ghastly objects. 
 * He is fast becoming what I used to call a '' skelicum '* 
 when I was very little. Open the gate quicklj^ I 
 don't like to look at him ! You must lift it — like that 
 — it generally sticks/ 
 
 Godfrey lifted the gate, and rearranged the chain 
 with which it was fastened, and they entered together 
 a low alder- wood adjoining part of the Poynings 
 rookery. 
 
 * Hush ! ' cried Sophy suddenly, fancying that she 
 distinguished voices above the noisy cawings of the 
 rooks, that seemed somehow to be in a great state of 
 turmoil and commotion. 
 
 * Ah, I see what it is ! ' she whispered at last, with 
 grim satisfaction. ' Now I've really caught them ! 
 It's those horrid Stubberfield boys taking the poor 
 rooks' nests ! Look ! Jesse is climbing up the tree ; 
 and there is Enoch with a large nest in his hand ! ' 
 
 'What ought we to do?' asked Godfrey. * Are 
 not they on their own ground?' 
 
 * Yes ; but Sir Peckham hates their doing it, Tom 
 told me. It was Tom who first taught me to attack 
 them. Moses Weller is on my side ; don't you see 
 him there ? — the second biggest boy. He's my spy, 
 and he's only looking on to tell of them. Oh, how 
 wicked they are ! Let's advance very quietly. Have 
 you your stick ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Godfrey, who was creeping along 
 so as to make as little noise as possible.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 129 
 
 Tlie youthful rustics were standing only about fifty 
 yards off, but the noisy cries of the disturbed rooks 
 prevented them from hearing Sophy and Godfrey as 
 they approached. One of them was in the act of 
 sliding down the straight stem of a Scotch fir, at the 
 foot of which his companions were anxiously awaiting 
 him. They seemed to be lads of from twelve to fifteen 
 years of age, and were all dressed in the drab smock- 
 frocks, yellow spatterdashes, and catskin caps, which in 
 this part of England form almost a national costume. 
 
 The boy Sophy had pointed out as her ally seemed 
 to be demeaning himself strangely after the manner of 
 an accomplice. He appeared deeply interested in the 
 descent of Jesse Stubberfield from the fir-tree, even 
 lending him a final * back,' and gathering up his 
 smockfrock like an apron, in order that he might 
 receive a portion of the booty. 
 
 Sophy could scarcely believe the testimony of hei> 
 own eyes, when she beheld a young rook, wide- 
 mouthed, long-necked, and naked, hurled struggling 
 into the lap of her partisan, but she generously hoped 
 that he was only ' concealing his pla}?" ' from diplomatic 
 motives, and in order that he might establish a more 
 certain proof of the enemy's guilt. 
 
 When the advancing party were within only some 
 dozen paces of the birds' -nestcrs, Sophy gave the word 
 for a charge, and uttering a loud ' war-cry,' she and 
 her companion rushed headlong upon the astonished 
 Stubberfields. Alas for the valour of the British 
 chawbacon ! Unexpectedly stalked and encompassed, 
 though by a foe inferior to themselves both in age 
 and numbers, the craven-hearted ' Stubberfieldiuses ' 
 took refuge at once in flight, without so much as striking 
 a single blow. Had Sophy and Godfrey taken the 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 Sophy ^ or 
 
 trouble to pursue them, hurling at them missiles of 
 vengeance, none of their wounds would have been 
 received in front. Moses remained behind, pulling 
 his forelock, and looking rather uncomfortable, the ac- 
 cusing voice of the young rook sounding hoarsel}' from 
 the folds of his gaberdine. 
 
 'How's this, Moses?' inquired Sophy sternl}*. 'You 
 seemed to be helping the Stubberfields. We were 
 watching you.' 
 
 Flushed with victory, she had seized upon him by 
 the loose sleeve of his smock. 
 
 ' It wur Jesse done for un,' muttered the rustic 
 sulkily, pointing to the signs of carnage upon the 
 ground. 
 
 ' Well, but why did you let him ? How could you 
 stand by and see it done ? "Why didn't you come at 
 once and fetch me?^ inquired the 'Great Goddess of 
 the Sophirian Empire.' 
 
 ' Jesse, he done for im,' persisted the lad doggedly, 
 evidently thinking that to establish his colleague's 
 guilt would go some way towards whitewashing himself. 
 
 ' How wicked of him I ' cried Sophy. ' I don't think 
 you would do anything I disliked so much, but still, you 
 looked on* 
 
 ' He tuk un up, soa,' said Moses, illustrating the fact 
 upon the young rook, which he now hold in his hand. 
 
 ' Oh, don't ! j^ou'U hurt it ! ' exclaimed the appre- 
 hensive Sophy, shuddering at his rough handling. 
 
 ' He tuk un up, soa,' continued Moses Weller, not 
 heeding her. 'An' Lard strike me dead, missy, if he 
 didn't wring the neck of un soa ! ' AYhereupon the 
 ignorant boy wrung the neck of the poor yomig rook. 
 
 ' Oh, oh ! ' gasped Sophy, looking as though she 
 were about to faint.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 131 
 
 ' What a horrible oath ! ' said Godfrey, very much 
 shocked. ^God might really strike you dead some day.' 
 
 * Ah, but He never does ! ' sobbed the little girl. 
 * Moses says it always before everything, so you mustn't 
 mind. Oh, the poor young rook ! You horrid boy ! ' 
 she continued, scowling at him, anger having taken the 
 place of sorrow. *How could you do anything so cruel? ' 
 
 * Strike me, if that warn't just wot Jesse did for 
 im ! ' answered the chawbacon, too thickheaded to 
 understand. 
 
 * But don't you see, you cruel creature ! that you've 
 just done the same thing yourself ? Ah, these people 
 are quite hopeless ! ' she exclaimed, flinging herself 
 passionately into Godfrey's arms. * How can one ever 
 teach them or make them do what they ought ?' 
 
 ' Strike me, if Jesse didn't throttle un ! ' reiterated 
 Moses ; and having no living creature upon which to 
 illustrate the fact, he commenced throttling a portion 
 of his smockfrock. 
 
 * Yes, and some day God ivill strike you dead, you 
 bad boy ! just as you did that poor toad the other day ! ' 
 said Sophy ominously, as she disengaged herself from 
 Godfrey's protecting arms. * You are always saying 
 that, and then striking everything dead yourself.' 
 
 ' What did he do to the toad ? ' asked Godfrey. 
 
 * Oh, it was too dreadful ! I saw him, the other 
 day, hacking and smashing at something with a stone. 
 He seemed quite angry, and kept on calling out to the 
 poor innocent creature, "I'll larn ye for being a toad!" ' 
 
 'Well, he wur a toad, wurn't he?' said the incor- 
 rigible Moses, with a knowing leer. * A middlin'- sized 
 toad.' 
 
 *0h, get out of my sight!' exclaimed Sophy fiercely. 
 ^Please go ! for if you stay, I'm afraid I shall dash you
 
 132 Sophy, or 
 
 off tlie face of the earth. You are yourself far horrider 
 than twenty thousand toads ! You're just like some 
 dreadful Roman emperor ; and I do wish, I'm sure, 
 that you had only one head, so that I might strike 
 it off.' 
 
 Moses "Wellcr was very ncarlj^ replying that he had 
 only one head, but as he did not feel quite sure that 
 he might not have got two, neither of them very well 
 stocked with brains, he was afraid of volunteering a 
 statement, and so slouched off, with the gait peculiar 
 to his species, without saying another word. 
 
 * They can't help walking like that,' said Sophy, 
 looking after him. * The shoemaker makes all their 
 boots exactly the same size, after a certain age. There's 
 the boy's size, and the man's size ; and whilst you're a 
 boy you must wear one, and when you're a man you 
 must wear the other. Father says they're like the bed 
 of Procrustes.' 
 
 ' Boots or no boots,' said Godfrey, ' thej^ all seem 
 dreadfully ignorant. I wish one could improve them.' 
 
 ' Yes, they're dreadful,' answered the little girl 
 sadly. *It isn't that they're wiclicd; it would be better 
 if they were, for a wicked person might be got good, 
 but they're stupid. Their brains are arranged wrong, 
 and how arc we to get at the insides of their heads ? 
 And the worst of it is that they think the)/ re right, and 
 that we^re wrong ! Oh ! what can we do with them?' 
 
 ' I believe,' said Godfrey thoughtfully, ' that if we 
 were rid of all the stupid people, the bad ones might 
 be got right with good teaching.' 
 
 * Yes, but if we began to get rid of them, we should 
 be blamed and called cruel by the people who didn't 
 know our reason. Which would you use to kill them 
 with — poison or clams ? '
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 133 
 
 * Oh, I was only in fun, of course,' answered the 
 boy, smiling at lier zeal. * You are a funny little girl, 
 and I do believe that you would kill any one if you 
 fancied it would do good to the rest of the world/ 
 
 *Yes, that I certainly would!' answered she ear- 
 nestly, * and myself as well ; but most people kill only 
 to do harm/ 
 
 The youthful reformers, however, reached their 
 respective homes that evening without either causing 
 or deploring any further bloodshedding. 
 
 A very few days after the discomfiture of the Stub- 
 berfields, a revelation came to Godfrey which left a 
 profound impression upon his youthful mind. Sophy 
 and he had guessed, of course, by reason of their com- 
 mon surname, that they were in some manner related ; 
 but they could gather no particulars from their at- 
 tendants, and they were both somewhat nervous about 
 questioning any of the higher authorities. 
 
 It is true that Sophy had eased her conscience by 
 mentioning to her father, at first, that she had ' met a 
 boy ; ' but she had since abstained from alluding to any 
 of her after-meetings with Godfrey from a feminine 
 instinct which warned her that such meetings might 
 possibly be forbidden her in the future. She had, 
 indeed, repeatedly inquired of Janus who the boy really 
 was who came from the ' enemy's country,' and what 
 manner of enemy it was who dwelt there, but the stolid 
 serving-woman had only replied, as she generally did 
 repty, ' Little girls shoidd be seen, and not hoard ; ' or, 
 ' You must go fur to ask your j^«r ; ' or, * I've other fish 
 to fry, missy.' 
 
 One day, however, Sophy determined to take the 
 bull by the horns, and inquire boldly of her father. 
 
 * I have met that boy again, father,' said she accord-
 
 134 Sophy ^ or 
 
 iiigly; * the boy that*s called "Godfrey," who comes 
 from the enemy's country, and who gave me my tortoise/ 
 
 'Have 5'ou?' answered her father carelessly. 'What 
 makes him come our way ?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said the little girl, ' but we like 
 walking and playing together. What relation is he 
 tons?' 
 
 ' He is the son of my brother,' replied Francis St. 
 Clair ; ' at least, I believe he has a boy of that name.' 
 
 ' I am very glad he is a relation,' said Sophy, * for 
 now I know I can see as much of him as I like. Before 
 I wasn't quite sure.' 
 
 *I have no feeling whatever against that unfortunate 
 boy,' rejoined the Philosopher, ' but I don't want to see 
 his father ; and my reason is that I believe him to have 
 injured me. He is a man, however, whom I could 
 never have endured, even if he had rendered me a 
 service. If your seeing the son leads to my seeing the 
 father, I would rather by far that he kept away.' 
 
 ' A thrust from the spear of a brother smarts more 
 than the smiting of a stranger,' remarked the Great 
 Prophet, who was still making the home of his disciple 
 his head-quarters ; * and yet blood is stronger than 
 water.' 
 
 * It is ; but the ties of blood ought not to blind one 
 to the voices of truth and justice,' said Mr. St. Clair. 
 'Now, if a man who is not my brother wrongs me, 
 insults me, bears false witness against me, what follows?' 
 
 ' His blood becomes as water at your feet,' answered 
 the Mystic ; ' his bones will be made to whiten before 
 the vengeance of Allah.' 
 
 'Exactly; and yet, if he happens, most wifortxinaichj, 
 to be my brother, I am to overlook all this, and fall 
 upon his neck and embrace him. And why? Not from
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 135 
 
 any affection that I bear him, but simply because my 
 contemptible self-love won't permit me to condemn as 
 worthless any one who is nearly related to myself ! It 
 is absurd ! I think I may say that I have done the 
 only thing to be done — I have avoided my brother ; I 
 have borne him no ill-feeling, but I have simply avoided 
 him. I said, years ago, "May his shadow never darken 
 my door ! " and it never has. Since then I have made 
 my own life without him. I have no need of the society 
 of a man I could neither like nor respect.' 
 
 ' The battle between Sur and Assur,' remarked the 
 Prophet, ' between Good and Evil, shall continue to all 
 time ; and now the victory shall be on the one side, 
 now on the other.' 
 
 ' To use a canting phrase/ continued Francis St. 
 Clair, ^I see now that "it was all for the best;" and 
 so, Sophy, my child, though I bear no malice to this 
 poor boy, I don't want him to be, as it were, the thin 
 end of the wedge ; I don't want the rest of the lot 
 coming and invading us here. You're an intelligent 
 child, and so I don't think I need tell you not to 
 mention anything I may have said about his father. 
 It does no good, and don't put your two heads together, 
 and fetch and carry and make mischief.' 
 
 * Oh, indeed we won't ! ' cried the little girl, glad to 
 think that she and Godfrey might still be friends, even 
 if they did not 'put their heads together.' ^A))i I 
 that sort of person?' and she spread out her hands 
 appcalingly. 
 
 'Well, no, I don't think you are,' said her father, 
 smiling and pinching her cheek. 
 
 * I have a very romantic thing to tell you,' she said 
 to Godfrey next time she encountered him in her 
 rambles. ' Your father is the brother of my father ; so
 
 136 Sophy ^ or 
 
 we're very near relations indeed — the next thing to 
 brother and sister. They don't speak to each other, 
 because they quarrelled, and it was your father's fault ; 
 but my father doesn't mind our playing together, only 
 you're not to be the thin end of the wedge, and we're 
 not to put our heads together, and fetch and carry and 
 make mischief.' 
 
 * I should like to know a little more about the 
 quarrel,' said Godfrey, guardedly. * How do you know 
 that it was all the fault of my father ? ' 
 
 *We might ask Mrs. "VYeller something about it,' 
 suggested the little girl, looking in the direction of the 
 shepherd's house, which, with its one thick middle 
 chimney, lay nestling amongst the hop-cowls and 
 straw-ricks of Great Stillingfleet. *"VVe might say 
 something like this to her : " Don't you think we're 
 very much alike for cousins, Mrs. Wellcr ? " or we 
 might say : " We mean to marry some day, Mrs. Wel- 
 ler, and make up the quarrel, and join the two pro- 
 perties." Don't you think that would be a good plan ? 
 Then she'd be sure to talk to us about it.' 
 
 * We'll go in, then,' said the boy, turning towards 
 the cottage. * How funny of you thinking about our 
 ever marrying ! ' 
 
 * Yes ; as if we ever should ! But it's only a way 
 of beginning. Come along.' 
 
 As they approached, however, the little girl de- 
 tected, through the open door, the accents of the 
 offending Moses, Mrs. AVeller's yomigest son, and she 
 exclaimed nervously, — 
 
 ' Oh, really, I don't think I can bear to look that 
 Moses in the face after his behaviour ! You must go 
 in alone.' 
 
 Godfrey was very glad afterwards that he happened 
 to go into the cottage without Sophy, though he felt
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 137 
 
 somewiiat in need of her feminine tact when he found 
 himself face to face with Mrs. Weller and her son 
 Moses. He did not know exactly how to begin. 
 
 * Come in for a drop of milk, my dear ? ' asked the 
 good woman, relieving him of his difficulty, whilst 
 Moses, looking very much ashamed, hobbled off into 
 the washhouse, where he remained clattering about 
 upon the brick- floor during the remainder of Godfrey's 
 visit. 
 
 * Yes, please, Mrs. Weller, I should like some milk ; 
 and may I take some out to my cousin, who is waiting 
 outside ? ' He said this in obedience to a sudden in- 
 spiration. 
 
 ^ Dear, yes ; but won't the little lady come in ? ' 
 answered the shepherd's wife, good-natui'edly, as she 
 proceeded to procure the new milk. 
 
 * She's had a quarrel with Moses,' Godfrey ex- 
 plained, raising his voice so that he might be overheiyrd 
 by the malefactor in the washhouse. ' He's offended 
 us both by taking birds' nests. It's very cruel.' 
 
 * There, there ; well it do please one, sure/^, fur to 
 see you a-gooing about together as kinsfolk should,' 
 remarked Mrs. Weller, ignoring the allusion to her 
 son. ' We can't goo fur to certify wot's kep you all 
 apart so long ; and I'm sure, my dear, your par is so 
 well beliked we don't ought to goo fur to say anything 
 against un, we don't : but still, it do seem ill-natural- 
 like fur two brothers to bear malice against one another, 
 and live fur all the world like strangers. It be sur- 
 prising, it be ! ' 
 
 Godfrey was listening with all his ears ; but there 
 was no need for him to put in a word, as Mrs. Weller 
 went wandering on garrulously, after the manner of 
 her kind. 
 
 * Well, to be sure, Muster Frank, poor dear gentle-
 
 138 Sophy ^ or 
 
 man, they do w// lie be a little "vvrong in his top-story ; ' 
 and she began tajjping her forehead significantly. 
 *And that, and his flying out in the feace of his 
 Almighty, and not holdin' to his Gospel Truth, it do 
 hurt your dear par, it do ; and then fur him to go fur 
 to marry a common tramp ! . . .' 
 
 *"vl com)))on tramp f ' Godfrey echoed, in con- 
 sternation. This ^vas indeed more than he had bar- 
 gained for. 
 
 ' Well, a gipsy-girl, a poor creatur as wam't dressed 
 nur reared like a Christian. There be a plenty of 
 such-like a-camping down by Poynings Bottom o' 
 fair times. She come up one evenin' and arst fur a 
 strip o' blanket, as it wur middlin' chilly, it wur. I 
 set the dawgs to watch her whilst I went up to fetch 
 un ; fur, bless your heart, one can't trust such customers 
 noways. They meakes off with whatever they can lay 
 their hands on. I never could see, nohow, as she was 
 such a mighty beauty as we'd heerd tell. . . .' 
 
 * She Avas thought very jDretty, then ? ' 
 
 ^ Bless my soid, yes ! An' when she was took 
 poorl}^ a little time afterwards, an' we made up a bed 
 fur her in the old barn, down comes Muster Locke, 
 as is land- steward over at Poynings Abbey, to see 
 as how she wur a-wantin' fur nothin' ; and her lady- 
 ship a-sendin' over jellies and medicine-bottles ; and 
 then up comes Muster Frank and teiikes and marries 
 her off -hand, and all because she wur such an 
 almighty beauty, which neither me nor my Jerr}' 
 coiddn't never see nothing surprisin' in, fur all we 
 heerd say of her.' 
 
 * But was she a real live gipsy ? ' asked Godfrey, 
 grasping, as it were, at a straw, * or only a lady who 
 liked living in a tent ? '
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 139 
 
 'A lady 1^ cried Mrs. AVeller, contemptuously. 
 * Bless your clear heart ! she was like the rest of them 
 gentlefolks as goo travelling about in a caravan all 
 over brooms and kittle-holders ! Why, her par took 
 and mended that 'ere chair, he did, and soldered the 
 bottom of that 'ere old black biler ; an' well he done 
 both o' them, that I will goo fur to say — well, he done 
 
 em 
 
 T ' 
 
 *Ah ! ' said Godfrey, drawing a long breath, as he 
 passed out of the cottage, ' I see it all, now/ 
 
 It was a consolation, at any rate, to think that with 
 regard to the family quarrel his own parents were not, 
 after all, so very much in the wrong ! 
 
 Little Sophy was waiting for him some few paces 
 from the cottage upon the opposite side of the road. 
 She was crouching under the bank, protected from the 
 wind by the privet-hedge which rose at her back, and 
 separated the properties of the unnatural brothers.* It 
 seemed a snug and comfortable resting-place, and, 
 very likely, it was not far from here that her tinkering 
 maternal grandfather had taken up his position whilst 
 mending Mrs. Weller's chair, or soldering the bottom 
 of her old black boiler. The long bare legs of the 
 youthful savage, burnt with the suns of some ten 
 summers, scratched with the blackberry- bushes of the 
 same number of autumns, and chilled by the biting 
 frosts of winter, but seemingly well-faring now in the 
 spring-time, were gathered up so that her chin rested 
 upon her knees ; her weird arms encircled her shaggy 
 head, which, with its wonderful eyes, peeped out at the 
 young heir of Dallingridge as he advanced somewhat 
 sadly towards her. 
 
 ' I see it all now,* he repeated to himself, * and 
 that's why she's so odd-looking, and talks such non-
 
 140 Sophy ^ or 
 
 sense.' And, boy that he was, he could not help feeling 
 conscious of a certain change in his feelings towards 
 his newly-discovered cousin. 
 
 * Poor little thing ! ' he thought, notwithstanding 
 this consciousness of superiority. * She's a dear little 
 thing, after all ; and it would break her heart to tell 
 her that her father's a madman, and that her mother 
 was a common tramp : for she thinks that he's the 
 cleverest person in the world, and that she was a queen. 
 I won't tell her.' 
 
 ' Well, how about the feud ? ' asked Sophy archly. 
 ' Are we not cousins ; and wasn't it your father who 
 was in the wrong ? ' 
 
 *We are certainly cousins,' answered Godfrey, a 
 little gloomily, ' for our fathers are brothers. As for 
 the quarrel, I fancy there must have been faults on 
 both sides.' 
 
 * Then why don't 3'ou seem glad to think that we 
 are such near relations ? ' asked the little girl, noticing 
 his changed manner, and looking as though about to 
 cry. 
 
 'Oh, don't I don't!' said Godfrey, taking hold of her 
 little sunburnt hand consolingly, ' you poor, dear little 
 thing ! ' 
 
 * When you say " poor " I know that you mean 
 that you look down on me,' sobbed Sophy. ' Because 
 when father talks about you he always calls you " that 
 poor boy." I don't want to be pitied by you, I want 
 to be JiJxcd. I want you to be glad to be my cousin, 
 and you seem sorry.' 
 
 ' Well, I am glad,' said Godfrey, kindly, as he 
 kissed her wet eyes. 
 
 The discovery had, indeed, brought with it several 
 grains of real comfort. He imagined now that he
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 141 
 
 knew the true reason for his parents' strange reticence 
 on the subject of his eccentric relatives, whose society 
 it was but natural they should consider undesirable. 
 Yet, whilst he applauded their wisdom, he could not 
 help feeling wounded at the idea that he had not been 
 treated with more confidence and frankness. 
 
 ' Surelj^,* he thought, * papa and mamma might have 
 told me all about it. They might have trusted me to 
 think that they were in the right, when of course they 
 were !' 
 
 And, as all concealment was odious to him, he 
 waited for an occasion when he might inform Mr. and 
 Mrs. St. Clair that he had discovered the mj^stery 
 himself. No such occasion presented itself, however, 
 until the very day of his departure for Eton — for he 
 had finished his private schooling. Just as the car- 
 riage drove up to the door to convey him to the George 
 Inn at Poynings, where he was to meet the London 
 coach, Mrs. St. Clair afforded him the desired oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 * By-the-by, whilst I think of it,' said she, * where 
 is your tortoise? Papa and I fancied that you had 
 taken it with you to school, but we find you haven't 
 brought it back with you. Is it dead ? ' 
 
 ' I have given it away, mamma,' hazarded Godfrey, 
 as he sprang lightly into the carriage. 
 
 ' Given it away ! ' repeated both parents in a breath. 
 * And, pray, to whom did you give our present ? ' 
 
 ' I gave it to my cousin Sophy,' said the schoolboy, 
 boldly ; and at this moment the carriage drove off, 
 leaving Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair looking (as Mary Parker 
 afterwards remarked to John McBcan) * for all the 
 world as if one might have knocked them down with a 
 feather.*
 
 142 Sophy ^ or 
 
 As the carriage, passing along the liigli-road to 
 Poynings, nearcd tlie confines of the ' Great Sophi- 
 rian Empire/ Godfrey perceived Sophy, whom he had 
 informed of the hour of his departure, perched upon 
 the top bar of the entrance- gate. 
 
 * Good-bye, cousin Godfrey ! ' she called out to him, 
 waving her bare sunburnt arms, as the great yellow 
 carriage went lumbering past. ' I hope you'll like 
 Eton. Give my love to Tom Hickathrift, and try and 
 come back soon, bfcfore we turn into great, grand, 
 grown-up people.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, cousin Sophy ! ' cried Godfrey, leaning 
 out of the carriage- window, until a turn in the road hid 
 from his gaze the weird figure of the little girl. 
 
 And now the time has come when I must ask the 
 reader also to say ' good-bye ' to the ' cousin Sophy ' of 
 those early days ; to the strange elfin little creature 
 with the bare feet, the tangled mane, and the wonder- 
 ful eyes peering out from her pensive child -face. The 
 Godfrey St. Clair of this time must also pass away ; for 
 it will not be necessary to follow the active good- 
 looking schoolboy, contemptuous of greatcoat and com- 
 forter, to the small cupboard in which he was lodged 
 at his ' tutor's ' or his * dame's,' or to relate how he 
 * wet-bobbed ' on the river, ' dry-bobbed in the playing- 
 fields, or played at fives under the shadow of the gray 
 chapel- wall which most Etonians wdll remember so 
 well. It is as man and woman that I propose to follow 
 them in future through those * dark and sunlit path- 
 ways ' in which they were destined to tread. Yet, as 
 our after-actions are often only the natural results of 
 the boy or girl training ; and as the child is, incontest- 
 ably, the ' father to the man,' it may not have been
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 143 
 
 altogether out of place to have set down here super- 
 ficially some of their experiences in the morning of 
 life, and to describe a few of the exceptional circum- 
 stances by which they were surrounded. 
 
 Let the reader imagine, however, that this morning- 
 time is overpassed. ' Good-bye, cousin Sophy ! ' * Good- 
 bye, cousin Godfrey ! ' When next we meet you, you 
 will be both turned into 'great, grand, grown-up 
 people.'
 
 144 Sophy ^ or 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 
 . ' The primrose path of dalliance.' — Hamlet, Act i. Scene 3. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 Seven years have passed away. To some people — and 
 to some people's lives — these years have brought with 
 them but little in the way of change ; twining no 
 garlands, either of bay, orange-blossom, or cypress ; 
 blanching no ringlet, and tracing not one furrow the 
 more. Measured by summers in London, autumns by 
 seashore or moorland, and winters passed merrily in the 
 shires, these * swift-footed years ' have seemed only like 
 so many months to the men and women of the great 
 world who are in the habit of greeting one another, 
 even after much longer lapses of time, as though they 
 had met but j^esterday. No one, however, could thus 
 have met and recognised Sophy St. Clair without 
 experiencing a sensation of surprise, these few years 
 having transformed the strange-looking little woodland 
 savage into a really beautiful woman. 
 
 She was now only seventeen, and therefore scarcely 
 to be accounted a woman in our northern clime ; but it 
 was easy to perceive that her beauty was not of a kind 
 to diminish as she advanced towards maturity. There 
 was no trace now of the savage in her outward de- 
 meanour. She seemed, indeed, at first sight to be 
 almost as civilised and accomplished as any other young 
 lady of her age. But though she went no longer bare- 
 footed and half-naked, though her dark curling hair
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 145 
 
 •was now gathered up and wound in a tliick coil round 
 her head, and though she had acquired a habit of 
 courting repose in a conventional bed instead of upon 
 rugs and door-mats, she was but very little changed in 
 reality. The fact was, that her intelligence, having 
 been matured so early, was hardly capable of further 
 development, excepting such as it might seem to gain 
 by experience and the frequenting of what is often 
 wrongly termed ' good society.' Thus it was that the 
 old-fashioned philosophical child had grown up into a 
 childlike and ingenuous woman ; so childlike and inno- 
 cent, indeed, to all outward appearance, that it was 
 difficult for those who had known her before to under- 
 stand how it happened that she had not advanced with 
 broader strides towards worldly wisdom, whilst there 
 were some people even uncharitable enough to suspect 
 that she only enacted the character of the child of 
 JN^ature for reasons of her own, and that, moreover,* 
 she somewhat overdid the part. But the bare-footed 
 little Pantheist was not dead. She had turned into 
 a beautiful wood-nymph, that was all ; and whether 
 she found herself amongst the green boughs of her 
 sylvan home, or surrounded by the crowded habi- 
 tations of men, she differed only externally from the 
 ragged smiburnt little Sophy who, seven years ago, had 
 perched, barelegged and unkempt, upon the top bar of 
 the Stillingfleet gate. 
 
 Her father had watched — as long as a waning 
 daylight had permitted him to watch — this change in 
 his daughter's personal appearance, which to him 
 seemed almost alarming. But the moment at length 
 arrived when he had to hear of her growing charms 
 from the lips of others ; for his eyesight, which had 
 been gradually failing for several years, had now 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 almost entirely deserted him ; and save for a dim gray 
 square of paler darkness, which told him where he had 
 once seen the window, he was, to all intents and pur- 
 poses, a blind man. 
 
 For this, the most cruel of all painless maladies, he 
 had tried many ineifectual remedies ; and having com- 
 menced by considting nearly all the physicians and 
 oculists of his native land, he had been eventually 
 handed over, as hopeless, to the tender mercies of 
 several enterprising professors and quacks on the 
 Continent, and in this way Sophy had seen a good deal 
 of life. She had been with her father for several 
 weeks near the ' castled crag of Drachenfels,^ whilst he 
 was consulting a celebrated German oculist : she had 
 also travelled in Switzerland and Italy, visiting the 
 large towns, and remaining on the way some time in 
 Paris, and at most of these places her father had pro- 
 vided for her instructors in music, drawing, and 
 languages, so that, contrary to the habit of most 
 ' rolling stones,' she had acquired a very fair coating of 
 moss in the form of education ; and as, added to this, she 
 found herself daily in close communion and companion- 
 ship with a man of refined manners and intellectual 
 tastes, it was not, perhaps, surprising that at first sight 
 she should appear to be quite as well informed as most 
 of her more conventional neighbours. 
 
 But it is not the mere fact of seeing the world — by 
 passing over its outward crust — that really educates 
 and develops the perceptions of a woman. Ere she 
 can become practically wise and experienced, she must 
 be made to feci as well as to think ; she must lose, in her 
 contact with other men and women, many of her own 
 prejudices, and even of her good qualities : in a word, 
 she must, to a certain extent, become forgetful of her
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 147 
 
 own individuality whilst mingling with the varied 
 entities of the crowd. Sophy, however, had had very 
 little chance of acquiring this particular form of 
 wisdom; her father, who had been at all times a 
 recluse, became doubly mistrustful of strangers, now 
 that his blindness prevented him from beholding their 
 faces, and judging, by certain frontal and facial angles, 
 of their possible moral tendencies, so that he and his 
 daughter mixed but seldom in general society. Re- 
 turned to England, they had remained for some time in 
 London, where — as a drowning man clings to a straw — 
 Francis St. Clair had pretended to hope good things 
 alternately of mesmerism, electricity, and even of thQ 
 prophetic biological ink- spot, with its premonitory 
 sweeping broom. Nay, he had furthermore conde- 
 scended to consult the crystal globe of witch and 
 wizard, and to assist at the nocturnal incantations of 
 the necromancer, who, for his benefit, had chalked out 
 the mysterious magic-circle, said to be generally ap- 
 proached, in the first instance, and previous to a fuller 
 and more complete manifestation, by a foot of enormous 
 proportions — a sight which is often to be beheld without 
 the co-operation of geomanc)^ 
 
 He had also sent a lock of his hair to a sprightly 
 and intelligent French lady, a Mademoiselle de Cram- 
 ponaye, who had thereuj)on written him a prescription, 
 and whom he had afterwards visited at her residence on 
 the ' other side ' of Oxford Street, where, a younger 
 sister having performed over her some mesmeric passes, 
 she became clairvoyantc, and in her turn mesmerised 
 the blind man, though it Avas permissible during the 
 seance to converse upon subjects less mysterious. It 
 was not at all displeasing to Francis St. Clair to feel 
 the light touch of the fair unseen, or to listen to her
 
 148 Sophy, or 
 
 lively and amusing conversation ; besides whicli, these 
 visits helped to make the time go, which must often 
 have seemed long to one who had seldom, before his 
 affliction, remained for many moments unoccupied. 
 But they made the money go too, and as he continued 
 sightless notwithstanding, he had at last become 
 resigned, and accepted his position as a blind man 
 without a murmur. 
 
 Sophy had generally been present upon these occa- 
 sions ; and though she had experienced at first a natural 
 feeling of awe at the idea of approaching such mysteries, 
 she had somehow always come away more impressed 
 with the vulgarity of the mediums and their sur- 
 roundings than with any of the manifestations she 
 beheld. 
 
 Still, these people afforded her father society 
 and distraction, bereft as he now was of many of 
 the simple pleasures to which he had been accustomed ; 
 and with some of them a friendly intercourse was 
 continued after he had ceased to consult them pro- 
 fessionally, Mademoiselle de Cramponaye, amongst 
 others, having already visited Little Stillingfleet, 
 accompanied by her sister Ad^le, with whom Sophy 
 had struck up quite a friendship. 
 
 Mr. and Miss St. Clair had also fallen in, at an 
 occult seance, with a former acquaintance, the Rev. 
 Josiah Carver, who, under a new name — assumed, as 
 he stated, on account of an accession of property — was 
 apparently engaged in the practice or investigation of 
 arts almost as black as his skin, having ceased to 
 associate himself with the fortunes of the ' Sacerdotal 
 Kemnants.' 
 
 What had become of these unfortunate yoimg men 
 it was impossible to conjecture ; for, at an accidental
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 149 
 
 mention of their names, an expression of sucli evident 
 pain and displeasure passed over Mr. Carver's face, that 
 Sophy, with feminine tact, had hastily pinched her 
 father's arm and turned the conversation, fearing that 
 they were now either reposing in an early tomb, or had 
 behaved with base ingratitude to their former bene- 
 factor ; for only in this manner could she account for 
 the cloud which doubly darkened Mr. Carver's dark 
 brow. 
 
 ' Our Carver is evidently an irretrievable scoundrel,' 
 Francis St. Clair had remarked to his daughter, when 
 the seance was over. ' Poor fellow ! ' he added bene- 
 volently, feeling for him the same compassion as for a 
 person bodily afflicted, 'he is really a highly intelli- 
 gent man.' 
 
 'I never could like him,' Sophy answered, shud- 
 dering ; ' and I don't think it can be only because he is 
 hlack, for of course he can't help what he's like, ^y 
 more than I can myself.' 
 
 'I wonder what my ''fair Sophia" is like?' mur- 
 mured the blind man tenderly. ' Come here ; I should 
 like you to tell me.' 
 
 ' Don't call me your ^' fair Sophia," ' replied his 
 daughter, going towards him. 'It sounds such a 
 mockery, for I am dark and smudgy-looking.' And she 
 sat down upon the floor at his feet. 
 
 ' Ah, my child, I can't see you ! ' murmured he, in 
 a disappointed voice ; ' but you feel pretty. Tell me 
 what you are like ? Be honest and speak the truth. 
 Are you like her ?^ 
 
 ' I don't know ; but you shall have the best descrip- 
 tion of myself that I can give you — the wheat with the 
 tares, and the sheep and the goats together ; nothing 
 will I extenuate nor set down aught in malice. I'll
 
 150 Sophy ^ or 
 
 begin with, my good points. First of all, I really do 
 think I've got rather nice eyes.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' sighed her father, looking interested, * I 
 thought so.' 
 
 * If they were only hluej' she continued, * I should be 
 quite contented ; but they are, unfortunately, brown. 
 However, they're quite good enough for me, and a 
 great many peoj^le have admired them. The best part 
 of them arc their eyelashes, as I have quite as many 
 on the lower lid as at the top. Tom Hickathrift saj^s 
 be never saw such a thing in his life. There, you can 
 feel, they're quite fuzzy, like spikes.' And she passed 
 the thin hand of the blind man over her eyelashes. 
 
 ' Tom is right,' said he, sadly ; ' it is very un- 
 common. She had it, though. Tom is one of the 
 finest fellows I have ever known.' 
 
 'Yes, dear, if one was blind,' Sophy remarked, 
 archly ; ' for he has indeed a most kind and generous 
 soul. Ah ! I forgot. Forgive me ! I know you don't 
 believe that he has one !....' 
 
 ' No, dear, don't say that ! How can we tell ? If 
 ever you feel that it is possible, and reconcilable with 
 reason, that there should be an after-life, don't be 
 afraid of telling me your impressions. Women have 
 often strange powers of intuition, and it is not alto- 
 gether a disagreeable thought, in spite of the rival 
 allurements of Nirvana, as one finds oneself advancing 
 in 3"ears. But now go on with your description. Tell 
 me about your mouth.' And it seemed as if he was 
 turning the force of some keener vision than that of 
 which he could now boast, back upon the past. 
 
 * M}^ mouth is smallish,' Sophy proceeded candidly ; 
 * that I certainly can't deny. My upper lip curls up a 
 little too much, I'm afraid; but I'm thankful to say
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 151 
 
 my teeth arc very even and white. This is all there is 
 in my face, for over my nose I must draw a veil, as it 
 does not belong to any family.' 
 
 Sophy was very fond of reproaching her nose with 
 belonging to no then known or classified family of 
 noses ; and, indeed, it may have been rather difficult 
 to describe, for it seemed, somehow, to be Homan in 
 profile, Greek in full-face, and in certain positions 'tip- 
 tilted, like the petal of a flower.' 
 
 Since these days, however, Middleniarch has been 
 written, and George Eliot has created and designated a 
 new species of nose, which was till now homeless and 
 unrecognised — namely, the nose with the 'little ripple' 
 in it ; and it was to this family that the nose of So^^hy 
 appertained. 
 
 ' My hair is very long, as you know,' she went on, 
 * and dreadfully difficult to keep in order. It's all of 
 different shades, which has an absurd effect by day- 
 light ; but at night, I'm haj)py to say, it looks black. 
 I'm rather tall for a woman, as you can feel ; and the 
 nicest things about me are the things that are like you.' 
 
 ' Ah, no ; don't say that ! ' interruj^ted her father ; 
 ' you speak without knowing.' 
 
 'Well, I like best in myself what I like best in you, 
 for to me you seem quite beautiful ; and I've no doubt, 
 when those foolish eyes come back — as of course they 
 will — which have gone wandering off somewhere, you 
 will see things you think pretty in mc. All I can say 
 is, that I don't admire mf/self, for I think women should 
 be fair, like roses and lilies ; but men should be like 
 you — dark and fierce-looking, and yet with your dearest 
 of dear faces ! ' 
 
 Having twisted herself with a sudden movement 
 upon her father's knee, she continued, as she stroked
 
 152 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 his hair with her tender fingers, * At anj^ rate, I'm 
 quite good-looking enough to please myself, and I'm 
 glad, of course, that I'm not positively ugly. When- 
 ever I feel angn^ with my face, I think of people who 
 are worse off than I am — the halt, the lame, and the 
 hlind — and I then feel much happier and more con- 
 tented.' 
 
 * I'm glad you think of the blind,' said her father, 
 smiling ; ' and that the thought makes you happier : 
 one always likes one's shortcomings to please some one ! ' 
 
 Sophy and her father made a very touching picture 
 as their heads lay thus, close together, against the dark 
 back of the arm-chair. Francis St. Clair was still, to 
 all appearance, a young man, although he was not far 
 from fifty. The resemblance between himself and his 
 daughter was not now so striking as it had been in 
 Sophy's childhood, when she might have been taken 
 for the daughter of an Arab Sheikh, and he might well 
 have passed for some such father. Now, however, she 
 had about her more of the Hebe than of the child of 
 the desert ; whilst her father, his features having be- 
 come further accentuated, his figure leaner, and his 
 dark eyes, which, to a casual observer, did not appear 
 to be without sight, hollo wer and less hopeful, looked 
 more than ever like a chieftain of tented Bedouins, 
 reduced, through adverse circumstances, to bear the 
 ignominy of dwelling amongst the Giaours, and imi- 
 tating, with certain notable modifications, their manners 
 and customs. 
 
 Notwithstanding his affliction, he was as much 
 occupied as ever with the furtherance of the Great 
 Cause ; nay, it even seemed as though his enthusiasm 
 had increased with his blindness, and that this sub- 
 ject alone now furnished him with materials for
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 153 
 
 castle -building, and for the indulgence in certain 
 fetishisms, inherent in all imaginative natures, but 
 which, owing to his spiritual scepticism, had taken, in 
 his case, a purely political form. Sophy, on the 
 contrary, was beginning, at about this period, to de- 
 velop sundry uncomfortable suspicions relative to the 
 mysterious scheme, and there were even moments when 
 she found herself actually doubting the infallibility of 
 thq Great Prophet. 
 
 *I see,' she I'emarked one morning, as she looked 
 up from a packet of letters, for she was now employed 
 both as reader and secretary to the blind man, ' that 
 when the Prophet had his last audience of the Pope, he 
 arrived at the Vatican in a carriage drawn by four 
 horses, and with two postilions. As all these horses 
 and postilions come, in a kind of a way, out of our 
 pockets, do you really think he required quite so raany ? 
 . . . The Pope mightn't have seen him drive up to the 
 door. Can't one go and see a Pope in a fly ? ' she in- 
 quired humbly. 
 
 * I think he was right,' answered the Disciple more 
 loyal than Peter. * I think the four horses and the 
 postilions were imperatively necessary in order to main- 
 tain the dignity of the Cause, more particularly when he 
 was visiting a Pontiff whose prestige results in a great 
 measure from theatrical display. It is essential for the 
 furtherance of our scheme, just now, that we should 
 affect to coquette with Rome ; and we must do so, as it 
 were, in rouge and patches. Indeed, I don't see, my 
 dear Sophy, how, with the best of rnotives, he could 
 have done otherwise. In fact,' he added, lashing him- 
 self into a state of ardent enthusiasm, * he dared not act 
 differently for the sake of a few miserable lire ! The 
 eyes of the whole of Christendom were upon him, and
 
 154 Sophy ^ or 
 
 it was very important that he should do nothing which 
 could degrade his august mission. Had he done so, how 
 could he ever have looked us in the face afterwards ? ' 
 
 To this question his daughter made no reply. 
 There was, in fact, nothing more to be said. 
 
 Although at this time Sophy's most fervent prayer 
 — unuttered, perhaps, but ever present in the heart — 
 was, that her father's sight might be restored to him, 
 she coidd not help experiencing a sense of relief when 
 it was at length decided that they should return to 
 their j)eaceful country home. 
 
 For to her Little Stillinofleet was what Dallinfj- 
 ridge had been to the boy Godfrey in the old days 
 — a terrestrial paradise, endeared by a thousand 
 memories. The wide stretch of sloping lawn on one 
 side of the house, with its long shadows at eventide ; 
 the distant belt of dark fir-trees shutting off the pink 
 and amber of the sunset ; the less sombre woodlands of 
 Great Stillingfleet, with their softer outlines, glowing 
 now, in the autumn, as with smouldering russet fires, — 
 all these, with the faint streak of blue sea bounding the 
 horizon on the other side, beyond the smiling land- 
 scape, mapped out with its farms, its spires, its squares 
 of plough and pasture, defined by the lines of the 
 darker hedgerows, had seemed alwaj^s to greet her on 
 her return to them with varied voices of genuine 
 Avelcome. 
 
 She was not, however, destined, just yet, to enjoy 
 these delights alone with her father, as she would have 
 desired. 
 
 ' We are soon going back again to Little Stick-in- 
 the-mud,' Mr. St. Clair remarked, one afternoon, to 
 Mademoiselle de Cramponaye, as she was performing 
 her mesmeric passes in front of his sightless eyes.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 155 
 
 ' And if you and the fair A dele should ever require a 
 change of air, I hope you will not disdain to pay us a 
 visit/ 
 
 The * magnetic lady ' paused for a few moments, 
 during which she must have rejoiced that her hand- 
 some patient was unable to observe her emotion, but 
 she replied presentl}^ in a composed voice, — 
 
 * Adele and myself will have much pleasure in 
 profiting by jour amiable invitation/ 
 
 The period fixed for the visit was about a week after 
 the proposed return to 'Little Stick-in- the mud' — a 
 name invented by the blind man upon the spur of the 
 moment ; for, as well as in ' quotations,' he dealt in a 
 kind of mild and innocuous species of facetiousness, 
 which, by reason of its very mildness, was at times 
 positively pathetic. 
 
 Sophy could not restrain a sensation of disappoint- 
 ment when her father said to her, on his return irom 
 the dairvoyante, whither he had gone, for a wonder, 
 accompanied only by a servant, — 
 
 * I have invited la helle Cramponaye to stay with us 
 again, and she has accepted. She and her sister will 
 come to us in about a week.' 
 
 'She is not particularly " ie//('," ' answered Sophy, 
 feeling somewhat annoyed. ' Adele is much the 
 prettier of the two.' 
 
 ' She seems, indeed, a most amiable young creature, 
 and she may be of service to you in helping you on 
 with your French ; to converse with her a little every 
 day will advance you.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Sophy, touched at his solicitude for 
 her welfare. ' I know it thoroughly, but it will do no 
 harm to rub up my accent ; besides, I really am fond 
 of Adele.'
 
 156 Sophy ^ or 
 
 * Ilcr sister is, of course, the cleverer woman. I 
 have seldom met a more thoroiighh^ agreeable and 
 enlightened i)erson. Frenchwomen have, too (or hady 
 when I last had the pleasure of beholding them), an 
 extraordinary knack of putting on their clothes ; now, 
 as it is, unfortunately, the rule in this country, to pro- 
 tect one's body by raiment from the salutary action of 
 the outer air, which is, in itself, as any chemist will 
 inform you, a life- giver, as well through its effect upon 
 the human epidermis as upon . . .' 
 
 * Wh}^, you dear, foolish thing ! ' exclaimed Sophy, 
 with assumed anger, * what have you been worrying 
 your old head about now? Surely you haven't been 
 thinking that I wish to deck myself out in smart 
 dresses like some of the silly people we see here in 
 London?' 
 
 * No, dear ; it isn't so much your actual dresses, but 
 there are many other little things which might help to 
 make you look well. Mdlle. de Cramponaye has noticed 
 that, notwithstanding your beauty, you have not yet 
 mastered several of the smaller details of dress, which, 
 so long as the}'' are worn at all, may as well, as she 
 remarks, be of the proper quality . . .' 
 
 ' What ! gloves, boots, and shoes, and things of that 
 sort ? ' asked Sophy ingenuously. ' Oh, I've got plenty 
 of those ; and Janus is going to make me some new 
 white petticoats with frills ; I am to buy the stuff for 
 them.' 
 
 ' But why shouldn't you get them already made ? ' 
 said her father, as with a sudden inspiration. * Prettier 
 ones than any that could emanate from the clouded 
 imagination of Jane ! I think Mdlle. de Cramponaye 
 would like to help you to make a few purchases. . . . 
 Here is a cheque for thirty pounds, which I signed in
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 157 
 
 her presence — in fact, she was good enougli to guide 
 my hand — for I should like you/ he added proudly, * to 
 hold your own.' 
 
 ' you old darling ! ' exclaimed Sophy tearfully, 
 for she knew how much it must have cost him to tear 
 himself thus from the contemplation of his scheme for 
 the regeneration of Europe, in order that he might 
 busy himself with the construction of her under -gar- 
 ments. ' Imagine my buying thirty pounds' worth of 
 frilled petticoats ! ' 
 
 'Not only petticoats, my child; there are many 
 other articles of modern female attire which you 
 might buy — things of which I know nothing,' said 
 the Agnostic, with a sigh. 
 
 'When we become rich,' answered his daughter, 
 firmly, ' it will be plenty of time to think of all these 
 things. At present we have quite enough to do with 
 our money. First of all, we must make you see. Why 
 should I wear expensive clothes only for my own selfish 
 gratification ? Who is to see all these beautiful new 
 boots, and gloves, and frilled petticoats? And then, 
 when you are well, there is the Great Cause . . .' 
 
 ' It is true,' replied Francis St. Clair, in a gloomy 
 voice ; ' too true ! Hitherto I seem to have been 
 squandering money upon myself alone ! I have been 
 behaving like an old brute . . .' 
 
 ' You have been behaving like an old darling ! ' said 
 Sophy, interrupting him with a kiss. ' Only you seem 
 suddenly to have become half an idiot ! You know 
 that we are not very rich, and I'm sure I must cost you 
 a great deal. I have a very good appetite, and lately 
 I have been taking lessons in so many different things. 
 Then, besides me, there are Janus and Nclus and their 
 children, who seem always to be picking up scraps in
 
 158 Sophy, or 
 
 the kitchen ; and there are the cart-horses, Billy and 
 Drap^on, and the other horses ; and the Great Cause, as 
 I said before . . .' 
 
 * All these things seem, somehow, to have cost 
 nothing,' said the * Wire-puller,' earnestly. ' Though 
 /, too, had fancied that travelling, doctoring, dressing 
 ourselves becomingl}^, and learning wisdom, might have 
 made havoc with our fortune. I even thought that 
 La Cramponaye . . / 
 
 ' "Well, yes,' Sophy cut in somewhat eagerly ; ' a 
 guinea a visit is a good deal when you have to go to 
 her so often ! Not that one would begrudge it if it had 
 done you any good.' 
 
 ' She has been useful to me in many other ways,' 
 said the blind man. ' After what you said to me some 
 days ago about our expenses, I mentioned, as a reason 
 for discontinuing my sojourn in town, that I feared 
 I might be spending too much upon my own selfish 
 pleasures (for it has really amused me to consult her) ; 
 and I also told her that for many years indolence, 
 increasing blindness, and the numerous important sub- 
 jects with which I have been occupied, had prevented 
 me from looking into my accounts. She very kindly 
 went through them yesterday. She is a wonderful 
 woman of business . . .' 
 
 * Oh, couldn't / have done it ? ' asked Sophy, with a 
 cr}' as of a wounded spirit. 
 
 * Yes, my child, of course you could, perfectly ; but 
 you had frightened me a little lately. You had led me 
 to suppose that we were half ruined . . .' 
 
 * And you didn't want me to know of it, if we were ? 
 Oh, I see ! . . . Really, you are almost too good for 
 this world ! ' exclaimed Sophy, the cloud clearing from 
 her brow, and the tears coming to her dark eyes.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 159 
 
 * "Well, and now/ continued her father, * what do 
 you think ? It all seems *' passing strange " . . .' 
 
 * I can't think ! Are we to be beggars ; and will 
 you have to carry a hat, like that rival blind man we so 
 often meet, whilst I lead you about with a string?' 
 
 * Not a bit of it,' answered Francis St. Clair, 
 looking rather ashamed. * You must know that I 
 never thought of being miserly, and yet, of course, 
 I appeared so to others (not that one cares much for 
 the opinion of the herd), vegetating in the simple way 
 I did, with so few servants. Then, again, as you know, 
 I've positivelj^ nothing to keep up, — living, as we do, 
 in a mere rat-hole, — I can't hunt ; I preserve no game, 
 and yet plenty comes to us from both sides ; we don't 
 entertain much, or go out ; and I suppose this is how it 
 has all come to pass . . . .' 
 
 * What has come to pass ?' inquired Sophy, anxiously. 
 * You speak as though we had met with some misfortune.' 
 
 * It is a misfortime which many people woidd wil- 
 lingly share with us,' answered her father, smiling 
 sadly. ' The fact is, I am very much richer than I 
 thought I was. I, in my stupid way, have been going 
 on living on about five hundred a-year — from hand to 
 mouth, as it were ; requiring, as you know, yqvj little. 
 What was good enough for us seemed alwaj^s good 
 enough for our friends ; and so, with an income of over 
 two thousand a-year, and little extras always tumbling 
 in — what do you think ? ' 
 
 * I really can't say anything, except that I always 
 fancied we weren't rich.' 
 
 *Well, living on like this for more than fifteen 
 years, and having sjoent very little before that, I now 
 find that I have saved a good round smn, quite a for- 
 tune, in fact, and that without ever dreaming of it.'
 
 160 Sophy, or 
 
 * E-eall}^ ! ' exclaimed Soj^hy, unable to conceal her 
 astonislimcnt. ' I knew, of course, that we weren't 
 extravagant in the way that some peoiDle are, that we 
 hated luxuries, avoided amusements, ate hardly any 
 meat, drank no wine, and wore as little clothes as we 
 possibly could ; but I remembered that we were conspi- 
 rators, ''wire-pullers." I fancied that ^^ scene-shifting^^ 
 and ^^ prompting,'" and whispering instructions to the 
 *' painted puppets " (particularly when we can't arrive at 
 them without a carriage-and-four, with postilions), must 
 have cost something ; and I recollected, too, that we 
 were always in the clouds, and that we didn't see the 
 path under our feet, even when we had eyes : and all 
 this made me fancy that we were probably poor, or 
 that, if we weren't, we should very likely become so 
 some day.' 
 
 */, too,' said Mr. St. Clair, 'had some such thoughts 
 at odd moments, so that my wealth has really come 
 upon me quite by surprise. When Mademoiselle de 
 Cramponaye explained to me the flourishing state of 
 my exchequer, I could hardly believe that I was not 
 under the influence of some magnetic slumber . . . .' 
 
 ' Perhaps you were,* interrupted his daughter, 
 quickly. ' Perhaps you dreamt all this about our 
 enormous riches, and that it isn't true ! ' 
 
 ' It is, though, indeed. We went over the whole 
 thing together, what the jDroperty was worth, and 
 what our expenses were : and she even inquired into 
 my possible inheritance of Dalliiigridge, should any 
 misfortune happen to the son of my miserable brother. 
 I told her that it was entailed upon me ; that I could 
 raise money on this possibility, though it was, of course, 
 very remote ; and that the place could not be sold with- 
 out my consent at present. She went into every detail
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. IGl 
 
 most good-naturedly, and proved to me incontestably 
 that we are rolling in riches.' 
 
 * One thing is/ remarked Sophy, with a little sigh 
 of resignation, ' it will soon go ! It will go to the Turks, 
 and the Poles, and the Circassians, and upon all the 
 " rouge and patches " necessary to the " coquetting " of 
 the Great Prophet. It will melt away like snow before 
 the sun ! ' 
 
 * No, my child, it shall not ! ' cried the blind man, 
 with sudden energy. 'It shall go on rolling and rolling 
 up for you, until, some day, you will become quite a 
 small heiress, powerful to help the worthy and de- 
 serving, whoever they may be.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't want you to keep it for me ! ' said 
 Sophy, looking distressed. * Please give it all to the 
 Great Cause, for I dare say I should only throw it 
 away upon something quite as useless.' 
 
 And, ashamed of her own temerity — which might 
 appear, she fancied, almost like ingratitude at such a 
 moment — she buried her face in the ' lists ' of the 
 paternal beard, which ' youth gone out ' had not yet left 
 completely ' in ashes,' notwithstanding that it might 
 have vied, in other resj^ects, even with the beard of 
 Merlin, as described by the Laureate. 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 From Sophy's words in the last chapter it will be 
 apparent to the reader that, during the course of these 
 seven years, she had lost a considerable amoimt of the 
 veneration with which she had at one time regarded 
 the Great Cause and all that appertained to it. And, 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 102 Sophy ^ or 
 
 indeed, a very disagreeable sensation, which she would 
 have given worlds to stifle and trample in the dust, 
 had lately oppressed her. This took the fomi of a 
 suspicion, of the basest and most unfilial kind — so it 
 seemed to her — for it had caused her to ask herself 
 more than once whether her father, upon some subjects 
 so sceptical and inquiring, was not, with regard to 
 many others, very little better than a dupe — malleable 
 as clay in the hands of the potter, and even seeming, 
 at times, to aid and abet in the throwing of dust in his 
 own eyes. 
 
 She realised, notwithstanding her youth and con- 
 sequent inexperience, that, by reason of this very 
 scepticism, a large mass of credulity in his nature was 
 left, as it were, free and unemj)loycd ; and that this, 
 when requiring sustenance, was ready to fasten upon 
 whatever seemed palatable at the moment, provided 
 only that any such food had not been cooked in the 
 oven of orthodoxy, or shaped in what he was wont to 
 style contemptuously the * jellj^-moulds of form and 
 doctrine.' 
 
 Nay, had not she herself her ' faiths and fetishisms,* 
 as she called them, entirely independent of theology, 
 and was there not in her nature a craving almost as 
 intense for the Ideal, the Marvellous, and the Romantic, 
 as there was for the Good, the Beautiful, and the True ? 
 
 Whilst she was yet a child, the irreconcilable con- 
 tradictions and vaguenesses with which the Great Cause 
 seemed to be fraught and environed, had not in the 
 least astonished her ; for she had said to herself that, 
 with time, all that was then mysterious would clear 
 away, and that the grand design for the political re- 
 generation of mankind would lie before her, nobly 
 transparent, even as the bosom of some mountain-lake.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 163 
 
 discovered gradually by the uplifting of the morning 
 mists. But no such revelation had taken place. Rather 
 did it seem as if the increasing sunlight tended only to 
 thicken the lowering fogs which still shrouded the 
 great mystery, as though anxious to protect it from the 
 searching eye of the morning ; and her soul sickened 
 at times before the thought that, perhaps, after all, the 
 whole scheme was nothing more nor less than a mirage 
 and a delusion. There were even moments when, 
 tempted, as it would seem, by some persistent demon 
 of doubt, she actually dreaded a nearer acquaintance 
 with the enigma, lest, once it was unveiled, she should 
 contemplate it with as much abhorrence as did Zelica 
 the terrible countenance of Mokanna ; and yet it was to 
 this one idea that her father had devoted the best years 
 of his life ! To doubt its existence, or question the 
 wisdom of its tenets, was to doubt, likewise, his probity, 
 his intelligence, nay, his very sanity, into the bargain ! 
 But it was only from time to time that these unplea- 
 sant conjectures obtruded themselves upon her, and the 
 peaceful atmosphere of her country home was well 
 calculated to dispel them altogether. 
 
 Although she had once felt a certain jealous mis- 
 trust of Mademoiselle de Cramponaye the elder, she 
 was, as she had informed her father, really attached to 
 the younger sister. Adele was a pretty brunette of 
 about two- and- twenty, with small features, s]oarkling 
 black eyes, and possessed of the winning manners and 
 sprightly retorts peculiar to most of the women of her 
 race, and Sophy had always found her a most agreeable 
 companion. 
 
 A few days after the arrival of these French ladies 
 at Little Stillingfleet, Sophy and Adele strolled out 
 together in the evening, walking, as is the custom with
 
 164 fSophi/, or 
 
 young girls sentimentally (lis230sed, witli their arms 
 affectionately entwined round one another's waists. 
 They had left Mademoiselle de Cramponaye to enter- 
 tain the blind man ; for Sophy was endeavouring to 
 subdue her first feeling of jealousy, saj^ng to herself 
 that this clever and accomplished woman of the world 
 must needs prove a more interesting companion to her 
 father than a mere ' slip of girlhood ' like herself, and 
 she had of late been deeply touched by the delicate 
 attentions which the elder of the two sisters seemed 
 ever ready to lavish upon him. Mademoiselle de 
 Cramponaye did not now receive payment in exchange 
 for her mesmeric passes, being regarded since her 
 arrival, and at her own request, in the light of a friend 
 of the family ; but she did not begrudge the expendi- 
 ture of some of her superfluous magnetic force from 
 time to time, and this was about the hour when, having 
 been put into a clairvoyant state by Adele, she con- 
 tinued the treatment which she had commenced in 
 London for the benefit of her interesting patient. 
 
 As the two girls crossed the lawn in front of the 
 house, Adele's foot became entangled in a long piece of 
 string, and she would have fallen had it not been for 
 the support of her companion's arm. 
 
 ^CielV she exclaimed, looking towards some object 
 upon the grass. ^Quelle /lorrcur f and she opened her 
 round black eyes very wide. 
 
 ' There is a whole romance tied to the other end 
 of that string,' said Sophy, pointing to the tortoise 
 Alexander, over whose hard shell the years seemed to 
 have passed without leaving the slightest impression. 
 ' That tortoise was given me by my cousin — a cousin 
 I had never seen until one day when we met quite by 
 accident in a hop-cart. After that I often saw him.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 165 
 
 and I was quite in love with him when I was a little 
 girl. All those woods up there, as far as you can see, 
 belong to his father, who is now a very old man/ 
 
 ' And since those days,' Adele inquired, ' have you 
 met often ? ' 
 
 * Never ; that is the extraordinary part of it ! When 
 he came from Eton for his Christmas holidays, after I 
 saw him last, his father had taken a house in London 
 until Easter. At Easter ive had to go up to see a cele- 
 brated oculist ; at midsummer we were again in town ; 
 that winter we went abroad — and so, somehow, this 
 kind of thing having gone on for years, we have never 
 met again. And now he is a young man of nearly two- 
 and- twenty, and I am quite grown up ; two kings of 
 England have died, the Reform Bill has been passed, 
 and Queen Victoria has ascended the throne ; and yet 
 here is this stupid thing looking just the same as it 
 always did ! ' and she tapped the shell of the tortoise 
 somewhat impatiently with her little foot. 
 
 ^EUc n' a Jamais eprouve cV emotions,' said the French 
 girl, with a sigh. * It is the emotions which make us 
 change rather than the years. Happy animal ! thou 
 hast kno^\Ti neither loves nor hatreds ! ' 
 
 * I don't know how it could have known them,' 
 Sophy answered, laughing. ' Tied up with a string 
 to a stick, quite alone, and with such a very, very 
 thick shell ! But you talk as if you yourself had had 
 loves and hatreds by the dozen.' 
 
 ' Qui salt ? ' murmured Adele, with another sigh ; 
 and Sophy felt afraid of continuing a conversation 
 which seemed to give her companion pain. 
 
 Leaving, therefore, the solitary Alexander, she led 
 the way across the spread of park-land to the right of 
 the house ; and, after descending a slope of meadow-
 
 166 Sophi/, or 
 
 land, the two friends entered a wood of alders, where 
 the ground began to rise again, joining eventually 
 the iir-belt belonging to Sir Peckham Ilickathrift of 
 Poynings Abbey. 
 
 They had not proceeded far when Sophy, catching 
 sight of a tall figure in one of the pheasant-drives, 
 carrying a gun and accompanied by a black retriever, 
 called out, in a playful voice, — 
 
 ' Now, Tom, pray what business have you poaching 
 upon our preserves ? ' 
 
 ' Who is that ?' inquired Adele, in a whisper. ' Lc 
 jeuiic liommc a la tortue V 
 
 ' No, no ; quite a different young man — our neigh- 
 bour on the opposite side. That old abbey you passed 
 on the road coming here belongs to his father. "We call 
 him ''The Prince with the Nose.'" 
 
 ' Dicu ! quel nez ! ' Adele exclaimed, imder her 
 breath, as Tom Hickathrift advanced towards them, 
 looking rather shy and confused. 
 
 ' Cost le ncz cles HicTiathriftsj' Sophy explained, with 
 somewhat of an Anglo -Franco idiom. ' ^Vnd j^ou 
 mustn't say a word against it. Nouii h respedons 
 bcaucouj) 2)ar-i('i !^ 
 
 But Adele de Cramponaye, still astonished, con- 
 tinued in a low voice to call upon the name of her 
 Maker, after the manner of the French, until Mr. 
 Hickathrift came up to the place where she and Sophy 
 were standing. 
 
 Thomas Hickathrift, since his schoolboy days, had 
 developed into a powerfull3-built young giant. He 
 stood a little over six foot three without his boots, and 
 had none of the ' run-up-by-contract ' appearance which 
 is often the accompaniment of great height. But for 
 the peculiarity of his race already alluded to, and which
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 167 
 
 had grown with his growth, he would have been de- 
 cidedly handsome. As it was, he was a handsome 
 young man spoilt by too large a nose ; but he had fine 
 honest gray eyes, which looked out over it with the 
 grave and faithful expression of a retriever ; and, 
 indeed, the cast of his whole countenance bore a 
 marked affinity to that of the dog following at his 
 heel. This resemblance did not escape Adele de Cram- 
 ponaye, who attached great importance to what Sophy 
 usually spoke of as ' the outside of the platter.' 
 
 ^Dicn ! qiCil resemble a son chien ! ' she whispered as 
 the young man approached. 
 
 * Yes ; I've always noticed that people do grow very 
 like their dogs. He has had this one a long time.' 
 
 And, indeed, Mr. Hickathrift's present dog was a 
 pupp3^ of that very black retriever which Godfrey St. 
 Clair had so coveted when they were both boys together, 
 more than seven years ago. • 
 
 * This is my friend, Mademoiselle Adele de Cram- 
 ponaye,' said Sophy, as Mr. Hickathrift, after raising 
 his ' wideawake ' to the two young ladies, held out his 
 hand. * She doesn't imder stand a single word of 
 English, so now we shall both hear how beautifully 
 you speak French.' 
 
 It is needless to say, however, that this was merely 
 a cruel practical joke on Sophy's part, intended only to 
 make poor Tom uncomfortable, for there were times 
 when it was her pleasure to tease and torment him. 
 
 * I'm sorr}" to say,' answered he, blushing, ' that I 
 don't know a word of any language except my own ; ' 
 and he smiled nervously, displaying, as he did so, a row 
 of even white teeth under an incipient moustache. 
 
 'Dear me! how's that?' asked Miss St. Clair, 
 looking at him with knitted brows. * You that have
 
 168 Sophy ^ or 
 
 been so well educated at Eton and Oxford, and are 
 now an officer in the yeomanry ! I fancied, of course, 
 you would speak it like a native.' 
 
 ' Wli}', you see,' said the J'oung man, naturally 
 anxious to bring forward the few accomplishments 
 he possessed, 'when I was at Eton I went in, as I've 
 told you, more for rowing than " sapjDing." I won the 
 ''pulling" twice, and then I wanted to get into the 
 "eight" . . .' 
 
 ' And now, instead of travelling, and trying to im- 
 prove your mind, you are always destroying life — 
 shooting, or going out with the beagles; and then, 
 upon the slightest provocation, you "have out the 
 ferrets," as you call it. It's very easy to see that 
 you're not a Buddhist.' 
 
 ' No,' answered the young man, with a slight south- 
 country burr, ' I am certainly not a Buddhist ; and 
 what's more, I don't see why I should be one.' 
 
 ' The Buddhists,' said Sophy severely, ' will not 
 destroy life, fearing, I have heard, to destroy their 
 ancestors ; believing, as they do, in the transmigration 
 of souls. And one sees Avhy. Supposing a man dies 
 and is buried, grass grows over him, does it not ? ' 
 
 ' If one isn't buried in a vault,' answered Tom — 
 thinking, probably, of the ' two thousand dead bodies, 
 nearly all of them Hickathrif ts ' — ' grass might cer- 
 tainly grow on the top of one's grave. Well ? ' 
 
 'Well,' continued the gleaner in all fields of phi- 
 losophy — the picker of the plimis out of all creeds — ' a 
 cow passes by, we will suppose, or a sheep, and eats 
 some of the grass. Part of that man's nature somehow 
 becomes a part of the cow.' 
 
 ' I see what you mean,' said the young man. ' But 
 I don't see for that reason why one shouldn't shoot and 
 amuse oneself, or have out the beagles.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 169 
 
 ^ We will suppose/ proceeded Sophy, going on witli 
 her idea, ' that the cow or sheep is killed, and that 
 some part of it is given to a beagle . . .' 
 
 * Beagles,' said Tom Hickathrift, practically, * are 
 generally fed upon horseflesh/ 
 
 * Yes, I know ; and the result would be just the 
 same if the grass were eaten by a horse, or even by a 
 rabbit.' 
 
 Her knowledge of the tenets of Buddhism being 
 extremely rudimentary, she was not sorry to escape 
 from having to follow up the transmigration of the 
 beagle, which, in a coimtry where clog has never yet been 
 regarded as a staple article of food, seemed to present 
 more difficulties than it would have done in the Celes- 
 tial Empire. 
 
 ' This rabbit,' she went on, quite confidently now, 
 * is eaten by a ferret — one of your ferrets, we will sup- 
 pose — that horrid white one with the pink eyes — whi(5li 
 in its turn is caught, killed, and eaten by . . .' 
 
 * No ! ' cried the young man, goaded at last into 
 self-assertion ; * that really won't do ! No animal that 
 ever I saw or heard of could, or icon Id, eat ferret ! 
 You've got wrong, somehow, in your calculation, 
 though I'm not clever enough to say where.' 
 
 After touching upon several subjects less involved 
 than Buddhism, the three young people retraced their 
 steps towards the pointed gables of Little Stillingfleet. 
 Mr. Hickathrift accompanied the two girls as far as 
 the confines of the alder-wood, where he prepared to 
 take his leave. As he raised his hat, politely but 
 silently, to Adele, she said, laughingly, — 
 
 * I know how to speak English a little : my silence 
 was intended to tempt you to speak French.' 
 
 * It did tempt me,' answered he, laughing too ; ' but 
 that was all. So the plan didn't succeed. It extracted
 
 170 Sopluj^ ov 
 
 nothinp; for mademoiselle to laugli at ; and /, too, am 
 decidedly a loser. I shall hope, however, to see you 
 and Miss St. Clair again, before very long ; ' and, 
 whistling to his ' faithful hound,* the good-natured 
 young giant strode off in the direction of his ances- 
 tral home. 
 
 ' I like very much that young man whom you call 
 " The Prince witli the Nose," ' remarked Adele, as soon 
 as he was out of hearing. ' I find him very amiable 
 and comme il faut. II n'cst 2)as fres heatiy mais il a I'air 
 hou: 
 
 * Ah, and, indeed, he is good ! ' exclaimed Sophy, 
 enthusiastically, for she was a most loyal friend. ' lie's 
 the kindest-hearted creature in the world ; he wouldn't 
 even hurt a fly. That's why one wonders at his being 
 so fond of shooting.' 
 
 ' Most giants are amiable,* replied Adele. * And 
 that was quite a pretty compliment he made me at 
 parting, ybr an EnglislDiian !' 
 
 ' Yes, I was quite astonished at it ; for, generally, 
 talking and writing are not his strong points.' 
 
 ' I should fancy not ; perhaps he is what some 
 people prefer — a thinker. Still, it seemed rude to 
 tease him about his ignorance. And then you accused 
 him, too, of being a poacher ! Does he not object to 
 it?' 
 
 ^ Not in the least ! ' answered Sophy, in an off-hand 
 manner. ' On the contrary, he likes it. The more one 
 teases him, the more fond of one he becomes.' 
 
 ' Then you wish him to become even more fond of 
 you than he is now ? ' Adele inquired, with an arch 
 smile. ' And yet it is easy to see that he is already 
 amoureux fou ! * 
 
 * What nonsense ! ' cried Sophy, reddening never-
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 171 
 
 thcless. 'Why, we are exactly like brother and 
 sister!' 
 
 ' No two people can be ^' exactly like brother and 
 sister " who have not the least possible relationship. 
 A time always comes when either one or other of them 
 will break down.' 
 
 * Oh, but we shan't ! ' said Sophy confidently. * We've 
 known each other much too long-.' 
 
 ' It may be that the brcaking-do^\"ii time has not 
 yet arrived. Some day, however, it will come, and 
 then you will remember my words.' 
 
 * I shall remember them, only to think how ridicu 
 lous and absurd they were. In France, though, I have 
 heard, people talk and write a great deal about love. 
 Here it never enters one's head ; and two people can go 
 on for years and years as friends, without thinking of 
 anything more. It's something to do with the weather, 
 I believe,' she added, thoughtfull}^, as she knocked off 
 the top of a stinging-nettle, which happened to be in 
 her path. 
 
 ' Time will show,' rejoined the French girl, with 
 the manner of an oracle. ' But I think you will see 
 that eventually all will not go so smoothly.' 
 
 * Indeed you don't understand ! ' Sophy protested. 
 * It seems to me only the other day that we left off 
 kissing. I do believe wc kissed quite up to fourteen.' 
 
 * Which of you was fourteen — you or he ? ' 
 
 * He was, or he might have been nearly fifteen, and I 
 was about nine or ten ; and then I only left it off because 
 I heard big boj's didn't like their sisters to kiss them.' 
 
 ^Ah, but that was some time ago, which makes a 
 difference. You couldn't do so now, and I think you 
 should leave off teasing him too, and calling him 
 ''Tom." What is his other name?'
 
 172 Sop hi/, or 
 
 ' lie is the son of Sir Pcckliam Ilickathrift of 
 Poynings Abbc}',' answered Soph 3% with some pride; 
 for in her ears this ancient name was like the sounding 
 of a chirion. * But if I called him " Mr. Ilickathrift," 
 he would burst out laughing.' 
 
 * Mo)i Dim, his name is as long as his nose ! And 
 is it possible that ancient abbey, as big almost as a 
 town, belongs only to a "Sir" — a Baronet — your noble 
 of lowest rank ? I imagined at least that it was the 
 possession of some Lord Mayor or Duke ! The com- 
 plications of your Peerage are most mysterious.' 
 
 'Well, I'll try and not tease Tom Ilickathrift so 
 much, though I can assure you he likes it. Besides, he 
 Ivuew I was only in fun. He wasn't really poaching, 
 but good-naturedly shooting us a few pheasants, as he 
 knew we had company ; and the best of it is, that 
 they're not our pheasants, but his — the poor things 
 come into our ground from both sides. When I was a 
 little girl, I used to attract them with corn and raisins, 
 and, I'm sorry to say, now Nelus sometimes sets clams 
 for them, when Tom isn't here to shoot them. My 
 father, as you know, is half a vegetarian, as he objects 
 to destroying innocent life. If he fancies, however, 
 that the pheasants get into clams set for destructive 
 creatures — quite by accident — he doesn't mind eating 
 them ; and I think it's good for him, as he seems to 
 live upon air. I'm in treaty for some new steel clams 
 that won't hurt the poor birds so much, and perhaps 
 w^e shall catch you some to take back with you. ' You 
 see,' added the youthful poacher philosophically, ' if we 
 didn't kill the poor creatures, somebody else would ! 
 One hears nothing but guns in the shooting season 
 popping round one in all directions. It's dreadfully 
 cruel.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 173 
 
 ' My sister,' said Adele, * likes very much birds of 
 all kinds — to eat. But now, tell me, on which side is 
 the property of your uncle ? ' 
 
 * There : all those oak and beech-woods I pointed 
 out to you before. If you like, I'll show you where I 
 used to meet my cousin when we were both children ; ' 
 and she led the way through the hazel-copse towards 
 Great Stillingfleet. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening in the middle of 
 October. A good deal of rain had fallen at the com- 
 mencement of the month ; and this had been almost 
 the first fine day, though the clear pink and primrose 
 of the heavens seemed to promise just such another 
 to-morrow. In the air there was certainly a suspicion 
 of coming frost, but only enough to tinge the cheeks of 
 Sophy and Adele with what looked like a reflection of 
 the rosy sky, without causing them to feel chilled ; 
 and all Nature, as after a gala-day, appeared to be 
 sinking gradually and gratefully to rest, lulled by a 
 thousand little murmuring sounds from bird, beetle, 
 and belated humming-bee. 
 
 When they had reached the well-known five-barred 
 gate, the two girls remained for some moments in 
 silence, leaning their arms upon it, and gazing up at 
 the woods of Pallingridge Park. 
 
 * How beautiful it is ! ' exclaimed Sophy at last. 
 'Could anything be more lovely?' 
 
 * I am wondering in what colours one could paint 
 it,' rejoined Adele, who, under the auspices of her 
 friend, had been dabbling in water-colours. 
 
 ' I should begin by turning my paper upside down,' 
 Sophy answered, ' to prevent the colours from running 
 the wrong way ; and then I should dash in a streak of 
 yellow-ochre, or Indian yellow, at the lower part of the
 
 1 74 Sophy ^ 
 
 or 
 
 sky, close to -where I had sketched the line of the earth. 
 This I should allow to run into a little pink-madder or 
 lake, which would run into the indigo that I should lay 
 on next. If I put blue next to yellow it would make 
 green, so I separate them by the lake, and the indigo 
 meeting it, would make just that lovely purple we see 
 there over the pink.' 
 
 'I long to try it,' said Adele. 'And then, what 
 would you do next ? ' 
 
 ' I should let it get quite dry, and then mix to- 
 gether all the colours I had used in the sky — indigo, 
 lake, and yellow-ochre — only a great deal stronger, and 
 not quite so wet ; and with these I should dash in that 
 mass of dark woodland as bravel}' as I could, avoiding, 
 above all things, going over my work twice. I should 
 then carry what colour I had to spare diovm into the 
 foreground, leaving the paper unpainted for that streak 
 of water which you see there looking quite white in the 
 distance : and then, after that was dry, I should darken 
 the nearer trees and shadows, and, if I could, I would 
 paint in that violet cloud there, Avhich is floating across 
 the pink sky just like a great eagle. Ah, look ! . . . 
 As we are speaking its neck is getting longer and 
 longer, and now it has quite floated away from its body. 
 That's the worst of the sky ; it won't ever stand still 
 for a single moment ! ' 
 
 ' Leading this happ}^ life,' remarked the French 
 girl sadly, ' you have nothing to occupy you but the 
 forms of the trees and the colour of the sk}^ How I 
 envy you ! To me this is all as a delightful dream ; 
 but soon will come the awakening when I return to 
 London, and then quelle vie, quelle existence, mon Dieu ! ' 
 
 'And yet,' her companion answered ' surely yours 
 is a much happier life than that of most people ? You
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 175 
 
 live in London, where you can see pleasant society ; 
 and you can help your sister, and get to know all the 
 clever persons who come to be mesmerised, and learn 
 so much that must be worth knowing.' 
 
 * I do not find them particularly clcA^er,' rejoined 
 Adele ; ' neither do I desire to learn what they would 
 be best calculated to teach. I have been too long 
 mixed up with the "behind-the-scenes;" to me it is 
 all a supreme hetisc' 
 
 ' How do you mean ? You don't mean to say that 
 your sister is an impostor ? ' 
 
 ' I mean to say,' replied Adele, ^ that she is not my 
 sister at all. Heaven knows who are my real rela- 
 tions ! They must have disposed of me when I was 
 too young to know them, in order that I might go 
 through these so-called mesmeric performances — to act 
 a lie, to pretend to be other than I am. Alas, when 
 will it all end?' 
 
 ' Dear Adele ! ' said Sophy, trying to console her ; 
 ' it must end some day, of course, and then you will go 
 home again to your real relations. Mademoiselle de 
 Cramponaj^e will know who they are. You must try 
 to imagine that you are only at school.' 
 
 *Alas!' exclaimed Adele, sadly, * to whose home 
 am I to go ? I have none ; neither have I any means 
 of discovering the parents who have cast me off.' 
 
 * Well, but some day you will have a home of your 
 own, dear. You are very nice and very pretty ; some 
 day you will marry, and go away from Wimpole Street 
 with your husband, and be as happy as possible.' 
 
 ' I do not think,' answered Adele, ' that this is 
 at all likely — the happiness, I mean. I have had only 
 one real proj^osition of marriage in my life. It is the 
 first, and probably it will be the last.'
 
 17G Sojyhij, or 
 
 ' Then I should certainly accept it,' said Sophy, in 
 a decided tone. (Thus lif^htly and ignorantly do we 
 often dispose of the destinies of our neighbours !) 
 
 ' It is occupying very much my mind at the present 
 time,' rejoined the French girl, sighing. ' There are 
 moments when I think that I will most certainly accept 
 it, and then at otliers my heart is revolted at the very 
 idea.' 
 
 'Ah, but I shoiddn't mind that one hit,^ cried her 
 friend. ' I should certainly marry. What is the name 
 of your admirer, and what is he like ? ' 
 
 * It is that,' Adele replied with a shudder, ' which 
 makes the idea so very terrible. His appearance is at 
 the root of it.' 
 
 'Ah, but everij one says,' Sophy cut in eagerly, — 
 * much wiser and more experienced j)eople than I am, — 
 that good looks in a husband are not of the slightest 
 consequence ; and look how happy some women appear 
 to be, married to ugly men ! In a week jou will quite 
 forget what he is like.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; never, never ! ' cried Adele, earnestly. * I 
 should never, never be able to forget that terrible face ! 
 You know quite well the person who has made me this 
 proposition — Mr. Wilson, of whom you speak as Mr. 
 Carver. Ah ! how can I ever forget that he is black?' 
 
 ' Carver ! ' exclaimed Sophy, with an expression of 
 horror. ' What a terrible thought ! How dared he 
 propose to you?' 
 
 ' It would have been a very desirable marriage for 
 me in many respects,' rejoined Adele, humbly. ' And 
 had he been of the same colour as everybody else, I 
 think it might even now have been arranged. He is 
 possessed of a good fortune, part of which he has 
 acquired professionally ; ho is interested in those sub-
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. Ill 
 
 jects which I have studied under the auspices of my 
 pretended sister, and I should have been useful to him 
 in the production of the phenomena necessary to his 
 representations. My sister is in favour of it ; for we 
 should then take a larger house, and perhaps all live 
 under one roof, unless she also should marry . . . .' 
 
 * Adele ! ' cried Sophy indignantly, ' how could 
 she wish it ? It must, indeed, never be ! Surely any- 
 thing would be better than that ! For myself, I know 
 that I would rather beg or starve/ 
 
 ' You J who have never had occasion to do either, and 
 who are born to fortune and happiness, can afford to 
 speak like this ; but to 7ne the idea of a permanent 
 home . . .* 
 
 ^A permanent home !' repeated Sophy ; 'that would 
 be the most terrible part of it ! A permanent home 
 with a permanent " mumbo- jumbo " in it ! ' 
 
 * I think you have decided me against it ; it did not 
 require more than the weight of a straw.' 
 
 'I am indeed thankful if I have. And now you 
 will feel much happier. Consider that, if Mademoiselle 
 de Cramponaye is not actually your sister, you should 
 be all the more grateful for her care of you. She 
 really seems very kind.' 
 
 'She appears kind,' answered Adele, in a marked 
 tone. 'But she is always acting a part. She will 
 appear kind too, no doubt, to other people, when she 
 becomes your stepmother . . .' 
 
 ' When she becomes my stepmother ?' repeated Sophy, 
 changing colour. ' What can you mean ?' 
 
 ' I mean,' answered the French girl, ' that for a long 
 time she has been endeavouring to marry your father, 
 and it is only you who have not perceived it.' 
 
 ' Oh, it can't be true ! ' exclaimed Soj^hy, feeling a 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 Sophy ^ or 
 
 chill at licr heart, whilst the doubts and suspicions she 
 had tried hard to thrust aside rushed back upon her 
 with redoubled force. * He never, never would marry 
 ajrain ! He doesn't care for her in the least ! He would 
 be quite as much surprised to hear of it as I am.' 
 
 'I have told her that he docs not care,' Adele 
 answered. ' I have said that he was of so vague and 
 dreamy a disposition that he did not see what was 
 under his nose . . .' 
 
 * He does not even see what is under his eyes, poor 
 darling ! And how was he, so trustful and unsus- 
 pecting as he is, to see through the machinations of 
 that woman ? But I will defeat them ! ' she cried, 
 clenching her little fist, and bringing it down with 
 some force upon the top of the gate — 'I will defeat 
 them ! ' 
 
 'And why,' Adele asked, feeling called upon to 
 advise in her turn, * should you speak of these matri- 
 monial designs as " machinations ? " In life it is the 
 desire of every ambitious person to rise, and happy are 
 fchey who can do this without the sacrifice of their self- 
 respect ! My pretended sister entertains the project 
 of marrying your father. She has weighed it and 
 considered it in every light, and has arrived at the 
 conclusion that it will be in all ways beneficial to her- 
 self and injurious to no one.' 
 
 'It is injurious to 7no!^ exclaimed Sophy, in an 
 altered voice. ' It will be stealing from me all that I 
 love upon earth ! ' 
 
 'And for how long will you love him?' asked the 
 French girl. ' For only a very little while ; and then 
 some young man will step in, who has never rendered 
 you, perhaps, the slightest service, but you will love 
 him twenty times as much, and he will carr}'- you
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 179 
 
 away ; whilst your father, who has given you all his 
 care, will seem as nothing to you, and will be left alone 
 in his blindness.' 
 
 * I assure you,' Sophy protested earnestly, ' that I 
 shall never marry. It would be impossible to me to 
 leave him.' 
 
 ' Time will show,' replied Adele, quietly. * But I 
 should have said that you were of the kind that will 
 be certain to be married before very long ; and bounded 
 as you are, on the right hand by *' The Prince with the 
 Nose," and on the left by " the young man of the tor- 
 toise," it will be strange, indeed, if eventually you do 
 not fall to the lot of one or the other of them. / am 
 for the Prince with the Nose ! ' 
 
 ' That is absurd ! ' said Sophy, somewhat brusquelj''. 
 'You speak without understanding. Come, let us go 
 home.' 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 "When Mr. Hickathrift had said that he hoped soon 
 to have the pleasure of seeing Miss St. Clair and her 
 friend again, he had meant to express himself in a 
 very significant manner ; and sure enough, upon the 
 following morning he presented himself at Little 
 Stillingfleet. 
 
 Sophy received him with a cordial grasp of the 
 hand, which seemed to send the blood throbbing back 
 to his heart. He noticed, too, with concern, that she 
 looked extremely pale, and that her eyes appeared even 
 larger and darker than usual. The fact was, she had 
 not slept ' a wink ' all night in consequence of the con- 
 flicting emotions aroused by Adele' s disclosures ; and
 
 180 Sophy , or 
 
 the presence of her ohl comrade and neighbour seeming 
 to her like a solace, she grasj)ed his hand rather more 
 warmly than had been her wont. For Thomas Ilicka- 
 thrift, at any rate, was gominc. Everything about him 
 was real, even the hereditary feature, which she had 
 often wished had been false, in order that she might 
 have screwed it off and left him beautiful as a hero 
 of romance. Like the conscientious Buddhist, she was 
 beginning to shed her illusions, though, far from de- 
 riving happiness from the process, her heart ached 
 anew with every fresh demolition. 
 
 Apart from the sense of disappointment which 
 somehow seemed always to follow upon a closer con- 
 templation of the tenets of the Great Cause, other 
 
 * causes,' convictions, and characters, appeared gradually 
 to be losing form and substance, and evaporating, as it 
 were, into thinnest air. 
 
 The so-called 'Aztec Remnants,' it was now sur- 
 mised, had had in reality very little to do with ' the 
 magnificent city of Ixymaya,' and * the ancient sacer- 
 dotal caste,' so frequently alluded to in the pages of the 
 pink pamphlet. Nay, even Sophy's father, notwith- 
 standing his floating fund of credulity, was gradually 
 veering round to the opinion expressed by his more 
 conventional neighbour, Sir Peckham Hickathrift, to 
 the effect that they had been in all probability 
 
 * Jew-dwarf -idiots ' rescued from the purlieus of 
 Whitechapel. 
 
 Carver, too, was not * Carver.' He was in reality 
 
 * Wilson,' or else, he was in reality * Carver,' whilst 
 
 * Wilson ' was only an assumed name. Adele de Cram- 
 ponaye had properly no right to be called * de Cram- 
 ponaye ' at all. She was the unfortunate child of 
 parents '\\'ho had abandoned her — nameless, homeless,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 181 
 
 a waif and a stray. Mademoiselle de Cramponayc (tlie 
 elder) was also an impostor. An adventuress and a 
 quack, endeavouring to better herself by an interested 
 marriage, whilst her clairvoyant and mesmeric pre- 
 tensions were all, according to Adele's assertion, a 
 supreme hetise ; but Thomas Ilickathrift was no other 
 than Thomas Hickathrift, as all the world knew, and 
 in Sophy's present frame of mind this knowledge 
 brought with it consolation. 
 
 It transpired that the object of his visit was to 
 invite Miss St. Clair and her young French friend 
 to a ball, which was to be given at the Abbey ere 
 long, and which it was intended should be a com- 
 bination of the usual yeomanry ball with certain fes- 
 tivities ensuing upon the occasion of his coming of age ; 
 for which reason it was to take place at the Abbey 
 instead of at the George Hotel, and to be attended with 
 circumstances of extraordinary magnificence ; and, in- 
 deed, Mr. Hickathrift's public coming of age had been 
 postponed for nearly six months in order to ' kill two 
 birds with one stone,' by selecting a time of j^ear when 
 most of the leading county families would be able to 
 assist at it. 
 
 He had brought with him a formal invitation from 
 his mother addressed to Sophy, which, in order to show 
 the friendly feeling at this time existing between the 
 two families, I will transcribe at full length : it will 
 also give the reader some idea of Lady Hickathrift's 
 peculiar punctuation and style. It ran as follows : — 
 
 ' My dear Sophia, — As an old friend, once, of your 
 father's, the' of late years, circumstances, religious, and 
 political differences of opinion, &c., &c., have combined to 
 separate us more tlian would have been the case, I fondly 
 trust, had the tastes of ISir Peckham and himself been
 
 182 Sophy ^ or 
 
 more in common, which I regret to say has not been 
 vouchsafed. May I hope that you will be permitted by 
 him to join the company we shall do the honour of in- 
 viting to a ball in celebration of the birth of our dear son, 
 which would have taken place (as usual), at the Assembly 
 Kooms of the George Hotel, on the 29th of this month, 
 but, as is at present aiTanged, at the Abbey, in the ancient 
 crypt. (Dancing to commence at half-past nine o'clock.) 
 I am informed, by my dear son, that you have, staying with 
 you, a young French lady, whom, tho' we have determined 
 upon our company's being as select as possible, as she is a 
 friend of yours, pray invite de ma part — bad manners, or 
 breach of courtesy, being my abhorrence, as it is also Sir 
 Peckham's, I need not say. Did I but know her name, I 
 would write her a formal invitation ivith my own hand, 
 which I am sure she will excuse under the circumstances. 
 By coming early on Thursday, you will appear to be under 
 my iving to those who do not. As you have no mother, you 
 will, perhajDS, excuse me for mentioning that white is usually 
 worn by dehitantes, particularly before their presentation at 
 Court, and even afterwards. I can recall my own dress as 
 being of that colour at a Court ball I attended previous to 
 my portrait's appearing in the Booh of Beauty. With our 
 compliments to your father, believe me, my dear Sophia, 
 yours affectionately, A. Hickathrift.' 
 
 * Of course,' Sophy remarked, after reading this 
 letter aloud to her father, ' I can't go ! Give my love 
 to your mother, Tom, and tell her that the idea of my 
 ever going to a ball seems quite ridiculous. Adele can 
 go if she likes.' 
 
 ' We are, unfortunately, obliged to return to Lon- 
 don to-morrow,' answered the magnetic lady, in what 
 Sophy afterwards described as * a kicked-dog voice,' 
 * so my sister will not be able to avail herself of the 
 amiable invitation of miladi.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 183 
 
 At these words, so great was the weight which 
 seemed suddenly to have lifted itself from Sophy's 
 heart, that she could have performed then and there a 
 spirited dance of delight, without attending the Great 
 Hickathrift Ball. 
 
 ' I don't see why the lovely and intelligent Sophia 
 should not have the pleasure of attending the festivities 
 upon this auspicious occasion,' Francis St. Clair re- 
 marked, greatly to his daughter's astonishment, as he 
 turned his sightless eyes towards the place where he 
 imagined that she was sitting. 
 
 ' But I don't believe I can dance ! ' she answered, 
 looking terrified ; * and then,' she added, making use 
 of one of the favourite subterfuges of her sex, 'I 
 haven't got a dress ! ' 
 
 ' As I am returning to-morrow morning to London, 
 can I not be of some use in ordering one ? ' inquirqji 
 Mdlle. de Cramponaye, still in the voice of a sonffre- 
 douleiir. 
 
 * How fortunate it is that you should happen to be 
 returning just now ! ' exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, with 
 naivete. ^ If you would have the kindness to order 
 what she will require, I shall feel extremely obliged. 
 It is not often that we could hope for the co-operation 
 of so valuable an ally ! ' 
 
 * But the dress won't fit ! ' said Sophy, making a 
 last effort. ' It won't have been tried on ! ' 
 
 ' I shall take the measure of your waist, your 
 shoulders, your round the chest, and the length of 
 your skirt, behind and before,' answered Mdlle. de 
 Cramponaye the elder. * Run upstairs, Adele, and 
 fetch me my centimetre.* 
 
 'Fifty-seven centimetres round the waist, 105 round 
 the shoulders, length of jupc in front 109, at the back
 
 184 ' Sophy, or 
 
 119,' mumiurod maflemoisollo, as she measured Sophy 
 witli the facility of an experienced dressmaker. ' The 
 dress shall be white. With regard to flowers, do you 
 prefer margticritcs, or will you be satisfied with natural 
 ivy?' 
 
 * Oh, natural 'wy,^ answered Sophy, carried away in 
 spite of herself. ' It costs less.' 
 
 ' Before arranging it upon the dress,' said Adele, 
 * take only so much of oil of salade as might be placed 
 in the eye, and rub over with it each leaf, wiping them 
 afterwards ; this causes a very pretty effect, as though 
 of wetness.' 
 
 ' It sounds awfully pretty,' remarked Mr. Hicka- 
 thrift, who, astride on the seat of a chair, was gazing 
 at Sophy over the back of it in rapturous admiration. 
 
 'And next, if you will give me one of your shoes,' 
 continued Mdlle. de Cramponaye, as though anxious to 
 perform every jot and tittle of her commission, ^ I w411 
 have a pair of white-satin shoes sent to you at the same 
 time as the dress.' 
 
 * Oh, thank you ! ' answered Sophy, beginning un- 
 consciously to flush with enthusiasm. ' My foot is the 
 same size as Adele's.' 
 
 ' That will do, then,' said the clairvoyante, winding 
 up her centimetre, with a sigh. 
 
 * Perhaps I might go as far as the Abbej'' to-morrow, 
 when mademoiselle goes away,' remarked Sophy, ad- 
 dressing herself to the blind man. * I could go in the 
 fly, and then I could talk it over with Lady Hicka- 
 thrift.' 
 
 ' That will be capital ! ' cried Tom. ' You must 
 stay to luncheon, and mother will drive you back in 
 the pony-carriage.' 
 
 At this allusion to her approaching departure, so
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 185 
 
 melancholy was the expression that passed over the 
 countenance of the elder of the soi-disant sisters, that 
 Sophy could not help asking herself whether tliere 
 might not have mingled, after all, something of heart 
 as well as head in her matrimonial calculations. Of 
 one thing she felt almost certain, — an explanation of 
 some kind had taken place between her father and 
 the Frenchwoman ; and her manner and bearing was 
 strangely like that of a disappointed suitor fleeing from 
 the scene of discomfiture. There are some things, 
 however, which are destined to remain for ever unex- 
 plained, and which it is best to dismiss at once from 
 the mind in order that they may take their places 
 alongside of such impenetrable mj^steries as the parent- 
 age of Perkin Warbeck, the birthright of the Bourbon 
 black nun, the man with the iron mask, the authorship 
 of. the letters of Junius, and a thousand other unan- 
 swered riddles, to endeavour to divine which is urfpro- 
 fitable in the highest degree ; and Sophy, realising this, 
 endeavoured, in the present instance, to dismiss her 
 fears, feeling that upon Mdlle. de Cramponaye's depar- 
 ture the prime cause of her anxiety would be removed. 
 
 'Perhaps, Tom, you would kindly order a fly for 
 to-morrow ?' she said, as she bade farewell to the young 
 man with the retriever face. 'A shut one, please, as 
 there'll be some luggage. How tiresome it is that 
 the coach doesn't pick one up now at the gate as it 
 used to do ! ' 
 
 Before quitting Little Stillingfleet, Adele felt called 
 upon to give her friend another serious lecture upon 
 her behaviour in * making Mr. Ilickathrift ' (as she 
 remarked) ' fetch and carry, as though in truth he were 
 no better than the dog he so much resembles ! ' 
 
 * As if any man could be better than the best of
 
 18G SopJn/, or 
 
 dogs ! ' replied Sophy, laughing. * It's a compliment 
 to treat him like one, and he appreciates it.' 
 
 ' Ah, you are so happy that you can afford to be a 
 little cruel perhaps ! It is not my place, after all, to 
 give you advice.' 
 
 ' You may r/ire as much as you like ; I am not 
 obliged to take it ! I hope, however, that you will not 
 altogether neglect ?/^^V^^, for I too, like most people, 
 can give extraordinarily wise counsel to others. Re- 
 member that your present existence, however miserable, 
 may at any moment change for the better ; whereas 
 once you are unhappily married your life is, as it were, 
 done for — at any rate, it will go on getting worse and 
 worse.' 
 
 ' Sometimes,' remarked Adele pensively, ' the first 
 husband will die, and one marries a second more 
 agreeable.' 
 
 ' Then I should certainly begin with the second,' 
 cut in Sophy eagerly. 
 
 ' Alas, that is impossible ! He has no fortune, and 
 the idea of our marriage has had at last to be aban- 
 doned.' 
 
 ' What ! do you know him already ? ' cried Sophy, 
 astonished at her friend's idea of approaching a second 
 husband through the medium of the first. ' I hope 
 that he is irhite, at any rate.' 
 
 ' Indeed, yes. He is a professor of poetry, history, 
 and elocution ; young and beautiful as an angel, but 
 without fortune. To marry at present would be to 
 endanger the success of his career, so we have had to 
 relinquish all thought of it.' 
 
 ' But you are sure to have other proposals,' said 
 Sophy encouragingly. * You are very young and very 
 pretty, so I shoidd certainly not marry, if I were you.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 187 
 
 a person I wished out of the way. It must be sucli a 
 terrible position. Besides,' she added, ' I believe nasty 
 disagreeable people hardly ever do die. It seems always 
 the nice ones that go.' 
 
 * Rather is it, perhaps,' replied the French girl, 
 * that once they are gone we speak of them as though 
 they had been nice ; knowing that they can never 
 annoy us again, we forgive them, and try to forget 
 their nastiness.' 
 
 * Perhaps so,' Sophy rejoined dreamily. ' With me, 
 however — that is, in my small circle of friends — no 
 one has ever died yet, ** nice " or '' nasty." ' 
 
 * TJnherufen ! For once I must use a horrid Ger- 
 man word. Take care what you say, and do not 
 boast.' 
 
 * I don't see,' continued Sophy, with the manner of 
 one thinking aloud, * that there are many people even 
 in nij/ small world whose deaths would really grieve me. 
 There's my father, of course ; but I'm thankful to say, 
 except for his blindness, he is as well as possible : he 
 looks a little weary sometimes, and his face has grown 
 lately terribly sad, but he has never had an ache or 
 pain. Then there is Tom Ilickathrift and Janus ; but, 
 you see,' she added cheerfully, ' I don't present a very 
 wide target to the arrows of Fate ! ' 
 
 * How poetical you are ! For you, the well-turned 
 epigram, the allusion enveloped in metaphor ; for me, 
 the stern battle of life, the crude reality, the pill with- 
 out the gilding, and unaccompanied by bonbons ! . . . 
 But yet there is the young man of the tortoise, who 
 will probably occupy some place in your life after you 
 have met him at this ball ? ' 
 
 * Do you really think that I shall meet him ? ' asked 
 Sophy, opening her large eyes with a startled expres-
 
 188 Sophy ^ or 
 
 sion. * All, but even if I do, he probably won't know 
 me again ! ' 
 
 * He will know you soon enough if you are admired, 
 and have a success/ answered Adele, somewhat bitterly. 
 * For that is the way with men.' 
 
 ' I never thought for a moment that I should meet 
 him,' said Sophy, still looking alarmed. ' Do you really 
 think that my dress will fit P' 
 
 ' I will answer that it shall,' replied her friend re- 
 assuringly. *And then, after I have superintended 
 your toilette de hal, do not be surprised if I run away to 
 escape from my own complications. Take warning by 
 me, ere you permit yourself to become involved with 
 two persons ! ' 
 
 After which final piece of advice the two young 
 ladies proceeded together downstairs, and sought the 
 society of their elders. 
 
 The Poynings fly, obedient to Mr. Hickathrift's 
 orders, arrived on the morrow at the appointed hour ; 
 and as soon as the French ladies had taken their 
 places, Sophy sprang into it with a lighter heart than 
 she had felt for some days. Notwithstanding her 
 friendship for Adele, it was impossible to repress a 
 sensation of intense relief. The door of the fly was 
 closed at last, and after an exchange of parting civilities 
 with the blind man, the driver mounted upon the box, 
 and directed his way up the serpentine road which led 
 towards Poynings, having received instructions to set 
 down Miss St. Clair at the Abbey before conveying her 
 companions to the George Inn.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 189 
 
 ClIAPTEll lY. 
 
 At length tlie day arrived upon which was to be 
 celebrated the twenty-first anniversary of the birth of 
 Thomas Hickathrift, which (according to the wording 
 of his mother's letter) ' icould have taken place (as 
 usual), at the Assembly Rooms of the George Hotel, 
 on the 29th of this month, but, as is at present ar- 
 ranged, at the Abbey, in the ancient crypt. (Dancing 
 to commence at half -past nine o'clock.)' And nearly 
 an hour before the appointed time Miss St. Clair pre- 
 sented herself at Poynings fully equipped for the 
 evening. 
 
 A girl's first ball-dress is not always a source of un- 
 qualified gratification to its wearer. More commonly, 
 indeed, it serves only to impress upon her the truth of 
 the saying that ' ilfaut soiiffrir pour etre helle ; ' and as 
 this was the only occasion, since she had arrived at years 
 of discretion, upon which Sophy had appeared in the 
 costume which modern fashion demanded, she could not 
 help feeling rather shy as she glanced down at her bare 
 arms and shoulders, fearing lest, by some untoward 
 movement, she might slip altogether out of her gos- 
 samer raiment, and appear in the more classical undress 
 of the typical wood-nymph she so much resembled, with 
 her * strange sweet face and tresses ivy-crowned.' 
 
 No such catastrophe, however, was destined to come 
 to pass. The dress, by some manner of miracle, kept 
 in its appointed place ; and upon beholding with what 
 apparent indifference good Lady Hickathrift displayed 
 to the multitude the bones and articulations of her 
 meagre frame, Sophy felt her confidence in a great 
 measure restored. 
 
 She had been permitted, upon her arrival at the
 
 190 Sophy, or 
 
 Abbey, to penetrate even unto the sacred precincts of 
 tbe dressing-room, where she had looked on with interest 
 whilst Miss Peacock gave the finishing touches to a 
 most gorgeous and expensive * twilight.' This consisted 
 of a dress of orange-coloured moire antique, over which 
 was scattered a profusion of black lace, and what the 
 abigail designated 'Jfeitrs de cham,^ which, when trans- 
 lated, seemed to mean buckwheat, poppies, and other 
 autumn field-flowers. The idea was repeated in the 
 
 * coifoor,' arranged in pyramidal form, somewhat a 
 VEfipagnoIe, and the whole effect appeared to Sophy 
 terrible and imposing in the extreme. 
 
 The w^earer of this magnificent costume advanced 
 towards her with the utmost cordiality as soon as it had 
 been successfully adjusted. 
 
 ' My dear Sophia,' she exclaimed admiringly, ' you 
 really look quite charming ! I had hardly expected, 
 indeed, that you would have been dressed with so much 
 *' goo." Look, Peacock, how new and " recherche f/" is 
 the " eorsarge*\f' 
 
 ' It is indeed most stylish, my lady,' replied Miss 
 Peacock approvingly. ' And I think I might do //up 
 your ladyship's maroon " glacey " in the same fashion 
 for the ^evening.' 
 
 * It was not my idea,' stammered out Sophy, blushing 
 under such sustained admiration. ' Those two French 
 ladies who were staying with us — one of whom (the 
 youngest one, Adele) you so kindly invited to-night, 
 only she couldn't come — tJicij ordered it.' 
 
 ' My dear Sophia ! ' exclaimed Lady Ilickathrif t, 
 whose every sentence took the form of an interjection, 
 
 * that perfectly explains it, for the ** goo " is thoroughly 
 Parisian ! But where,' she added suddenly, in a tone 
 of perturbation, *are your fan and pocket-handker- 
 chief?'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 191 
 
 * My pocket-handkerchief/ explained Sophy simply, 
 is pinned on underneath my silk " slip," as there wasn't 
 a pocket in the dress ; and I haven't got a fan.' 
 
 * Dear me /' cried her ladyship ; and though she was 
 apparently * less angry than sad,' it was easy for Soj^hy 
 to perceive that she had already committed some egre- 
 gious breach of etiquette. ' The fan and pocket-hand- 
 kerchief of a debutante,' said Lady Hickathrift, with 
 solemnity, ' are invariably held in the left hand — thus 
 . . . ;' and, at a sign from her mistress, Peacock rushed 
 breathlessly towards the wardrobe. 
 
 ' Here, my dear Sophia,' her ladyship continued, 
 presenting Sophy with a fan and a piece of lace, ' is a 
 fan ; be careful of it, and do not on any account use it 
 for fanning yourself, but hold it in your hand — so . . . 
 the figures are very beautifully painted in imitation of 
 Watteau. Here also, dear child, is a pocket-handker- 
 chief — perhaps you could make use of the one you have 
 pinned under your silk slip ; but hold this, with the 
 fan, in your hand, so ... . I have (as Peacock will 
 tell you) a special " sentimong " for both the fan and 
 pocket-handkerchief, as I was painted with them in my 
 hand in the portrait of myself which was afterwards 
 engraved . . . .' 
 
 But at this moment a clanking sound, as though of 
 spurs, sword, and sabretache, drowned Lady Hicka- 
 thrift's reminiscences, and ' The Prince with the Nose,' 
 arrayed in all the glories of costimae belonging to the 
 
 ' Yeomanry Cavalr}^,' dashed into the apartment 
 
 without perceiving Miss St. Clair, saying as he did 
 so, — 
 
 ' There, mother ! Do you think I shall do ? ' 
 
 Upon observing Sophy, he blushed very uncomfort- 
 ably ; and she, too, could not help feeling confused.
 
 192 Sophy ^ or 
 
 Miss Peacock, however, came to the rescue, and in 
 some measure (lisi)ellccl tlieir embarrassment by ex- 
 claiming, — 
 
 ' IIo, my lady, might the Miss Spearinks come in 
 and sec your ladyship (/resscd ? And I am sure, mum,' 
 she added, turning to Sophy, ' they would very much 
 like to see your " twilight " as well.' 
 
 (Oh, the relief and pride experienced when one is 
 called for the first time * mum,' instead of the inevitable 
 and perpetually-recurring ' miss ! ') 
 
 ' I am sure I see no reason why the Miss Spearings 
 should desire to look at me /' Lady Hickathrift re- 
 marked, fishing as usual for a compliment. 
 
 ' Ho, nif/ lady /' was all Peacock had time to exclaim, 
 reproachfully, as she hurried off to fetch the impatient 
 Spearings, who, upon being ushered into the presence- 
 chamber (as Sophy afterwards informed her father) 
 'prowled round' herself and Lady Hickathrift 'like 
 wild beasts sniffing at their prey ; ' nor was there the 
 slightest detail in either costume which they could not 
 have faithfully reproduced upon the morrow in the in- 
 terests of their calling. 
 
 ' I'm glad that's over at last,' said Sophy, as she 
 and Mr. Hickathrift descended the grand staircase 
 together. * How shy it made one feel ! ' 
 
 ' I don't fancy I should feel very shy if I looked 
 like you,' answered he, rapturously ; and, indeed, at 
 that moment, Sophy could not repress the pleasant 
 consciousness of being a great deal better-looking than 
 most people. It came upon her for the first time in 
 her life, and it was, no doubt, an enjoyable sensation 
 on the whole. Still, she was strangely out of her ele- 
 ment ; and she entered the brilliantly-lighted ball- 
 room feeling like a person under the influence of
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 193 
 
 hasheesh wlien the action of the drug has been exhila- 
 rating rather than depressing. 
 
 O youth ! delicious time ! Time of the quick- 
 flushing cheek, of the down- drooping eyelashes, of the 
 heart that is set beating for so little and yet for so 
 many ! With all thy snares, heartaches, delusions, 
 and tribulations, who is there that would not have thee 
 back, were it possible that thou couldst revisit us 
 again ? For, surely, of all pleasures, this is the one 
 which would the least pall with the twice tasting, 
 and then — our first youth mapped out behind us like 
 a country already explored, with its finger-posts, light- 
 houses, and danger-signals — who but a fool would ever 
 turn aside to wander into crooked pathways, or topple 
 headlong into the depths of an abyss ? . . . 
 
 Alas, vain desires and vainer resolutions ! We 
 have scampered rashly and hastily through the en- 
 chanted country, scarcely pausing even to observe ife 
 wealth of bud and blossom. We have sown broadcast 
 our wheat or our tares, built our house upon the rock 
 or the shifting sand, hoarded or dissipated our talents ; 
 and now, maybe, the journey is well-nigh accomplished, 
 the harvesting is overpassed, and either our wisdom or 
 our folly rises up as a witness against us, and stares us 
 nakedly in the face ! ... But I am moralising at a 
 ball ; and though it is, perhaps, the place of all others 
 where one feels the most tempted to indulge in such 
 profitless occupation, no one has a right to interfere 
 with the dancing. 
 
 A few guests only were as yet assembled — persons, 
 chiefly, who had come from a long way off, and who 
 had miscalculated the time it would take to get to the 
 Abbey. These were standing about in groups upon 
 the slippery floor of the ball-room, whilst Sir Peckhara, 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 Sophy ^ or 
 
 walking-stick in hand, passed cautiously from one to 
 the other, endeavourijij]^ to fill up the interregnum pre- 
 vious to the advent of his wife with a little spasmodic 
 conversation. 
 
 * O Tom ! ' Sophy exclaimed, looking up at the 
 son of the house, as he stood now in the full light, glit- 
 tering in martial panoply, his tall figure towering 
 ahove those of the assembled guests, ' I feel so dreud- 
 f ullv nervous ! You promised you would dance the first 
 dance with me. Tell me, do I look very horrid ? ' 
 
 ' You look quite beaictifnl,' answered the yoimg man, 
 enthusiastically, his fine gray eyes beaming tenderly 
 from ahove the hereditary feature ; * and I'll dance 
 with you, of course, as many dances as you like.' 
 
 * Thank you ! How kind you are ! I can't help, 
 of course, feeling rather strange at first ; but I'm never 
 frightened when I'm with you. How nice you look in 
 your uniform ! And what a dear little jacket that is, 
 trimmed with fur, that hangs down by your left arm ! ' 
 
 ' I'm so glad you like it,' Tom answered, pressing 
 her hand gratefully. ' Now you must let me take you 
 all through the rooms.' And they started off upon a 
 sentimental journey, Sophy having received an ap- 
 proving nod from her ' cJiaperoone,'' as good Lady 
 Ilickathrift styled herself. 
 
 After traversing a long corridor, gaily decked out 
 for the occasion, they reached a small anteroom, where 
 Miss Peacock and a bevy of fair syrens were alread}^ 
 presiding at a tea-table. Peacock, who had received 
 her cue from Lady Ilickathrift, assumed an expression 
 of rapturous admiration on beholding Sophy upon the 
 arm of her young master. 
 
 'Tea, coffee, liieed coffee, or lemonade^ mum?' she 
 asKed, in her most persuasive accents.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 195 
 
 * Nothing, thank you,' replied Sophy. ' Oh, what 
 a delicious room ! ' And she flung herself into an 
 easy-chair. 
 
 Mr. Hickathrift was beside her in a moment. 
 
 ' This is really all too beautiful ! ' she went on, 
 excitedly. * My head is quite turned by it, so forgive 
 me if I talk nonsense ; for I dare say I shall say things 
 with no meaning, just to hide my shyness, and not to 
 appear to people to be saying nothing. I wonder why 
 they all stare at us so ? ' 
 
 ' It's because you look so lovely ! ' rejoined ber 
 companion, as he leant further towards the easy-chair. 
 * Mother said you'd be sure to be the belle of the 
 ball.' 
 
 * What nonsense ! I made up my mind that 1 
 should look worse than any one else.' 
 
 ' It must be very pleasant to find out your mistake,' 
 said Tom, feeling inspired, and looking unutterable 
 things. 
 
 * I saw myself in a long glass,' she continued, 
 candidly. ' And, after all, I don't really think I 
 looked quite so horrid as I expected . . . ' 
 
 *You shouldn't talk like that,' Mr. Hickathrift 
 interrupted, reproachfully. 'Why run down what I 
 admire so very, very much ? ' 
 
 * Now I think I've got a little more confidence. 
 You can take me back again to the ball-room, if you 
 like.' 
 
 She was somewhat confused under such a fire of 
 compliment, and for the first time in her life felt a 
 desire to escape from a tete-d-tete with her old friend. 
 
 * Oh, why should we go back just yet ?' he asked, 
 looking disappointed. * Have some tea, or coffee, or 
 wine, or lemonade ? ' and he turned to Miss Peacock,
 
 196 Sojiky^ or 
 
 who, thinking the happy moment had come, had sent 
 her assistants behind a screen, and arranged a crash 
 of plates to drown the expected proposal. 
 
 * Perhaps I might stay and have a little coffee/ 
 said Sophy, wavering ; for she shrank above all things 
 from the perfonnance of a hard-hearted action. ' AVine 
 or lemonade, or anything of that kind, would get into 
 my head, as I am not accustomed to it.' 
 
 The coffee gave Mr. Hickathrift a short reprieve. 
 
 ' What an enormous quantity of sugar ! ' she ex- 
 claimed, presently, fishing up a spoonful of sugar-candy 
 from the depths of her cup. ' I don't like sugar. What 
 am I to do with it ? ' 
 
 * I'm afraid it was my fault,' said Tom, in a contrite 
 voice. * I put in too much. I'm so sorry ! But I'm 
 fond of sweet things myself.' 
 
 * Would you like to have it, then ? ' asked the child 
 of Nature, ignoring the implied compliment, and hold- 
 ing out her spoon. 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Mr. Hickathrift, bobbing down 
 his head till he encountered it. 
 
 At this moment three young gentlemen, clad like- 
 wise in the glittering accoutrements of the ' Yeo- 
 manry Cavalry,' came clanking into the tea-room. 
 Mr. Hickathrift and his young companion, being half 
 hidden behind the leaf of the door, escaped their 
 observation at first ; and two of the foremost made 
 their way towards the refreshments, bent, apparently, 
 upon bandying a few polite nothings with the fair 
 beings who were dispensing them, under pretence of 
 asking for a cup of tea. The third young gentleman, 
 ignorant, seemingly, of their intention, turned back 
 when he reached the opposite doorwa)^, and, in seeking 
 for bis companions, his eye lighted upon Miss St. Clair
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 197 
 
 and lier admirer. His brethren-in-arms rejoined him 
 after a while, and they all three passed on together 
 into the ball-room. 
 
 ' Who's the pretty girl that was feeding Hickathrift 
 with sugar, behind the door ? ' inquired the officer who 
 had first sought the tea-table. 
 
 * I don't know,' replied the second ; * but I'll find 
 out : I'll ask Hickathrift. Tom's a capital fellow, so 
 I won't go and ask him now and spoil sport — eh, 
 St. Clair?' 
 
 'I think I can tell you who she is,' answered 
 Godfrey, for it was no other than our former acquaint- 
 ance, Godfrey St. Clair, who, with two friends, had 
 passed through the anteroom. ' I can't be mistaken, 
 though I haven't seen her for years. I think she's a 
 cousin of mine ; she's very much changed since she 
 was a child, but I never saw any one else with eyes 
 like hers.' 
 
 * Oh, who was that?' Sophy exclaimed, as soon as 
 the last speaker had quitted the apartment. * Do tell 
 me ! Can it be Godfrey grown up into an officer ? ' 
 
 It is strange how the memory of a first impression, 
 even if it has changed and taken new substance with 
 the years, will remain with us obstinately for all time. 
 It is not the place here to hint at what the coming 
 years brought, or did not bring, to Sophy St. Clair. 
 Suffice it to say, that with them came no lessening or 
 fading out of a memory which clung tenaciously to the 
 end of her life ; nor could she ever afterwards recall 
 without emotion the new and mysterious sensation 
 which flooded her whole being as she looked, for the 
 first time since the days of her childhood, upon her 
 early playmate, arrayed in the blue-and- silver uniform
 
 198 Sophy ^ or 
 
 which from that moment became to her as a sacred 
 and hallowed garment, because it was that in which 
 was clothed the bright ideal of her fresh young 
 heart. 
 
 * It is, indeed, Godfrey St. Clair,' rejoined Tom, in 
 answer to her question. * Surely you remember him ? 
 He's in mij regiment,' he added, as though he had been 
 the commander of the whole body of yeomanry. 
 
 * Let us go back to the ball-room,' she said by-and- 
 by, in an altered voice. 
 
 * What's the matter?' asked her companion, anxi- 
 ously. * You look so pale. Have a cup of tea ? ' 
 
 'Thanks; not just after coffee,' she answered, 
 absently. 
 
 A murmur of ill-concealed admiration greeted her 
 return to the ball-room upon the arm of the son of the 
 house ; but she did not hear it. Her thoughts were 
 far away from the brilliantly-lighted room, down 
 amongst the leafy hollows of Little Stillingfleet, by 
 the old bench in the hazel-copse, under the dark fir- 
 trees of the rookery, in all the tangled places where 
 she had had her child meetings with the boy she would 
 never see again, the boy who had grown into this tall, 
 dark, serious-looking man, who seemed not even to 
 recognise her — the new Godfrey, newly crossing her 
 path — the same, and yet not the same to her. 
 
 The music now struck up a quadrille ; and when 
 Sophy and Mr. Hickathrift took their places, she per- 
 ceived that Godfrey St. Clair was to be her cifi-d-ris. 
 Just as she was wondering whether or no she should 
 greet him as an old acquaintance, Tom very good- 
 naturedly led him up to her side, and reintroduced to 
 her the playmate of her childhood. 
 
 After the quadrille was over, Mr. Hickathrift had
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 199 
 
 to go througli what he called ' a duty-dance ' with the 
 daughter of an influential neighbour ; but Sophy did 
 not remain long near his mother's orange-coloured 
 moire antique before her hand was claimed by Godfrey 
 for the next dance. 
 
 ' The one after the next is mine, you know,' Tom 
 had said, as he went off in search of his partner. ' I 
 suppose I shall find you here?' 
 
 * Yes, of course ; ' and Sophy walked off, radiant 
 with beauty and wreathed in smiles, upon the ann of 
 her yoimg kinsman. 
 
 But, alas for the promises of woman ! . . . 
 
 When, having gone through his ' duty-dance,' Tom 
 Hickathrift went in search of his lovely neighbour, he 
 did not find her seated in the appointed place. Another 
 and another dance followed, and still he failed to catch 
 even a glimpse of her ; and the ball seemed to him. 
 suddenly to become transformed into one of the most 
 melancholy entertainments at which he had ever as- 
 sisted. Godfrey St. Clair, too, was nowhere to be seen. 
 As he passed through the tea-room, however, some time 
 afterwards, he came suddenly upon the young couple 
 seated behind the leaf of the door. Godfrey occupied 
 precisely the same position in which he had found him- 
 self an hour ago. Miss St. Clair also was seated, as 
 then, in the deep armchair with the red cover, whilst 
 her cousin was leaning towards her, his dark eyes 
 fixed eagerly upon her face. Her ivy-crowned head 
 being turned to Godfrey, she did not perceive Mr. 
 Hickathrift, who had just time to catch the following 
 fragment of conversation : — 
 
 * How is the tortoise ?' 
 
 ' Oh, just the same ; and he seems happy . . .' 
 ' And the white cat ? *
 
 200 Sophy, or 
 
 *Alas, I'm sorry to say that he took to poaching, 
 and so the Stubber fields . . / 
 
 *And the Great Cause?' Godfrey next inquired, 
 whilst at the same time he opened the cover of his 
 watch, and appeared to be showing something to his 
 companion. The two young heads drew closer and 
 closer together, as though to observe some minute 
 object. The impulses of Cain, in a modified form, took 
 possession of Tom Hickathrift's bosom, causing him to 
 regret for a moment (notwithstanding his alleged un- 
 willingness to *hurt a fly'), that the ties of vicinity 
 and friendship prevented him from at once provoking 
 Godfrc}^ to a pugilistic encounter. 
 
 Closer and closer together came the two young 
 heads. 
 
 * I felt almost sure that I should see you,' said God- 
 frey ; ' and so . . .' 
 
 ' Oh, oh, the caraway seed ! ' cried Sophy, laughing, 
 and throwing herself back in her chair. 
 
 It was evident to poor Tom that she had as utterly 
 forgotten his existence as if he had never been born at 
 all, and that this renewal of a childish friendship was 
 advancing with formidable strides. He observed that 
 she held a cup of -coffee in one hand, — another instant, 
 and she began to dip and dive into it, as before ; and 
 such was the effect of * the green-eyed monster ' upon 
 the imagination of the young man, that as he rushed 
 headlong from the tea-room, filled with bitterness and 
 disappointment, he felt almost sure that he saw her 
 feeding Godfrey St. Clair with sugar-candy out of her 
 spoon.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 201 
 
 Chapter Y. 
 
 The first ball at which *the fair Sophia' had as- 
 sisted, although seeming to her to have been a most 
 brilliant and unprecedented success, could not fail to 
 implant certain germs of bitterness in the maternal 
 bosom of good Lady Ilickathrif t. She had held out her 
 hand to this girl (as she said to herself), motherless — 
 ^ fatherless,^ one might almost add, so far as social ad- 
 vantages were concerned ; she had invited her to her 
 select ball, caressed her, * chaperooned ' her, given her 
 hints upon the subject of ' twaUgJit,^ and lent her the 
 fan and pocket-handkerchief which had been immor- 
 talised in the portrait afterwards engraved for the 
 Book of Beauty. And what return had Sophy made 
 for all these privileges ? Contrary to her ladyship's 
 particular request, she had made use of the fan, and 
 broken it ; she had stained the pocket-handkerchief, 
 also, with coffee-marks, which Peacock felt confident 
 could never be * got //out ; ' and last, but not least, she 
 had evidently gone some way towards shattering the 
 large heart of poor Tom, the pride of the county, and 
 the joy of his mother ! 
 
 It may be as well, however, to inquire into some of 
 the underlying motives which had induced Lady Hicka- 
 thrift to make these friendly overtures in the first in- 
 stance, apart from the sympathy she really felt for the 
 motherless girl ; and, in order to do this, it will be 
 necessary to quote a conversation which had taken 
 place some time before, between her ladyship and Mr. 
 Andrew Locke, her husband's land-steward, a shrewd 
 and confidential servitor, who took as much interest in 
 the Poynings estate as did Sir Peckham himself. 
 
 Lady Hickathrift happened one afternoon to be
 
 202 Sophy ^ or 
 
 (Irfvinpr licr ponies, and as she was accompanied by two 
 outriders — a fashion in vogue at this time with persons 
 of quality — she had no servant with her in the car- 
 riage. She was returning from conveying her friend, 
 Miss Hornblower, to Dallingridge Kectory, when, half 
 way between the Black Horse and the town of Pojti- 
 ings, one of her ponies became somewhat restive and 
 impatient. Just as she was beginning to feel a little 
 nervous, she observed Mr. Ijocke, with his back to- 
 wards her, gazing sentimentally over the Little Still- 
 ingfleet gate ; and thinking that she might confer a 
 favour and secure a protector at the same time, she 
 called to him condescendingly, and told him that if he 
 was about to return to the Abbey, she would be de- 
 lighted to give him a lift. Mr. Locke did not like to 
 refuse so gracious an offer, and the two set off together. 
 (' I drove Andrew Locke home, my love, from Still- 
 ingfleet,' she said that same evening to Sir Peckham, 
 ' and he was very grateful, and gave me a good deal 
 of useful information, /o>' inferiors feel these things /') 
 
 * Why, my good Locke,' she had remarked to the 
 ' inferior,' condescending to adopt a tone of banter, 
 * you seemed quite absorbed ! I almost think 3''ou must 
 have been composing an ode upon Little Stillingfleet.' 
 
 * Your ladyship is wrong for once,' replied Mr. 
 Locke. * For I was filled with envy, hatred, and all 
 uncharitableness. That place is a regular eyesore to 
 me.' 
 
 ^ And why so, Locke ? A peaceful sunshiny spot, 
 a little amalgamated, perhaps, with melancholy remi- 
 niscences, when we consider how misspent has been the 
 career of poor dear Mr. Francis . . .' 
 
 * The Squire's not nearly so black as he's painted,' 
 interrupted Andrew Locke. * And I know for certain,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 203 
 
 that though he's no churchgoer, he gives his share 
 reguhirly towards all that is for the poor man's good ; 
 a little touched in the head, maybe.' And, like Mrs. 
 Weller, he began tapping his forehead ominously. 
 
 ' That is by far the most Christian supposition,' 
 remarked Lady Hickathrift, kindl}^ *And as he is 
 by no means an unamiable man, it accounts for many 
 of his outrageous doctrines.' 
 
 ' My quarrel is not with Mr. Francis, my lady,' 
 answered the land- steward, ' but with Little Stilling- 
 fleet. The Poynings property without Stillingfleet is 
 just like a man shorn of his right hand. In the old 
 maps 'tis down as a part of the Abbey lands ; and 
 more's the pity that man should have put asunder 
 what God had joined together, as one might make so 
 bold to say.' 
 
 ' I fancy I have heard Sir Peckham say that itnvas 
 in the time of his great-grandfather, old Sir Twiselton, 
 that Little Stillingfleet passed out of our family ; but 
 I am sure we have a sufficient amount of landed pro- 
 perty to spare so paltry a scrap.' 
 
 * True, my lady ; but that farm, properly managed, 
 might be made almost anything of. That slope of 
 down to the right, that's planted now with rubbishy 
 nuts and alders, could be grubbed up and " trunked ; " 
 and Sir Peckham wouldn't have a hop-garden that 
 could be compared to it.' 
 
 * If so, I wonder, Locke, that Mr. St. Clair has 
 never converted it into anything so profitable.' 
 
 'Any practical man would have done so, my lady,' 
 answered Mr. Locke. 'But he's like all gentlemen 
 that go early to foreign parts. It kind of turns their 
 heads, I've noticed. I take it they're all the same.' 
 
 * When Mr. Francis dies, perhaps Miss Sophy will
 
 204 Soj^hij, 
 
 or 
 
 sell tho place, if she is allowed to do so by law ; and 
 then, if all goes well. Sir Peckham might purchase it.' 
 
 ' I don't fancy,' said Andrew Locke, * that she could 
 sell it in law, and she'd have no call to do so, even if 
 she could. Tier father must have put by a good thirty 
 thousand.' (Thus had the modest economics of Francis 
 St. Clair grown in the public mind!) 'And, saving 
 your presence, my lady, there's every chance of Mr. 
 Francis outlasting Sir Peckham.' 
 
 * *' Man proposes, but God disposes ! " ' ejaculated 
 Lady Hickathrift, piously. (An 'inferior' would hardly 
 have comprehended this saying had she delivered it, as 
 she longed to do, in the original French.) 
 
 ' Yes ; but if man do propose,' rejoined Mr. Locke, 
 mistaking her meaning, 'whoever is it likely to be? 
 If 'tis not Mr. Tom, or young Mr. Godfrey, ten to one 
 but she'll go find marry some peaky parson or outland- 
 ish foreigner, who'll be as stiff-necked as Lucifer, a 
 regular thorn in Mr. Tom's side, maybe, after Sir 
 Peckham is taken, enticing our best birds to himself, 
 and very likely trapping them. . . .' 
 
 ' Locke ! exclaimed Lady Hickathrift reproach- 
 fully, ' I must beg that you will refrain from casting 
 any aspersions upon the Church! In these days, when 
 such horrible things are talked of in both Houses of 
 Parliament about reform, the educating of servant- 
 girls, &c., admitting to them Jews, Turks, Infidels, 
 and even Poman Catholics, where should we be, my 
 good creature, if it were not for the clergy ? ' 
 
 ' Well, they do act as drags, certainly, my lad}^' 
 replied Andrew Locke, whose broad opinions occa- 
 sionally alarmed his patrons. 'And drags we must 
 have, and no help for it, when w^e're going do"svn- 
 hill, but we don't want them when we're on the high-
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 205 
 
 road to progress ; leastways, such is my own private 
 opinion.' 
 
 * O Locke/ cried her ladyship, ^ you really are 
 shocking me exceedingly ! We all know what you 
 are, unfortunately — a most red republican in your 
 principles, down to the very backbone.' 
 
 ' My principles and opinions are my own,' said Mr. 
 Locke. ^ And I trust your ladyship will admit that I 
 have never thrust them either upon yourself or Sir 
 Peckham.' 
 
 * No, no ; of course not, my good creature ! ' cried 
 Lady Hie kath rift, alarmed at his manner ; ' of course 
 not ! Well, then. Miss St. Clair, we have decided, is 
 to marry a clergyman. . . .' 
 
 ' She never ought, my lady ! she never ought ! ' ex- 
 claimed the land-steward vehemently. 'She never 
 ought to be let to marry anybody but Mr. Thomas ! ' 
 
 * Well, reaUy, Locke,' Lady Hickathrift rejoined, 
 bridling, * when it concerns anything respecting the 
 estate, your opinion is always exceedingly valuable; but 
 in affairs which have to do with the matrimony of one's 
 own family, though having, unfortunately, only one 
 son, surely a mother . . .' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, my lady, as you say ; and far be it 
 from me to presume to give your ladyship advice — 
 with Mr. Tom, too, such a favourite with all the young 
 ladies ; but there's one of these he seems somehow to 
 fancy before all the others. And when I meet him, 
 time after time, making believe to shoot in that ragged 
 end of alder-wood up by the rookery gate — now it's the 
 pheasants, now it's the rabbits, now it's the rooks 
 themselves — I say to myself, " Ah, Mr. Tom, sir ! 
 what have all these poor dumb creatures done to anger 
 you, that you should punish them so in all seasons?"
 
 206 Sopliy^ 
 
 or 
 
 for it's one go down and t'other come up with Mr. 
 Thomas ; but, somehow, always in that particular bit 
 of underwood. I wonder there's so much as a shrew- 
 mouse left to hold its own !' 
 
 ' lleaUy /' said Lady Ilickathrift, looking deeply 
 interested. 'And since when, my good Locke?' 
 
 * Since ahcayfi,'' answered her companion curtly. 
 
 * And she's philandered, too, with t'other side as well, 
 or I'm much mistaken. She's a young lady that has 
 made short work of every one that's come near her 
 since she was in arms, like her mother before her.' 
 
 ^Really!* exclaimed her ladyship for the second 
 time, slackening the pace of her ponies, for they were 
 nearing the Abbey. * Though doubtless you are ex- 
 aggerating, it w^ould assume indeed a very dangerous 
 proximity for my dear son, as also to her other side, 
 could we suppose the continuation of the former state 
 of affairs.' 
 
 * Mr. Thomas is very popular, and all that,' Locke 
 continued confidentially. * About him there's no pride 
 or uppishness, and he's so fair-spoken to all the pretty 
 farmers' daughters and barmaids . . . .' 
 
 ' Barmaids !^ echoed Lady Hickathrift, with an 
 expression of horror.' 
 
 * Barmaids, my lady,' repeated the cunning man, 
 perceiving his advantage ; for this reimion of Pojmings 
 and Little Stillingfleet was one of his pet schemes. 
 
 * All these young persons seem to please Mr. Thomas 
 better than grand comjjany with their airs and graces, 
 as has been remarked whenever any London ladies 
 have been staying at the Abbey. He'd as lief be 
 smoking a pipe along with Tom Stubberfield or Jerry 
 Weller as with the Emperor of Roosia or the Pope o' 
 Bome. So that, though there's no denying but what
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 207 
 
 Mr. Tom could do mucli better than marry Miss St. 
 Clair, why, it's certain sure, my lady, that he might do 
 a great deal worse/ 
 
 * Alas, my good Locke ! ' exclaimed Lady Hicka- 
 thrift, ^ really you do alarm me terribly, with your 
 revelations most strange and unaccountable ; and, to be 
 sure, the example of poor Mr. Francis St. Clair — 
 young, a really very handsome, distinguished man of 
 old family — marrying, as he did, a common gipsy, 
 though certainly one of the most beautiful women 
 possible, and even what seems more strange, remark- 
 ably '' commy-foy^ frightens one for the ultimate well- 
 being of one's sons.' 
 
 ' It does indeed, my lady,' returned the land- 
 steward. * But now, with regard to Miss Sophy, one 
 can't say what windfall may not come to the young 
 lady. Why, if it so happened that young Mr. Godfrey 
 of Dallingridge was taken — and we're all of us subject 
 to the workings of misfortune — there'd be a sweep of 
 country reaching as far as the eye could see, and our 
 Mr. Thomas . . . .' 
 
 ' you dreadful man ! ' cried her ladyship, with 
 an assumed shudder. ' I declare you are for doing 
 away with everything and everybody ! ' 
 
 But the words of the wily though well-meaning 
 dependent had created an impression, one of the results 
 of which was that Sophy was shortly afterwards 
 invited to the great Hickathrift ball. 
 
 Several weeks elapsed, however, before the fond 
 mother decided to speak upon this subject to her son, 
 though, when she and Mr. Locke had finally arranged 
 their matrimonial projects — the conspirators being 
 somewhat stimulated by the very decided preference 
 which ' young Mr. Godfrey of Dallingridge ' was be-
 
 208 Sophy ^ or 
 
 ginning to display for his fair cousin — it was deemed 
 expedient to consult Sir Peckliam, whose opinion had 
 always been considered of * great weight * both in the 
 county and in his own family circle. Sir Peckhara, 
 when consulted, had behaved precisely in the manner 
 in which it was known and intended that he should 
 behave. He had given several nervous jerks with his 
 chin, snorted thrice, and exclaiming apoplectically, 
 ' Riffht ! all rio:ht ! Mio:ht do worse ! ' had made 
 hastily for the doorway. 
 
 And it will show of what plausible distortion of 
 facts the human mind is capable, when the reader is 
 informed that these incoherent mutterings were re- 
 ferred to by Lady Hickathrift, some few weeks after- 
 wards, to her son as 'those most solemn dying death-bed 
 adjurations of my late precious husband, your father ;' 
 Sir Peckham having been, in point of fact, cheated out 
 of all death-bed ' adjurations,' * solemn ' or otherwise, 
 by the relentless ' kismet,' which decreed that he should 
 be choked at dinner by a fish-bone only a few weeks 
 after the ball. Thus suddenly was Sir Peckham Bram- 
 bletye Satterthwaite Twiselton Hickathrift gathered 
 unto his fathers at the age of fifty-seven years, and 
 Thomas, his son, reigned in his stead. 
 
 And now there fell upon Lady Hickathrift, apart 
 from, and in addition to, her sorrow — for she had really 
 loved this dull, spasmodic old gentleman — a great and 
 terrible fear, which, though seeming at first somewhat 
 vague and shadowy, came to assume by-and-by more 
 formidable proportions, and haunted her perpetually 
 day and night. This was occasioned by the thought 
 that, perhaps, the time might not be far distant when 
 the Hickathrifts, following the examples of the Peck- 
 hams, Brambletyes, Satterthwaites, and Twiseltons,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 209 
 
 would actually cease to exist altogether, expiring in 
 the person of her beloved son, who, though in the 
 enjoj^ment of excellent health, was in the habit of 
 indidging in manly pursuits not unattended with 
 real, or fancied, danger in a mother's imagination. 
 Under the influence of this idea Lady Ilickathrift 
 would have hailed with delight the prospect of Tom's 
 union with almost anybody, except one of the gipsies, 
 barmaids, or farmers' daughters, alluded to by Andrew 
 Locke. She would have received, indeed, with open 
 arms, as a daughter-in-law, any respectable young 
 lady upon whom he had set his affections ; and as, to 
 all appearance, he had set his affections upon Sophy, 
 the fond mother ended by forgiving her not only 
 her indiscreet behaviour at the ball, but also her 
 disobedience with respect to the fan and pocket- 
 handkerchief. * 
 
 When Lady Hickathrift had finally made up her 
 mind she sent for Tom, and it was not without some 
 trepidation that this worthy woman, so courageous in 
 outward appearance, awaited the coming of her only 
 son. Nay, even when he stood before her, clad in all 
 his doleful six foot three and a half of ' unmitigated 
 grief,' and looking kind, earnest, and tractable as usual, 
 her heart failed her, and she only ventured to ask him 
 to take her for a few turns upon the old battlemented 
 terrace, which she had so often paced with one who 
 could never pace it again. 
 
 Since the death of Sir Peckham Lady Ilickatlirift 
 had become the very weediest of widows — the bhick 
 borders of her pocket-handkerchiefs, writing-paper, and 
 visiting-cards, were at least half an inch wider than 
 those of other persons similarly afflicted ; and as she 
 pranced up and down the broad gravel-walk in her 
 
 VOL. 1. p
 
 210 Sophy, or 
 
 dismal mourning array, she looked more than ever like 
 a venerable hearse-horse being led out for an airing, all 
 ready caparisoned for performance at somepompefimehre. 
 
 Tom felt his heart give a sudden bound under the 
 * Paramatta ' pressure of his mother's arm, when she 
 had at length summoned up courage to make men- 
 tion of the beloved name. It is as pleasant as it is 
 unusual when the parental exhortation, or decree, is 
 in exact accordance with the heart's desire ; but * the 
 young Sir Tummus ' (as he was now beginning to be 
 styled), unlike what might have been expected of one 
 so eligible, was buoyed up by no certain hope of re- 
 ciprocated love and successful suit. More particularly 
 did he recoil from the notion of striking before the iron 
 was hot, or making hay before the sun really shone, for 
 everj^thing had seemed to him to be somewhat cold and 
 cloudy of late. 
 
 His mother, on the contrary, was for getting the 
 preliminaries over as soon as possible, in order that the 
 wedding might take place quietly and snugly as soon 
 as the first year of her mdowhood had expired ; for she 
 foresaw that the lawj^ers would make a good long business 
 of the settlements. With this view she suggested an 
 early day in the ensuing week as the one upon which 
 it would be expedient for him to make his formal pro- 
 posal to Sophy, though she left it to him to determine 
 whether he should not, even before that, broach the 
 subject privately to her father. 
 
 As she was speaking, Tom observed that she was 
 struggling to remove a large ring which, contrary to 
 modern custom, she always wore upon the forefinger 
 of her left hand, of which the joint was somewhat 
 knotty, so that it seemed no easy matter to draw it 
 off. This was, as he knew perfectly well, nothing
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 211 
 
 more nor less than the great Hickathrift ring of betrothal 
 — Sir Brambletye, old Sir Twiselton, the two succeeding 
 Sir Thomases, and, lastly. Sir Peckham himself, had 
 sealed to themselves their respective females by the 
 placing of this family jewel upon the forefinger of the 
 left hand, so that it had occuj3ied its present position 
 for very nearly thirty years. It was of enormous size, 
 the setting taking somewhat the form of a Gothic 
 window, and the centre jewel, backed with foil, being 
 altogether an uncanny and suspicious -looking stone, 
 seeming something like a cross between a nondescript 
 rub}^ and a cough lozenge, which must have owed its 
 prestige entirely to the solemnity of its hereditary 
 function, or to the social position of its wearer. 
 
 * Oh, mother ! ' exclaimed Tom, fairly awe-stricken 
 when he perceived her intention. * Whatever are you 
 going to do ? ' 
 
 ' I am about to present you with this family 
 jewel,' she replied, in a tragic voice. ' Take it, my 
 dear boy,' (and she withdrew it with a final wrench) ; 
 *and after you have asked her to become your wife, 
 place it thus upon her finger, whichever one you like, 
 for I do not suppose this is of consequence. With your 
 blessed father it was the one happening to be nearest 
 to him at the time, where it has remained for thirty 
 years this Christmas, which is now so very shortly 
 impending, you having been born, as you are aware, 
 quite eight years after our marriage, and being now, 
 consequently, twenty-two. . . . You may have noticed 
 in the engraving executed for the Book of Beaut 1/ that 
 this ring . . .' 
 
 But here her utterance was choked by emotion, and 
 with a sob she handed over the hereditary jewel to her 
 son, who was fully impressed with the solemnity of the
 
 212 Sophy ^ or 
 
 occasion. The presentation possessed, indeed, all the 
 dignity of an investiture ; nevertheless, he felt a kind 
 of superstitious reluctance about taking the ring, which 
 he began rolling about in the palm of his hand, and 
 eyeing somewhat mistrustfully. 
 
 * I think I would rather j'ou didn't give it me quite 
 yet,' he said, making as though he would return it. 
 * It docs seem like being so awf ull}^ sure. If she were 
 to refuse me . . . ?' 
 
 *If she were to refuse you /' repeated his mother in 
 astonishment. ^Surely, my dear boy, you have no 
 reason to suppose that poor dear Sophia is out of her 
 senses?' and for the first time since her bereavement 
 Lady Hickathrift actually laughed aloud. 
 
 Chapter YI. 
 
 But Sophy St. Clair had never thought less of the 
 neighbour by whom she was ^bounded on the right 
 hand ' than during the last two or three weeks. At 
 times, perhaps, when she either heard or read of any 
 act of slavish devotion, of dog-like fidelity, of Hercu- 
 lean strength, or of imperturbable good-humour, she 
 would murmur to herself, kindly, though somewhat 
 contemptuously, ' How very like poor dear Tom ! ' and 
 then she would straightway forget his existence, until 
 he reminded her of it, either by paying her a formal 
 visit or by meeting her — quite by accident, of course — 
 during her sylvan rambles. 
 
 Upon the death of Sir Peckham she had felt a 
 great deal of sympathy for him, knowing that he had 
 always been a devoted and affectionate son ; and she
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 213 
 
 had written him a few words of neighbourly con- 
 dolence, besides cutting out of the local newspapers an 
 account of the funeral, together with some extracts 
 from the family history. These she had intended 
 pasting into a scrap-book ; and although she forgot 
 to do so, and even lost them shortly afterwards, Tom 
 was very grateful to her for this sign of interest. 
 
 When any old companionship, habit, or pastime, 
 gradually ceases to occupy us, it is usually owing to 
 the fact of our having acquired other companionships, 
 habits, or pastimes, of a more engrossing nature ; and 
 it may be that, in the present instance, Sophy's seem- 
 ing apathy with regard to * The Prince with the Nose ' 
 was to be accounted for, in some measure, by the grow- 
 ing interest she felt in ' the young man of the tortoise.* 
 
 But perhaps her feelings upon this, and several 
 other subjects, will be better understood if I venture 
 to transcribe, for the benefit of the reader, a letter 
 which she addressed, at about this time, to her young 
 friend Adele ; it ran as follows : — 
 
 * My dearest Adele, — I have really got so much to tell 
 you that I don't know how to begin, "the plot" having 
 seemed, as it were, to have been "thickening" so dreadfully 
 lately, and the days having rushed by so quickly, that I 
 have been unable until now to find time to take up the 
 thread of the narrative. Praise be unto Allah ! none of the 
 catastrophes which you predicted have come to pass; though 
 it seems to me that, since the ball, I think quite differently 
 upon several subjects. 
 
 ' The ball was really — what I never expected it would be 
 — a real success and a real delight. Everything looked 
 beautiful, except most of the people ; they seemed, somehow, 
 to spoil it : but they were all very kind. My aunt, Mrs. St. 
 Clair of Dallingridge, was there with her son. I avoided
 
 21-4 Sophy ^ or 
 
 her, on account of the feud, l)ut got to know him veiy well. 
 She was in black, with diamonds, and appeared to me to be 
 lovely, only with a face rather like a mask. It was quite 
 owing to you that my dress looked as it did. I was at first 
 afraid it would slip off; but seeing other people dressed in 
 the same way, seeming not to care in the very least, I threw 
 all my fears to the winds, and made up my mind to enjoy 
 myself, ivhich I really did. My father seemed very much 
 pleased at what he heard about my dress from the people 
 who could see it ; and my belief is that I shall be now 
 allowed, and even encouraged, to dress in a civilised way as 
 long as I live. Hitherto he has certainly held rather odd 
 opinions with regard to costume ; but all this is now very 
 much toned down, and I ought to be the last person in the 
 world to laugh at him, as his one wish has been all along 
 for my future good. You know, however, that I am of that 
 horrid nature that laughs at anything, however serious or 
 sacred, and I do believe that I should make a joke upon the 
 scaffold if I saw anything comic in the appearance of the 
 axeman. But my dear father's idea about wearing so very 
 little (which is mixed up in some manner with the Great 
 Cause) springs only from a wish to imitate Nature, and in- 
 sure good health. His wish is that I should live to be one 
 hundred and four, like most of the Nubians (as he tells me), 
 who wear no clothes whatever, eat rice and fish, bathe a great 
 deal in the Nile, and anoint themselves all over with castor- 
 oil. By -the -by, I heard him say, last night, that the 
 ancient art of " anointing " properly was utterly lost ; and 
 as this seems to make him really unhappy, I thought I 
 would try and find out if one could not discover the secret. 
 Ask " Othello " what he used to do to his skin when he was 
 in his natural state ; for, dearest Ad61e, I feel sure that that 
 hoiTid Carver (I can call him by no other name) is, in 
 reality, only an escaped savage, and not any more of a clergy- 
 man, or missionary, than I am ! How I sympathise with 
 you when you tell me of his persecutions ! But remain
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 215 
 
 firm, and you may then perhaps be rewarded by mariying 
 your second husband first, after all. 
 
 'Sir Peckham Hickathrift, to whom that old Abbey 
 belongs, which j'^ou thought was the lord mayor's (you 
 remember, the father of ''The Prince with the Nose"), is 
 dead. The funeral was a walking one ; the coffin being 
 carried by eight of the oldest labourers on the estate in 
 smock-frocks. Janus and I, and the Great Prophet, stood 
 on one side of the road and saw it pass, and the Prophet 
 was surprised that a man of such high rank shouldn't have 
 had " howlers :" but I am so ignorant of all these things, and 
 so is Janus, that I didn't even know that it was the custom. 
 ... By an odd chance, just as I was writing these last 
 words, I heard a footstep upon the gravel-walk, and on 
 looking out of my window, who should I see but " The 
 Prince with the Nose " himself, standing in the porch, 
 having just rung at the bell. However, he has asked to 
 speak to my father upon business, I find, so I shall have 
 plenty of time to finish this letter before I go down and see 
 him. He has, as you may suppose, a good deal to do just 
 now, having just come into such a large estate, and he is 
 glad to consult my father and ask his advice. By-the-by, 
 please do not go on calling my cousin, Godfrey St. Clair, by 
 that ridiculous name which you gave him when I told you 
 about the tortoise, for I don't see in it the slightest attempt 
 at wit. He is very tall, rather dark, and quite different from 
 anybody else in everything. I have seen him once or twice 
 since the ball ; we meet sometimes, by accident, in the 
 woods, but all this I cannot write about. My father has 
 just given me a present — two most beautiful Arab horses, 
 sent over to him by a Sheikh ho once stayed with, and who 
 is grateful to him for all he has done for him, politically. 
 They came over with an Egyptian called Abdallah, who is 
 going to stay on here with us for about a month. I believe 
 that when he was quite young he travelled with my father 
 and mother as donkey-boy before I was born. On account
 
 216 Sophy ^ or 
 
 of the difference of climate he has caii<j:ht a cold, and coughs 
 a good deal. My father is quite delighted, as you may 
 suppose, at liaving this opportunity of airing his Arabic, 
 though he says that the Egj'ptian Arabs do not speak it by 
 any means well. One of the horses is black as Erebus, and 
 is named " Camaralzaman," but we call him " Cammy " for 
 short. He is a delicious creature, with a beautiful long 
 tail ; and he has been taught, when he is standing still, to 
 arch his neck and stretch out his ^jaz«;5. This is the one I 
 am going to begin by riding, as the gray one, " Hasheesh," is 
 not nearly so quiet, and rears. Nelus and Janus insist upon 
 calling him "Ash-ash," and I can see that they will never get 
 his name quite right. All this is to tell you that I am in 
 want of a riding-habit — you will know, I am sure, where to 
 get one, and what measurements I ought to send. I am not 
 yet quite used to a civilised side-saddle ; but having been 
 accustomed to ride Billy and Dragon, the two cart-horses, 
 bare-backed, I am very good at sticking on. It is a bright 
 frosty day ; and before it is over, I am going to take my 
 father for a little turn ; besides which, I must see Tom before 
 he goes away, or he may think me unkind. Good-bye, 
 therefore, my dearest Ad^le ; revenge yourself upon me for 
 this egotistical letter by writing me one, very soon, all 
 about yourself ; and believe me to be ever your affectionate 
 friend, Sophy St. Clair.' 
 
 But when, liaving hurried over the last part of this 
 epistle, Sophy presented herself at the entrance of the 
 sitting-room, she was informed that Sir Thomas Hicka- 
 thrift had just departed, without having even asked to 
 see her ; at which she could not help feeling some 
 surprise and disappointment, for it is always pleasant 
 to look upon the face of a true friend (if there is no 
 one better loved in the way), though it be the face of a 
 friend only, and even if, as in the present instance, one 
 has long ago * left off kissing J
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 217 
 
 Finding that her father seemed to prefer pursuing 
 his own meditations, as he walked up and down the 
 straight gravel-path in front of the porch, to going for 
 the proposed * little turn,' Sophy determined to start off 
 for a ramble alone, and it will not, perhaps, be altogether 
 a surprise to the reader to learn that she directed her 
 footsteps towards the place where it was most probable 
 that one of those meetings with her cousin might 
 occur, which she had referred to in her letter, as merely 
 accidental. To this letter Adele's reply arrived in the 
 course of a few days ; literally translated, for it was 
 written in French, it ran thus : — 
 
 ' My veky dear Sophy, — Having thrown my pretended 
 sister into a state of pretended clairvoyance, I leave her 
 with her last victim — the one who has replaced thy w^orthy 
 and dear father — a proprietor, very rich, but deaf, from 
 the Pays de Galles, named Lloyd, Lewis, Thomas, of all 
 three imited. I retire myself to this sad apartment, whence 
 I proceed to indite thee this letter, even more sad still ! 
 Thou wilt know, very dear, how to figure to thyself the 
 appearance of la piece ; the aspect as of a flown-away 
 grandeur, which animates rather the original design of each 
 meuhle than their actual faded desolation. Also they are 
 not, nor of the most clean, nor of the most carcd-for, as well 
 thou knowest ! Amidst the pile of a carpet, rich, but 
 dilapidated, repose the debris of the bones left there by the 
 female poodle of my sister — partly gnawed ; at each step 
 the foot encounters them, for our one bonne, occupied with 
 her other duties of menage, can with difficulty keep the more 
 important salle in the order of which this one must pass 
 itself. The sentiment of sadness engendered by the mono- 
 tonous ticking of the pendide, which, with a tarnished 
 garniture de cheminee, regards me sadly in face, demands of 
 me my strongest resolution to dominate. Without, one of 
 those fogs, yellowish (jaundtre), all particular, which exist
 
 218 Sophy ^ or 
 
 only in London, is doing its possible to obscure the very 
 little of light which remains to us in an afternoon of the 
 montli of November. Lamps are already illuminating the 
 streets, though with a light which by its melancholy alone 
 escapes being ridiculous. The paletot of the policeman at 
 the corner of the street is glistening with moisture, as are 
 also all those of the cabmen ; and by the violence of the 
 blows which they aim from time to time at their chests, I 
 suspect that it is making a cold of dog. Thy poor Ad61e, 
 however, has not been outside the door for several days, 
 having suffered from a neuralgia of the most abominable. 
 Vainly, and without results, did she repose for one whole 
 morning in the arms of her dentist (a man amiable and full 
 of wit) ; for though (that Heaven may be lauded !) the 
 rebel tooth is no longer in existence, her pains have not 
 ceased to live at the same time with him. Imagine, then, if 
 thine Ad61e, under these afflicting circumstances, can find 
 the courage to write thee the agreeable letter she meditated ! 
 Rest quiet upon the subject of your ainazone ; knowing the 
 difference which exists between thy figure and mine own, I 
 shall succeed, if thou wilt amiably fill up the here-joined 
 measurements, in executing, without fail, your commission. 
 Would that Heaven had willed that / also had possessed a 
 steed of the desert, upon the back of which I might escape 
 from the complications which environ me ! How soon 
 would I leave behind me that Wilson, — (said " Carver " by 
 thee). But if ever a sad destiny decrees that I should es- 
 pouse him, oblige me by ceasing to allude to him in thy 
 letters as " Othello," a name which to all young married 
 women must be filled with sinister associations. His per- 
 secutions continue ; and even now, were I to summon 
 courage to face tliis inclement weather, I feel convinced 
 that I should encounter him amongst the fog, like a demon 
 of bad augury. And now, whilst I am thinking of it, be 
 not surprised should you receive, at your address, letters 
 from him directed to me, which you can afterwards send me
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 219 
 
 with the ones you write me, or when you have occasion to 
 send to London ; for I have a project by which I hope to 
 escape, for a time at least, from his persecutions. It is this : 
 I shall pretend, whilst, owing to this " rage of teeth," I am 
 unable to leave the house, and when he will not, by conse- 
 quence, perceive me, that I am in effect absent, making it to 
 be believed that I am staying with thee. Should he ever 
 have the audacity to present himself chtz toi, thou wilt, I 
 know well, allow thine influence to take the direction of my 
 desires, and in this manner merit my eternal gratitude. 
 Thanking thee beforehand for thy complaisance, and em- 
 bracing thee with all heart, I remain ever tout cb toi, 
 
 And, indeed, shortly after the reception of this 
 letter, two others arrived addressed to Adele at Little 
 Stillingfleet. The first was from Mr. Carver, with 
 wliose handwriting Sophy was familiar, but the se(fond 
 was evidently from a different person altogether. 
 
 'Ah,' thought she, as she turned over this letter 
 curiously, ' I suppose this must be from the second 
 husband ; and I dare say it's the only one she really 
 wants. However, I'll send her the "tares with the 
 wheat," ' and she placed both the letters together in 
 order that she might despatch them to her friend on 
 the earliest opportunity, accompanied by a few lines 
 from herself. 
 
 All this, however, is a digression, as it did not take 
 place until some days after the one upon which this 
 chapter opened ; whereas the ' young man of the 
 tortoise ' has been waiting at this present time for very 
 nearly a whole hour near to the confines of his uncle's 
 property. He has been seated for a part of the hour 
 upon the trunk of a fallen oak-tree ; and he has traced 
 so many hieroglyphics upon the ground with his stick,
 
 220 Sophy ^ or 
 
 decapitated whole families of scarlet toadstools, cut 
 down such quantities of dock and burdock, besides 
 havino^ hurled quite a hailstorm of sandstones at the 
 rails of the five-barred gate, that it may be as well to 
 inquire into the secret cause which prompted him so 
 determinedly and unprofitably to waste his time — to 
 guess as to whether he is, or is not, waiting for any- 
 bod}^ ; and, if he is indeed waiting, to hint at the 
 reasons which make her so long in coming to the 
 fryst. 
 
 Chapter VII. 
 
 As soon as Sophy had thoroughly made up her mind 
 that Godfrey St. Clair was * quite different from any- 
 body else in everything,' she felt unconsciously in- 
 fluenced by her own conception of him, and discovered 
 that, in his presence, she could not behave precisely as 
 though he had seemed to her like an ordinary mortal. 
 
 Never having before experienced anything in the 
 least akin to this sensation, which was one of mingled 
 shyness, embarrassment, and even, at times, of positive 
 discomfort, she endeavoured to defy and combat it as 
 far as was possible to her ; and she succeeded, in the 
 course of her efforts, in becoming almost as different 
 from her usual self as Godfrey appeared to be from the 
 rest of mankind. If this self-consciousness, or timidity, 
 or whatever may have been its proper name, did not 
 take the form of a state of partial stupefaction, with 
 monosyllabic responses, in the presence of her un- 
 conscious tormentor, it usually impelled her to assume 
 with him a tone of flippant banter, utterly at variance 
 with her real nature, or she would even go so far as to
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 221 
 
 venture upon a joke, or introduce, perhaps, a play upon 
 a word. 
 
 At these he would generally condescend to smile, 
 kindly, though (as she fancied) rather regretfully ; but 
 he never gave vent to those encouragmg peals of deep- 
 mouthed and genuine laughter which were wont to 
 follow each one of her lively sallies when Tom Hicka- 
 thrift was her listener. 
 
 And, indeed, there was something in the outward 
 demeanour of Godfrey St. Clair which seemed to indi- 
 cate that he was, to some extent, different from most 
 people. He possessed, above all, a calm impassiveness 
 rarely to be met with in so young a man, whilst a 
 certain air of dignity and self-restraint appeared to 
 discourage anything in the shape of a gushing freedom 
 of expression, raising up, as it were, a barrier which 
 concealed his inward man from the eyes of the curious 
 and importunate. 
 
 Having passed many years in the society of a father 
 so much his senior, he had unconsciously acquired a some- 
 what ceremonious and formal style of address. He pos- 
 sessed, in fact, what would have been termed at the 
 court of le Grand Monarque, ^ de hautes manieres ; ' and, as 
 if from the fact that he did not affect any familiarities 
 himself, he seemed desirous of discountenancing them 
 in others. It is true that the chilling reserve of his 
 mother, his father's formal pedantry, and the didactic 
 utterances of Pettigrew (who was now almost a con- 
 stant inmate of Dallingridge House) alternately wearied 
 and disgusted him ; and yet, unconsciously, his manner 
 had caught something from theirs, and the real Godfrey 
 was so artificially concealed that he might not even 
 have recognised himself had the veil been uplifted. 
 
 If it be true that those who have first dominated
 
 222 Sophy ^ or 
 
 themselves are more likely, in consequence, to obtain 
 the mastery of others, tlie reason of Godfrey's influence 
 over his youthful cousin may be easily explained, since 
 hitherto he had held himself so thoroughly in hand 
 that he had hardly ever permitted himself to follow a 
 single unchallenged impulse. Nay, ever since the day 
 when, as a mere baby, he had been reproved for dis- 
 playing a feeling of pity for an unfortunate criminal, 
 he had been taught to believe that misdirected sympathy 
 lay at the root of all wrong-doing, and, by dint of striving 
 for ever to suppress his natural emotions, he had ended 
 by seeming to possess hardly any emotions at all. 
 
 It is true that, as yet, he had never desired any one 
 particular object over-eagerly, so that his powers of 
 self-control may not have been very satisfactorily 
 tested. He had lived the life of most young men of 
 fortune who are not destined for any particular pro- 
 fession, and his experiences were on a par with those 
 of the greater number of his college companions, 
 though a strict vigilance over his own predilections, 
 and the power he possessed of reasoning himself out 
 of any passing fancy, had made him hold aloof from 
 many of their follies. Upon the present occasion, 
 when he had strolled forth upon the afternoon of this 
 bright, still, November day, he said to himself that it 
 was no dangerous or reprehensible impulse which 
 caused him to direct his footsteps towards the border- 
 land of Little Stillingflcet, but only a pardonable and 
 ver}^ natural desire to catch another glimpse of his 
 bright-eyed cousin, and that, in consequence, he might 
 give way to it, and proceed. He had loitered about 
 the high ground overlooking the hazel-copse for some 
 time, feeling strangely restless and unsettled ; finally, 
 he had seated himself upon the trunk of the fallen oak-
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 223 
 
 tree, wondering at his own impatience, as lie endea- 
 voured to kill time in the various ways described. 
 
 Just as he had flung the last piece of sandstone 
 within his reach somewhat violently against the top 
 bar of the wooden gate, he heard a light footfall 
 amongst the crisp leaves in the woodland pathway, and 
 in a few moments Sophy was beside him. She wore a 
 walking- dress of dark tweed, and a hat with a bright- 
 coloured feather, and, as she came smiling towards 
 him, he thought that he had never seen a more lovely 
 vision of girlish beaut3^ Sophy, too, could not help 
 looking up at her cousin admiringly. Standing there 
 hand in hand — the tall dark young man, with his 
 upright figure and picturesque head, and an ex- 
 pression strangely at variance with the stern code he 
 had drawn out for himself ; and the beautiful girl, 
 looking up eagerly at him, her eyes glowing wth 
 trustfulness and hope — they made a very pretty pic- 
 ture. 
 
 ' Good afternoon, cousin ! ' Sophy exclaimed, smiling 
 archly, though her heart was beginning to beat in a 
 very unaccountable manner. * You look as if you had 
 been waiting for me ! ' 
 
 ' I was waiting for you,' he answered. * What made 
 you so late ? ' 
 
 * How should you know that I meant to come at 
 all ? ' she asked, seizing upon the chance of an argu- 
 ment in order to hide her embarrassment. ' It was 
 only by accident that I happened to come this way. I 
 was going to walk with my father, but I foimd he 
 wanted to be left to himself.' 
 
 ' I knew that you would be here,' said Godfrey 
 quietly. ' I uillcd that you should come, and you 
 came.'
 
 224 Sophy, or 
 
 *You " wi/Ied" that I should cotne? You speak as 
 if I were your " slave of i:lie lamp," and bound to obey 
 your command ! * 
 
 She was trying to lash herself into anger, provoked 
 at the sense of discomfort she seemed always to ex- 
 perience in Godfrey's presence, whilst he was always 
 so calm and collected. 
 
 *Ah!' replied he, lingeringly and a little regret- 
 fully, as he drew a long breath. 
 
 Sophy mused for many days afterwards over this 
 enigmatical ' Ah I ' wondering what it could have been 
 intended to convey, for at that moment the curse of 
 shyness fell upon her, and she felt afraid to inquire. 
 Could he have meant that he wished she had indeed 
 been a slave, but that it was impossible ? * Ah, that you 
 were really my slave, so that I might summon you at 
 my will ! ' Had he meant this ? Or was it that, when 
 she had thus spoken of herself, he had intended her to 
 understand that the slavery was all on the other side ? 
 *My " slave of the lamp " — alas, it is / that am hers I* 
 Or had he meant simply, *Ah, this girl is too stupid; 
 it is impossible to make her understand; I am only 
 debasing myself by holding communion with one so 
 much beneath me ! ' and then sighed from very weari- 
 ness of spirit ? 
 
 ' I must go home now,* she said by-and-by des- 
 pairingly, for she resented this feeling of helpless 
 constraint. * I only came here to see you for one 
 minute ; ' and she began nervously gathering together 
 the folds of her skirt. 
 
 * I thought you said you hadn't come to see me at 
 all ! ' remarked Godfrey, smiling, as it seemed to her, 
 with the complacency of a cruel angler rejoicing at the 
 painful wriggiings of the worm upon his hook.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 225 
 
 »We have some one coming to stay witli us this 
 afternoon/ she answered, ignoring his question, and 
 rattling on very fast. * He's a really great man — a 
 seer, a prophet — the chief mover in the Great Cause. 
 I think I have told you about him before. To-morrow 
 we have invited some people to meet him at dinner, as 
 Saturday, the day after, he is obliged to go away. 
 This gives me a good deal to do just now. Many of 
 them are coming from long distances on purpose to see 
 him ; for some people think him one of the most 
 wonderful men that ever lived.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! But why should we remain standing ? ' 
 and, like Sir "Walter Kaleigh, he was about to take off 
 his coat and spread it upon the fallen trunk, when she 
 prevented him by saying, — 
 
 ' Oh, please don't ! You'll catch cold ! It's really 
 quite dry ; besides, I am used to ''roughing it." ' 
 
 ' I'm sure you ought to be well taken care of,' re- 
 joined her cousin, as he slipped back into his coat, and, 
 with the courtly manner of the olden time, led her 
 towards the fallen trunk, as though it had been a couch 
 of samite or brocade. 'And this wonderful man,' he 
 went on, as soon as they were both seated, 'is he a 
 foreigner or an Englishman ? ' 
 
 ' He is an Asiatic mystic,' Sophy answered, feeling 
 now that she had full command of her subject ; ' but 
 he speaks all languages. He has seen an immense deal 
 of every kind of extraordinary thing, and he has 
 inquired deeply into all sorts of hidden and mysterious 
 arts, which are supposed to be inculcated in remote 
 corners of the Oriental world. He has explored all 
 the mysteries of the Ansari,' she continued, quoting 
 her father's oft-heard description of his leader, 'in 
 their hidden caverns ; the most recondite secrets of the 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 Sophy ^ or 
 
 Druses are said to be in his possession ; and he has 
 dwelt with the Yezedis, or devil-worshippers, and 
 witnessed their dark rites ; the triple cord of the 
 Brahmins, the prayer-wheel of the Buddhist, is not 
 strange to him. Lately he has identified himself with 
 our friends the Turks of the Sufi heresy. . . . My 
 father has a very great respect for him ; he consults 
 him upon all political and religious questions.* 
 
 * Your father, then, believes in some kind of religion ?' 
 ' He is an extremely religious man, really; that is 
 
 to say, he thinks a great deal upon spiritual subjects ; 
 but he has a great dislike to all accepted forms.' .... 
 
 * He attacks, in fact, all existing religions, in order 
 that he may invent one of his own. I suppose this is 
 really a true statement of the case ? ' 
 
 * Oh, no, indeed, he doesn't attack existing religion ! ' 
 protested Sophy. * He says that would be, as the 
 French say, " hailing upon parsley." He's very good 
 and tolerant to religion whenever it comes in his way ; 
 for he detests bigotry of any sort, even the bigotry of 
 the Freethinkers. He himself is terribly open to con- 
 viction upon every subject.' 
 
 ' I suppose by " parsley " he means the Christian 
 religion ? ' 
 
 * Yes, and all the other religions that profess to 
 dictate in an arbitrary manner to mankind, saying, 
 " This alone is the true faith." He looks upon per- 
 sonal religion as purely constitutional ; and, though he 
 is such a very religious man, he can't take in all the 
 beliefs of other people any more than he can always 
 eat the same food as they do.' 
 
 * I see ; and even in the choice of his bodily food, 
 I think you told me, he differed a little from the rest 
 of us?'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 227 
 
 * Yes, he is almost entirely a vegetarian. He very 
 strongly objects to destroying animal life, in order 
 that we may support our own lives by it, when there 
 are other moans of doing so. Above all, he dislikes 
 the idea of turning the sufferings of animals into a 
 sport. I believe this is the Buddhist theory ; Cole- 
 ridge's ballad of the Ancient Mariner is founded on 
 it. You remember the curse that followed upon the 
 killing of the albatross for mere idle sport ? ' 
 
 ' I always thought the poem very much overrated/ 
 answered the young man. * I am glad to know that 
 it possesses a hidden significance. And so your father 
 consults the Great Prophet on religious matters as well 
 as upon politics ?' 
 
 * He believes,' said Sophy, ' that Asia is the cradle 
 of all religions possessed of vitality — Christianity 
 amongst the number — and that only Easterns who 
 are learned in mysticism are at all capable of inventing 
 religions. Europeans, he says, being positivists, can 
 form laws and political codes, but they are incapable 
 of taking Oriental metaphors and poetic phrases in the 
 proper spirit. He fancies that the European mind has 
 taken several of these much too literally — the apple, 
 for instance, the snake, and the creation of the world 
 in six days ; and he thinks that, in order to restore 
 the proper proportion of poetry and prose, mystics and 
 positivists ought to mingle together and interchange 
 their ideas.' 
 
 * I think,' remarked Godfrey, ' that the time has 
 almost come when I ought to make your father's 
 acquaintance. I could represent the European element.' 
 
 * Oh, I wish you would ! ' exclaimed Soj^hy, warmly, 
 and losing all feeling of shyness for the moment. ' But 
 how is it to be managed ? '
 
 228 Sophy ^ or 
 
 ' I must leave that to you ; try and arrange it, if 
 you can/ 
 
 * I -will, indeed ! ' cried she, enthusiastically. * Let 
 me consider;' and, leaning her chin upon her hands, 
 she remained silent for some moments, as though in 
 the act of developing a scheme. 
 
 ' I think I have discovered a way,' she said at last, 
 * though my plan may seem to you rather complicated, 
 and not quite straightforward ; but it is the only one 
 I can think of.' 
 
 ' Never mind that,' replied the young man. ' Let 
 me hear what it is.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' rejoined Sophy, feeling now brave as 
 a lion, ' to-day is Thursday. Every Tuesday morning, 
 as it is market-day, Janus and Nelus go down to 
 Southerbourne in the cart, and when it is fine, my 
 father and I nearly always go too — I fancy it does 
 him good to have a little sea-air ; and when it was 
 warm weather I used to bathe. Anyhow, we have got 
 into the habit of going there upon this particular day, 
 for then Janus can ask my advice about the things she 
 buys ; and we then put our purchases into the cart, 
 and drive home all together before nightfall.' 
 
 ' Quite in patriarchal fashion,' remarked Godfrey. 
 *Well, and what then?' 
 
 * Whilst Janus and I are doing our shopping, and 
 Nelus is attending to the horses, what do you think 
 my father does?' Sophy inquired. 
 
 ' I can't imagine,' answered Godfrey, smiling at 
 her entlnisiasm. ' Though, if it wouldn't offend you, 
 I shoidd say, "probably something very extraordinary." ' 
 
 * This great, good, and clever man,' she continued, 
 for she still boasted of her father's wisdom to others, 
 although she hod sometimes felt doubtful about it
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 229 
 
 herself — * tliis man, whom other still wiser men will 
 come half across the world to see, who advises kings 
 and emperors and prime ministers, and makes war and 
 peace just as he likes — actually sits down quietly upon 
 the beach and eats shrimps ! ' 
 
 * And it is then that I am to be introduced to him ?' 
 asked Godfrey, looking amused. 
 
 ' It is then that you must introduce yourself. You 
 must go up to him and plunge into conversation. You 
 will recognise him from my description ; besides which, 
 you tell me you have seen him at a distance. I will 
 tell you also to what part of the beach I will lead him, 
 and then it will all go off beautifully.' 
 
 * But in what way am I to begin the conversation ? 
 Won't he naturally think it very impertinent of an 
 utter stranger to address him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, no, indeed he won't ! ' answered Sophy, eagerly. 
 ' As he is quite unlike other people, he isn't governed 
 by ordinary rules. He's always on the look-out for 
 "tjrpes," "counterparts," ''idiosjmcrasies," "emana- 
 tions," " brain-structures," and converts to the Great 
 Cause. Directly he hears you speak he will like you,' 
 she added, blushing, ' for he will like your voice.' 
 
 * But what word is my voice to utter first ?' 
 
 * Oh, you might pretend not to know that he was 
 blind, as he doesn't show it ; and you could ask him 
 the time — he always wears a repeater.' 
 
 * That is, I believe, a very common way of stealing 
 a person's watch. He will probably take me for a 
 thief.' 
 
 'Ah, how little you can grasp his innocent and 
 unsuspicious nature ! He's a thousand times more 
 likely to take a thief for an honest man, than an 
 honest man for a thief: he never suspects anyhodi/ !*
 
 230 Sophy ^ or 
 
 And she sighed at several reminiscences which occurred 
 to her connected with her father's floating fund of 
 credulity. 
 
 'Well, and having asked the time?' Godfrey 
 inquired. 
 
 * Then/ replied Sophy, * you must immediately 
 plunge into politics.' 
 
 * And into the politics of what country am I to 
 plunge ?' asked her cousin, laughing. ' Of course, too, 
 all his views will be quite the reverse of mine. We 
 shall probably end in a quarrel.' 
 
 * You must speak rather in the abstract,' explained 
 Sophy, waving her hand with the old movement 
 towards the setting sun. * You had better talk about 
 the balance of power in Europe, and the eventual 
 triumph of the Tartar race ; and, above all, be sure 
 to crack up the Turks, and the Poles, and the 
 Circassians.' 
 
 Godfrey laughed again at this piece of feminine 
 strategy, and Sophy looked up at him inquiringly, 
 uncertain as to whether he was not ridiculing both 
 herself and her project. 
 
 ' I am smiling,' he explained, * at the notion of my 
 going down to a provincial watering-place, and con- 
 versing upon subjects of which I am profoimdly 
 ignorant, with a man I have never spoken to before 
 in my life, and who is eating shrimps and wishing me 
 anywhere ! I am relieved to find that he does not 
 object to destroying the life of a shrimp.' 
 
 ' A certain number of shrimps are destroyed every 
 day, whether he eats them or not. I fancy this is the 
 way he absolves his conscience. Besides which, I 
 confess he is not altogether consistent. People ex- 
 pecting perfect consistency in him will be disappointed ;
 
 the AdveMtures of a Savage, 231 
 
 but I know that after you have spoken two words to 
 him he will like you, so it doesn't much matter what 
 those words are.' 
 
 ' And would you be looking on at me all the time, 
 confusing me with your presence ?' 
 
 ' No ; I should be marketing with the servants. 
 But after he had got thoroughly to know you and like 
 you, I should appear upon the scene, and, lo and behold, 
 it would then turn out that you were the son of his 
 brother from whom he had been parted so long ! 
 After this, I think there might come a reconciliation ; 
 only I want him to form his own judgment of you 
 first, before he knows who you are.' 
 
 * You mean, that if he knew my name he would be 
 prejudiced against me ? It seems very unnatural.' 
 
 * It does, indeed ! And you don't know how much 
 I have thought about it lately ! Here are our two 
 fathers living within barely three miles of each other, 
 and never meeting or speaking ! And all for some old 
 quarrel which they ought long ago (to have forgotten. 
 Very likely they may have forgotten it, but they still 
 remember their old bitterness. Really, I think that 
 it's time they should be friends, and that your father, 
 being the elder, ought to be the first to make advances.' 
 
 Sophy did not know, when she ventured upon this 
 suggestion, that it might aj^pear to her cousin in the 
 light of an impertinence ; but he somehow made her 
 feel this, as he replied coldly, — 
 
 ' My father is now a very old man. He will not be 
 here much longer, and I endeavour to check myself 
 whenever I am inclined to criticise or cavil at his 
 actions.' 
 
 * Of course,' answered his companion, feeling 
 crushed. 'Still, this family quarrel is a great pity.'
 
 232 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 * It is ; but we mayn't quite know the true cause 
 of it/ 
 
 * I don't want to know it/ said Sophy, * if to know 
 would only set me against j^eople ! I'm sure I'm 
 trying to do all in my power to patch it up by making 
 friends with you ; and yet I hardly like the idea of our 
 being so much together, when my father has never 
 known you or spoken to you. That's why I want to 
 bring about a meeting.' 
 
 * Very well ; I will do as you wish. Next Tuesday, 
 if the day should be fine, I'll ride down early to 
 Southerbourne ; and, at about twelve, I'll be on the 
 beach opposite to where the bathing-machines used to 
 be in the summer.' 
 
 * Thank you, thank you, a thousand times ! How 
 kind you are ! ' And she then added, anxious to 
 disabuse his mind of a possible misconception, * Of 
 course I don't say that my father would object to our 
 meeting, although, somehow, till the quarrel is made 
 up, I haven't liked to tell him about it. He didn't 
 mind it when we were children, neither does he object 
 to my walking about with Tom Hickathrift ; so the 
 only reason why he might not like me to walk with 
 you would be on account of this tiresome feud.' 
 
 * Do you walk about much with Tom Hickathrift ?' 
 asked the young man — the real Godfrey looking out 
 for one moment from his eyes, and seeming not over- 
 well pleased. 
 
 *Not quite so much since Sir Peckham's death,' 
 she answered ; ' for he has such heaps of things to 
 attend to now, that he can't give me so much of his 
 time.' 
 
 * He gave you a great deal of it, then, once ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' replied Sophy, simply. * And I miss him
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 233 
 
 now a good deal ; for it^s always nice to see tlie people 
 one likes.' 
 
 * It must be very nice ! When I saw your manner 
 to Hickathrif t at the Abbey ball, do you know what I 
 thought ?' 
 
 'No; do tell me!' 
 
 * Well, I thought that jou were probably engaged 
 to be married to him. I was very nearly congratulating 
 you.' 
 
 How calmly he said it, as if he did not in the least 
 care whether she was engaged to be married or not ! 
 After all, what difference could it possibly make to 
 him ? Nevertheless, his manner depressed and irritated 
 her, and the crimson blood mounted unconsciously to 
 her cheek. 
 
 *But I was glad to hear, next day,' he went on 
 impassively, *that my impression was erroneous.' 
 
 ' And why should I not be engaged to be married 
 if I like?' she demanded, warmly, goaded almost to 
 madness. 
 
 * There is no reason in the world,' Godfrey answered, 
 crushing her still further by his calmness. * You are 
 not, however, I believe ? I was wrong, of course, to 
 judge from appearances, as it was your first ball.' 
 
 * Did I do anything so very extraordinary that you 
 should know at once that it was my first ball ? ' she 
 asked, now fairly put out. 
 
 * I fancied that it was,' he answered, * by several 
 little things ; besides, I think you told me.' 
 
 * You can't have been, yet, to a very great many 
 yourself ! ' 
 
 This was intended as a cutting sarcasm, though, as 
 she gave vent to it, she wondered at her own extra- 
 ordinary temerity.
 
 234 Sophy, or 
 
 * No ; we are neither of us very old ! ' he answered, 
 laughing good-humouredly. *But that is a fault that 
 is certain to mend.' 
 
 * Now I must indeed go home/ cried Soj^hy, unable 
 to account for her own irritation, as she rose suddenly 
 from her seat upon the fallen oak-tree. ' It's getting 
 almost dark.' 
 
 Godfrey rose also, and stood over her in the twilight. 
 He held both her hands in his for some time before he 
 let them go. In Sophy's heart so many conflicting 
 emotions had arisen during this short interview, with 
 the last of which there had mingled, somehow, such a 
 feeling of forlornness, that she almost imagined that 
 Godfrey, like some powerful and all- seeing genius, 
 had divined its existence, and was about to take her 
 to his heart. A great wish came over her to be 
 comforted, absolved, forgiven, for she knew not what. 
 Instead of this, however, he raised her hand respect- 
 fully to his lips, with something of the formal gesture 
 of a gallant of the ancien regime, and, without looking 
 back at him, she hurried homewards through the 
 gloaming. 
 
 Godfrey stood watching her thoughtfully until she 
 was lost in the darkness, and then, with something 
 very like a sigh, he vaulted over the five-barred gate, 
 and made for Great Stillingfleet. 
 
 So2)hy, in the meantime, was suffering keenly from 
 that mortifying sense of inferiority which always tor- 
 mented her in the presence of her cousin, and she 
 began to count over in her mind the list of her 
 imaginary iniquities — her awkwardnesses, her want 
 of tact, her slips of the tongue, her provincialisms, her 
 foolish tell-tale blushes, and what she was pleased to 
 call her ' barbarisms.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 235 
 
 * I suppose/ she thouglit, sadly and penitently, 
 * that I'm only a sort of wild woman of the woods, 
 and can't do better — a savage, a kind of Orson in 
 petticoats ; and yet I never feel stupid or countrified 
 when I'm with poor dear Tom ! Then I can go 
 rattling on without ever stopping to pick my words, 
 and, somehow, I always seem to say the right ones ! 
 If only Godfrey would not speak to me as if I was 
 either very young, or very poor, or very much beneath 
 him, I should feel so much more at my ease, and / 
 shouldn't dislike him half so much ! Next time I see 
 him I will try to be brave, and put aside all this 
 foolishness/ 
 
 As she flitted along the gravel- walk in front of the 
 bay-window, within which stood the three suits of 
 armour — empty now of all knighthood, mere shells, 
 like those of absorbed ichneumon flies, yet bearing no 
 outward trace of the death that had been so busy 
 within — she saw, by the lights in the inner sitting- 
 room, that the Great Prophet had already arrived ; for 
 when Mr. St. Clair was alone, he was accustomed to 
 dispense with light, declaring that he could see better 
 in the dark, and thinking, perhaps, that candles would 
 be wasted upon one who could not even see the sun. 
 
 Sophy slipped in at the front-door, hung up her 
 hat and cloak in the hall, and passed into the front 
 sitting-room, in order to arrange the books upon the 
 table, and clear away her knitting-needles and worsted- 
 balls. The door of the inner sanctum was open as 
 usual, but neither the Great Seer nor her father were 
 aware of her presence ; and before they perceived it, 
 she could not avoid catching the following fragment 
 of their conversation : — 
 
 The Great Frophet : * In a word, then, my friend.
 
 236 Sophy ^ or 
 
 be not over-anxious with regard to this matter, nor 
 imagine that evil consequences must necessarily follow 
 the union of cousins of the first degree, or that of 
 those bound, within certain restrictions, by the tie of 
 blood, a tie which we have ever held to be still further 
 fortified and cemented by the additional tie of marriage, 
 as marriage is confirmed and strengthened by an accom- 
 panying tie of blood. . . . The Circassians, the Turko- 
 mans, even the Jews, intermarry, and, indeed, all 
 ancient races. To discountenance this was the inven- 
 tion of your priests, in order to give dispensations for 
 which money is paid. ... If these marriages are 
 abominable, and against Nature, as would be the 
 union of a brother with a sister, a son with his 
 mother, why should the abomination depart upon the 
 payment of money, as your priests pretend?' 
 
 Mr. St. Ckiir (bowing his head submissively) : * I 
 shall remember your words should I feel anxious again 
 upon this subject ; for if any man could convince me 
 that I laboured under an error, that man would be 
 yourself. Our prejudices, however, are more difficidt 
 to eradicate than our reasonable objections, and I must 
 confess that I have always looked upon the marriages 
 of cousins of the first degree as abominable.' 
 
 After hearing these words, poor Sophy slunk up to 
 her room, feeling like a wounded spirit. 
 
 Chapter YIII. 
 
 One more letter from Sophy to her chosen friend, 
 and I have done, probably for ever, with the epistolary 
 style : —
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 237 
 
 * The description of your unhappiness/ slie began, 
 ' lias made me feel how mucli I have in my own life to 
 make me grateful and contented. I am told that 
 bodily pain, too, is very disagreeable, though I have 
 never experienced it to any extent; and it does, indeed, 
 seem hard that, on the top of everything else, you 
 should have toothache. Console yourself, dear, with 
 occupation, with the knowledge that things seldom go 
 on for long exactly as they are, and with a belief in 
 the doctrine of cotnpensation. All these I have proved 
 the truth of ; the second of them, sometimes, quite in 
 a tiresome way : for when one is well off and happy as 
 one is, of course one has no wish for changes ; and yet, 
 somehow, either in circumstances or feelings, they 
 always seem to come. I think I told you that the 
 Prophet was coming to stay with us again — you know 
 about him from my descriptions. The Great Cauae, I 
 believe, is entirely of his own invention ; consequently 
 we all sit at his feet and worship him, speaking of him 
 as "Him"' (written with a capital H). * He is an 
 Asiatic mystic,' she continued, going through the 
 recognised formula, adding, by way of climax, as Mr. 
 St. Clair invariably added, ' He has dwelt with the 
 Yezedis, or devil-worshippers, and witnessed their 
 dark rites. . . . And now to tell you, dearest Adele, 
 a little characteristic trait respecting these Yezedis, 
 which, I really think, gives one a great insight into 
 human nature. . . It seems that these horrid creatures 
 go through all sorts of dreadful religious ceremonies, 
 worshipping the Spirit of Evil because they believe 
 him to be much stronger than the Spirit of Good (as 
 I should think he zcaSy from all I hear, though, of 
 course, this is no reason why they should try and con- 
 ciliate him, throwing, as it were, sops to Cerberus ;
 
 238 Sophy, or 
 
 but it seems this is their system). With people herSf 
 on the contrary, the Great Prophet says, things are 
 exactly reversed. We are supposed to reverence 
 the Spirit of Good, looking up to Him, and professing 
 to do what would please Him most, though we don't 
 always do it. But fancy, the Prophet says — and my 
 father assures me that this is a fact — there are actually 
 some people here, in England, who, because they fancy 
 it looks fne and fashionable and independent, will posi- 
 tively pretend that they are worshipping and following 
 the Spirit of Evil! — openly flaunting their sins in 
 the eyes of other good people, not caring a bit for 
 public opinion, and behaving in the most foolish and 
 extravagant manner, endeavouring to shock everybody 
 and trying to break as many commandments of the 
 English religion (I really forget what they all are, but 
 some are easier to keep, I believe, than others) as they 
 possibly can ! But now listen to the behaviour of 
 these absurd Yezedis, and then you will see that men 
 are really just as silly as we are, and, after all, very 
 much alike in all countries. The people amongst 
 them who wish to be thought smart and eccentric 
 begin, of course, as they do here, by going against all 
 the old-established forms. But how are they to dis- 
 play their fashionable wickedness ? Not by hreal'ing 
 the commandments of the English religion, but by 
 keeping them ; so that actually the unorthodox people 
 and the dissipated young men amongst the Yezedis 
 set about doing good and scofiing at the Spirit of Evily 
 and they refuse to go to devil-worship and become 
 what we should call quite virtuous, though only from 
 contradiction ! Of course, however, they are looked 
 upon by their clergy as the wicked people are looked 
 upon here — quite as pariahs ; and they become, in a
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 239 
 
 kind of way, excommunicated, and the respectable 
 Yezedis won't visit them, or invite their fcmaloi to 
 their balls or parties. But they go on swaggering 
 in their lawless way whilst they are young, though, when 
 they get near their end, they generally reform (as bad 
 people do here), and become bloodthirsty devil- wor- 
 shippers again, having '' sown their wild oats." After 
 this, dearest Adele, can you wonder at any of the ex- 
 travagances committed by men or women wherever 
 they are ? 
 
 ' Besides all this, the Great Prophet talks a great 
 deal about " atmospheres," *' spheres," " emanations," 
 " counterparts," &c. ; for all his views upon every sub- 
 ject stand by themselves. I longed that your pretended 
 sister could have listened to him the other day, as it 
 is just the sort of stuff that would go down with her 
 victims ; and to the deaf ones it would sound so •well 
 through a trumpet. He tells me, too, that I am "a 
 leader of men," and that I am meant by rights for a 
 Priestess or a Prophetess. 
 
 * Our dinner-party of the other evening was what 
 you would call " of the most original." It was got up 
 entirely for our Asiatic star, and several of his disciples 
 attended. We made up as many beds as we could in 
 the house, and over the cart-horses, but for one night 
 we were very much crowded. In the middle of our 
 preparations, judge of our consternation when we heard 
 that the Private Secretary of a certain minister, with 
 whom the Great Prophet is at daggers drawn (at any 
 rate in print), wished very particularly to make his 
 acquaintance ; and as he was staying at Southerbourne, 
 he proposed to my father, who has known him for a 
 long time, to drive over and meet him at dinner. Of 
 course we didn't quite like to refuse this request,
 
 240 Sophy, or 
 
 though, I must say, I almost feared that the meeting 
 might end in bloodshed ; and I hid away, secretly, all 
 the yataghans and tomahawks that are hanging up 
 in the dining-room, and also the rifle, loaded with 
 the golden bullet which never misses its mark (which, 
 you remember, we cast one day in Wimpole Street), 
 and I took care that the dinner-knives were all nice 
 and blunt. As a little surprise to some of our Oriental 
 guests, what do you think my dear father had devised ? 
 That we should have a real Eastern dish, called 
 "Kebobs," and it seemed to him quite providential 
 that Abdallah (who, as I told you, came over with the 
 Arab horses) should be here to prepare it. I went 
 into the kitchen during this painful operation, to see 
 if I could pick up any ideas; but the only efPect of 
 my visit was, to make me feel that I would rather 
 starve than eat of the horrible dish. This is the way 
 it was made, though, if anybody says it isn^ty please 
 don't quote me ; for I really don't see why a common 
 donlxcy-hoy (and this is all Abdallah is in his own 
 country) should know anything about cooking. My 
 father seems to think, however, that because he comes 
 from the East he must know all about Eastern cookery, 
 as if any one would ever be so deluded as to believe in 
 the culinary talents of a donkey-boy of the North ! 
 Abdallah, then, who can only speak his own language, 
 and that badly, made imperious signs, first of all, that 
 he wanted a leg of mutton, which was brought to him 
 by Janus, who looked very much disgusted at having 
 her province invaded by what she calls a '* barbarium." 
 After this he made her understand that he required 
 some little pieces of stick. These he sharpened with 
 his pocket-knife, and having cut up the leg of mutton, 
 with the same knife, into pieces about the size of a lump
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 241 
 
 of sugary lie put each of them upon one of the little 
 pointed skewers. He then commenced cutting up some 
 onions. I think I told you before that Abdullah has a 
 very bad cold, and this seemed to make it far worse — 
 his eyes cried dreadfully, and a long red pocket-hand- 
 kerchief with yellow spots, which he carried in his 
 hand, seemed to be trailing into everything, though he 
 didn't use it half so often as he ought. It was really 
 dreadful to watch him, and to think that human beings 
 were destined to eat what he was mauling about in this 
 awful manner ! When he had cut up the onions, he 
 threw them into a saucepan with the lumps of mutton 
 and some rice, and stirred them about for some time, 
 whilst Janus glared at him most ferociously. Now and 
 then he took up a tallow-candle and held it over the 
 saucepan, to see how they were getting on, and from hold- 
 ing it so very near to the fire, a good deal of the tallow 
 couldn't help falling into the kehohs. The whole thing 
 was very terrible ; but when they were finished, and 
 sent into the dining-room, they were pronounced to be 
 excellent. Abdallah was sent for, and publicly com- 
 plimented in his native language, and not one of the 
 little horrors escaped with its life ! the introduction 
 of this Eastern dish, in fact, seemed to produce such a 
 good effect upon the Great Prophet and the Private 
 Secretary, that instead of quarrelling, as we had expected 
 they would, they apparently became friends for life ; 
 and I shall be very much surprised if those violent 
 articles directed against a certain minider, and accusing 
 him of bribery and corruption, do not cease, at any 
 rate for the present. What teas remarkable, though, 
 was, that two of the Prophet's own disciples, who had 
 always been the most devoted friends, had a terrible 
 dispute; not in the least upon an important subject, 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 Sophij, or 
 
 but as to whether an Oriental dish called a inllauf vfdi% 
 composed of chicken and rice, or with rice onhj. They 
 became black in the face with rage, foamed at the 
 mouth, threatened each other, and shook their fists, 
 swearing at the same time in several hnujuages, and ac- 
 cording to three or four different religions ! One called 
 the other the " son of the father of lies," whilst the 
 other replied that he was " a fool," and that *' nothing 
 remained to him but to grow fat;" and in the end the 
 Great Prophet and the Private Secretary had posi- 
 tively to tear them asunder ! For the rest of the 
 evening they didn't speak, and great fears are enter- 
 tained lest the one who said that the pillcmf was made 
 with rice should withdraw himself from the political 
 party of the one who said that it was made with 
 chicken, in w^hich case (my father says) the Great Cause 
 will lose the services of a man oi first-rate brain-power, 
 and all for such a very little thing ! This will show you, 
 that even great men are subject to certain weaknesses, 
 which it is always a satisfaction for us, who are only 
 women, to realise. 
 
 ' And now farewell, my dearest Adele, for my letter 
 has grown to an enormous length ; and but that you 
 said letters were a consolation to you, I should feel 
 ashamed to send it. I wish you the good fortune to 
 escape from your complications, and that wdth all 
 speed. I have not alluded to any complications of 
 my own, but will only tell you that I have had lately 
 some very sad thoughts. Had I the prayer- wheel of 
 the Buddhists, I think I know what I should pray 
 for ; and they say that it is a great thing to know 
 what one really w^ants, as very few people do. My 
 music and drawing are going on very nicely ; but I'm 
 afraid I don't make quite so much progress with 7ny
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 243 
 
 religion, as I am met at every turn by sucli terrible 
 contradictions and deceptions. However, I cannot 
 really say with truth that I have as yet taken it 
 thoroughly in hand.' 
 
 Here the letter ended with a few affectionate com- 
 pliments, which, as it turned out, Sophy might have 
 spared herself the trouble of inditing ; for, to her 
 surprise, the whole composition was returned to her 
 in a few days, fortunately unopened, with a note from 
 the * pretended sister,' to the effect that Adele had 
 mysteriously disappeared, and that, by no manner of 
 means, could her whereabouts be discovered. 
 
 Letters continued, nevertheless, to arrive for her 
 from Mr. Carver, and as no more were delivered in 
 what Sophy had decided was the handwriting of the 
 * second husband,' she endeavoured to subdue hpr 
 rising anxiety, concluding, with a wisdom beyond 
 her years, that it would be perhaps more reasonable, 
 until further particulars reached her, to look upon this 
 ' mysterious disappearance ' in the light of an elope- 
 ment, rather than a case of suicide. 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 
 But all this time the great Hickathrift ring of 
 betrothal had been jingling about in Sir Thomas's 
 waistcoat-pocket, and he was looking forward with 
 mingled feelings of fear and excitement to the moment 
 when he should rid himself of it in one way or another ; 
 for, supposing Sophy refused him, it was to be returned 
 to his mother's forefinger. 
 
 Upon the occasion of his last visit to Little Stilling-
 
 244 Sophy, or 
 
 fleet, when, to the surprise of its unconscious object, 
 lie had seemed to ignore her very existence, he liad 
 ventured to make known his feelings to her father, and 
 had endeavoured to obtain from him some inkling of 
 what might be his possible fate ; for he had the can- 
 dour to admit that he was himself in a terrible state of 
 uncertainty. 
 
 ' I can't help thinking that it's rather too soon to 
 speak to her,' he had said ruefully. * But yet, what is 
 one to do ? If I put it off some one else may propose 
 first, and then, you know, one will feel like a fool.' 
 
 *I hardly think you need have any fears on that 
 score,' answered Mr. St. Clair. 'For I don't see who 
 there is to propose. My visitors here are, nearly all 
 of them, men older than myself — most of them are 
 foreigners, and they are too much occupied to think 
 of the allurements of love. Besides which, they belong 
 mostly to a religion which, though it denies the exist- 
 ence of more than one God, sanctions a plurality of 
 wives ; and it would no doubt be considered indecorous 
 in a country where this rule is reversed — that is to say, 
 where three Gods, and only one wife, are permitted — 
 were I to give my child in marriage to a follower of 
 Islam. ' 
 
 ' Of course,' replied the young man, ignoring the 
 theological portion of this remark. ' I'm not much 
 afraid of those you mention ; but there are other 
 people. . . . She was very much admired at the ball. 
 . . . There's Godfrey St. Clair. . . .' 
 
 * That can never be ! ' cried Sophy's father, with 
 animation. ' They are first cousins. But that is only 
 one of several reasons why I should be strongly opj^osed 
 to such a marriage.' 
 
 * I don't say there's any just reason for my fear,'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 245 
 
 rejoined Tom. ' But a fellow always is a little frightened 
 wlien lie feels as I do.' 
 
 ' Yes, and very naturally. We have most of us 
 travelled by the same road. And that reminds me — 
 since you have made me this confidence of your 
 feelings, I feel that /, too, should not be justified in 
 keejDing anything back. . . . You know about her 
 mother ? ' 
 
 * I do,' replied Tom, touched and embarrassed by 
 the thought of the honourable feeling which prompted 
 the elder man thus to disinter his past. * At least, I 
 think I know all that you could tell me.' 
 
 ' That is well,' said the pliilosopher. ' And I ought 
 to have known you too well to suppose that, even had 
 you been ignorant till now of the history of my youth, 
 your feehngs would have changed towards her at any 
 xiisclosures I might make to you.' 
 
 'Spare yourself the pain, sir,' interrupted Tom 
 eagerly. ' I know her mother was a gipsy ; but I love 
 her as much as if she had been a queen's daughter.' 
 
 ' Her mother was an angel,' said the blind man, 
 deeply touched at this heartfelt speech. 'And were 
 she alive now, neither you nor her daughter would 
 be ashamed of one of the most charming of women. 
 But there are still circumstances of which you may, 
 perhaps, be ignorant, and of which I feel that it is 
 my duty to inform you. . . . Sophy has other rela- 
 tions. My wife's supposed father, a wild, lawless man, 
 who ill-treated her in her childhood, imagines that 
 on account of my marriage he has claims upon me. 
 It has been with the utmost difficulty that I have 
 succeeded in keeping this unprincipled person — one 
 Reuben Goddard by name — at bay ; for it is natural 
 that I should wish to avoid shocking Sophy's gentle
 
 246 Sophy ^ or 
 
 and refined nature by allowing her to come in contact 
 with one so lost to all elevating impulses, but who is 
 yet unfortunately bound to her by the tie of blood.' 
 
 * I can't tell you how right I think you,' exclaimed 
 Tom warmly; 'for she would feel it, of course. It 
 would make her very unhappy, I'm sure it would.' 
 
 'But it makes no difference to you?' asked the 
 blind man, with satisfaction in his voice. 
 
 * I'm sorry for it, of course, and for all the annoyance 
 it must have caused you ; but I don't see how it affects 
 me personally, except that I know now that she's more 
 in want of a second protector than I thought.' 
 
 * You're a good fellow/ said Mr. St. Clair, feeling 
 for Tom's hand and pressing it ; ' and, whichever way 
 it turns, you will know that you have my best wishes 
 from the first.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir,' replied the young man gratefully, 
 and for a few seconds both were silent. Francis St. 
 Clair was the first to speak. 
 
 ' This misguided individual,' he said, ' has received 
 from me, through my lawyer, a small annual allowance, 
 not sufiicient to support him in idleness without some 
 effort on his own part to augment it, and yet enough to 
 protect him from absolute want. It is a sum which 
 will seerri to you ridiculously small — forty pounds only ; 
 but I was advised to give no more. I was also recom- 
 mended by my legal adviser to make him understand 
 that even this paltry sum would cease with my life ; 
 for he had fancied that it might have been still further 
 increased by a bequest, and it is unwise to give a man 
 of no principle an interest, however small, in one's 
 death.' 
 
 ' Indeed, yes ! ' Tom answered, guessing his mean- 
 ing, yet feeling, notwithstanding, no diminution in his
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 247 
 
 devotion to tlie unconscious g-randdaughter of this mon- 
 ster. ' Has lie ever actually threatened you ?' 
 
 * Not in a way that has alarmed me for my personal 
 safety ; and, indeed, this has seemed to me but of small 
 account compared to the annoyance and grief which 
 Sophy would experience should this person present 
 himself at the house and reveal his kinship. During 
 my lifetime I think I have rendered this improbable 
 by a counter-threat that, from the day of such an oc- 
 currence, his allowance shall cease ; but I don't think 
 it impossible that, after my death, he may cause Sophy 
 and her husband some trouble. YoUy my dear Tom, 
 will know now how to shield her from this ; and I 
 should advise some arrangement similar to the one 
 I have made.' 
 
 When Tom Ilickathrift heard himself spoken to 
 thus, as the future husband of Sophy, he experienced 
 a sudden and delightful thrill of emotion. This dream, 
 then, seeming to him almost too delicious to be realised, 
 was to Mr. St. Clair a possibility, nay, a probability 
 even. For some moments he could not trust himself 
 to reply, and the father of Sophy continued, — 
 
 ' There is one other circumstance which I feci that 
 I ought perhaps to mention to you, as some persons may 
 possibly attach importance to it. My daughter, as you 
 know, has always been called *' Sophia," or " Soph}-," 
 a word signifying Wisdom^ which, as jovl may have 
 heard, was her mother's name ; and, as though with a 
 view of embodying this virtue, she has hitherto cer- 
 tainly displaj^ed a knowledge, an intelligence, a keen- 
 ness of perception, extraordinary in one so young.' 
 
 * There's nobody like her ! ' exclaimed Sir Thomas, 
 with enthusiasm. * She's cleverer, and nicer, and 
 prettier, than any one else in the world ! '
 
 248 S^P^^yi or 
 
 *But this name/ Mr. St. Clair continued, * given 
 to her at a moment when my life became suddenly 
 darkened, when we were sojourning for a while in the 
 city of Sophia, her birthplace, was not bestowed upon 
 her in a church ; nor has she, in fact, ever received 
 baptism, in the usual sense of the word.' 
 
 * Indeed ! ' returned Tom, looking rather blank, 
 though even now his heart remained loyal. 
 
 * Of course this omission can at any moment be 
 remedied,' the Agnostic went on ; * and she will now 
 have the rare advantage of being able to select the 
 religious denomination with which she may desire to 
 become associated — if with any.' 
 
 * Yes, of course,' acquiesced the young man. He 
 could not help, however, feeling a little uncomfortable. 
 Like the typical French hero of melodrama, he im- 
 mediately thought of his mother, and what she would 
 say to this ' omission.' 
 
 * Perhaps I can take her off and get her christened 
 somewhere abroad,' he thought at length, and at this 
 he felt comforted. 
 
 * And now, before we part compan)^,' said Mr. St. 
 Clair, 'let me tell you how flattered and honoured 
 I feel that my daughter's hand should have been de- 
 manded of me by an honest man. Thank you, my 
 dear Tom ; I say again you have my best wishes. I 
 know nothing, however, of Sophy's feelings respecting 
 marriage ; but I think I may say, without raising 
 false hopes, that she has alwaj^s had a warm affection 
 for you, and looked upon you as one of her best friends, 
 as I hope you will continue to be, whatever happens.' 
 
 * I will, indeed, sir,' said Tom ; * to the end of my 
 days — whether I win or lose.' 
 
 At this speech Mr. St. Clair became visibly affected.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 249 
 
 He again felt for his companion's right hand, and, when 
 they met, the two hands clasped each other very cordially, 
 whilst with his left the * young Sir Tummus ' felt 
 nervously for the great Hickathrift ring, which he had 
 brought with him in his waistcoat-pocket. 
 
 * I think I would rather get it over pretty soon,' he 
 remarked, after some moments of reflection. ' It will 
 be a weight off my mind. I'll ride over on Monday 
 next and ask her.' 
 
 And, indeed, the possession of this hereditary ]&we\ 
 was beginning to seem to him like a care and a respon- 
 sibility, and he felt that he must get rid of it somehow 
 for the sake of his peace of mind. 
 
 Finally it was arranged, that on the following Mon- 
 day he should ride over, as he had so often done before, 
 as though by accident ; that he should send back his 
 horse ; that Sophy (as she, too, had often done befcM'e) 
 should accompany him upon part of his homeward way ; 
 and that during this walk she should be informed of his 
 intentions. 
 
 However, when Monday arrived he did not present 
 himself as had been agreed upon. A note from him 
 was sent over instead, which Sophy read aloud to her 
 father, and wherein (for he had felt sure this would 
 happen by reason of Mr. St. Clair's blindness) the 
 young man made no allusion to the object of his in- 
 tended visit. He did, however, go so far as to say this 
 much, which might have seemed to her to be somewhat 
 mysterious, had not her mind been filled with other 
 thoughts and projects : — 
 
 * When I tell you the reason that I have not kept my 
 appointment you will laugh at me, and I shall deserve 
 it. I set out, and was half way on the road, when I 
 came across one magpie ; and fancying I might be out
 
 250 Sophy ^ or 
 
 of luck I turned back and went home again.' And he 
 then added, that unless the same evil omen appeared to 
 him on the following day, Tuesday, he hoped to present 
 himself then instead. 
 
 * Poor dear Tom ! ' exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, as 
 Sophy put down the letter. ' He's a perfect type of a 
 true-hearted young Englishman ; and what is more, he 
 is a gentleman.' 
 
 *A better creature never breathed,' she answered 
 carelessly, as she tore the note into little pieces, and 
 flung it into the grate. To the blind man these words 
 seemed almost as ominous as Tom's magpie. 
 
 * I hope, with all my heart, that she likes him,' he 
 murmured to himself ; ' but I'm afraid.' 
 
 On Tuesday Sophy rose with the lark ; for it was 
 the day upon which she had arranged her little seaside 
 project with Godl're}^, and she felt unusually restless 
 and excited. The painful impression produced by her 
 father's words upon the subject of the union of first 
 cousins, had gradually subsided before the joyful ex- 
 pectation of this meeting with her youthful kinsman, 
 which was to result, she fondly hoped, in a perpetual 
 'bmying of the hatchet.' 
 
 Whether or no she had ever really asked herself 
 how this enthralling friendship was to end ; whether 
 she had looked on into the future, and seen Godfrey 
 and herself united by closer ties than those of a senti- 
 mental companionshi]), despite the objections of a 
 beloved and affectionate father ; or whether she con- 
 templated the possibility of abandoning for ever such 
 sweet communion, and beholding him married to 
 another, whilst living thus within a stone's-throw of 
 his ancestral oaks and beeches, I must leave it to my 
 readers to conjecture. Those amongst them who are
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 251 
 
 the most conversant with the impulsive and unreasoning 
 minds of the young will, no doubt, come to the con- 
 clusion that she had probably cast all fears for the 
 future to the winds, and resigned herself blindly to the 
 alluring tangibilities of the present. 
 
 The day was wonderfully fine for the time of year — 
 autumnal, rather than wintry. The dew lay thick and 
 white on the lawn, in the long morning shadows, 
 which stretched across it, as if to shake hands ; but 
 there was no real frost. The Dallingridge woods 
 looked blue and hazy in the distance ; but though the 
 season was so far advanced, they were as yet un- 
 despoiled of their foliage, owing to the dry weather ; 
 and the nearer copses glowed with warm russet tints, 
 from amongst which a primrose-coloured birch- tree or 
 orange sycamore stood out here and there in brilliant 
 relief. 
 
 As Sophy looked out at this scene, two squirrels 
 darted across the lawn ; the birds were chirping as 
 blithely as if it had been spring-time, and everything 
 seemed replete with beauty and freshness, rendered all 
 the more touching from its contrast with that which 
 was inevitably to follow — the frozen sleep of winter. 
 
 ' What a delicious day ! ' she thought, as she leant 
 out of her bedroom window and drank in the crisp air, 
 and, contrary to her usual custom, she began con- 
 sidering what dress she should wear. 
 
 ' I think my shepherd's plaid,' she decided at last. 
 * My other two frocks he has seen so very often.' And 
 she set about making her simple toilet. 
 
 Sophy had not slept from a nervous fear of bad 
 weather, for there had been three hoarfrosts running, 
 which are generally supposed to be forerunners of rain. 
 She looked, however, extremely well, notwithstanding ;
 
 252 Sophy ^ or 
 
 and she entered tlie breakfiist-rooni, where her father 
 was sitting, seeming like a concentrated and incorporate 
 essence of youth, beauty, and haj^piness. 
 
 'Why are you h)oking so sentimental?' she in- 
 quired, as she kissed him loudly and affectionately, 
 for she had surprised him in what aj^peared to be a 
 ' brown study.' ' Why should your dear brow wear a 
 cloud when there isn't one in the whole sky the size of 
 a feather ? But, ah, I forgot ! ' she added, checking 
 herself reproachfully ; ' you can't see what a most 
 lovely day it is ! ' 
 
 ' I can feel it though,' he replied. ' I knew at once 
 that it was bright and sunny.' 
 
 * Janus, Janus ! ' she continued, rattling on, for 
 she felt that she must give some manner of expression 
 to her gladness of heart. * Again here is the accursed 
 flesh of swine, in the form of bacon, dear ; of course 
 you won't eat any ; but here are three poached eggs, 
 all hard, but one not broken ; some rice-milk, honey, 
 and a muffin. What will you begin with ? ' and she 
 placed a cup of steaming coffee by the side of the blind 
 man's plate. 
 
 * Thanks ; I don't feel much inclined to eat this 
 morning,' answered Mr. St. Clair, who did not seem to 
 be in the enjoyment of his usual unruffled calm. ' A 
 little coffee and some toast will be enough for me.' 
 
 * The sea-air will soon make you as hungry as an 
 ogre,' remarked his daughter, who was now, like 
 Werther's * Charlotte,' cutting bread-and-butter in the 
 most conscientious and determined manner, as though 
 to exhaust some of her superabundant energy. ' And 
 the less you eat now, the more appetite you will have 
 for those delicious s/trifnps. I'm sure I'm very glad 
 we've got such a fine day for our expedition.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 253 
 
 ' We are not going to Southerbourne to-day,' said 
 Mr. St. Clair, quietly. * I have just told Jane and 
 Nelus.' 
 
 'Not going to Southerbourne V echoed Sophy, drop- 
 ping, in her consternation, the heavy knife with which 
 she had been attacking the home-made loaf, and seeming 
 suddenly to become cold, and limp, and disconsolate. 
 
 * No, dear — don't you remember ? you read me his 
 letter — Sir Thomas Hickathrift is coming to-day.' 
 
 * Oh, is that all ? ' exclaimed Sophy with a sigh of 
 relief, the colour coming back to her cheeks. 'How 
 formal and grand we are ! Then '• Sir Thomas Hicka- 
 thrift " won't find the family at home, that'll be all ! 
 
 * My dearest Sophy ! ' said the blind man, and she 
 remarked that his thin hand trembled, and that his 
 cheek was unusually pale, * I delight in your haj)py, 
 joyous nature. ... I shall miss it, my child, when you 
 are no longer with me ; so don't think I am checiking 
 you if I say that I hope for once you will treat Tom 
 seriously, and listen to what he has got to say.' 
 
 'How do you mean?' she asked, painfully im- 
 pressed by his manner. ' What can Tom have to say 
 to me that won't keep ? or,' she added, blushing, as 
 she divined the truth, ' that I don't know perfectly 
 well already ? ' 
 
 * Perhaps, dear, you did know it ; / knew it, most 
 of our friends knew it, and so why should not you ? 
 However, Tom must speak for himself. I did not 
 even mean to say this much . . .' 
 
 *I do think it will keep,' said Sophy, nervously. 
 * I'm afraid I know what he may be going to say ; 
 but he can say it some other time.' 
 
 * My dear child, how could I guess that you attached 
 so much importance to going to Southerbourne ? Last
 
 254 Sophy ^ or 
 
 week you seemed so provoked at having to go. It was 
 a day such as I imagine this one to be, and you said — I 
 remember your words, because they struck me as being 
 80 true — " Why should we go amongst horrid men and 
 women, and houses and shops, to a town, when we can 
 enjoy, in peace and quietness, one of the last fine days 
 of a dying year ?" Don't ^''ou remember ?' 
 
 * T do,' she answered, hanging her head and feeling 
 abashed. 
 
 * And now,' her father went on, ' I have as good as 
 promised Tom that he shall speak to you to-day, and I 
 hardly like to put him off. He is very anxious, and 
 he may have nerved himself into sajdng to-day what 
 he would not be able to say so well to-morrow. I know 
 well the feeling myself.' 
 
 * It doesn't matter how well he says it ! ' exclaimed 
 poor So2)hy, bursting into tears ; *for I know that I 
 could never, never bring m3^self to marry him ! ' 
 
 ' My dear child, I am indeed sorry ; I had hoped that 
 you cared for poor Tom a little.' 
 
 * So I do,' replied Sophy, between her sobs. * But 
 that only makes it worse ! A person I hated I could 
 easily drive away ; but to Tom, whom I like so much, 
 but whom I could never marry, what am I to say ?' 
 
 ' You will know best, dear ; and you have enough 
 tact to prevent him, if you like, from actually proposing 
 to you. A woman can ward off these things in a 
 thousand little ways, and yet avoid hurting a man's 
 feelings. You can be very kind, and at the same time 
 firm ; and when he sees which way the wind blows, he 
 will pull up, for nobody likes to be refused.' 
 
 ' Ikit why need I see him at all ? Oh, do tell him 
 about it ; and let me get out of the way, and go down 
 with the servants to Southerbourne ! '
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 255 
 
 ' You may do this, if you like ; but you will please 
 me better b}^ facing what nearly every woman lias to 
 face at one time or another. I'm very sorry that you 
 can't feel differently/ 
 
 * One would think that you wanted to get rid of 
 me ! ' exclaimed Sophy, with a touch of feminine 
 irritation. 
 
 She was, indeed, torn and assailed by conflicting 
 emotions, of which not the least disturbing was the 
 thought that probably at about this time Godfrey 
 St. Clair's horse was being led round to the door of 
 Dallingridge House, in order that he might start on his 
 bootless errand. Tom Hickathrift's inconsiderate be- 
 haviour seemed to her enough to provoke the patience 
 of an angel. 
 
 * When you say that, you know that your words 
 have no meaning,' answered the blind man, stroking 
 her cheek. ' But, as Tom says, one day you are sute to 
 marry somebody ; and it would be an extraordinary 
 piece of good luck for me if you didn't go away further 
 than the Abbey. If you lived there, I should have you 
 with me at least now and then.' 
 
 ' You would probably have me with you all day,' 
 said Sophy, smiling through her tears ; * for I don't 
 think I could ever live in that gloomy old place, where 
 the rooms are so large that I feel in them no bigger 
 than a fly. I like nice, low, cosey-looking rooms like 
 these ; and now they've been digging up a lot of stone 
 coffins in the new kitchen-garden, and Tom told me, 
 with pride, that they were going to arrange them as 
 flower-stands at the top of the grand staircase! Fancy, 
 how horrible ! Tom says there's a hollow place scooped 
 out in all of them for the monk's head. . . .' 
 
 * The system of interment in coffins very naturally
 
 25(3 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 inspires disgust,' returned the pliiloaopher, 'and yet, 
 did one venture to express a desire that one's remains 
 should be otherwise dealt with, I imagine that a great 
 outcry would be raised, the keynote of which would be 
 sounded by the parsons. But is this all you have to 
 say against poor Tom?' 
 
 *His nose is so very long/ Sophy answered, the 
 * joke -on -the -scaffold' feeling obtaining a sudden 
 ascendency, 'and the shadow of it, which one sees 
 sometimes on walls, and curtains, and things, is so 
 ridiculous — it's longer still ! ' . . . 
 
 A slight cloud passed over the philosopher's Arab 
 face at these words, which seemed to him to be more 
 flippant than the occasion warranted. 
 
 'My dear child,' he remonstrated, 'if we could only 
 plan out the arrangement of our own features — in itself 
 a most subtle and mysterious thing ; and yet, what is 
 beauty but the harmonious setting of them together ? 
 — those amongst us who were possessed of good taste 
 would, by a natural sequence, be as beautiful as 
 houris. . . . The thing would find its level, though,' 
 he added musingly, carried away by the subject ; ' and 
 it would not necessarily ensue that we should, in con- 
 sequence, perceive a superabundance of beauty any 
 more than we are conscious at present of a surfeit of 
 good manners, becoming address, or appropriate cos- 
 tume. Then, as now, some vulgar persons would 
 continue to make unpleasing combinations ; and thus 
 it would invariably happen that the most refined and 
 S5^npathetic nature would be clothed in the most 
 attractive garb.' 
 
 * You mean, I suppose, that the ignorant would 
 choose their features as they choose their bonnets now, 
 getting ugly ones and fancying them pretty? So?ne
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 257 
 
 people^ however, are naturally beautiful, without any 
 fine words, and with very few "garbs." . . . But then, 
 apart from his own looks, Tom has such an absurd 
 mother.' 
 
 *We can no more choose our parents than our 
 features/ answered the blind man reproachfully. 
 
 ' No, dear ; but we can choose our husbands j^ cut in 
 Sophy. 
 
 * Tom is an honest man,' said Mr. St. Clair, without 
 heeding this last sally. 
 
 ' What temptation has he for stealing our family 
 plate?' she answered flippantly, having now thoroughly 
 recovered her good -humour, and bowing, as it were, 
 before the inevitable. * Nearly everybody is ^^ honest!*' ' 
 
 During this discussion they had moved from the 
 breakfast-room, and established themselves upon the 
 red divan in the bay-window of the parlour, where the 
 empty harness of the dead knights shut them ofi* from 
 the rest of the apartment. 
 
 * My belief is that Lady Hickathrif t is less vulgar- 
 minded than provincial,' Francis St. Clair continued. 
 *At any rate, she is thoroughly kind-hearted; so was 
 poor old Peckham, too, in private life, though he was 
 a fool, and, in his public career, a Tory of the most 
 virulent and uncompromising type — a type which is 
 fast disappearing, I am happy to say, from our midst 
 before the march of modern progress. Neither of 
 them had travelled at all, or lived much in London — 
 that great leveller of castes — consequently they imbibed 
 mistaken notions as to their own importance — very 
 excusable in persons who 
 
 " Think of home 
 As one might think of it in some damp shire. 
 Where, tritons 'mongst the minnows of the miro, 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 Sophy, or 
 
 Pand'ring to mouldy feudal sophistries, 
 
 We say, ' All these 
 Broad mortgaged lands are ours, yon 'scutcheoned hall, 
 Bright with their banners who were lords of all. 
 Here, where we also reign, all these are ours. 
 
 From postern-towers 
 Bead how, of old, the winged arrows sped 
 From archers, then our vassals ; overhead. 
 Ours is the flag which dominates with pride 
 
 The country-side.' " 
 
 You remember those lines ? . . . Now Tom has none 
 of this nonsense about him.' 
 
 *He's certainly not proud or stuck up, but he knows 
 he's a ITicJiafhrift,' answered Sophy, nodding her head 
 with a movement implying conviction. 
 
 * It would be odd if he did not know it, when one 
 considers how it must have been drummed into him 
 from his earliest childhood ; but I consider that he's 
 quite wonderful for an only son. His father, too, I 
 must say, behaved to me always with consistent 
 friendliness ; and this is more than I can say of all 
 our country neighbours. When, at the last election, 
 for instance, I declined to vote, disagreeing, as I did, 
 so thoroughly with either partj^ . . . .' 
 
 * How like you to disagree with everybody ! ' ex- 
 claimed Sophy. ' That's one of your chief charms ; 
 for you do it in such a gentle, quiet way, that no one 
 could possibly be angry ; and yet we all know that you 
 think the whole world in the wrong, and that you are 
 for doing away with everything ! ' 
 
 ' I can say, with a clear conscience, that I have 
 always tried to be just,' answered the philosopher. 
 
 * I know that,' said his daughter, as she patted his 
 head, affectionately. *We all know that you tri/ to
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 259 
 
 be just, and, once or twice, I have discovered that you 
 really were ! ' 
 
 * You think me an old fool/ 
 
 * No, dear, I don*t. I think you an old darling, and 
 a real genius, but with hardly a single grain of common 
 sense. Common sense, however, is such a tiresome, 
 unpleasant thing, coming out, as it always does, at 
 wrong times, and putting an end to so many nice en- 
 joyments, that I'm quite glad to think that you are 
 so entirely without it.' 
 
 *How fortunate that my daughter inherits none 
 of my weak points ! ' 
 
 * I am happy to say that I inherit them all, but my 
 defects are never active at the same time that yours 
 are. I never feel so sensible as when you are foolish, 
 or so practical as when you are wool-gathering ; and in 
 this way we manage to get on prett}^ well.' 
 
 ' Well, I hope you will be sensible now,' said tier 
 father, in an impressive voice ; ' and be kind, at any 
 rate ' for he fancied that, if not now, at least at 
 some future day, Sophy might become Thomas Hicka- 
 thrift's wife, if only she could abstain from wounding 
 his amour pro2)re. 
 
 * I will be as kind as you like,' replied Sophy re- 
 signedly ; * and I will do all I can to be sensible : but 
 I can't marry him. I shall not marry at all, or else 
 I shall do like my mother before me, and marry for 
 love : though there is no reason why I should be quite 
 so fortunate as a beautiful young lady of great family.' 
 
 * No good fortune could have equalled her deserts,' 
 answered the philosopher, sadly. * And perhaps now 
 it would be as well to mention to you,' he continued, 
 in an altered tone, ' that your mother (in the finite 
 comprehension of those persons who wrongly consider
 
 260 Sophy, or 
 
 individual or family position to be superior to the 
 more imperative claims of race) was not apparently ol 
 either great or influential ancestry, although of course, 
 to those who think as we do, the humblest shepherd- 
 boy, descending (let us say) from one of the ancient 
 Scottish clans, appears to be by far more illustrious 
 than the wealthiest of English or Irish parvemis, who, 
 upon the strength, perhaps, of a Scotch title and ac- 
 quired possessions (and of these there are several living 
 examples), has the audacity to sport the three feathers 
 and to set up a piper/ 
 
 ' Of course,' rejoined Sophy, unable, upon the spur 
 of the moment, to divine the meaning of this somewhat 
 involved speech. 
 
 Before, however, she had time to inquire further, 
 the keen ear of the blind man detected a distant sound, 
 and, upon glancing towards the carriage-road, which 
 wound down, serpent-like, to the house, unobscured by 
 the new avenue (so new, as yet, that every tree was 
 protected by a * cradle'), she perceived the figures of 
 two advancing horsemen. The foremost of these she 
 knew at once to be her unwelcome suitor ; another 
 moment, and she heard the sharp twang of the garden - 
 gate, and before she had time to realise to what extent 
 her own particular ' plot ' was ' thickening,' a smart- 
 looking groom, in deep mourning, momited upon a 
 spanking chestnut, rode briskly up to the front door, 
 making the gravel tingle against the windows as he 
 passed. 
 
 Sir Thomas Hickathrift followed in a couple of 
 seconds. He had already dismounted, and was leading 
 his horse ; but he handed the reins to his servant as 
 soon as Jane opened the door.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 261 
 
 Chapter X. 
 
 When Sir Thomas Hickathrift came into tlie room lie 
 somehow seemed to Sophy to be unlike his former self. 
 His former self had never confused or tormented her, 
 and the fact that he was doing so now made him appear 
 to her in the light of a stranger, though it also invested 
 him with a certain borrowed dignity, causing her to feel 
 a little afraid of him. She became very cold as he 
 grasped her hand, whilst he, too, looked pale and 
 agitated, and she thought that neither his pallor nor 
 his agitation was at all becoming. The air of honest 
 candour, which made the charm of his countenance, 
 was effaced for the moment ; the faithful retriever eyes 
 seemed to shrink from meeting her own ; and one 
 might almost have fancied that the depression visible 
 in his usually upright figure was caused by the sizer of 
 the family feature, which appeared to be weighing him 
 down. 
 
 When a woman discovers, for the first time, that a 
 man, for whom she experiences only a sisterly affection, 
 regards her with feelings not by any means platonic, 
 and desires, moreover, to give expression to these 
 feelings with a view to appropriating her wholly and 
 solely, to the sudden exclusion of all the roving fancies 
 which may have made the excitement and romance of 
 her free maidenhood, she very naturally passes through 
 a strange revulsion of feeling. Nay, often, to her own 
 surprise, her former comrade becomes almost repulsive 
 to her ; for the sisterly love, being dispelled by him, 
 crumbles, as it were, to dust and ashes, whilst in this 
 strange love she can take no part ; and hence it is that 
 an old friend may become suddenly transformed into a
 
 262 Sophy, or 
 
 new adversary, whom, it seems her duty to combat and 
 put to confusion. 
 
 Such an adversary, in the person of Thomas Ilicka- 
 thrift, seemed to be standing before Sophy now, and 
 she commenced looking to her arms of defence. 
 Perhaps, however, amongst the many conflicting 
 emotions which possessed her, one of the most painful 
 was occasioned b}'' the thought that he might never 
 henceforth be to her the friend and comrade he had 
 been before, and that, unless she could ward off the fatal 
 words which he ha^ come on purpose to /Say, she musj 
 experience for the future constraint and^embarrassment 
 in the presence of the very person wiin w^m sho/^ad 
 felt, till now, so thoroughly at her es 
 
 Tom had evidently come toxWnchQ6n, which was 
 not until two o'clock ; and as ilf ^^s 90 w only one, she 
 foresaw that the time would djpRg ^avily until then. 
 As a means of hastening tlje j^oments, and also to 
 satisfy a longing which td^jjiiented her, she decided 
 that she would retire to her room and write a few 
 lines to Godfrey explanatory of her absence from 
 Southerbourne. 
 
 This would give Tom an opportunity, too, of 
 speaking privately to Mr. St. Clair ; and who knew if 
 he might not dissuade her * braw wooer ' from making 
 an attempt which would be certain to end in failure ? 
 
 Her letter did not take her long, although she first 
 of all made a rough copy of it, in order that it should 
 be perfect in form and orthography ; both of which, 
 however, were simple enough. It ran as follows : — 
 
 ' My dear Godfrey, — I have been extremely disappointed 
 at having been prevented from fulfilling my little scheme 
 for making you acquainted with my father ; unpleasant cir- 
 cumstances, over which I had no control, having obliged us
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 263 
 
 to give up going, as usual, to Southerboume. You have had, 
 however, a beautiful morning for your ride, which I am 
 glad of. Probably, at this moment, you are wandering 
 about looking for us upon the beach. I fancy I can see 
 you. Good-bye. — From your affectionate cousin, 
 
 * Sophy.' 
 
 As she completed these words — painful by reason 
 of their truthfulness — she pushed aside the letter, and, 
 bowing her head upon her hands, gave vent to a few 
 irrepressible tears. The thought that Godfrey was 
 waiting, that she could not go to him, and that he 
 could not know till the following day the reason of her 
 absence, filled her with a sense of helpless misery, such 
 as she had never experienced before. In a few minutes, 
 however, she roused herself , looked in the glass, (as what 
 woman will not, under what circumstances soever?) 
 sealed up her letter, and took it to the kitchen, in order 
 that she might slip it at once into the post-bag. Il^re 
 she saw, with satisfaction, that the pheasant at the fire 
 was very nearly roasted, whilst the cold beef from 
 Sunday (the only thoroughly Christian institution at 
 Little Stillingfleet, though rarely partaken of by the 
 master of the house), was all ready upon the dresser, 
 garnished with tufts of parsley. The death of this 
 pheasant, like that of several others whose forms 
 were from time to time suspended in the larder, had 
 been represented to the * semi- vegetarian ' as purely 
 accidental. 
 
 * Dang me, missy, if he didn't goo fur to git 
 claammed all along of 's own self ! ' Nelus had explained, 
 as he displayed the bird, a fine cock-pheasant, of mag- 
 nificent plumage. 
 
 * Poor creature ! how very dreadful ! How often 
 this has happened lately ! ' * missy ' had made answer,
 
 264 Sophy, or 
 
 condoning the white lie as she darted a significant 
 glance at her fellow-poacher. 
 
 * As the vital spark is extinct/ remarked the philo- 
 sopher, * which no man living has yet learned how to 
 reanimate, and as we are not responsible for its 
 extinction, we may as well have him roasted for 
 luncheon on Tuesday.' 
 
 And he was in the course of being roasted now, 
 having been confided in his last moments of cooking 
 to the care of Abdallah, who was seated, as Sophy 
 thought, unpleasantly near to the bird, with his face 
 swathcid in a large yellow bandanna ; for, on the top 
 of his other ailments, he was now suffering from an 
 attack of toothache. 
 
 * It's only a letter I wanted to put into the bag,* 
 Sophy explained. * How is his cold?' and she indi- 
 cated the * barbarium ' with a movement of her hand. 
 
 * It's cough, it be a deal looser, it be,' replied Jane. 
 
 * But 'tis a sufferin' turrible with the toothache be sure, 
 it be ! Nelus hev put a hot onion into both of the 
 earn on un, he hev, and we can't goo fur to do no 
 moor, not if he wur our f eller-creetur, we can't ! ' 
 
 The married life of Nelus and his mature better- 
 half, had turned out to be a singularly happy one. 
 Besides the child which had arrived upon the scene 
 before the legal union of its parents (now a buxom 
 maiden of nearly fourteen, called Delia, or * Deely,* 
 
 * for short '), and the baby, whose christening had been 
 celebrated so soon afterwards, there were five other 
 thriving olive-branches, undistinguishable one from 
 another by reason of their absurd family likeness, be- 
 speaking on the part of the mother an absolute want 
 of the imaginative faculty. These children were known 
 to the philosopher and his daughter by the compre- 
 hensive appellation of *the brats,' and it had been
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 265 
 
 arranged that they should be relegated exclusively to 
 the strawyard, where * Deely ' used to look to them 
 after a casual and desultory fashion. Upon rainy 
 days, however, they were wont to descend upon the 
 kitchen and out- buildings like a shower of frogs, 
 where their crowing, pilfering, squalling, and fighting, 
 frequently tried Sophy's patience to the very utmost. 
 Upon the occasion of the advent of each one of these 
 particular * brats,' Mrs. Weller, the mother of Moses, 
 had been used to come down from the upper regions 
 of Great Stillingfleet, in order to minister to the 
 requirements of Jane and the household in general, 
 which was, nevertheless, put somewhat out of gear by 
 these constantly-recurring episodes in the life of one 
 who made its chief stay. Jane seemed now, however, 
 to have grown into quite an old woman ; she had lost 
 nearly all her teeth, whilst her hair was replaced by a 
 broad velvet band, upon which were tacked a row of 
 dark- green ringlets made of a substance called * mohair,' 
 so that a casual observer might almost have imagined 
 that Cornelius Ford, like the impetuous * Spitfire,' had 
 committed the imprudence of marrying his grand- 
 mother. 
 
 When Sophy returned to the sitting-room, and 
 confronted once more the cause of her discomfort, 
 she found him seated near her father in one of the 
 window- seats. He rose, however, as she entered, and 
 taking up his hat, went round to the stables to find 
 out whether his groom had returned to the Abbey 
 with the horses, according to his instructions, for it was 
 agreed, as the reader is aware, that he should walk home. 
 
 * Am I to go with him all the same ?' she asked, 
 breathlessly, as soon as she found herself alone with 
 her father. 
 
 * Nothing is changed,' he answered. * He wishes
 
 266 Sophy, or 
 
 to do it to-day ; ' from wliicli it nicay be inferred that 
 Sir Thomas had met with the right number of mag- 
 pies, and Sophy's heart sank within her, for she had 
 foolishly hoped for a reprieve. 
 
 Tom was back again before she could make any 
 further protestations, and there seemed to be nothing 
 for it but to resign herself to her fate, and get the 
 hated thing over as soon as possible. She was the 
 first, therefore, after one of the gloomiest luncheons 
 at which she had ever assisted, to propose that the 
 young baronet should escort her as far as the cottage 
 of the Stubberfields, which lay in his direct way home. 
 
 * I shall Jiope, dear,' Mr. St. Clair had said, pressing 
 her hand, just before she set off ; but his words seemed 
 only to make her the more miserable. 
 
 By walking on very fast in front of her admirer, 
 after the fashion of the rustic maidens observed by 
 her in her childhood, she hoped, at first, to prevent 
 him from touching upon the dreaded subject. She set 
 off, therefore, at a brisk pace, picking out the cleanest 
 part of the woodland way, between the two deep cart- 
 ruts which were half full of water ; so that, unless he 
 risked splashing her unmercifully, he was forced to 
 remain some way in the rear. 
 
 ' How fast you walk ! ' he remonstrated, when they 
 had reached the middle of the alder- wood. 
 
 * I fancied you could have kept up with me,' she 
 answered, 'being so much taller. I feel rather cold, 
 and wanted to get warm.' 
 
 * I've got my spurs on,' rejoined Sir Thomas. * I 
 forgot to take them off, and they bother me.' 
 
 * Can't you unbuckle them ?' she asked ; but, in a 
 second, she bethought her that this operation would 
 necessarily entail a halt, and that once they were both
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 267 
 
 at a standstill, the chances of a sentimental conver- 
 sation would be greatly facilitated, so she added, 
 hastily, with a little shiver, — 
 
 ' Oh no, never mind ! I shall walk on briskly to the 
 cottage, so as to be back as quickly as I can ! ' and she set 
 off again upon her impetuous way, poor Tom floundering 
 after her, as before, afraid, by reason of the spongy con- 
 dition of the ground, of approaching too near. Just as 
 he was thinking that, perhaps, after all, it would have 
 been better to have unbosomed himself between four 
 walls, they came in sight of the black gate, upon the 
 posts of which was nailed what remained of the head of 
 the ' Serene Highness.' Sophy, too, became painfully 
 aware of its vicinity, and to her horror she saw that it 
 was closed. She knew well how difficult it always was to 
 open — how it must be lifted and shaken, and how they 
 would be constrained to stop close together during this 
 performance, very likely with their hands touching. 
 She foresaw that Tom would be unlikely to hurry over 
 what would bring them into such close proximity, and, 
 woman-like, she tried hastily to invent some subterfuge 
 for getting through it as quickly as possible. 
 
 ' Oh, do make haste ! ' she exclaimed, looking at 
 her companion with a terrified expression. * I can't 
 bear to look at those horrid dead things — those cats* 
 heads, and stoats, and weasels ! Do let us open it 
 quickly ! ' And with this she tried her hand at assisting 
 Tom to lift up the gate with such a will that she ac- 
 tually succeeded in doing so. But in endeavouring to 
 escape from her doom, she had only accelerated it. The 
 tender heart of the young giant was lacerated at the 
 sight of such superhuman exertions ; he was honestly 
 fearful lest she should strain herself, or inflict upon 
 herself some bodily harm, and in proof of his anxiety
 
 268 Sophy, or 
 
 she felt his two hands closing suddenly upon her own. 
 Down went the black p^ate deep into the marshy soil of 
 the pheasant-drive. Tom's hands were still clasping 
 hers with no signs of leaving go, the expression of the 
 * Serene ITighness ' seemed to change to a ghastly grin 
 
 of derision, and she felt that her hour was come. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Sophy never knew exactly how it happened that, 
 on the following morning, when she awoke, the great 
 Hickathrift ring of betrothal was upon the fourth finger 
 of her left hand. Still more bewildered and provoked did 
 she feel, as she realised that, virtually, she had given 
 Tom no decided answer ; so that, for him, the affair 
 was still in a state of miserable uncertainty, whilst 
 she herself could not help being conscious that the 
 scene she had already gone through would have to 
 be repeated 'in a few days or weeks, at the utmost, 
 probably with only the same unsatisfactory result. 
 For she felt now that she could no longer trust herself. 
 How could she have guessed that she would have played 
 herself so thoroughly false, and outraged all the rules 
 of honour and decorum which she had acted up to until 
 this fatal moment ? It is true that she had retained 
 the mastery over her heart, but then she had com- 
 pletely lost her head, unexpectedly, unpardonably, 
 idiotically ! 
 
 The sight of Tom Hickathrift's honest face — pale, 
 anxious, with tears actually starting from his faithful 
 deep- set eyes — the presence of genuine emotion, suf- 
 fering, and passion, had so affected her, that she had 
 been no longer mistress of herself. She had begun by 
 thinking that, when her old friend made her this formal 
 proposal of marriage, she should probably laugh ; nay, 
 that it might require a j)Ositive effort on her part to
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 269 
 
 prevent herself from laughing too soon. But laughter, 
 as it had turned out, was the one thing furthest re- 
 moved from her imagination, and she had even ended 
 by shedding tears ! 
 
 Indeed, so sad, hopeless, and tragical, had been the 
 whole proceeding, so pale and melancholy the faces of 
 the two young people, that, had any of the birds' -nesting 
 Stubberfields been so ill-advised as to play the eaves- 
 dropper, they would certainly have concluded that 
 something was taking place far more unpleasant than a 
 wooing, even where the wooer was pretty certain of 
 being refused. The day, too, had clouded over since the 
 early morning, and an all-pervading stillness, damp- 
 ness, and grayness, lent an indescribable air of melan- 
 choly to the autumnal landscape. With such mournful- 
 looking surroundings, sanguine indeed must have been 
 the heart capable of nursing a hope after writhing 
 under the fatal 'No.* But the fatal ' No ' had nepver 
 been uttered. She had not been able to muster up 
 the requisite courage, either, to tell Tom that she 
 did not love him as a wife should love her husband. 
 All this was reprehensible in the highest degree ; it 
 was dishonourable ; it was painfully like the behaviour 
 of a coward ; more especially did it resemble the shifting, 
 wavering conduct to be expected of one of those inferior 
 creatures who was ' only a woman.' 
 
 Then, again, she had actually kissed Tom Hickathrif t ! 
 At the time it seemed as if she could not help it, and 
 now she could hardly believe it. 
 
 * Give me one kiss, then,' he had said, * before we 
 say good-bye ; ' and he had looked so uttei'ly miserable, 
 and honest, and devoted, that she had not the heart to 
 refuse a boon to which he appeared to attach undue 
 importance. To her it seemed altogether a very trivial
 
 270 Sophy, or 
 
 and valueless concession. She required, in fact, to be 
 told that it was wrong before she could realise that it 
 was so, and no one happened to be there to tell her. 
 So she got it over as soon as possible — childishly, con- 
 fidingly, platonically, lifting up her face to meet that 
 of the young giant, as she used to do when she was 
 only six years old. After this they had each wended 
 their different ways with their handkerchiefs to their 
 eyes. 
 
 Sophy had certainly never expected that she would 
 have broken down in this fashion. But we none of us 
 know of what stuff we are made till we are tried ; and 
 our bondings and breakings are apt to surprise no one 
 so much as ourselves, since we alone know how upright 
 was our previous intention. 
 
 The whole thing seemed now like some haunting, 
 uncomfortable dream, leaving, after the awakening, a 
 sense of responsibility, of obligation, of bondage, and 
 of a conscience terribly ruffled and perturbed. 
 
 "Why, oh, why had she not had the courage to ex- 
 claim boldly, * No, no ! never, never, never ! ' 
 
 These were the words which she now flattered 
 herself she would have been able to write in a letter 
 had Tom been generous enough to have allowed her 
 this method of reply. For it was really ungenerous 
 of him, she argued, to take advantage of her youth 
 and inexperience, to lead her into a desolate autumnal 
 wood, to bar her from all escape with a black gate, and 
 then to make kno^vn to her, in this cowardly manner, 
 how unhappy he was, and how madly and devotedly he 
 loved her, until, without feeling for him anything 
 more than the calm attachment of a friend, she had 
 been prevented from disj^lapng either anger, surj^rise, 
 or even her customary sense of the ridiculous, and had
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 271 
 
 actually ended by seeming tender, miserable, and much 
 too affectionate, under the circumstances ! The fact was, 
 she had never before beheld a fellow-creature giving 
 expression to what appeared to be true masculine 
 anguish, which she alone was called upon to curb and 
 control. But, alas ! at what price ? She felt very 
 angry with Tom now, when she thought it over : angry 
 with herself, and angry, above all, with the great 
 Hickathrift ring of betrothal, which had found its 
 way to her finger, though it was so much too large for 
 her that she had to keep it on with a little silver ring 
 which had once belonged to her mother, and which she 
 always wore. 
 
 Mingled with all these feelings, however (and it is 
 sad to be obliged to acknowledge it), there lurked a 
 germ of something very like gratified vanity. At least ^ 
 then, she was not so far inferior to the rest of woman- 
 kind as she had imagined when in the presence of 
 some 2)eo2jle .^ ... It was evident to her now that she 
 was no longer a mere child, and that some one was 
 capable of loving her — madly, devotedly, distractedly 
 — and of laying at her feet his heart, his name, and an 
 ancient abbey, big enough (as Adele had declared) to 
 be the residence of a duke or a * lord mayor.' This 
 young man, too, whom, by reason of a personal pecu- 
 liarity, she had been accustomed to speak of as the 
 * Prince with the Nose,' was in reality, if one judged 
 by his possessions, and the quarterings upon his armo- 
 rial bearings, a personage quite as important as any of 
 the heroes created either by Grimm or Hans Christian 
 Andersen. And the ring with which the chiefs of this 
 ancient and illustrious family were wont to seal to 
 themselves the ladies of their choice was now actually 
 upon her finger ! — upon hers ! — Sophy St. Clair's ! — a
 
 272 Sophy ^ or 
 
 wild woman of the woods, a savage, ' an Orson in petti- 
 coats,* as she had once designated herself in a moment 
 of deep humiliation. Might it not cause her to rise, 
 perad venture, in the estimation of a certain other person 
 • — who, no doubt, looked upon her as his inferior — if he 
 were to behold this family jewel glittering upon her 
 finger, and hazard a guess at the reason of its being 
 there? . . . 
 
 And at this thought a whole fabric of feminine 
 speculation and intrigue seemed to begin weaving itself 
 in the secret recesses of her soul. 
 
 *Take this ring, anyhow,' Sir Thomas had said to 
 her, as he drew forth the heirloom from his waistcoat- 
 pocket. * I never wish to behold it again, for I fancy 
 it seems to have brought to me ill-luck ; and it can 
 only bring it to mej for my mother has lived very 
 happily with it for years. I felt so sure, somehow, 
 that I should never be fortunate enough to see it on 
 your hand, that I should like you to wear it for a little 
 while, even if it's only to destroy the superstitious 
 feeling I had about it.' 
 
 * Tom ! ' she had answered him, but, being half- 
 choked with emotion, this was all she could say. 
 
 ' It's no good whatever to me, now,' continued the 
 young man, in a broken voice. * It's the ring with which 
 all the ladies of our family were engaged ; and if it's 
 not fated to go upon your finger, I don't think I shall 
 ever care to put it upon any one else's ; and as I'm the 
 last of us, there'll be no one to want it after me. If it's 
 not decreed that I shall ever marry, I should like it, at 
 least, to belong to the only woman I shall ever ask to 
 be my wife.' And somehow he had forced it therewith 
 upon her finger. 
 
 ' Tom ! ' she had exclaimed again ; * please, please
 
 tlic Adoenfure.^ of a Savar/e. 273 
 
 don't I AVhat a beautiful ring I What "will Lad}' 
 Ilickatlirift sny ? ' 
 
 ' She will be wretched if I bring it back to her,' he 
 answered. ' She'd be the first to beg- you to keep it 
 always,' 
 
 * How kind you are ! ' So2)hy had rejoined. ^But 
 really, really, I would rather not have it ! Take it 
 back, dear Tom ! ' And she returned it to him again. 
 *And please don't talk about not marrying. Bo 
 marn/ ! — somebody much nicer, and j^i'^ttier, and 
 worthier, than I am ; and give her this beautiful ring I 
 If you don't, you'll become extinct ! ' 
 
 'Ah ! ' he had thereupon exclaimed bitterly, 'who 
 would have thought that f/oii could have been so 
 cruel ! ' 
 
 * Cruel ! / cruel ? ' cried the poor child, replacing 
 the terrible ring upon her finger. ' Oh, if you only 
 knew how hard I'm trying to be kind I ' • 
 
 ^ Kind r exclaimed Tom passionately — ' kind, to say 
 that I shall ever fall in love with any other girl ? You 
 don't know what love is ; you've never been in love 
 yourself ; 3'ou've been awfuUj^ li^^PPy ^H your life ; and 
 you haven't thought, and you don't know, what the 
 feeling is, when you see a thing j^ou've been building- 
 up for years, crumbling and falling to the ground in 
 one moment I ' 
 
 ' You talk as if you were quite old ! ' returned Soph}', 
 drumming upon the back of his hand consolingly. 
 ' Cheer ujd, dear Tom, and don't look so miserable 
 about a silly little thing like me ! ' And here she 
 endeavoured to smile through her tears. 
 
 * Do you care about anybody else ? ' he had asked 
 suddenly, looking her full in the face. 
 
 'iS' — no,' she answered hesitatingly, and feeling, 
 "v or,. T. T
 
 274 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 somehow, guilty and ashamed. ' I'm too young, as 
 you say ; I don't think I know what love is . . . I 
 haven't thouo^ht about it ... I don't want to let mv- 
 self think of falling in love yet.' 
 
 * And you've no real dislike to me ? It's not be- 
 cause I'm a great, big, ugly, hulking, brute, with a 
 long nose 't ' 
 
 * Oh, no, no, no ! ' replied Sophy earnestly, as most 
 women would have replied in her place. 
 
 * Very well, then, I shall Jiopo,' rejoined Sir Thomas 
 firmly ; and probably he was hoping now. 
 
 She had fled home through the gathering twilight, 
 oppressed with a sense of defeat and humiliation. 
 
 ' I have found myself out,' she thought ; ' and from 
 this moment I give m^^self up ! What a miserable 
 creature I am, not daring to speak the truth I ' 
 
 Later on in the evening, she could only reply to the 
 questionings of her father : — 
 
 ' I really don't know, dear. 3Iy head went ; the 
 whole thing was very dreadful. I certainly didn't 
 say "Yes;" but I couldn't say " 2so." All the same, 
 I don't mean ever to marry him !' 
 
 ' Then you have come to no final decision ?' 
 
 ' Alas, no ! ' she answered dolefully ; ' would that I 
 had ! But it's all in a muddle ; I didn't really know 
 that I should feel as I did. . . .' 
 
 ' Perhaps, my child, you have loved poor Tom all 
 along without being conscious of it,' said her father, 
 feeling more and more satisfied with the manner in 
 which affairs were apparently righting themselves ; 
 * and when I am taken, my fair Sophia may have a 
 home where she will be tenderly cherished.' 
 
 ' Then love nmst be a very uncomfortable feeling,' 
 Sophy remarked. 'But no; unfortunately, I don't
 
 tJic Adventures of a Savaf/e. 275 
 
 think I /ore him at all, and yet I /iliC him so much. 
 To-(h(//, however, I feel angry with him, and with 
 myself, and with everybody in the world ; and ?r/t//, 
 seeing me so sad, should f/ou, too, begin to be 
 disagreeable, and talk about being ''taken?" Oh, 
 you mustn't be "taken" for a very, very long time; 
 for how could I possibly live without you?' And 
 here she found relief in a flood of tears, seeming to 
 have been long pent up, though they had flowed so 
 freely that very same afternoon. 
 
 The day after this first real event in Sophy's 
 existence, was very different from the previous one. 
 A gray pall-like mist hung over the whole landscape, 
 obscuring all sight of the sky, whilst the chilly damp- 
 ness of the atmosphere penetrated through every chink 
 and cranny. The near woodlands looked like an 
 indistinct mass of undulating vapour ; the iron gate of 
 the garden was hardly visible from the windows ; tie 
 lawn was so clouded over with rime that the footstei^s 
 of ISTelus could be seen almost as plainl}^ as if they hud 
 been implanted upon snow ; and every spider's web 
 looked like some wonderful fabric of crystallised lace. 
 Over everything, too, there hung a mysterious silence, 
 broken only now and again by the stray shot of a 
 distant sportsman, or the baying of a watch-dog in 
 one of the neighbouring farms. 
 
 This was precisely the sort of subdued day, which 
 (next best to one which seems all shimmer and shine) 
 Sophy used particularly to delight in. She liked the 
 cool damp feeling in the air, making her cheeks glow 
 with a delicious freshness ; and she would have heartily 
 despised herself, or any one else, for remaining indoors 
 on account of the wet. 
 
 But, somehow, this morning, she was not inclined
 
 27G Sophj, 
 
 (>/' 
 
 to C'O out. She decided that she would rather sit down 
 quietly and think over the situation ; so she untied her 
 bundle of wools, and began to work away at a knitted 
 waistcoat : for one can knit and think at the same 
 time, and she had always liked doing several things at 
 once, if possible. 
 
 It is unsatisfactory, however, to knit a waistcoat 
 when one has not the faintest idea who is eventually 
 to wear it. AVhat a contrast to the sweet labour 
 which transforms every stitch into an idyl — a magic 
 web of hopes and fears, hallowing and idealising the 
 growing fabric which is destined one clay to nestle so 
 close to the heart of the beloved I 
 
 But Sophy's present handiwork brought with it no 
 such honeyed mead. She had already knitted a waist- 
 coat, not only for the man she loved, but for the man 
 who loved her ; and she could only imagine that Nelus 
 would be the probable recipient of the new one she 
 was now commencing — a thought which was hardly- 
 calculated to urge the progress of her needle ! 
 
 She had lately learnt a new and fashionable 
 stitch ; and in order that she might practise it, and 
 at the same time invest her occupation with a halo 
 of romance, she had conceived the idea of knitting 
 a waistcoat for Godfrey as a little cousinly present, 
 for he had expressed a wish to possess one, and had 
 even condescended to sa}- of what colours it should 
 be composed — blue, striped with black, knitted in ribs 
 longways. She was a little bungling at first, but had 
 improved as she went on ; and had ended by becoming 
 so fascinated with her work that she felt impelled, 
 after its completion, to begin at once upon another, 
 th's time with no "prentice hand.' The colours of 
 this one were black and lavender, exceedingly be-
 
 flic Adventures of a Savage. 211 
 
 coming to a fair complexion ; and as all superfluous 
 clothing would have seemed hateful to her father, 
 there was nothing for it but to bestow it upon 
 Tom Hickathrift. For it was part of the mysterious 
 sj^stem of which Francis St. Clair was a follower, to 
 dress lightly, regarding cold as a foe to be resisted 
 with open defiance rather than to be pandered to with 
 furs and comforters. Most of the political * scene- 
 shifters,' * prompters,' and * stage- carpenters ' arrayed 
 themselves, too, after a jirimitive fashion ; and it was 
 this which led Sophy, when a child, to the conclusion 
 that to .s/iiirr was one of the most important tenets of 
 the Great Cause. Of Tom's waistcoat she was particu- 
 larly proud. In consequence of its subdued neutral 
 tints he had been enabled to wear it now that he was 
 in mourning, and, curiousl}^ enough, she had felt her 
 eyes riveted upon the stitches even at the very moment 
 when he was proposing to her. Godfrey's, howevw, 
 was not quite so satisfactory when looked at by the 
 light of a more perfect knowledge ; and she was the 
 more sorry for its defects, as he had lately sought 
 out for himself new hunting-grounds, where his per- 
 sonal appearance would be criticised by a larger ' field.' 
 Since the completion of the railway it took but a short 
 time to get up to London, and thence on into *the 
 shires ; ' so that by keeping horses of his own else- 
 where, or by accepting mounts from his friends, he 
 could enjoy, from time to time, a few days' real sport, 
 impossible, all true Nimrods declared, in a country so 
 blind and wooded as the one to which he had been 
 accustomed. One of the most annoying of the thoughts, 
 therefore, which had crowded upon poor Sophy when her 
 father finally abandoned his project of driving down to 
 the seaside, originated in the knowledge that, but for the
 
 278 SopJui, 
 
 or 
 
 expectation of mcctino- with lior on that particuhu' day, 
 Godfrey would probably have proceeded to Melton 
 until the end of the week. 
 
 ' Directly he has to make sacrifices for me he will 
 ])robably hate me,' thoui^ht this youn^:^ l^ifb'? '^vhose 
 appellation signified ' Wisdom,' and who seemed in- 
 clined occasionally to act up to her name, as she knitted 
 away sadly at the unpredcstined waistcoat. 
 
 Hatred, perhaps, was rather too strong a term ; but 
 was not Godfrey, at any rate, utterly indifferent ? and 
 was not utter indifference from him almost as difficult 
 to bear as hatred would have been ^ She knew, at 
 least, that he could submit to being for man}' days 
 where there was no chance whatever of meeting with 
 her, whereas Thomas Ilickathrift had never been able 
 to tear himself from her immediate vicinity : but then, 
 as Sterne has pithily remarked, ' It is the fate of 
 mankind, too often, to seem insensible to what they 
 may enjoy at the easiest rate.' 
 
 Chapter XI. 
 
 Godfrey St. Clair, however, did not go to Melton on 
 the day after that which he confessed had brought 
 with it a disai:)pointnient. 
 
 He had started upon his somewhat romantic expe- 
 dition in higher spirits than he was wont to indulge 
 in ; for he had been educated to avoid all extremes, 
 and an excessive buoyancy of mood appeared to him 
 to be as unseemly as a morbid and unreasonable melan- 
 choly. Upon arriving at the town of Southerbourne
 
 til e A di 'entu ) -es of a Sa ? ^agc. 279 
 
 lie had put up liis liorso, and loitered restlessly about 
 the beach, throwing pebbles into the depths of the 
 glittering waters, Avhich, in the morning, were aglare 
 with light. But, just as he had given up all hope 
 of meeting with either Sophy or her father, the day 
 clouded over, as, no doubt, it might have seemed to do 
 even had the sun continued to shine. 
 
 This was the same gloomy change which came on 
 at Little Stillingfleet later on in the afternoon, when 
 the gray sea-fog floated landward, just as Sophy and 
 Tom Hickathrift were standing hand-in-hand by the 
 black gate in the alder-wood ; and as Godfrey rode 
 home, through the gathering mist, towards the gray 
 home of his fathers, he found it impossible to prevent 
 some portion of the atmospheric depression from com- 
 municating itself to his Avell-regulated mind. 
 
 There, straight before him, was the hoary wall of 
 Kentish 'rag' which encircled the southern side •of 
 Dallingridge Park, revered by him in his earliest 
 childhood, as forming then the barrier rising between 
 the Known and the Unkno^Mi, the Seen and the 
 Unseen, but seeming, as the years went on, to have 
 become lower and of less account. Above it, dwarfed, 
 by the perpetually-recurring sea-blasts, and leaning all 
 in one direction, as though shrinking before the breath 
 of some invisible commander, the dark crests of the 
 Scotch firs rose sadl}" in the mist, forming, like the 
 trees he had watched from the cradle of his babyhood, 
 profile after profile, each one seeming distinct and 
 recognisable. lie asked himself almost unconsciously, 
 as he came thus within sight of his home, what it was 
 that this gray wall encircled which made it seem sacred 
 to him, as though it had enclosed a treasure. He 
 thought of the old house, his parents, the family pic-
 
 280 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 tiircs ; and yet, somehow, althoiiji;li these were Avithiu 
 it, he missed, involuntaril}', something else. At tliis 
 moment — no doubt occasioned by the condition of the 
 atmosphere — a longing possessed him for home-ties 
 which would be warmer, closer, more indissoluble — for 
 memories, hopes, ambitions, such as he had never yet 
 indulged in — for an aim in his life, and a love in his 
 heart ; for it now occurred to him that he was cxistins: 
 without either the one or the other, and he began to 
 wonder, incidentally, whether any one would particu- 
 larly care if his horse were to throw him at that 
 moment and break his neck. 
 
 As he entered the lodge-gate, he was within sight 
 of that lesser gate, opposite to the Avoodland stile, where 
 he had waited for Abel Reynolds's waggon in the old 
 days ; and the whole scene arose so vividly before him 
 that, as he looked down the blank stretch of turnpike- 
 road, he almost expected to behold the weird figure of 
 the little girl with her bare feet and floating elf-locks, 
 as he had beheld it at that first meeting in his departed 
 childhood. 
 
 Such feelings as these taking possession of a young- 
 man, without, for the moment, either occupations or 
 distractions, are not easily dispelled, and by reason of 
 them, Godfrey St. Clair entered his ancestral halls in 
 what was, for Jiim, a somewhat emotional state of mind. 
 If the home of his eccentric relatives at Little Stilling- 
 fleet was altogether ' scrambly ' and unconventional, 
 reeking, as it were, with an unrestrained and unre- 
 strainablc spirit of Bohemianism — a philosopher, 
 half-clad, in the sitting-room — a neuralgic Egyptian 
 donkey-boy in the kitchen ; whilst ' brats,' cats, horses, 
 and farm-stock, seemed to be everywhere but in their 
 proper places, — at Dallingridgc House all was order,
 
 the Adremures of a Savage. 281 
 
 decoriini, and punctuality. Every clock upon the hig-li 
 marble chimnoypieces was right to a second. The 
 breakfast, luncheon, and dressing-bells, followed regu- 
 larly the example of the clocks ; whilst the great 
 booming gong, which sounded half over the park, was 
 wont to inform the watchless wayfarer that it was half- 
 past seven to a minute. Ujoon the two round tables in 
 the large drawing-room, not a single book or casket was 
 out of its 2)lace. iSTo two chairs, nestling familiarly 
 together, told of cosy or confidential converse. The 
 blinds were all drawn up to precisely the same height 
 on the tall windows, the footstools were never pushed 
 away from the chairs, the sofa -cushions were un- 
 squashed, and there were no untidy signs of feminine 
 occupation in the form of worsted-balls or paint-boxes, 
 as in the drawing-room at Little Stillingfleet. 
 
 Mrs. St. Clair's own private boudoir may, perhaps, 
 have displayed occasional traces of a polite and well- 
 regulated dilettanteism. Music-books were to be seen 
 open before the pianoforte ; some tapestry-work, half 
 completed, stood u2)on a frame near the window ; whilst 
 a novel might, perhaps, be lying upon the sofa with a 
 paper-knife protruding from its leaves. But as Godfrey 
 rarely A'cntured to enter this apartment uninvited, his 
 early impressions were chiefly derived from the ap- 
 pearance of the larger reception-rooms. 
 
 Upon the present occasion, after dismounting and 
 entering the house, he crossed the entire length of the 
 hall, meaning to go into the garden by the opposite 
 door, when, on passing his mother's sitting-room, which 
 lay to the left, he heard an indistinct murmur of voices, 
 and thinking that his father had perhaps rejDaired 
 thither after his drive, he concluded that he might 
 venture in himself.
 
 282 Si>i>liji, or 
 
 There were double doors to this apartment, and the 
 movement of the outer one, which was ajar, was ap- 
 l)arently unlieard by the persons within ; for, before 
 making kno"\\n to them his j^resence, Godfrey liad in- 
 vohmtarily caught the following words, in Mrs. St. 
 Clair's dulcet tones : — 
 
 * JVoH- do you wonder at my seeming Avant of 
 affection •' ' 
 
 '/ (fo j/of," replied the person to whom she was 
 ap})ealing, in a voice which resembled the winding of 
 a mechanical toy ; and, upon entering the room, the 
 young man was surprised to find, not his father, as he 
 had expected, but Mr. Pettigrew. He and Mrs. St. 
 Clair were seated rather close together over the fire, 
 and, from the appearance of his mother's eyes, Godl'rej' 
 would almost have fancied that she had been weeping, 
 could any spell have proved potent enough to move 
 a woman seemingly so unemotional. Pettigrew, too, 
 looked paler than usual, and, without taking any 
 notice of the intruder, he made a dash at his hat. 
 The Low -Church clergy had not taken as yet to 
 their flabby 'wide-awakes' and unkempt beards, nor 
 the more Ritualistic to shaven cheeks and the hideous 
 inverted soup-plate with tassels (forerunner, 2)eradven- 
 ture, of the C(mtinental shovel-hat, which is really 
 picturesque) ; so that the curate walked away in all the 
 glories of ' chimney-pot ' and luutton-chop whiskers, 
 since it was under this dispensation that he lived. 
 
 At first Godfrey could not help feeling indignant 
 that Pettigrew, for whom his affection had not in- 
 creased since his boj^hood, should be permitted to 
 (msconce himself thus confidentially in the cushioned 
 chairs of this sacred chamber, which he (Godfrey) was 
 so seldom privileged to enter, and perhaps something
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 283 
 
 of tliis betrayed itself upon Ms countenance. But lie 
 had formed the habit of checking- at once any thought 
 which imputed the slightest shadow of blame to either 
 of his parents, and he set about explaining, therefore, 
 this mysterious interview to his mother's advantage. 
 He remembered to have heard that women — irre- 
 proachable wives and mothers — occasionally possessed 
 hidden sorrows, which they would confide to none 
 but God and their priest ; and he recalled to mind 
 historical instances wherein ladies who, with their 
 husbands and sons, were described as distant and 
 reserved, had yet been completely under the domi- 
 nation of the Church. Another example was no 
 doubt confronting him on the present occasion. 
 Wonder of wonders ! his mother tearful and embar- 
 rassed ! Pettigrew, too, apparently deeply affected ! 
 Doubtless she had just been confiding to her spiritual 
 adviser some secret sorrow which oppressed her ina- 
 teriial heart. 
 
 In consequence of the somewhat melting mood in 
 which the young heir of Dallingridge found himself 
 just then, a sudden tenderness overflowed his whole 
 being at the idea that perhaps his mother was secretly 
 suffering. This apparent coldness, this seeming reserve, 
 might be in realit}^ nothing more than the studied 
 reticence of a proud spirit unwilling to display its 
 bleeding wounds to the multitude. 
 
 'What is it, mother?' any other son would probably 
 have inquired, and he might even have clasped in his 
 filial arms the sorrowing and beautiful woman before 
 him. But Godfrey had been trained up in other ways, 
 and had the impulse seized him, he would probably 
 have felt bound to dismiss it. 
 
 As they were standing thus, both of them apparently
 
 284 >^^^phy, 
 
 or 
 
 cxpcricncino- a certain sense of embarrassment, a new 
 emotion suddenly came to their relief. One of ^Irs. 
 St. Clair's love-birds, Avhicli was allowed to fly about 
 the room at will, as though for the express purpose of 
 creating a diversion, even at the risk of its own life, 
 walked cautiously out of its cage, looking as wise the 
 while as ^Minerva's owl, and flew deliberately into the 
 fireplace, where it perched coquettishly upon one of the 
 smouldering logs. 
 
 ' Oh, look at ''Lou-lou !'* ' exclaimed Mrs. St. Clair 
 anxiously. 'If she is burnt, "Picot'^ will be sure 
 to die.* 
 
 Godfrey immediately went to the open cage, and 
 took from it some grains of hemp-seed, and after closing 
 the door to prevent further catastrophes, he endeavoured, 
 by holding them towards 'Lou-lou,' to attract her from 
 her perilous position. Eve-like, she soon responded to 
 the temptation, but in crossing a fiery ravine, between 
 two pieces of wood, one of her wings was severely 
 burnt. 
 
 * Poor little thing ! ' cried Mrs. St. Clair, holding 
 her favourite to her bosom, and caressing its bright- 
 green plumage. 
 
 Godfrey, too, began stroking the bird, and in so 
 doing, he came in contact with the soft white hand of 
 his mother. 
 
 The wife of Erskine St. Clair could not now have 
 been less than forty, but she was still so beautiful a 
 woman as to suggest the notion that she had discovered 
 the elixir of perpetual youth, and Godfrey, as he stood 
 leaning over her, looking more at her than at the 
 wounded love-bird, could not help thinking this. As 
 he examined it closely, he perceived that not a single 
 silver thread streaked the sleek masses of dark hair,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 285 
 
 ■svliicli were coiled tightly round licr neatly -shaped 
 head, her complexion was as blooming as that of a 
 girl of eighteen, her long blue eyes were as bright as 
 they had ever been, and, exce^jt that her face wore a 
 harder and more set expression, she was but little 
 changed since the days of her first youth. 
 
 *Poor little thing ! ' Godfrey repeated, still smoothing- 
 the bright-green feathers. ' And poor, dear mother ! ' 
 he added, urged by he knew not what sudden move- 
 ment of tenderness, as he retained the slender hand 
 in his own ; ' for I see that j^ou are unhappy.' And 
 bowing his head, he pressed a kiss upon her forehead. 
 
 !Now certainl}" it was not the first time that he had 
 done this since the old days when she used to permit 
 him to embrace her somewhere near the little shell-like 
 ear, which was all she had ever j^resented to his boyish 
 lips ; but it was, perhaps the first occasion upon which 
 he had, as it were, unexpectedly and spontaneouslg^% at 
 no given or fixed period of departure or home-coming 
 — without excuse of birthday or sacred festival — 
 imprinted, thus suddenly and impvdsively, a kiss upon 
 his mother's brow. 
 
 Also he was both wounded and astonished at the 
 effect produced upon her by his undue familiarity, 
 although he was aware that the usually -existing 
 maternal element had been left out of her composition. 
 But it seemed to him now that this omission went even 
 further than he had supposed ; for she drew herself 
 awa}' from him suddenl}^ almost as though she had 
 been stung by a serpent, whilst a strange expression 
 came for a moment into her long blue eyes, not unlike 
 that which passes through those of some feline creature 
 when it is about to spring. 
 
 * Pray don't go through the form of kissing me ! '
 
 286 'S^'V^^'//? *^'' 
 
 she remarked, in a tone of concentrated bitterness ; 
 * kissing is nearly always such a ridiculous farce ! ' 
 
 Stung and shocked in his keenest sensibilities, the 
 young man, too, hastily recoiled from such uncongenial 
 contact, and i)assed out of the room into the garden. 
 There, a sense of desolation, strangely at variance with 
 his usual complacent mood, swept over his spirit, and 
 for a while he did not himself know Avhat peculiar 
 form his fit of depression might take. Later on, an 
 uncontrollable longing after sympathy and affection 
 gained possessicm of him ; and, betaking himself to the 
 deserted library, he felt impelled, by a force too strong 
 to be resisted, to sit down to the writing-table, where 
 he wrote the following lines with one of the new quill- 
 pens he found there : — 
 
 * You were not at Southerbourne to-day, though I waited 
 there until four o'clock. For God's 'sake, let me see you 
 to-morrow ! I will wait in the hazel-copse, near to the oak- 
 tree bench, between three and four.' 
 
 After pressing this brief note upon a sheet of 
 virgin blotting-paper, he directed it to Sophy, and felt 
 happier for the rest of the evening. 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 
 Early the next morning Godfrey received Sophy's 
 letter. It told him that he had been in her mind at 
 any rate during the short time she was inditing it, 
 though of course this thought might suggest itself at 
 sight of the handwriting of the most indifferent of 
 correspondents. But to Soph}^, Godfrey's fcAv hurried
 
 tJie Adventures of a Savage. 287 
 
 lines came like tlic blessed dew from heaven upon a 
 flower that has been parched in the wilderness. It 
 was brought to her as she was engaged with her 
 prosaic knitting ; and the warm blood rushed tumul- 
 tuously to her cheeks as she eagerly devoured his 
 words. 
 
 Sophy Avas pre-eminently sympathetic and appre- 
 ciative of the feelings of others, and to her keen 
 perception Godfrey's letter appeared to be, what in 
 reality it was, the involuntar}^ cry of a wounded spirit. 
 The tears came blindingly into her large eyes as she 
 thought that he was unhappy ; that he, unemotional, 
 unsympathetic even, as he had sometimes seemed, had 
 actually need of her ; and with this an intense feeling 
 of gratitude passed over her spirit towards the Great 
 Creator of all things, whom she had never been taught 
 to individualise, or to call by His name ' Jaii ; ' so that, 
 looking towards the shrouded face of external nature, 
 she could only murmur in her heart, pantheistically, — 
 
 * I thank you and bless you, woods and fields and 
 floating autumn clouds ! He is in want of me ! I 
 may comfort him, and I am happy ! ' 
 
 But Godfrey, having, as the saying goes, ^ slept ' 
 upon his melting mood, arrived at the trysting-placc 
 thoroughly steeled against his ovm. emotions. The 
 influence of early training is proverbially lasting. He 
 had hitherto been accustomed to measure tho force 
 he should employ to defend, by the strength of that 
 which he conceived would be likely to attack ; and in 
 this way he had succeeded in preserving a very credit- 
 able balance of moral power. Upon the present occa- 
 sion he saw no reason wh}' he should relinquish his 
 system. 
 
 All Sophy's warm sympathy, therefore, her gratitude
 
 288 Sq>hi, 
 
 or 
 
 to Heaven, and the superabundunl vitality wliicli she 
 had brought with hor to the tryst, seemed suddenly to 
 receive a check when she encountered that * repose of 
 Vere de Yerc ' in which her cousin appeared to be 
 shrouded ; and her enthusiasm experiencing what she 
 felt to be an undeserved and luicxpccted attront, she 
 took refuge, as she generally did, in a kind of nervous 
 and excitable prattle, to fill up the silences which were 
 so long and formidable when Godfrey was fixing her 
 with his earnest dark eyes, and yet not adventuring a 
 syllable. 
 
 The Great Prophet had been staying with them 
 again, she said, and she described the original dinner- 
 party which had been given in his honour : the cooking 
 of the kchohs ; the amicable meeting of the two hostile 
 guests ; the dispute between the hitherto friendl}- dis- 
 ciples about the composition of the pillauf ; and, finally, 
 the departure of the seer. 
 
 ' And I don't suppose you would have known,' she 
 added, ' if you had met him upon his journey, that he 
 was such a very remarkable man, and cpiite different 
 from anybody else.' 
 
 'And yet he evidently is,' rejoined Godfrey, ' or yoH 
 think so, Avhich comes to the same thing. AVere they 
 all Orientals at your dinner ? ' 
 
 'Not all of them. There were persons of several 
 nations : an Irishman, a Dane, and an Italian Prince, 
 who is an atfacJie. They were all very much interested 
 in the Great Cause except the Prince, who seemed 
 more inclined to laugh with me at the others.' 
 
 ' Heally P ' remarked Godf re}', somewhat sarcasti- 
 cally. ' To laugh irifh 3'ou ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and he was really amusing, for he talked of 
 other things besides politics. C>ne of his stories was 
 rather funny.'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 289 
 
 ' What was it about ? ' inquired the young man, 
 rather contemptuousl3^ 
 
 Evidently he felt no love for this Italian Prince ! 
 Sophy was glad of this, for some inexplicable reason, 
 and she continued, speaking very fast, as though in 
 order to keep up her own courage, — 
 
 * AVell, it was the story of an adventure of his own 
 — for some people hare adcentiires, you know — some 
 romantic people like thon, and are 0)i the looh-out for 
 tlicmy she added, in a marked tone. 
 
 * I suppose you mean that I am neither romantic 
 nor adventurous : however, go on.' 
 
 'Well, then,' continued Sophy, smarting a little 
 under this command to proceed, ^ after dinner my father 
 made some allusion to Scotland, having, like your 
 father, Scotch blood, and being very proud of it ; and 
 it so happened that, just at that moment, Janus, our 
 maid, brought round a salad, in which there were somfi 
 hard-boiled eggs, and the Prince said that this re- 
 minded him of an adventure which once happened to 
 him. Father never drinks anything except water, but 
 I noticed that the Prince filled up his glass very often 
 with wine . . . .' 
 
 *And this anecdote, I suppose, was the result. 
 Well?' 
 
 *He then told us,' continued Sophy, pleased to have 
 pitched upon a subject which was thoroughly imper- 
 sonal, ' that once, when he was travelling in Scotland, 
 a lady, who lived in an enormous castle, fell despe- 
 rately in love with him.' 
 
 * How like a foreigner, to boast about women ! ' 
 exclaimed Godfrey indignantl3\ ' I dare say lie fell in 
 love with her /' 
 
 * No, that was tlie worst of it : he didn't care nearly 
 so much.' 
 
 VOL. T. u
 
 290 Sophj, 
 
 or 
 
 * Ugh ! ' muttered the young man, with an expres- 
 sion of disgust. 
 
 * But unfortunately/ Sophy went on, ' this lady was 
 married to some one else ; a very disagreeahle, jealous, 
 ugly kind of person, and quite old : but she managed 
 to smuggle the Prince into the castle somehow without 
 his knowing it, where she hid liim away in a lumber- 
 room in a distant turret for a fortnight, and fed him 
 every evening with hard-boiled eggs.* 
 
 'And you actually believed him?' inquired God- 
 frey, espousing the cause of the Scotch chatchdiie with 
 apparent warmth. 
 
 * I believed him,' answered Sophy, ' because he told 
 us it was perfectly true. She used to come and see 
 him every evening, after dark, bringing him the eggs 
 in her pocket. The first day he was so dreadfully 
 hungr}" that he ate them all ; on the next, he didn't 
 like them so much ; on the third day he wasn't at all 
 inclined for them ; and, at last, he took such a disgust 
 to them, and to the poor lady, that he said he had 
 never since been able to think without horror of either 
 Scotland, Scotch ladies, or hard-boiled eggs ! ' 
 
 * The whole story was probably a lie,' said Godfrey. 
 * A beastly foreigner will say anything.' 
 
 * It's very narrow-minded,' she rej)lied, glad, at any 
 rate, to see her imperturbable kinsman in some way 
 moved, * to speak of all foreigners as " beastly." It's 
 the regular " roast-becf-of-old England " cant and clap- 
 trap ; it means nothing, except that the person who 
 sa3^s it is ignorant and doesn't know foreigners a bit !' 
 
 * I wish yoii didn't know quite so much of them, 
 with all my heart,' rejoined the young man, with a 
 sigh, w^hich was more angr}^ than sad. ' And I wish 
 j'our father wouldn't let you listen to their boasting,
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 291 
 
 lying, blackguardl}^ aftcr-dimicr stories : they're not 
 fit for 3"ou to hear.' 
 
 ' Knowledge is power,' answered Sophy, with a 
 wave of the hand. ' The more one knows, the better 
 one can distinguish between good and evil. It's the 
 people who know little who always fly out against what 
 seems to them to be wrong ; and they do this because 
 they doiL't know Xhe difference between wickedness and 
 folly, being too stupid ! ' 
 
 * Thank 3''ou,' said Godfrey, smiling at her warmth. 
 She had hoped, at least, that he would have been 
 
 angry. 
 
 * I dare say the story mayn't have been true,' she 
 continued, with renewed courage ; ' but, at any rate, it 
 was a))uisi)uj. It made one feel, too, that there are 
 people in the world who let themselves go and say too 
 much, as well as people who seem to count ten before 
 every sentence, and weigh ever}^ word.' • 
 
 * I wish, Sophy,' remarked Godfrey gravely, ' that 
 you could like things and people more because they 
 were great and good and true than because they were 
 amusing and out of the common. At first sight 3^our 
 originality is a great charm, I admit ; but, somehow, 
 after knowing j^ou well, one feels that it's rather a 
 blemish. There are times when one almost wishes you 
 were more like other people.' 
 
 *And I should like you a great deal better, too, 
 if you weren't so dreadfully *' cut- and- dried," she 
 answered, with sudden recklessness, feeling that to 
 quarrel, even, would be better than to go on for ever 
 without moving either backwards or forwards. I wish 
 you'd sometimes speak out and let me know what you 
 are, for now I really don't in the least know ; you seem 
 to be a follower of that man who said that speech was
 
 292 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 given us to conceal our thoughts, or like a person per- 
 petually dancing a Court minuet in the reign of Louis 
 Quatorze.' 
 
 'And what would you have me dance?' he de- 
 manded, smiling. 'An Irish jig?' 
 
 ' Yes ; if it was an honest, merry kind of jig,' she 
 replied, seeming to become inspired with sudden energy. 
 ' But a premeditated, sarcastic kind of jig, is quite as 
 wearisome as any other stilted and affected sort of 
 dance. Be yourself, and let me see what you are made 
 of. TalxC off' your mask /' 
 
 As she uttered these words she looked her com- 
 panion straight in the face, and she fancied that he 
 quailed beneath her glance. She was playing a des- 
 perate game, and she knew it. For the first time she 
 was addressing one to w^hom she had unconsciously 
 looked up as a god, as if he had been an ordinary 
 mortal; and though she w^as shocked herself at her 
 own temerity, some malicious demon seemed to be 
 pushing her on to the last extremity of impertinence. 
 
 'You are very seyerc upon me,' returned Godfrey, 
 without raising his eyes ; ' and yet I don't know what 
 I can haye done to make you so angry.' 
 
 ' Nor do I,' she went on, unreasonably. * I can't 
 explain exactly why I am angry with you, but the 
 fact that I feel so, shows me that you are somehow in 
 the wrong ; and to-daj^ I am braye, and can tell you so. 
 Generally, I am so afraid of you that I daren't speak 
 openly to you, as I do to others.' 
 
 'What is my offence?' demanded Godfrey sadly. 
 lie had, at any rate, taken her words seriously. 
 
 'Your offence is, that your reserye wounds me,' 
 answered Sophy desperately. ' It's like a reproach to 
 me for my impulsiveness. I feel hoidenish and gush- 
 ing, always, when I'm with you ; and you seem to try
 
 the Adrentures of a Savage. 293 
 
 to make me feel more so. Besides, I want to knoiv 
 you . . . Father says, if one scratches a Russian one 
 finds the Tartar ; and he says he likes what's underneath 
 better than what's at the top, and perhaps it might be 
 the same with you : so do let me know what you really 
 are — don't seem always like the man with the iron mask ! ' 
 
 * Perhaps I should be worse than you think,' he 
 answered. * Surely self-control can never be unwise ? ' 
 
 * I hope, indeed, that you are worse ! ' she ex- 
 claimed, the tears coming into her eyes : * for then you 
 would seem more like an equal.' 
 
 *Dear Sophy,' said he, coming nearer to her, and 
 looking at her earnestly and reproachfully, * what can 
 you possibly mean ?' 
 
 Sophy never afterwards knew what it was which 
 induced her at this moment to think of the great 
 Hickathrift ring of betrothal, as of a talisman which 
 might invest its wearer with dignit}- and honour. 
 Perhaps she Avas urged on by the same persistent demon 
 who had already tempted her to reproach, "without 
 reason, the being she loved most in the world. Be this 
 how it may, she drew off her glove and passed her hand 
 carelessly through her hair, holding it in such a position 
 as to display the hereditary jewel to her young kinsman. 
 
 *What a quaint old ring!' he exclaimed, suddenly 
 gaining possession of her ungloved hand. ' Is it 
 Oriental?' 
 
 *No ; but that's just what I thought it was at first. 
 Isn't it like the window of a little mosque ? ' 
 
 * I never saw a mosque,' replied her cousin. ' "Was 
 it given you by the Great Prophet ?' 
 
 ' No ; it was given me by Tom Hickathrift. It's 
 the ring with which all the ladies of his family have 
 been engaged.' 
 
 She had played her trump-card recklessly and des-
 
 294 SopJu/j or 
 
 peratcly ; and she now waited, breathless and empty- 
 handed, for the result. This was even more remarkable 
 than she had dared to anticipate. Her cousin's face 
 became suddenly overspread with an ashen pallor, as ho 
 exclaimed bitterly, — 
 
 ' So you arc engag-ed to be married to Ilickathrift ? 
 I thought so ! ' And from his countenance it seemed 
 as though it would have relieved him to have made use 
 of some forcible expression, as what Sophy was wont to 
 call * a reining-in look ' was strongly marked upon it. 
 
 ^ No, I'm not,' she faltered, flattered and yet 
 frightened at seeing him so moved. 
 
 * But he has proposed to you ? lie has asked you 
 to be his wife ; and you have allowed him to put this 
 hideous thing upon your finger?' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Soph}', in a trembling voice. *Just 
 now you said it was a quaint old ring.' 
 
 ' That was before I knew. And what did you say 
 when he proposed to you ? '' Yes," of course ! ' 
 
 * I neither said " Yes " nor " No," ' answered Sophy, 
 looking down at the ring. And, indeed, this came 
 verj^ near to the truth. 
 
 'And what made you do that?' asked Godfrey; 
 ' l/oUy who pride yourself upon being open and natural 
 and aboveboard — you, who taunt me because I don't 
 wear my heart upon my sleeve ? ' 
 
 ' I — I — shall never marry him,' said Sophy, trem- 
 bling all over, and fairly alarmed now at the result of 
 her indiscretion. 
 
 'Then why not tell him so? But no — 3'ou are 
 playing with him instead, in order to lead him on, and 
 make him all the more eager to marry you — that is 
 very like a woman, but not a woman such as I had 
 hoped that you were. Well, at any rate, we shall be
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 295 
 
 neiglibours ! ' And turning aside, lie began to vent his 
 irritation upon an inoffensive brainble-bush, flicking its 
 red leaves into ribbons witli his stick. 
 
 * I meant nothing. I feel for him as if he was my 
 brother. I don't love him enough to marry him ! ' 
 
 'Then why make him think that you do?' asked 
 Godfrey, with warmth. * Why try to make me think 
 so ? and why off'end my eyes by 'wearing this hideous 
 thing ? Take it off ! ' Yielding to an incontroUable 
 impulse, he seized her hand before she had time 
 to resist him, and drawing off the great Hickathrift 
 ring, which was so loose that the difficulty from the 
 first had been how to keep it on, he flung it with all 
 his might into the midst of the adjoining hazel-copse. 
 Sophy heard a ' click,' as though it had struck against 
 the circular bench which surrounded the trunk of the 
 gnarled oak-tree ; but, even with this clue to its where- 
 abouts, she felt there was no certainty that she should 
 ever recover it. 
 
 ' Godfrey I ' she exclaimed, terrified at such un- 
 expected violence. * Please, please don't I It's their 
 family ring of betrothal — it really is ! What shall I 
 do ? Whatever can I say to Tom ? ' 
 
 * You can say this to him, — that /, your kinsman, 
 bearing your name, and feeling in some measure re- 
 sponsible for 3'our actions, flung away in a moment of 
 anger and disappointment what seemed to me a sham 
 — a hideous gewgaw set upon your finger to deceive two 
 people, who, being both of them honest men, deserve 
 fair play ! ' 
 
 Sophy was now pale, terrified, and repentant ; but 
 Godfrey continued mercilessly, still speaking as though 
 from a pinnacle, — 
 
 ' If I have for once given way to violence in your
 
 296 Sophy ^ or 
 
 presence, foro-ive me, and remember that you had begun 
 by taunting mo with my reserve, which to you seemed 
 to imply a want of candour. Who knows, however, if 
 after all, I ma}^ not be the more candid of us two ? — 
 the more easily deceived, perhaps ? Thank God if I 
 am not, for I would rather be offended with my own 
 shortcomings than with yours I ' 
 
 ' I know I have heaps of defects,' faltered poor 
 Sophy. '"When did I ever pretend to be perfect?' 
 
 ' There are many defects which have in them nothing 
 to offend, the result of j^outh and inexperience alone : 
 with these no one could justly reproach you. But try, 
 dear Sophy, never to stooj^ to arts at which you miiy 
 one day blush. I ask you this before I leave j'ou — for 
 some time, perhaps. Above all, if 3^0 u desire to gain 
 the love of others and to retain your own self-respect, 
 yoUj who are so beautiful, and who possess so much to 
 make you lovable, do not condescend to set off one man 
 against another — Vnn pour oifraitwr /'autre, as some of 
 your foreign friends might express it. Leave that to 
 women who can please in no other way. Good-bye.' 
 
 He held out his hand, as it seemed to her, almost 
 parentally, vaulted over the low wooden fence, and was 
 gone. 
 
 Sophy remained, stupefied and bewildered, watcliing 
 him until he was out of sight, but he strode on without 
 once looking back, flicking at everything that came in 
 his way with his cane. lie thought it strange after- 
 wards that, feeling as he did, he should have whistled 
 on his way home ; but there is a kind of whistling 
 which proceeds more from a perturbed spirit than from 
 lightness of heart, so that this need not be taken as a 
 sign that he was altogether unmoved : for if his own 
 words had left his young cousin in a state of blank
 
 tlic Adcentures of a Savage. 297 
 
 despair and consternation, her imperative and unex- 
 pected ' Take off your mask ! ' had also affected him 
 considerably, and led him to encourage rather than 
 subdue the unusual fit of recklessness which he felt 
 was upon him. 
 
 Whistling still, he entered the house, and hearing 
 sounds of music proceeding from his mother's boudoir, 
 he walked boldly in, never pausing this time to ' wipe 
 his boots,' either in spirit or in deed. He was desirous 
 of making a communication to his father, but he found 
 he was not there. His mother and Mr. Pettigrew were 
 seated near to the pianoforte, with an open music-book 
 in front of them. Mr. St. Clair, he was informed, had 
 just gone into his study to rest before dinner, and had 
 desired that he should not be disturbed. 
 
 ' Mr. Pettigrew and I were just trying over that 
 anthem in C,' explained Mrs. St. Clair, in accents more 
 conciliatory than she was wont to address to her son.* 
 
 'Oh, were J^ou?' he answered, Avith a manner which 
 caused her to look up suddenh^, slightly elevating her 
 regular eyebrows ; and passing out of the room without 
 another word, he strode up to his bedchamber, banging 
 the door after him as he entered it, so that it re-echoed 
 through the length and breadth of the house. 
 
 CuArTER XIII. 
 
 After Godfrey had departed, Sophy remained for some 
 time in a state of helpless despondency. Her heart 
 seemed to be beating very loudly, and she was trying 
 hard to feel angry and aggrieved, to imagine that her 
 cousin had endeavoured to dictate to her — to master 
 her without due reason or excuse. With this, however,
 
 298 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 she experienced, somcliOAV, a desire, u longing, to be 
 dictated to and mastered by him, by this strong, earnest 
 nature, which seemed to stand revealed to her for the 
 first time. >So free ^vas he (she said to herself) from 
 all guile and disloyalty, that, at the risk of offending 
 her even, he could tell her, as now, of her numerous 
 shortcomings. He had worn, too, whilst lecturing her, 
 a look of disappointment, (this was the hardest of all to 
 bear !), a look as though he had expected better things 
 of her — of her, a savage, a heathen, a wild woman of 
 the woods ! And yet, was it not for his sake alone 
 that she had endeavoured to control her Bohemian 
 nature, and striven to think and talk like other people 
 — to wear gloves, and to resist the temptation of 
 shocking her neighbours in a thousand drfferent ways ? 
 . . . But he had never known it ; it had all been thrown 
 away upon him ! . . . 
 
 She knew now that he had been her ideal, her one 
 dream, this beautiful boy, who had seemed to her, even 
 in their childish days, to be above her in everything ; 
 to step down, not merely from the higher ground of 
 Great Stillingfleet — the which, with its surrounding 
 broad acres, he would one day inherit — but to descend 
 like some bright young god of antiquity from a rosy 
 cloud, lowering himself by holding converse with her 
 in her rags of mortality ; na}', even trying to improve 
 and elevate her unregenerate nature. With all the 
 strength of her warm, impulsive heart, she had adored 
 this condescending yomig god, but now he had mounted 
 into his chariot again, and floated away upon his cloud. 
 As for poor Tom Ilickathrift, she thought, what was 
 he in comparison ? A kind, good- hearted creature 
 enough, but moulded from Nature's most ordinary 
 cla3^ That he was brave, and generous, and fond of
 
 tlie Adventures of a Savage. 299 
 
 her, ^e knew perfectly well. Two of these things 
 had made her respect him, and the last, perhaps, had 
 flattered her a little, and even pleased her. And why ? 
 Alas ! (for here she was constrained against her will 
 to imearth a sorry truth !) upon poor Tom she had 
 practised, woman-like, as musicians ha^ve been known 
 to practise upon a dumb pianoforte, whereon no discord 
 can offend, 'just to keep their hands in,' as the saying 
 goes. So had Tom Hickathrift been used, and now he 
 had fulfilled his thankless mission and was done with. 
 But for whom was reserved the finished tune, the 
 perfect melod}' ? . . . 
 
 The thought of Tom reminded her of the Great 
 Hickathrift ring, and, going sadly to the place where 
 she fancied it had fallen, she began to search high and 
 low for the accursed thing, which had proved (as it had 
 turned out) the cause of her present sorrow. But it 
 was nowhere to be found. Vainly did she look for it 
 under the damp, decaying leaves, between the planks of 
 the bench, and even amongst the twisted branches of 
 the oak-tree. She felt annoyed that it should have 
 been lost ; but this annoyance seemed to be of little 
 account compared to the fact that she had quarrelled 
 with Grodfrey, that he had left her in anger, and, worse 
 than all, that she now knew for certain how dear he 
 had always been to her. A thousand tender memories 
 rose up to convince her of this, and, sinking down upon 
 the gray lichen- stained bench, she covered her face with 
 her hands and burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 Her actual paroxysm of grief did not last long : 
 those few tears were a relief ; but when they left her 
 eyes dry again she seemed to look out upon a different 
 world. She liad quarrelled with Godfrey, she had 
 taunted and reproached him in many bitter ^^•ays. She
 
 300 '^'V^%' 
 
 or 
 
 had (lone so before, in a lesser degree, and he had borne 
 it because he was noble, and chivalrous, and generous, 
 and because she was * only a woman.' She found no 
 name now too hard to applj^ to herself ; she had even 
 enough of the savage still in her composition to feel a 
 desire to cut and lacerate herself as a punishment : 
 but, alas, this would do no good ! Besides which, was 
 she not punished enough already ? for was he not gone 
 from her, and did she not love him ? 
 
 'Oh m.j dear, dear love ! ' she exclaimed pitifully in 
 the silent watches of the night, when she, and she onl}^, 
 la}' awake in that sleepy little house, * you were with 
 me once, and we were so happy ; but now I have made 
 you angry, and driven you away, and you will never, 
 never know what I feel about it ! ' And here she 
 began sobbing again, until the pillow was quite wet 
 with her tears. 
 
 When Jane came in, in the morning, to call her, 
 she was astonished at her disconsolate appearance. Just 
 as the wintry sun shed a pale light through the un- 
 shuttered panes of the window she had fallen into a 
 deep slumber. 
 
 'Why, missy, you be asleep, sure/^//' exclaimed the 
 honest serving-woman, as she gazed at the prostrate 
 form of her young mistress. 
 
 Sophy's bed was, indeed, in strange disorder, and 
 her face bore mimistakable traces of her first real heart- 
 ache. Her knees were disposed in the form of an 
 Alpine peak beneath the white coverlid; one despairing 
 arm hung listlessly at her side ; her dark hair, which 
 had become untied during those hours of self-humilia- 
 tion, strayed over her pillow in long dishevelled coils ; 
 and her side-face, with its closed eyelids and fringed 
 lashes, looked sharp, and pinched, and unaccountably sad.
 
 the Adventure.'i of a Savage, 301 
 
 Poor Jane was quite alarmed. 
 
 'Get up, missy!' she cried anxiouslj^ as she stepped 
 forward and shook her by the round, white, hanging- 
 arm. * Get up, now, for the Lord's sake ! You look as 
 if you were dead ! ' 
 
 Thus aroused, Sophy slowly opened her large eyes, 
 collected her ideas, remembered (as, somehow, if one has 
 a sorrow, one always does remember at waking) what the 
 soreness meant which was gnawing at her heart, and 
 sinking back again upon her pillow, as though utterly 
 exhausted, said gloomily, — 
 
 * No, I don't see the use of getting up. I shall stay 
 in bed. There can't be any good thing in to-day!' 
 And here she began sobbing and sighing anew. 
 
 * Lord a' mussy, missy ! what's the matter ? ' asked 
 Jane, sitting down upon the bed and taking her hand. 
 * Maybe you've gone and got 3'our feet wet, and caught 
 a chill-like. You bean't agooin' fur to take on so^ be 
 sure now ? ' 
 
 ' Janus, don't, please, say silly things about 
 taking chills, as if that could possibly make me cry ! I 
 wish, indeed, I could confide to you everj'thing I feel, 
 and all that has happened to me. But you wouldn't 
 imderstand it. You've never known what it is to be 
 unhappy. Nelus has always behaved well to you,' she 
 added suddenly. This was intended as a * feeler,' to 
 ascertain if Jane Ford could sympathise with sorrows of 
 the heart. 
 
 * Oh, Miss Sophy, doiin't you goo fur to take on so ! ' 
 repeated Jane reproachfully. 'And as to dat 'ere Nelus, 
 afoor I gone to church along on him, Nelus he wur a 
 terrible yoimg Turk ! ' 
 
 * You needn't take any trouble about my hair,' Sophy 
 remarked tearfully, when, half an hour later, Jane, who
 
 302 Sojihy, or 
 
 was treating her like a baby under lier affliction, had 
 finished brushing her luxuriant tresses. ' I don't think 
 I could bear the weight of it round my head. You can 
 plait it, and let it hang down ; and give me my very 
 ugliest dress,' she added, forgetting that she possessed 
 only two available winter gowns. 
 
 * Why, sure///, missy,' cried Jane, regarding her in 
 wonderment, * you'll look for all the world like the 
 maiden "all forlorn"!' 
 
 'So I am "all forlorn." Go away now, and don't 
 ask me any more questions ; and if my father says 
 anything about my being so late, be sure and tell him 
 that I've only got a headache.' 
 
 Jane Ford did as she was bidden, muttering to 
 herself that her j^oung mistress was just like all the 
 other persons of her acquaintance, who had been either 
 * moonstruck ' or * bewitched ; ' and Sophy was left once 
 more to her melancholy reflections. 
 
 She dressed herself languidly and without enthu- 
 siasm. Her selected gown looked creased and tumbled. 
 Jane had asked her if she should not ' iron it out,' but 
 she had answered that she preferred it as it was ; and 
 so she did. The knowledge that no one will look 
 upon her with a loving or admiring eye has turned 
 many a woman into a sloven ; but Sophy's present 
 carelessness was rather the protest of a mournful 
 despondency, the sackcloth and ashes of a loving and 
 repentant spirit, which took the form of hanging 
 tresses and unironed garments. Iler aspect was truly 
 pitiable ; and as she contemplated herself in the 
 looking-glass she could not help remarking it. 
 
 * At any rate, I Jooh unhappy,' she thought. ' 'What 
 a difference it makes in one's face ! But I don't care 
 in the least how I look )wic !^
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 303 
 
 At this moment Jane, with a beaming countenance, 
 re-entered the apartment. 
 
 * V\e good news for you, missy,' she said cheer- 
 fully ; * and you'll have time fur to let me iron out 
 your frock, fur I scz as how you'd overslep' yourself ; 
 and he'll wait.' 
 
 ^''Overslept myself; and he'll wait"?' repeated 
 Sophy, bewildered. ' Who'll wait? Please, please tell 
 me at once, or you'll drive me out of my mind ! ' 
 
 *It's the young Sir Tummus as is below, missy,' 
 explained the serving- woman. ' He wur just stept out 
 by chance-like, afoor his breakfastes, when dat 'ere 
 black dawg o' his tears off after some'ut, and no 
 whistlin' would do fur un, so he thought p'raps he was 
 a-got to terrifyin' of your cats.' 
 
 * Oh, it's always my cats ! ' cried Sophy, in a tone of 
 irritation ; for never in her life had slie felt less 
 disposed for an interview with the man whom she 
 regarded, unjustly, as the cause of her present unhap- 
 piness. 'Give my compliments to him, and say that 
 his dog isn't worrying my cats that I know of ; and if 
 it teas, I shouldn't very much care, for I don't seem to 
 care to-day for anything in the world ! ' 
 
 * The breakfastes be all ready,' hazarded Jane Ford, 
 with an imploring look ; for the * young Sir Tummus ' 
 was extremely popular with both great and small. 
 'There be a couple of poached eggs and a dish of 
 bacon, and there's sausingers in the kitchen, wot What- 
 you-call-um's been a havin' on.' 
 
 * I forbid you to ask him to breakfast ! ' exclaimed 
 Sophy, with determination. ' Tell him I'm ill ; tell 
 him anything, only send him awaj'' ! And how often 
 have I told you not to give pork to Abdallah ? It's 
 against his religion,'
 
 304 ^(>p^^yi <^^' 
 
 'You do look so beautiful, miss!' persisted Jane, 
 still anxious that she should relent. 'And if I say 
 you're ill, we shall have him and the whole fambly 
 a-coming to inquire, and them 'ere new loose covers 
 not done yet fur the drawing-room cheers !' 
 
 * That's true, Janus ; you're a sensible creature. 
 Say, then, that I'm not very well, but that I'm not ill. 
 Invent j;ome sort of complaint that isn't serious, and 
 that j^ou'd think nothing of yourself, only be sure 
 and say that I can't see him.' 
 
 A few moments later she peeped out of the window, 
 hearing Tom's departing footsteps ujion the gravel- 
 walk, only she took care that he should not see 
 her. In her heart she could not help feeling some 
 compunction, so slowly and unwillingly did he seem to 
 go from her ; and she could sympathise now with all 
 those who really loved. But it was with a sense of 
 relief that she knew he was gone ; and Jane came 
 presently to assure her of the fact. 
 
 ' And you said that I was not very well, but that I 
 had nothing serious the matter Y ' 
 
 ' I said,' replied the waiting- woman, ' that you was 
 took poorly with the sick headache, and looked all 
 nohow ; and he said as 'twas his belief as how the sick 
 headache was a-gooing about.' 
 
 Sophy, however, felt particularly annoyed at being 
 supposed to suffer from an ailment which she regarded 
 as pre-eminently unromantic. 
 
 ' I am sorry, Janus,' she remarked, ' that you shoidd 
 have thought fit to say anything so disgusting and so 
 untrue. However, what docs it signify ? So long as it 
 keeps tiresome i)eople away, 3'ou may say I have the 
 smallpox if you like ! Still, you know that I have 
 never once been ill in the horrid way you said. What 
 will they think of me at the Abbey ?'
 
 the Adventures of a Savage, 305 
 
 Poor Jane was sorry to have annoyed lier young 
 mistress, although, being a person without refinement, 
 she failed to perceive in what manner she had offended. 
 As Sophy was, however, extremel}" anxious to do away 
 with an erroneous impression, she sat down at onco 
 and wrote the following note, which it was intended 
 that Nelus should convc}' to Poynings Abbey as soon 
 as he had finished liis dinner : — 
 
 ' My dear Tom, — I have undergone a great deal of mental 
 worry lately, and am, consequently, not quite in my usual 
 spiHts. This made me late tliis morning ; and I asked Jane 
 to explain to you that I was not able to see you when you 
 so kindly called. She gave you, however, quite a wrong ac- 
 count of my illness. j\Iy headache was merely what is called 
 " nervous,'^ for I am really quite well, only a little sad. I 
 also think that it is right to tell you that it can never he 
 (what we spoke about in the wood, by the black gate). It 
 is more honest and fair to tell you this than to keep you 
 any longer in suspense ; and I Avould send you back, with 
 this letter, the beautiful ring you so kindly ivonld give me, 
 only, unfortunately, it has been mislaid, and 1 cannot find it 
 at present.' 
 
 But before Nelus had had time to start off with this 
 note, an opportunity occurred of sending it by a fleeter 
 messenger ; for a groom in the Hickathrift sables 
 spurred hurriedly up to the door, armed with a large 
 package tied round with pink ribbon. This contained 
 two bottles of medicine, which kind Lad}^ Hickathrift 
 (as she explained in a note) had at once despatched 
 upon hearing of Sophy's indisposition, having prepared 
 the decoctions ' with her own hands ' from a family 
 recipe. Hereupon Sophy felt compelled to write an- 
 other letter, which was sent off by the groom with 
 that which was intended for Tom. It ran as follows : 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 Soph/, 
 
 or 
 
 * My dear Lady Hickathrift, — I was extremely soiTy 
 that when Sir Thomas called this morning I was not well 
 enough to see him ; and I am very mnch obliged to you for 
 your kind thought of me in sending mc so much medicine. 
 I do not think, however, that it will l)enefit me to par- 
 take of it, as my headache arose merely from nervous- 
 ness and from a sleepless night, and was not of the kind 
 which our servant stupidl}^ described to Sir Thomas. — With 
 my father's kindest regards, believe me to be your very 
 affectionate, Sophy St. Clair.' 
 
 Having fired off these two epistles, she felt some- 
 what pacified. She had eased her conscience, too, by 
 nipping, as she conceived, in the very bud, any aspira- 
 tions which poor Tom might be nursing, b}' the chilling 
 and withering sentence, ^ If can never ho.' 
 
 ^ And you can throw all that horrible stuff out of 
 the window,' she said, turning to Jane, and indicating 
 the decoctions with an expression of disgust. 
 
 'Yes, sure/y, missj^,' Jane had made answer, with 
 the manner of a * kicked dog ; ' but Sophy afterwards 
 learnt that, thinking it * a sin to waste good medicine,' 
 she had administered it to ' What-j^ou-call-um' (by 
 which name it was her habit to designate the Eg}^- 
 tian), and that, in consequence, * AVhat-you-call-um ' 
 (to make use of Nelus's forcible expression) was a 
 * daanged sight better.' 
 
 Ch AFTER XIV. 
 
 Alth(3L'gii Godfrey St. Clair, after his short inter- 
 view with his mother, had closed the door of his room 
 upon the outer world, he could not exclude the con- 
 flicting emotions which crowded in upon him uninvited, 
 reducing his mind to a state of confusion to which it
 
 the Adrentitres of a Savage. 307 
 
 liad been hitherto unaccustomed. He endeavoured to 
 analyse and classify liis sensations ; but liis brain 
 seemed to have lost for the moment its former powers 
 of just criticism, and he could only recognise in the 
 abstract an all-pervading sense of cUsillusionncmeiit and 
 soreness of heart. 
 
 Like Sophy, he had never paused to ask himself 
 what was his ultimate intention. He had been content 
 to drift, straw-like, upon the stream of destiny ; for, 
 to a man, marriage is not the storm-proof goal, or haven, 
 which it often seems to be to a woman, and it seldom 
 presents itself to his imagination save as a dim and 
 shadowy possibility. The pleasure, therefore, which 
 he had experienced in Sophy's society had never warned 
 him to expect an}^ change in his own feelings ; and the 
 thought of this delightful period of unquestioning con- 
 tentment, came back to him now hallowed by all the 
 tenderness of regret, which must ever accompany the 
 memory of * a day that is dead,* when that day has 
 held what no other seems likely to hold in the future. 
 For, at the end of his reasoning, he had come to the 
 conclusion that he must give up seeing his cousin, 
 at any rate for some time, if he desired to secure peace 
 either for her or for himself. He strove hard to look 
 at the situation dispassionately, and, setting aside all 
 selfish considerations, he felt, as her kinsman and best 
 friend, how highly advantageous to her would be her 
 \mion with Sir Thomas Hickathrift of Poynings Abbey. 
 Had she been his sister, or any ordinar}?- girl-cousin, 
 this would have been, indeed, a ' consummation de- 
 voutly to be wished.' Tom Hickathrift, his old Eton 
 friend, his near neighbour, and one of the county 
 magnates — could anything possibly be more satisfac- 
 tory ? But now — And here again he felt an inexplic-
 
 308 Sop/if/, 
 
 <>)' 
 
 able soreness of liciirt, inin<^led with a lono-ing- for 
 action, excitement, and cliungc of scene, which might 
 bring with it, likewise, a change of ideas. 
 
 Yes, he would leave England for a while — he would 
 travel in distant lands, and endeavour to comprehend 
 and sympathise more with the customs and peculiarities 
 of their varied inhabitants ; for he had felt Sophy's 
 taunt about his ignorance of foreign people and habits, 
 and he began to wonder whether there was not some 
 truth in her remark about the * roast-beef -of -old- 
 England cant and clap- trap.' At any rate, there 
 were many things to be seen in the world besides those 
 which lay in his immediate path. Why should he not 
 see them, and gain wisdom and experience in the 
 seeing ? 
 
 The idea that this would entail giving up Sophy's 
 society, at least for some time, did, indeed, send a 
 painful thrill through his whole being ; but he had been 
 accustomed to look upon life as a state of probation, 
 of dissatisfaction, of struggle, and to regard with a 
 certain sad self-complacency any act partaking of the 
 nature of a sacrifice or penance. 
 
 * I could not love thee, dear, so well, 
 Loved I not honour more,' 
 
 and * honour * seemed now ro demand of him that he 
 should give up for the time being the pleasure of his 
 cousin's societ}^ leaving her to his friend and neighbour 
 to win and to woo for his own, without let or hindrance. 
 To sa}' that he felt like the king in the fairy tale, who 
 has sworn to sacrifice to an implacable geniils, or wizard, 
 the first object he encountered, after that object had 
 turned out to be his soul's beloved, will give some 
 notion of his sensations. Indeed, honour had lately
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 309 
 
 seemed to him, upon several occasions, to have become 
 a veritable bugbear — a voracious Cerberus, into whose 
 many mouths he appeared to be perpetually flinging 
 buns ; and he could not help trembling at the possible 
 reaction which might one day ensue upon so disagree- 
 able and monotonous an occupation. 
 
 This day had not yet arrived, however, and whilst 
 he had the strength he would strive. Hence, after a 
 very minute self-examination, he came to the conclusion 
 that the wisest and most, honourable course for him to 
 pursue would be to leave Dallingridge almost imme- 
 diately, in order that he might make what used 
 formerly to be called the (jrand tonr, without which 
 the education of no young gentleman was thought 
 complete. 
 
 Your doctor of the soul is strangely at variance 
 with your doctor of the body upon the subject of self- 
 examination — the one telling us to search, probe, and 
 keep a continual watch over our emotions ; whilst the 
 other admits that, after certain broad hygienic rules 
 have been laid down and acted upon, too minute a 
 scrutiny of either our physical or mental condition is 
 apt to generate a species of neurosis, which may take 
 the form, in time, of chronic hypochondria, and en- 
 courage the growth of those very evils which it is our 
 interest to prevent. Certain it was that the constant 
 inward-gazing of Godfrey St. Clair's moral vision had 
 fostered in him a kind of mental hypochondria, which 
 threatened to cast a gloom over these first years of his 
 early manhood. 
 
 It is far less difficult, at times, to sacrifice an idea 
 than an individual ; and, as yet, Sophy had seemed to 
 him a being so ideal and intangible, that she was more 
 like the representation or embodiment of a particular
 
 .^10 Sophy ^ 
 
 or 
 
 f^roup of ideas than a creature of flesli and blood. To 
 s(^parate from her was to separate from many pleasant 
 illusions and associations ; but * honour * demanded of 
 him this sacrifice, and he would make it, although with 
 a heavy heart! 
 
 When, upon entering his mother's boudoir, he had 
 inquired the whereabouts of his father, it was with the 
 view of submitting to him this new plan of foreign 
 travel. He had not been able, however, to arrange an 
 interview for that evening ; but next morning, whilst 
 walking with him up and down the terrace of the 
 wintry flower-garden, he made known his projects for 
 tlie future. Erskine St. Clair was now a very old man. 
 He had, indeed, been an old man when his son remem- 
 bered him first, seeming, to him, to embody and repre- 
 sent the civilisation of a departed age. Had he ever 
 been young, and possessed of the faults and failings of 
 other young men? Godfrey had sometimes asked himself. 
 If so, his son had never known him during this passing 
 phase, and as he was now in his seventy-eighth year, all 
 moods and phases would probably soon be over for him. 
 It had ensued, naturally enough, by reason of the 
 great disparity of years, that the two men had had but 
 little in common, notwithstanding that Godfrey had 
 unconsciously formed himself upon his father's example. 
 Neither did there exist between them any outward 
 resemblance to stand in lieu of the more subtle affinity 
 of character. Godfrey was darker and taller than his 
 father had ever been, and his features, although less 
 regular, and wanting in the almost feminine neatness 
 whicli characterised those of the elder man, were en- 
 dowed with a certain strange picturesqueness which, to 
 an observer possessed of artistic consciousness, was not
 
 tlie Adventures of ci Savage. 311 
 
 witliout its especial charm. There was a fire in his 
 eye too, and a dignity in his whole demeanour, wliich 
 seemed to separate him from the majority of his fellow- 
 creatures, and to bespeak some manner of out-standing 
 from the herd. lie might omit, peradveature, to draw 
 upon the intellectual forces which appeared to be lying 
 in reserve ; but, ten to one, he would never subside 
 altoorether into insio-nificance. 
 
 As they paced slowly up and down the terrace 
 together, arm in arm, Godfrc}' noticed that his 
 father, old as he had always appeared to him, looked 
 now even older than usual. lie observed, too, with 
 pain, that he began to show marked signs of bodily 
 feebleness, walking but slowly, and leaning heavily 
 upon his arm as though for support. He realised how 
 lean and shrivelled he seemed now, compared to what 
 he had appeared to him in his own boyish days, when 
 he had gazed up at him with his earnest child-eyes, afid 
 imagined that he was a tall man. He had shrunk and 
 dwindled, however, just like the gray park- wall, once 
 an almost impassable barrier, but sunk now into a thing 
 so small and insignificant that he could easily leap 
 over it. 
 
 He realised, too, how thoroughly these few years — 
 a mere nothing in the life of the old man — had, so to 
 speak, reversed their relative positions, transforming 
 himself into the protector, the strong arm, the bread- 
 winner, if need be ; and a sentiment of tenderness and 
 compassion possessed him as he felt how his father had 
 now actually need of him to support his tottering foot- 
 steps. Then, again, Godfrey was conscious of a decided 
 change in his mental jiowers. His ideas were no longer 
 so lucid and concise as in the old days, his memor}' seemed
 
 312 Sojjhi/, 
 
 or 
 
 often to fail him, lie repeated himself more than once ; 
 and it Avas evident that, at his advanced age, these 
 changes were likely to be the precursors of that great 
 change which, sooner or later, must come to us all. 
 For a moment this tliought caused the young man to 
 falter in his intention of quitting England. As his 
 father seemed, however, rather to encourage the notion, 
 he ended by adhering to it, foreseeing nothing imminent 
 in the gradual breaking up of one whose health was, 
 after all, particularly sound for his years ; and before 
 their morning walk Avas over, the preliminaries had 
 been arranged for his departure. 
 
 ' And I desire to tell you, Godfrey, before you go on 
 your travels,' said the old man kindly, as they were 
 about to separate, ' that in no way have you ever dis- 
 appointed either myself or your mother. Since your 
 earliest childhood, you have displayed e\'idences of an 
 equalh^-balanced and carefully-regulated mind. In 
 adolescence you have contracted neither vices nor liabi- 
 lities, and we have every reason to suppose that your 
 tastes are cultivated and refined. Strive, wry dear boy, 
 to form your manhood upon the pattern of so exem- 
 plary a youth, which has been owing in a great measure, 
 you will admit, to an admirable education. God bless 
 you, ni}' dear boy ! I repeat to you, for the second 
 time, that your conduct hitherto has afforded us unmiti- 
 gated satisfaction.' 
 
 'You arc very kind, sir,' said Godfrey, pressing 
 his aiTu. 
 
 Had this speech been worded differently he would 
 have felt touched and gratified. As it was, the some- 
 what mechanical treatment of the subject jarred upon 
 him slightly, and he found himself thinking, he knew 
 not why, of Sophy's childish words, when she had
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 313 
 
 repented to liiiii her father's remark about ' tlie poor boy 
 who was broug-ht up by clockwork ; ' but then, upon 
 this particuhir day, he was, perhaps, rather morbid and 
 hypercriticah 
 
 That evening, after the candles were lighted, he 
 locked himself ujd in his room, sat down at his writing- 
 table, and wrote to Sophy. It was a much longer letter 
 than he had ever written before upon the subject of his 
 own impressions ; and in order that the reader may be 
 able to judge whether she was rendered any happier by 
 the reception of it, I give it here : — 
 
 * I implore of you to pardon me,' he wrote, ' for having 
 given way to violence in your presence. My excuse must be 
 that, feeling provoked, I lost that self-control which I have 
 always counselled others to preserve, and which you re- 
 proached me Avith having maintained until now. In doing 
 this, I fear I have both pained and wounded you ; and from 
 what you tell me, it seems that, in this respect, I have un- 
 wittingly offended before. I have taken upon myself, also, to 
 advise you upon various subjects — yon who, being a woman, are 
 probably perfectly competent to judge for yourself of the fit- 
 ness of some things, and I perceive that I must have appeared 
 to you to be both dictatorial and impertinent, llcmember, 
 however, dear Sophy, that as I am one of your nearest kins- 
 men, it is not mmatural that I shoukl appear at times to be 
 desirous of usurping the place of a brother in your heart ; 
 for to me you have always seemed the sister you would have 
 been indeed had not om- two fathers chosen ruthlessly to set 
 aside those natural tics which should have united themselves 
 and their children.' 
 
 When Godfrey came to this part of his letter, he felt 
 painfully conscious that he regarded Sophy in no wise 
 in the light of a sister, and that, by asserting that he 
 did so, he was outraging his own uncompromishig moral
 
 314 Sophy ^ 
 
 ()}' 
 
 code. ITo argued, however, jesuiticall}', that it was for 
 II good end. It was good for Sophy that she should 
 think of him as a friend only, a kinsman, a brother ; 
 and as for himself, what matter whether, to Jd))i, the 
 thought brought joy or bitterness? 
 
 But when the poor little adopted sister herself read 
 these cruel words, she felt a sudden death-cliill at her 
 heart. For a few moments it seemed as though it had 
 ceased to beat altogether. She pressed her hand to the 
 place where it was wont to be ; but she only felt as if 
 her bosom harboured some dull, inanimate stone, which 
 possessed, nevertheless, a tendency to ache. 
 
 * It is all over ! ' she sighed hopelessly, as she gazed 
 out of the bay-window at Little Stillingfleet, towards 
 the winding roadwaj'' between the avenue of young 
 trees. 
 
 Her blind father, who could not perceive her emotion, 
 Und who had been anxiously awaiting, for many days, 
 tidings in confirmation of some grand triumph, con- 
 nected with one of the numerous ramifications of the 
 Great Cause, pricked up his keen ears as he detected a 
 sound as of the crumpling of note-paper. 
 
 * Can it be,' he inquired eagerly, ' that replies to our 
 two latest communications are already in our hands? 
 Our baits have indeed been laid judiciously ; and before 
 the period at which inebriated Christians are wont 
 erroneously to celebrate the nativity of the Xazarene, it 
 is my belief that v»e shall have landed another mighty 
 fish. . . . My last pamphlet upon the Eastern Question 
 has been successfully introduced into the household of a 
 certain ininister, who is dyspeptic, in the guise of an 
 advertisement for a particular species of dinner-pill, 
 very valuable subject-matter being incorporated with 
 what is, professedly, the encomium of an utterly inno- 
 
 I
 
 the Adventures of a SavcKje. 315 
 
 cuous simple. . . . This, however, is ouly the thin end 
 of the wedge. . . . Three of the khidinuifjhars of thiit 
 very promising young man, Wnzy Ally Khan, have been 
 seduced by our emissary ; but there are wheels within 
 wheels ; . . . and the reluctance of our old friend, 8hah 
 Beharee Lall, to lodge in his bank those thirty lacs 
 of rupees necessary for our expense in Oude, is now 
 thoroughly explained.' 
 
 Sophy, however, had never felt less inclined to enter 
 into a discussion upon the Great Cause, and she replied, 
 somewhat impatiently, — 
 
 * I wonder whether there will ever dawn a day — a 
 very, very distant one, of course ; but still, I can't help 
 thinking, a ver}^ li^^ppy oiie — when we shall hear no 
 more of the Eastern Question or the Great Cause ? ' 
 
 The gentle regenerator of the universe was para- 
 lysed with astonishment at this unusual display of 
 pettishness. For some moments he could not replj^ to 
 her question, and he ended, like Jane and Lady Hicka- 
 thrift, by coming to the conclusion that perhaps his 
 daughter might not be in the enjoTOent of her usual 
 health. 
 
 But this is a digression, and I must return to 
 Godfrey's letter : — 
 
 * I have spoken to my father,' it wont on, ' and he ap- 
 proved of my wish to see more of the world ; for I informed 
 him that, with his permission, I desired to leave England, and 
 he accorded it at once. When I return, I shall hope to be 
 divested, to some extent, of that " roast-beef-of-old-England 
 cant and clap-trap " which has been till now such a liaw in 
 my character, and which has very justly given you oft'ence. 
 Never, however, has England seemed more dear to mc, with 
 some few of its inhabitants, and I shall depart from it with 
 sorrowful regret. Perhaps, like many of the St. Clairs, our
 
 316 Sophy ^ or 
 
 ancestors, I mij^^ht have gone on living at Dallingridge with- 
 out ever guessing that I was so grossly prejudiced and un- 
 enlightened, had not the veil been torn from my eyes. 
 Thanks to you, however, I have become aware of my 
 ignorance, and am tired with a longing after better things 
 — things wider, deeper, more cosmopolitan. Maybe, where 
 I am going, I may fall in with them. So far, so good ; but 
 as you used to say, in those happy days when we were boy 
 and girl together, — 
 
 " Ev'ry white must have its black, 
 And ev'ry sweet its sour ; " 
 
 and I must confess that I am not over-pleased to learn that 
 ;Mr. Pcttigrew is destined to be the companion of my travels, 
 for (probably without just reason) I have always disliked 
 him. However, it is to the kind solicitude of my father 
 that I owe what I am undutifully disposed to regard as a 
 grievance. I am old enough, it is true, to dispense with the 
 company of my former tutor ; and were he to assume the 
 character of mentor, I fear I should be tempted to show 
 some signs of impatience. But when it was simply a ques- 
 tion of our travelling together, as any ordinary acquaintances 
 might travel, it was dithcult to object, my father himself 
 having started the idea ; and as Pcttigrew is suffering from 
 a cough, he docs not seem averse to a holiday. My father 
 has taken all trouble off his hands with regard to providing 
 old Hornblower with a substitute, and I think we shall start 
 towards the beginning of next week. 
 
 ' I must tell you, too, that, before leaving my father, 
 I could not resist an opportunity which presented itself of 
 alluding to our unfortunate family quarrel, and of expressing 
 to him my own feelings upon the subject. I ventured to 
 represerit to him that it struck me as being contrary to the 
 laws of Nature and the dictates of true religion, that a feud 
 between two brothers should continue for so many years, 
 particularly when, from the fact of their living so close to
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 317 
 
 each other, the whole neighbourhood was rendered aware of 
 it ; and I ventured to remind him that there is said to be 
 but one step from the siibhme to the ridiculous. The 
 neighbours, I assured him, regarded such an exaggerated 
 display of ill-feeling in the light of a family eccentricity, 
 replete with all the elements of comedy ; whilst to myself, 
 I informed him, it seemed to partake more of the nature of 
 a tragedy, bringing painfully to my remembrance the terrible 
 history of that lirst falling out of brothers which is mentioned 
 in Scripture. When, however, I had proceeded thus far, he 
 became visibly annoyed. Looking at me steadfastly, he 
 begged me, with a commanding gesture, never to speak to 
 him again upon this subject, adding that, did I know the 
 true state of the case, together with certain extraneous cir- 
 cumstances of which he felt almost tempted to inform me, 
 I should certainly have bitten out my own tongue before I 
 made any allusion to the story of Cain and Abel and the first 
 murder. It was not possible for me, after this, to continue the 
 conversation, and I was constrained to change the subjc«t. 
 
 ' And now good-bye, dear Soj^hy, and God bless you ! 
 Who can say what changes may have taken place ere we meet 
 again, as I hope we shall meet, in the early spring of next 
 year? You will know, however, with what sincerity I 
 trust that whatever happens may be for your happiness, 
 which, believe me, is as dear to me as my own. Once more, 
 farewell ! 
 
 *P. S. Should you desire to write to me, pray direct 
 under cover to Dr. Dyer at Poynings, with whom I shall be 
 in communication on my father's account, and who has re- 
 ceived instructions to forward my letters. It is my in- 
 tention to visit, first, the chief cities of France and Germany ; 
 later on, I shall proceed to Italy, where I hope to remain for 
 awhile, at Genoa, Milan, Florence, and Rome.' 
 
 When Sophy had read through this letter, so chilling 
 in its self-complacent cousinliness, she turned blankly
 
 318 '?^V^%' ^'' 
 
 towards the window, fcclin<> stunned and frozen, and 
 leant for support a^^^ainst the nearest of the three 
 soulless warriors. Clinging thus hopelessly to the 
 hollow steel arm wrought over 's^'ith golden tracery, and 
 fashioned cunningly to hold something so puissant once 
 at Poictiers or Agincourt, the young girl, whose wann 
 youth was to her at times almost as a burden, a respon- 
 sibility difficult to deal with aright, seemed suddenly to 
 become as bloodless and inanimate as the armour. The 
 garden looked dismal in its wintry barrenness, and the 
 gray heavens appeared to be leaning down to an earth 
 forlorn and deserted of all pleasant things. Nelus had 
 been sweeping the dead leaves into little damp red 
 heaps opposite to the windows ; but others, newly fallen, 
 were scattering themselves all over the lawn, and the 
 footsteps of Winter were no longer to be dissimulated. 
 Before ' the early spring of next year ' should have 
 come, with its possible changes, Sophy imagined a long 
 array of daj's as gray and melancholy as this one ; and 
 gazing thus at the desolate landscape, all hopes of a 
 happy future seemed to die out of her heart. 
 
 CiiArxER XY. 
 
 Bi'T there is an end to the very gloomiest of days, 
 and no winter, however dismal, endures for ever. In 
 time Spring returned, with her promise of perfect 
 summer. Timidly she came at first, as one that treadeth 
 delicately, with here a peeping blossom, and there a 
 fulness of bud, which to-morrow, perhaps, was destined 
 to be chilled and blighted. 
 
 Though it was still early in the month of April, the
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 319 
 
 sun was sometimes warm enougli for Sopli}^ and lier 
 father to sit out in the garden, on the southern side of 
 the white farmliouse. Francis St. Clair had looked 
 rather worn and pale of late, and his daughter en- 
 couraged him to be as much as possible in the open air. 
 He would, perhaps, have felt insulted had she offered 
 him an overcoat, for to shiver was part of his religion ; 
 but she had craftily disposed the garden- chairs, so that 
 they were sheltered from the cold winds in a little nook 
 between one of the angles of the house and the conser- 
 vator}^ and here they would often sit together and 
 converse, more after the manner of brother and sLster 
 than of father and child. 
 
 So2)hy did not expect that Godfrey would return till 
 the beginning of Maj' — nearly another whole month to 
 wait — but still it was pleasant to feel that she was waiting 
 for him, and watching, so it seemed to her, every little 
 bud and blossom opening to welcome him home. 
 
 Perhaps, though she was far from suspecting it, she 
 herself was partly responsible for her father's careworn 
 expression. He had been disappointed at the failure of 
 Thomas Hickathrift's suit, although, in cherishing the 
 idea of this marriage, he liad not been actuated by 
 motives of worldly wisdom. Poynings Abbey, indeed, 
 with its historic memories and surrounding broad acres, 
 counted for little in the mind of one who was constitu- 
 tionally incapable of estimating social advantages even 
 at their true value. Francis St. Clair had been, all his 
 life, a dreamer of dreams, an enthusiastic follower of 
 an obscure and mysterious philosophy, irrational and 
 impracticable perhaps, but bringing with it, at an}' rate, 
 one palpable advantage, or disadvantage. The common 
 things, to which common people are wont to attach undue 
 importance, appeared in his eyes ridiculously small and
 
 320 Sophy, 
 
 or 
 
 insignificant. Woultli, position, a tine estate, were to 
 him as so many things of naught. But he desired to 
 see his daugliter provided for in his own lifetime. lie 
 would have liked to know that her future would be 
 happy, peaceful, and respectable, and, by her union with 
 Sir Thomas Ilickathrift, he had fancied that such a 
 future would be assured to her. 
 
 Even Sophy herself could not help missing Tom's 
 constant visits. Out of loyalty to the man she loved, 
 she had striven to avoid his societ}^ of late, though she 
 secretly confessed that this faithful friend, with his 
 honest retriever-face, might have been in some sort a 
 consoler to her, and even a distraction, during the 
 absence of Godfrey, had he not foolishly forfeited her 
 confidence by loving ' not wisely, but too well.' 
 
 Still, this very love of her, although it was not 
 wholly reciprocated, had not been 's\-ithout its effect. 
 It had touched her very considerably, and she coidd 
 not help feeling for her rejected suitor a compassion, 
 half tender, even if it was a little contemj^tuous. 
 
 The first time that the first wooer informs a maiden 
 that he loves her, must always mark an epoch in her 
 existence ; an episode to be cherished, remembered, and 
 gone over, in fancy, again and again, although she may 
 have wished at the time (as is often the case) that the 
 flattering Avords had been uttered by somebody else. 
 For is it not her first real conquest of that formidable 
 natural antagonist, Man, with which has come to her 
 the consciousness of her beauty, her dominion, her 
 womanhood ? Therefore, if it be nothing more, a 
 declaration of imdying affection, to the simple-hearted 
 girl who does not altogether expect it, is at least a 
 revelation. Tliere are revelations, however, which are 
 onlv hiuf revelations ; and thou"-h the semblance of the
 
 the Adcenture.^ of a Saviuje. 321 
 
 truth may come to us, it is possible that it may not be 
 what children call ' the vad truths after all. Still 
 Tom's proposal was an event in Sophy's life, and the 
 situation, at any rate, had been romantic. 
 
 ' It all looks so peaceful and lovely to-day,' she said 
 to her father, as she gazed musingly at the distant 
 landscape. * I thinlc I like this view better than that 
 from the other side, where all the lines seem to go too 
 much the same way, like the lines of a copy-book.' 
 
 ' I used to admire both views when I could see 
 them,' he answered, rather sadly ; ' but noic the two are 
 the same.' 
 
 * Ah, but your eyes will come all right soon, and 
 then you Avill see and admire them again. I have 
 noticed lately that you've looked as if you could see.' 
 Somehow, to-day, she seemed hopeful and cheerful 
 about everything. ^ 
 
 • I shall never see again,' said the blind man, 
 sighing. ' ''In this instance alone" (as Milton replied 
 to the invectives of Salmasius), "and much against my 
 inclination, I am a deceiver." ' 
 
 ' Oh, but I feel sure that you will,' exclaimed 
 Sophy consolingly. * Janus says she once knew a man 
 who told stories, and didn't believe in the Bible, and 
 who was struck blind ; but as soon as he repented and 
 spoke the truth, and became a Methodist preacher, he 
 got all right again, and saw better than ever.' 
 
 ' And I have heard tell of another man,' said the 
 philosopher, smiling, ' who lost his eyes through 
 jumping into a quickset hedge, but who recovered his 
 sight as soon as he jvmiped into another.' 
 
 ' You are making fun of me,' cried Sophy, feigning 
 displeasure ; ' so I shall change the subject. . . How I 
 nhould like to have a statue or a sun-dial put up between 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 Sophj, 
 
 or 
 
 those two curly-shaped borders ! A fountain would 
 look too cockneyfied ; besides which, wc haven't 
 enouirh water : but it seems so to cry out for some sort 
 of sticking-up monument or pillar.' 
 
 *It would be a delif^htful spot to be buried in/ 
 remarked Mr. St. Clair, reflectively. ' If, indeed, one 
 musf be buried at all — and I suppose it would offend 
 people were one to be singular with regard to one's 
 mode of sepulture — what one would desire, if burial is 
 imperatively necessarj', would be merely to be laid at 
 rest near to the place which had held most of one's joys 
 and sorrows in life. Afterwards, you might put over the 
 place some simple monument, so as not to forget it, and 
 to break, as you say, the " lines of the copy-book." ' 
 
 * Those are on the other side,' Sophy answered. 
 
 * And now, what can you possibly mean by talking in 
 this foolish way ? I suppose you wish to trade upon 
 mv feelings,' she added, gulping down a sob, and her 
 eyes filling with tears. 
 
 *"No man knows where he shall die,"' rejoined 
 her father, apologetically, quoting from the Koran. 
 
 * Neither can one be sure at what luoincnt one may be 
 called away. All I meant was, that if such a thing 
 could be, without giving fuss or trouble, I would so 
 much rather lie hero than in the damp church-vault at 
 Dallingridge.' And he pointed with his thin hand 
 towards the place where Sophy had said she wished for 
 a sun-dial. 
 
 ' ITow ridiculous ! ' she exclaimed, almost angrih% 
 though it was fortunate that the blind man could not 
 see the tears which came to her ej^es. ' You are per- 
 fectly well and strong ; although, of course, if you ever 
 did die, no one would mind the " fuss and trouble," as 
 you call it, of burying you as you liked.'
 
 the Adventures of a Sara(je. 323 
 
 ' The parsons would stand in your way,' lie an- 
 swered regretfulh'. * They woiddn't allow anything 
 unorthodox ; the Dean, Ilornblower, Pettigrew — the 
 whole lot of them — would insist upon carting me off to 
 the family vaidt.' 
 
 * They shan't do it ! I won't let them ! ' cried 
 Sophy passionately, throwing her arms round his neck. 
 * But why has our conversation taken this melancholy 
 turn ? ' 
 
 She might well ask this ; it was destined, however, 
 to be interrupted shortly by Jane, who, appearing 
 round the sunlit angle of the wall, informed them * as 
 how a person' was waiting to speak to 'missy,' and 
 that it was 'very particular.' 
 
 This person was no other than Mrs. "Weller, of 
 Great Stillingfleet, arrayed in her Sunday shawl and 
 black coalscuttle bonnet — an heirloom once in the 
 family of almost every English cottar, but now, like 
 the tall Welsh beaver hat, rapidly becoming obsolete. 
 At sight of her Sophy could not restrain a shudder. 
 This old woman, who had hitherto asserted her 
 individuality chiefly upon the occasion of inconvenient 
 births, or who treated Little Stillingfleet as a pleasant 
 half-wa}" house when returning from a neighbouring 
 ' laying-out,' appeared almost in the light of some 
 sinister bird of ill-omen, 
 
 ' What is it, Mrs. Weller ?' she now asked, feeling a 
 little nervous. 
 
 * Moises, he be very bad, he be,' answered the shep- 
 herd's wife, alluding to her son of birds'-nesting pro- 
 clivities, now a grown-up labourer upon the Didlingridge 
 estate. ' He bin gone and got bit in one of his wristes 
 along on a deaf arder.' 
 
 ' There's no such thing as a deaf adder,' said Sophy,
 
 ;324 Sophji 
 
 or 
 
 fcclina' rellevccl. 'What voii call a deaf adder is only a 
 slow- worm, and how do you know that is deaf?' 
 
 Mrs. AVeller could not answer her, as she was 
 amongst the most ignorant of women. 
 
 ' He must have been bitten by a common adder,' 
 Sophy went on. ' How did it happen ? ' 
 
 ' l^eaf arder she wur a curling up down among do 
 fern- scrubs,' explained Mrs. AVeller, wiping her eyes. 
 *Deaf un she wur ! My son Moises, he goes fur to grub 
 up de old priA'cts, and sets his bill-hook down on its 
 middle like, fur to kill un. Whilst he bin arter 
 scranching on her, deaf un she scrcels up de bill-hook, 
 and ketches my son Moises in de arm.' 
 
 'Ah, Moses was always fond of torturing animals, 
 and now you see how he's punished ! If he had at once 
 killed the adder in a merciful manner, who knows if 
 this woidd have happened ? But I hope you have sent 
 for a doctor ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Weller replied that she had at once despatched 
 a neighbour, * wot ran messengers,' for the new medical 
 man from London, lately established at Poynings, but 
 that she had been informed that he was up at the great 
 house Avith 'de ole gen'lcman,' who was 'as bad as bad;' 
 and that the object of her present visit was to beg for 
 the loan of one of the farm-carts, in order that Moses 
 might be conveyed to Southerbourne to see a doctor, 
 and also to be ' dipped ' in the sea, to which operation 
 the peasants 'in dese })arts' attach considerable import- 
 ance, as a remedy either for snake-bite or hydrophobia. 
 
 ' You mean my uncle, I suppose ? ' Sophy inquired 
 anxiously. 'It is the beginning of the end,' she thought 
 in her heart. 
 
 ' De ole gen'leman up at the great house, he wur 
 took bad last forenoon, he wur,' answered Mrs. Weller,
 
 the Adreniures of a Savage. 325 
 
 who had seated herself whilst the cart was being pre- 
 pared. ' Some do say it be de paraletics; anyhow, riglit 
 arm and hand on un be struck like dnmbified, and he be 
 took light-headed in all his limbs.' 
 
 * How dreadful ! And can nothing be done for him ? ' 
 
 * Bless you, missy,' replied Mrs. Weller, ' dey lievs 
 all that gold can buy, dey hevs. And de man wot runs 
 messengers goes so fur as to say as how J^oung muster's 
 bin sent fur, he do.' 
 
 At this unexpected mention of ' young muster,' 
 Sophy's sentiments underwent a sudden change. Com- 
 passion for the sufferings of the ' ole gen'leman,' for 
 Moses Weller, and any resentment she might have felt 
 towards the ' deaf arder,' which had so disapproved of 
 being ' scranched ' that it had * screeled ' and bitten, 
 vanished in an instant ; and her heart began to beat so 
 violently that, had not the noise of the cart-wheels 
 somided at this moment, she fancied that Mrs. AYelTer 
 must have heard it. The worthy woman, however, was 
 far too much absorbed in the sufferings of her son to pay 
 attention to the emotions of others. As soon as she was 
 safely established in the cart, Sophy flew off to tell her 
 father the news. 
 
 'And I can't help thinking,' she said at the end of 
 her recital, ' that you ought now to make up this foolish 
 quarrel. It will be " now or never," dear ; for he is 
 evidenth" d}'ing, and you may be sorry if you don't.' 
 
 ' I have always endeavoured to act justly and up- 
 rightly towards my brother,' answered the blind man 
 nervously. * Our characters were uncongenial, and 
 jarred upon each other. As it was impossible that we 
 could ever become friends, we parted company ; and I 
 think I may say that, on jj?// side, at least, it was with- 
 out bitterness.'
 
 326 ^^^p^^V) 
 
 or 
 
 * No, it wasn't/ answered his daughter firmly. ' It 
 was with a great deal, which, ever since that time, has 
 heen growing and growing, until you — who, upon most 
 subjects, are so clever, and open to conviction — became 
 quite prejudiced and silly about this. Eccrijhodu 
 'uoficrd it.' 
 
 *Who can have noticed it?' inquired the philosopher 
 earnestly. He was wounded at being reproached with 
 being 'prejudiced and silly.' 
 
 * Never mind,' answered Sophy, making use of a 
 truly feminine resource. 'Besides,' she added, turning 
 her argument in another direction, ' although we don't 
 belong to any established religion, you know that's 
 only because no religion seems good enough for us. 
 We fancy that they're too small and narrow fur our 
 grand views, and we've read of all their cruelties and 
 persecutions. But still, in the Ei)gJi>iJi )'c/if/ioi(, they 
 preach charit}^ and goodwill towards one's neighbour — 
 Tom Jlickathrift has told me so, and I've often seen it 
 in books ; and if cvoi a Christian would go and see his 
 dying brother, surely an Agnostic ought to do so several 
 times.' 
 
 ' I shall never sec him again,' answered the blind 
 man, as he commenced drawing upon the gravel with 
 his walking-stick. 
 
 ' NcA'cr mind that,' said his daughter cheerfully, 
 * It isn't so much the sccinrj. I could lead you up to 
 his bedside, and joxi could say a few kind words.' 
 
 'Nothing is so unprofitable as a deathbed recDu- 
 ciliation. Well enough had we been able to agree 
 during our lives.' 
 
 'Perhaps there may have been faults on both sides,' 
 said Sophy, encouraged by his manner. ' But note 
 surely it's time to bury the hatchet. Besides, I don't
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 327 
 
 feel at all sure that lie ■svoulcln't have come to see you 
 if you'd been ill.' 
 
 * I'm sure I hope he would not,' replied her father 
 hastily. * AVhy should we be condemned during illness 
 to associate with those we could not endure in healtli ?' 
 
 ' You mean tliat it might make one worse ? Well, 
 happily you are in the very rudest possible health. But 
 still I see that you are what the Christians call " stiff- 
 necked" (" necked," I think it is generally pronounced) ; 
 and I am afraid, with all 3'our softness of manner, that 
 you are in reality very hard-hearted.' 
 
 ' I hope I am not,' replied he, taking her hand. 
 
 ' Yery well, then,' said Sophy, seeing her advantage; 
 ' shall I go and fetch some ink and writing-paper ? ' 
 
 * I don't quite know what you want me to do.' 
 
 ' I want you to write a letter to your brother, or, 
 rather, you shall dictate it, whilst I write. Say a few 
 kind words to him, and tell him you'll come and «ee 
 
 ' ml 
 
 him if he likes ; and then you shall sign it.' So saying, 
 she was off like an arrow from the bow to fetch the 
 writing materials. 
 
 Sophy St. Clair was at that happy age when letter- 
 writing is a pleasure in itself, independent of all sub- 
 ject-matter. She wrote a beautifully clear hand, and 
 delighted in flourishing the graceful tails of her y's, 
 and slashing across the necks of her inoffensive ^'s. 
 Choosing, therefore, a new crowquill-pen, of her own 
 manufacture, she sat down beside her father, and wrote 
 as follows at his dictation : — 
 
 'My daughter and myself have just heard that you are 
 ill. In illness, things which seemed once to be important 
 fade often and become as nothing before newly-awakened 
 thoughts of deeper mysteries. If it is thus with you, the 
 heartburnings of tlic past arc, maybe, forgotten : and I am
 
 328 Sophy ^ or 
 
 willing, should you care to see me, to show you that / too 
 can forget.' 
 
 Thus ended the letter, or, rather, thus ended Francis 
 St. Chiir's dictation. 
 
 But the sole secretary of a blind man, particularly 
 one of the female sex, must be singularly conscientious 
 if she does not, now and then, endeavour to improve and 
 soften down his phraseology according to her own ideas; 
 and Sophy was not altogether proof against this temp- 
 tation, though she j'^ieldcd to it from purely benevolent 
 motives. Thus, at the commencement, she had written, 
 ' My daughter and myself have just lieard that you are 
 ill icith the deepest refjret ' (surely a much kinder way of 
 putting it). Further on she had improved * I am 
 willing ' into ' I am most willing ; ' whilst after ' for- 
 get ' at the end of the letter, she had added the word 
 * ererf/t/iinr/,' and this she had twice underlined. 
 
 * And now you can sign it,' she said, arranging the 
 letter before him. * And mind, dear, to hold your hand 
 as if you were writing douiuranh, oth.erwise all your 
 letters run up to the right in such a ridiculous way.' 
 
 The blind man did as he was bidden, and, having 
 succeeded in obtaining a very creditable signature, 
 nothing now remained but to despatch the letter. To 
 Sophy's annoyance Nelus happened to be from home; 
 and as Jane was now anything but fleet-footed, and 
 occupied, besides, with household affairs, there was 
 nothing for it but to confide the mission to Abdallah. 
 For Abdallah, the Egyptian donkey-boy, who, when 
 only in his thirteenth year, had assisted at Sophy's 
 nativity in the city whence she derived her name, was 
 still an occupant of the white- gabled farmhouse, which 
 seemed now" to possess for him the same charm that 
 had hitherto prevented any of the other few retainers
 
 tlic Adventures of ci Sanujc. o29 
 
 from quitting it, and had lured back again and again 
 the guests who had visited it once. 
 
 The time had long gone by when it had been 
 settled that he should return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, 
 although a conscientious protector had been found for 
 him, even in the person of the Great Prophet himself, 
 who was upon the point of revisiting the East. At the 
 last moment, however, he had seemed to be seized with 
 an intense unwillingness to depart, and, after singing a 
 melancholy song of farewell, accompanied by music 
 upon a * tar,^ or tumtum, he complained of illness, and 
 had remained for some time groaning upon his bed. 
 Daj^s passed by, and still he appeared to be oppressed 
 with despairing melancholy ; and the Great Prophet, 
 tired of waiting, went on his journey wondering and 
 alone. Then, and then only, did the Egyptian recover 
 his usual health and spirits ; and Sophy, who, looking 
 upon him merely in the light of a passing visitor, nad 
 never permitted him to become essential to her happi- 
 ness, began to fear that he intended inakiiig Little 
 Stillingfleet his permanent home. And, indeed, when- 
 ever she had made any inquiries relative to the time of 
 his departure, his answers were always ambiguous in 
 the extreme. 
 
 * When my beard is of the length of the beard of the 
 Effendi,' he had replied when she questioned him for the 
 first time in the presence of her father, who had inter- 
 preted to her the meaning of his words ; whilst, upon 
 another occasion, he had indicated, as the moment of his 
 probable departure, ' AVhen the nails of the fingers of my 
 hands shall be even as the talons of the eagle.' Lasth'', 
 he had dismissed the subject by exclaiming, with indig- 
 nation, ' May the salt bo in the eye of whosoever shall 
 depart from a just master I' So that there seemed to
 
 380 Sophj/^ 
 
 or 
 
 be every cliancc of his remaining where he was for the 
 present. In the neighbourhood he was spoken of indiscri- 
 minately as 'the Frenchman,' 'the Turk,' 'the Nigger,' 
 Mhelngin,' and 'the Devil' — this last appellation having 
 been conferred upon him, not unnaturally, in conse- 
 quence of his having devoured live coals after the 
 manner of the dancing dervishes ; he had also per- 
 formed a charm for the extirpation of bugs in one of 
 the outlying cottages, which, having most unexpectedly 
 succeeded in its object, caused him to be regarded as a 
 supernatural being.* The chawbacons of the neigh- 
 bourhood, consisting of the ' Stubberlieldiuses,' the 
 boys at the turnpike, and Moses ^yeller, before Nemesis 
 overtook him in the guise of a ' deaf arder,' having 
 begun by taunting him, and provoking him to unequal 
 (;ombat, with the view, apparentl}', of 'laming' him 
 ' for being a toad,' had come to regard him, bv-and-by, 
 Avith that toleration temj)ered with contempt which 
 one is apt to feel for a creature of clouded intellect 
 who seems to be striving, as it were, after the light. 
 Later on, however, he luid unconsciously succeeded 
 in securing the respect due to all those who main- 
 tain with consistency the courage of their opinions; and 
 some few words of newly-acquired 'pidgen English' 
 ensuing on the top of this respect, left him master of 
 the situation. Behold him, tlion, Oriental as ever in 
 man}', even too many, of his habits, adapting himself 
 with singular docility to the prejudices and eccentricities 
 of the northern Franks. lie was distinguished from 
 them, however, by many points of dissimilarity ; and 
 
 * This charm consists of the folhnving: words from tlio Koran^ 
 chap. ii. V. 244, written in separate letters: * llast thou not con- 
 f-idered those who left their hal)itations, and they were thousands, 
 for fear of death ? And God said unto them, Die, die, die I'
 
 tlic Adventures of a Savage. P>31 
 
 as Sophy reflected upon some of these, she could not 
 help wishing that she had possessed a less sensational 
 mode of conveying her letter, for she rightly conjec- 
 tured that her uncle might possibly have exaggerated 
 the unconventionalities of Little Stillingfleet, and she 
 had no wish to parade any of them before him. She 
 remembered, however, that the sick man would be, of 
 necessity, confined to his chamber, where his wife was 
 jjrobably in close attendance upon him ; and her strain- 
 ing after civilisation had not yet so far demoralised her 
 as to cause her to attach any importance to the feelings 
 of the 'pampered menial' who might chance to answer 
 the door-bell at Dallingridge House. 
 
 There was no time to be lost, and in the course of 
 about twenty minutes Abdallah, turbaned and kaf taned, 
 started off at a brisk gallop upon * Cammy,' whose long 
 tail, mingling with the folds of his rider's white 
 ahayaJij floated picturesquely in the breeze. 
 
 Chapter XVI. 
 
 Whu.st these first signs of a chilly and reluctant 
 spring, with its pale one-sided sunshine, were gladden- 
 ing Sophy's heart in England, and seeming to awaken 
 the hopes which had been frozen to sleep in the winter, 
 Godfrey St. Clair was basking in the lighter atmosphere 
 of the Riviera, which has the effect, generally, of 
 arousing the dormant senses of the apathetic Briton to 
 a consciousness of fuller life and enjoyment. 
 
 Since his departure from England, Godfre}^ had 
 felt thus imperceptibly aroused and awakened by each 
 new revelation of sight and sound he encountered ; but 
 he was uncertain whether this was entirely due to
 
 332 *^''7^^'//5 *"' 
 
 atmospheric causes, or to a sense of emancipation from 
 the cold surroundings of his home, which, joined to the 
 effect produced by Sophy's shafts directed at his reti- 
 cence, had piqued him into endeavouring to live with 
 more intensity. For he had certainly left England, 
 more or less, in a fit of pique ; and tJicrc were even 
 moments when his uncongenial companion was tempted 
 to question him as to his A'aried alternations of mood. 
 Something, however, in the young man's manner dis- 
 suaded him ; and, perhaps, two persons more utterly 
 disunited in spirit had never journeyed together. 
 There had not existed any sjmipathy between Godfrey 
 and his tutor even in the old days, when they had been 
 thrown together by reason of their relative positions ; 
 but the young are frequently unappreciative of their 
 ' pastors and masters' ' exertions for their welfare, and 
 it was to have been expected that this personal anti- 
 pathy would have worn off with the years. Singularly 
 enough, however, Godfrej^'s dislike seemed only to have 
 ripened with time, and the verdict of his maturer judg- 
 ment was but the echo of his boyish opinion. Hitherto, 
 there had been nothing in Pcttigrcw's conduct to justify 
 what might have been merely an unreasonable preju- 
 dice. But it almost appeared as if these two fellow- 
 travellers had, since their departure from England, flung 
 aside simultaneously some mask or cloak wherein they 
 had each of them been shrouded until noAV. It is said 
 that one of the unmistakable signs of being what is 
 called ' a good fellow ' (often a very ambiguous term of 
 recommendation) consists in the fact that the person 
 thus designated may be accompanied on journeys with 
 impunity, and without irritation to the feelings of his 
 travelling companion ; and it was when tried in the 
 balance by this standard that Felix Pettigrew was
 
 tJte Adventures of a Savcu/e, 333 
 
 unquestionably 'found wanting.' With such a com- 
 panion it was not possible for Godfrey to have much in 
 common ; and it was with feelings of gall and bitter- 
 ness that he had journej^ed thus far with his unsympa- 
 thetic 'bear- leader.' Why, indeed, he asked himself, 
 need he have been hampered with a bear-leader at all ? 
 He had arrived fulty at years of discretion, and was 
 imprepared to alter in any respect his mode of pro- 
 cedure, even if Pettigrew had ventured to suggest it. 
 Perhaps, however, from his father's point of view, he 
 was still a schoolboy, standing in need of Mr. Petti- 
 grew's fuller judginent and experience ; for it is with 
 difficulty that Age dissociates the idea of folly and hot- 
 headedness from its estimate of Youth. Be this how 
 it may, Pettigrew's society was utterly distasteful to 
 him ; and he decided in his own mind that the}^ should 
 part company as soon as they reached Genoa, to meet 
 again, perhaps, some weeks later, in order that they 
 might arrive in England together; and having matured 
 this project without mentioning it to the curate, he 
 journeyed on fiercely and eagerly. 
 
 But he had another reason for wishing to push on 
 as quickly as possible. At Genoa he made sure that 
 he should find a letter from Sophy, for he had not 
 heard from her as yet, and her silence affected him 
 more than he could have anticipated. He began, in 
 fact, to realise how much more to him than he had 
 imagined was this wild woodland cousin ; how much 
 more, too, she had seemed a part of his own existence 
 since he had seen the possibilit}^ of her passing out of 
 it altogether ; and he asked himself, over and over 
 again, whether he had not acted in a somewhat Quixotic 
 manner, in thus leaving the coast clear for the approach 
 of a rival.
 
 334 *^^'V^%' 
 
 or 
 
 His way lay along the beautiful Cornichc road, 
 bounded on the left by rich groves of olives and 
 oranges, from beneath which a newly-opened scarlet 
 anemone flashed forth here and there, from amongst 
 its earlier brethren of the purple, whilst the air was 
 laden with the odours of violets, starch hyacinths, and 
 mignonette. On his right, he perceived the wide ex- 
 panse of blue tideless ocean, its weaves seeming as 
 though wearied through battling with the fierce equi- 
 noctial gales, and scarcely now finding strength to kiss 
 languidly the shores of the sunlit bays, palm-tufted, 
 and bristling with aloes and prickly pears. Thinking 
 always of England, he gazed dreamily over the glit- 
 tering water, whilst his unsympathetic companion dozed 
 on in a corner of the britzka, and they passed thus, in 
 due course, the beautiful islands of Ste. Marguerite and 
 St. Ilonorat. A rosy sunset lit up the sheer crag of 
 Ste. Marguerite, in front of the blue line of stone- 
 pines ; and the postilion, having pointed out its 
 fortress as sometime the prison-house of the imfortu- 
 nate ' man with the iron mask,' he remembered that 
 Sophy had likened him to that mysterious individual, 
 and felt that he was passing what had once been the 
 abode of a friend. It was with a feeling of relief that 
 he crossed the Yar bridge, and found himself, for the 
 first time, upon what was then Italian soil. The news 
 of a victory of the King of Sardinia over the 'Tedeschi* 
 had just been received, and the toA\*n of Nice was 
 brilliantly illuminated. Revellers paraded the streets, 
 bawling forth patriotic songs ; and, as it hap2:)ened to 
 be also about the time of the Carnival, many of them 
 were tricked out as for a masquerade. National guards 
 — some of them belonging to the best families in the 
 place — occupied the sentry-boxes in front of the public
 
 the Adcentures of a Savage. 835 
 
 buildings, in lieu of tlie gallant green-feathered ber- 
 saglieri, who had departed to seek either glor}^ or the 
 grave ; and the wliolc population appeared to be in an 
 abnormal state of tui'uioil and excitement. 
 
 This circumstance furnished Godfrey with an ex- 
 cuse for curtailing his stay in the town. Bj^ next dny 
 at noon he had seen most of the sights worthy of a 
 visit — the Roman amphitheatre at Cimiez, the castle, 
 the Jewish cemetery, and the new quays, at which the 
 convicts, in their red caps and prison dresses, wqvq 
 hard at work in the sunshine — and towards evening he 
 was enabled to set forth again upon his journe}^ This 
 sudden departure from a civilised town seemed to bo 
 the occasion of much annoyance to Mr. Pottigrew. 
 The curate had, indeed, been exceedingly fractious of 
 late, and his companion could only explain his beha- 
 viour by concluding that the change of climate^ had 
 afPected his nerves. It turned out, however, that there 
 was a more serious cause for his irritability. After 
 leaving Nice he became really indisposed, sickening 
 hour by hour, until, when actually within sight of the 
 lighthouse at Genoa, Godfre}'' was obliged, in the 
 interests of common humanity, to come to a halt, a 
 violent feverish attack having declared itself, which 
 rendered it dangerous for the curate to proceed. lie 
 was indeed half- delirious already, and his excited 
 gestures had collected a small crowd round the car- 
 riage ; when, perceiving by the wayside, in the midst 
 of the village at which they were stopping, a commo- 
 dious-looking inn, which, judging by the armorial 
 bearings sculptured over irs portc-cocherr, seemed to 
 have been at one time the palazzo of some distinguished 
 family, Godfrey proceeded at once to engage rooms for 
 the night, having despatched his servant on to Genoa,
 
 3:^>G Snpln/, 
 
 (I)' 
 
 witli orders to hring buck ti doctor as soon as possible, 
 and to inquire for letters at the post-office. 
 
 The inn at which the travellers ali<>hted had indeed 
 been a palace, belono^ino- once to the Doria family. Its 
 apartments were marble-paved and mao^nificent, its fare 
 scanty, and its landlord handsome, i^ood-tcmpered, and 
 incompetent. It stood in the principal street or road- 
 way of the village of Pcgli, at this time a mere 
 hamlet devoted to fishing and shipbuilding, but seeming 
 now to liave become a suburb of Genoa, united to it 
 by the connecting links of Sestri and Cornigliano. As 
 soon as they had taken possession of their quarters 
 Godfrey assisted Pettigrew to bed, in an apartment of 
 spacious dimensions, paved with black marble, and 
 having a ceiling richly ornamented with paintings in 
 fresco, but which was devoid of all furniture, save a 
 high Venetian mirror, a small pallet, a rude fire-stove, 
 and a rush-bottomed chair. He was aided in his 
 philanthropic endeavours by an aged chambermaid, 
 bent, wrinkled, and bearded, who seemed to converse 
 in no known tongue, and notwithstanding her great 
 age, to do nearly all the work of the house. 
 
 The landlord, a good-looking young ^lilanese, smell- 
 ing of garlic and bad tobacco, condescended, it is true, 
 to assist personally at Godfrey's evening repast ; but 
 he did so more with the manner of a familiar friend 
 pressing a somewhat fastidious guest, than of an obse- 
 quious attendant. Godfrey found that he was particu- 
 larly well informed upon most subjects, except those 
 which Avould have seemed to come especially under his 
 notice. Now and then, during the meal, he appeared 
 fatigued, flung himself upon a chair, mopped his face 
 with a table-napkin, and went off into a rhapsody. 
 Art, love, metaphysics, poetry, and theology, seemed
 
 tlte Adcentiires of a Savage. 337 
 
 to be, one and all of tlieni, at the ends of liis dirtv 
 bejewelled fingers, though upon questions which 
 Avould have lain next the heart of an English 'mine 
 host ' he appeared to be lamentably ignorant. The 
 young traveller was perhaps fastidious, more from the 
 effects of his meditations than by reason of the badness 
 of his dinner. Unconsciously, as he made a pretence 
 of tasting, in the first place, some greasy soup — a 
 helping of hup do mer (a coarse Mediterranean fish, 
 'cousin in the first degree' to our freshwater jackj, 
 and some portion of a battlemented tower, com- 
 l^osed of rice and garlic, wherein a couple of 
 sparrows had been immured, half- fledged, wide- 
 mouthed, and lamentably spare of flesh for all 
 their scavengering — his thoughts took a morbid and 
 melancholy turn, as though in anticipation of some 
 impending catastrophe. 
 
 It was late before his servant returned with the 
 expected medico. To Godfrey's disappointment, he 
 brought no letter from Sophy. There was, how- 
 ever, one from his mother, and another from her to 
 Mr. Pettigrew, as he perceived by the handwriting. 
 This letter he set aside until the invalid should be in 
 a fit state to read it, and he proceeded to open his 
 own with no very great impatience, for he did not 
 anticipate that it would contain news of any interest. 
 It proved, however, to be a letter of some importance, 
 as it gave him the first intelligence of his father's in- 
 disposition. It ran as follows : — 
 
 ' Dear Godfrey, — I am sorry to tell you that your father 
 is not very well. Some days ago he injured his right arm 
 accidentally, so that he cannot now hold his pen nor occupv 
 himself as usual. The cold winds have kept him to the 
 house, and he is somewhat depressed in mind. I will write 
 
 VOL. I. Z
 
 338 >^^V'^'/A ^^'* 
 
 n^^ain in a few days ; for slioiild lie continue in his jjresent 
 state, it would be perhaps as well that you should return at 
 once. AVait, however, initil you receive a second letter from 
 mc. I may perhaps write to-morrow, should there be any 
 decided change.' 
 
 It was impossible for Godfrey not to feel anxious 
 after readinp^ this. He had cared for his father as 
 much as he had been permitted to care, and he foresaw, 
 as Sophy had foreseen, that this illness was probably 
 ' the beginning of the end.' So strongly was he pos- 
 sessed with this consciousness that, had it not been for 
 Petti grew's inopportune attack of fever, he would have 
 started at once on his return journey to England, 
 whither his heart was already winging his way. Ho 
 hardly liked, however, notwithstanding the small amount 
 of sjTiipathy with which the curate inspired him, to 
 abandon him — to die, perhaps — in a foreign land, 
 and he decided, therefore, to await the arrival of his 
 mother's second letter ; for he doubted not that it 
 would reach him on the morrow, and that by then the 
 doctor would be better able to judge of his companion's 
 condition. 
 
 In the meantime. Petti grew had of course gone 
 through the national process of blood-letting, for 
 his medical attendant was a determined follower of 
 Dr. Sangrado, and he lay now in what appeared 
 to be a kind of stupor, his face looking pale and 
 attenuated. There is no doubt but that an illness 
 may often invest with temporary dignity — in no way 
 comparable with the solemn majesty of Death — the 
 countenance which has before seemed commonplace 
 and insignificant; and Godfrey, contemplating the 
 prostrate figure of his former tutor, could not help 
 feeling this. In the position in which he was lying.
 
 the Adventures of a Savage. 339 
 
 Pettigrew's features appeared to be regularly and 
 delicately moulded, and his physiognomy, now that it 
 was in pei'fcct repose, was possessed of a certain air of 
 culture and refinement. The disciple of Sangrado had 
 quitted the ajjartment to partake of a rechauffe of the 
 battlemented tower, and the young man found himself 
 alone with the invalid. Lying upon the one solitary 
 chair, he espied his mother's letter. It was still un- 
 opened, and fearing lest it might be mislaid before the 
 sick man was well enough to read it, he was about to 
 put it in a place of safety, when he caught sight of 
 the jDOstmark, and perceived that the date on it was 
 two days later than that of his own letter. 
 
 'Probably,' thought he, 'this letter contains the 
 latest news of my father ; ' and the fact that it was 
 addressed to Pettigrew, instead of to himself, filled 
 him at once with ominous forebodings. Not a moi^ent 
 was to be lost, as, supposing that it contained bad news, 
 it might be necessary for him to set off immediately for 
 England ; but the doctor had left orders that Pettigrew 
 was on no account to be disturbed. 
 
 In these circumstances Godfrey St. Clair committed 
 what must be always an error of judgment. He opened 
 and read, with the best possible intentions, a letter 
 which was addressed to another person. The rash 
 act brought with it its own punishment. These were 
 the words which confronted him upon breaking the 
 seal : — 
 
 ' He has raUied, so there is now no immediate hurry ; 
 nevertheless, make this an excuse to return, if you possibly 
 can, for no words can say how I miss you. Could he have 
 been suspicious when he insisted that you should go abroad % 
 He is altogether very tiresome, and has been annoying me 
 by threatening to tell G. the family secret. Eliza.'
 
 840 Si>i>hy. in' thr Adrenture.s of a Savafje. 
 
 After roadiii*^ these words Godfrey flung the letter 
 from him as though it hud been a serpent ; and as he 
 passed the high Venetian mirror on his way out of the 
 apartment, he saw that his face looked like the face of 
 a corpse. 
 
 THE END OF THE FIRSl yOLl-:ME. 
 
 i^ONDON: 
 Printed liy Stuanoewats & Sons, Tower Street, Ipper St. Martin'3 Lane. 
 
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