LI E> R.AFIY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVER^SITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823
 
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 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/lucyfitzadamauto01whit
 
 LUCY FITZADAM: 
 
 ^n ^ulobbsragljg, 
 
 Adam's own child— a Stray ; in misty doubt 
 Truth's fail- directing finger seeking out ; 
 Nor wanting quite, though dim her dubious way, 
 Some Light reflected from loBt Eden's Day. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 15, WATERLOO PLACE. 
 
 1872. 
 [all rights reserved.]
 
 V. I 
 
 CO 
 
 in 
 
 oo 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 CHAPTEB PAGE 
 
 o I. The Day of small Things 1 
 
 II. An early Sunset 10 
 
 III. A Seceet twice stolen 23 
 
 •^ IV. How THE Blinds went up, and how commonplace 
 
 *]| Life went on again 34 
 
 V. Embryos of future Events 48 
 
 VI. The Westford Literary, Scientific, and Philoso- 
 phical Institution. — An Incident<at one of its 
 
 Lectures .f 66 
 
 Vn. My First Essays at a Heavenly Flight 86 
 
 r^ VIII. Works versus Faith — an open Question 104 
 
 IX. A Commodity from Westford Market „:. 121 
 
 ^ 
 
 X. More than one secession 138 
 
 XL A Passage from the mystic Page of Ralph's 
 
 ,-^^ private History 156 
 
 ^ XIL Two Surprises : the one agreeable, the other 
 
 q5 agitating.' '. _ 170 
 
 XIII. A Son of Thunder effects the Reversal of my 
 
 .,_^ Religious Opinions 185
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIV. Enter Mephistopheles 193 
 
 XV. Cupid again : I am asked a Question 204 
 
 XVI. My Answer 222 
 
 XVII. What was wrong at Home 233 
 
 XVIII. Farther Troubles in View 244 
 
 XIX. Farewells .' 256 
 
 XX, In Banishment we discover our Solaces, and learn 
 
 Patience 271 
 
 XXI. Of a Revelation, which subsequently happened to 
 
 BE WORTH more THAN IT APPEARED TO BE AT 
 FIRST 289 
 
 XXII. Pressing Business brings a Friend to Town, Con- 
 cerning A certain Conversation that followed 
 UPON his Visit ; and a certain Discovery that 
 resulted from the Conversation 301
 
 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS. 
 
 My way is to begin with the beginning ; 
 
 The regularity of my design 
 Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning. — Btrox. 
 
 These things were the Alphabet, whereby in after-time (s)he was to 
 syllable and partly read the grand volume of the world. — Carlyle. 
 
 My name is Lucy : I am the only daughter of Francis 
 Fitzadam, a solicitor of Westford, Somersetshire. If any 
 apology be needed because an obscure woman here relates 
 her own experiences, that apology must be sought, and 
 will I believe be found, in the nature of the tale, and in 
 the manner of the telling. By this I mean that my history 
 has been no common one, and that I shall rehearse it with 
 candour and without pretension. 
 
 Of my pedigree I had better say little ; for it is un- 
 likely to add to my distinction, and might possibly in the 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 ti LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 opinion of some, detract from it, which I could ill afford. 
 Let it suffice for me to own that, encouraged by tlie 
 Norman-French prefix of our surname, a member of the 
 family once hoped and endeavoured to make clear our 
 'descent from an illustrious follower of the Conqueror ; as 
 his retrogressive studies proceeded, however, he found 
 himself taken back in a sadly plebeian direction ; and 
 being reminded by an erudite acquaintance that the Anglo- 
 Saxon serfs often adopted the denominational methods of 
 their victors, he forthwith prudently abandoned his inves- 
 tigations. Since which time the Fitzadams have uniformly 
 advocated the claims of Simple Faith against those of 
 Norman Blood. 
 
 My earliest years were happy. Providence gave me 
 end parents to love, a queenlike nurse to revere, an elder 
 brother to worship. Whatever more I wanted the West- 
 ford shops furnished ; they satisfied my desire with dolls, 
 heart-cakes, and twenty other infallible delights. 
 
 As my needs grew wider, so did my resources ; for 
 with me imagination always made good what reality 
 lacked. Our sunny walled garden, for instance, became 
 through the liveliness of my conceptions a centre of endless 
 pleasure. There, in administering currant pills to the 
 snapdragons, I tasted by anticipation the satisfactions of 
 domestic superintendence. There I built nests of shawls, 
 deposited pebbles for eggs, sat upon these eggs with mucli 
 patience, and at length became the happy mother of 
 imaginary but interesting broods. In that garden I was 
 much alone; but if I pleased I could always people it with 
 human companions. Three individuals named respectively
 
 THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS. 3 
 
 Flake, Fanny, and John, often attended me there ; and I 
 may safely allege of them that their characters were far 
 more striking than those of hundreds of men and women 
 with whom I have since had dealings in the world of fact. I 
 kept these comrades supplied with language and manners 
 suited to the most varied circumstances ; and I do not 
 remember ever having been even temporarily at a loss for 
 the supplies. 
 
 But the gifts which Imagination conferred upon me 
 were not always such as to create pleasure ; she bestowed, 
 perhaps, a dread to balance each enjoyment. An example 
 of her less welcome o-ratuities occurs to me as I write : — 
 It happened one day that I overheard my parents discuss- 
 ing a painful case of inflammatory disease, which had 
 resulted in mortification and death. On that same after- 
 noon I fell down during some nursery gambol, and badly 
 grazed my elbow. Waking at night in a little pain from 
 the wound, I immediately imagined that mortification was 
 about to close my earthly career. In response to my cry, 
 my mother came to my side and assured me that the dis- 
 comfort I suffered was incompatible w^ith mortification, 
 since that dangerous evil w^as invariably attended by loss of 
 all sensation. This comforted me, and I soon went to sleep. 
 Before long, however, another clamour sounded from my 
 chamber. Afiain my mother hastened to nw bed, when 
 I explained the new outburst by declaring amidst a 
 paroxysm of agonized weeping, that my elbow now gave 
 me no pain whatever. 
 
 The excitements of my life, if not many, were the 
 richer for their rarity. My maddest merriest seasons were
 
 4 LUCY riTZx\DAM. 
 
 those of my brother Frank's hoHdays. Frank was six 
 years and a half older than I, and in my eyes he was a 
 god. I imitated him to the utmost of my power in words 
 and ways, thereby incurring frequent rebuke from my 
 nurse Esther, who insisted — as I thought needlessly — upon 
 the difference between frocks and jackets. Much, however, 
 was conceded to his wishes. I played cricket with him ; 
 he drove me in single harness ; or when Margaret Thorne 
 could be obtained as wheeler, I took the leadership of his 
 tandems. But I was not without jealousy of Margaret ; 
 for he and she flirted as children, and I often grudged the 
 larger consideration with which he treated her. When 
 she ran "in the shafts" I was wont to resort to extraor- 
 dinary measures for the purpose of attracting his attention, 
 such as daring leaps, and dangerous curvettings. After 
 these feats he would reward me by such notice as: — 
 " Jupiter ! the little mare's fresh to-day ; " and my con- 
 tentment would be restored. 
 
 Of more worldly pleasures I also sometimes tasted. 
 The grander people of the place— that is, principally, the 
 great Buzzard family, who, in their own estimation at 
 least, were the lords and masters of Westford — visited my 
 mother, and asked my mother's daughter to their juvenile 
 entertainmeuts. To these parties, as well as to others of a 
 humbler kind, I went in a shiver of delight, liking the 
 gayest best, and holding that a room cleared for dancing, 
 glimmering with fair gauzy skirts, and pervaded by a 
 mingled perfume of Kondeletia, coffee, and white kid 
 gloves, was an earthly paradise. The election times were 
 also seasons of mighty, concentrated bliss. Then I wore a
 
 THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS. 5 
 
 Tory rosette before tlie "peering littlenesses" of the market- 
 place ; saw the beautiful true-blue banners ; heard exhila- 
 rating brass-bands, and elating praises of my father's speech. 
 To complete the story of my dissipations, I may add, that 
 when wild beasts or fireworks travelled to our town, I was 
 generally taken to see those glorious shows — rejoicing thereat 
 with trembling. 
 
 But, after all, my quietest pleasures were often my 
 deepest. To feed the snapdragons was sweeter than to 
 taste the dainties of party suppers ; the delightful hours 
 with Van Amburgh or Wombwell, were scarcely a match 
 for those moments of aw^ful joy when some sad, stooping 
 little monkey would look in upon me suddenly through the 
 " school-room " windows, begging pence to the accompani- 
 ment of the Old Hundredth (through some childish misap- 
 prehension I long supposed the title of the anthem to be 
 the name of the animal, and highly appropriate to him I 
 thought it) ; much, too, as I enjoyed the stirring music ot 
 the election bands, it did not move and charm me like the 
 cuckoo's first song heard from my arbour under the budding 
 honeysuckle. In my childhood there was but one cuckoo, 
 which sang to all the world. 
 
 This record will show me to have been influenced at 
 different times by different religious creeds. Let me recal, 
 if I can, the creed of my earlier youth ; it \vas orthodox, 
 but crude. I carefully inculcated in my babyhouse and 
 amongst my imaginary companions, that dolls and children 
 if good would go to heaven, but that if naughty they 
 would go to hell. I insisted upon no motive higher than 
 that of self-interest, and being totally unable to guess what
 
 b LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 would become of those who were sometimes good and 
 sometimes naughty, I took care that the puzzhng question 
 of their fate should not be mooted in the social circles over 
 which I presided. Notwithstanding this suppression, I 
 distinctly saw that my own prospects were closely bound 
 up in the solution of the problem. 
 
 That my outward devotion was not great, may easily 
 be shown by mention of my frequent behaviour in church. 
 I had two or three sources of amusement from which to 
 draw, for the relief of those feelings of weariness that too 
 often visited me during service. One diversion was to 
 contract marriages between the different corbel-heads in 
 sight. When I had begun learning to read, the Gunpowder 
 Plot service, and the Table of Kindred and Affinity stood 
 me in good stead by way of entertamment. 1 have even 
 for a change found relief in the Preface to the Bible, mainly 
 because of its cheerful reference to Queen Elizabeth under 
 the title (as I long belie vedj of Bright Accidental Star — a 
 ))hrase which thus read, conveyed a lively meteoric impres- 
 sion to the mind. But notwithstanding these tokens of 
 ungodliness, I had some religious feeling. When I prayed 
 for my parents, brother, and friends night and morning, I 
 meant what I said, and believed that good would come of 
 it. If I had told a story or slapped my nurse, I felt that I 
 had improperly opposed myself to Divine regulations, 
 which, though sometimes mysterious, were on the whole 
 beneficently framed ; and I offered to God an extempore 
 petition for pardon after I was in bed. 
 
 My education at its commencement was desultory. I 
 owe it indeed to my father that at an early date I loved
 
 THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS. 7 
 
 and learned music : in that art, and in that only, were m y 
 attainments precocious. My mother first tried to show me 
 the worth and power of knowledge in a wider sense ; but 
 children generally suspect that in making these representa- 
 tions their elders are somehow taking them in ; and I only 
 half-believed my mother, while I wholly disliked my 
 lessons. Altogether 1 learnt less during my earlier years 
 by means of books and direct teaching than through the 
 society of my parents, whose minds were in dift'erent ways 
 well cultivated and stored. I soon, however, became a 
 book-maker myself. At no advanced period of my girl- 
 hood I began to bring out serial tales for the servants' 
 reading — and I did so tinder much discouragement from 
 their want of appreciation — my chief efforts being directed 
 towards the production of an intricate plot, and the accom- 
 plishment on the cover of each successive portion of the 
 work of a design exactly like that which had adorned the 
 preceding numbers. 
 
 Yes, my entire childhood was happy : few were the 
 thorns of those spring roses. Once, indeed, at an early 
 date, I quarrelled seriously with my father about a mono- 
 syllable which, in a strange fit of baby obstinacy, I would 
 not pronounce, though I knew it w^ell. Then (to his own 
 far deeper punishment) he punished me in different ways 
 for three days ; after which the wind went round suddenly 
 to the south-west and showers came. I cried, and said the 
 word. When the conflict was over, my father, as he long 
 afterwards confessed to me, walked out into the garden and 
 shed tears himself, resolving by God's help never to enter 
 upon such an encounter with a child again. What else
 
 8 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 can I think of — beyond petty naughtinesses of my own — 
 to set down amongst the clouds of my girlhood ? Possibly 
 I should mention those meal -times in days much further 
 on, when my parents fell out ; some few such occasions 
 there were, and trying I found them. As a witness of 
 these differences, I used great exertion to maintain a strict 
 neutrality, although generally siding with my mother in 
 secret, because she usually had the worst of the argument. 
 Well I remember that the most embarrassing part of such 
 domestic maladies was the convalescent period, when the 
 voices, naturally turning up at the close of a sentence, but 
 having recently and morbidly turned down, did not quite 
 know which way to turn, and when there was nowhere for 
 any one to look, except at the table-cloth. 
 
 But all this passed — this morning sunshine and white 
 cloud. I grew tall. A fear seized my mother that I fell 
 short of the information and culture to which my years 
 (or perhaps my stature) should have reached. A governess 
 was found for me, and I entered upon a new state of 
 existence. 
 
 This history will display my governess. Miss Esmer- 
 alda Penning, in aspects not always favourable ; let me 
 do her the justice to acknowledge the obligations under 
 which she placed me. I cannot doubt that she effectually 
 supplemented the instructions of my various masters in 
 French, music, and drawing. Besides this she taught me 
 wath pains and perseverance a large number of historical, 
 geographical, and grammatical facts. Under her I learnt 
 to parse correctly; to tell the exact latitudes and longi- 
 tudes of the Diminutive Islands ; and to " mention " the
 
 THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS. 9 
 
 acres at which klncrs " ascended the throne," and the dates 
 
 OCT ■" 
 
 at which battles took place. If her special instructions 
 were narrow in scope and conventional in form, they were 
 precise, and to a certain extent useful in nature. 
 
 Under Miss Fenning's tutorage I passed into woman- 
 hood. This story begins in the month of September 185 — , 
 when I was eighteen years old. Frank had now finished 
 both his school studies and a legal education. He was 
 his father's partner, and the sun and soul of his home ; 
 ruling his fond mother with a careless tenderness too 
 winning to miss its never selfish aims, and influencing his 
 proud father by a deferential self-assertion, whose modest 
 manliness well deserved to win its way. As far as I know, 
 no important change had passed upon me. Some addi- 
 tional capability I had probably gathered; of some new 
 delights and distresses I had unquestionably begun to 
 dream. But otherwise I was the same being whose childish 
 outline I have rapidly sketched in the present introductory 
 chapter. 
 
 And now preliminaries shall cease. I will no longer 
 keep the reader standing upon the threshold of the story.
 
 10 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 AN EARLY SUNSET. 
 
 Oh ! hoAv nigh 
 Was night to thy fair morning. — Keats. 
 
 " Deowned ! drowned ! " 
 
 The ciy reached me amidst an every-day patter of 
 French; and my governess failing to catch the alarm as 
 soon as I, pattered on some seconds still, giving me an 
 indelible impression of the frivolity of the French tongue. 
 
 There was a tramp in the road ; and through the rain- 
 bleared " school-room " w^indows I saw something hurriedly 
 but painfully carried by many bearers. Then I found 
 myself in the hall. There they had brought the body of 
 my brother Frank, and there he lay with his blue eyes 
 open ; the slime of a river smeared his goodly cheeks, and 
 a tangle of river weeds clasped his ankles. 
 
 There was no time then ; everything happened at 
 once. The identity of persons too seemed lost. My 
 mother was not my mother, but a wild wonder of a 
 woman whom I had never seen before. Each bleached 
 household face that was bent over the dead appeared even 
 more terrible by reason of its utter strangeness, than from
 
 AX EARLY SUNSET. 11 
 
 the despair it spoke. And yet while I stood aghast at all 
 this dread novelty, and could have thought myself in a 
 circle of foreigners, that weird feeling came over me 
 which we all know; the feeling — this has been before. 
 
 It was an afternoon suited to calamity and change. 
 A wild wind rao-ed, drivinoj across the town from Beech- 
 anger hosts of frightened leaves still green, which rushed 
 at the window-panes and clung there as though begging 
 shelter. The rain fell in drenching torrents that frothed 
 the ground ; and the river below our house — commonly a 
 sluggish low stream, blue from the town mills — had risen 
 with two days' wet to a swift, swinging flood of creamy 
 brown tint, had seized the neighbouring poplars, and held 
 them shivering in its midst. Many times I had shuddered 
 at the storm, and more than once had thought of death by 
 drownino;. 
 
 I cannot say when or how that hall-scene ended. The 
 next thino: I remember is beino; alone in the dining-room 
 with my parents. My father was pacing up and down, 
 with a blank unmeaning face, which I recollect disturbed 
 me even more than my mother's wilder looks. She lay 
 sobbing on the sofa. Shall I admit that the small appeared, 
 even amidst the great of that hour's suffering? There 
 can be no doubt that my father found my mother's groans 
 and tears irritating ; and she, as clearly, was impatient of 
 his restless movements. 
 
 Mary Murgatroyd, our housemaid, presently came in, 
 bent on an errand of her own. She pulled down the 
 blinds. I owe her something for the act, for it reminded 
 me that our household still bore relationship to the outer
 
 12 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 world, which I had forgotten. But her work was soon 
 undone ; for Esther came in as she went out, and pulled 
 the blinds up again, saying in a low voice : 
 
 " Fullish girl ! Do she think as we can't a-l'arn our 
 lesson so well in the light as in the dark ? We do want 
 all the daylight as we can get." 
 
 Esther, formerly Frank's nurse and mine, was now 
 general domestic superintendent in our house, her useful- 
 ness — like many of the widest usefulnesses — owning no 
 distinguishing name. An emergency had originally 
 brought her from a farmer's rough service, to the tem- 
 porary aid of my newly married mother; and in the 
 household to which accident had summoned her, she had 
 ere long made herself a necessity. 
 
 Contrary to custom, the old woman now laid the cloth 
 for dinner herself. She seemed to be the only person who 
 knew that dinner must be taken as usual. She acted 
 upon this knowledge, and enforced the meal. She even 
 carved the chickens with her own hands, and would not 
 rest till she had seen my father take his three glasses of 
 sherry, and my mother her glass and a half She was 
 much in the room with us during the evening ; her presence 
 was a stay and relief, and she knew it. 
 
 Many messages and inquiries were brought as the 
 hours wore on ; and some humble friends of Frank crept 
 down to the kitchen, and begged to see me, and squeezed 
 my hand and cried, speaking homely words of fellow- 
 feeling, which made me shed natural tears myself, and did 
 me good. Much I saw then of the tenderness hidden in 
 rough out-of-the-way corners of human nature. But
 
 AN EARLY SUNSET. 13 
 
 though touched at times by these discoveries, I remained 
 for the most part in a cold insensible state of mind which 
 surprises me as 1 recal it. 
 
 Going into my study, or schoolroom, as it was gene- 
 rally called, at ten o'clock, I was astonished to find the 
 servants, with the exception of Esther, supping there. 
 
 " You'll excuse us, Miss Lucy," said Rivers, the cook, 
 '•' w^e know- you'll excuse us. There, nothing don't matter 
 now, do it ? " 
 
 The words, of course, affected me ; and the further result 
 of the observation was that the servants filled their mouths 
 for a short time with an indifferent air, as though food, 
 amongst other things, were of no consequence whateA'cr. 
 Elvers presently declared that she should never leave the 
 family as long as she lived, "not after seeing 'em through 
 such trouble as this ; no, never ! " She then went on to 
 explain her motives for bringing her colleagues to sup in my 
 room. It was not safe, she said, to sit underground, with a 
 corpse in the house; and she vaguely hinted that the probable 
 consequences of doing so were too terrible for specification. 
 In the same strain she continued, that could she have had 
 her own way, a candle would have been placed in every 
 window^, " to keep the sperits off; " but Esther, it seemed, 
 had forbidden such an illumination. Pretty Mary Murga- 
 troyd, in her high, childish voice, assented, with solemnity, 
 to the cook's views, and thus incited her to enlarge on 
 supernatural subjects. Tokens of a coming death, stated 
 Rivers, had not been wanting. Her brother-in-law's eight- 
 day clock had, by a " singlar " coincidence, struck thirteen 
 only a fortnight before. She remembered to have heard a
 
 14 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 death-watch tick, certainly not more than a twelvemonth 
 back, for three nights running. With a terrified glance at 
 the door, which here shook slightly in the still high wind, 
 Mary agreed that these warnings of the now-fulfilled 
 disaster had been indeed unmistakable ; while the kitchen- 
 maid, a supernumerary whom Mrs. Rivers always saw fit 
 to introduce into the house whenever she could find a 
 pretext for so doing, contributed to the current excitement 
 by entering upon a rambling story of which the main 
 features seemed to be a " screechowi " and an occurrence 
 called " the turn of the blood." 
 
 The tale was scarcely ended when there came a loud 
 but uncertain knock at the front door. 
 
 " Lor I " cried Rivers, her stays, which were given to 
 be noisy, creaking out a shrill echo of the exclamation, 
 " what ever's that ? " 
 
 " What can it be ? " cried Mary, whitening. 
 " There's One as do know^ who 'tis a-knocking at this 
 here time ! " said the supernumerary in an awful whisper. 
 
 Rivers now protested that this was a kind of thing she 
 wasn't used to, and that she should " drop ; " and finding 
 at last that the three maids were all, as they said, too 
 " timid " to answ^er the application for admittance, I offered, 
 amidst some faint remonstrances from them, to go to the 
 door myself, which I did, not without a little chilliness 
 down my shoulders, and a little mistrust of everything 
 behind me. 
 
 The night was w^et and black. No soon-er had I opened 
 the front door far enough to find out this, than some large- 
 sized being sprang from the moisture and gloom upon me.
 
 AN EAKLY SUNSET. 15 
 
 Til a paralysis of fear I submitted to a dreadful embrace, 
 and it was but by slow degrees that I discovered its true 
 nature. I became conscious at last that an old gentleman 
 whom I knew well was violently hugging and kissing me. 
 
 " Your parents, my dear, your parents ! " exclaimed the 
 old gentleman, with difficulty from deficient breath. 
 " Where are they ? They will see me, of course. Old 
 friend. Which room ? " 
 
 I showed the way to the dining-room wdiere my father 
 and mother still were. Mr. Thain, the visitor, followed 
 me, catching his feet, according to an old-established 
 custom, in every mat we passed. When I had opened the 
 door he ruslied at my mother as he had rushed at me. 
 "Poor soul, poor soul ! " he cried, " I know everything. 
 Just returned home and heard. God bless you. Poor 
 soul ! " 
 
 My mother's grief was too absorbing to admit of her 
 acting otherwise than spontaneously, whatever might arise. 
 There was nothing premeditated or conventional about the 
 firm resistance which she offered to Mr. Thain's caress. 
 He was afterwards on the point of kissing my father, but 
 the latter, \vith what may have been involuntary presence 
 of mind, blew his nose at the moment, an act wdiich not 
 only placed physical obstacles in Mr. Thain's way, but 
 which seemed to operate upon him as a moral check also. 
 
 The first meeting over, Mr. Thain evidently began to 
 suffer under a sense of the inadequacy of words to the 
 occasion. His efforts to relieve the awkward silence were 
 characteristic. He drew a heavy arm-chair from a corner 
 which it was not accustomed to leave, becrged me to be
 
 16 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 seated, and to make myself perfectly at home. This was 
 odd, but a stranoer blunder followed. He beoran a sentence 
 of inquiry, implying that my brother was still living. The 
 words were but half spoken when he discovered his painful 
 mistake, and began to clear his throat with alarming 
 violence as though either to overpower the sound of the 
 unfortunate interrogation, or to })unish himself for having 
 uttered it. 
 
 But no manifestation of Mr. Thain's absence of mind 
 could have caused much surprise or distress in our house, 
 for we knew that the infirmity beset and belied his best 
 intentions. We had observed him in church for years 
 past systematically mistake the Nicene for the Apostles' 
 Creed, and bow carefully at " all things visible and 
 invisible," as if he were a pantheist instead of the sound 
 churchman he was. We had heard him reverently ask a 
 blessing before rubbers of whist, and had known him go to 
 a dinner-party with a pen behind his ear. 
 
 My mother now tried to say through her tears that it 
 seemed to be a wet night. Walking about with a headlong 
 stoop peculiar to him, Mr. Thain answered that it was a 
 very wet night. At last, coming to a stand immediately 
 opposite my father's chair, he remarked further that it was 
 a very wet night indeed, and then, as he put a large pinch 
 of snuff into his large nose — in my childhood I had always 
 believed that Mr. Thain's nose had been constructed 
 expressly for the reception of snuff— he said : — 
 
 " No, sir, no ; we haven't got the freehold yet ; but in 
 my opinion we shall have it one day. Poor souls, both of 
 you. Poor souls, God bless you ! "
 
 AN EARLY SUNSET. 17 
 
 Having thus delivered himself, Mr. Thain left the 
 room as hastily as he had come into it. In a few seconds, 
 however, he again put his head inside the door, and 
 resumed : — 
 
 " Leasehold only, sir, and on a tenure of the most 
 uncertain and puzzling description, though one undoubtedly 
 well considered, and arranged with the most liberal pur- 
 poses on the part of the lessor. Most unfortunatel}- only 
 leasehold, ma'am, at present, but in my opinion not to 
 be so always. Poor souls, both of you ! God bless 
 you!" 
 
 I was close to him as he spoke, and followed him that 1 
 might let him out of the front door. Before he liad left 
 the housCjsmy father re-opened the door of the dining-room, 
 and called after me : — 
 
 " Lucy," he whispered, when I returned to him, " has 
 the old man his overcoat here, this wet night "? " 
 
 " I think not, papa." 
 
 " Then mind he has mine. Did he bring an umbrella?" 
 
 " I have not seen any." 
 
 *'Pray be sure that he takes my large one," 
 
 These were the first connected sentences which had 
 fallen from my father since he had heard of his loss. [ 
 insert them only because they suggest to me an explanation 
 of a singular influence exerted upon him in after days by 
 the friend in whose behalf they were spoken. They seem 
 to me to imply that this influence, which in the course 
 of the following history may sometimes appear inexplicable, 
 was in truth owing to the simplest cause, to the fact, 
 namely, that Mr. Thain, possessing great capacities for 
 
 VOL. L 2
 
 18 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 entertaining a compassionate consideration towards others, 
 owned a like ability for exciting it towards himself. 
 
 At the hall-door the old gentleman produced a note 
 addressed to me, which he said he had quite forgotten to 
 deliver earlier. I saw that it was from his son Ealph, 
 and begged him to thank the writer. He finally blessed 
 me so much and so long, that in the gusty draught from 
 the open door the hall-lamp dripped and trickled into a 
 huge flying buttress, reaching from foot to flame. 
 
 Before returning to my parents I opened and read my 
 note. 
 
 Ralph Thain's writing was commonly the firmest and 
 clearest I ever saw. It w^as also so dainty and satis- 
 factory that, if I may be allowed the illustration, it looked 
 like some wholesome, well-prepared article of food. The 
 specimen of it before me was scarcely to be recog- 
 nized : it was tremulous, smeared, uninviting. And what 
 wonder? By a sudden and terrible accident Ralph had 
 lost his most familiar friend ; the letter I held was an 
 attempt to condole with the sister of that friend. Every 
 fault of penmanship was indeed fully accounted for. The 
 note ran thus : — 
 
 " A FEW words, dear Lucy, to you. God knows I can 
 hardly write ; yet, with such power as I have, I shall 
 make the effort. This is a day of thick darkness. I 
 know what you have suffered, with a minuteness that 
 you do not dream. I have myself sustained such a loss 
 as you do not dream either. I will not talk of sympathy, 
 because sympathy of mine would be worthless ; nor shall
 
 AN EARLY SUNSET. 19 
 
 I pretend to offer comfort, for I can find none myself; but 
 let me write, and do you forgive, my aimless lines. They 
 are for you — that is the one consideration that has induced 
 me to contend with the difficulty of writing them. In 
 distress that has no name, I am, your affectionate friend, 
 R. T." 
 
 There was little enough to console in this letter, yet I liked 
 it. The thoughts intended for the alleviation of grief, which 
 pitying friends generally set before one in adversity, noto- 
 riously fail of their purpose; and, for anything I know to the 
 contrary, a mere wail of pain like Ralph's would always be 
 as acceptable a form of commiseration as any. But be this 
 as it may, it should be admitted that the above-quoted note 
 was welcome to me for special reasons. When at night the 
 house was still, and I was in my room alone, I took it out, 
 and went through it word by word — desiring to know the 
 exact nature and extent of the feeling towards myself 
 which had directed each turn of expression ; and when the 
 great grief of the day, re-awakened by some sudden move- 
 ment of thought, arose, and smote me with fresh power, I 
 turned again to my letter, and felt better able to bear the 
 blow. 
 
 The agitation of the afternoon told heavily upon me at 
 last. As I lay watching the shadowy worms on the 
 ceiling above my night-lamp, a horror of great darkness 
 fell upon me. I got out of bed for a book with which to 
 occupy my thoughts ; but I soon found that I could not 
 read. The mystery of an existence which, like the lamp 
 itself, was liable to extinction at any moment by the most
 
 20 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 trivial means, oppressed me unbearably, and a glimpse of 
 my white face in the glass set me thinking such crazy 
 thoughts as. What was the meaning of Me? and, Was 
 there, in sober earnest, any such being as I at all? 
 
 These extraordinary doubts and questionings thoroughly 
 frightened me, for, in truth, I did not know where they 
 might end. In the midst of my alarm my mind turned to 
 old Esther as the person who would best be able to calm 
 and re-assure me. 
 
 I took a light, and went to look for her. She was not 
 in her bedroom : but, discovering this, I was not at a loss 
 to guess where she might be found. I felt that I must see 
 her, and crept softly towards the dreadful, yet dear place 
 where Frank's body lay. The door was not quite shut, and 
 Esther was kneeling within, with her back towards it. 
 Her posture surprised me, for, to my faulty perception, 
 she had always appeared a somewhat culpably self- 
 dependent woman, little likely to pray at any time, though 
 always particular that I should say my prayers. 
 
 I hesitated libout entering, and set down my candle so 
 that its light might not catch her attention — pausing for 
 a few moments to listen to the broken words which, in a 
 low voice, she was uttering. 
 
 ** An' tliis," she murmured, — " this here's what 'twere 
 to come to all the while. Lord o' mercy, this here were to 
 be the end; but why hadn't 'E a' let us know afore? 
 Ah, there ! that wouldn't 'a' been no better neither. An' 
 such a fine, healthy, young chap, wi' his girt big arms, an' 
 his eyes like the stars a-shinin' up aboove ! Ah ! why 
 hadn't 'E a-drownded somebody else ? Wouldn't none o'
 
 AN EARLY SUNSET. 21 
 
 them as is a burden to theirselves and their feller-creatures 
 'a' done so well ? 
 
 " There, then," added the old woman, as though 
 apologizing, after a pause and a sob, " don't 'E leave us 
 to bear up all by ourselves. We sees just bits o' things, 
 an' we can't help a-cryin' out. If we could look down 
 upon it from up top, might be a little clearer ; but we 
 can't. There, we do wish to see it as we ought to — we do 
 wish, an' we do try ; but. Lord, how can us help a-thinkin' 
 as 't 'ud 'a' been better t'other w^ay ? Oh, Lord o' mercy, 
 my poor young Master Frenk ! " 
 
 My heart was deeply moved. I longed to cry on my 
 old nurse's breast. Withdrawing a little way along the 
 passage, so as to prepare her by an approaching footstep, I 
 returned, and called her. 
 
 She understood at once how to deal with me. Folding 
 me to her broad bosom, she let me relieve myself, both by 
 tears, and by kissing tenderly her large, fair cheeks. 
 Presently, she took me back to my own room. Upon my 
 trying to tell her the state of mind under which I had 
 been sufFerincp she said nothing but fetched me some 
 wine. 
 
 The dose at once set me free from all doubts as to my 
 own existence, and considerably reduced the importance of 
 the mysteries surrounding human life ; but it further 
 awakened me to the singularity of Esther's attire. I now 
 became aware, for the first time, that her uppermost skirt 
 was simply a flannel petticoat; that her vast feet were 
 thrust bare into list slippers ; and that a small shawl of 
 mine— associated throughout my childhood with breakfast
 
 22 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 ill bed during indisposition — had been thrown loosely over 
 her shoulders. 
 
 Bearing in mind the close connection generally found 
 to subsist between personal dignity and becoming personal 
 costume, I have often reflected that the undoubted 
 preservation of Esther's dignity on this occasion said much 
 for the essential majesty of her physique. " Atrabiliar 
 Teufelsdrockh," haunted by the frightful vision of a 
 clothesless presentation, might, perhaps, find solace under 
 his infirmity by imagining Esther and such as she amongst 
 the dishabited assembly.
 
 ( 23 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SECRET TWICE STOLEN. 
 
 Tous les hommes aiment a s'approprier le bien d'autrui ; c'est un 
 sentiment general ; la maniere seule de le faire en est differente. — 
 Gil Bias. 
 
 The circumstances of my brother's death, as told to me, 
 were these: — 
 
 He had left the office at three o'clock in the afternoon 
 to call upon Mr, Thorne — the father of Margaret Thorne 
 before mentioned — who lived a short distance out of West- 
 ford. The fact of his having started in pouring rain gave 
 proof of the importance which he had attached to the visit. 
 I must briefly digress to show what the object of that visit 
 had been. 
 
 Not lonor before the time of which T write, a local 
 Government appointment had fallen vacant. This appoint- 
 ment being open to the legal profession, and its emol uments 
 being such as would form an important addition to the 
 income of a young country lawyer, Frank had been per- 
 suaded to seek it. His canvass amongst those on whose 
 votes tlie election must depend had been successful — 
 mainly through his father's interest as a solicitor of long
 
 24 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 and high standing ; and his elevation to tlie desired post 
 had been placed beyond doubt. At this point, however, a 
 fact had come to his knowledge which had changed his 
 wishes in the matter. He had been made aware that 
 Ralph Thain, his former schoolmate and his intimate 
 friend, was anxious to obtain the audltorship ; and that 
 Ralph's chance of success was probably second only to his 
 own. Frank's reasons for desiring under these circum- 
 stances to withdraw from the competition had no doubt 
 been manifold ; but it is likely that one consideration had 
 mainly induced his final resolve in favour of retirement. 
 It had been such a consideration as could operate only 
 upon a generous mind. The business of his father's office 
 was more prosperous than that of the firm " Thain and 
 Son;" and although of late months, through great industry, 
 Ralph had been raising the character and extending the 
 range of the smaller and humbler practice over which he 
 virtually presided, yet there could be no question that 
 Ralph needed the vacant post far more than Frank. 
 Seeing this, my brother had allowed his magnanimity to 
 prevail over his desire for an Increased income; and he 
 had relinquished his candidature for the audltorship on 
 Ralph's account. But he had done more : he had striven 
 to secure for his friend a sufficient number of those votes 
 which he no longer asked for himself, and had made these 
 efforts secretly, not caring that the Thains should find out 
 either the real reason of his retirement, or his further 
 attempts to secure the fulfilment of his wish. 
 
 The visit to Mr. Thorne — who was Chairman of the 
 Westford Board of Guardians, and therefore a man of
 
 A SECRET TWICE STOLEN. 25 
 
 influence with reference to the appointment in question — 
 had been undertaken on Ralph's behalf, in connection with 
 this business. It was on the way to Soothington Court 
 where Mr. Thorne lived, that Frank had met his death. 
 
 He had taken a short cut across a mill weir upon the 
 river near Soothington. The stream was greatly swollen ; 
 and the unusual pressure of water had carried away a 
 portion of the dam, producing an irresistible rush through 
 an irregular opening ; while the narrow plank-footway 
 surmounting the structure had remained available and 
 intact. It seemed that Frank had fallen near the gap 
 described ; it was conjectured that he had stood to watch 
 the descending torrent, and that on turning to pass on 
 again his foot had slipped. It is certain that he had sunk 
 in the deep water above the fall ; where, sucked down by 
 the escaping flood, his powerful limbs and well-known skill 
 in swimming had alike been useless to him ; and not until 
 it was too late had he been carried through the broken 
 outlet, into the shallows below, from which his poor body 
 had shortly afterwards been rescued. 
 
 Such is the story. I went through the scene a hundred 
 awful times, sleeping and waking. I saw Frank's dead 
 face in the patterns of the wall-papers ; amidst the coloured 
 clouds that change and pass when one's eyes are shut. 
 His dying cries, mingled with the roar of water, smote my 
 ear in the stir of morning, and at the silence of midnight. 
 
 I shall not pretend to be explicit as to dates in de- 
 scribing the period immediately succeeding my brother's 
 death; but the occurrence I am now about to recal must 
 have taken place within two or three days of the disaster.
 
 26 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 It was afternoon. I had long been in the school-room with 
 Miss Fenning, working at my needle, or trying to do so. 
 I remember that I had made similar attempts to occupy 
 myself all day, taking up common duties in common order. 
 My governess having now left me to do some writing in 
 her own room, Esther came in, bringing me a packet of 
 letters, which it seemed she wished to deliver privately. 
 The history of these letters she told as she gave them to 
 me. She had found them in the breast-pocket of the coat 
 which Frank had worn at the time of his death. The 
 pocket had been buttoned, or its contents would probably 
 have been lost : as it was, the papers had been preserved ; 
 and although they were damp, and their addresses stained 
 and smeared, 1 could see at a glance that they would still 
 be legible. Esther thought it better, she said, to place 
 them in my care for the present : if handed to my parents 
 just now, they would, most likely only cause needless dis- 
 tress. I myself felt at the moment how large a pain the 
 lesser personalties of the dead may awaken ; and willing 
 to save my father and mother any unavailing grief I could, 
 I took charge of the letters. 
 
 A part of our housemaid's duty consisted in needle- 
 work, which she generally perform.ed in the study. As 
 Esther left me, Mary Murgatroyd came in to fulfil her 
 daily task. Mary had always been shy and reserved 
 towards me ; and as she now bent her pretty face over her 
 work, and began to ply her little fingers without pause, 
 she showed at least her usual disinclination to intrude. 
 But presently some fancy took her to be communicative ; 
 and she talked to me more than she had ever done before.
 
 A SECRET TWICE STOLEN. 27 
 
 It happened, however, that I was wholly disinclined for 
 conversation ; and after having failed to regain silence by 
 means of short replies, I at last took the ribbon from the 
 packet I had just received, as though meaning to read the 
 letters ; for it struck me that if I made a show of occupa- 
 tion such as this, I might so secure quiet. The action had 
 the desired effect. Mary gave a little sigh, then once more 
 bent resolutely over her calico, and stitched on without a 
 word. 
 
 At first I had entertained no real design of doing what 
 I feigned to be about to do ; but with the letters in my hand 
 freed from Esther's careful fastening, I began to think of 
 looking at their contents. I tarried to consider whether or 
 not it would be rio-ht for me to do so. 
 
 o 
 
 The question, like most others, had two sides. On the 
 one hand, it was possible that the papers might relate to 
 private and personal matters which, had Frank lived, would 
 never have come to my knowledge. In view of this possi- 
 bility, it seemed my duty to place the letters under lock 
 and key unread. 
 
 On the other hand, however, lay the chance that these 
 documents, referring, as they must refer, to matters which 
 had been interesting to my brother shortly before his death, 
 mio-ht elucidate wishes of his such as it would even now 
 be possible to carry out. Taking this chance into con- 
 sideration, it appeared that I should be justified in reading 
 the letters. 
 
 The arguments pro and contra were weighed, as I 
 believed at the time, with impartiality: I now think that 
 curiosity loaded the balance. I decided in favour of perusal.
 
 28 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 The first papers that I opened were merely tradesmen's 
 bills. Well I recollect the pain it cost me to read the lists 
 of articles for which there was now no further use ; and 
 well I recollect that I suffered most over the lesser items 
 in these accounts — items recalling the small personal vani- 
 ties, and passing whims, and common trivial wants, of my 
 dead brother. 
 
 I presently came upon a letter owning a different kind 
 of interest. It was from Mr. Tliorne, of Soothington 
 Court, making the appointment in endeavouring to keep 
 which Frank had lost his life. Mr. Thorne expressed 
 his intention of calling on a neighbouring gentleman to ask 
 his vote on behalf of my brother's friend, and invited 
 Frank to come over to the Court that he might hear the 
 result of the visit, and that further precautions for securing 
 Ealph Thain's election might be discussed. But for this 
 letter, then, Frank would still have been living ; but for its 
 summons the walk over the weir would not have been 
 taken, the fatal slip not made ! Useless reflections, I 
 admit, but such, nevertheless, as those who suffer disap- 
 pointment and loss cannot always help indulging. 
 
 The painful fascination of the last-mentioned missive 
 inclined me to go on with the examination of the packet. 
 Conscience, however, now began to upbraid me for the 
 course I was taking. She whispered distinctly: — "Pro- 
 ceed no further. Hitherto your course has been simply 
 mistaken, and no harm is done as yet; but if you read 
 more your act will be dishonourable, its penalties may be 
 actually inflicted, and w^ill certainly be due." I am 
 ashamed to say that I disregarded this admonition.
 
 A SECRET TWICE STOLEN. 29 
 
 The sheet which I next unfolded was covered with my 
 brother's own handwriting. But it was manifestly not a 
 letter designed for transmission : it was, as its heading 
 stated, a mere copy of such a letter, intended to remain in 
 the keeping of the writer. For some reason, doubtless 
 suflBcient, Frank, having despatched the communication 
 itself, had kept a duplicate of it in his own hands. 
 
 In a mental confusion of inquisitiveness and compunc- 
 tion I read as follows : — 
 
 "(Copy.) 
 " Mt dear old Chu:m, — 
 
 " When I opened your letter to-day, I confess I felt just 
 a little regret and a good deal of shame. I was sorry that 
 you had allowed an old promise to hinder you from makino- 
 known your feelings in the first place directly to my sister; 
 and I was heartily ashamed at ever having extracted from 
 you the assurance that I should be your first confidant in 
 any affaire de cceiir in which you might find yourself 
 involved. However, I now fully respect your scrupulous 
 adherence to your undertaking; and also follow the 
 reasoning of your upright, unworldly mind which leads 
 you to see in the relationship of your ' young lady ' to me 
 a special reason why you should not break your compact. 
 After you have reminded me, by such conclusive proof, 
 that the friendship wdiich sprang up between us during 
 those jolly days of my articles in London remains unaltered; 
 and after you have given, by the terms of your letter, 
 abundant evidence that you are very much in love, I am 
 sure I cannot do otherwise than answer your question with 
 grateful and considerate directness.
 
 30 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 " You ask whether, in seeking to gain the affection of 
 my sister, you may reckon on my sympathy and approval. 
 Quaere : Would you have made such an inquiry if you had 
 been in any doubt about the answer ? That answer, of 
 course, is, '^ Yes : ' there is no man living to whom I could 
 so confidently and gladly give Lucy up as to yourself. 
 
 " I shall watch the events of the next few days, my 
 dear fellow, with immense interest and impatience. I thank 
 you heartily for trusting me with the w^eighty secret ; and 
 whether you were bound to do so or not is a question on 
 which, as you have already solved it, I need not give an 
 opinion. For heaven's sake get the matter settled soon. 
 
 " Your's, 
 ''To R. T., Esq. ''F.F." 
 
 Long before I had finished reading these words — they 
 had evidently been hastily penned, and were not soon 
 deciphered — my eyes had run on to the end of the sheet 
 to find out for whom it had been intended. They had seen 
 what the reader now sees above, the initials " R. T." I 
 never doubted the name thus indicated. It was plain to 
 me from the first moment that the man who had written 
 to Frank about me, and to whom Frank had playfully but 
 cordially replied in the foregoing lines, was Ralph Thain. 
 
 As I ended the perusal my face crimsoned, and its 
 muscles twitched beyond control. My sensations were 
 various and complex, but one was more prominent than all 
 the rest: I felt that I would gladly have given the best of 
 everything I possessed to be once more without the know- 
 ledge I had gained. So strong was my regret, so painful
 
 A SECRET TWICE STOLEN. 31 
 
 was my consciousness that the error I had committed was 
 irreparable, that I involuntarily uttered an agonized groan 
 of remorse. 
 
 The sound of my own exclamation reminded me that 
 I Avas not alone — a truth of which I had well nigh lost 
 sight. I looked up quickly. I saw that Mary's calico was 
 on her knees ; that her threaded needle was held stationary 
 in the air ; that her eyes — usually soft and pensive rather 
 than watchfully bright — were fixed steadily upon me with 
 a gaze of keen and calculating interest. 
 
 She perceived directly that I resented the scrutiny, 
 and turning away her face, blushed to the hair, saying, as 
 though to draw away my attention from her confusion : — 
 " Miss Lucy, is anything the matter ? " 
 I spoke an impatient '^No;" and at that instant I was 
 summoned to see my dressmaker, who was waiting in my 
 mother's room. I gathered up the letters quickly, and 
 hastened with them to my own bed-chamber, intending to 
 place them in my desk. But in the hurry of the moment 
 I could not put my hand on the key of that receptacle. I 
 therefore opened a drawer which was filled with collars 
 and kindred articles, and laid the packet in the midst of a 
 heap of lawn and cambric. This done, I quickly went down 
 to my mother's room. 
 
 Fortunately for me, but few words on my part were 
 necessary during the interview that followed. So giddy 
 was I with the swing of my own thoughts, I scarcely knew 
 what was taking place externally. As soon as I could — it 
 may have been after an interval of half-an-hour — I went 
 upstairs again, and locked myself into my bedroom.
 
 32 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 My past experience gave but one feeble parallel to my 
 present position. The serpent had once beguiled my 
 imwary childhood in the garden, at a time when nectarines 
 were ripe^ and had argued me into the sly appropriation of 
 some fruit. My condition after that fall had resembled 
 my state now in one dreadful particular: it had been 
 distinguished by a hopeless sense of irremediable degrada- 
 tion. But the earlier crime had been expiated by full 
 confession : a burst of tears after I was in bed at night had 
 brought a pardoning mother to my side, and her forgive- 
 ness had, after all, effected a return not only of my peace, 
 but of my self-respect. From the humiliation to which I 
 had now brought myself I saw no such blessed escape ; 
 for to confess what I had done to any one seemed 
 impossible. 
 
 But presently a wild fancy, pointing me out of my 
 dilemma, seized me. " They say," I reflected, " that the 
 disembodied spirits of the dead are about the paths of the 
 living; that love is stronger than the grave, and holds 
 together yet, in real propinquity, those dear ones whom 
 mortality has striven in vain to separate. Then Frank is 
 with me here and now ! To him I will own my fault, for 
 have I not in truth wronged him more than any one, 
 wronged him even more than I have embarrassed myself?" 
 
 I now understood why my brother had scribbled out 
 the hasty copy which I had read. I saw how, if the 
 startling proposal to which his letter had referred had ever 
 been submitted and accepted, he would triumphantly have 
 shown the sheet to me, making jocular capital out of his 
 prior influence upon my destiny. This view of the good-
 
 A SECRET TWICE STOLEN. 33 
 
 natured purpose of fun for which the copy had been kept 
 — a correct view, I have no doubt — made me hate tenfold 
 the baseness of which I had been guilty in reading it. I 
 hastened to use my fantastic remedy for my grievous 
 blunder. True to itself, my imagination realized the 
 doubtful dreams with which hope icill sometimes flatter tlie 
 bereaved. T saw Frank standing by me, with his ear bent 
 down as though to receive my confessions. The notion of 
 his presence, which, in other moods of mine and under 
 other conditions, would have been unspeakably alarming, 
 now gave me relief. I covered my face, and thought 
 myself speaking to him. He seemed to hear, to recognize 
 excuses for my error, to hush my self- blame, to grant me 
 an entire forgiveness, I cried heartily and felt better. 
 
 I well knew that the packet, which I had partially 
 scrutinized, must in all probability contain the communica- 
 tion that Frank's letter had answered. But my curiosity 
 was now stunned, my sense of honour alert; I felt no 
 temptation to read the epistle in which Mr. Thain had told 
 my brother of his love for me. 
 
 The only thing I cared to do was to put the letters 
 carefully away. Esther had already committed to my 
 keeping some small belongings of Frank's ; I determined 
 to place the packet with these other relics, and went to my 
 collar-drawer to fetch it. 
 
 But a puzzled search amongst the contents of the 
 drawer brought no packet to light. Beyond question the 
 letters were crone. » 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 34 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HOW THE I3LINDS WENT UP, AND HOW COMMONPLACE 
 LIFE' WENT ON AGAIN. 
 
 Well well, the world must turn upon its axis. 
 And all mankind turn with it. — Btron. 
 
 But oh ! the heavy change now thou art gone. — Milton. 
 
 The day of the funeral came. Under the management ot 
 a gifted undertaker due homage was paid in our house to 
 the genius of that great but unknown discoverer who has 
 shown mankind the fitness of black crape, cloth, and 
 feathers to represent sorrow for the dead. Looking out 
 from the schoolroom-door, I. saw my sometime stately 
 father, now the personification of weak, wondering grief, 
 submitting himself obediently to investiture in sable robe 
 and streamer; looking out later from the schoolroom- 
 window, I saw two false affected horses drawing honest 
 Frank to the churchyard in the usual black box decked 
 with plumes. After all this, daylight, which custom, in 
 spite of Esther, had insisted on excluding from the house, 
 was let in again ; once more I was free to go out of doors. 
 But I should add that in the dismal interval thus ended, I 
 had heard one day the shuffle of many footsteps unsuccess- 
 fully hushed, and afterwards a whisper of painful and
 
 HOW THE BLINDS WENT UP. 35 
 
 forbidding words, as — " inquest ; jury ; to view the body ; 
 verdict, ' Accidentally drowned.' " 
 
 When I began to go out I found a stiUness of rich 
 regretful beauty over all the earth. The skies glowed 
 warm and mellow, but their glory seemed to own kindred 
 to that of sere leaves, or of fruit over-ripe. Garden 
 plants still lifted gaudy heads of bloom, whereon thick- 
 painted butterflies, splendid and voluptuous, would light 
 and linger ; but the stems strayed rude ; the blossoms 
 lacked sweetness and promise. In the silent woods, too, 
 there hung a sorrowful perfume of decay, and everything 
 said mutely that the best was past. In those days I 
 thought I could never be happy again, and for a while all 
 my energies lay faint and useless. 
 
 But Nature, ever " busy with a hand of healing," did 
 not delay to set about my cure. I shall not try to describe 
 the slow but certain process bj' which I was recovered from 
 my mournful lethargy, except by associating that process 
 with the working of a particular speculation in my brain, a 
 speculation that grew the more active as I grew better. It 
 related to that mysterious disappearance of Frank's letters, 
 in announcing which I closed the last chapter. 
 
 The more I thought on this subject the more the loss 
 of the packet puzzled me, and it was an aggravation to my 
 bewilderment that I was unable to share it with anybody 
 else. There was but one person whom, with any reason, 1 
 could suspect of having taken the letters. That person 
 was Mary Murgatroyd, who had witnessed my disturbed 
 behaviour at the time I read them, and who, it was just 
 conceivable, might have been led by curiosity to look for
 
 36 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 and possess herself of the papers 1)}' which she had seen 
 me so strangely moved. That neither my parents nor 
 Esther had been to my room during the short space of time 
 in which the packet must have been abstracted, I had 
 found the means of ascertainino;. In order that I might 
 form some notion as to whether Mary was capable of the 
 act with which I felt half inclined to charge her, I began to 
 ask myself what 1 knew about her antecedent history, and 
 what I had myself observed respecting her character. 
 
 She had, at the time of Frank's death, been in my 
 mother's service for three months only, and she had come 
 to us through the agency of two maiden ladies in our town, 
 ■the Miss Tyndals. A north- covintry lass, she liad been 
 introduced to the notice of these spinster sisters by some 
 relatives of theirs in Yorkshire ; the terms of the introduc- 
 tion having been so entirely favourable as in their opinion 
 to justify them in urging my mother strongly to make 
 trial of the girl, who, however, had never been in service 
 before. More than this I had not definitely learned about 
 Mary at the time with which I am now concerned. But I 
 possessed a vague knowledge, whence derived I cannot say, 
 that she had been the special protegee of certain young- 
 lady Tyndals, who had taken great pains with her educa- 
 tion, and who had, indeed, created or developed within her 
 such tastes as in the capacity of hou.^emaid she would be 
 unlikely to find opportunities for indulging. 
 
 During her residence in our house Mary had un- 
 doubtedly conducted herself well. She had quickly 
 learned, and had ever since efficiently discharged, her duty. 
 Whatever consciousness of superiority over her fellows
 
 HOW THE BLINDS WENT UP. 37 
 
 she may have possessed, she had modestly taken her proper 
 place among them, and no self-assertmg airs had weakened 
 the favourable impression everywhere produced by her 
 pleasant appearance, manner, and speech. I remembered, 
 indeed, having once seen her under slight rebuke give vent 
 to sudden and vehement grief, when her peach-like cheeks 
 had taken a deep carmine dye, and when she had yielded 
 herself over to sobbing, and had knuckled her streaming 
 eyes, like a despairing infant. But it did not seem to me 
 that any deduction materially unfavourable to her cha- 
 racter could be drawn from this occurrence, and, reflect as 
 I miorht, I could find nothincr worse against her than that 
 she had been thus extravagantly unhappy under reproof, 
 and also somewhat reserved towards myself. 
 
 Whatever distrust, then, I entertained of Mary Murga- 
 troyd in reference to the lost letters, such distrust received 
 no additional strength from anything I knew either of her 
 disposition or history. It rested solely on the facts of her 
 having been the only person (save Esther herself) who had 
 known that the papers were in my possession, and the 
 only person who had witnessed my excitement on looking 
 them over. Slight, however, as were these grounds of 
 suspicion, I continued to suspect. But the consideration 
 which had from the first kept me silent on the entire 
 subject still similarly influenced me. To speak of the 
 disappearance of the packet in order that my doubts of 
 Mary might be justified or dispelled, would almost in- 
 fallibly have been to reveal to my eager parents my know- 
 ledge of the packet's contents, to declare my grievous 
 indiscretion, and to render the awkward and humiliating
 
 88 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 situation in which that indiscretion had placed me, more 
 awkward and humiliating than ever. It formed no small 
 part of my discomfort at this time to recollect that, if 
 Mary had, indeed, read the letters, she must be well aware 
 vf, and was probably relying upon, the above-mentioned 
 reason for silence on my part. 
 
 December had set in before my mother could be 
 persuaded to go out of doors. When she took her first 
 walk I went with her. She had arranged to meet our 
 vicar at the parish church, where a coloured window in 
 Frank's memory was about to be put in ; and to the church 
 we bent our steps. The building was described in the 
 local guide-book as " an elegant and commodious struc- 
 ture;" but the considerable alterations which it was now 
 undergoing implied that the correctness of the description 
 was at least not universally acknowledged. The vicar, 
 who was High Church and Puginistic, had already com- 
 passed, as a preliminary improvement, the restoration of 
 the chancel ; and more extensive renovations in the body 
 of the church were now beginning. It was one of the side 
 chancel windows that my parents intended to give, and 
 respecting which the impending consultation was to be 
 held. 
 
 We found the vicar (Mr. Finch) on the spot, with 
 whitened coat, and with hands — too dusty for shaking — 
 held at a great distance from his body on either side. 
 Mr. Finch was so like a canary-bird, that, had I obeyed 
 my impulses, I should often have offered him groundsel 
 and white sugar by way of greeting. He was continu- 
 ously in the state attained by persons of good digestion
 
 HOW THE BLINDS WENT UP. 39 
 
 immediately after breakfast — a state in which there is a 
 strong tendency to make plans, and to take an entirely 
 cheerful view of existence. I acknowledged to myself 
 that he was a valuable associate for my mother now ; but 
 as he welcomed us, I felt something of my usual im- 
 patience on account of his irrepressible gaiety ; from his 
 freckled hands the dust delivered me — and I sincerely 
 thanked it for the service. I had an unreasonable dislike 
 to Mr. Finch's freckled hands. 
 
 He immediately took mamma into the fourteenth 
 century — his favourite architectural period. During the 
 whole of his remarks his fore-fingers described a succession 
 of wavy figures, which, on reflection, I took to denote the 
 fiowincv tracerv of that a^-e. I have no doubt now that in 
 approaching the window question from an architectural 
 rather than a sentimental point he was guided by a delicate 
 consideration for my mother's feelings, with which I was 
 far from crediting him at the time. 
 
 The appointed conference was at last definitely entered 
 upon. While it proceeded two additional persons came 
 into the church — Ralph Thain and his father; both the 
 gentlemen carried law-papers, and they seemed to have 
 looked in, in passing, to note the progress of the altera- 
 tions, without expecting to find within any one they 
 knew. 
 
 To my frequent surprise I had never seen Ralph since 
 Frank's death. When I say that as he now came in I 
 pretended not to observe him, and walked away by myself 
 in genuine shame and shyness, the reader, bearing in 
 mind what has gone before, will hardly wonder. I strolled
 
 40 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 into a side chapel, half fearing, half wishing that he might 
 follow me. He followed me not. 
 
 After some time it occurred to me that I really ought 
 not to have left my mother, and that I had better go back 
 to her directly. I did so; and (incidentally) gave my 
 brother's friend my hand. 
 
 Ralph's manner was rarely so cordial as he probably 
 both intended it to be and supposed that it was. It was 
 now colder than usual, but it did not veil from my obser- 
 vation the signs of deep feeling which his expressive face 
 exhibited. I saw in his soft green-grey eyes all that I had 
 expected to see there — large regret for the dead, an almost 
 womanly sympathy with us mourners, a wistful, doubting 
 tenderness towards myself. I read in the inflections of his 
 sensitive mouth, and in the unquiet of his depressed eye- 
 brows, a multitude of subtle embarrassments, which I 
 naturally ascribed to his secret consciousness of the truth 
 that he had admitted to my brother. I saw, in short, 
 enough to make me wonder more than ever why the tale 
 which he had told in writing to Frank had never since been 
 repeated to any one else. I was to some extent moved and 
 gratified ; but much more was I perplexed. 
 
 One trait in his character was as apparent as usual — 
 his anxiety that his father should not present himself dis- 
 advantageously nor be misunderstood. His first words, 
 after the brief greeting given to me, were expended on an 
 effort to remodel a distorted compliment offered by the 
 old gentleman, who said to my mother, in reference to the 
 memorial window, that he considered It a most suitable 
 and charming form of thanksgiving for our loss; and
 
 HOW THE BLINDS WENT UP. 41 
 
 many times afterwards Ralph gently came to the rescue in 
 a similar way. 
 
 Once in his presence I discovered that I could at least 
 simulate an ease of manner, the very appearance of which, 
 it had seemed to me before, must needs be impossible. I 
 presently found myself slowly walking with him down the 
 centre aisle of the church westward; and our awkward 
 silence was certainly more the result of constraint on his 
 part than on mine. As we passed along he opened the 
 door of one of the large square pews which yet remained 
 in the body of the church, and asked me if I would sit 
 down. I did sit down, and so did he. 
 
 " Mr. Ralph," I said, " why have we not seen you 
 sooner ? " 
 
 " Why, indeed, Lucy ?" he vaguely answered, " I have 
 expected that we should meet every day." 
 
 There was no indifference in his tone, yet somehow 
 it chilled me. I said quickly : 
 
 " Do talk to me of poor dear Frank. It will be a 
 relief — to me certain!}', perhaps to you too." 
 
 His pupils dilated as he turned his eyes momentarily 
 upon mine. He seemed to speak mechanically as he 
 answered : 
 
 " Of Frank ; yes — of your brother ; let us talk of him." 
 
 But he got no further. I also had been bolder in 
 purpose than I found myself able to be in act. In my 
 hands as in his the tender subject collapsed. 
 
 " It was a great pleasure to me," I presently said, 
 shifting in sheer desperation to a relative and equally 
 delicate topic, *' and to my parents, too, to hear of your
 
 42 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 appointment to the auditorship. How shall you like the 
 post, Mr. Ralph?" 
 
 " Thank you, Lucy," he replied, with a bright, but 
 fleeting glow upon his face ; " it will be useful to me, and 
 therefore I shall make a point of liking it entirely. Are 
 your parents glad of my success — and you, too ? " 
 
 One of Ralph's numerous defects of manner was 
 his habit of uttering, at unsuitable times, a short, un- 
 meaning laugh. This laugh succeeded the foregoing 
 remark. 
 
 " Why should you doubt that we are glad, Mr. 
 Ralph ? " I asked reproachfull}^, finding in the tone in 
 which he had spoken the words a sort of surprise at my 
 cono;ratulation. 
 
 " Did I say I doubted it ? Surely not. Of course, 
 Lucy, you would be glad. We have been friends from 
 your childhood, in spite of the twelve years' discrepancy 
 between our ages — in spite of — well, a host of other 
 disqualifications on my part. Yes, I am sure you liked 
 me from the first, and were always interested in my wel- 
 fare. I hope and trust you will like me still." 
 
 I could not fail to note that he had received my 
 expostulation as relating to my own feelings only, rather 
 than to those of my family collectively. My heart beat 
 fast as I mentally registered this movement of the conversa- 
 tion towards an interchange of personal confidences. I 
 could not, however, gather courage to reply. 
 
 Silence, therefore, again ensued. Mr. Thain's thoughts, 
 as well as his eyes, evidently left me ; and, to wile away 
 the uninteresting pause, I fell to watching his face. A
 
 HOW THE BLINDS WENT UP. 43 
 
 Striking and singular face it was, with its round, broad 
 forehead encircled by a swarthy nimbus of soft, brown 
 hair ; its cheeks pale and sunken — which I thought had 
 become more so of late ; its eyes of shadowed brightness ; 
 its prominent nose, and small, mobile mouth. 
 
 Just above Ralph, as he sat, was a corbel head — one 
 whose burdened face had caused me, as a child, 
 much fruitless conjecture. I had been unable to deter- 
 mine whether the drooping brows and contracted lips 
 denoted that the '^ man " was naughty, or simply 
 miserable; whether, for instance, he might be supposed 
 to have wilfully disobeyed his nurse, or, on the other hand, 
 merely to have been threatened with a powder. These 
 uncertainties as to his moral character had withheld me 
 from disposing of him in marriage, excepting on one 
 occasion — that of a remarkably hot Sunday afternoon — 
 when, being in great need of such excitement as might 
 result from arrano-ino; some novel combination, I had 
 united him to the angelic little beauty with curls over 
 the next pillar but one. This contract, however, I had 
 subsequently rescinded — pitying the gentleman sincerely, 
 but convinced, on reflection, that the match was un- 
 suitable. 
 
 I now found myself comparing the living head with the 
 sculptured, and • deciding that the two were alike. Cer- 
 tainly the former, as it appeared to-day, was to the full as 
 oppressed and sad as the latter ; but then I did not feel at 
 much loss to account for the gloom upon Ralph's face. I 
 saw that on his impressible and imaginative soul the 
 calamitous end of his most dear and intimate associate had
 
 44 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 imprinted a melancholy as profound as it was enduring. 
 The sight of me had evidently revived, in all its first 
 force, that sorrow which his note, written on the night of 
 Frank's death, had so powerfully expressed. As our often- 
 interrupted talk went on, this became additionally obvious 
 to me. 
 
 I was scarcely sorry when my mother joined us, and 
 told me that we must leave, since dusk was coming on. 
 Seeing me move, Ralph moved too. 
 
 As he and I were passing out of the church together 
 my feelings got the better of me. I had no thought at 
 the moment of what I might be to him, or he to me. I 
 remembered nothing but his manifest, abiding grief: my 
 only wish was to alleviate it. I said : 
 
 " Mr. Ralph, is there nothing helpful or soothing in 
 sympathy ? " 
 
 « Undoubtedly, Lucy. Why ? " 
 
 " Because — because I cannot say how much I feel with 
 and for you." 
 
 He laid his hand on my shoulder paternally — it was his 
 way with me — and answered gravely : — 
 
 " You feel for me more than you can say, Lucy ? How 
 much is that, I wonder ? " 
 
 I could not but regard the question as relating to feel- 
 inofs of a different nature from those to which my words 
 had referred. I replied, how^ever, in allusion to my own 
 meaning only : — 
 
 " You seem to doubt my sincerity. I feel for you as 
 much as my heart could feel for any one. Perhaps, indeed, 
 you may think my heart small, Mr. Ralph ? "
 
 HOW THE BLINDS WENT UP. 45 
 
 *' No, Lucy," he said, " it is a large heart." 
 
 " Then I think its fellow-feelino^ must be worth some- 
 thing; and yet you do not value it much. You have 
 been so cold and strange in your manner to me this 
 afternoon " 
 
 " Cold and strange, Lucy ! Heaven forbid ! Upon my 
 soul there is no one whose sympathy I prize as I do Vours. 
 Tell me again how far it reaches. Is this ' fellow-feeling ' 
 indeed, very wide and deep ? Measure it, Lucy." 
 
 I looked up at him in surprise. He had not seemed 
 eager before: now his whole soul was in his ardent words. 
 I was speechless, by reason of a mixed feeling which I can 
 ill describe — it was not all reo-ard for him, nor reoret for 
 his dejected state, nor agitation at what miglit be coming ; 
 nor was it simply a combination of these etnotions. I 
 found that I was on the verge of crying, and there is little 
 doubt that my tears would actually have flowed had it not 
 been for the difficulty I experienced in finding my pocket- 
 handkerchief, owing to the abnormal position which my 
 dressmaker had allotted to the pocket of the new dress I 
 wore. 
 
 If the circumstance which hindered an outburst on my 
 part was trivial and ludicrous, that which put an end to the 
 interview altogether was equally so, albeit it was tinged with 
 a queer hue of nondescript pathos. By this time my mother 
 and Mr. Thain senior, who had preceded us out of church 
 together with the vicar, had come to a stand before us, in 
 the act of bidding Mr. Finch farewell. It became apparent 
 to Ralph at the instant, that a long wisp of grey hair which 
 was generally carried over from one side of his father's
 
 46 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 head to the other, to accomphsh or attempt the disguise o. 
 a bald crown, had descended in an unauthorized direction, 
 so that it protruded — a shaggy and irregular tuft of 
 great length — from behind the old gentleman's right ear. 
 Ralph at once moved forwards, with a blush on his pale 
 cheek, to whisper to his father the need that existed for an 
 adjustment of the lock. In so doing, he seemed completely 
 to forget what had gone before : shortly afterwards he 
 looked quickly at his watch, and with a hurried '' good-bye " 
 went away to his office to prepare for the post. Mr. Finch 
 soon left us also — hopping blithely to his evening school, 
 and Mr. Thain the elder escorted my mother and me 
 home. 
 
 It disconcerted our conductor much that in consequence 
 of the narrowness of the pavements, he could not walk 
 with both of us at once, and he at last adopted a kind of 
 compromise between us, once treading on my mother's 
 dress in the process — a mishap which she bore patiently 
 with some difficulty. When he left us at our door, he was 
 apparently so pleased with our progress towards recovery 
 of spirits, and with the results of the meeting in general, 
 that he went jauntily away, repeating the farewells several 
 times with smiles and nods, and politely raising his hat at 
 each repetition. 
 
 On our way home a glimpse through the wire blinds of 
 Messrs. Thain's office had revealed to me Ralph's figure 
 eagerly bent over his lamp-lit desk. What a change had 
 passed upon the form and face too ! Every line of each 
 spoke intentness and absorption. Every movement of the 
 daintily yet firmly-handled pen betokened strong and
 
 HOW THE BLINDS WENT UP. 47 
 
 undivided purpose. Ralph's melancholy, his absence of 
 mind, his coldness of manner, which, as I could not help 
 seeing, had characterized his communion with me, did not, 
 it was manifest, haunt him at his office, or hinder his close 
 and increasing devotion to business.
 
 48 , LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 
 
 Beginnings are alike : it is ends which differ. — Festus. 
 
 The great Buzzard fjimilj, previously mentioned in these 
 pages, were the self-constituted leaders of Westford 
 society. They owed their rise from a humble position 
 to the successful manufacture of that valuable material 
 — cloth ; and at the time my history has reached the 
 elevation was not so remote as to be entirely beyond 
 the memory of the living. Westford was hemmed in by 
 this distinguished race. There were the Buzzards of 
 Westford-Leigh Court, who embraced in their circle the 
 aged father of the entire clan (now passing into second 
 childishness), and his sole unmarried daughter — a damsel 
 of fifty years, whose nets to entrap male affections might, 
 perhaps, have been more efficaciously had they been some- 
 what less openly spread. Again, there were the Buzzards 
 of Belwood Lodge — an evangelical branch, to which 
 belonged many plain girls ambitious of marrying mission- 
 aries. And, farther, there were the economically-magni- 
 ficent Buzzards of Sandstone Hall, and the gay, frivolous 
 Buzzards of Lockbridge House.
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 49 
 
 Shortly after the date to which my last chapter refers 
 Miss Buzzard of Westford-Leigh Court came sweeping 
 silkily into my mother's drawing-room, and in her sibilant 
 confidential whispers begged that I might be allowed to 
 spend an evening at her house. Since it transpired that 
 there was to be a party my mother at first refused — for 
 Frank had not been three months dead ; but on the lady's 
 further representations, firstly, that for my health's sake I 
 must have change, and secondly, that she had come herself 
 on purpose to show her eagerness for my acceptance of the 
 invitation, it was promised that I should join the party, 
 chaperoned by Miss Fenning. 
 
 When the time came I was glad to go. It pleased me 
 to wear again a handsome evening dress, although a black 
 one. As the wheels of the fly which took us ground along 
 the gravel of the Court drive, as the broad Court door shot 
 open and shed light and liveries upon me, I felt all the old 
 excitement. It was gratifying too to find, as I entered the 
 crowded drawing-room, that my appearance created a 
 pause and hush, and that there was a general disposition 
 to make much of me. 
 
 The parties at Westford-Leigh Court were always 
 planned (at least) on religious principles, for which, I am 
 afraid, in my younger days, I failed to entertain a proper 
 thoughtful respect. Miss Buzzard flirted with Evangeli- 
 calism — perhaps in semi-deference to the Behvood Buzzards 
 _ — and set her assemblies going with music (such as it was), 
 with conversation, and with fossils. These three varieties 
 of entertainment, to the exclusion of most others, were 
 held by her low-church friends to be compatible with 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 Christian practice; with these, accordingly, her guests 
 were required to content themselves. But the end of her 
 soirees was generally less strict than their commencement. 
 The young spirits of the company frequently got the upper 
 hand at last, and started dancing, charades, or tableaux, in 
 which the hostess was too kind not to acquiesce, so soon as 
 she saw that they were desired. 
 
 The present party afforded an example of this declen- 
 sion from uriginal intention. To begin at the beginning : 
 — A faint succession of songs, enlivened by an obbligato 
 accompaniment of ceaseless chattering, first sounded ; the 
 words of the ditties being mostly by Mrs. Hemans, the 
 music by her sister. The earliest infringement upon 
 puritanical order was committed by me. In course of time 
 I was asked to play or sing. I did not feel inchned to do 
 the latter, but to play I had no objection ; and remembering 
 better than anything else a waltz of my own composing, I 
 performed that. The instrument w^as a good one; my 
 mood was favourable ; I played with feeling and brilliancy. 
 I knew that in the opinion of many present waltzes were 
 worldly and wicked ; but I must confess that this know- 
 ledo-e did not diminish the satisfaction I felt in executing a 
 waltz. I am afraid that the shocked expression which, as 
 I left the piano, I saw resting upon several surrounding 
 faces, gave me peculiar gratification. 
 
 I may mention that, as I ended the performance, my 
 eye fell upon one face which looked not displeased, but 
 delighted. It was the face of Mr. Bertie Tyndal, or Mr. 
 Alhert Tyndal, as 1 preferred calling him, for he seemed 
 much too large and also (in years If not in ways) too old
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 51 
 
 for the pet name bj which his doting aunts had made him 
 known in our town. This gentleman had frequently stayed 
 at Westford during the past year ; and his aunts, to whom 
 his visits had been paid, were the maiden sisters before 
 mentioned as having been instrumental in bringing Mary 
 Murgatroyd into our house. 
 
 Mr. Tyndal now came and spoke to me — asking, in his 
 usual direct and boylike manner whetlier I was aware of 
 my sinfulness ; and, after some further talk — which differed 
 wholly from that going on around me — leaving me in the 
 perplexity of an old doubt as to whether I liked him or 
 not. His person, I decided without hesitation, that I did 
 approve. The face at the summit of his tall and manly 
 figure was Phoebus-like, not ill-featured ; its *^ carnations " 
 were of vermilion, its lines generous. His amber-coloured 
 eye flashed forth in conversation an intelligent and cheer- 
 some brightness ; and he possessed tightly-curling brown 
 hair, which gave an acceptable impression of health and 
 vigour. 
 
 Mr. Finch was at the party, and his position there was 
 one that most people would have found awkward. His 
 followers in the town were a minority, but few of them 
 being now present. Both the district churches of West- 
 ford were in Evangelical hands, and their congregations — 
 largely represented at this gathering — kept a keen, 
 censorious w^atch over the high-church vicar to see how 
 far his Puseyite conscience would allow him to " conform 
 with the world." Meanwhile, he continued joyously at his 
 ease. He was so now. His airy, ajter-hreakfast manner 
 showed alike the intention and the power to be happy. 
 
 SS«««»U.KO«
 
 52 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 Indeed, he was not unfreqnently facetious, notwithstanding 
 that the company considered it irregular to laugh at his 
 facetiae unless the Reverend Oram Whitethread — Miss 
 Buzzard's pet curate at Trinity — granted a general 
 indulgence by first laughing himself. 
 
 The relations between Mr. Whitethread and Miss 
 Buzzard were remarkable and instructive. As she was 
 fifteen years older than he, and as singularly deficient 
 in personal attractions as she was redundant in size, it 
 cannot be supposed that she had won the curate's heart. 
 Yet he feared to betray his lack of love. Unable to dis- 
 pense with the smiling support of his patroness, the unhappy 
 man was compelled to counterfeit a passion for her. His 
 manner towards her afforded as extraordinary a study of self- 
 repression as could be presented to the human intelligence. 
 
 I had plunged far into the depths of foolishness which 
 belong to evening parties — affecting interest in subjects 
 uninteresting to me, expressing opinions where I had none, 
 and praising music which my taste did not approve — when 
 I saw Ralph Thain steering self-consciously towards me 
 tbrough snowy skirts and sparkling boots. He had been 
 deeply engrossed for some time, as I had observed from a 
 distance, with a sweet-faced, blue-eyed belle of about the 
 age of three years — a darling morsel of human nature, 
 which belonged to a lady who w^as staying on a visit at the 
 Court. Having regarded the baby as a rival, I felt 
 relieved to find that Ralph had escaped from her influence ; 
 but when I understood that he was on his way to me I 
 was visited by sensations of embarrassment which I found 
 it hard to master. It seemed to me that in order to rid
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 53 
 
 myself of these feelings there was only one course I could 
 pursue: viz., to initiate with Ralph a conversation on 
 some subject entirely apart from our own affairs. As he 
 came and shook my hand, I therefore began : — 
 
 *' How do you do, Mr. Ralph ? I want to know 
 whether you do not think that Margaret Thorne looks 
 remarkably well to-night ? " 
 
 This sudden attack was not successful. Mr. Thain, 
 who was ordinarily incapable of a sustained gaze by reason 
 of his extreme sensitiveness and modesty, now fixed on me 
 a long and inquiring look, which I found oppressive. He 
 took no further notice of my question than this. 
 
 I was resolved, however, to go on. 
 
 " For my part," I continued, " I think I never saw 
 Margaret appear to better advantage. Black velvet suits 
 her perfectly ; so do scarlet geraniums ; so do pearls. 
 She looks animated— that gentleman -companion of hers 
 evidently interests her; and yet she looks dignified as 
 usual too. I do not wonder that she is admired — and that 
 she is so, more particularly by her next neighbour, is clear 
 enough." 
 
 " Quite clear enough," said Ralph, with a faint smile. 
 
 " And does she not look charming ? " 
 
 The inquiring gaze again oppressed me. 
 
 Ralph replied : " The whole effect is certainly 
 pleasing." 
 
 '' A cold, ungenerous admission, Mr. Ralph. Have you 
 nothing more hearty to say ? " 
 
 ** I think not. Ask me instead to sound the praises of 
 my tiny lady-love yonder with the silvery-golden curls
 
 54 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 and the broad sash ; or of my little friend here with her 
 soft true eyes and her dress of deep mourning." 
 
 He spoke these words in an indescribably pathetic 
 tone ; they brought the blood to my cheek and a tear to 
 my eye; but while they deeply moved they only half 
 pleased me. 
 
 Here Mr. Finch came up, indomitably gay. It would 
 be difficult to conceive of natures more diverse than his 
 and Ralph's. I felt the diversity acutely in endeavouring 
 to keep up a conversation with the two at once, which was 
 like trying at the same time to rub with one hand and to 
 pat with the other. Ere long I let them talk on as they 
 would. 
 
 " Our friend Mr. Thain seems low, does he not, Miss 
 Fitzadam?" said the vicar, presently, putting his arm in 
 Ralph's with a jocular air. ^^ What can we do — we posi- 
 tively must do something — to cheer him?" 
 
 It is annoying to those who take sombre views of life 
 to be encouraged by persons in high spirits ; it was not 
 without signs of impatience that Ralph replied: "You 
 have my share of cheerfulness as well as your own, vicar, 
 I believe. How come you by so much?" 
 
 " My digestion is excellent," said the little parson. 
 
 "Not a professional answer, I am sure," rejoined 
 Ralph, crossly. *' Speaking officially and putting yourself 
 out of the question, you would not account for light- 
 heartedness so ; you would tell us that it means a good 
 conscience." 
 
 *' Right. Asa general rule I believe it does." 
 
 '* It does in your own case I am satisfied, though your
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 55 
 
 modesty inclines you to account for it otherwise in this 
 instance. I wish, vicar, you would change consciences 
 with me." 
 
 '* Heaven forbid that my soul's burdens should ever be 
 yours, my dear fellow ! " said Mr. Finch, repressing the 
 corners of his mouth. 
 
 I thought that there was nonsense here on both sides — 
 in the vicar's "Heaven forbid " to begin with. To hop and 
 twitter blithely through life, requiring only the simplest 
 supplies — such (metaphorically) as sand and seed; to 
 mate with a respectable hen, and rear hungry and trouble- 
 some young ones — these, and such as these, had been and 
 were Mr. Finch's proceedings ; and what weighty crimes 
 were compatible with such a course? His implied self- 
 blame could scarcelv be but exacr^erated. On the other 
 hand, it seemed that Ralph was silly to affect that he was 
 less virtuous himself. Every one knew his life of spotless 
 honour, of dignified labour, of dutiful devotion to his 
 father. " These sensitive conscientious persons," I said to 
 myself — deeming that each of the gentlemen in his own 
 way might be thus described — '^ do harm by painting 
 themselves so black ; for they make it appear that to be 
 modest is to forsake the truth. Humility consists in ' not 
 thinking of ourselves more highly than we ought to think ;' 
 but surely to feign ourselves worse than we are can be 
 no part of it." 
 
 I felt well satisfied with this reasoning ; which, indeed, 
 as I recal it, strikes me as having been much more sound 
 than it was orioinal. 
 
 The leaven of worldliness, which perhaps my waltz
 
 56 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 had set working, now began to show its effects plainly. 
 An old love-song, well sung, increased the ferment ; there 
 was a talk of charades. 
 
 Miss Buzzard referred the matter to Mr. Whitethread, 
 who said that it was very difficult, nay impossible, to lay 
 down any general rule with regard to the acceptance or 
 rejection of such propositions when put forth in a mixed 
 assembly like the present. In his opinion it would be 
 unwise under existing circumstances to impede the per- 
 formance of a charade, should any strong wish for such an 
 enactment be expressed. Efforts to coerce the worldly 
 were seldom likely to succeed ; and Christians, though 
 accidentally involved in earthly amusement, need not 
 drink of its spirit. 
 
 This decision, ostensibly Mr. Whitethread's, was, I 
 have no doubt, an exact exposition of Miss Buzzard's own 
 views on the question. Mr. Whitethread knew better 
 than to go beyond his patroness in such a matter ; and his 
 capacity for finding out her wishes was instinctive. 
 
 Preparations for charades soon followed ; and now the 
 Miss Buzzards of Belwood-Lodge entered upon a protestant 
 course. They retired to the library, and established round 
 games ; there was great elevation and sweetness about 
 their manner. Miss Fenning, who was a lady of Evan- 
 gelical leanings, joined the protestant party ; which, it 
 may be mentioned, embraced not only the most consistent 
 piety, but also the most magnificent toilettes of the 
 evening. 
 
 I did not dream of assisting in the performance of the 
 charades ; but to see them I was determined. The preli-
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 57 
 
 minary arrangements, doubtless of great interest to those 
 concerned in making them, to outsiders appeared as dull 
 as thej were lengthy. At last spectators were summoned 
 to the hall, in which place, on account of a convenient 
 curtain there suspended, the scenes were to be enacted. 
 
 The move had beo^un, when the crentleman whom I 
 had already noticed as being tete-a-tete with Margaret 
 Thorne, came up and unexpectedly addressed me. With 
 an apology for speaking unintroduced, he told me that 
 Miss Thorne bad sent him ; I was requested with her love 
 to come to her in the dressing-room at once. I positively 
 must not deny her wish ; if I did so the first-planned 
 charade could not take place. 
 
 I did not see what bearing my compliance or refusal 
 could have upon the performance ; but the urgency of the 
 message secured my obedience. The gentleman stranger 
 offered me his arm ; which I took, feeling proud to be 
 escorted by a graceful and handsome man — and such 
 verily Margaret's messenger was. I hoped as we passed 
 through the assembling spectators that Ralph would see 
 us, and be jealous of my companion. While indulging the 
 hope I observed that his eye was upon us. It burned with 
 the intense light of an electric spark ; clearly Ralph Thain 
 was angry ; this pleased me. 
 
 My conductor left me at the door of the breakfast-room 
 where the lady-performers were attiring themselves. 
 Margaret had found out, it now appeared, that an addi- 
 tional character was wanted for the last scene of the im- 
 pending charade ; and she had further discovered that I 
 was the only person present who could sustain it. I pro-
 
 58 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 tested long against the afterthought which thus threatened 
 to number me amongst the actors. Secretly wondering 
 at Margaret's forgetfulness of my situation — as one whose 
 family had lately been visited by a crushing calamity — I 
 pleaded shyness and inability to act effectively. But she 
 would listen to no objections ; and finally, enticed by her 
 sweet smiles, and gentle eyes (which latter, by the way, 
 gained a subtle power and beauty of their own from being 
 rather shortsighted) I gave in, and received instructions as 
 to my part. 
 
 The charade was so arranged as to tell a tale not unlike 
 that of Auld Robin Gray, Margaret was the heroine; 
 and her gentleman acquaintance, whose name I did not 
 know, represented Jamie with all the ease of perfect self- 
 faith. I filled the part of Margaret's confidential friend. 
 I remember that when I first faced the audience I not only 
 found my mouth performing several extraordinary muscular 
 feats of its own accord, but that I laboured under a total 
 forgetfulness of ordinary forms of speech, which necessi- 
 tated the employment of the most circuitous and dream- 
 like phrases. I remember too that when I had conquered 
 bashfulness, I went through a still sharper struggle to 
 maintain gravity. 
 
 The acting was probably indifferent altogether, my 
 share in it being unquestionably so. I have mentioned the 
 performance with the main object of describing certain facial 
 phenomena which I witnessed while playing my part. In 
 the first place, Mr. Albert Tyndal's countenance wore, 
 whenever I saw it, the most appallingly indignant, and dis- 
 gusted expression; while Ralph Thain's physiognomy —
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 59 
 
 always sufficiently ghostlike — assumed such an unearthly 
 whiteness as 1 had never before beheld on any living face. 
 Both gentlemen often directed their glances to me, and I 
 felt satisfied that each of them considered my prominent 
 public appearance at the present time to be an incongruity 
 and a breach of taste : but while grieved and penitent at 
 having wounded Ralph's sense of propriety, I was offended 
 that Mr. Tyndal should presume to give expression to any 
 opinion of my proceedings either one way or the other. 
 
 I expected to be visited by both these critics when the 
 charades were over, and my anticipations were verified. 
 First came Ralph Thain. It seemed that this remarkable 
 man was now in a sarcastic vein. 
 
 " Altogether a cleverly managed charade," he said, 
 referring to the first achievement. " There was something 
 quite new in the plot, and the acting was beyond reach of 
 stricture. Your sympathies, I suppose, were with the 
 young lover, when he despairingly took the ^ one kiss ' from 
 his sweetheart, in sight of her husband?" 
 
 " Certainly ; and were not your's ? " 
 
 " Poor Robin Gray ! " said Ralph. 
 
 *' Robin Gray, as you call him," I answered, "was to 
 blame. He was deeply selfish and wilfully blind. In 
 witnessing the emotion of his young wife at the sight of 
 her true husband, he received, I think, but a fraction of the 
 chastisement he deserved." 
 
 " So your compassions, Lucy, do not extend to those 
 who deserve their punishments ? I own I had hoped they 
 were broader." 
 
 I felt annoyed at what I considered an unjust imputa-
 
 60 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 tion: my face probably said as much. Ralph's baby- 
 favourite — who by this time was a good deal exhausted — 
 sidled up to her admirer at the moment, and glancing at 
 me saw wrath towards him in my eye. 
 
 " If he's naughty I'll kiss him, and he'll be good," she 
 said, — and with some difficulty, on account of the solacing 
 thumb which she was too tired to remove from her lips. 
 He took her upon his knee, and the infant, having given 
 the kiss, calmly went to sleep in his arms with a palm 
 pressed lovingly against his cheek. I had not seen him 
 look happier for a long time. 
 
 Mr. Tyndal's onslaught was of a different kind, but it 
 showed no closer relationship than Ralph's had done, to the 
 sentiment regarding my recent behaviour with which I had 
 lately credited both gentlemen. 
 
 "Miss Fitzadam," said a voice in my ear, as I admir- 
 ingly watched Ralph's quiet content, "do you know the 
 gentleman who took the most prominent part in the first 
 charade ? " 
 
 " I do not, Mr. Tyndal, do you ? " 
 " Yes ; his name is Cyril Papillon." 
 There was a light even brighter than usual playing 
 about his face as he spoke. I soon caught its meaning : it 
 signified genuine childlike curiosity. For some inscrutable 
 reason Mr. Tyndal was longing to know what I thought 
 of the individual whom he had just named ; the restless 
 dimpling of his rubicund cheeks, the unsatisfied questioning 
 of his raised eyebrows, said as much distinctly. The direct 
 verbal inquiry was not long wanting. 
 
 " And pray, may I ask. Miss Fitzadam, what sort of
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 61 
 
 an associate you found my acquaintance Mr. Papillon 
 to be?" 
 
 What a strange question ! I was partly disposed to 
 resent it ; and yet it was so characterized by an unconven- 
 tional simplicity and trustfulness that I half liked it too. I 
 therefore laughed and said : — 
 
 " I had but little to do with him after all ; really I 
 cannot tell." 
 
 The same hungry, almost infantile eagerness was still 
 apparent, as IMr. Tyndal continued ; — 
 
 " Do you mind telling me your impressions of him ? I 
 ask — not without reason — will you indulge me with a 
 candid answer ? " 
 
 I now felt indignant. The question, I thought, assumed 
 an intimacy between the questioner and me which did 
 not exist; it also seemed to betray an interest in my 
 private opinions such as I had no wish to encourage, and 
 an odious suspicion that I liked Mr. Papillon, which it was 
 necessary I should demolish. I rose quickly, and said with 
 warmth : — 
 
 "You are not justified in asking, sir ; but I will answer 
 nevertheless. I think Mr. Papillon aggressiveli/ unin- 
 teresting.''^ 
 
 The little tiff with Ralph soon blew over ; but the fire 
 that had been kindled in my bosom against Mr. Tyndal — 
 perhaps for no sufficient reason — continued to smoulder. 
 
 Ralph made his peace by taking me in to supper — a 
 meal that I never knew to be served at an evening party 
 before it was wanted. I sat near old Mr. Buzzard. The 
 excitement of displaying his silver epergnes and candelabra
 
 62 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 revived the patriarcli's memory not a little. He now noticed 
 me for the first time. "How do, my dear?" he said. 
 " Glad to see you at the Court. We know how to do it 
 well here, don't we ? Come to the Court as often as you 
 can. Always welcome." As the old man spoke Miss 
 Buzzard and two of her married sisters watched him 
 anxiously. His more lucid moments always brought 
 anxiety to the family ; for at these times he was likely to 
 discover his want of education, and to refer to humble 
 antecedents. 
 
 After supper the asperities of theological antagonism 
 were so far smoothed away that Mr. Whitethread told funny 
 stories — principally about the mistakes of parish-clerks 
 and the precocious answers of school-children — to no other 
 than the Tractarian vicar. The latter met this advance in 
 the most generous spirit, styling every anecdote '' rich," 
 and in the fulness of his amiability even employing low- 
 church phrases himself. 
 
 The festivities ended with dancing, in which I gladly 
 joined. Mr Papillon once asked me to be his partner, and 
 I saw no reason why T should refuse the request. I regretted 
 the unwarranted reply which I had made to Mr. Tyndal's 
 unwarranted question ; I wished if possible to neutralize 
 its effect. I therefore danced a deux-temps with the uncon- 
 scious object of my attempted satire. 
 
 Still I did not like Mr. Papillon. Notwithstanding 
 the high-bred curve of his nostril, the capacity of his 
 forehead, the even whiteness of his teeth, his face did not 
 favourably impress me. Nor did his manner please me 
 better. *^ So unaffected!" was the often-whispered com-
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 63 
 
 ment upon his easy bearing; and the remark was just. 
 But I said to myself that he might possibly have been 
 more acceptable to me had he been less unafifected. 
 " Affectation," I thought, " may be but the too pliant offset 
 of a sound root; and unless my sense deceives me, the 
 soundness which sometimes begets it IMr. Papillon lacks. 
 It may tell, though in weak, mistaken language, of a legi- 
 timate anxiety to please, of a wholesome consciousness of 
 defect. Mr. Papillon, I judge, possesses neither the 
 anxiety nor the consciousness : not the former, because not 
 the latter. Now, did he possess both — although I can 
 scarcely imagine him so encumbered — he is, I think, one 
 who would be affected; I might, therefore, like him better 
 perhaps if he were so." 
 
 ^luch indeed as I might lament having been betrayed 
 into a hasty judgment by Mr. Tyndal's audacious curiosity, 
 I found that the decision which my annoyance had hur- 
 riedly pronounced with respect to Mr. Papillon, was not 
 far different from that to which deliberation brought me. 
 I was not sorry to resign my place as the handsome gentle- 
 man's partner to Margaret Thorne. She and Mr. Papillon 
 were waltzing together when Miss Penning came to me to 
 suggest our departure ; and as I stood waiting for the fly I 
 could not help watching them, for the facile grace of their 
 movements was remarkable. " Is not that perfect?'' I 
 said to Ralph Thain who was near. 
 
 " Undoubtedly," he answered with a promptitude 
 which surprised me, as he did not dance or know anything 
 about dancino;. 
 
 " It is unquestionable," he continued, following some
 
 64 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 line of thought which owned but a moderately clear con- 
 nection with the observation I had made/' that physical gifts 
 carry everything before them in this world. Talk about 
 mind ! A straight nose, or a light fantastic toe, is worth 
 the whole lot of it. Oh I for tall stature and a big biceps ! 
 Do you think, Lucy, the calves may be improved by 
 cultivation ?" 
 
 For once I thought the fastidious man coarse. Could 
 Ralph be excited with wine ? The question had only just 
 begun to disturb me when Mr. Tyndal drew my hand into 
 his arm and led me to the fly. 
 
 " Miss Fitzadam," he said as we passed along, " will 
 you grant me your pardon before we part?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," I answered carelessly. 
 
 Mr. Tyndal pursed his lips, and put me into the 
 carriasce without another word. 
 
 I felt unhappy going home. I could not reconcile 
 Ralph's present attitude towards me with that tenderness 
 which he had confessed to my brother. Amidst my 
 uncomfortable fears that his feelings had undergone a 
 change it was but poor solace to remember that I had 
 brought all the discomfort upon myself by reading a letter 
 which I had not been intended to see. 
 
 When Esther came into my room to undress me that 
 niirht she said : — 
 
 *' Well, Lucy, the young men have a-been a'ter 'e 
 to-night, I'll war'nt." 
 
 " Nonsense, Esther," I answered peevishly. 
 
 "None o' the gells didn't look better I'll be boun'." 
 rejoined my nurse. " But there," she added — perhaps to
 
 EMBRYOS OF FUTURE EVENTS. 65 
 
 check vanity — as she took off my dress, " whatever fine 
 feathers we do put on, we be but poor scraps o' meat an' 
 bone a'ter all — set a-breathin' an' a-thinkin' by Them 
 above — which They alone knows the meanin' of. 
 
 " Good night, Lucy," concluded the old woman (giving 
 me a kiss) when my head was on my pillow. " But you 
 ha'n't a- said yer prayers ! Well there, I'll say 'em for 'e 
 this time."
 
 &Q ' LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 THE WESTi^ORD LITERARY, SCIENTIFIC, AND PHILOSO- 
 PHICAL INSTITUTION.— AN INCIDENT AT ONE OF ITS 
 LECTURES. 
 
 How charming is Divine Philosophy ! 
 
 Not harsh and crabbed as dull fools suppose ; 
 
 But musical as is Apollo's lute. — Milton. 
 
 Not many days after the party at Westford-Leigh Court I 
 set out for one of the lectures which were periodically 
 delivered in our town under the auspices of the Literary, 
 Scientific, and Philosophical Institution. 
 
 At the time with which I am concerned this institution 
 had existed for eight years, and its agencies for popular 
 improvement, if in some respects less efficacious than they 
 were believed to be, w^ere undoubtedly useful to the 
 important extent of furnishing the inhabitants of Westford 
 with that inestimable boon an exhaustless topic of conver- 
 sation. The museum of the society was held in especial 
 admiration by the townsfolk, who were accustomed to take 
 their guests there vrith a pride that was proof against the 
 unvarying lassitude of the visitors. The collection was 
 said in one of the annual reports to be " such as money 
 could not purchase." I will own that I should have been
 
 THE WESTFORD IXSTITUTIOX. -67 
 
 none the less satisfied with it had it possessed a more 
 definite pecuniary value. It comprised some stuffed 
 animals considerably the worse for wear, mainly of those 
 varieties which are to be found in the British Islands ; an 
 arduous series of geological specimens ; and extensive mis- 
 cellanea, which — according to a famous town joke, held 
 to be extremely clever, though totally unfounded — were 
 much more Utter-avy than scientific or philosophical. Nor 
 was the library attached to the amassment of a less dull 
 and depressing nature ; it consisted in no small degree of 
 such volumes as Broicns Tour, The Evangelical Pulpit, 
 Walker on Change of Air, Mullings^s History of Little- 
 borough, and Himmel on a Future State. 
 
 It is, however, with the society's lectures that I now 
 have to do. To hear these addresses all the town went, 
 high church, low church, and dissent alike, for topics 
 verging upon the realms of religious controversy were 
 excluded from the consideration of the mstitution. This 
 was the only restriction imposed upon lecturers in reference 
 to their subjects, which were accordingly remarkable for 
 their diversity. " Hope," '' Duels," " Cookery," " Things 
 of Beauty," and " Cotton," are themes on wliich I can 
 remember to have heard successive discourses. 
 
 A " discussion " followed each lecture, a part of the 
 entertainment respecting which I need not surely have felt 
 such apprehensions as I generally did, seeing the great 
 facilities for the communication of learning that it afforded. 
 
 The subject of the particular address to wliich I have 
 referred above was announced to be " Music." The lecture 
 was to be read by our Westford Man of Ross, Mr. Mundy,
 
 68 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 an octogenarian egotist who planted shrubs, erected gate- 
 ways, and called forth springs of water for the public 
 benefit; who walked about the market-place patriarchally, 
 bare-headed, and in slippers, and held familiar converse 
 with beggars at his door, but who had not hitherto been 
 recognized as a person of large acquaintance with the 
 musical art. It is, however, a leading excellence of 
 literary and scientific institutions that they discover latent 
 talent, and work those local mines of mental treasure 
 which but for their agency might never have been explored. 
 My attendant to the lecture in question was Mary 
 Murgatroyd. The weather was frosty and the pavements 
 were slippery, and in walking up South-street towards the 
 national schoolrooms, where these meetings always occurred, 
 I took the girl's arm to save her and myself from falls. I 
 now discovered anew, perhaps by means of our proximity, 
 that I was not partial to the good-looking housemaid, and 
 that my suspicion of her conduct in reference to the lost 
 letters remained in full force. This was an uncomfortable 
 state of things. Might I not venture, I asked myself, 
 f»-ently to sound Mary on the subject which was alienating 
 us? If she had been betrayed by curiosity (as I myself 
 had been) into an act not perfectly straightforward, perhaps 
 by a little judicious and friendly questioning she might be 
 brought to own her error, and if she had indeed taken the 
 packet, to restore it. By the same i)rocess, if I had been 
 wrongly suspecting her, I should gi\e her the opportunity 
 of declaring her innocence, and after such a declaration I 
 should, I thought, have no excuse for a continuance of my 
 mistrust.
 
 THE WESTFORD INSTITUTION. 69 
 
 It is likely that I set about my task in a mariner less 
 judicious than I had intended. Tt is enough to say that 
 the essay was unsuccessful. Mary \Yas first sullen and 
 silent, then she waxed indignant. In the moonlight I 
 could see her pretty lips pouting, and her lapses into York- 
 shire dialect further divulged the disturbance of her 
 temper. She at last uttered a threat to " tell my mamma " 
 if any such accusation as my questioning implied were 
 brought against her ; while, at the same time she opposed 
 to the charge no direct denial. 
 
 The threat confirmed my suspicion. It seemed to me 
 to show that Mary was not only acquainted witli the corre- 
 spondence between Ralph Thain and my brother, but that 
 she had accurately estimated my position as the secret 
 possessor of the embarrassing truth therein unfolded. In 
 other words, I understood the menace as designed to 
 remind me that I had no more need to wish for a publica- 
 tion of the history of the letters than she had herself. ^My 
 situation was humiliating, and I did not accept it with a 
 good grace ; many were the passions stirred within me. 
 Of these, ])ride at last gained the upper hand, tinging my 
 manner with a lofty scorn, and laying a determined finger 
 upon my lips. Thus, then, my relations with the house- 
 maid were placed on a footing of such hostility as was pro- 
 bably recognized with equal clearness on both sides. 
 
 We were late in reachins; the lecture-room. As we 
 went in, the chairman, with smiles and swayings, was end- 
 ing his introductory address, and the lecturer, Mr. Mundy, 
 already stood to begin. Exactly as I had expected: — the 
 old man would not speak a word till the noise of our
 
 70 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 entrance was over. My attendant having subsided in the 
 rear, I, in walking to my front seat, had to hear alone the 
 gazes of the assembled town, which gazes were bitter with 
 the righteous reproachfulness of offended punctuality ; and 
 I was further called on to endure the searching inspection 
 of the eccentric lecturer himself, who, until I had taken 
 my place, mercilessly eyed me with the twinkhng organs of 
 observation that glimmered out from the leathery folds of 
 his mask-like visage. These things tried me, but I directed 
 my face to be calm, and it obeyed orders. 
 
 It relieved me not a little when Mr. Mundy at last 
 ended his silent lecture to me upon lateness, and prepared 
 himself to deliver his spoken and public one upon music 
 by quaffing a preliminary tumbler of cold water. I now 
 looked about me to ascertain what friends of mine were 
 in my neighbourhood, and a glance sufficed to prove that 
 none were near save those whose relation to myself might 
 be described by the word acquaintance. Having forti- 
 fied himself with the above-mentioned cheerful and 
 sustaining bowl, Mr. Mundy began his lecture on music as 
 follows : — 
 
 " At an early period of my life I was charmed by the 
 song of birds. The airs of Handel are believed by many 
 to be beautiful ; but I am not here to discuss the merits of 
 mere human musicians. Nightingales, let it be remem- 
 bered, conversed in melody before the flute was formed, or 
 the lyre strung. Of them and of their compeers in song 
 I shall speak with authority ; but I shall not attempt to 
 decide respecting the harmonious compositions of Handel, 
 Mozart, and others. I possess no knowledge on such
 
 THE WESTFORD INSTITUTION. 71 
 
 subjects, and what I do not possess I cannot commu- 
 nicate.*' 
 
 This candid and startling avowal appeared to create no 
 general surprise. Nor, indeed, did much astonishment or. 
 sense of incongruity seem to be produced when the lecturer 
 next dwelt at length on the somewhat irrelevant facts of his 
 eighty years' residence in the town, and of the public im- 
 provements which had been effected in the place by his 
 instrumentality during that period. His mention of the 
 " creditable and imposing thoroughfare, called South 
 Street," which, he said, had replaced " crooked, narrow, 
 and disreputable lanes," evoked a loud murmur of approval. 
 in which was mingled no hum of discontent at the 
 digression ; and, as he enumerated the " valuable institu- 
 tions," the architectural and other beauties of ^Yestford, the 
 audience evidently forgot his erring tendencies amidst the 
 proud emotions of their own hearts. 
 
 After a while Mr. Mundy so far remembered his 
 theme as to return to the nio^htincrales. He now related 
 how certain ^' miscreants " had once driven from his 
 shrubbery a pair of those delightful songsters ; how he had 
 afterwards addressed a letter to the Home Secretary of the 
 day, urging legislative measures for the protection of 
 '' feathered and tuneful visitants to our shores ; " how, 
 doubtless by some accidental mischance, he had never 
 received from the Secretary of State any reply to the 
 communication whatever. 
 
 He then proceeded to say that from harmony — from 
 heavenly harmony — the universal frame began, thus enter- 
 ing upon the consideration of music in its mystical signifi-
 
 72 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 cation. He spoke at great length of the " Diapason — 
 Man," and here shot a little too high for his audience — 
 some tendencies towards yawning being the result. 
 Fortunately, the Cuckoo presently came to the rescue, 
 and once more the ear of the meeting was attentive. 
 There followed a reference to the persons who have " no 
 music in themselves," and who thereby show themselves 
 fit for " treasons, stratagems, and spoils." Such people 
 were identified with those who are ^' unable to appreciate 
 the soft tinkling of the distant sheep-bell, the murmur of 
 the brook, and the morning melodies of larks." Mr. 
 Mundy ridiculed, however, musical susceptibilities of a 
 more advanced kind, and at last went so far as to quote 
 approvingly that heterodox couplet of the unmusical dean, 
 which limits the scope of melodious effect to the diff'erence 
 between tweedledum and tweedledee. 
 
 The lecture had ended before the audience were aware 
 of its close, for Mr. Mundy, who delighted to do un- 
 expected things, finished with an inconclusive sentence 
 and then continued grinningly to face the assembly, as 
 though intending to add more presently. After a pause, 
 which distressed sensitive people, and made them stare 
 awkwardly at their knees — thinking that the aged lecturer 
 could not make out his notes, or that some other painful 
 barrier stopped his way — the old gentleman suddenly turned 
 his' face to the chairman, and said he had been given to 
 understand that discussions usually took place at the close 
 of the lectures : he feared that the present silence denoted 
 an absence of interest in the remarks he had made. 
 
 This brought up the chairman, who, as before, swayed
 
 THE WESTFORD INSTITUTION. 73 
 
 and smiled, and who spoke In dulcet tones. He was a 
 small member of the great Buzzard family — a man 
 esteemed for '^ geniality," combined with " great adminis- 
 trative talent," whose little head was bald and shiny, 
 whose manner was soft as butter and sw^eet as honey. 
 He said he was quite sure that he uttered the feeling of the 
 assembly, if, indeed, any feeling whatever could be alleged 
 to have existed, when he expressed the profoundest regret 
 at the comparatively early termination of the able and 
 highly-interesting lecture to which it had been our 
 privilege to listen on the present occasion. It was 
 impossible to conceive that the subject which had been 
 dealt with on the present occasion could have been more 
 exhaustively handled. It was not to be wondered at if, on 
 the present occasion, in the face of the learned and 
 exhaustive lecture to which it had been our privilege to 
 listen, gentlemen exhibited a certain reluctance to come 
 forward for purposes of criticism or discussion ; but still it 
 was his duty, while tendering cordial thanks to the 
 lecturer on behalf of the meeting for the able, learned, and 
 exhaustive lecture to which we had had the privilege of 
 listening on the present occasion, to invite members of the 
 Institution, who were in the room, to offer any remarks 
 that might occur to them on the interesting subject which 
 had been so ably and exhaustively dealt with by the 
 venerable lecturer on the present occasion. 
 
 Mr. Button, organist at the parish church, here rose. 
 He was an oracle on musical questions, and a daring 
 player. His faith centred in Handel ; and he preferred 
 the more florid and jubilant compositions of that master.
 
 74 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 Now, indeed, he was receiving from the vicar unwelcome 
 instruction in ancient church music ; but the rebound from 
 this enforced study was great, and the gust with which at 
 the end of a Gregorian service he would break out into 
 " Oh, had I Jubal's lyre," or " Rejoice greatly," was 
 remarkable and refreshing. 
 
 It was not to be expected that this profound and accom- 
 plished musician would allow the present opportunity for 
 vindicating the high claims of his art to pass unimproved. 
 He stood up assuming a robust, Handelian mien, as though 
 about, perhaps, to awake the trumpet's lofty sound. His 
 very posture was borrowed from Roubillac's statue of the 
 composer in Westminster Abbey. I did not, however, know 
 this until long afterwards, when it was explained to me 
 why, on great occasions, Mr. Button was given to throw 
 his head back, and to point with his left thumb over his 
 left shoulder. These attitudes, I was at length credibly 
 informed, were his rendering of those in which the sculptor 
 has represented the musician as listening for celestial har- 
 monies ; such, certainly, were the gestures with which he 
 enforced his criticisms on Mr. Mundy's lecture. 
 
 He said that while recognising the force and terseness 
 of the lecturer's language, the richness of his illustrations, 
 the aptness of his imagery — he might even go so far as to 
 add the appropriateness of his similitudes, and the wealth 
 of his metaphor — he (Mr. Button) must take the liberty to 
 confess, and indeed he must venture to say, that he was 
 totally unable to attach that importance to the song of 
 birds — considered as a musical or melodious performance — 
 which the venerable gentleman had attributed to it. It was
 
 THE WESTFORD INSTITUTIOX. 75 
 
 with the utmost deference and respect that he (Mr. Button) 
 presumed to differ from the lecturer, whose erudition was 
 known to all, and wdiose learnino;, moreover, was univer- 
 sally felt and recognized. But still his (Mr. Button's) 
 musical principles would not permit him to be silent; for 
 in candour he must ow^n that thej compelled him to speak. 
 He would begin with the cuckoo — a bird wdiose music had 
 been highly praised. It was his desire to approach the 
 question dispassionately: he wished to rid himself of all 
 professional prejudice. Now, he ventured to ask, what was 
 the interval composing the cuckoo's familar song? Was it 
 a major third ? Was it a minor third ? Was it any 
 intelligible musical interval whatever? The answer to 
 these queries should be given in all calmness. It was, 
 generally speaking, a false and WTiintelligible interval. He 
 had shown, then, by a closely linked chain of reasoning, in 
 which, so far as he was aware, no flaw could be discovered, 
 — if his argument was imperfect, let the imperfection be 
 stated, and he would be the first to acknowledge the defect 
 — that the strains of the cuckoo were not musical. He would 
 now turn to the nightingale. Here, again, he hoped to be 
 candid. Once more he would put a simple question: let 
 the meeting answer it. What would be thought of the 
 young lady who, upon being asked to sing, say, for example, 
 at an evening party, should produce the sounds uttered by 
 that over-rated bird ? 
 
 A titter followed this inquiry. Amidst the noise of it 
 ]\Ir. Button, under sudden inspiration, became facetious, 
 and addressing the ladies, exclaimed with uplifted finger:— - 
 " Hush ! ye pretty warbling choir."
 
 76 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 Now followed much laughter and applause, which turned 
 the organist's head. He forgot the " venerable lecturer," 
 and spoke only to the meeting. He had no hesitation in 
 saying, he continued, that a " female " acting as he had 
 imagined, would be deemed insane, and regarded, in point 
 of fact, as wholly out of her mind. What did this prove? 
 It proved clearly, and he might add it showed plainly, that 
 to bring forward the nightingale in a lecture on music was 
 an absurdity. The nightingale did her best, but she was 
 not a musician. To maintain that she Avas so was simply to 
 display the grossest ignorance, and at the same time to evince 
 the most abject want of information. 
 
 At this point the chairman was again heard. With 
 more swaying and smiling than ever, he said he felt certain 
 that nothing discourteous towards the learned lecturer had 
 been intended in the observations which had just fallen 
 from our valued townsman; but at the same time he 
 thought that perhaps Mr. Button's artistic feelings had on 
 the present occasion carried him somewhat too far, and 
 that some of the expressions he had employed were such as 
 he would feel it right, on reflection, to retract. 
 
 Mr. Button, alarmed, hastened to repair his error. He 
 perceived the justice of the respected chairman's remarks, 
 as well as the reasonableness of what he had said, and he 
 begged to apologise to the lecturer. After all, it must be 
 admitted that there was great beauty and sweetness in the 
 strains of the nightingale, and if, he added, he might 
 venture upon the ground of personal experience, and might 
 unfold the secret sentiments of his own breast, he must 
 confess that the eminently musical tones of the cuckoo
 
 THE WESTFORD INSTITUTION. 77 
 
 were amongst his earliest and tenderest recollections. The 
 point was one, he continued, in tremulous tones, upon which 
 he could not trust himself to dwell ; he would, therefore, 
 conclude by thanking the lecturer for an address which 
 had been alike forcible and powerful, interesting and 
 absorbing. 
 
 Mr. Jesse Jarvis, a currier and bird-stufFer, now 
 hurriedly uttered some words which were not generally 
 audible. It was a strict rule of the society that no person 
 who was not one of its members should address a meetino; 
 unless called on to do so by the chairman. Mr. Jarvis's 
 remarks were, therefore, met by cries of " Order," for he 
 had not enrolled himself a member of the institution. The 
 chairman, however, overcoming a conscientious reluctance, 
 at last granted him leave to favour the assembly with any 
 remarks " which might really tend to its information upon 
 the subject before it on the present occasion." But Mr. 
 Jarvis's courage gave way. Under the horror of having 
 infringed a regulation, and with the eyes of all the room 
 upon him, he could only wipe his forehead, draw his poor 
 mouth into a foolish crescent, and remain silent. At this 
 point a goodnatured neighbour — no other than Mr. Albert 
 Tyndal, whom I was surprised to find present — came to his 
 rescue, and in a manner that was graceful because kind, 
 explained his statement. The lecturer had said, it seemed, 
 that he had often heard the gentleman-cuckoo questioning 
 the lady, and the lady responding to the gentleman. This 
 allegation, the bird-stuffer had observed, involved an orni- 
 thological error ; and in explaining on poor Mr. Jarvis's 
 behalf that the song known as the cuckoo's note was
 
 78 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 invariably produced by the male bird, Mr. Tyndal contrived 
 to show that the fact was worth learning, and that the 
 meeting was under obligations to Mr. Jar vis for having 
 called attention to it. Mr. Tyndal did not state in plain 
 terms that shy speakers are often the only ones who have 
 anything to tell, but his words implied as much, and I was 
 glad they did. 
 
 Mr. Mundy responded by making a pun in reference 
 to the bird-stuffer's name which, if I remember rightly, 
 was not quite original, about Jesse's Gleanings in Natural 
 History. No one showed more amusement at the joke than 
 he did himself; his grin was prolonged and intense, like 
 the insinuating smile of an Italian hurdy-gurdy boy, with 
 something of the Mephistophelian sneer superadded. After- 
 wards, the momentous question was propounded. Where 
 did music begin and noise end? The inquiry threw the 
 society into doubt. One, unencumbered by too detailed a 
 knowledge of the laws of vibration, declared that in his 
 opinion this was just a matter in which it was impossible to 
 know where to " draw the line ; " another recommended the 
 application to music of the poet's reverential declaration 
 " I ask not proud philosophy to teach me ivJiat thou art." 
 
 But life is short, though literary and scientific discus- 
 sions are long : the authorized period of the meeting had 
 expired. Yet once more the chairman spoke. He said 
 that on no past occasion of the kind, if his memory servied 
 him, had so many valuable suggestions been made as now. 
 He was satisfied that on the present occasion the assemblage 
 would not only disperse with a feeling of pride at the 
 literature, science, and philosophy wdiich had been so
 
 THE WESTFORl) INSTITUTION. 79 
 
 largely displayed by our fellow townsmen, but that all 
 would carry with them to their homes a fund of new and 
 valuable information, from which they might continue to 
 draw till the latest moment of their existence. It was 
 very gratifying to reflect that on the present occasion, 
 although the various discussions had been kept up with 
 unusual vigour, yet nothing had occurred to disturb the 
 harmony — he might, he thought, claim for the word "har- 
 mony " a special appropriateness on tlie present occasion — 
 the harmony of the evening. The good feeling which had 
 prevailed was in no small degree owing to the noble con- 
 duct of Mr. Button, who, finding it endangered by certain 
 of his observations, had immediately w^ithdrawn those 
 observations. Mr. Button had acted, it was his (the 
 chairman's) pride to acknowledge, in a manner worthy 
 the ages of chivalry, romance, and song. 
 
 Here the speaker came to a sudden and ominous 
 pause. Watching his face, I saw it undergo a singular and 
 striking mutation. Its " geniality " died down to a poor 
 little flicker, and then went out. A cloud of most un- 
 affected fear overshadowed it at the same instant. I 
 became aware of a confused stir and cry behind me ; I saw 
 that an ugly change had come over the spirit of the 
 meeting ; that some strong panic had seized it. A few 
 moments more, and the cry had shaped itself into the word 
 " Fire," and the stir had grown into a rush. 
 
 The national schoolrooms w^ere two in number, one 
 over the other, the upper room being that in which the 
 lecture had been given. The latter was reached by two 
 staircases, of which the principal was ordinarily used on
 
 80 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 lecture nights by the general public ; while the smaller, 
 leading to an ante-room which opened into the lecture- 
 room at the platform end, was appropriated to those who 
 were likely to take a prominent part in the proceedings, 
 and whose seats must therefore be near the chair. The 
 instinct of self-preservation, as it is called, now impelled 
 people towards that place of exit which they supposed 
 would be the less resorted to; a majority, indeed, were 
 thus urged in the direction of the lesser staircase, each one 
 forgetting tliat others might be acted on by a similar 
 impulse. Thus the great mass of the meeting came 
 tumbling helter-skelter towards the platform, and in the 
 midst of the course in which the current set w^as the bench 
 that I, in company with other women, occupied. 
 
 I was borne away by the torrent, which acquired new 
 vehemence as clouds of smoke entered the room and 
 appeared to justify the alarm. Ere long I found myself 
 flung against the doorway leading to the ante-room. 
 There I was jammed breathless, just beyond the possibility 
 of getting further. Well I recollect the merciless indiffe- 
 rence with which strong men pinned and crushed me in 
 my corner, bent solely on their own escape. But the 
 person who inflicted on me the cruellest injury was that 
 seemingly feeble organization Mr. Mosely, the haircutter. 
 Little had I dreamed what a powerful agent of violence he 
 might become, when enjoying in past days the deliciously 
 tender snip of his scissors close to my ear, or the gentle 
 touch of his cool finger-tips upon my forehead, or when 
 listening to his mesmeric tones as he descanted upon the 
 miraculous properties of the Balma Victoriana, that
 
 THE WESTFORD INSTITUTION. 81 
 
 celebrated preparation of his for producing the hair, for 
 imparting to it a glossy and luxuriant appearance, and for 
 preventing it from turning grey. He drove at or past me with 
 a dreadful blow which rendered me faint, and, so far as that 
 was possible, made me fall. I lost consciousness with the 
 image on my brain of an inextricable entanglement, 
 threatening permanent amalgamation, between Mr. Mosely 
 aforesaid, the chairman of the late meeting, and a fat 
 Baptist minister. 
 
 I have a notion that almost a giant's force was used to 
 raise and protect me. I found myself firmly supported 
 and powerfully caged within the arms of some tall man, 
 who, with his face towards mine, and his hands planted on 
 the wall at either side of my person, was receiving the 
 rush of the passing tide upon the huge breakwater of his 
 back. My protector was not choice in the language he 
 employed towards those who pressed upon him'; but the 
 words which he addressed to me were such as soon to 
 re-assure me. He believed, and he made me believe, that 
 the alarm had been false, or at least exaggerated, and that 
 danger was only to be apprehended from the prevalent 
 excitement. 
 
 Long after these opinions had obtained general accept- 
 ance the flight continued ; and not till the room was 
 nearly empty did the pressure cease. I was then led back 
 and placed in a chair upon the platform. 
 
 ''Not much hurt. Miss Fitzadam, I trust?" said my 
 rescuer. 
 
 " I think not, Mr. Tyndal." 
 
 " But a Httle faint still, I see. You may safely wait 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 where you are to recover. We shall not be consumed by 
 fire, I am satisfied." 
 
 " Is anyone killed or injured, do you. think?" 
 " Do not trouble yourself to inquire, Miss Fitzadam ; 
 nobody has shown much interest in ^/oilv safety." 
 " Except the kind gentleman who has saved me." 
 The room now beo^an to fill ao-ain, and an authentic 
 account of what had happened was brought in. There 
 had been a heavy fall of soot in the schoohnaster's domain 
 below stairs, which had created a blaze and a smoke ; but 
 no real danger of conflagration had ever existed. Amidst 
 the crush of the unreasoning crowd, I, it appeared, had 
 not been the only or the worst sufferer ; two persons w^ere 
 reported to be seriously hurt. 
 
 Mr. Tyndal made no secret of his contempt for the 
 men who had taken part in the recent stampede. He 
 called names right and left, fortunately without directly 
 applying the titles to individuals. The Westford gentle- 
 men were " pigeon-livered boobies," " cowardly block- 
 heads," and ** sneaking dastards." The triumphant tone now 
 taken up by the returning heroes certainly afforded some 
 excuse for these fierce denunciations. Amongst others, 
 the chairman lifted up his voice. On these distressing 
 occasions, he remarked, the chief danger to be appre- 
 hended arose from the general consternation. Having left 
 the room when the excitement was at its height, for the 
 purpose of ascertaining the exact cause of the alarm, he 
 was in a position to testify to the peril which was involved 
 in the pressure of a terrified crowd. 
 
 To one person, at least, the credit is due, of a self-
 
 THE WESTFORD INSTITUTION. 83 
 
 possession which had remained undisturbed throughout 
 
 the commotion. The lecturer had not moved from his 
 
 chair, nor had he, I think, even suspended his grin during 
 
 the late scene. His face and figure seemed to say, that 
 
 having come to that place with a laudable object of public 
 
 utility in view, it had been impossible for him to do 
 
 Providence the injustice of supposing that any mischief 
 
 would be permitted to result to him from the visit. 
 
 He now rose and quietly went home — his arms folded 
 
 behind him in his usual manner — doubtless to sup 
 
 on his accustomed bread-and-milk with his accustomed 
 appetite. 
 
 In course of time my knees and other joints — which 
 
 had been strangely weakened by the assault and battery 
 
 that I had endured — recovered something of their usual 
 
 power. I told Mr. Tyndal — who had not left me — that I 
 
 should now go home. I feared that my parents would 
 
 hear reports of a disaster, and would suffer anxiety on 
 
 my account ; 1 was therefore eager to reach them, and I 
 
 said so. An arm was offered me, which I took. Marv 
 
 Murgatroyd — about whose safety I had for a while 
 
 felt some unpleasant doubts — had by this time come to 
 
 me. Gravely and silently she followed us out under 
 
 the stars. 
 
 " Are you really better now. Miss Fitzadam ?" — this 
 
 as we reached my father's door. 
 
 " Really ; and what can I say to you, Mr. Tyndal ? " 
 
 " Good night is the proper word, I suppose." 
 
 " But you must come in, sir ; my parents would never 
 
 forgive me if I let you go unthanked.'*
 
 84 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 " I am not unthanked. But, bless me ! Miss Fitzadam, 
 I am more afraid of your parents than I can say. For 
 pity's sake don't ask me to see them. I dare not." 
 
 To these extraordinary words he added a hasty fare- 
 well, and then fairly ran off, leaving me in no small 
 astonishment. 
 
 I rang the bell, and the door was opened almost 
 immediately. 
 
 " Mary ! " T said, as soon as I saw the housemaid's face 
 in the light of the hall, " what is the matter ? You told 
 me that you had not been hurt in the crowd ; but surely 
 you must have been hurt ? '* 
 
 Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes overflowed with 
 tears, which she evidently tried hard to contain. Reproach- 
 ing myself for the coldness of my previous inquiries as to 
 how she had fared in the recent melee — which coldness I 
 feared must have some unworthy connection with the mis- 
 understanding developed between us earlier in the evening 
 — I prepared myself now to be as considerate and kind as 
 I could. But the girl failed to meet my advances. Putting 
 me aside with a petulant gesture, she quickly passed up- 
 stairs to her room. 
 
 I suppose I need scarcely say that the wrath with 
 which Mr. Tyndal had filled my breast on the occasion 
 of our previous meeting had now quite subsided. He 
 undoubtedly possessed the power — not worth much, 1 
 daresay— of stirring my feelings considerably. When I 
 had felt irate with him, I had felt very irate ; and now 
 that I was grateful towards him, I was very grateful 
 indeed. But on the whole I would rather have owed my
 
 THE WESTFOKD INSTITUTION. 85 
 
 deliverance from fear and injury to somebody else, say to 
 Mr. Ralph Thain. 
 
 This last-mentioned gentleman, and the Yicar, both 
 of whom had frequent evening occupation of their own, 
 had escaped the pains and penalties — as well as the 
 gratification — of hearing Mr. Mundy's discourse on music.
 
 86 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VIT. 
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 
 
 Festus. How do you think, pray, to get through the world ? 
 Student. I mean not to get through the world at all ; 
 But over it. — Festus. 
 
 On the afternoon next following the lecture-night I became 
 unwell. The fright and bruising which I had sustained, 
 or perhaps the chilly walk home after all the hot excite- 
 ment, now told upon me in a manner strange and rapid. 
 Going to bed earlier than usual, I forthwith missed my 
 identity, and entered upon a weary and fruitless endeavour 
 to establish some satisfactory distinction between myself, 
 the candle, and the looking-glass. The confusion became 
 worse confounded. Now it appeared that Esther was a 
 French verb — and that of the most irregular description — 
 with varieties of tense so considerable as might have pro- 
 voked even the Greek tongue to jealousy. Now it seemed 
 that I myself was Music, with a disorganized scale ; and 
 Mr. Mundy, wanting in all tenderness for my state, per- 
 sistently lectured upon me. Anon, everything wretchedly 
 resolved itself into mere tumbled head and creased pillow. 
 This seemed to go on long, but I knew not at the time
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 87 
 
 how long. At last, so it pleased Heaven, I emerged from 
 these involved and disordered imaginings. People and 
 things once more fell into their places ; and amongst them 
 I was disclosed to myself as being Lucy Fitzadam in bed, 
 weak but mending, after an attack of fever. 
 
 Now I lay straight and still, feebly tracing ladies, 
 gentlemen, and monkeys in the curtain fringes : thinking 
 in a horizontal low-level manner such calm thoughts as 
 would easily melt into soft and pleasant dreams of swim- 
 ming, or of flying without effort at sligiit elevations. And 
 while this continued, the shortest day hasted to be gone, 
 and Christmas (scarcely looking this year into our be- 
 reaved house) shuffled past : old impostor that he is ; more 
 than half Pagan after all, yet not quite un-Cliristian even 
 wdiere he is most heathenish ! The new year found me 
 steadily gathering strength; but I needed to gather much 
 still before my usual measure could be filled. 
 
 It will not have escaped the attention ot the reader 
 that the rival religious creeds of our town had hitherto 
 alike failed to intiuence me. My indiiference was not 
 destined to continue; and the season of convalescence 
 which I am about to describe saw its final departure. 
 
 Mr. Finch had visited me throughout my illness. 
 Amongst the visions of my delirious head freckled hands 
 had from time to time been present, and not without 
 warrant from reality. I now learnt to look for a visit 
 from the Vicar daily. He proved more tolerable in a sick 
 room than I could have imagined. His talk cheered me ; 
 the visitation service from his lips was comforting and 
 pathetic. I soon decided that I liked him better than the
 
 ^8 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 doctor, who troubled me to take nourishment and physic, 
 while he never disturbed the supineness which I found 
 most comfortable. From this stage of feeling I passed on 
 to another : I began to look forw^ard to his visits as a relief 
 and a pleasure. 
 
 During those long, still days of recovery I thought a 
 good deal of this innocent canary-bird clergyman. That 
 he took great interest in me I could not fail to notice ; if 1 
 was better his eye always brightened; if w^orse the tone 
 of his prayers was additionally earnest. I began to know 
 the kindness of his heart. By degrees, too, I came to 
 perceive that his own ideal of duty was lofty, while he 
 was clement towards the shortcomings of others. At last, 
 indeed, it daw^ied upon my dark mind that, notwithstand- 
 ing his staccato manner and volatile spirits, my pastor was 
 consistently and steadfastly good. 
 
 I fell to comparing myself with him. Tried against 
 the touchstone of that solid and even w^orth which medita- 
 tion on his character brought to light, my best virtues 
 quickly revealed the alloy that was in them. The self- 
 blame and aspiration which followed were alike strong and 
 durable. But here I have to record an example of the 
 perversity of my nature : the clergyman to whom I ow^ed 
 my first breathings after spiritual amelioration was not 
 the person whom I selected to direct my spiritual progress. 
 
 At this time a new curate — Mr. Pontifex — came to the 
 parish church, and, introduced by the Vicar, visited our 
 house. He was a man of ultra-high-church views. Is 
 it a mere cloud of human weakness, or the focus of 
 heavenly charity, in the fair lives of such clergymen as
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 89 
 
 Mr. Finch, that they will not repress the extravagancies 
 of young subordinates ? Mr. Pontifex pushed his mediaeval 
 practices and sacerdotal airs to a point clearly detrimental 
 to the high-church cause; yet he always appeared to 
 receive the countenance of his vicar. I blush to own it, 
 but own it I must ; I fell under the influence of tlie curate's 
 pretensions; and I did so with a suddenness which, I 
 suspect, astonished the young gentleman himself. 
 
 The first day I was w^ell enough to go into the draw- 
 ing-room Mr. Pontifex called. But little being required 
 of me in the way of talking, I simply watched and listened, 
 while my mother did her best to be civil to the visitor. I 
 soon observed that on all religious topics she was firmly 
 put down, and that the curate so led the conversation as 
 sooner or later to make every topic partake of a religious 
 (or rather ecclesiastical) character. With the frowardness 
 of youth I straightway accepted the claims to superior 
 enlightenment put forth by the juvenile priest; and con- 
 cluded that my mother — and all of us — had been spending 
 our past lives in dense ignorance of truth and dut}^ Like 
 the well-bred woman she was, my mother scarcely seemed 
 to notice the settincr-to-rights administered to her. Shut 
 up first on one side, then on the other by some canon of 
 mediaevalism, she bravely and repeatedly tried new outlets 
 for the talk ; and it was only at the end of the visit that a 
 slight straightening of her upper lip betrayed the threatened 
 failure of her patience. Meantime the legate of Heaven 
 laid down the law without miscrivincr, as of course the 
 legates of Heaven may and ought. Every movement of 
 his small and erect figure ; the authoritative curve of his
 
 90 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 ])roiinnent nose ; the confident flare of his highly-coloured 
 cheeks; and the shrill blast of his voice, which, as my 
 corruptions have since suggested, was not without a certain 
 penny-trumpet twang — alike spoke a conviction that his 
 mission of criticism and condemnation was divine. The 
 inexperienced are given to take men at their own valuation ; 
 I believed in Mr. Pontifex, because Mr. Pontifex believed 
 implicitly in himself. 
 
 "My dear child," said my mother, w^hen the curate 
 was gone, *^ what a conceited young man ! I guessed that 
 he was so before; now I am sure of it." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, do you think so ? He is very good and 
 devoted, is he not?" 
 
 " Yes, love. Now — should you not take your jelly ?" 
 
 " Not just yet, mamma, please ; but " 
 
 My father here came in and prevented me from going 
 back to Mr. Pontifex ; he himself, however, had something 
 to say about that gentleman. He remarked to my mother : 
 
 " This new parson of yours is a shining light no doubt ; 
 but he seems to be more particularly so in his own esti- 
 mation." 
 
 " Papa ! " I exclaimed, " do you think that ? He is 
 very self-denying and useful, is he not ?" 
 
 " So his friends say, my child ; and I did not say 
 otherwise." 
 
 Just then Esther opened the door, and came in with 
 the dreaded glass of jelly. She held me strictly to my 
 times for nourishment. 
 
 She was evidently ill-pleased ; and the reason of her 
 ill-pleasure was not long in coming out.
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 91 
 
 " I wish 'M," she said, addressing my mother, " as 
 these here young clargymen 'ud a-mind their own business, 
 'stead o' queshtuning folks out o' their senses about the 
 sacriment an' that." 
 
 " What, Esther," said my father, smiling, " have you 
 undergone such a questioning?" 
 
 " Hum ! " murmured the old nurse, ^^ an' I'd a-know'd 
 th' ins an' th' outs o' the worl' forty year afore he com'd 
 into it ! There, he do want a dose o' senny, to show him 
 as he's mortal." 
 
 " Esther ! " said my mother, " I fear Mr. Pontifex has 
 oifended you ? " 
 
 " The little pigeon-breasted little stuck-up little chap ! " 
 exclaimed Esther, contemptuously. *' I'll be boun' he didn't 
 sit in the front row when feelin's was give out. I do 
 wish every one to go to Heaven, an' he wi' 'em ; but if ivver 
 I gets there too, I hope as he'll keep over t'other side, 
 that's all." 
 
 " Esther ! " I said, solemnly, " you are very wicked to 
 say that : he is God's priest." 
 
 " God's fiddlestick ! " cried Esther, in some wrath, as 
 she handed me the calf s-foot jelly. 
 
 The general dislike of the new curate thus displayed 
 tended to crown the sovereignty of my faith in him ; and 
 thus it happened that in course of time the Vicar's reli- 
 gious influence over me was lost in that of his young 
 colleague. 
 
 The only books beyond my Bible and Prayer-book 
 which Mr. Finch had placed in my hands were A Kempis's 
 Imitation of Christ, and Bishop Taylor's Golden Grove.
 
 92 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 From both of these works I had, perhaps, gained some good. 
 The first, indeed, I could only profit by at a distance : the 
 heavenly wisdom of its precepts, the immaculate saint- 
 liness of its piety, awed and alarmed me. Its purity was 
 no light that could be kindled in my own earthly breast — 
 it was an effulgence of the skies, serene and far — a glory 
 to sigh after, not to attain. But the laborious, business-like 
 religion of Bishop Taylor seemed such as even I — eked out 
 by long effort — might reach. His scrupulous confessions and 
 detailed litanies came home to me : they fitted my failings, 
 they gave voice to my misgivings and aspirations. On his 
 model, indeed, my religion had for awhile been mainly 
 moulded : under him I had framed long lists of postulanda 
 and agenda, in pursuance of which I had daily spent many 
 hours in prayer, and had performed with rigid punctuality 
 such limited acts of self-denial and charity as could be 
 accomplished on the sofa or in bed. 
 
 But, tutored by Mr. Pontifex, my spiritual taste under- 
 went rapid development ; and the old-fashioned fare above- 
 mentioned w^as rejected for other and more flavourous food. 
 Tliere came into my hands certain manuals of nineteenth- 
 century authorship : the sweet strangeness of their dogmatic 
 teaching absorbed my imagination, while the ecstacy of 
 their meditations entranced my heart. I was really in 
 earnest; these books justified themselves to my conscience, 
 because they bore the stamp of earnestness ; but would 
 they have prevailed over me as they did but for their 
 whisper of doctrinal novelties, and their emotional and 
 rapturous musings ? I think not. 
 
 From the first my religious feelings had brought forth
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 93 
 
 practical results. Under the influence of Mr. Pontifex and 
 his literature this went on to morbid exaggeration. By 
 way of self-humiliation I hunted up a number of old "sins 
 of the tongue," and apologized for them to the persons 
 whom my scrupulous conscience affirmed had been injured 
 thereby. I renounced pillows, as savouring of fleshly indul- 
 gence ; I let my fire burn low, and denied myself a night- 
 light. Amongst these reforms some useful ones were 
 probably effected. For instance, I no longer hesitated 
 about taking my calf's-foot jelly when I was required to do 
 so, but because it was rather unpleasant to me, I took it at 
 once. I may add that when this readiness to receive 
 nourishment was commented on by my parents as a token 
 of returning appetite, I was careful not to acquaint them 
 with their mistake, lest I should mar the merit of my real 
 motive in revealing it. 
 
 Let me now show how the state of mind which I am 
 endeavouring to represent bears upon the course of this 
 history. While searching after half- forgotten weaknesses, 
 with the object of founding upon them special " acts '' of 
 humiliation and devotion, my conduct with respect to 
 Frank's letters fell upon my memory. I saw with dismay 
 that, if my new principles were worth anything, that mistake 
 of mine (that sin as I now held it to have been) must be 
 made conducive to fresh self-abasement. 
 
 Being brought to this conclusion at midnight I spent 
 several sleepless hours in consequence. A dozen times I 
 gave up the notion of laying bare my weakness ; but a 
 dozen times the conviction returned to me that the sacrifice 
 must be made. A comfortable resolve at last came to my
 
 94 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 relief. I determined to make a formal and complete 
 confession to Mr. Pontifex. In the morning I further 
 decided that I would not sleep again until the letters 
 were thus off my mind : that the curate would call I had 
 no doubt. 
 
 As the time at which he usually presented himself drew 
 on, my agitation became painful. I feared that no conve- 
 nient opportunity might offer for the confidential commu- 
 nication which I longed to make : I dreaded the possible 
 failure of my courage at the last moment, should the occa- 
 sion prove propitious. When the knock at the front door 
 sounded I trembled and turned faint. I was alone — so 
 far, good ; solemnly calling on myself to be firm, I waited 
 the opening of the drawing-room door, intending to enter 
 upon my subject the moment the young priest should 
 appear. 
 
 Man proposes, God disposes : it was not the curate but 
 the Vicar who came in. I was disappointed. The confession 
 on which I had determined was, indeed, one that it would 
 have cost me some humiliation to make ; but the prospect 
 of placing myself in a confessor's hands had not been — 
 as I now saw— entirely unpleasant. 
 
 I knew full well that Mr. Finch would not deal with 
 my difficulty according to my desire. The curate would 
 have invited my full confidence ; would have allotted his 
 own secret penance, and granted plenary absolution with 
 acceptable despatch. I foresaw that the Vicar, if I 
 referred my trouble to him, would not suffer my communi- 
 cation to assume the character of an auricular whisper at 
 at all. Nevertheless I determined to unfold to him my
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 95 
 
 distress. My irritable conscience could no longer endure 
 
 the ranklinor of an unowned fault. 
 
 " Mr. Finch," I said, hastily, after greetings had been 
 
 exchanged, " do you know something is weighing on my 
 
 mind — something I have done wrong. I should like to 
 
 tell you about it if I may." 
 
 The Yicar smiled : it was a remarkably pleasant smile. 
 
 Til en he patted my head as though I had been a child ; but 
 
 not a word did he say. 
 
 As he was silent I went on : — 
 
 " I am afraid the sin I speak of was very great. The 
 
 act was grievously dishonourable, and " 
 
 Here a hand was laid on my arm. I felt that it was a 
 
 kind hand, but that its owner was determined I should not 
 proceed any further. 
 
 " You shall tell your fault to me, Lucy," said the Vicar, 
 " when, and only when, better means of disburdening your 
 mind have failed. Any error that you may have com- 
 mitted must have been a sin against God. To Him, there- 
 fore, it should, in the first place, be fully and humbly 
 confessed, and in this primary confession you should seek 
 and expect to find the relief you need. Then further, 
 Lucy — (here the remarkabl}^ pleasant smile came back to 
 Mr. Finch's face after a short banishment) — don't forget 
 that you are still a nestling. The mistake you deplore 
 must have partaken more or less of a domestic character. 
 I advise, therefore, that in your difficulty, whatever it may 
 be, you should just creep under the maternal wing. Tell 
 your mother what you have done wrong, ask her advice, and 
 bless God for giving you these additional means of comfort."
 
 96 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 In the face of this recommendation I can confidently 
 assert that Mr. Finch was a true high-churchman, with 
 lofty notions of the priestly office and prerogative. But 
 then he was also a father. Some parental reflection as 
 to what he would wish his own darling little Agnes to do 
 under circumstances like mine had, no doubt, directed his 
 advice to me. 
 
 I promised to follow the counsel, but I did not like it. 
 To have whispered my sin to one claiming Divine authority 
 as the recipient of such acknowledgments ; to have heard 
 my error classified, my penance adjudged, my pardon 
 pronounced by him ; this would have met my inclination 
 exactly. But to tell my fault in a commonplace, domestic 
 manner — (to speak truth, I did not dwell much on the first 
 part of the Vicar's advice: I believed I had already followed 
 it) — was a course which owned for me no attractions. The 
 remedy appeared inefficacious as well as uninteresting. It 
 almost certainly involved, moreover, that which my own 
 scheme had excluded, viz., the necessity that my parents 
 should learn the discovery I had made of Ralph Thain's 
 regard for me : for as a confessor I knew that Mr. Pontifex 
 would have been secret ; while I could not fail to see that 
 my mother's inquiries, when she should come to hear of 
 Frank's letters, w^ere likely to be irrepressible. My con- 
 science, however, forbade shirking. I had consulted a 
 clergyman as to how I ought to act : by his decision I was 
 bound. Accordingly, that same afternoon, when alone 
 with my mother, I opened the matter with her thus ; — 
 
 «' Mamma ! " 
 
 « My love."
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 97 
 " Do you know " 
 
 " What is it, my child ? Nothing the matter, I hope ? 
 You look pale." 
 
 " I am afraid I have done something very wrong." 
 
 " I don't share the fear, my love ; but I respect the 
 sensitive conscience that it springs from." 
 
 " Hush ! mother, pray ; you will agree with me when 
 you know the truth. May I tell it ?" 
 
 " Certainly, my child." 
 
 " Mamma, when dear Frank died, Esther foand a 
 packet of letters in his pocket." 
 
 I paused here. I saw the flickering artificial light 
 which my mother had kindled in her sad eyes to cheer 
 me dwindle into darkness. 
 
 ''When dear Frank died!" she said, slowly, gazing 
 fixedly on the ground, and apparently overlooking the 
 farther words which had formed the gist of my remark. 
 
 ** Yes — then," I said firmly, frightened at the pending 
 avowal, and impatient of longer suspense — " then the 
 packet of letters was found." 
 
 "Letters, Lucy?" 
 
 " Yes, mother ; and thev were brouofht to me. Esther 
 gave them into my charge, thinking that the sight of them 
 just then would only make you the more unhappy." 
 
 '' Ah, and thinking, too, I suppose, that time would 
 enable me to read them calmly, would make me generally 
 composed and acquiescent. Time has some heavy work 
 to do, Lucy ! " 
 
 Here my mother cried. 
 
 I covered my face. If these were the first fruits of my 
 
 7
 
 93 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 confession, Avhat would be the whole harvest of its results ? 
 I could not tell ; but I thought it best to go on now I had 
 begun. 
 
 I did go on. I tried to unravel and lay out separately 
 the interwoven motives which had urged me to read the 
 letters. I told the number of the letters I had read. 
 Gathering force of will as I proceeded, I even owned that 
 one communication which I had seen had manifestly never 
 been intended for my eye. Further than this I could not 
 go. Here I took refuge in general acknowledgments of 
 folly, of dishonourable conduct, and of positive sin. By 
 this time my agitation and pallor were, I daresay, con- 
 spicuous. 
 
 To see me disquieted made my mother forgetful of her 
 own unhappiness. She kissed and comforted me ; made 
 light of my fault ; carefully eschewed for the time all 
 further inquiry that might additionally have distressed 
 me. Under the influence of her gentleness I soon grew 
 calm again. 
 
 One question she presently put to me. I had known 
 that it must come ; and foreseeing that it might result in 
 bringing Mary Murgatroyd under the suspicion of my 
 parents, and so lead by some involved process to a full 
 revelation of my position, I had dreaded it greatly. '' Tell 
 me, Lucy," said my mother softly, with a tone of finality 
 in her voice," where are the letters, my love?" 
 
 « Mamma," I answered, colouring, " the letters have 
 strangely disappeared." 
 
 " Disappeared, Lucy ? when, and in what way?" 
 
 I told where I had put, when missed, them. After
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 99 
 
 these revelations the facts gradually came out: — that Mary 
 Murgatroyd had seen me read them ; that in reading them 
 I had betrayed particular feeling which she had particu- 
 larly noticed ; that nobody but she, Esther, and myself 
 had known at first of their existence ; but that Mary, as it 
 appeared, must have been wholly ignorant of their origin 
 and nature when she saw me reading them. 
 
 I had grown excited again during the narration. My 
 mother saw it, and once more quieted me. She had heard 
 enough, she said ; I was to be calm and happy, to think 
 no more of the affair. I knew that she must be burninxj 
 with eagerness to possess and pore upon the missing relics 
 of her son. That she disguised that eaorerness I take to 
 have been a remarkable proof of the self-subjection which 
 she was always ready to practise for my comfort. 
 
 A month passed before I heard any more of the matter. 
 Meanwhile I gradually improved in health, the heroship 
 and honours of illness being still more gradually laid aside. 
 They were not laid aside without regret; and the aban- 
 donment brought to my mind reminiscences of the day 
 after the birthday in early years, when, lifted down from a 
 pedestal of privilege, one had found the common level of 
 plain nursery food, of dull walks, and monotonous lessons, 
 just a little tame. The sense of loss disposed me to make 
 the most of my own resources, and thus quickened my 
 Pontifex-isin, which accordingly ran riot both in doctrine 
 and practice. 
 
 This month of recovery showed me a truth which, if I 
 had in any measure perceived it before, I had certainly 
 lost sight of during my illness. It was, that my father
 
 100 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 had Lecome an altered man since Frank's death. His 
 intellectual supremacy in his house was not so manifest as 
 formerly ; he appeared to be mentally below par. He 
 was excitable too, sometimes almost violent. His temper 
 moved with the speed and uncertainty of thunder-clouds; 
 the storm might gather and break — his brow darken, his 
 eye flash — at any moment. 
 
 At the end of the month I have referred to Mary one 
 day came gustily into my bedroom, where I was alone. 
 The manner of her entrance was unusual; she generally 
 glided about with dainty and noiseless movements. I saw 
 directly that something had come to pass in relation to the 
 lost letters. 
 
 Something ; but what I could not for the life of me dis- 
 cover from Mary's words— except, indeed, that the loss of 
 her place was involved in it. The naughtiness of children, 
 which evokes the severity of rigid moralists, excites in the 
 breasts of most people but an amused tenderness. Mary's 
 outburst was strikingly childlike ; and my religious prin- 
 ciples did not so far overrule my nature as to render null 
 and void my instincts of compassion towards the offender. 
 But this indulgent disposition became modified ; for the 
 assault grew vehement, almost alarming. The pretty red 
 lips poured forth a torrent of angry threatening, which 
 derived a strange force from its manifest connection with 
 some inward reservoir of deep and genuine sorrow. For a 
 while I could only stand in silent awe and wonder, likening 
 the passions of the mind to bodily pains. It seemed to me 
 that what 1 now witnessed was merely a visitation of 
 mental toothache. There was the sudden tweak of anger.
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 101 
 
 virulent, concentrated ; then the deceptive lull ; then the 
 linked bitterness loncp drawn out ; then all over acrain. 
 
 ^yhen I had succeeded in gathering a little presence of 
 mind I made a serious attempt to be calm and dignified 
 externally, aiming steadily at the demeanour of a high- 
 church gentlewoman. I said I did not understand, begged 
 for intelligi!)le explanation, expressed sorrow for any wrong 
 that I might ignorantly have done. All to no purpose. 
 Mary went away as she had come, in indiscriminate and 
 inexplicable tempest. 
 
 From Esther I afterwards learned the truth which lay 
 at the bottom of the girl's, or, to quote my informant's 
 phrase, the hussey^s behaviour. Close but ineffectual 
 inquiries had long been made in the house about the 
 abstracted packet, and it should be admitted that in con- 
 sequence of the information which I had given, suspicion 
 had fallen more directly upon Mary than upon any one 
 else. Sharing with others this special suspicion, Esther 
 had silently observed the girl, and had at last found her 
 in an unguarded moment revealing several particulars 
 relative to my brother with which no one else was 
 acquainted. Upon this, with characteristic decision, 
 Esther had quietly taken a locksmith to Mary's trunk, and 
 had found therein the lost documents. The result had 
 been that the "hussey" had received immediate warning 
 from my father. 
 
 Poor " hussey ! " I was sorry for her now, and 
 resolved to intercede on her behalf. I must be pardoned if 
 I once more remark how like a child she had acted. Her 
 strange little slyness in taking the letters; her subsequent
 
 102 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 babyish betrayal of her secret ; her final display of just 
 such "^ angry passions " as those against which Dr. Watts's 
 classic rhyme has cautioned effervescent infancy, all 
 seemed to belong to the nursery. A half hour's banish- 
 ment to the corner might have been allotted to the naughty 
 girl by way of penance, and a kiss from all concerned 
 might not inappropriately have sealed her forgiveness, and 
 closed the business. 
 
 So at first I thought of Mary's fault. But then I 
 went on to wonder, and that greatly, at her large indigna- 
 tion against me, and I fancied that its basis must after all 
 be something wider than any accusation which she might 
 attribute to me in reference to the letters. 
 
 And now, I considered, my parents must have read 
 those letters, and knowing the contents of that one which 
 related to me, they must painfully have perceived the full 
 indelicacy of my prying curiosity. I placed myself before- 
 hand in fifty awkward predicaments which I deemed were 
 likely to arise in the home circle, or in meetings with 
 Ralph Thain, as the result of their knowledge, combined 
 with my own shame. I found it difficult to face my 
 father in private, and to confront him in Ralph's presence 
 I felt would be nearly impossible. Some sense of relief 
 that my fault was no longer a secret must, however, be set 
 against these agitating forebodings of embarrassment ; and 
 my mother, with a thoughtful care for my tranquillity, 
 soon found the means of adding to my confidence. 
 
 " My dear child," she said, in a business-like manner, 
 and considerately averting her face from mine, when a 
 few days after the recovery of the letters I was alone with
 
 MY FIRST ESSAYS AT A HEAVENLY FLIGHT. 103 
 
 her, *' your father and I both think it will be for your hap- 
 piness if, for the present at all events, nothing whatever is 
 said amongst us on the subject of those papers belonging 
 to dear Frank which, in a moment of pardonable weakness, 
 you were betrayed into reading." 
 
 I said nothing, but expressed my thanks, which were 
 hearty, in an embrace. 
 
 I interceded for Mary, but in vain. The character of 
 her misdeed had seriously aroused my father's anger. He 
 grew almost unreasonably impatient of her continuance in 
 the house ; and after one or two ineffectual efforts to induce 
 him to reconsider his determination that she should leave, 
 my mother abandoned the attempt which I had persuaded 
 her to make in the girl's favour. Thus Mary left us ; I 
 tried to part with her on friendly terms, but the cold 
 silence with w^hich she met my advances up to the last 
 moment rendered the endeavour nugatory.
 
 104 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 La dispute est d'un grand secours ; 
 
 Sans elle on dormiroit toujours. — La Fontaine. 
 
 Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love ? — 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 The season of Lent was welcome to me this year ; it gave 
 me new opportunities for showing my subordination to 
 church authority, and its frequent services stimulated my 
 devotion. Being comparatively a novice in church dis- 
 cipline, I practised a more comprehensive and continuous 
 abstinence than I subsequently learned to be correct. 
 Drawing no fine distinctions between *' flesh meat" and 
 other edible matter, I shortened my allowance of all sub- 
 stances alike. The sturdy appetite which follows illness 
 was not easily denied, but I nevertheless thwarted it at 
 every meal. 
 
 This virtuous course placed me on excellent terms with 
 myself. It also brought me to the painful belief that IMiss 
 Penning and others who did not pursue similar mortifica- 
 tions were in serious danger. The freedom with which my 
 governess ate sea-kale and melted butter appeared to me 
 to afford incontrovertible proof of the fallacy of Evangel i-
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. 105 
 
 calism. Greediness, indeed, seemed to be the besetting 
 sin of mankind. 
 
 The spirit of asceticism was rapidly developed within 
 me. At last I even objected to take walks in pleasant 
 directions, holding that dull roads afforded a kind of mental 
 sackcloth which ought to be resolutely worn. On this 
 point I not unfrequently came into open collision with 
 Miss Fenning, who, being a jubilant believer fond of 
 society and artificial flowers (although given to denounce 
 " the world " as represented by balls, novels, and the 
 drama), liked to go forth dressily of an afternoon on some 
 cheerful and frequented pathway near the town, where 
 people might be met and bonnets viewed. On one occasion, 
 when my governess had gained her vvay, and had induced 
 me to pace up and down the Cinder-walk, a promenade 
 much resorted to by the townsfolk on account of several 
 convenient and attractive qualities which Mr, Mundy's 
 public spirit had imparted to it, I found myself embarked 
 with heron a stormy sea of polemics. It was impossible to 
 believe, argued she, that God had surrounded His people 
 with means of enjoyment of which they were not intended 
 to avail themselves. The varied charms of inanimate 
 Nature were admitted by all enlightened persons to be the 
 special gifts of a heavenly Father to His believing children ; 
 so also, surely, were the pleasures of cheerful society, and 
 of kindly intercourse with our fellow-creatures. The 
 finished work of Christ upon the Cross had done away with 
 the necessity for every species of penance and bondage. 
 The life of the true Christian, of whom it had been said 
 by the Holy Spirit that " all things '* were his, should be
 
 106 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 one ceaseless song of free and spontaneous rejoicing, one 
 unending heartfelt hallelujah. 
 
 To these propositions, which in my present self-morti- 
 fying mood I found singularly provoking, I opposed 
 unconnected but elevated aphorisms of the saints. Miss 
 Fenning, appealing, as she said, " to the law and to the 
 testimony," quoted Paul; I retorted from Saint James. 
 She became eloquent in exalting faith ; I grew personal in 
 insisting upon works. My adversary had the best of it ; 
 for, as my bitterness increased, her face gathered a growing 
 expression of sweet and lofty joy. This was to signify 
 that, however unchristian my remarks might be, Miss 
 Fenning was able in spite of them to maintain a still com- 
 munion with the skies. 
 
 The look might have been too much for me; my 
 temper might completely have given way, and the glory of 
 my Puseyism have been dragged in the mire ; but at the 
 moment of temptation relief appeared : — Margaret Thorne 
 approached me to give a diversion to my thoughts. 
 
 Margaret had not been to see me during my illness. 
 It was like her. Without meaning unkindly, she was 
 given to neglect the means by whicli sympathy with mis- 
 fortune is ordinarily expressed. Since my recovery she 
 had been from home. She now seemed really glad to see 
 me again. She kissed me, scolded my still white face, 
 and made me thoroughly in love once more with her dainty 
 oddnesses of manner, her slightly unmusical but yet winning 
 voice, and her quaint sayings. 
 
 Margaret hated Miss Fenning, and Miss Fenning 
 objected to Margaret. It was only in strict accordance
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. 107 
 
 with custom that the governess merely bowed distantly to 
 my friend, and that my friend, having made a good deal 
 of me first, informed the governess, with some decision of 
 manner, that she was bent upon carrying me off to spend 
 the rest of the day with her. I will not undertake to say 
 that my ready acquiescence in Margaret's plan had 
 nothing sinful about it. I am inclined to believe that a 
 desire — arising out of the late antagonism — at least to 
 escape from Miss Fenning, if not to give her the little 
 mortification of being suddenly left alone, may have 
 actuated me ; but, whether or no, it is a fact that 
 Mr. Thome's carriage, which came up while we were 
 speaking, received not only Margaret, but myself also, 
 and that MIgs Fenning went on her way in solitude. 
 
 Margaret's was a home of homes. I see it now as I 
 saw it on the day of which I write. The sweet, sloping 
 lawns were decked with ribbons of spring flowers. The 
 tall elms, which grouped themselves about the grounds 
 in attitudes of such perfect grace that they seemed to be 
 intelligent and vain creatures understanding pictorial 
 effect, and waiting in their lovely postures to be admired, 
 were, indeed, wanting yet in leafage; but they were laden 
 with great nests as if with a rich crop of dusky fruit, and 
 were astir with the happy, business lives of the nest- 
 builders. The laurel walls, which shut out every ugliness, 
 glittered with a million skies ; and, amidst all, smiled the 
 sunlit, trellised house, blushing with pyrus japonica, its 
 black window-eyes half-veiled in filmy gauzes of wreathed 
 stems. 
 
 When we went indoors Margaret took me to her
 
 108 LUCY rrrzADAM. 
 
 bedroom — -just newly decorated. It was fair with clouds 
 of muslin, and the carpet was a verdant lawn, so fresh and 
 pleasant that it seemed as though the early violets upon 
 the dressing-table might have sprung up and bloomed 
 amidst its shadowy greenness. The chamber was a 
 perfect place for confidences between friends ; but I 
 remember reflecting, as this thouglit crossed me, that I was 
 not deeply in Margaret's confidence. 
 
 It was the first time that I had been alone with her in 
 privacy since my brother's death. I recollected this, and 
 I saw that she did ; but I knew her too well to dream that 
 she w^ould talk of, or even refer to, anything painful. 
 She was a child of the sun : she had nothing to do with 
 clouds. Her first words showed that her mind was not beset 
 by shadowy reminiscences. 
 
 " Should you be surprised, Lucy," she said, " if you 
 heard that I was going to be married ? " 
 
 Perhaps, as the question was put to me, a tear may 
 have overspread my eye at the recollection of the old 
 childish flirtation between my brother and the girl who 
 spoke; but, if so, the tear quickly dried in the heat of 
 my curiosity. 
 
 " How could I be surprised, dear ? " I answered ; " oi 
 course I should not." 
 
 This was but a gentle way of inviting the confidence 
 for which I longed. I knew, indeed, that to seek it 
 more directly would be useless. As to the extent of her 
 revelations, Margaret was certain to be guided wholly by 
 her own inclination : my part was practically limited to a 
 state of attention.
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. 109 
 
 Probably she had seen the water in my eyes; pro- 
 bably that suggestion of rain had offended her sunny mind. 
 She asked, with some briskness: — 
 
 " Why, of course ? " 
 
 Her sharp tone put me on my mettle. I said : — 
 
 " The * why ' is a long story, and I shan't tell it." 
 
 INIargaret laughed. 
 
 " You composed, independent, little pack of impu- 
 dences," she said, " give me a kiss." 
 
 I did. 
 
 *' Well," she added, " I will be more communicative than 
 you are. I have had an offer of marriage." 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! have you ? " 
 
 " Now it is the cldld pure and simple, with such 
 pretty, round, curious eyes ! You would like to know 
 how this matter of mine stands at present, I suppose? " 
 
 " Please, dear." 
 
 " I will tell you. It is an open question. Take my 
 advice, you fair-haired puss, and keep the leading ques- 
 tions of your life open as long as you can. I closed this 
 business once, in September last, and immediately saw 
 cause to regret what I had done. Fortunately, the subject 
 has been opened afresh." 
 
 I thought a minute, and then replied : — 
 
 " But I could never rest in my bed, or be myself for a 
 moment, with such a matter unsettled. Besides, is it fair 
 to the gentleman to put off one's decision indefinitely ? " 
 
 Margaret tossed her pretty httle head, but said 
 nothing. Here, indeed, the confidences ceased altogether, 
 for Mrs. Thorne, who had been out at the time of mv
 
 110 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 arrival, now came to her daughter's room in quest of me. 
 Margaret put her finger to her lips, enjoining secrecy, and 
 so ended her revelations. It happened that no opportunity 
 occurred for a continuation of them ; and, in truth, I much 
 doubt whether they would have been carried on had occa- 
 sions been ever so favourable. 
 
 I liked Mrs. Thorne, and found it not unpleasant to be 
 clasped to her satin bosom. Such a caress she now 
 vouchsafed me, clearly with tacit reference to my late 
 illness. 
 
 I had always fancied the lady. Tliere was a mesmeric 
 calm in the slow sweep of her ample skirts, and in the 
 gentle touch of her soft hands. Nor, notwithstanding her 
 deafness, which was profound, was an attempted conversa- 
 tion with her disagreeable ; for the goodness of her heart 
 outbalanced the natural mistrust of deficient hearing, and 
 she credited you with kind sentiments when she could not 
 catch your words — her own amiable remarks rolling 
 independently out, meanwhile, with a fat and easy flow. 
 
 She now slowly marched me round the garden, her 
 warm arm in mine, misunderstanding me all the while in a 
 most kind and pleasant manner. Margaret was just join- 
 incr ns when the curate, Mr. Pontifex, was seen coming 
 down the drive. 
 
 " Isn't he the dearest little, good, hardworking man ? " 
 asked Margaret of me, as I remarked on his approach. 
 
 " A wonderfully holy priest indeed," I said, gravely. 
 
 He came across the lawn towards us without raisins 
 his eyes from the ground. The garden in which he walked 
 was the most charming in the neighbourhood ; the prospect
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. Ill 
 
 around it was one of rare beauty. He saw nothing; 
 evidently had no desire to see. Neither flowers nor slopes, 
 nor distant view, had power even momentarily to attract 
 his attention. I then set down his blind abstraction under 
 the heading Holiness; I have since classed it Psychical 
 Deficiency. 
 
 Was it a prayer that he whispered as he came up to 
 us ? His lips moved. Afterwards, without raising his hat, 
 he broke out : — 
 
 " How do you do, young ladies ? " 
 Mrs. Thorne, it seemed, was included in this address. 
 The false generalization was sufficiently accurate for the 
 speaker ; he had neither time nor taste for nice distinc- 
 tions. 
 
 '• How do you do, young ladies ? " he said. " I w^ant 
 you to be useful to me ; are you disposed to render assist- 
 ance in a good cause ? " 
 
 My own affirmative reply was prompt, although the 
 curate had already pretty well filled my hands with w^ork. 
 But Margaret hesitated ; she said that she never made a 
 promise without fully understanding its nature and extent. 
 Although she thus began to offer opposition to the 
 high-church curate, it must not be supposed that ]\Iargaret 
 was otherwise than high church in her views. Far from 
 it. She liked to have a conspicuous cross on her praver 
 book. It was a matter of principle with her to bow low 
 in church at every Gloria Patri, to stay down the ortliodox 
 time, and to come up again at the right moment with a 
 noisy rustle. She would often play Gregorian chants, and 
 that with such enjoyment as, I think, proved her even more
 
 112 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 deficient in musical taste than I am showing her to have 
 been sound in her mediaeval creed. Further, and finally, 
 she kept a crucifix upon her dressing-table. 
 
 But notwithstanding these satisfactory tokens of 
 sympathy on Margaret's part with the cause which 
 Mr. Pontifex represented, I guessed that she was not yet 
 ripe for engaging in such serious work as he might be 
 likely to propose. Perhaps it was with some self-congratu- 
 lation that I saw myself to be the only one present to 
 whom no offer of church employment could come amiss. 
 
 It happened, however, that the help now demanded 
 was not onerous. Easter decorations formed the curate's 
 theme; he wanted flow^ers, and fingers to arrange them. 
 He would allow scarcely anything to be talked about but 
 Easter decorations. " That now," he said, glancing at the 
 drawing-room bow-window crimsoned round with pyrus, 
 " that blossom would be effective for some of the larger 
 devices. That no doubt you will let me have ? I see 
 plenty besides that will do. Most of these flowers, I sup- 
 pose, will be living a week hence, hey? And there is 
 your conservatory too ; of course, the greenhouse plants 
 must be pressed into the service." 
 
 And so the curate went on, never pausing to satisfy 
 himself of our concurrence with him ; never, indeed, con- 
 descendino- to a doubt of that concurrence, nor admitting: 
 the faintest misgiving as to his own authority for speaking 
 as he spoke. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Thorne had good-naturedly invited 
 him to stay to dinner, and had unluckily understood him 
 to accept the invitation. His refusal had not been, I
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. 113 
 
 daresay, so emphatic as he had intended it to be ; for in the 
 first place he had hardly allowed himself time to utter it ; 
 and again, at the moment of utterance his fasting stomach 
 had sent forth a prolonged and pathetic growl of remon- 
 strance which had obviously cowed him and weakened the 
 protest. I was sorry to observe here a fresh instance of a 
 certain indolence or indifference which I had seen Margaret 
 manifest before ; she made no effort to explain to 
 Mrs. Thorne the error into which her deafness had led 
 her; she seldom took any pains to clear up similar mis- 
 apprehensions. The consequence was this (I had long 
 perceived it) : — there was no confidence between mother 
 and daughter. 
 
 When the curate had fully stated his floral and other 
 wants, which were large, Margaret, who had hitherto been 
 nearly silent, attacked him with banter. This I thought 
 horribly wicked. It was like pouring champagne into a 
 sacramental chalice, or writing puns in the margin of the 
 Missal. I tried hard to check my jesting friend, but it 
 was of no use. Mr. Pontifex became all the more earnest. 
 At last he fairly began to scold Margaret, which I believe 
 was the consummation she had desired. 
 
 " There is a strange lethargy in this place. Miss 
 Thorne," he said, '' even amongst those who pretend to be 
 awake on church matters. Your present levity springs 
 from nothing else. You, as well as many others, are 
 under the power of that dangerous sleep. Now it is my 
 mission to rouse you all." 
 
 " ' I as well as many others ' indeed ! I should like, if 
 you please, to receive my tuition privately. I object to be 
 
 8
 
 114 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 instructed in a class. My case is exceptional ; it needs t 
 be dealt with in an exceptional way." 
 
 "Your vanity makes you think so; but such a per- 
 suasion is dangerous, and should not be indulged." 
 
 " You are candid, sir, certainly. I wonder whether 
 vanity is a sin to which the priesthood are ever tempted ! " 
 
 *' How can you, Margaret," I interposed, " say anything 
 so very naughty ! " 
 
 " Miss Thorne," said the curate, with a smile, " you will 
 be my right hand some day ; meantime I will pardon your 
 hesitation and infirmity. Come now, will you help me make 
 our dear church look as it should on Easter morning ? " 
 
 " Poor, dearest church ! Your tone slightly improves, 
 sir. I will." 
 
 " Good. If I let you know when we are to meet to 
 settle the designs, will you join the meeting ? " 
 
 Margaret said she would ; and at last, to be brief, 
 she promised everything that was asked. The long coat 
 diminished and disappeared. 
 
 " What a charming, earnest httle fellow, isn't he?" said 
 Margaret. 
 
 *' A wonderfully holy priest indeed," I answered, 
 unable to improve upon my former definition. 
 
 And here I began to ponder the question whether, after 
 all, there might not be a secret sympathy between the 
 young pastor and his whimsical lamb. Might not her 
 intolerance of the crook be but a skittish expedient for 
 concealing her willingness to be carried in his bosom ? 
 Might not his austere handling of the pastoral curb denote 
 a wish to exert upon her a still more powerful sway ? I
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. 115 
 
 wondered and speculated^ remembering what Margaret 
 had lately confided to me ; remembering, too, that she had 
 known Mr. Pontifex before his advent to Westford. 
 
 On discovering her mistake as to the curate's reception 
 of her invitation to dinner, Mrs. Thorne behaved with her 
 usual patient good-humour. She blamed herself only for 
 her error ; but I blamed Margaret and myself too for 
 having allowed it to exist. 
 
 Mr. Thorne now came home. He was a kind, but 
 rather heavy man. As the proprietor of a far-famed 
 brewery he had accumulated' a large fortune ; and he 
 spent his money generously, while he still devoted himself 
 to business. Some prejudices and foibles were forgiven 
 him readily, because of the goodness of his heart. 
 
 Mr. Thorne admired me, and for this reason I liked 
 him. More than once during my girlhood he had paid 
 unwise and deliberate compliments to my hair, eyes, and 
 complexion. These I always remembered. 
 
 My host showed me much attention during dinner. 
 He talked with long endurance on subjects which he 
 considered likely to engage female thought, such as the 
 changes of the weather, and the qualities and accomplish- 
 ments of the Royal Family. Sometimes, indeed, he wan- 
 dered into his peculiar province — politics — when I found 
 myself sinfully pretending to know who was Prime Minister, 
 and who Chancellor of the Exchequer, whereas I was per- 
 fectly ignorant what gentlemen filled both those eminent 
 posts. Having been praised by Mr. Thorne as to my 
 person, I could not resist the wish to stand well with him 
 also on the score of my acquaintance with public affairs.
 
 116 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 Dinner being ended, we ladies left Mr. Thorne with his 
 port-wine, for which now old-fashioned beverage he had a 
 steady but not inordinate liking. While we were crossing 
 the hall to the drawing-room, the tramp of a horse's hoofs 
 sounded on the gravel outside, and the front door-bell 
 rang. The visitor was Mr. Cyril Papillon. 
 
 I have never seen anything to match the easy grace 
 and politeness of that gentleman. Whatever he did was 
 becoming. Whether it was really strange for him now to 
 ]iay a visit in this way and at this hour I do not know ; 
 but he made the call appear perfectly natural and pleasant. 
 He contrived, not only that his deaf hostess should hear 
 him — and so much he effected without seeming to speak 
 loudly — but that she should invite him, press him, compel 
 him to put up his horse and remain for the evening. I 
 thought, and so I am sure did she, that this was all her 
 own doing; indeed in suggesting, as I now humbly do 
 suggest, that she and I were possibly mistaken, I feel half 
 guilty of libel upon the handsome, fascinating visitor. 
 
 His gracious recognition of me was embarrassingly 
 urbane. It seemed forthwith to change me into a hoiden. 
 I remembered with astonishment that I had once ventured 
 to criticise this paragon of grace, this personification of 
 good breeding, Mr. Cyril Papillon. 
 
 Still bearing in mind the " open ouestion," I soon fell 
 to watching the transactions between INIargaret and the 
 new comer. They were not exactly such as to favour the 
 notion of secret tenderness on the gentleman's part ; and 
 the lady was strangely apathetic, or else daringly candid 
 with the visitor. If Margaret's conduct underwent any
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. 117 
 
 change worth noting after his arrival, it was that she 
 became rather more attentive and affectionate towards me 
 than she had been before. I knew little enough at this 
 time about the passion called love (although probably I 
 considered that I did) ; but I had read that its ways were 
 sometimes dark and crooked ; and I remember meditating 
 that the equivocal manifestations which I beheld might be 
 the true though inverted image of Cupid, as the puzzling 
 reflex on the concave mirror is faithful to its original, 
 though upside-down. 
 
 I wished to be home early; and at an early hour spoke 
 of going home. I had passed a worldly day, and many 
 sins there were to be repented of ere bedtime. It w^as 
 certain that my parents would send for me by-and-by ; 
 but my notion was to leave sooner. I asked for a servant 
 to escort me. Margaret demurred at my proposal, and 
 begged me to stay ; but I repeated my request. 
 
 Just as she had acceded to it and was going to ring, 
 Mr. Papillon rose. Might he be allowed the honour of 
 conducting me home ? To say " yes " was disagreeable ; 
 but to say " no" was impossible. I said ^^yes." 
 
 The night was chilly, but not dark, affording me good 
 excuses, first, for walking fast, and second, for refusing 
 Mr. Papillon's arm. When I w^as alone with him, my old 
 feeling of dislike returned. I was determined to combat it 
 as being unfounded ; but it so far remained in existence 
 that I met his first observation, and afterwards carried on 
 the talk, in the following singular manner : — 
 
 '^ It is a great pleasure. Miss Fitzadam, I am sure, to 
 be your escort to-night."
 
 118 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 *' Have you any sisters, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed; and they would delight in an introduc- 
 tion to you." 
 
 " But they do not live in our neighbourhood, do 
 they?" 
 
 '* Unfortunately for them — no. The paternal mansion 
 and acres are in another county." 
 
 " And I am sure they v^ould not wish for my acquaint- 
 ance any more than I should think of aspiring to theirs. 
 My father, you know, is a lawyer : we do not mix in county 
 society." 
 
 '^ To the great loss of county families " 
 
 " Your sisters — are they — are they — musical, sir ? " 
 
 " Not in the sense in which the talented young lady is 
 musical whose playing I have enjoyed to-night. Have you 
 composed much. Miss Fitzadam ? " 
 
 "No, sir. And your sisters know the Thornes, do 
 they ? " 
 
 *' A little only. They have met them once — at a public 
 ball. That occasion — twelve months ago — was the occasion 
 of my introduction too ; but I have been more favoured 
 than the rest of my family." 
 
 It seemed to me that we made but little progress with 
 our walk. I had an unreasonable wish that it were 
 ended. 
 
 " I hear much of you from Miss Thorne," said my com- 
 panion, who was too well-bred to allow the conversation to 
 stand still long. 
 
 " Then I suppose you see her often ? " I answered, 
 curiosity for the moment coming uppermost within me.
 
 WORKS VERSUS FAITH— AN OPEN QUESTION. 119 
 
 "Hardly," was Mr. Papillon's ready rejoinder. '^ But 
 the topic is one on which she has a great deal to say : to 
 be with her at all is to hear her dwell upon it." 
 
 I knew enough of Margaret to feel certain that this 
 was not true. She was likely enough now and then to pay 
 me a passing compliment in her own queer way, but she 
 was incapable of such sustained interest in me as my com- 
 panion pretended she was in the habit of showing. Had 
 my experience of the world been larger than it was I 
 should not have noticed the falsehood as I did : as that 
 experience was extremely small I noticed it a good deal. 
 In order to forget it I again put questions relative to 
 INIr. Papillon's sisters. 
 
 When at last 1 bade my conductor farewell at our 
 door — he must needs return to Soothington Court for his 
 horse, a fact which released me from the necessity of asking 
 him in — I found myself trembling all over, I could not 
 have said why. Having passed that unintelligible stage, I 
 began to review the conversation of the walk. Conversa- 
 tion, I saw, it had not been, but catechism. It seemed to 
 me, too, that my flurried and unmeaning questionings 
 (over some of which I now privately blushed) had been 
 displayed in an extravagantly unfavourable aspect by 
 contrast with Mr. Papillon's collected and complimentary 
 rephes. 
 
 From all this back to religion was a long way. It took 
 me an hour to make the journey, but I made it. I then 
 saw that during the whole afternoon my saintly principles 
 had completely failed me. Yindictiveness with Miss 
 Fenning ; insincerity towards Mr. Thorne : greediness at
 
 120 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 dinner — I had liked stewed sweetbread : these and other 
 failings had incessantly proved the shallowness of my 
 resolves after holiness, and the badness of my heart. 
 
 I tried to soothe my aching sense of inconsistency by 
 staying out of bed upon my knees for a long while in the 
 cold draughts of the early spring night.
 
 ( 121 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A co:mmodity from westford market. 
 
 Antolycus. There may be matter in it. — A Winter''s Tale. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But can an}i:hing be more absurd than to double our 
 distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the power of every low fellow 
 that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling to torment us ? 
 
 Honeywood. Without doubt nothing more absurd. — The Good-natured 
 Man. 
 
 The decoration-meeting was held, and I attended it, the 
 consequence being that the preparation of part of the 
 garnitures for our parish church was allotted to me. 
 
 One day in the Holy Week I became conscious of a 
 small drapery want in connection with these mysteries. A 
 difficulty lay in my path : it was market-day, and on 
 market-day I was not allowed to go into the town. The 
 paternal decree on this point was decisive ; while the 
 errand was one which I could not conveniently entrust to 
 a servant. 
 
 Might the decree be disregarded for once, my father 
 not being at hand that I might ask him for its suspension ? 
 I thought it might. Waiting a favourable opportunity, I 
 surreptitiously put on my bonnet, and went out. My 
 conscience misgave me, but I used vigorous efforts to
 
 122 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 silence its remonstrances, in the first place, by arguing 
 with myself that the holy end in view justified doubtful 
 means ; and, secondly, by trying to persuade myself that 
 I had forgotten whether it were indeed market-day or not. 
 I found plenty of food for thought amidst the market 
 crowd, and plenty of objects for my sympathy. After 
 passing through a forest of upturned cart-shafts, I began 
 to pick my way amongst heaps of cocks and hens dis- 
 playing a meditative patience in the most cramped and 
 twisted situations, and trying, as I fancied, in their bright- 
 eyed faith, to believe God's goodness, in spite of the needless 
 cruelties which they experienced at the hand of man — God's 
 representative to their race. Then I had to encounter as 
 best I might, a miscellaneous crowd of red faces, fustian 
 coats, ash-sticks, and leather gaiters ; of weary pigs, whose 
 distress, assuming a pathetic perversity, always inclined 
 them to go the way they were not wished to go ; and of 
 worn-out well-meaning bullocks tliat were a great deal too 
 miserable to care which way they went. Presently I fared 
 upon smoother waters, and had opportunity to consider the 
 dear grey old woman with sweetmeats, whose sticks of 
 peppermint and gingerbread-nuts evidently did not go off 
 as she had hoped they might. Nor could I help noticing 
 with amused astonishment the exceedingly odd and reserved 
 relations subsisting between this ancient dame and the 
 moneyless urchins around her stall, who stood surveying 
 her saccharine wares in silent solemnity. And, again, I 
 had some compassionate thoughts for the old and poor 
 about me, who had come far with their huge baskets 
 to make their tiny purchases ; while even the vociferous
 
 A COMMODITY FROM WESTFORD MARKET. 123 
 
 vendor of pins, tape, and staylaces somehow excited my 
 pity : tliey were poor things out of which to make a 
 living, and what a life it was after all ! 
 
 But such meditations were suddenly checked by the 
 appearance of Mr. Thain, senior, who, meeting me, insisted 
 upon being my protector through the crowd. Taking his 
 arm, I found that I gained considerably by the alliance, for 
 his threatening mode of progression so appalled the 
 bystanders, that they cleared a way for him by anticipation^ 
 as the drivers in crowded London streets will manage to 
 do for an advancing fire-engine, while I of course benefited 
 by the clearance. 
 
 When we reached the shop, I expected Mr. Thain to 
 leave me. Gentlemen are generally impatient of the odours 
 of crape and hoUand, and of the screech of sarcenet ribbon 
 in course of measurement, and are naturally eager to escape 
 from such disagreeables ; but Mr. Thain showed no 
 symptoms of departure. 
 
 The shop was full of business. Poor women from 
 the country with obstructive baskets, and with faded 
 umbrellas that stuck out in awkward and menacing 
 directions, came in thickly to make small purchases. 
 Farm girls, rosy with their rolhcking rides through a 
 fresh wind, bounced in to buy yards of ribbon and of 
 print. Thrifty housewives in their best bonnets sat sternly 
 and long in the high chairs, and leaning stiffly back to 
 bring their eyes to a focus, tested calicoes with judicial 
 minuteness, scratching, pulling, even smelling them to 
 discover their properties. Meanwhile Mr. Fribbins, the 
 proprietor of the establishment, (echoed and reflected by
 
 124 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 his oily-haired assistants,) directed the choice of the unde- 
 cided either with bland argument or curt assertion, accord- 
 ing as he dealt with wealth or poverty, and repressed with 
 similar variations of speech the misgivings of those who 
 had come to a decision, affirming uniformly that everything 
 would wash, and that everything would last, that nothing 
 would wear rusty or wear rough, fade, fray, shrink, split, 
 or soil. 
 
 Amidst this bustle it was not strange that the glass door 
 by which my protector and I had come in should presently 
 open and shut without attracting my attention, nor that 
 a person thus entering should walk to my side unob- 
 served. I was startled by the rough words : — " Be you 
 Miss Fitzadam ? " 
 
 I looked round quickly, and saw close to me a country 
 lad of thirteen or fourteen. Nature evidently intended him 
 one day to be a fine man ; she had laid the foundations of 
 his frame in bold, broad style, had sculptured his features 
 in sweeping curves that were roomy and promising. His 
 appearance would at once have secured my favourable 
 inclination towards him, but I fancied that his tone and 
 bearing were defiant and rude. The fancy, as I afterwards 
 came to know, was mistaken, but first impressions are not 
 always the less distinct from being false, and my impression 
 that the boy meant me mischief was clear enough. I 
 answered with fear and trembling — " Yes, I am." 
 
 " I be to give you that, then," said the lad, handing me 
 a dirty envelope made of inferior paper. As he spoke the 
 words, he passed out of the shop again without either 
 waitincr for anv acknowledo:ment of the missive he had
 
 A COMMODITY FROM WESTFORD MARKET. 125 
 
 delivered, or tendering any explanation as to the quarter 
 from which he had brought it. I opened the envelope, 
 and, colouring with surprise and fright, read thus 
 within : — 
 
 " Miss Fitzadam, Madam, — 
 
 " If you thinks as there's no one to fite the batels of 
 
 the weak you thinks rong as you shall soon find out to 
 
 your cost youve been and dun a nasty shaby trick in getting 
 
 the best girl in the world sent of and with such a carikter 
 
 promised as nun would be beter but theres one as watches 
 
 you and you shall pay for it by hook or by crook as the 
 
 saying is mind my words you shall pay for it so no more at 
 
 present miss from the 
 
 *'Onknown." 
 
 At this moment the value of Mr. Thain's protectorate 
 seemed to become priceless. I appealed to him at once. 
 Placing the letter in his hands, I said : — "Oh, look here, 
 Mr. Thain, pray ! What does this mean ? " 
 
 It was always long before INIr. Thain's visual apparatus 
 could be brought into play. His glasses hung round his 
 neck by a silk chain which was sure either to be caught in 
 his waistcoat buttons, or to be in a knot. Again, the spring 
 of the glasses, which it was needful should grasp his some- 
 what anomalous nose at one particular point, generally 
 exhibited a reluctance to do so at first. When these obstacles 
 had been surmounted there followed a lengthy process of 
 preliminary grimacing, the mouth being the feature princi- 
 pally concerned in the operation, which accordingly seemed 
 like a mere waste of muscular force.
 
 126 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 I felt Impatient while all this was going forward ; but 
 Mr. Thain read the note rapidly enough when he once' 
 began. Having finished it he made for the shop door, 
 and for a few minutes disappeared from my sight in an 
 endeavour to find the boy who had brought the letter. 
 He returned baffled ; and looking over his glasses at me, 
 whispered : 
 
 " Nothing in the world to be frightened at, nothing in 
 the world. My judgment may be relied on: nothing in 
 the world to be afraid of. But have you any idea — no 
 matter how distant — what this scandalous and dastardly 
 letter (which is not, however, of the slightest consequence 
 whatever) can refer to ? " 
 
 Of course I had; and I gave in whispers a rapid 
 sketch of the occurrences which had led to Mary's dis- 
 missal, being extremely careful — as I need scarcely state- 
 to withhold from Ralph Thain's father many details 
 relative to the letters which had been abstracted. I ex- 
 plained that by means of those unlucky letters I had been, 
 indirectly and remotely enough, the cause of Mary's 
 departure (although I had subsequently petitioned for her 
 pardon); and that I had no doubt that the threatening 
 letter had been written with reference to my conduct in 
 this matter. 
 
 After my statement Mr. Thain wiped his glasses, and 
 put them on and took them off a large number of times. 
 Meanwhile I made my small purchase, trembling both in 
 body and soul, and thinking that the fright I had sustained 
 was a judgment upon me for disregarding my father's 
 wishes.
 
 A COMMODITY FROM WESTPORD MARKET. 127 
 
 Mr. Thain had absently put the note into his own 
 pocket, but he now restored it to me. As we went out he 
 drew my hand firmly within his arm, where he detained 
 it closely, with a general air that was equally tender to 
 myself and defiant to the outer world. 
 
 That terrible person, the "unknown!" — doubtless 
 some friend or lover of Mary Murgatroyd. As I picked 
 my way liome I fancied that every stolid sunburnt hind 
 was he. I had heard of the violence and vengeance of 
 rustic sweethearts, and my alarms were immoderate. 
 Each smock-frock was a separate fear to me, for each, I 
 thought, might conceal a pistol to be discharged at my 
 head ; every rough expression that I heard, seemed to own 
 an ugly relationship to the terms of the threatening letter. 
 
 As soon as we had passed the crowds, and were in the 
 comparatively clear street which led to my father's house, 
 Mr. Thain brought me almost to a stand, and said: — 
 
 '• Now my dear girl — daughter of my valued fi'iends — 
 I positively assure you there's no cause for alarm what- 
 ever." 
 
 " Is there not, Mr. Thain ? " I answered, doubtfully. 
 
 "Not the slightest. I regard the letter— as I said 
 before — as of no consequence at all. But perhaps your 
 father " 
 
 Having got so far Mr. Thain paused, and gave a loud 
 sniff as though he were trying to nerve himself by taking 
 an imaginary pinch of snuff. 
 
 "My father?" I repeated, to urge his progress. 
 
 " Well my dear Lucy — welh Your father, you know, 
 has of late become a little nervous ; excitable ; a little "
 
 128 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 " Do not mind telling me exactly, Mr. Thain, what is 
 passing through your mind about him." 
 
 There was something in the subject that removed my 
 thoughts from my late fright. I felt a strong desire — 
 which I did not then quite understand — that Mr. Thain 
 should speak with candour upon it. 
 
 " Well, my child — Lucy — this is it you know. The 
 discipline which was laid upon us last autumn — that is, 
 upon your family, and therefore necessarily upon me — 
 upon us (no doubt laid upon us with designs of the wisest 
 and most beneficent character that can possibly be con- 
 ceived), that discipline has beyond question fallen with 
 peculiar heaviness upon your father." 
 
 "How so, Mr. Thain?" 
 
 " In this way, Lucy. All the domestic and personal 
 loss that you and your mother suffered when Frank died 
 your father suffered too. He parted with a most affec- 
 tionate boy, a most bright and gifted inmate of his house, 
 a most intimate friend. But he parted with more than all 
 this : with the mainstay of his business, with the pride 
 and promise of his professional life, with all the clear 
 intelligence and honourable industry which had of late put 
 new vigour into his practice, and new interest into — what 
 shall I say V — the statutes at large. By the wonderfully 
 wise (though certainly peculiar) appointment of Those who 
 manage human affairs, your father was required to go back 
 to the old work deprived of all his recent help. The buttress 
 was removed just when the ancient wall was beginning to 
 lean upon it most absolutely. Oh, Lucy, my child, I know 
 what it would be. Suppose that Ralph, for instance — ahem I "
 
 A COMMODITY FROM WESTFOKD MARKET. 129 
 
 Mr. Thain finished by clearing his throat loudly ; which 
 T was sincerely glad of, for otherwise he would assuredly 
 have cried. I was w^ell able to follow his argument ; but 
 I did not precisely know its bearing on the question now 
 under consideration. 
 
 " And for this reason," I said, "because of the special 
 keenness of the blow poor papa has suffered ?" 
 
 " For this reason," Mr. Thain answered, " because of 
 the special keenness of the blow your poor papa has 
 suffered, and because of the undoubted effect that tiie blow 
 has had upon him " 
 
 "You think?" 
 
 " I think that any additional annoyance and anxiety 
 should if possible be spared him. And it follows, in ray 
 humble opinion it follows Lucy " 
 
 "I see: that he had better not know of his daughter 
 having been frightened by an anonymous and threatening 
 letter?" 
 
 " Hardly that, Lucy ; no, hardly that. Such an 
 occurrence as the one we have just experienced should not 
 be kept entirely from your father. It would be scarcely 
 proper." 
 
 " You mean, then, Mr. Thain, that I had better make 
 as light of the matter as possible? that while telling papa 
 the facts, I should not let him see that they had at all dis- 
 quieted me?" 
 
 " Just that. Bright, intelligent girl ! catching one's 
 drift instantly ! Exactly right." 
 
 It gave Mr. Thain such pleasure to think me bright 
 and intelligent that he led me forward at an embarrass- 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 3 30 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 ingly accelerated pace, {ripping airily on as though he 
 would take me home with timbrels and dances, his old face 
 meanwhile irradiated by the gayest smiles. Answering, 
 however, to an involuntary repressive movement on the 
 part of my hand, he quickly relinquished this joyful mode 
 of progression, substituting for it by abrupt transition a 
 solemn and martial demeanour. 
 
 I promised to follow his advice, which he enforced 
 with an earnestness that rather surprised me ; and it was 
 not till he had left me alone at the door of my home that 
 I saw I had made a promise which, in my present agitated 
 condition, it would be extremely difficult to keep ; that I 
 totally failed to keep it will soon appear. 
 
 I found on going indoors that my father, my mother, 
 and Miss Fenning were together, and that a painful scene 
 was enacting on my account. My father, suddenly coming 
 in from his office — as he was now given to do, in a restless, 
 irascible way — had learned from the servants (how they 
 had gained the information I cannot say) that I was out in 
 the town alone. My mother, who had not known of my 
 absence, had appealed anxiously to Miss Fenning, who had 
 confessed herself also ignorant of my expedition ; and the 
 lack of all definite intelligence respecting me had evoked 
 my father's severe displeasure, the bulk of which, as I 
 entered, was in the act of falling upon my mother. 
 
 My appearance can scarcely have been such as to 
 allay the general uneasiness. A brisk wind and my fright 
 together had probably turned all my features the wrong 
 colours, that is to say, my nose and lips blue, my eyelids 
 red, and my cheeks white. Moreover, no sooner did I find
 
 A COMMODITY FROM WESTFORD MARKET. 131 
 
 myself in the safety of my home than a mingled sense of 
 the injustice done me in the anonymous letter, and of 
 thankfulness for my present security, overmastered me 
 and compelled me to cry. Thus it happened that I was 
 forced to tell my story in a manner wholly different from 
 that which Mr. Thain had recommended. In short, when 
 I placed tlie letter in my father's hand, my distress was 
 entirely without disguise. 
 
 The consequence was that my father entered on a state 
 of most exao^o;erated excitement. His condition exhibited 
 itself in a tendency to walk backwards and forwards at a 
 rapid rate between the school-room book-shelves and the 
 front door, while he made at intervals the most painful 
 observations, remarking that domestic peace and security 
 were at an end ; that the persons whose duty it was to 
 insure the comfort and well-being of the family chose to 
 neglect that duty ; that a plain and simple precaution had 
 been disregarded, an egregious folly deliberately permitted, 
 and that this — this, was the result ! 
 
 When, therefore, the dinner-hour arrived, the meal 
 began under conditions the most unfavourable to digestion 
 and happiness. Miss Fenning was in tears ; my mother 
 was occupied in making general observations with an un- 
 comfortable emphasis and perseverance, partly to show 
 that she thought my father w^as needlessly disquieting 
 himself, and partly perhaps in the hope of creating a 
 diversion by some fortunate hit; while papa carved with 
 a careless and dejected air, offering neither fat nor gravy, 
 as much as to say, that when the foundations of family 
 happiness were undermined it was a mere farce to observe
 
 132 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 the lesser courtesies of household existence. As ill-luck 
 would have it, my own first efforts to restore the balance 
 of the paternal temper were productive of more harm than 
 good. Unfortunately I used the verb to allude in a wrong 
 sense. Now, a due understanding of the derivations of 
 common words, and the employment of them in their 
 correct rather than their conventional meanings, were 
 matters to which my father had ever attached great 
 importance. The subjects were touched upon almost 
 daily in our house ; and the manner of their treatment 
 had now become at once an index and a quickener of my 
 father's humour, whether genial or the contrary. If the 
 mental weather was fair, he would cheerfully enlarge upon 
 the value of verbal accuracy, would declaim warmly 
 against prevalent looseness of expression, and feelingly 
 urge upon us the cultivation of increased correctness in 
 our language. Under such conditions my mother. Miss 
 Fenning, and myself, readily caught our cue — which bade 
 us foster the cheerfulness of the moment; and we took 
 care in the course of our next succeeding remarks, to 
 employ as many words as possible in their strictest sense. 
 This invariably answered ; and my father would observe 
 frequently that he had been much pleased to notice, even 
 in the course of the present brief conversation, that his 
 injunctions in reference to a just and precise phraseology 
 had not been lost upon his family. When, however, the 
 mental wind was in an unfavourable (juarter, the topics of 
 the signification and origin of words were full of danger ; 
 and as the discussion advanced, we, the three ladies of the 
 household, were nearly sure to commit ourselves to new
 
 A COMMODITY FROM WESTFORD MARKET. 133 
 
 error, and to excite increased displeasure. At the time 
 now under notice, these, our ordinary misfortunes, were 
 incurred. 
 
 The first symptom of recovery on my father's part was 
 a manifestation of anxiety for my health : he insisted that 
 I should take an unusual quantity of wine. This token 
 was hailed by my mother with suppressed but yet mani- 
 fest gladness ; and the facial signals which she privately 
 displayed to me warned me on no account to resist the 
 paternal will. The next advance was that Miss Fenning, 
 by a rigorously appropriate use of the word impertment, 
 succeeded in eliciting a nod of approval from my father ; 
 and, althougli he temporarily retracted, and sighed as 
 though to re})air an inconsistency, yet the thaw proceeded. 
 Thus, next to myself. Miss Fenning was received back 
 into favour, and lastly my mother. Everyone was so 
 relieved at the change that there was now a general 
 tendency to loquacity ; but it was the kind of loquacity 
 which characterizes the meetings of brothers and sisters 
 after a half-year's separation, when they are a little stiff 
 and not quite sure of one another, although highly pleased 
 and excited at beino; too;ether ao^ain. The matter from 
 which the late discomfort had primarily arisen was not 
 approached — there being a tacit understanding between us 
 that such volcanic ground could not safely be trodden 
 immediately after the recent eruption. 
 
 Not until the evening, therefore, did anything further 
 pass between my father and myself as to the threatening 
 letter. When alone with me then, however, he entered 
 on the subject. Poor man I He made a transparent
 
 134 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 effort to do so in an easy, casual way — in which effort 
 I saw proof of his consciousness that the difficulty had 
 not before been met with entire dignity. I felt grieved 
 that a freak of mine should have been the instrument 
 for bringing his infirmity of temper to light. 
 
 When we had fairly embarked upon the matter, which 
 had hitherto proved so tempestuous, our talk took the 
 following course : — 
 
 " Had you ever, my child," said my father, " any mis- 
 understanding with the girl who has lately left this house, 
 except in so far as she chose to ascribe her dismissal to 
 you ? " 
 
 *^ No, papa." (A blush at the allusion, indirect as it 
 was, to '^ the letters.") 
 
 " She seems to have aimed her wrath at you inex- 
 plicably. She, of course, is at the bottom of the annoyance 
 of to-day." 
 
 Here my father rang the bell, and sent for Rivers, the 
 cook. She came in with a face of blended concern and 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Shut the door, if you please," said my father. '' I 
 wish to ask you a few questions about Mary Murgatroyd. 
 Had she any followers while she was here ? " 
 
 I have before spoken of a tendency to creak on the 
 part of Rivers's stays. At solemn moments — as, for 
 instance, while dinner was being ordered — they were 
 given to be especially noisy. I never heard them more 
 demonstrative than they were now. The vibrations 
 ranged from large, sonorous ticks, heard at comparatively 
 long intervals, to confused smears of shriller sound ; and
 
 A COMMODITY FROM WESTFORD MARKET. 135 
 
 from every note in the scale it was equally impossible for 
 the worried ear to escape. Rivers put on the thoughtfully 
 frank expression of sensitive honesty about to be assailed by 
 unscrupulous talent, and replied ; ^' I can't say, sir, as no 
 young man ever come to see Mary." 
 
 " Can you tell me the name of the vounor man who 
 visited her ? " 
 
 Here Rivers took hold of her chin and patted her lips 
 with her forefinger, as though in the perph'xity of a dilemma 
 in which the promptings of conscience were indistinct. 
 
 My father repeated his question. 
 
 " I should wnsh, if you please, sir," she said, " to be 
 excused from mentioning names." 
 
 " But I must request," said my father, severely, " that 
 you tvill mention this particular one. It is important that I 
 should know it." 
 
 After some farther hesitation and patting of the lips the 
 cook said : — 
 
 " Well, sir, if it's your wishes, his name were Gearge." 
 
 " George what ? " asked my father, impatiently. 
 
 " Ah, well, now, sir, that I can't say, I'm sure — that I 
 never know'd. All as we ever heard downstairs was 
 Gearge ; and I should wish to say, sir, if you please, as he 
 never come in more than twice, which were no fault of mine 
 neither, what with being upstairs at the time." 
 
 " That will do," said my father. '• Go down, and send 
 the girl here." 
 
 The damsel referred to was the supernumerary who 
 has before appeared in these pages ; she was now 
 temporarily filling Mary's place. She held " master " in
 
 136 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 great awe, and, when she came into the room, she was 
 white about the lips from fear. Her manner was that of a 
 frightened village lass, trembling before an inspector of 
 schools. She addressed my father, who, probably, had 
 seldom spoken to her hitherto, as " ma'am," and was so 
 catechumenical, and yet micertain, in her replies, that I 
 half expected her, when asked the name of Mary's lover, to 
 answer " N. or M." 
 
 But the girl presently struggled through her fears and 
 became communicative, clearly willing to tell all she 
 could. She had seen " Gearge," she said. She knew that 
 he was a small farmer, living some miles away in the 
 country. He was very big " to look at — 'most a giant." 
 On re-examination it appeared that she had heard his 
 name ; but " all she could mind " was that it was a 
 '' funny name like, something after Tompkins or Jackson " 
 — titles which, to the uninitiated, bore no particular 
 resemblance to each other. If the name did not begin 
 with a'''T"or a "J" — which she believed it did — then 
 she was nearly sure that it began with a " B " — and, now 
 she came to think about it, she was certain it was a '^ B " 
 that the name did begin with. 
 
 Then followed some evidence which told unfavourably 
 upon the supposition that " Gearge " and the writer of the 
 threatening letter were identical. The girl was sure that 
 Mary had never given " Gearge " any encouragement. 
 The young man, it seemed, had been unknown in the 
 house in any character but that of the slighted, yet 
 persistent, suitor ; but, on the other hand, it transpired 
 that something had been said, at the hour of Mary's
 
 A COMMODITY FROM WESTFORD MARKET. 137 
 
 departure, of her going to the home of '^ Gearge's " mother, 
 from which report it might be inferred, perhaps, that in 
 the time of her trouble the ex-housemaid had bethought 
 herself to fall back on the love and protection which, in 
 brighter days, had been offered her in vain. 
 
 My father had shown more forbearance in his method 
 of dealing with the second witness than he had shown 
 towards Rivers. The former, indeed, was much pleased 
 and elated after her questioning was over — probably at 
 the thought that some confidence in her was implied 
 therein. When I met her about the house during the 
 evening she gave me familiar smiles, as much as to say 
 that the ice was really now broken, and that we were, 
 indeed, beginning to understand each other ; while once 
 she said to Esther in my presence — and so loud, as to 
 make it clear that the words were desired for mv hearing 
 — that what she liked was a master and a young lady as 
 you could look up to, and yet be friendly with. 
 
 My father did his best to reassure me, but did it, I 
 must add, in a queer way, unlike himself. If I seemed 
 unable to accept his arguments he was impatient ; and yet 
 he was clearly not free from apprehension on my account 
 himself. I was glad when the subject of my alarm was 
 finally dismissed by his promise that every power at his 
 disposal, legal and otherwise, should be enlisted for my 
 protection from injury or fright. This assurance did 
 mucli towards setting my mind at ease ; but sudden noises, 
 and bulges in the window- curtains had a tendency, for a 
 long while, to terrify me.
 
 138 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 
 
 JEmilia. Alas ! what, does this gentleman conceiTC ? 
 Here's a change indeed. — Othello. 
 
 My father did a little amateur farming. He kept Ayr- 
 shire cows and China pigs; bred various fancy poultry, 
 such as Muscovy ducks, pheasant-Malay fowls, &c., and 
 grew mangolds and swedes. That the entire undertaking 
 was singularly remunerative he had always been able to 
 prove with the greatest clearness — to himself 
 
 His small rented farm lay half a mile out of town, and 
 in his happier days T had often walked there with him. 
 These walks had been enjoyable, and had generally 
 displayed my father in his gentlest moods. The conversa- 
 tion at such times had oftenest been of animals, plants, 
 and flowers — things which his daughter and he were 
 equally fond of discussing, and to discuss which did them 
 both good. The farm itself had always been more or 
 less attractive to me. There was ever the chance that 
 younglings of some sort might be about— a sweet-scented 
 little calf perhaps, or an exigent family of piggies, or a 
 hatch of soft ducklings, yellow as the yolks they had lived
 
 MORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 139 
 
 on in the shell. Or again, in their seasons, one might 
 have the luck to find amongst the hedgerow nettles a 
 Gruinea fowl's nest which the men had overlooked, or to 
 descry a covey of partridges running amongst the turnips, 
 or a water-rail bustling clown the brook — pleasantly- 
 thrilling sights for me, all of them. In the farm-buildings, 
 too, dwelt an original and super -feline cat, which was 
 often willing to take a contemplative walk with us over 
 sward or stubble, and which always made it a point of 
 conscience to attend my father when he overlooked any 
 agricultural process of importance. Altogether, the farm 
 and the walks thereto and thereabouts had agreeable asso- 
 ciations for me. 
 
 But now my father usually went there alone; so that 
 it caused me some surprise when he came to my study 
 one spring morning in the midst of my lessons, and asked 
 me to walk with him in the old direction. Miss Fenning 
 of course never opposed papa's wishes ; nor is it likely 
 that on this occasion she had any desire to do so. I was 
 soon dressed for the walk ; and went out in spirits, which, 
 however, were damped by the discovery that my father 
 was singularly moody and irritable. Nevertheless I made 
 a great effort to be a cheerful and agreeable companion ; 
 taking it as a good omen that a pleasant practice long 
 disused was this day revived. 
 
 We had reached the market-place, when I unmis- 
 takably saw the boy who had brought me the letter as 
 described in the last chapter. He was standing against 
 the wall of the Kinor's Head Inn, amoncrst several other 
 lads, whose occupation consisted in clattering their iron
 
 140 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 heels on the pavement, in time to some imagined jig, 
 scraps of which occasionally found utterance in that 
 peculiar rustic whistle that seems as though each note of 
 it were a compromise between two other notes. In con- 
 siderable excitement, I pointed out tlie boy to my father, 
 who to my great alarm marched me up to him forthwith. 
 Lawyer Fitzadam was known immediately but little, in 
 respect of his profession, to the humbler inhabitants of the 
 town, since he stood aloof from county court and other 
 petty business ; but it is likely enough that he was heid 
 in none the less awe amongst them on that account. It is 
 certain that when he confronted the group of idlers above- 
 mentioned their musical powers instantly deserted them ; 
 their faces falling into a dismayed pallor, as though from 
 the recollection of past acts, whereby they might have 
 rendered themselves amenable to the law. My father put 
 an end to this general disquietude by fixing his eyes on the 
 handsome Hermes who had been the bearer of the 
 anonymous communication, and by desiring that young 
 gentleman to come with him to his office forthwith. No 
 doubt the boy saw from my father's face that he could 
 not safely disobey. He gave, indeed, a hasty look about 
 him as though to measure his chances of successful flight ; 
 but he appeared quickly to abandon the notion of escape, 
 and walked quietly by my father's side. 
 
 During the walk the rustic face betokened deep mental 
 dejection ; and when the young swain found himself fairly 
 enclosed in my father's private office hope seemed to 
 desert him. I saw him cast one comprehensive glance of 
 agony at the dread iron safe ; the statutes in serried ranks;
 
 MORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 141 
 
 the big letters of a most impressive bill, announcing the 
 coming sale of a valuable freehold and tithe-free estate 
 very advantageously situate, and commanding beautiful 
 and extensive views over a delightful country : and then, 
 unable to contain his distress, he burst into a roar of 
 crying. 
 
 Whereupon I could not help reflecting that the poor 
 lad's knees were through his trousers, and (so essential to 
 pity are comparisons) that I had undoubtedly eaten u 
 much better breakfast than he that morning, and was 
 certain to eat a much better dinner presently. And it 
 appeared to me that for a well-fed, well-clothed creature 
 like myself to make, or suffer to be made, an ill-fed, 
 ill-clothed creature like this boy, miserable, involved such 
 cruelty as was not to be thought of — much less practised 
 — for a single instant. The pathos of the situation was 
 also rather enhanced in my view, by my own associations 
 of fun and amusement with the dreadful chamber which 
 had awakenad such despair in the mind of the lad. Here 
 usually sat a languishing and highly entertaining articled 
 clerk, who spent a good deal of his time — so it seemed — 
 in writing the name '^ Fanny " on his blotting pad ; and 
 perhaps in producing notes for the perusal of the young 
 lady so indicated — for the title was everywhere thickly 
 attended by experiments in spelling, mostly concerned 
 with epithets of an amorous and romantic character. 
 Here the young gentleman sighed daily over a new and but 
 slightly cut copy of Blackstone^s Commentaries ; 'relievinor 
 himself frequently — as had been slily ascertained through 
 the window — by a surreptitious perusal of that more excitino-
 
 142 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 volume Russell on Crime. Here was an ancient map ot 
 England, jocosely metamorphosed by some former occupant 
 of the room into a venerable nurse in the act of dealing 
 severe chastisement to a baby Wales upon her knees. 
 Here, too, I had, on bygone occasions of emergency — 
 perhaps during house-cleanings or preparations for some 
 entertainment — partaken of various meals of an extempore 
 and cheerful description. So that on the whole my 
 father's so-called " private office " appeared to me to be 
 a droll and rather interesting place ; and all the more, for 
 this reason, did I pity the poor boy to whom it seemed a 
 terrifying hall of judgment. 
 
 " Oh, papa," I said, " I feel certain that he has done 
 no harm." 
 
 " What are you crying about boy ? " asked my father. 
 
 At this inquiry the lad made a praiseworthy effort to 
 compose himself. He removed his brown knuckles from 
 his blue eyes, and drew out from his pocket a long wisp 
 of textile fabric, intended to represent a handkerchief, 
 which displa3^ed such a want of continuity, so dubious a 
 colour, and such dampness, that it seemed as though he 
 were dragging it, partially masticated, from the jaws of 
 some animal. After employing this article to sop up his 
 tears, the lad answered:—" You be a lawyer, sir, and you 
 be a-ffoin' to give me the law." 
 
 My father smiled. " What do you expect me to give 
 you the law about ? " he said. " What does your con- 
 science accuse you of? No one else has accused you yet, 
 so far as I know." 
 
 True, papa, I meditated : but then, would not any boy
 
 MORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 143 
 
 you could light upon possess recollections enough of past 
 peccadilloes — apple-thievings, perhaps, or practical jokes — 
 to make him fearful under such circumstances as these ? 
 
 " Don't know as I've done anything, sir," answered the 
 boy, crying now more from self-pity than from direct fear, 
 " without it is a idlin' about, an' that." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! " I interposed again, " I feel certain you 
 will find that he has not been to blame." 
 
 My father motioned me repressively, and went on : — 
 
 "And what punishment do you expect for ^idling 
 about and that ? ' " 
 
 " May be the lock-up, sir," said the boy, whose weeping 
 was once more renewed at the thought of that friorhtful 
 but vague place, with its traditionary concomitants of 
 chains, straw, and rats. 
 
 "Well," said my father in a tone which showed, to my 
 great relief, that explanations were at hand, " T don't want 
 to punish you" yet, either in the lock-up or at Botany-bay. 
 I want you to answer some questions. Do you remember 
 taking a letter for this young lady into Mr. Fribbins's shop 
 not loner ago ? " 
 
 " Yes, sure sir," was the prompt answer, " and I know'd 
 her again directly." 
 
 " Who did you bring that letter from ? " 
 
 " Can't say who 'twere, sir." 
 
 My father took this to be equivocation, and looked 
 severe. Once more I ran to the rescue: — 
 
 " You see, papa, he really may not have had the least 
 knowledge " 
 
 Here again I was stopped. The captive gave me
 
 144 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 bright thanks with his eyes, and involuntarily smoothed 
 his brown curls as though with the notion of making 
 himself more presentable ; it was a funny little token that 
 the smallest consideration from others will sometimes give 
 us an unconscious impulse in the direction of self-respect. 
 Then followed a long questioning, the facts elicited by 
 which were as follow : — 
 
 The lad hved three miles away. His parents were 
 badly off, and no wonder, for, to use the youth's expression, 
 his father was often " in the beer for a fortnitt runnin'." 
 On the market -day in question the boy had driven some 
 lean stock into the town for sale. In the midst of the 
 market crowd, while standing near Fribbins's shop, he had 
 been accosted by a stranger, apparently a farmer, who had 
 placed in his hands the letter cited in the last chapter. At 
 the same moment the man, pronouncing my name, and 
 indicating that I was in the shop, had offered sixpence for 
 the immediate delivery of the letter to me. That the 
 sixpence might be gained, the letter had accordingly been 
 delivered, and from the moment of payment the lad had 
 never seen the stranger. 
 
 This information was so given as to admit no doubt of 
 the informer's truthfulness. Long before the end of the 
 story — the account was not so brief upon the lad's lips as I 
 have made it on this page — my father had evidently become 
 convinced of the narrator's veracity. 
 
 The humbler classes are seldom deeply cognizant of 
 physical peculiarities, or at least they cannot easily describe 
 the contour of an individual. Thus, although our youthful 
 prisoner had now so far recovered from his terror as to be
 
 MORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 145 
 
 able to express himself fluently, his attempts to set forth 
 the personal appearance of my unknown enemy, and to 
 define such traits of his as might have been serviceable 
 for identification, were wholly unsuccessful. He soon 
 abandoned them, and, led on by me, gave some further 
 facts relative to his own circumstances. His last declara- 
 tion was that he had to-day come into the town — as, he 
 said, he often did — in order to look out '^ for a job." 
 
 " Papa," I exclaimed, when I heard this, " you told me 
 just now that Duiistan was going to leave the farm. 
 Would not " 
 
 My father silenced me angrily. " How precipitate and 
 unreasoning you are, Lucy I " he said, "just like your 
 mother. You may go, boy." 
 
 The lad lingered with a hopeful look at me. The only 
 thing I could do for him now, however, was to take his 
 name and address in order that if I should subsequently be 
 able to find out any way of benefiting him, I might know 
 where he was to be met with. When I asked him fortius 
 information, he, to my surprise, took courage to seize a 
 quill and a scrap of paper from the desk near him, with 
 which he wrote in a remarkably good hand the words, 
 " Arthur Bayley, Dyer's Barton, Bre\vington, Somerset." 
 As he went out my father put a silver coin in his hand. 
 I was glad to see that the coin was of a large size, but I 
 mourned and puzzled over the strange humcur which 
 prevented a gracious bestowal of the gift. 
 
 " Much, then, we seem to have learned," said my 
 father, " about this mysterious foe of yours, Lucy. Now 
 let us go on to the farm." He raised his eyebrows and 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 140 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 fixed his eyes unnaturally as he spoke. His aspect and 
 bearing increasingly tried, indeed half frightened me. 
 
 " I am so sorry for the hindrance, papa," I answered ; 
 " I thought you would wish to know that I saw the boy." 
 
 " Yes ; and you wisely went on to think that I must 
 needs wish to provide for him too. You certainly become 
 more sapient as you grow older." 
 
 I was silent. To hear from my father these harsh 
 words, bitterly spoken as they were, was not only sadden- 
 ing but dreadful. It gave me such a shock as one might 
 feel on finding an empty skull where a smiling face of love 
 should be, or on seeing the home hearth occupied by cruel 
 burglars instead of by its lawful possessors. I wondered 
 why my father should have invited me to walk with him 
 if his feeling towards me were so cold and unkind as his 
 language and manner seemed to imply. I have long ceased 
 to wonder now. The sequel has shown me that these 
 inconsistencies represented the combated advance of a 
 potent enemy upon a nature which could not but dispute 
 such an invasion. 
 
 Presently, having partially recovered, I tried to begin 
 a conversation. I first approached the Ayrshire heifers, 
 artfully putting such questions concerning them as would 
 be likely to elicit a statement of those fine qualities of theirs 
 on which my father generally delighted to enlarge. But 
 the topic fell through speedily, and in their failure I found 
 ray artifices appearing absurdly transparent. Then I went 
 to the tulip-bed, lately enriched by some costly roots, then 
 to my own seedling fuchsias expected to bloom during the 
 summer. All to no purpose. A dismal word or two of
 
 I\rORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 147 
 
 chilly reply, a moody nod, or at best a faint smile, were the 
 only recognitions of my conversational efforts that I could 
 obtain. 
 
 We were near the border of the town when I saw 
 Mr. Finch coming towards us. The Vicar always w^alked 
 quickly, and indeed was given to run on slight provoca- 
 tion, but there was now a peculiar purpose as well as great 
 rapidity in his movements ; lie seemed determined not to 
 be detained, and was clearly about to pass us with a mere 
 nod and " Good morning." My father, it appeared, how- 
 ever, had something to say to him, and stood still as he 
 came up. 
 
 I immediately noticed two phenomena on the Vicar's 
 face. In the first place, as my father spoke to him, his 
 eyelids and eyebrows became tinged with a deep pink 
 colour ; in the second place, the corners of his mouth 
 gradually but steadily went down. So interested was I in 
 the latter manifestation, so curious to know what it would 
 come to at last, that I watched the process closely, while, as 
 I presently found out, my own mouth went similarly down 
 from sympathy. But as soon as the Vicar began to speak, 
 or to attempt speaking (his words sounded like those of a 
 parrot in low spirits) the abnormal appearances upon his 
 features were explained. For some reason or other 
 Mr. Finch's feelings were affected ; his pink brows and 
 drooping mouth meant what is commonly called crying, or 
 an approach to it. 
 
 ]\Iy father had begun with a common-place greeting. 
 The only response to this had been a shake of the -Vicar's 
 head. Presently the little man muttered, throatily: —
 
 148 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 ^' You have not lieard about Pontifex, poor fellow ?" 
 
 " No, Vicar; nothing serious the matter I hope ?" 
 
 Another shake of the clerical head — another approxi- 
 mation to a regular baby's face. 
 
 "Nothing serious, Mr. Finch, I trust?" I repeated, 
 turning cold about the lips at the thought of sudden illness 
 or of accident. 
 
 " He's gone, he's gone," said the Vicar. " Poor fellow, 
 poor fellow, he is gone !" 
 
 " You dont say that he's dead ? " I cried. " Oh ! how 
 shocking ! Why it was only " 
 
 " Dead ? Oh dear no, Lucy ; not at all. But he has 
 left us : he has joined the Church of Rome." 
 
 I gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 I had never seen the Vicar in distress before; and the 
 exhibition was rather moving, although it may not have 
 been dignified. One of his symptoms was a total loss of 
 command over his wrists. He kept his elbows at right 
 angles, and his hands before him ; while the latter per- 
 formed a series of weak but solemn bows, like the prancing 
 toys whose movements are regulated by a balanced weight. 
 
 " I am very sorry for your curate's last fancy. Vicar," 
 said my father, " on your own account. But, honestly, I 
 am not surprised to hear of it." 
 
 " Indeed, is it possible? It comes upon me like a 
 thunder-clap. He left for London two days ago— a bright 
 ornament of our communion ; he wiote yesterday that he 
 had left our communion for ever ! We shall know^ him no 
 more ! " 
 
 Here the corners of the Vicar's mouth began to go
 
 MORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 149 
 
 down again so rapidly towards rain, that my father and I 
 felt obliged to look away from the barometer, and to take 
 a strong temporary interest in the prospect. 
 
 I was the next to speak. I made an ordinary inquiry 
 for little Agnes and the rest of the brood at the Vicarage. 
 
 " All nicely well, my dear," answered the Vicar ab- 
 sently, " with the exception of Pontifex — Lolly, I should 
 say — who is cutting teeth. As to the adoration of the 
 Blessed Virmn vou know " 
 
 " And is Mrs. Finch well?" 
 
 '* Quite well, thank you, but for this sad affair. The 
 principle of submission to the Pope " 
 
 As though intending to close the interview, my father 
 here gave the Vicar his hand. A slight peculiarity in his 
 manner as he did so, caught my attention, and drew my 
 eyes from Mr. Finch's face to his own. 
 
 That strange fixed expression was on it again. The 
 eyes, the entire countenance, seemed to have lost all 
 shadow and softness ; there was mingled vacancy and 
 intentness in the look — it frightened me indescribably — no 
 less did the words which accompanied it. 
 
 " Vicar," said my father slowly, and in deep tones 
 foreign to his usual mild tenor, *' I have a grievance 
 graver than yours, ten thousand-fold graver." 
 
 '* My dear sir ! " exclaimed Mr. Finch. 
 
 " Dear papa," I said, turning crimson with alarm, " is 
 anything the matter ? " 
 
 " The matter, child ?" His stare upon me as he spoke 
 the words was almost petrifying. " The matter, child?" he 
 repeated.
 
 150 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 " You, Vicar," he continued, after a most painful 
 pause, " are lamenting over the apostasy " 
 
 '' Not apostasy — God forbid ! " interrupted Mr. Finch. 
 
 " Over the fall, the error, what you will, of a friend 
 and colleague. My grief spi-ings from a wrong done me 
 by my nearest and dearest — my very nearest and dearest." 
 
 I listened in silent and wondering dread, and I thought 
 I saw in Mr. Finch's face some reflection of what I felt. 
 But wath a sudden change of manner, with a sudden chirp, 
 as it were, and shake of the tail, the Yicar came out of his 
 depression — or appeared to do so — ^just as a bird that has 
 been standing on one leg for some time in the shape of a 
 little ruffled panting ball, will start in a moment into slim 
 cheeriness again. 
 
 *' My dear Mr. Fitzadam," he said to my father, with 
 quite his ordinary brightness, '^ you are, what I have been, 
 out of sorts. I am glad you are going to do what I wish I 
 could do myself — take a rural walk. After your stroll 
 you will, I hope, look at things more cheerfully than you 
 do now. Don't let me hinder you a moment longer. Good- 
 by, good-by, Lucy, my dear." 
 
 The Vicar shook my hand warmly. I have a notion 
 that he had roused himself and spoken as above mainly for 
 my sake. But my mind was dazed and stupefied. Totally 
 unable to comprehend my father, I could only half under- 
 stand Mr. Finch, although I would have given a great deal 
 to know the precise impressions which he had received 
 from my father's conduct. 
 
 We walked on towards the farm. I was now struck 
 with the fact that my father seemed unconscious of having
 
 MORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 151 
 
 said anything likely to pain me. In manner he was still 
 ungracious ; but his next observations were trivial and 
 ordinary, as though nothing had happened. If possible, 
 this gave me more distress and perplexity than the words 
 which he had spoken. It was altogether beyond my 
 comprehension. 
 
 Amongst the farm labourers my father once more 
 seemed himself, and as we returned home he also appeared 
 comparatively gentle and cheerful. But before we reached 
 the town my steadying confidence was again seriously shaken. 
 
 " And pray," said my father, suddenly, '' what new 
 secrets are being whispered, Lucy, about this coming weddina 
 of yours ? " 
 
 Only too well did I understand the reference. Full of 
 remorse about my dealings with Frank's letters, I stam- 
 mered out surprise and distress at the question; blushed 
 deeper and deeper still. 
 
 *' Promise me, at least, that none but I shall ever give 
 you aivay^ 
 
 I looked up : he was grave and in earnest. What could 
 I say to a demand so foolish and yet so urgent ? I cried 
 out : — " Of course, papa, I promise." 
 
 I know^ not what was said subsequently. I was 
 absorbed in an eager longing to consult my mother upon 
 my father's unaccountable condition. 
 
 We overtook her walkino; with Miss Fennino^ — it 
 seemed that they had been shopping together — near our 
 own door. During their walk they had heard of Mr- 
 Pontifex's secession, and we all of us took a turn round the 
 garden, discussing that event.
 
 152 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 Encouraged by the opportunity. Miss Fenning became 
 serious and impressive. Shaking her curls slowly, and 
 fixing her eyes on me with a mournful horror as though 
 she considered me the Scarlet Woman, or at least descried 
 the mark of the Beast upon my forehead, she proceeded to 
 deliver for my benefit a considerable protestant lecture. 
 She could not, indeed^ apply her theme directly — for my 
 father was present ; but she was as precise as she dared to 
 be. It really seemed, she said, as if the " falling away " 
 predicted by the apostle were beginning. These were, 
 indeed, "perilous times." If it were possible, the very 
 elect would be deceived, &c., &c. 
 
 Evangelicalism is not given to consistency in the 
 imagery it employs, but I doubt whether it ever jumbled 
 metaphor more effectually than by the mouth of Miss 
 Fenning. I shall not quote the various figures under 
 which she now addressed rne, for I could not do so without 
 at least the appearance of irreverence ; but I cannot refrain 
 from saying that, having placed the Christian upon his 
 " watch-tower," she allotted to him in that elevated situa- 
 tion such a multitude of incongruous functions, that in 
 listening to the enumeration of them I grew quite giddy and 
 out of breath. 
 
 Perhaps I was the more keenly alive to my governess's 
 c-onfused imagery, because I distinctly felt that Mr. Pon- 
 tifex's apostasy was a feather in her controversial cap, while 
 it undoubtedly left me without a polemical leg to stand on. 
 i\t this moment I own I found Miss Fenning extremely 
 irritating, so much so, that if I am to be entirely open on 
 the matter, I must admit to having been able, for the time
 
 MORE THAN ONE SECESSION. 153 
 
 being, to reflect on various defects and weaknesses of hers 
 with pleasure ; as, for instance, her inability to execute 
 upon the pianoforte several passages which I had mastered, 
 or her great fondness for personal adornment, which led her 
 to speak of her better dresses as of dear and valued friends. 
 That I could even passingly recal such deficiencies and 
 faults with satisfaction is, of course, far from being to my 
 credit, but candour demands the admission that it was so. 
 My desire to justify my Tractarian creed was great, and 
 the obstacles in the way of my doing so upset my temper. 
 I had half a mind to bid for a position by boldly advo- 
 cating Rome at once : I was even tempted to turn Sadducee, 
 and to display the colours of sceptical indifference. But 
 my conscience forbade both lines of conduct, and required 
 of me a meek submission under Miss Fennino-'s evano-elical 
 provocations. I fulfilled its requirements to that moderate 
 extent beyond which obedience to such demands is seldom 
 found to reach. 
 
 My father and mother both bore the lecture well, for, 
 as was manifest, they did not attend to it. Indeed, before 
 it was over my own thoughts had wandered to another 
 subject ; w^atching my father's countenance, I had again 
 seen upon it the strange expression which I had noticed 
 there twice before. I tried, as it were, to rush at this 
 terrifying apparition ; to pull it to pieces, examine and 
 understand it, as one might dash at and deal with some 
 sheeted shape that of a sudden should convert into a dread 
 mystery the hitherto familiar sanctuary of one's chamber. 
 But it eluded and baffled me. I could not decide whether 
 to hold it physical or spiritual. It vanished while I looked
 
 154 LUCY PITZADAM. 
 
 upon It ; yet having vanished, it seemed more real and 
 more alarming than before. I thought that my mother, 
 like myself, had seen it ; but I also thought that she tried 
 to conceal from me tlie fact of her having done so. 
 
 Once, more my earnest longing was to talk to her 
 alone, but the longing was not to be gratified. Ralph 
 Thain came and joined us as we walked in the garden. 
 
 Here at last, I thought, was a situation sucli as I had 
 often dreaded since the recovery of the letters from Mary 
 Murgatroyd. I knew that I was going to colour uncon- 
 trollably, and I did so. To hide the blush (having shaken 
 hands with Ralph), I stooped down to gather a flower, 
 making the occupation last as long as possible. When I 
 rose, and stole a glance round, I saw that no one but 
 myself appeared uncomfortable ; I therefore soon recovered. 
 Ralph, I remembered, must undoubtedly be aware of the 
 strong probability there was that the contents of his letter 
 to my brother were known to my parents. Yet he was at 
 his ease in their presence and in mine ; the thought of this 
 helped me in my somewhat different position to be at my 
 ease. 
 
 He had come round, he said, to ask a great favour of 
 me. His father's half-sister, Mrs. Blythe Walker, who, as 
 we knew, was staying with them, proved a somewhat 
 difficult old lady to amuse. In fact, his father and he 
 scarcely knew what to do with her of an evening. Would 
 I take compassion upon them to-night and come in to tea, 
 bringing plenty of music with me, and would Miss Fen- 
 ning also give them the pleasure of her company ? 
 
 Proceeding whence it did, this modest request could not
 
 MOKE THAN ONE SECESSION. 155 
 
 but be complied with so far as I was concerned. Miss 
 Fenning too, who liked to sit up in a silk gown with a 
 china tea-cup in one hand and a piece of muffin in the 
 other, readily and graciously accepted the invitation. So 
 the thing was settled, and Ralpli, abdicating for the time 
 the unusual cheerfulness which had distinguished him 
 during the interview, went on to make many kind and 
 anxious inquiries for my father's health. After half an 
 hour's further talk he left. 
 
 One thing after another prevented the private con- 
 ference between my mother and me which I so much 
 desired, and the time to dress for the Thains' arrived with- 
 out any opportunity for the talk having been afforded me. 
 
 I arrayed myself carefully, as of course it was proper 
 I should do since I was going to see Mrs. Blythe Walker, 
 a lady from our gay county capital, and one of great 
 reputed taste and gentility. On this lady, I may mention, 
 my mother had already called. 
 
 My heart was strangely heavy, yet I found some 
 pleasure in preparing my toilette for the inspection of — 
 Mrs. Blythe Walker. I put on a black silk dress with jet 
 ornaments ; Miss Fenning tenderly selected " her violet."
 
 156 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A PASSAGE FROM THE MYSTIC PAGE OF RALPH'S 
 PRIVATE HISTORY. 
 
 A moment then the volume spread, 
 
 And one short spell therein he read. — Scott. 
 
 Ralph Thain and his widower-father lived in a large old 
 house of stone, which stood but two hundred yards from 
 the Westford market-place. Notwithstanding its almost 
 central situation, however, the road on which it fronted 
 was no frequented town thoroughfare, but a byway along 
 the river's side that quickly led to fields. 
 
 There was about the building a reserved, thoughtful 
 air : it looked well fitted to be Ralph's home. Behind it 
 was a balustraded terrace, from which a shallow step or 
 two led to the garden beyond. This garden was old, stiff, 
 and solemn. It was shadowed by tall yews that were 
 clipped into tapering pillars to the height of twelve feet 
 or so, and then suffered to grow as they would ; it was 
 intersected by straight paths of turf, and in the summer 
 overrun by old-fashioned plants. The very annuals sown 
 year by year were of ancient kinds : and when their day 
 came, the Marvel of Peru and Love lies Bleeding might be
 
 A PASSAGE FROM RALPH'S PRIVATE HISTORY. 157 
 
 seen pushing their way amidst the permanent tufts of busy 
 white pinks, and the well-established circular cushions of 
 Heartsease. These latter flowers as here represented 
 always seemed to me to belie their title, having attenuated 
 faces, careworn and elderly, like those of disappointed 
 spinsters. 
 
 The inside of the house was dolefully dignified. The 
 rooms were large and high, the windows heavily framed, 
 the cornices massive. Nor was the furniture of a kind to 
 relieve this spacious gloominess ; though varying con- 
 siderably in style and date, it was all of bygone fashions, 
 and mostly ugly. It included gaunt tables and sideboards 
 without a curve, and with square legs diminishing down- 
 wards ; dark mezzotint engravings framed in wood and 
 wanting margins ; dull curtains of moreen, and faded 
 Turkey carpets. The pomps and vanities of the drawing- 
 room were of a remarkably uninviting cast. The chamber 
 altogether reminded one of a wan but smirking beldam, 
 who has been a beauty in her day, and who has not for- 
 gotten the circumstance, though others have. Its hangings 
 were of chintz, pallid, but with an air of feeble gaiety ; its 
 paper was frivolous and elaborate. It was embellished 
 with convex mirrors (which, by-the-by, threw one out of 
 perspective, and revealed one simply as a nose, attended 
 by just a few insignificant accessories answering to trunk 
 and limbs) ; and with large laborious specimens of wool- 
 work that were fearfully dim and sad, but that despite 
 their dreariness, distinctly shamed in their minuteness of 
 stitch and in their painstaking gradations of colour, the 
 coarse and garish productions with which the lazy women
 
 158 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 of to-day offend the eye of taste — attempting the impos- 
 sibility of a pleasing result without the exercise of diligence 
 to produce it. A weary glitter of lustres set in now tar- 
 nished or-molu may be mentioned as another leading 
 feature in the fittings of the room. 
 
 Here and there about the house were articles of quamt 
 r.nd (to me) rather awful interest. Carved cabinets stood 
 in dark nooks of the passages; an ancient spinet leaned 
 in seeming exhaustion against a lobby wall ; and " half 
 way up the stairs " — its face wrinkled with an intricate 
 fretwork of metal — an old clock was stationed, which 
 ticked in a weak silly way, as though it had gone foolish 
 with years, and which made, when the hours came round, 
 such long gurgling struggles to tell them, as recalled poor 
 humanity endeavouring to express its last wishes at the 
 close of the " strange eventful history." 
 
 Miss Fenning and I were escorted to the Thains' by 
 Martin, our gardener, whose services had no doubt been 
 secured by my parents with tacit reference to " The 
 Unknown." As the old clock was trying to say six 
 my governess and I entered the drawing-room above 
 described. 
 
 We found Mrs. Blythe Walker and her host tete-a- 
 tete. Old Mr. Thain shook hands a good deal, put a 
 great many chairs, and made a large number of inquiries 
 in succession without waiting for answers. Mrs. Walker 
 began by being royal and patronizing in her manner to 
 me ; while towards her kinsman she employed banter, 
 which was not wholly free from a lofty contemptuousness. 
 The conversation first turned upon a juvenile visitor, who.
 
 A PASSAGE FROM KALPIl'S PrJVATE HISTORY. 159 
 
 as the lady alleged, had been harassing the household 
 daring the afternoon. This was an infant of some four 
 years, a neighbour's child, to whom, Mrs. Walker stated, 
 the Thains, father and son alike, had been submitting 
 themselves body, soul, and goods, for several hours. The 
 tale no doubt explained the fact that Miss Fenning and I 
 had nearly tumbled over a basin of w^ater in an upstairs 
 passage, containing not only magnetic swans, but also 
 several men from a Noah's ark, and half a sponge- 
 cake ; and a subsequent discovery of chess-men strewn 
 about the garden paths, seemed to bear upon the same 
 story. The old gentleman appeared to have come 
 out from the bondage to wdiich he had subjected him- 
 self in a remarkably happy and benevolent state of 
 mind. 
 
 After a while Mrs. Walker favoured me with several 
 communications concerning herself Her stay, she said, 
 was likely to be long. Her dear, good brother, she 
 graciously whispered me, wished her to remain. Poor 
 man ! her presence cheered him ; why should she not 
 stay ? She had long been used, indeed, she added, to a 
 large circle of acquaintances ; she now found herself in a 
 limited one : but she expected many callers so soon as it 
 should be generally known that she w^as in the town ; and 
 really, what she had seen of Westford society, she liked 
 very well, very w^ell indeed. 
 
 It was not long before Mr. Tliain, too, made to me 
 some private communications. They were to this effect :- — 
 A most extraordinary woman, my dear. A clever, gifted 
 woman. Has seen a great deal of the best society. A
 
 160 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 travelled woman. Has been a singularly fine woman in 
 her time, as you may still plainly see. A wonderful 
 woman for repartee. A well read woman. A woman of 
 elevated and refined tastes. In short, a remarkable woman 
 altogether. 
 
 Assuredly I ought to have been content in the company 
 of such a lady as this ; but she seemed insufficient to fill 
 my soul : I found myself listening through her talk for a 
 rap at the front door, and a masculine footstep in the hall. 
 Ralph had not yet come in from the office : he was no 
 doubt paying the penalty of the indulgence that had been 
 involved in the entertainment of his baby guest at an 
 earlier period of the afternoon. 
 
 Tea was nearly over when he came in. He looked 
 bright and well ; talked more than usual ; and talked 
 almost exclusively to me. I suppose a woman never fails 
 to know when her society is acceptable to a man, although 
 she may try to think it so when it is not. I now instinc- 
 tively felt that Ralph found pleasure in being with me. 
 We had met but little of late. He had been much from 
 home on his spring audit rounds ; what interviews there 
 had been between us had been hurried and far apart. He 
 appeared to meet me with the greater gratification on 
 account of our long severance ; and my pleasure was 
 certainly as keen as his. 
 
 When tea had been sent away I walked out with him 
 upon the terrace. Spring was well advanced, and the 
 evening, though inclined to be showery, was just now fine ; 
 the air -was mild; the garden, with its early flowers and 
 newly opened leaves, attractive. Ralph brought me my
 
 A PASSAGE FEOM RALPH'S PRIVATE HISTORY. 161 
 
 goloshes, and we strolled on about the grassy walks 
 together. 
 
 I was in a strange state of mind — a state of expectation 
 and excitement, not of peace ; there was unrest and be- 
 wilderment in its joy. As for Ralph, he was manifestly 
 gleeful, and that to an exceptional degx'ee ; but I thought 
 that there was the same want of repose about his spirits 
 which impaired my own. Perhaps after all it was his 
 mood that gave mine its pecuUar colour : such communi- 
 cations may take place by means quicker and less obvious 
 than words. 
 
 " Now look at me, Lucy — that is if I may venture to 
 ask so odd a favour," said Ralph presently, bringing me 
 to a stand, "Does my face — God help it — betoken any 
 unusual inward feeling on my part ? " 
 
 I did not look, but replied, not without some little 
 hesitation over my comparisons : — " Mr. Ralph, I don't 
 need to examine these apple-blossoms to learn that it is 
 spring-time ; nor to watch the setting sun there to know 
 that the evening is bright ; neither is it necessary for me 
 to look at your face to find out that you are very happy 
 and excited : I feel the spring, and the sunshine, and your 
 joyfulness, al] about me, and within me too." 
 
 " Really, Lucy ? How unconsciously our influences 
 may be slied ! I put the question because I firmly believed 
 that my outer man was belying my inner ; and because I 
 wished to learn wliether your sympathy with an old friend 
 went far enough to reach the truth. I find you have both 
 fathomed, and (in your gentle kindness) shared, my 
 feeling ! Now, may I trespass further on your indui- 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 ;162 Ll^CY riTZADA^r. 
 
 gence, and ask when my gladness first discovered itself to 
 you ? " 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Ralph. I first noticed it when I saw 
 you in our garden this morning." 
 
 " Lucy, your instincts are unerring : you are altogether 
 right. When you saw me this morning I had just met 
 with a success — one for which I have laboured much and 
 long." 
 
 His lip shook a little as he said these words. 
 
 " 1 am heartily glad to hear it," I answered, " most 
 heartily." 
 
 Here occurred Ralph's unfortunate nervous laugh. 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," he said quickly. " But 
 
 after all, success may be Pardon me ; now, can you do 
 
 a little bit more divination ? Can you augur the extent, 
 the bearings, — I do not say the species, mind — of my 
 success ? " 
 
 " The extent of it must be very great ; for by your 
 admission, you have ^ laboured much and long ' to win it. 
 You would not have done this, had the prize been small." 
 
 " A non sequitur I am afraid ; but please go on." 
 
 " Am I to guess the hearings of your achievement ? I 
 should say that it must be one gratifying to your pride, 
 improving to your prospects, — perhaps one opening a road 
 for your ambition ; but — " 
 
 " But what, Lucy ? " 
 
 " I have done all you asked me, Mr. Ralph. I was 
 going on to speculate upon the essential features, rather 
 than the results of your success." 
 
 " I wish you would do so," said Rali)h eagerly.
 
 A PASSAGE FROM RALPH'S PRIVATE HISTORY. 163 
 
 " I think then, from a something about you, that your 
 victory, or gain, must be initiatory, not conclusive : more 
 like the winning of a difficult and responsible post, than 
 the favourable completion of a laborious duty. There ! I 
 will guess no more ! " 
 
 I had two reasons for leaving off suddenly: In the first 
 place, I saw that Ralph looked seriously uncomfortable; in 
 the second, I felt supremely so myself. The cause of my 
 own inquietude must be explained. 
 
 In uttering my last sentences, a series of new and per- 
 turbing persuasions had seized me — persuasions that were 
 irresistiblj^ strong, because they seemed fully to account 
 not onl\' for present manifestations, but for past mysteries. 
 They were: — that Ralph had been hindered all these months 
 from declaring his attachment to me, by a sense of the 
 deficiencies of his professional prospects (I knew that such 
 a sense was especially likely to have haunted his delicately 
 constituted mind) ; that some decided business-success had 
 this day brought him to the determination of immediately 
 settling the long pending question; that his invitation of 
 the morning, although ostensibly given me with another 
 object, had been actually urged in order to create an 
 
 opportunity for ; that — in short — (why should I mince 
 
 matters?) Ralph was on the point of asking me to become 
 his wife. 
 
 It will scarcely cause surprise, that abruptly beginning 
 to view my present situation in the manner above de- 
 scribed, I felt a great deal of agitation, and still more 
 disgust with myself for having speculated w^ith so little 
 delicacy upon that " success " of Ralph's, in the sequences
 
 164 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 of Viliich I might be personally concerned. I think that 
 at this moment I quite lost my presence of mind; I 
 found myself shivering like a child who watches some 
 awful, yet fascinating pantomime, divided between terror 
 and delight. 
 
 " Why, Lucy ! " said Ralph, " you must be chilly. I feel 
 your hand shaking on my arm. Let me go in and borrow 
 a shaw^l for you." 
 
 " No, no ; I am not cold — but " 
 
 I greatly wished to account for my tremulousness 
 satisfactorily, and under the influence of this wish I was 
 not so scrupulous as I should have been about the 
 literal truthfulness of my explanation; nevertheless there 
 was much foundation of fact for what I said. 
 
 '^ But," I went on, " I have been made anxious and 
 apprehensive, Mr. Ralph. The same day that has brought 
 vou your ^ success ' — at which I rejoice more than I can 
 tell you — has brought me a vague but heavy misgiving, 
 over which I am sure you will grieve." 
 
 "It has?" said Ralph, grave, and closely attentive. 
 
 " Yes ; a misgiving about dear papa. I am afraid that 
 poor Frank's death has affected him more permanently 
 and painfully than it has affected any of us. I have half a 
 fear " 
 
 I stopped; for I remembered that I was not statmg 
 the actual and immediate reason of my present agitation ; 
 nor could I have said, possibly, with precision, in what 
 my fears for my father consisted. Ralph, wdio had been 
 watching me intently as I spoke, covered his eyes with his 
 hand, and was silent for some time.
 
 A PASSAGE FROM RALPHS PRIVATE HISTORY. 165 
 
 ''And then again," he said, after a while, '* I daresay 
 that the stupid anonymous letter which you lately received, 
 has tended to unhinge and unnerve you. How sorry I 
 was to hear of your annoyance ! Come, let us walk about 
 again, or you will take cold, and tell me if you will, as 
 we go on, the whole story of that letter." 
 
 I was willing enough to do so, although well aware 
 that my present excitement had no connection with the 
 matter. I accordingly recounted that incident of the 
 market-day with which the reader has already been made 
 familiar. 
 
 Afterwards we went on to talk more particularly of the 
 rustic lad who had brought me the letter. I told Mr. 
 Thain what an interest I had taken in the boy during the 
 morning's interview ; and gathering courage as the re- 
 membrance of the poor sobbing fellow came clearly into 
 my mind, I made bold to ask Ralph whether he thought 
 that he could put me in the way of getting employment 
 for him. I did not fail to state that his handwriting was 
 singularly good, and that he seemed capable of greater 
 undertakings than the driving of steers to market. Here 
 I was struck with Ralph's earnestness. No sooner did I 
 mention my wish, than he took up the business with 
 enthusiasm. He made me dictate to him the boy's name 
 and address, which he carefully noted down. Without 
 giving me any definite promise, he led me to understand 
 that if he could do anything for the lad, he would assuredly 
 do it 
 
 So far w^e had got, when Mrs. Blythe Walker walked 
 out upon the terrace, and in light girlish tones bade me
 
 166 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 come indoors and make her liappy with some music. Was 
 this then to be the close of the meeting from which I had 
 beheved such important issues would proceed? So it 
 seemed ; I could do no other than obey the summons. 
 Ralph appeared to regret that our conference was inter- 
 rupted ; but he said nothing to detain me. 
 
 With her soft and richly ringed hand resting in my 
 arm, Mrs. Walker therefore marched me into the faded 
 drawing-room, pouring — or as I really must say squirting — - 
 into my ear as we went, the most abundant assurances of 
 her delight in the Fine Arts, of her love for music in par- 
 ticular, and of her passion for myself as being (by repute) 
 an embodiment of the musical faculty. 
 
 When I was seated at the piano (which although of a 
 somewhat old-fashioned make, was a good instrument), 
 Mrs. Walker placed herself close beside me, her face bent 
 over the treble keys. 
 
 "No music in this house," she whispered, gracefully 
 waving her hand in the direction of her elder kinsman, 
 who (as his custom was at the first mention of the piano- 
 forte) had fallen into deep dejection, *' not a particle ! An 
 excellent fellow, my dear Miss Fitzadam,'* continued the 
 lady, still in reference to Mr. Thain senior, " but certainly 
 most peculiar. Without any appreciation of the Fine Arts 
 whatever. Singular, is it not, that music should have no 
 * charms ' for him, while for me — his — his relative, they 
 have so many ? Singular, but true. There is, indeed, a 
 want of elevation and refinement about all his tastes." 
 (Here Mrs. Walker made a rich rustle with her handsome 
 silk dress, and caused her bracelets to utter a chinking,
 
 A PASSAGE FROM RALPH'S PRIVATE HISTORY. 167 
 
 golden sound, as though to declare her the child of luxury 
 and elegance.) "But, now, let us be happy: let us 
 enjoy ourselves. Who shall it be — Mozart, Beethoven, 
 Mendelssohn ? " 
 
 So speaking, Mrs. Walker settled herself to listen in a 
 posture expressive of abandonment to pure and lofty delight, 
 daintily stroking her dark brown braids (which were parted 
 by a line that was remarkably white and straight), and 
 thoughtfully lifting her eyes to the ceiling. 
 
 I wickedly resolved to put her musical professions to 
 the test. I knew an old fugue, a masterpiece of its kind, 
 but a composition which could be acceptable to none save 
 those of a highly -cultivated musical taste; and this piece, 
 which was of considerable length, I played, believing that 
 it would effectually damp my listener's Art-ardour. 
 
 But Mrs. Walker was not to be tripped up so easily. 
 I had probably been a silly puss to dream of such a thing : 
 I can hardly doubt now that she, woman of the world as 
 she was, had seen through my trick at once. 
 
 " Charming, charming ! " she broke out the instant I 
 finished. " Beyond everything, charming ! Stern, learned, 
 intricate, it reminds one of the Laocoon group in sculpture ; 
 but like that mighty work, how grand, how perfectly 
 balanced ! What adjustment, what proportion ! John 
 Sebastian, of course ? " 
 
 It was Bach's, and I said so, now humbled, and dis- 
 tinctly afraid of Mrs. Walker's musical knowledge. After 
 this I did my best to please her in my performances, and 
 at the same time to display my attainments to the best 
 advantaofe.
 
 168 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 During the music, Ralph, who, Kke his father, was not 
 musical, glided about in a ghostlike manner, which scarcely 
 seemed to indicate a continuance of his cheerfuhiess. As 
 I played, the sounds I produced blended themselves in my 
 mind with his characteristics and ways. A plain air 
 thoughtfully redeemed from common-place by delicate 
 and abstruse harmonies, represented his simple, yet pro- 
 found and sensitive nature ; the measured tramp of a 
 monotonous base was his slow and equal footstep : I even 
 
 traced his But it strikes me that more of this will 
 
 hardly interest the reader. 
 
 As to the old gentleman, his dejection increased in pro- 
 fundity as the music proceeded. He felt it his bounden 
 duty, as host, to entertain Miss Fenning ; but being unable, 
 through his depression, to offer her anything beyond a 
 mechanical attention, he made an effort to supply what was 
 wanting in quality by excess of quantity ; and with absent 
 solemnity heaped before her vast piles of amusement in the 
 shape of engravings and books, drawers of shells, fossils, 
 and coins. So extensive, indeed, were these accumulations 
 at last becoming, that I felt it to be a great relief when 
 Ralph — always watching lest his old father should commit 
 any unconscious absurdity — quietly and gradually reduced 
 the portentous heap. 
 
 As I left the piano, Mrs. Blythe Walker, seizing both 
 my hands, and shaking them in a small continuous manner 
 that made me feel as though I had the palsy, smilingly 
 observed: — '^Now, my dear Miss Fitzadain, own your 
 sisterhood to me. Am I not like yourself the child of 
 Art ? You doubted me at first : confess your error."
 
 A PASSAGE FROM RALPH'S PRIVATE HISTORY. 169 
 
 I confessed it immediately. I would have owned almost 
 anything — would have declared Mrs. Walker to be the 
 nine Muses in one person — to have won my freedom from 
 her grasp. 
 
 I was glad for my host's sake when supper-time came, 
 for in carving fowls and in pouring out wine he recovered 
 his spirits. He soon again became confidential with 
 me about Mrs. Walker. Did I not now begin to find 
 out her extraordinary gifts ? Not a subject could be 
 brought forward upon which she was uninformed. A truly 
 talented woman : a vast acquisition to a neighbourhood. 
 He and Ralph were most fortunate in possessing the prospect 
 of her society for a long time to come. 
 
 Would Ralph Thain make another opportunity for the 
 continuation of our private discourse? Till the last 
 moment I hoped, I believed he would. But, no : the old 
 clock gasped out eleven. Miss Fenning moved, we said 
 goodnight, and went. Whatever further — if anything — 
 Ralph may have intended to communicate to me, remained 
 untold.
 
 170 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TWO SURPRISES: THE ONE AGREEABLE, THE OTHER 
 AGITATING. 
 
 On objects of our own, intent, 
 
 How miss we other men's intentions ! 
 
 How thoughtful love can circumvent 
 Concealing still the circumventions I 
 
 When we reached home my mother came to the door 
 to meet me and to send me to bed. We kept primitive 
 hours in our house, and, since my illness, early retire- 
 ment had, in my case, been enforced with especial strict- 
 ness. I was not, therefore, surprised at this speedy 
 dismissal. 
 
 " But, mother," T remonstrated, "I want to speak to you 
 particularly — I have wished to do so all day." 
 
 And the wish of which I had spoken was stronger than 
 ever within me at this moment, I had been disquieted — 
 and that considerably — by the interruption and prevented 
 renew^al of my private conversation with Ralph ; but I 
 now found that my less definite discomposure in reference 
 to home matters was the deeper and more abiding disturb- 
 ance of the two.
 
 TWO SURPRISES. 171 
 
 *^ Not a word to-night, love," answered my mother, 
 with a kiss. " Pretty hours, indeed, for a girl who desires 
 to keep her good looks. There will be very little ^ beauty 
 sleep ' to-night. To bed, my pet, this moment." 
 
 My mother's command was soon obeyed, but rest 
 and forgetfulness did not follow. I courted them long, 
 tried all postures and every arrangement of bolster and 
 pillows, counted a thousand, even endeavoured to compose 
 poetry ; but sleep would neither be coaxed nor provoked 
 into visiting me. At last I sat up in bed, tired of these 
 unsuccessful efforts to obtain rest, listening to the church and 
 almshouse clocks as they told the quarters in a tangle of 
 wild tones, and watchinor the cross-barred silver come and 
 go upon the blind as the moon looked out or drew in. My 
 pulses grew noisy and noisier; my thoughts more and more 
 oppressive. 
 
 Hark ! a footstep. The house should have been still 
 now, for the clocks had just struck one. Who could be 
 about at this hour? What did the footstep mean? My heart, 
 in a thick, loud whisper, repeated the question, "what, what, 
 what?" 
 
 I left my bed, quietly opened my door, and listened 
 again. There was now no mistaking the firm, deliberate 
 tread — it was my father's. In the silence and semi-dark- 
 ness of the night he was continuously pacing the passage 
 on the floor below. I heard him, too, sigh and whisper as 
 he went. 
 
 A change had passed upon my feeling towards him. I 
 could not help perceiving it. A vague, but deep-seated 
 fear had taken the place of fond and confiding love. I
 
 172 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 shrank back into my room, and stealthily turned the key 
 of my door. What, I wondered, am I afraid of? Against 
 what am I defending myself? The questions remained un- 
 answered, but the terror did not diminish. 
 
 And now the moon permanently disappeared. The 
 wind arose: a dreary sprinkling of rain sounded on the 
 panes. Still the pacing in the passage below ; still 
 the muttering and sighing; still the unsatisfied inquiring of 
 my noisy heart, " What, what, what ? " 
 
 I would have given much then to be with Esther ; but 
 such was my alarm I dared not go to her. Now and again 
 something within protested against the instinct of dread 
 which ruled me — bade me be sensible, light a candle, go 
 boldly down, and see whether in truth anything were the 
 matter or not; but nothing came of the protest, and at 
 last, growing chilly, I crept into bed again. There, afler 
 listening long to the chattering of my teeth, and after 
 passiiig through the travail of a dread nightmare, in which 
 my father softly burst the lock, and came to my side with 
 a dire and livid face, which I felt, but did not see, I at last 
 fell asleep through sheer bodily weariness. 
 
 When I awoke I hasted to get up, for the sun was 
 high. Morning had arisen in good spirits, with smiles and 
 songs. The copper-beech below my window, whose ruby 
 buds were now nearly unfurled, glowed and glittered in 
 the brightness ; the starlings on the roof were chattering 
 gaily. I soon drank in the cheerfulness of Nature, and 
 began to ask myself how far the misgivings of yesterday 
 and the positive terrors of tlie night had been reasonable.
 
 TWO SURPRISES. 173 
 
 The questioning process was interrupted by a gentle tap 
 at the door, and the low tones of my mother's voice 
 outside. I turned the key, and admitted the welcome 
 visitor. 
 
 *^ You late little bird," she said ; " I see you are but 
 just awake, so you probably have not looked at your watch, 
 and do not know that it is nearly ten o'clock. It is so ; but 
 the truth is I have let you sleep on purposely, and for a 
 good reason. You have a journey before you." 
 
 " A journey, mamma ! " 
 
 *' Yes, and to a pleasant place. Your father and I 
 have decided that you need sea air at once ; you have 
 never properly regained your roses since your illness, and 
 this worry about the anonymous letter has newly paled 
 your cheeks. You and iNIiss Fenning are to go to Bere- 
 mouth this very day." 
 
 « This very day ! " 
 
 " Yes. We have come to a decision quickly ; but I 
 hope the plan is none the less welcome on that account ? " 
 
 " No, no : it is delightful." 
 
 Simple treats are delightful at nineteen. 
 
 " One fact, my child," continued my mother, " is 
 awkward : your time is very limited. You know we are 
 badly off for trains to Beremouth ; there is indeed only one 
 available for our purpose to-day — that leaves soon after 
 eleven o'clock. You have just an hour for dressing and 
 breakfast. Miss Fenning has already made preparations 
 for your packing ; and what she could not accomplish 
 without access to this room, she will go on with under 
 your guidance now, but without hindering you. So,
 
 174 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 my dear, make all the haste you can, and be as quiet 
 as a mouse, for your father, after a very disturbed 
 night is, I hope, sleeping. I will go and give orders about 
 a fly." 
 
 My mother's manner was so cheerful as at once to 
 diminish my late uneasiness, and the attractiveness of the 
 scheme which she had unfolded assisted not a little in the 
 banishment of anxious thoughts ; while her final candid 
 allusion to the very occurrence which had frightened me 
 in the night, deprived that occurrence of its mysterious 
 terrors as if by magic. Voting myself therefore a goose 
 for my silly fears, I hastened to dress merrily. Miss Fen- 
 ning was as blithe as I ; and she accomplished tlie packing 
 of my trunks with marvellous rapidity. 
 
 Shortly before eleven my mother returned to my room 
 to say that the fly had arrived. She looked so pleased to 
 see me pleased, that I found it impossible to be otherwise 
 than gay. There was a little concentrated conversation on 
 the subject of the journey ; and then having bidden Esther 
 goodby I was hurried downstairs. I had taken breakfast 
 wdiile dressing myself. 
 
 " Now one kiss for papa," said my mother as we passed 
 his door. '' But stay, I think he is sleeping still. Had 
 we better disturb him ?" 
 
 " Oh no, mamma. After his wakeful night " 
 
 " Very well, love. He will be sorry not to have said 
 goodby ; yet your plan is the wiser. I will say your fare- 
 wells for you." 
 
 Excited and unsuspecting I hastened out to the fly ; and 
 shortly afterwards my governess and I took our places in
 
 TWO SURPRISES. 175 
 
 the Beremouth train, which carried us at an inspiriting 
 rate towards our agreeable destination. 
 
 Miss Fenning, as I had learned from my mother, was 
 the depositary of all plans ; and to her had been committed 
 all the pecuniary responsibilities of the trip. For a long 
 time therefore I was occupied in questioning Miss Fenning; 
 who, after a little mysteriousness, which I dispelled by 
 happy alternations of pretended indifference and of intrepid 
 assumption, at last told me all that I wanted to know. My 
 governess was well fitted for the mission with which she 
 was now entrusted. It is my frank opinion that she never 
 acquitted herself with such credit and success as when the 
 school-room was forsaken, and when studies were laid 
 aside ; and although others may not have seen this as 
 clearly as I, yet it is evident that my mother considered 
 her especially to be relied upon in the simple characters of 
 protector and caterer, or assuredly she would not now 
 have selected her to bear me company to the sea-side on a 
 purely hygienic visit. 
 
 The close of the day saw Miss Fenning and myself 
 comfortably established in lodgings looking on Beremouth 
 Bay. Our sitting-room was enlivened by a good deal of 
 gay ripe fruit under glass ; and marvellously numerous 
 specimens of crochet-work — which we afterwards found 
 perplexingly inclined to travel upstairs upon our shoulders, 
 and to roll themselves up into unexpected balls under our 
 feet — adorned the chairs, tables, and other furniture. A 
 decoration more striking than any, was a motto splendidly 
 framed which hung over the mantel-piece. It was elabo- 
 rately rendered in all the texts known to penmanship, and
 
 176 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 beautified with endless flourishes, which ran easily and 
 often into swans, pens, and human faces. It stated 
 that— 
 
 KNOWLEDGE 
 
 in general 
 
 Expands the Mind, Exalts the Faculties, 
 
 Refines the taste of Pleasure, 
 
 AND 
 
 Opens innumerable sources of 
 Intellectual Enjoyment. 
 
 " Yery true ; very true," said Miss Fenning, with 
 a little shake of her curls, when she first read the 
 sentence. 
 
 In circumstances so lively and instructive as the 
 above-mentioned, it would have been highly improper for 
 any one to be dull and uninterested ; for my part I found 
 the peaches and crochet positively exhilarating; and I 
 was so influenced by the motto, that I even contemplated 
 entering privately on a laborious course of reading — 
 beginning with Plutarch's Lives. 
 
 My spirits indeed were so high, and my plans so many, 
 that it was long before any recurrence of last night's fears 
 troubled me ; when, however, I found myself in my bed 
 once more, I admit that my anxieties in some measure 
 revived. The suddenness with which I had been sent 
 from home now for the first time presented itself to my 
 mind in an alarming aspect. I carefully reviewed all the 
 circumstances of my departure, subjecting each well- 
 remenibered look and word of my mother to close and 
 separate consideration.
 
 TWO SURPEISES. 177 
 
 I had undoubtedly been sent off at an hour's notice, 
 and as I had since learned from Miss Fenning, for an 
 indefinite period. I had further been permitted, if not 
 covertly recommended, to leave home without holding any 
 communication with my father. Did not these facts, taken 
 in conjunction with my late experiences of his behaviour, 
 point to something seriously wrong with him, either in 
 mind, body, or estate ; to some distress or disease, of 
 which my mother had been unwilling that I should be a 
 witness ? 
 
 But on the other side there was much to be said also. 
 My mother's appearance and language in the morning had 
 betokened simple pleasure at the sight of my happiness, 
 and at the benefit which would probably accrue to mv 
 health from the coming visit. Again, although my re- 
 moval had indeed at last been speedily decided on, yet a 
 change of air for me had long been spoken of as desirable. 
 Once more, Miss Fenning possessed no other explanation 
 of the sudden journey than that which had been given to 
 me ; yet she was perfectly satisfied. 
 
 In these latter considerations, which to my judgment 
 outweighed the gloomy ones, I found final comfort. 
 
 My first act on coming down next morning was to go 
 to the Post-office to see if there were any letters for me. I 
 knew indeed that there would be one ; for my mother 
 had declared before 1 left her that she should be unable 
 to pass the day without writing a few loving lines, espe- 
 cially since the hurry of my leaving prevented her from 
 saying much that she had wished to say. 
 
 The letter was awaiting me : I read it as I walked 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 ))ack to breakfast. It was not a " few loving lines " merely: 
 it was a long epistle covering two sheets of paper. The 
 first five pages were occupied with minute injunctions — 
 such as only occur to a mother — as to diet, exercise, and 
 employment; but in the middle of the sixth page the 
 writer, after having apparently broken off and started 
 afresh, proceeded thus: — 
 
 " So far I had written, when a piece of news reached 
 me which will surprise and interest you as much as it has 
 surprised and interested us. A marriage is shortly to 
 take place in this town, and the persons to be married are 
 both of them well known to you — both, I think I may say, 
 your intimate friends. Now, can you guess who these 
 persons are? You will hardly do so. I may as well 
 therefore at once give you their names : — Ralph Thain 
 and Margaret Thorne." 
 
 This was not the end of my mother's letter. It went 
 on, as I afterwards found, to enlarge on Ralph's marvellous 
 recent application to business, on his consequent growing 
 professional success, and on his worthy and estimable 
 character. But none of this did I now read. I stopped 
 short at the names — Ralph Thain and Margaret Thorne. 
 
 How great a surprise for me was here ; how perplexing, 
 how mortifying an explanation of Ralph's recent words to 
 me, to which I had assigned so different a meaning ! The 
 " success " that he had announced with such exceptional 
 exultation of manner, had been success in love ; and the 
 object of that love not I, but Margaret. This, doubt- 
 less, was the closing of my friend's " open question " of 
 Avlnch she had long since spoken to me ! Total, indeed.
 
 TWO SURPRISES. 179 
 
 had been the obscuration of my understanding in reference 
 to the entire matter ! 
 
 Ralph then, I reflected, had altered his mind since the 
 day when he had written to confide to Frank his love for 
 Frank's sister. After maturer deliberation, he had passed 
 me by. Wit, grace, and beauty, had taken my old place 
 in his regard. 
 
 But had he not a riorht to chano;e his mind? No doubt. 
 Was it to be wondered at that ^largaret had attracted 
 him ? Certainly not. And of course T should submit with 
 calmness and dignity to so reasonable an eclipse? Of 
 course. 
 
 Nevertheless, I went on to meditate, this intended match 
 was sadly unsuitable. It was indeed quite melancholy to 
 contemplate — setting personal feeling entirely aside. What 
 had ^Margaret in common with the man w^hom she had 
 promised to marry ? Just as much, I thought, as some 
 humming-bird of the tropics gleaming with a rich iris of 
 blended gold, ruby, and azure, might be said to have 
 with that voice clothed in russet shadow which thrills the 
 chilly spring nights of northern climes : just as much ; no 
 more. Yes ; it was sad, almost alarming, to consider how 
 little similarity there was between Ralph and his fiancee ! 
 1 am afraid, however, that I did not feel so saddened or so 
 alarmed at the dissimilitude as I ought to have done ; 
 on the contrary, I believe that my chief consolation at 
 the moment arose from the very circumstance that the 
 pair were thoroughly ill-assorted. 
 
 I thought much of the words which Margaret had 
 employed in telUng me of the offer she had received — how
 
 180 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 little I had then imagined who had made it ! 1 remembered 
 her statement that the proposals had first been submitted to 
 her in the previous September. September! the very month 
 of Frank's death; then Ralph had certainly transferred 
 his affections from me to her with marvellous despatch ! 
 I wondered what had led her at last to close the " open 
 question." Could her motive, 1 asked myself, indeed have 
 been love ? — for in a social or a pecuniary sense I knew 
 that she could be no gainer by union with Ralph Thain. 
 
 These and such like thoughts passed through my mind 
 as I took an extra turn on the esplanade before breakfast. 
 On going indoors I found Miss Fenning waiting my return 
 somewhat impatiently ; she was eager for eggs and coffee, 
 having risen with a sea-side appetite. While taking off 
 my hat and mantle, I formally resolved to represent during 
 breakfast the lone and forsaken maiden. I found just a 
 little real soreness in my heart ; and I set about pinching 
 the sore place, as it were, that I might make the serious- 
 ness of my hurt apparent. I did my hair carelessly ; left 
 one side of my collar loose ; and in this condition went 
 down to my governess, and placed my mother's letter in 
 her hand. 
 
 In reading the unimportant parts of it Miss Fenning 
 was not a little irritating; for while of course perusing 
 rhem to herself, she made her comments aloud without 
 giving me any notion as to the remarks or requests to 
 which they related. '' No," she said, " to be sure not." — 
 •• Ah ! I shouldn't wonder." — " I told you so, my dear." — 
 '" Quite true ; it would be very bad policy." — " Oh, no ; 
 that we must resolutely avoid," and so on. But it was
 
 TWO SURPRISES. 181 
 
 when the announcement of the coming marriage was 
 reached, that my governess became most exasperating. 
 '* Dear !" she exclaimed, " what a nice arrangement ! How 
 steadying it will be to that volatile girl." I sighed deeply ; 
 I sternly refused to eat anything but dry toast in the most 
 limited quantities ; I brooded silently, with fixed eyes. 
 All without effect : Miss Fenning seemed determined not 
 to associate these manifestations with their real cause : she 
 made cruel and prolonged observations on Ralph's virtue 
 and capabilities; she reprovingly fastened my collar her- 
 self; blamed me for the untidy appearance of my hair; 
 and ascribed my lack of appetite to biliousness. What 
 was the use of contending against such obtuseness of per- 
 ception as this ? I saw that I must be content to keep my 
 sorrow locked up in my own bosom. 
 
 After breakfast we went for a walk on the beach. 
 Man's changeful affection seemed to me to be aptly sym- 
 bolized by the unstable water. Its impulsive waves might 
 indeed for awhile envelop and sustain the simple hearts 
 that (like the moUusks of the deep) derived their living 
 from the flood ; but withdrawn anon by a dire principle of 
 change, those waves soon sank and vanished — leaving too 
 often the aforesaid simple hearts to perish upon the dusty 
 sands of neglect, like stranded — (I cannot say that jelly- 
 fishes did not occur to me ; but on the whole I preferred 
 leaving open to the entire sub-kingdom of mollusca, the 
 honour of completing my simile). 
 
 By these poetic reflections, I got a little satisfaction 
 out of my sorrow. But I must own that at length I not 
 only grew weary of the attempt to make the most of my
 
 182 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 distress, but that I became sincerely desirous to know 
 exactly how much of it was real ; so that any throb of 
 genuine and spontaneous regret which might chance to 
 visit my heart — no matter how slight — came to be in a 
 certain way acceptable and satisfactory. 
 
 The farther speculation — what view would my father 
 and mother take of Ralph's conduct towards me ? — naturally 
 grew out of the morning's news ; and linked with it were 
 many other speculations. Were my parents now mourn- 
 ing anew over that act of curiosity of mine, the avoidance 
 of which would have been, for me, escape from annoyance 
 now ? Were they mortified because of the humiliation 
 which they must believe me to be enduring? Were they 
 the more irate with Ralph for forsaking me, or vexed with 
 their daughter for having improperly discovered his former 
 bent towards her ? 
 
 I read the latter part of my mother's letter again with 
 a view to the solution of these questions. But the ex- 
 pressions employed supplied no answers. M}^ mother told 
 the story from first to last, and made her comments one 
 and all, as though the news neither affected me nor her in 
 any special way whatever. She had, it seemed, purposely 
 adopted such a style of writing as to show that she wished 
 to ignore any particular pre-existent relations between 
 Ralph and myself. I was satisfied that she had followed 
 this plan as being the one which in her opinion would most 
 effectually spare my feelings. I determined to pursue the 
 same matter-of-fact treatment of the subject in my reply : 
 and I did so. 
 
 There was much going on at Beremouth now to divert
 
 TWO SURPRISES. 183 
 
 the thoughts of an easily amused young person like myself 
 from continuously dismal courses ; I did not long harp 
 upon my disappointment. It left behind it a liability to 
 mild intermittent attacks of self-pity ; and it further gave 
 a new impulse to my high Church principles. It did not 
 prevent me from enjoying the sea-side. 
 
 The season, always early at Beremouth, was unusually 
 so this year on account of the warm and forward spring. 
 New visitors were arriving every day ; pianofortes dropped 
 upon one's ear an incessant musical drizzle as one passed 
 along the esplanade and terraces; and female heads, 
 anxiously bent over pallid water-colour drawings, dotted 
 the beach. The band too had begun to play of an evening : 
 supported by a good deal of trombone, and led by an enter- 
 prising and imaginative clarionet, it struck in turn the most 
 diverse cords of the human heart; now tripping lightly 
 through the " Cap and Bells " polka, now lugubriously 
 turning up its eyes, as it were, over " Vital Spark," now 
 pounding Heaven with the " Hallelujah chorus." 
 
 But the juvenile visitors to the place were to me a 
 source of real delight : the pink darlings sent down in brown- 
 holland to the sands with unlimited licence to mess and 
 dabble, and always disposed to turn their privileges to the 
 best account ; the tiny shrinking nudities — vacillating be- 
 tween laughter and crying — in the awful suspense of 
 waiting for the first dip ; the pets poised on donkey-back, 
 divided between triumph at their elevated position, and a 
 prudent regard for the laws of gravitation ; not least, the 
 lazy cooing fatnesses in panniers, monstrously jogged, but 
 interminably amiable.
 
 184 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 I was soon able to contemplate the tides without even 
 recalling the fickleness of man ; and my governess frankly- 
 owned before many days were past that I had lost all 
 symptoms of biliousness. Miss Fenning herself was 
 vividly happy. She performed our marketing with great 
 zest and spirit, and was much upon the esplanade in her 
 best bonnet. As though nothing was to be wanting to her 
 content, she at last found out that within a stone's throw 
 of our door was situated a certain church, the pastor of 
 which was a "noted evangelical clergyman."
 
 i»0 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A SOX OF THUNDER EFFECTS THE REVERSAL OF 
 MY RELIGIOUS OPINIONS. 
 
 God's servant is man's master. — Festus. 
 
 " A NOTED evangelical clergyman." How unimpressive, 
 how distasteful, was the vision conjured up before me by 
 that phrase ! It was a vision of lavender kid gloves, of 
 curled and glossy hair, of artificial smiles and studied 
 action. I pictured to myself a man who would produce 
 lengthy sermons abounding in anecdote illustrative of the 
 softer emotions, and adorned with a multiplicity of tender 
 metaphors in which the violet and the moon might be 
 expected to do large service ; a man of determined enmity 
 to all really beautiful things — notwithstanding his poetical 
 comparisons — and more particularly to music, except as 
 represented by his own gentle voice, with the melting tones 
 of which it would be his constant and most strenuous effort 
 to draw tears. 
 
 This, and no more did I expect of a " noted evangelical 
 clergyman." Mj faith, despite the shock it had sustained 
 in Mr. Pontifex's secession, was still wholly and firmly
 
 186 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 given to the High Church teaching. In that teaching I 
 sought my motives to duty, and my consolations under dis- 
 appointment. A plenipotentiary Priesthood, an attractive 
 Ritual, seemed to me to be necessary to real religion; for 
 through these channels, as I believed, all my past devotional 
 vitality had been sustained. The inarticulate cry of my youth 
 for a tangible manifestation of Divine authority ; the no 
 less urgent demand of my nature for assthetic aid to heavenly 
 aspiration, had alike been answered — and I thought satis- 
 factorily — in the doctrine and worship of the Tractarian 
 party. I was content with my creed ; and if I had dropped 
 some few of the outward extravagancies which had marked 
 my first acceptance of it, its actual hold upon my heart was 
 now firmer than ever. 
 
 When, one week-day evening, Miss Fenning proposed 
 that I should go with her to " hear Mr. Knox," the evan- 
 gelical clergyman referred to at the end of the last chapter, 
 I received the proposition with disfavour ; urged, however, 
 by my governess in a way that it v/as difficult to resist, I at 
 last withdrew my objections, and promised to go. 
 
 To Mr. Knox's church accordingly w^e went. The 
 service w-as beyond all services dreary. The organ was 
 indifferently played ; the canticles were read ; the clerk 
 was coarse and familiar in his manner; the curate affected. 
 I followed the prayers with difficulty; and an old woman 
 near me disturbed my praises by the florid ornaments which 
 she introduced into the hymn tunes. The dandy preacher 
 was alone wanting to fill up the measure of my disgust : I 
 waited for him resignedly. 
 
 At length the black gown appeared ; the head of a man
 
 THE REVERSAL OE MY RELIGIOUS OPINIONS. 187 
 
 in middle life was long bent in silent prayer. The posture 
 of the kneeling figure was remarkable : it spoke an utter 
 abandonment to the employment of the moment, an im- 
 pressive forgetfulness of all save the Being addressed. 
 Then uprose before me a face which I shall never forget 
 while I live. It was a face portentous, eager, sorrowful ; 
 with an eye so purely keen that it seemed to pierce brain 
 and heart, to lay bare at a glance the quivering fibres of 
 thought and desire. I quailed, shrank, wished myself 
 away — I could not have said why. 
 
 Now came an extempore prayer uttered aloud. It was 
 such a prayer as I had never heard before ; so agonized in 
 its earnestness, it mif^ht have o^iven voice to the burdened 
 soul of Jacob when the darkness of Peniel was upon him ; 
 anon so pathetically imperative, it recalled the words of 
 Elijah, as, standing in exigent faith amidst Baal's sceptic 
 priests, he summoned from heaven the vindicating flames 
 of God. I listened breathlessly for the text ; I heard it 
 with a feeling of profoandest awe. It was this: — " Many 
 are called, but few chosen." 
 
 During the hush which followed? a voice within me 
 whispered : — " The hour of reckoning is come. Often 
 have you mocked at evangelicalism, at the narrowness 
 of the system, at the inconsistencies of its professors : 
 listen ! and tremble at the mighty doctrine which you have 
 so long despised ; learn the futility of those schemes for 
 self-amelioration which you have perversely substituted 
 for it." 
 
 I need not decide what degree of Calvinism Mr. Knox 
 reached in his sermon ; I do not know whether I now
 
 188 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 heard what men call eloquence. 1 remember no signs 
 that others who listened with me thought and felt what I 
 did : some perchance may have traced in the preacher's 
 im})assioned utterances nothing better than common-place 
 rant; some may have gone home that night to ridicule 
 false reasoning, or faulty grammar, or grotesque action. I 
 only know that as I barkened, my previous theological 
 belief was violently and completely swept away; that an 
 inexpressibly dreadful sense of the immensity of religious 
 questions possessed me ; that the solid earth itself seemed 
 to melt beneath my feet, and the only remaining 
 realities to be those in which time and matter bear no 
 part. I saw mankind sevei'ed by essential differences 
 of nature into two irreconcilable companies : I saw myself 
 as numbered amongst the larger throng — the throng of 
 the unholy and unsaved. Closer and closer yet about 
 me were drawn the toils of this strange man's teaching. 
 With wondrous truth, force, minuteness beseemed to paint 
 my own spiritual portrait ; humbled and terrified I inwardly 
 owned the justice of the delineation, and the hideousness of 
 the object portrayed. 
 
 Other and gentler strains, indeed, the preacher uttered ; 
 strains amidst which his dark and threatening visage ap- 
 peared to shine with the reflex of such glory as dying 
 Stephen saw. Then his eye lost its blade-like keenness, 
 and a serene smile of holy happiness softened his dread- 
 inspiring lineaments. But I felt that these milder declara- 
 tions were not for me. A barrier vast, infinite, must first 
 be scaled, a miraculous transformation wrought. The voice 
 that told me what I was, told me also that to become any-
 
 THE REVERSAL OF MY RELIGIOUS OPINIONS. 189 
 
 thing else, was, so far as I was concerned, impossible. Each 
 picture presented of the tremendous change, of the happi- 
 ness, the purity, the safety succeeding it, served the more 
 clearly to display the hopelessness of personal effort to 
 attain it — to point the truth that, in essence and in extent 
 it was that which God alone could work. Into such a 
 dilemma the discourse led, and there it left me; and 
 whether truth or error, rant or common sense, the words 
 spoken — believed by the speaker, I am certain, with as 
 intense a faith as ever moved the lips of man — fell upon 
 my imaginative nature with irresistible power. 
 
 T watched Miss Fenning to see how the sermon affected 
 her. She seemed to be lost in an admiring delio-ht, that 
 was wholly unalloyed by any misgivings on her own 
 account. When the preacher represented the future blessed- 
 ness of the saints, her face kindled hopefully — she saw 
 a pleasing vision of her proper hereafter. When the 
 wretchedness of the wicked was depicted, her awe was 
 clearly that of one who looks back on the shipwreck he lias 
 escaped, from the peaceful safety of some hospitable refuge 
 ashore. What then, constituted the difference between 
 Miss Fenning and myself? What mystic Jordan had she 
 crossed, which rolled between me and the land of promise 
 still? She certainly loved "her violet" and artificial 
 flowers, much as the worldly were accustomed to love 
 them. She was often inattentive during the litany. In 
 short, setting aside her protest against dancing, the drama, 
 and fictitious literature, she greatly resembled the ungodly. 
 Wherein did that saintship of hers, whence she derived so 
 full a confidence and peace, consist? I only knew this
 
 190 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 much concerning it : — it had been attained without effort, 
 and its external evidences were inconsiderable. 
 
 But these thoughts were simply thou^rhts of wonder : 
 tliey were indulged in no censorious spirit. It was impos- 
 sible for nie to judge any one now — except myself. 
 
 I walked out of church as if in a dream. A hollowness 
 and unreality seemed to undermine all familiar things. 
 Vast were tlie depths of religious horror into which I had 
 been plunged : the preacher's arrows stuck fast in my 
 soul : to shake them out seemed an impossibility. 
 
 Great, however, were my efforts to free myself from 
 the grip of Calvinism. I tried to dwell upon the proofs of 
 general beneficence in the works of God. I thought of the 
 blessed and innocent joy of all young children ; of the 
 universal adaptation of provision to necessity ; of Heaven's 
 sweet gratuities to every man in colour, form, sound, and 
 scent. But it would not do. Mr. Knox's grim faith, ren- 
 dered for the time all-powerful over me through the agency 
 of his vehement earnestness, bound me with a chain that 
 would not be displaced, struggle as I might. 1 believed I 
 had reached an experience which was final: the problems 
 of religion, complex and embarrassed before and since, 
 resolved themselves into that simple but transcendent issue, 
 which, according to puritan doctrine — I will not say 
 practice — is the sole question in divinity for " uncon- 
 verted " man. 
 
 Meanwhile, as we walked home to our lodgings, the 
 scraps of talk which fell upon my ear from the lips of those 
 who had lately been my fellow-listeners, denoted an every- 
 day triviality of thought. What she said to him, what he
 
 THE REVERSAL OF MY RELIGIOUS OPINIONS. 191 
 
 said to her, and what slie said to him again ; what Mary 
 was vexed with Jane about, and why it was that Jane con- 
 sidered i\Iary had no cause to be vexed with her : — these, 
 and such as these were the conversational results of Mr. 
 Knox's discourse. Miss Fenning first broke silence in the 
 followino; words : — 
 
 *' My dear, I have been thinking " 
 
 There was a great gravity about my governess. As 
 she paused reflectively, I had no doubt that she perceived 
 my solemnized state of mind, and was anxious to confirm 
 the impression made upon me by the sermon. 1 listened 
 attentively : I was in no mood to disregard any counsel 
 seriously off'ered. 
 
 " Yes," she continued, gazing thoughtfully before her, 
 " we are not too late. The door is still open — we have 
 only to apply boldly " 
 
 1 believed this to mean that the mercy of Heaven w^as 
 yet available for those who willed to seek it. Such a view 
 of things was more hopeful than the Divine favouritism on 
 which Mr. Knox had this evening almost exclusively dwelt. 
 I felt desirous to hear more on the same side. 
 
 *' Do tell me," I petitioned, " all that you were going to 
 say." 
 
 I spoke rather falteringlv, not being familiar with the 
 sensation of seeking spiritual enlightenment from my 
 governess. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Miss Fenning, " I was going to 
 remark that I really tliink a crab would be nice for supper. 
 I believe we are in time : let us at all events try if we can 
 i^et one."
 
 192 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 In so overlaying the weighty with the trivial, my 
 governess was not only guiltless of irreverence, but 
 perfectly unconscious of absurdity. I record the example 
 of her readiness to intermingle Heaven and earth, merely 
 for the sake of noting a phenomenon, and not with any 
 wish to impute blame to Miss Fenning. 
 
 I fancy the reader asking what this chapter may have 
 to do with the story. He is perhaps inclined to think it 
 mere digression ; mere new evidence of an old hankering 
 after theology — dating from the days when I gave baby- 
 house lessons in divinity. If he think so, he is mistaken. 
 As will be seen in the following chapters, Mr. Knox's 
 teaching exercised upon my outer, no less than my inner 
 life, so extensive an influence, as imperatively to call for 
 such notice as it has here received, if my tale were to be 
 rendered intelligible.
 
 ( 193 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ENTER MEPHISTOFHELES. 
 
 Be thv intents wicked or charitable, » 
 
 Thou com'st in such a questionable shape 
 That I will si^eak to thee. — Hamlet. 
 
 Although a new scene is always acceptable to me for 
 awhile, be its features what they may, I am one of those 
 who soon weary of the sea-shore. My native town lies 
 amongst leafy lanes and luxuriant pastures ; and Nature 
 wanting the softer attributes and more varied details which 
 she has accustomed me to expect from her, speedily 
 tires and repels me. Thus after a short time spent at 
 Beremouth Bay, I found myself one afternoon turning 
 from sand and wave, and taking a walk inland. The 
 change was like one from some grim fresco of the pre- 
 RafFaellite age, to a *' sweet portrait " by Sir Joshua ; 
 or from the plain severity of Bach to the subtle tenderness 
 of Spohr. 
 
 But two days had passed since my visit to i\Ir. Knox's 
 church. His words had lost none of their hold upon me : 
 to them I owed the longing for solitude which now allied 
 itself to my usual preference for tree and meadow, and 
 
 VOL. L 13
 
 194 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 helped to lead me awaj from the beach and esplanade 
 Miss Fenning was slightly unwell, for which reason I was 
 not favoured with her society : I had however of course 
 obtained her consent to my stroll. 
 
 The month of May was near its close ; the weather 
 was warm ; the roads were dusty. I soon left the whitened 
 nettles of the highway, and took a path that led through 
 meadows to a village which I had once visited before — a 
 village situated in a lovely wooded dell, with snow-white 
 cottages, fragrant bowery gardens, and an ivy-clad church. 
 Reaching and passing this village, I found beyond it a 
 steeply-ascending road which looked inviting, and which 1 
 therefore followed. It led me quickly to an eminence from 
 whence the top of the church tower appeared far below 
 the horizon. Beside the pathway lay a felled tree: I 
 seated myself upon it. Behind me rose a forest of gigantic 
 and splendid beeches, their pale bare stems now topped by 
 feathery foliage of brilliant golden green ; but between 
 them and me as I sat was a high irregular bank of sandy 
 earth — thrown up apparently in the shaping of the road — 
 clothed with patches of fine grass, and sunned over (so at 
 least I judged from its golden brow : I could not fully see 
 its summit) by a shine of Ladies fingers. Below and before 
 me were other beeches, rising from a rich tangle of budding 
 brake and brushwood, and dappling my face and dress 
 with soft shades. Between their graceful boughs I could 
 catch a peep of village thatch, and of grey church turret 
 wreathed in ivy. 
 
 The beauty of the scene stirred within me a sudden 
 sense of obligation to the great Creator, and of happiness
 
 ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES. 195 
 
 in the possession of His gifts. But the cruel creed of Mr. 
 Knox seized these spontaneous human feelings at their 
 birth, and forthwith strangled them. There are varieties 
 of Christianity which make a virtue of such murder. 
 "The Blest," said Calvinism, "possessing God in Christ, 
 possess the source of all beauty and joy ; and in fruition 
 of the ineffable realities, can afford to dispense with 
 their symbols — imperfect and unsatisfying at the best : 
 while, for the unblest to rejoice or give thanks at the 
 Creator's works is a hideous and revolting farce ; to 
 them, shut out from His real knowledge and love, this 
 world had best appear a world of waste and desert 
 ugliness — a w^orld colourless, formless, empty ; as it 
 were a sheer flat of arid sand, or a barren wild of deadening 
 snows ! " 
 
 In this manner did religious theory shrivel my expand- 
 ing pleasure — as an unseasonable frost, or a blast of icy 
 lire from the malignant East, might have ruined the 
 newly-budded vegetation all about me. I w^as giving a 
 sigh at the check, when a low sound began sensibly to 
 engage my attention. I found myself listening to that 
 rather doubtful form of music called whistlinor. But the 
 strange part of the matter was this : the air whistled was 
 the air of a waltz composed by myself; and in my 
 abstraction I had been mentally supplying the proper 
 harmonies without being aware of my occupation. The 
 discovery of the truth naturally caused me much surprise 
 — and some fear. I started to my feet, and looked about 
 me. 
 
 No sooner had I moved, than there appeared amongst
 
 196 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 the Ladies' fingers on the top of the bank beside me a large 
 human head. The clear yellow eyes appertaining thereto 
 — which burnt with that peculiar lustre denoting recent 
 sleep ; the warm brown hair and whiskers which formed 
 the setting of the face, and which were unusually fervid 
 in colour as seen in a glow of afternoon — or almost evening, 
 sunshine ; to say nothing of a pair of red-hot cheeks ; all 
 combined powerfully to suggest to my mind the notion of 
 flames, and of that being — often referred to both by the 
 religious and the profane — who rules over the fiery realms 
 below. 
 
 In these circumstances I gave utterance to the familiar 
 but certainly impotent exclamation : — 
 
 " Oh dear me ! " 
 
 I had scarcely done so when I realised the face as 
 belonging to Mr. Albert Tyndal. He did not move for a 
 few seconds — during which time I felt as embarrassed as 
 I ever remember to have felt in my life. I can only be 
 thankful that I did not obey the impulse which at that 
 moment urged me to turn about, and post away towards 
 Beremouth as fast as possible ; for had I done so, I make 
 no doubt that Mr. Tyndal would have come after me — and 
 then, how ridiculous the scene ! Most fortunately, indeed, 
 I stood still. Presently Mr. Tyndal seemed to rise on his 
 hands and knees; then, looking over the edge of the bank, 
 he said in a low and solemn tone : — 
 
 " Miss Fitzadam, this is a coincidence." 
 
 " It is indeed, sir," I replied, much put to it for some- 
 thing easy to do with myself — and especially with my eyes 
 and hands.
 
 ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES. 197 
 
 " Shall I come down, Miss Fitzadam ? " asked INIr. 
 Tyndal, still speaking with great seriousness. 
 
 *' If you wish to do so, sir, I should think you had 
 better," I answered. 
 
 With a light and clever spring, he placed himself on 
 the same level as I. 
 
 " Now," he said, taking my hand and holding it, " will 
 you undertake to say. Miss Fitzadam, that you did not 
 think I was the Devil ? " 
 
 I coloured and was silent. 
 
 " I knew it," he continued, releasing me. " You are, 
 I conclude, staying at Beremouth ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " With your ■" 
 
 " With my governess." 
 
 " Now I understand exactly what brings you to this 
 spot, Miss Fitzadam. If I state the case truly, will you 
 own that I am right ? " 
 
 I said that I would. This kind of talk was little in 
 harmony with my more serious thoughts; but then of 
 course I owed special courtesy to Mr. Tyndal as my 
 deliverer from danger ; besides, he was perhaps fifteen 
 years or more my senior, which established for him a 
 further claim on my deference. On every account it was 
 my undoubted duty to bear with his curt, boyish manner, 
 and to listen patiently to what he might have to say. We 
 walked down the steep hill together as he went on : — 
 
 " We must conclude, then, that your governess is a 
 little indisposed to-day — which deprives you of her com- 
 panionship. Right, so far ? "
 
 198 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " The only point on which I was doubtful : it is all 
 plain sailing now. Miss Fitzadam came here, I am con- 
 vinced, for two reasons. First, she likes the shadow, and 
 variety, and homeliness of inland trees, and fields, and 
 lanes, far better than the glare and monotony and strange- 
 ness of the sea-shore ; and second, it happens that to-day 
 she is thinking — thinking — thinking — " 
 
 He looked down into my face with just such an ex- 
 pression, and spoke with exactly such a tone as he might 
 have adopted in speaking to a young child. 
 
 " Thinking — thinking — thinking," he continued, " some 
 very large and weighty thoughts ; and she wished to be 
 alone to think them. I don't ask whether this part of my 
 history is correct ; I can see, by infallible signs, that it is 
 so. She left the busy esplanade for these reasons, chose 
 the prettiest walk she knew, and having reached this 
 village (we were passing it now) was tempted on up the 
 steep path behind us, by the promise of a good view, and 
 by the further enticements of the finest beeches in the 
 county. All substantially correct, is it not ? " 
 
 " I must own that it is, Mr. Tyndal." 
 
 " Now — do not walk too quickly : it is sultry, and I 
 have a larger load to carry than you — now, I say, is it not 
 remarkable that the Devil himself, always going up and 
 down in the earth as a roaring lion or what not — that is, 
 travelling about the country as a Government Inspector, 
 should on the identical day of Miss Fitzadam's visit to this 
 place, have been brought here from Beremouth, his tem- 
 porary head-quarters, by motives precisely similar to those
 
 ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES. 199 
 
 which moved Miss Fitzadam in the same direction herself, 
 namely, in the first place by his preference for inland 
 beauty as opposed to sea-coast bareness; and again, be- 
 cause he was thinkincr, thinkinor — thinkino^ some very bii^ 
 thoughts, and wished to be alone to think them ? " 
 
 " It is remarkable," I said. 
 
 " And I will venture to say, it is still more so that the 
 Devil, having also, like Miss Fitzadam (she need not be 
 alarmed at the similarity ; even Satan may have his whole- 
 some inclinations) been further drawn by the view and the 
 beeches to a particular spot on yonder hill, should there, 
 weary with his day's tramping and work, fall fast asleep, 
 wake up whistling an air that he liked, and then find close 
 to him the author of the air herself, a lady who — as he 
 cannot but own — had been, to say the least of it, mixed up 
 in his late reflections to no small extent." 
 
 " It is a series of curious accidents." 
 
 '• ^liss Fitzadam," rejoined Mr. Tyndal, " there are no 
 accidents in the universe. You should take a lesson from 
 the Calvinist preacher in the town yonder. He would 
 show you that everything, great and small alike, takes 
 place according to eternal decree." 
 
 " Mr. Knox's teaching is no doubt right, sir," I answered 
 with a sigh. " The word I used was ill-chosen. Do you 
 know Mr. Knox?" 
 
 " By sight, excellently ; and I find that kind of ac- 
 quaintance sufl[icient." 
 
 '' He is a good man, is he not? " 
 
 " Violently — or to use an adverb of yours. Miss Fitz- 
 adam, 'aggressively' — good, that is just wdiy he does not
 
 200 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 suit me. I think, though, I see in your eyes that you 
 yourself have been influenced by this Son of Thunder? 
 Perhaps he, and no other, is responsible for those deep 
 thoughts which brought you, or helped bring you, out on 
 your solitary ramble ? " 
 
 Mr. Tyndal had a strange knack of finding me out : I 
 hardly liked it. He saw that I w^as disturbed at his last 
 discovery, and he changed the subject accordingly. 
 
 He told me now of a graceful, and (as he added) quite 
 undeserved letter in which my father had acknowledged 
 his protection of me during the alarm of fire at the lecture ; 
 spoke feelingly of my illness — of which he had learned 
 from his aunts ; then referred to the waltz which I had 
 heard him whistling, and which w^as the same that I had 
 played at the Westford-Leigh Court party; and at last 
 asked me as a favour to tell him in what circumstances I 
 had composed that piece. 
 
 Neither the recollection of the waltz itself, nor of my 
 having shocked the evangelical by its performance at 
 Westford-Leigh Court gave me satisfaction now ; but I 
 thought it would be remarkably rude not to answer can- 
 didly the question put to me. I therefore said that the 
 waltz had been the indigenous growth of a waste hour or 
 two on a wet summer afternoon, when the landscape was 
 l:)leared with slant rain, and when an untimely tempest 
 was lifting the carpets into hills, and making a mid-winter 
 moan at every door. I had since, I added, ehiborated the 
 harmonies ; but I explained that the main scheme of the 
 composition was attributable to that one afternoon. I 
 cannot tell why, but Mr. Tyndal seemed a good deal
 
 ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES. 201 
 
 pleased with this account. He did not say as much ; but 
 he performed various grunts and nods of a peculiar de- 
 scription which I saw meant satisfaction. 
 
 We were now half-way towards Beremouth. I cannot 
 remember that since the first moments of our interview, 
 I had felt the slightest awkwardness in being alone with 
 Mr. Tyndal : he was not, indeed, at all the man to occasion 
 any such embarrassment. It surprised me too to find that 
 notwithstanding the religious horror on my mind, I took 
 an interest in much that he said, and found pleasure in his 
 approval. I saw the old idol Self at the bottom of this, 
 and thought of Israel making " their gods of gold," while 
 yet Sinai's trumpet sounded loudly in their ears. What 
 if this chance companion, I went on to ask myself, should 
 indeed be, as my wild fancy had first suggested, the very 
 Evil One to me ! What if he should possess Satanic power 
 to destroy my awful impressions, and to obscure my salutary 
 thoufjh distressino; sense of the eternal ! 
 
 I had noticed for some time that the still, sultry air 
 occasionally gave a restless plunge, like a fevered child in 
 sleep : I now felt a great warm drop on my face. Looking 
 back I saw the eastern skies draped in a shadowy curtain 
 whose frayed edges swept the hills ; westward, however, 
 the declining sun still shone brightly, and what clouds 
 there were sailed high and fair. But the storm came on 
 with all the hurry of thunder : not many seconds more 
 had passed before a drenching shower fell. 
 
 I found myself standing under the shelter of a hedge- 
 end, beside a meadow-gate. My companion had whipped 
 oif a light overcoat which he wore, and I was enveloped
 
 202 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 in it. From head to foot it covered me, and there was 
 length and breadth to spare. So arrayed, I felt like a 
 priestess, ready to conduct religious worship, and to offer 
 sacrifices. 
 
 And now came a frio-htful crack of thunder. I was 
 not given to be alarmed at such moments ; but I own that 
 with Mr. Knox's voice of warning still ringing in my ears, 
 I found the sound appalling. Probably my lips lost colour 
 rapidly : in other words I may have looked as though I 
 were going to faint, notwithstanding that I had not the 
 least intention of making myself so foolish. At any rate, 
 I found that an arm was supporting me, and heard a voice 
 mildly and yet firmly deriding my fears. For my part I 
 felt content to remain as I was in silence. 
 
 To this day I remember the scrap of meadow scenery 
 that I looked at during the pause : the grass going straight 
 up with the lusty purpose of spring, outclimbing the cow- 
 slips which had had their hour, but lifting with it the purple 
 clover ; the distant elins heavy with young leafage — their 
 feet hidden in a flowery mist; the silvered hedges; the 
 glitter of rain falling in sunshine. I was not happy at this 
 time : a portentous thunder cloud overhung my soul : 
 happy I could not be. But — my blood was youthful and 
 warm. Some feeling, not without a new sweetness of its 
 own, rose amidst and through my painful heart-searchings 
 — a feeling at one with the life and stir of the spring fields, 
 with the flush of clover, and the throstles' songs ; a feeling 
 that quickened my pulse, and I think brightened my eyes. 
 
 Nothing could exceed Apollyon's gallantry : he was 
 most careful to protect me thoroughly from the shower ;
 
 ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES. 203 
 
 he also looked remarkably benevolent and happy — for such 
 a beiufj. I said thrice that I feared he was oettino^ wet ; 
 thrice he answered that he gave the rain full permission to 
 soak him through and through. 
 
 And presently the thunders died away and the rain 
 held up : from my envelope I came out dry. " Look/' 
 said Mr. Tyndal, pointing upwards and eastwards. I 
 looked ; and saw the brightest, most perfect rainbow that 
 has ever met my eyes. I cried out with admiration and 
 pleasure. 
 
 '^ An omen," said my companion, as w^e walked on 
 towards the town. " A coincidence first," he added 
 slowly, " and then an omen." 
 
 I said nothing ; having no notion what I could say. It 
 was not lono; now before we reached my lodo;ino;s. 
 
 Miss Fenning was looking out for me with a face of 
 much apprehensi<^n, which face (as I saw her before she 
 saw me) I observed to undergo a singular change in the 
 character of its concern, when she found that I was 
 attended by a gentleman. Having knocked at the door 
 for me, Mr. Tyndal said, ^* I wish you, Miss Fitzadam, the 
 acquisition of everything that is truly good in Mr. Knox's 
 creed, and a happy issue out of all its awful miseries. 
 Good-bye, and, if I may add it, God bless you ! " 
 
 He shook hands with me gravely, and went. From 
 my window I saw him light a cigar and walk slowly down 
 to the beach ; the calm and regular puffs which he sent 
 forth seemed to imply agreeable contemplation ; and his 
 leisurely pace clearly showed forgetfulness of the fact that 
 he was drenched to the skin.
 
 204: LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CUPID AGAIN : I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 
 
 I have been mortified enough of all conscience, and here comes something 
 to complete my embarrassment. — She Stoops to Conquer. 
 
 One marked result of the impression which I had received 
 from Mr. Knox's teaching, was my narrow watchfuhiess 
 of that clergyman's life : I eagerly desired and strove to 
 know the daily practice of a man wdio could preach with 
 such force as he. 
 
 In course of time, I gathered from various quarters 
 considerable information as to his habits ; and this infor- 
 mation my own observation enabled me to verify and 
 augment. I am bound to declare that his life and teaching 
 coincided. Where earthly joy and merriment prevailed 
 he was never to be found ; but with the sick and sorrowful 
 he was constantly present. When, on one occasion his 
 flock desired to have his portrait taken, he restrained per- 
 sonal vanity, and gently but firmly refused the request: 
 not a pastor's likeness upon their walls, he said, but Christ's 
 image in their hearts, was the proper object of their desires. 
 Primitive and simple were all his household usages ; long
 
 I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 205 
 
 hours be spent in private devotion ; large were his gifts to 
 the poor and distressed. His very servants, by the awed 
 gravity of their faces, seemed to reflect tbe seriousness of 
 his discourses ; and as to his sweet little children, just now 
 in mourning for their mother, so heavenly were their looks, 
 that you could almost imagine they never spoke save in 
 praise or prayer, and never dined on anything less spiritual 
 than the " doctrines of grace." 
 
 The assurance of complete concord between the preach- 
 ing and practice of my spiritual pastor, quickened and 
 extended his influence over me. Love him, or his doctrine^ 
 I did not ; yet he left me no choice whether or no I would 
 accept that doctrine as the truth : his vehement sincerity 
 compelled my acceptance of it. Though the heavenly peace 
 which was often written upon his countenance never reached 
 my heart ; though the rapturous joy on which he insisted 
 as the present privilege of the saved remained unknown to 
 me ; yet I believed him, feared him, followed him. If I 
 could not share his blessedness, I determined that at least 
 I would seek it : if the inflexible decree of Heaven should 
 shut me out from paradise at last, I resolved that at any 
 rate I would perish striving to enter in. 
 
 I became in opinion and in conduct a rigid puritan. 
 That earthliness must be uprooted from my heart if the 
 Redeemer were to grow there, I saw clearly : I laboured 
 to uproot it. My former pursuits, were many of them 
 abandoned ; all modified. I played hymn-tunes instead of 
 waltzes ; read tracts and abjured novels. I meted out my 
 time carefully, rose early, and prayed long. The phraseo- 
 logy of the evangelical school, once ridiculed and hated —
 
 206 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 and, indeed, if I must be open on the point, hated, though 
 not ridiculed, still — became familiar to my lips. 
 
 And if any one of my convictions was stronger than the 
 rest, it was the conviction that my late creed — that of the 
 Tractarian party — had been a ruinous delusion. He who 
 takes up with a new love remembers with especial distaste 
 the tenderness he bestowed on his former mistress. My 
 recent flirtation with Puseyism now appeared even more 
 foolish and perilous than that indifference to all religion 
 which had distinguished the earlier days of my life. 
 
 My relations with Miss Fenning at this time underwent 
 singular alterations. When my new opinions first oozed 
 out, she greeted the change of sentiment with exuberant 
 joy. *' I told you so " expresses what was now the essence 
 of her feeling towards me. We proceeded for a time to 
 fraternize warmly in a religious sense — more especially on 
 the subject of the Mystery of iniquity. But a new state 
 of things soon followed — I went too far for Miss Fenning. 
 She would probably have tolerated and even approved 
 any merely theoretical excesses in Calvinism ; but I was 
 too serious to theorize without acting ; and no sooner did 
 my practical puritanism come into full operation, than I 
 began to receive warnings against " a morbidly scrupulous 
 conscience," against being " religious over-much," against 
 '* going about to establish my owm righteousness." In 
 short, I now heard much the same admonitions as those 
 which my governess had addressed to me in the days of my 
 Hicrh-Churchism : — a token, possibly, that I had in truth 
 come round again, by a new route, to a spiritual spot not 
 far removed from that which I had then occupied.
 
 I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 207 
 
 The reader will now understand how the bay of Bere- 
 mouth with its pale sands and moaning sea, has become 
 inseparably connected in my mind with the terrors of the 
 Puritanic faith. To this day, when I dream of the great 
 divine assize, I see the dread white throne of justice poised 
 above those trembling waves, and hushed humanity gathered 
 upon the Beremouth beach and cliffs ; while the glare of 
 Tophet rises luridly behind the building-sprinkled heights 
 which shut in the bay upon its western side, and the pure 
 morning of heaven breaks over the misty promontory to 
 eastward. 
 
 Weeks passed, and we still stayed on at Beremouth. 
 Letters from my mother reached me often ; she wrote at 
 length, and as I thought, not without cheerfulness. No 
 I'ear ever haunted me now that anything was wrong at 
 home ; no curiosity arose in my mind as to the reason of 
 my continuance at the sea-side. I was wrapped in my own 
 experiences. When I wrote to my mother, my single 
 effort was to make clear to her mind those new views of 
 existence to which I had attained ; when I read her answers, 
 my chief eagerness was to discover how far she was dis- 
 posed to make my opinions her own. From my father, I 
 neither heard, nor expected to hear : he had never been 
 much of a letter-writer ; and his communications with me 
 during previous absences from home, had mostly been 
 confined to occasional messages of affectionate caution 
 or injunction, delivered by means of Mamma's more facile 
 pen. 
 
 Weeks passed — as I have said — and I saw no more of 
 Mr. Tyndal. For this I thanked God repeatedly upon my
 
 208 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 knees. Mr. Tyndal was not evangelical : I needed no other 
 reason for dreading his influence. Never did I now utter 
 the prayer: — "lead us not into temptation, but deliver us 
 from evil," without mental reference to the man who, as I 
 half believed, had been thrown in my path by the Adver- 
 sary, to lure me from self-denial and salvation. 
 
 But the snare which I desired to escape was not always 
 to remain unspread. There came a certain warm afternoon 
 towards the end of June. Miss Fenning, disinclined for 
 exercise, was a fixture on one of the esplanade seats. With 
 her sanction I took a solitary stroll ; the only restriction 
 laid upon me being, that 1 was not to wander far away, I 
 paced a comparatively secluded part of Beremouth bay. 
 My mind was full of religious questionings which were as 
 little in accordance with the ordinary happy carelessness of 
 youth, as a detailed record of them — if I could give it — 
 would probably be with my reader's taste. But my power 
 of external observation was not quite suspended. I noted 
 how the damp sand dried and whitened at my tread; how 
 the dimpled water took a cold and silvery lustre towards 
 the light, and a rich green warmth in turning from it — how, 
 spending its little wakefulness on an occasional drowsy roll a 
 long way off, it came dreaming to my feet in slow and in- 
 tersecting curves, wherein, by reason of their tardy sweep, 
 one might leisurely trace the wonder of infinitely varied 
 impulse incessantly reconciled with perfect simplicity of 
 result. These outward observations became at length 
 intertwined amongst my religious musings, till I knew not 
 which v/as which ; till the sea grew to be one with human 
 will — free, yet governed by prevenient ordinance ; till 
 
 «♦
 
 I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 209 
 
 temptation was identical with the absorbing tide, and 
 futurity with the hazy horizon. 
 
 A step beliind me; a turn of my liead ; and then a 
 vision — the vision of INIr. Tyndal. 
 
 Never before had I seen him look so well. The open- 
 air freshness of his manly face, the wholesome straightfor- 
 wardness of his tone and manner as he greeted me, struck 
 me with a power which they had not exerted upon me before. 
 My soul had been holding converse with the super-human, 
 the impalpable, the mysterious : protest as my religion might, 
 and did, against such a demonstration, the human heart 
 beating within my bosom gave a leap of pleasure at this 
 sudden substitution of the concrete for shadowy abstraction 
 of a near intelligible fellow-creature for far and transcend- 
 ent spiritualisms. In sliort, Mr. Tyndal gained immensely 
 for the moment by contrast with the invisible world. 
 
 The first words exchanged between us were ordinary. 
 I remember, I think, a wistful, softened gaze into my face 
 from the eyes whose glance was generally one of dazzling 
 clearness. It was a gaze, I fancy, of pity or regret. It 
 moved me ; I know not why, for I did not understand 
 it. For one short strange minute I yielded to the spell 
 that was weaving around me : then, as if with a leap I 
 broke away, and for a while stood pretty clear. My 
 puritan conscience had found time to speak : I was now 
 ready to obey its injunction "resist the devil," although 
 in the act of obedience my heart peevishly muttered 
 that if this were indeed the devil he undoubtedly bore con, 
 siderable resemblance to an angel of light. 
 
 " Miss Fitzadam," said my companion, when several 
 
 VOL. I. U 
 
 *t
 
 210 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 striking peculiarities in the recent weather had first been 
 carefully enumerated, '* you will not, I hope, think me an 
 intruder. Which way are you going to walk ? I ask 
 leave to walk with you." 
 
 I had come to an irresolute pause, which had probably 
 occasioned the question. I felt that I could not refuse the 
 request, and helplessly pointed before me. The gesture 
 meant nothino- for the course it indicated lav across the 
 seas. Mr. Tyndal smiled, and led me his own way. 
 
 A short pause ensued : I employed it as my religion 
 bade me. I asked from above for resolution to hold oat 
 against the fiery trial to which, as I now well knew, I was 
 about to be exposed. 
 
 When Mr. Tyndal spoke again, it was with an in- 
 describable kind of shake which seemed to begin at his head 
 and go down to his heels, and which so strongly suggested 
 the laborious shuffling off of a skin, that I should not have 
 been altogether surprised afterwards, had I seen upon the 
 sand some shrivelled semi-transparency bearing an abbrevi- 
 ated resemblance to my companion's general form. 
 
 " Do you know what that meant ? " he asked. 
 
 I answered half-absently : — ^' Perhaps, sir, it signified 
 a struggle of yours to get rid of some feeling of constraint, 
 which you found a difficulty in shaking off." 
 
 " Right. I don't know. Miss Fitzadam, that I was ever 
 so much in danger of indulging an unmanly tendency to cir- 
 cumlocution as when I joined you just now. Well, I have 
 made an effort ; I have banished pusillanimity; you shall not 
 find me wanting in courage and straightforwardness after 
 all. I can now say what 1 have to say briefly and at once."
 
 I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 211 
 
 " Anything you may have to tell me^ sir," I answered, 
 with a calm promptness which surprised and highly grati- 
 fied me, " I shall listen to with respect and attention." 
 
 INlr. Tyndal made a face, and that one of the ugliest I 
 ever beheld. 
 
 "My dear lady," he said, gravely, "what cruel spirit 
 moved you to speak like that? What have I done to 
 deserve from you such cold and formal phraseology ? But 
 let this pass. I, at least, will not — for I cannot — use chilly 
 and ceremonious words. Miss Fitzadam, dear Miss Fitz- 
 adam, I love you very deeply ; I pray you to love me — 
 and be my wife." 
 
 At this point, I pretty nearly lost consciousness of 
 what I was about ; yet I believe I was shaping my lips 
 for the " impossible " already determined on, when I saw 
 an uplifted hand, and heard the imperative words ; — 
 " Hush ! oblige me by silence for a few moments. You 
 politely promise to listen to anything I may have to say 
 ' with respect and attention.' I claim a fulfilment of the 
 promise." 
 
 " I am not sure that it is right, sir," I answered, nettled 
 at his changeful bearing, and speaking rather inconsistently 
 with my former declaration in consequence, " but 1 will 
 do your bidding." 
 
 " Good," he quickly replied — as it seemed, in anger. 
 
 That he was wholly in earnest, I could not fail to see : 
 there was an ill-suppressed quiver about the muscles of his 
 face which told me this distinctly. I waited to hear him 
 fully out, with composite feelings in which some fear was 
 mixed.
 
 212 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 " I suppose, Miss Fitzadam," lie began, " I must first 
 show that I am strictly m orde?^ in the course I am now 
 taking ? I will do so. I saw your mother yesterday, and 
 she authorised me to make the statement I have made. 
 Understand me, I intend to insinuate no more than that I 
 had her leave to deliver my announcement, and put my 
 question : she said nothing of her wish with reference to 
 your answer; only, she did not discourage me. 
 
 " As to myself. Miss Fitzadam, I am not a saint, nor 
 rich, nor very young. If a painful truth must be told, I 
 was six-and-thirty last birthday. I hold a Government 
 appointment which brings me no large income^ and which 
 keeps me always travelling. I am a younger son, and 
 have no expectations, or next to none. That I am not 
 beautiful, your observant eye has taught you long ago ; 
 that I am no genius, you have probably discovered also. 
 Let me see — what else am I not." 
 
 Here my tongue, breaking loose from every restraint 
 that it was in my power to impose, got to mischief, and 
 said : — 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Tyndal, say no more of that sort." 
 
 " But / will," he answered, savagely. '^ I am not aristo- 
 cratically connected, nor have I any special faculty for 
 lifting myself in society. In my pursuits I lack thorough- 
 ness : I dabble, and am lazy. I like variety, and plenty of 
 time. Art delights me ; science I respectfully let alone. 
 My mind wants precision, and objects to figures ; but my 
 soul loves beauty, and finds it everywhere. You see I 
 begin to pay myself compliments : I intend to go on ! " 
 
 Again my tongue went astray.
 
 I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 213 
 
 " By all means do, sir," it said. 
 
 " I shall. I am an honest man, Miss Fitzadam, and I 
 am not unworthy of your love. If my face is uninteresting 
 or ugly, my physical health is unimpaired : for instance, I 
 have thirty-two sound teeth, and my digestion is perfect. 
 If my family is not aristocratic, it is as respectable as your 
 own — and tliat is sa^dng much for it. Though I have 
 passed my youth, I am but just entering my prime : by 
 the blessing of God I hope to enjoy many years of vigour 
 yet. If my income is not large, I have contrived to save 
 five thousand pounds, and I insure my life for another 
 thousand." 
 
 He paused. My crimsoned face was bowed low : I 
 could speak no word of reply. 
 
 " Now," added my eager suitor, with a gasp which 
 went far to show the intensity of his feeling, " enough of 
 character and circumstances ; let me further trouble you 
 with a page of personal history. Some eighteen months 
 ago I paid a visit, to my aunts in your town. I found 
 them dismally evangelical; and the catechetical exercises 
 which went on daily at their family prayers were particu- 
 larly embarrassing to a sinner like myself. I should have 
 grudged the three days which tliey had amiably made me 
 promise to give them, but that I was enabled, by coming 
 to Westford, to renew a delightful friendship of former 
 days ; I also felt it right to be civil to my worthy relatives, 
 and tried to be so. My stay was destined to influence me 
 in an unlooked-for manner : during the visit I had the 
 happiness of meeting Miss Fitzadam. The interview to 
 which I refer has doubtless made more impression on my
 
 214 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 own memory than on yours, and I shall not bore you by 
 recalling it. 
 
 " A year and a half ago, Miss Fitzadam, you were 
 hardly of a marriageable age; at least, I saw that if I then 
 made an avowal of the interest I felt in you, I was in 
 danger of rejection on the ground of your youth. Perhaps 
 for the very reason that my nature inclines me to haste" 
 and impetuosity, experience has specially taught me the 
 value of patience and delay. I was able to act upon the 
 lessons of experience, on an occasion when natural impulse 
 was at once strongest and least to be trusted : I resolved to 
 icait for the woman I loved. 
 
 " My aunts had been good enough to take a fancy to 
 me, and were anxious that my visit to them should be 
 repeated. I now felt no reluctance to relieve their anxiety ; 
 and from time to tiuie, as my official duties permitted, I 
 ran back to Westford. By these means I was able occa- 
 sionally to see in person the fair little girl whose calm 
 straight eyebrows and shadowed blue eyes were never 
 absent from my memory. 
 
 " Do not be abashed. Miss Fitzadam, because I refer to 
 physical traits of yours : my compliments shall be held in 
 by the bit and bridle of truth. It is a fact, I assure you, 
 that your eyes are blue and shadowed, and your eyebrows 
 calm and straight. But I candidly tell you, there are tens 
 of thousands of shadowed female eyes — and I have felt the 
 power of some, which denote no refreshing rest for a dusty 
 wayfarer ; there are innumerable placid brows which veil 
 vacant brains and tigress-like tempers. It was because I 
 saw, in the face that now ever haunted me, something
 
 I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 215 
 
 above and beyond mere material beauty, that I gloried in 
 the features so continuously, and so Increasingly loved their 
 owner. I watched, I listened eagerly for all that might 
 brincr the truth concerninor that o-entle countenance to 
 light. I laboured to understand It fully. You shall hear 
 my conclusions." 
 
 " I would much rather not, sir," I said. 
 
 " Possibly : but I cannot indulge your preference. I 
 learnt to regard Lucy Fitzadam, first, as a simple, unso- 
 phisticated country maiden ; of a pure, warm heart ; 
 without pretence or affectation. This view of her nature 
 was gained earliest; and it Is the one I love best." 
 
 " Spare me any more, Mr. Tyndal," I Interrupted. 
 
 '* Nay, my dear lady, I think I must go on. I found, 
 further, that Lucy w^as a girl of large imagination, of a 
 keen sense of beauty. What moving harmonies, what 
 daring flights of fancy she attained, in her musical inven- 
 tions; how her eye burnt and her tongue ran when the 
 talk was of the charms and sweetnesses which Providence 
 has hidden about us in this mystical world of His ! I went 
 on to discover a firm tenacity of will, mildly displayed, but 
 never wanting. I saw, too, that Lucy, while self-possessed 
 in manner, and sometimes audacious of speech — when sure 
 oP the person to whom she spoke — was yet In her way 
 deeply shy, and strangely sensitive at heart. She keenly 
 enjoyed life ; yet I thought that at times the great riddles 
 of existence oppressed her with a weight seldom imposed 
 upon young minds. I followed out this last discovery till 
 I was brought to a somewhat discouraging conclusion; till 
 I saw plainly that Lucy wandered round the w^alls of somC'
 
 216 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 gloomy religious faith. What else but a precocious interest 
 in theolocrj could mean the doubting irony with which this 
 young thing criticised the various creeds, the thoughtful 
 search which she manifestly made for consistency in religious 
 profession ? Woe to me, and to my love for her, I said 
 within myself, if she should once walk fairly in, and kneel 
 upon the altar-steps of the fane she chooses 1 It will be long 
 before human motives will urge her out again : she is not 
 unlikely to remain, and die at her devotions ! I saw in my 
 heroine, in short, a many-sided comprehensive nature ; 
 rejoicing and yet sad: divided between the radiancy of 
 hope, and the darkness of doubt ; a nature pre-eminently 
 needing sympathy and love, yet of all natures the most 
 likely, under some perverse conviction, to renounce what 
 most it required, and to sacrifice the reality of happiness to 
 the idea of the holy." 
 
 Mr. Tyndal's instinct had rightly shown him the one 
 obstacle in his way ; but his unspiritualized understanding 
 had, I conceived, wrono-lv led him to ascribe to natural 
 bent that condition of mine which I firmly believed to be 
 due to divine enlightenment. I could not hope to convince 
 him of his error; but I was determined to prove to him the 
 correctness of his suggestion that religion might be the 
 barrier between us. I began to speak ; doing violence to 
 myself, and taking up a position which I neither liked nor 
 understood, because I thought evangelicalism demanded 
 of me the cruel and puzzling sacrifice. 
 
 But I was soon stopped. " Ymj," said Mr. Tyndal, 
 " pray hear me to the end — I have nearly done. Nine 
 months ago it vvas my intention. Miss Fitzadam, imme-
 
 I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 217 
 
 diatelj to move in the matter which I have, awkwardly 
 enough, opened with you to-day. Then your family loss — 
 a loss in which I, too, was a heavy loser — occurred ; I felt it 
 right to defer my claim upon your notice. A month back, 
 being here on business, I met you, as you know, unex- 
 pectedly: I could not at that time extend my stay at 
 Beremouth, but I determined to return at the first oppor- 
 tunity. Having visited your mother to announce to her 
 my intention, I have come back to-day to tell my tale, and 
 hear my fate. The wearisome story is done at last : you 
 must speak now. Miss Fitzadam, and I shall listen." 
 
 The sternness of the finale checked my rising emotion, 
 and gave a sudden stir to my temper. This was rough 
 uncourtly love-making indeed ! Youth is wont to take 
 credit to itself for a penetrating sagacity: I now prided 
 myself on the fancied discovery that Mr. Tyndal, while 
 intending manly directness, had been distinctly wanting in 
 delicate and chivalrous respect for my feelings. My ire 
 grew warmer as I recalled his crude expressions. Principle 
 was in abeyance for the moment. I was temporarily seized 
 by the single desire to chastise my suitor for his effrontery 
 of plainness. Many were the telling retorts I dreamed of, 
 if I did not realize. I netted the sea and swept the sky 
 for a metaphor by help of which to shame the shameless 
 perspicuity that I resented. And nearly at last did I grasp 
 my desire. My mind's thumb and finger were closing upon 
 an apposite illustration, drawn from those inferior marine 
 animals which are transparent for purely protective pur- 
 poses, when another method of retaliation suggested itself. 
 I thought that Mr. Tyndal's offence might be indentilied
 
 218 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 ■with an inclination to take advantage of my youth. I 
 determined to take advantage of it too. Reserving my real 
 motive to his rejection for future revelation, I now said 
 with cold calmness — standing still as I spoke, to give 
 weight to my words : — 
 
 '^ I am too young, much too young, Mr. Tyndal, to 
 marry you." 
 
 The effect of the statement was immediate. My com- 
 panion's manner visibly softened. He said, in a sad re- 
 proachful tone : — 
 
 " Your objection is just. Yes, you have found the weak 
 point in my armour ; and there you quickly and quietly 
 direct your barbed arrow. Be comforted, Miss Fitzadam ; 
 the arrow will stick ! " 
 
 I now saw that I had committed a sin. Forsaking 
 those principles which alone should have guided me through 
 this dangerous interview, I had suffered myself to be led 
 by unworthy pique: thus, in plain language, I had been 
 betrayed into telling a story. T had made that appear to 
 be an objection to Mr. Tyndal which in my inmost heart I 
 felt to be no objection at all. My pride had taken up aline 
 of defence which was false as well as unkind. 
 
 The result was a position of aggravated difficulty ; for 
 Conscience now became allied with Feeling, and demanded 
 a recantation of my words. It was only to be expected 
 that in the manner of the recantation Feeling would be 
 more apparent than Conscience. She was so. My eyes 
 melted, my voice faltered as I said : — 
 
 " Forgive me, Mr. Tyndal. I spoke untruly. My ob- 
 jection has nothing really to do with age."
 
 I a:\[ asked a question. 219 
 
 TI18 man's passion mantled at this gentleness. He seized 
 my hand and kissed it, muttering the word " darling." 
 Few girls could have remained cool under such a demon- 
 stration, ^ly heart heaved ; my blood went through me 
 with a hot and vehement rush which turned me giddy. 
 
 At this moment, looking back towards the town which 
 we had been slowly leaving behind us, I saw Miss Fenning 
 in pursuit. She had probably caught a distant view of my 
 comrade ; and her curiosity, or her anxiety on my account, 
 had prevailed over her sedentary inclinations. 
 
 " My governess is coming/' I said ; '^ I must leave you, 
 Mr. Tyndal." 
 
 '* And when am I to receive my ans^ver?" (He spoke 
 in a low, dejected tone.) 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Tyndal, have compassion on me, and take it 
 now ! It is : — ' Never, never.' " 
 
 '' Stay ! this is not reasonable or right. An important 
 judgment cannot be arrived at in a few minutes. You 
 would not do me such an injustice as to treat with levity 
 or indifference a matter which, to me at least, is of the 
 greatest moment ? " 
 
 '^ You know I would not," I replied, glancing in dismay 
 at his colourless face. " You know I would not ; but there 
 are some notions that cannot rightly be entertained for an 
 instant." 
 
 " Some notions so entirely w^orldly, that a little saint 
 may not even temporarily harbour them ! Some men so 
 distinctly of the Evil One, that God's children dare not 
 pay their feelings even a passing respect ! " 
 
 Alas! how I had been misrepresenting myself: yet to
 
 220 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 let this appear would have been inevitably to lose tlie field 
 for which I was struggling so hard. Nice definitions as to 
 my state of feeling were not to be attempted : I saw I must 
 make up my mind to be misunderstood. 
 
 *^ If you honestly feel," continued Mr. Tyndal, as he 
 watched me wipe away a tear that stole out against my 
 will, *' that it is impossible for you to return my affection, 
 tell me so ; I will bear my disappointment as I may without 
 giving you further trouble." 
 
 I '' honestly felt " nothing of the kind ; and he knew it, or 
 he would not have ventured on such words. Miss Fenning 
 was now near at hand ; I saw that the scene must close. 
 With a great effort at calmness I said : — 
 
 '^ You are staying in Beremouth to-night ? " 
 
 '* Yes; at the hotel yonder." 
 
 " You shall have my answer, written, at an early hour 
 to-morrow, or perhaps sooner. — You know Mr. Tyndal ? " 
 I added to Miss Fenning, who at that moment came up. 
 
 They bowed : there was serene reproof in the oscilla- 
 tions of Miss Fenning's curls. Mr. Tyndal squeezed my 
 hand, and put so sad an entreaty into his parting glance 
 that I nearly cried again. He made no effort to converse 
 with my governess, but left us abruptly. 
 
 We turned to go home. '' Lucy ! how very strange," 
 exclaimed Miss Fenning. '^ The second time, too ! And 
 you almost look as though you had been crying." A 
 lecture followed ; I listened — it was the best thing I could 
 do ; to make a confidante of my governess was impossible. 
 
 The wind began to stir as we w^alked to our lodgings. 
 The sun, now declining, was beset by a motley throng of
 
 I AM ASKED A QUESTION. 221 
 
 clouds, wildly random in outline, and livid with a coppery 
 glare that portended storm. My hapless intelligence was 
 not more hopefully or more calmly attended. I hastened 
 to my room, and there entered upon one of the severest 
 inward conflicts through wdiich it has ever been my fate to 
 pass.
 
 222 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MY ANSWER. 
 
 A fond thing vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scrip- 
 ture, but rather repugnant to the word of God. — Articles of Religion. 
 
 To many readers my state of feeling at this time will 
 perhaps appear as little intelligible — I had almost said as 
 little credible — as pleasing. But I can assure them that 
 in writing my history I am concerned with the truth only; 
 and that the anomalous mental experience through which I 
 now passed was a thing as positive in its reality, as some 
 mention of it is indispensable to my narrative. 
 
 It would be difficult for me to exaggerate the distinct- 
 ness with which what I conceived to be my danger and my 
 duty were presented to my mind. On the one hand I saw 
 stretched out fair flowery fields of earthly happiness, luring 
 me with velvet slopes and tender shadows ; charming my 
 eager senses with perfumes and with songs. The hand 
 that beckoned me to this Eden was the hand of a man 
 who, as I now discovered, was strangely, deeply dear to 
 me. But a suspicion of falseness and peril marred the 
 brilliant and enticing view : a misty film hid its distance. 
 I believed that to obey the summons was to forsake the
 
 MY AJ^SWER. 223 
 
 light, and to wander on deceived to final darkness. On 
 tbe other hand, I beheld a steep and toilsome pathway 
 throuoh desert land ; a pathway beset with briars, rough 
 with rocky stumbling-blocks, gloomy with the blackness of 
 night. A figure trod this pathway; a bent and weary 
 figure — on its shoulders a cross. Was it the gentle 
 Saviour of the Gospels ? Was it He whose perfect life 
 and wondrous death pointed to love as the sole source of 
 human virtue? I thoucrht so then. But He turned 
 towards me no cheering smile ; looking where He led, I 
 saw no streak of silver to betoken a coming day; no clear 
 signal of rest and safety yet to be. Only, I heard a 
 A^oice grave, terrible, urgent beyond expression — a voice 
 like the voice of Mr. Kiiox — which said : '* If any man 
 will come after Me, let him deny himself, take up his 
 cross and follow Me." 
 
 To put the truth into plain words, I held that the 
 honest man who had offered me marriage was a sort of 
 embodiment of the world which I had sworn to shun. As 
 1 have remarked before, I knew no more of his religious 
 feeling and opinions than this — that Evangelical teaching 
 was not acceptable to him. But I was fast held in the 
 iron fetters of the Puritan faith ; and such knowledge was 
 sufficient. Bound and blindfold, my conscience iterated 
 the single declaration that to follow Christ and to accept 
 Mr. Tyndal were incompatible. A thousand times it bade 
 me understand that there was not, nor could be, any mis- 
 take here. 
 
 I prayed, and God seemed near ; but dreadful, not to 
 be loved. I gathered a miserable firmness from tlie peti-
 
 224 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 tlon, but it drew down upon me no hope nor liappiness. I 
 opened my Bible. Each passage on which I lighted 
 seemed to corroborate the testimony of my conscience; 
 but none won or comforted my heart. 
 
 Nevertheless, the Divine mandate must be obeyed ; the 
 world as personified in Mr. Tyndal must be renounced. 
 Before the close of that wretched evening I had written 
 and despatched the following letter : — 
 
 " My dear Me. Tyndal,— 
 
 You have paid me the highest honour which it is 
 possible for a man to pay a woman. In thanking you 
 for this, as now from my heart I do, T specially beg you to 
 forget and forgive those words spoken by me this afternoon, 
 in which I made it appear that my inability to accede to 
 your wish was otherwise founded than on the basis which I 
 am about to state. 
 
 '' I will deal very honestly with you — for you have 
 done the same with me. The obstacle that you yourself 
 seemed to anticipate, is the true one : my religious con- 
 victinos do not allow me to think of becoming your wife. 
 I have lately learned to attach supreme importance to such 
 considerations : by them I must be governed. Do not, I 
 pray you, think me regardless of your feelings, for indeed 
 I am not so. If I were to do violence to my conscience, 
 no lasting happiness could come ot it, either to yourself 
 or me. 
 
 " I might say much more — but it is better not. I ask 
 of you a Hnal and twofold favour : it is, that you will 
 neither write me a reply, nor seek another interview. If
 
 MY ANSWER. 225 
 
 you really wish my happiness, I solemnly charge you to 
 comply with this last request. 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " Lucy Fitzadam." 
 
 For appearance's sake I had joined Miss Fenning at 
 tea ; but soon after the meal I had found an excuse for 
 returning to my room, where the above lines had been 
 written. Having secretly sent off with the letter a girl 
 who was employed in the house, I once more did penance 
 in the parlour, and for some time read aloud to my 
 governess. But all the while I was mentally recalling the 
 particulars of my interview with Mr. Tyndal. Many 
 times I started and stopped short, thinking that I had 
 unconsciously been reading my recollections aloud, instead 
 of the book ; many times Miss Fenning observed that the 
 author of the work was evidently an inexperienced writer, 
 since he repeated himself constantly, even to the extent 
 of whole sentences — and sometimes omitted essential ex- 
 planations. 
 
 I w^ent to bed early, and then began to know fully how 
 miserable I was. It is a matter of common observation that 
 things out of reach appear doubly desirable. Every one has 
 noticed that the intangible chamber pictured in the look- 
 ing-glass is a far more attractive apartment than that of 
 which it is the reflection ; and that the fireside and family 
 group suggested by the glowing pane that shines out nu 
 invitation to ourselves, seem as though they must exceed 
 in interest and picturesqueness those to which we belong. 
 Now that the happiness lately proposed to me was really 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 LUCY EITZADAM. 
 
 beyond my grasp, and was viewed but as in a picture, my 
 imagination idealized and beautified it with torturing skill. 
 
 But I cannot remember that my purpose flinched, or 
 that I once inclined towards the reversal of my decision. 
 After long and forlorn meditation I fell asleep. That was 
 a strange night for me. I had been reading — or pretend- 
 ing to read— to Miss Fenning, of the vast and wondrous 
 woods of South America ; and wdien I dreamed, I found 
 myself amongst those scenes, to the description of which I 
 had, at the time of perusal, paid so little attention. I 
 wandered in a huge forest alone. The giant boles about 
 me bent and cracked beneath a mighty tempest. The thick 
 foliage, drenched with rains, poured torrents of water upon 
 my head. I lost my path amidst fallen trunk and tangled 
 briar ; my feet were buried deep in matted grass and 
 drifted leaves. I knew not why 1 travelled, or whither I 
 was bound ; but I willed to travel, and I would not turn. 
 Compulsion drove me, and yet choice : I chose to be 
 compelled ; but the choice itself seemed compulsory. 
 
 Waking, I found the dream in part justified by reality. 
 The spirit of tempest was abroad, and a wild storm lashed 
 the windows. Light came, and I looked out. The sea, 
 showing savage teeth of foam, growled and leaped at the 
 haggard dawn, as if at a beggar that had no business to 
 be about. Few moments I have known more desolate 
 than those when I watched that grey-headed pauper day 
 come toiling up his dull and weary road to Nowhere — 
 such, to my joyless mind he seemed, and such his journey. 
 
 1 nevertheless conceived many expedients for the relief 
 of my unhappiness. I determined that I would take refuge
 
 MY ANSWER. 227 
 
 in duty : this, that, and the other should henceforward be 
 better, more thoroughly done than heretofore. Again, I 
 thought I would find out beauty and sweetness in common 
 things ; would cultivate tenderness towards the unlovely ; 
 would own in the ordinary relations of life, dear and soul- 
 binding ties. But the flicker of these resolves died out 
 soon and suddenly, leaving undisguised the " ashen-grey " 
 dullness of the unloving existence to which my conscience 
 condemned me. 
 
 I must have slept again, for that prosaic but exciting 
 noise the postman's knock, which in due course sounded at 
 our door, undoubtedly put an end to experiences of mine 
 that did not belong to the waking world, and suddenly 
 revealed the indigent day as considerably advanced on his 
 journey. The letter which now arrived was from my 
 mother. 
 
 I expected no relief from its contents, and I read them 
 with indifference. The letter, however, contained a piece 
 of new^s : we were to return home the next day. At the 
 close of it, moreover, was a paragraph which set specula- 
 tion vigorously to work, and which turned disquietude into 
 a new channel. It ran thus : — 
 
 " I long to see you my dearest child. If on reaching 
 home you find your mother more in need of your love 
 than ever, do not doubt that that love w^ll satisfy the need 
 completely ; if you find your own necessity for affection 
 increased, remember, darling, that you have mine tenfold. 
 I am rejoicing in the knowledge that before this a new joy 
 has reached you. That it should do so at this time, I 
 thank God more than I can say."
 
 228 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 The last words I partially understood. I saw in them 
 a reference to Mr. Tjndal's proposal ; and an expression 
 of confidence that his love would gain my glad acceptance. 
 More than this I could not comprehend. But that the 
 above-quoted passage had been inserted in the letter with 
 an especial object^ I felt sure. No one could be more 
 tenderly careful than my motlier ordinarily was, in writing 
 to me, to avoid vague phrases likely to cause uneasiness ; 
 yet here she wrote in a way both vague and ominous. I 
 saw in the words — dark as they were — a loving prepara- 
 tion for some unknown trial. 
 
 Multiplied sorrows do not always, I think, oppress the 
 heart with the amount of weight which might be supposed 
 to belong to them cumulatively. They sometimes neu- 
 tralize each other. My grief on account of the step which 
 1 had lately taken at the instance of conscience, and a new- 
 grief arising from expectation of some distress at home, 
 now kept each other in check. Like the man and 
 woman in primitive barometers, when one came forward 
 the other went back; or else the couple stood abreast, 
 ■with equally moderated prominence. 
 
 When the dread awakened by my mother's letter for 
 awhile took possession of me, it was strong and absorbing. 
 At these moments my father was the centre round which 
 my alarm revolved. I remembered that in my late pre- 
 occupied state of mind I had inquired but little for him ; 
 and referring to some of my mother's recent letters, I saw 
 that the sentences which I had accepted as bearing testi- 
 mony to his health and spirits, were worded less absolutely 
 than 1 had supposed.
 
 MY ANSWER. 229 
 
 Mj mother's practically avowed persuasion that I 
 should of course accept Mr. Tyndal, greatly surprised me. 
 Whence could such a persuasion have arisen? When had 
 I betrayed, in the presence of my parents, the slightest 
 partiality for jNIr. Tyndal? Amongst many other ques- 
 tions these repeatedly presented themselves ; with many 
 others they remained unanswered. 
 
 Like myself Miss Fenning had received a letter. This 
 letter I saw, and it threw no light upon the obscure para- 
 graph in my own : nor could I with comfort to myself, 
 ask my governess's opinion as to the sense of the expres- 
 sions which disturbed me ; for to have shown her the 
 communication I had received in order to do so, would 
 necessarily have been to reveal to her my relations with 
 Mr. Tyndal ; and these I anxiously desired to keep secret 
 from her. I therefore bore my burden of home anxiety 
 alone. 
 
 Preparation for returning to Westford began. Miss 
 Fenning was a little lugubrious at the notion of leaving 
 the lively esplanade and Mr. Knox's ministrations. There 
 was a forced firmness about her manner as she went forth 
 in the wet to pay bills, as much as to say that the Christian 
 must nerve himself to endure the severance of these ties, 
 painful though the effort might be found. In checking 
 our landlady's last week's account she became articulate 
 in her laments, and in her self-fortification against despair. 
 ** Let me see," she said, as she ticked off the different 
 items, " yes ; we did have shrimps for tea the day before 
 yesterday. That little dream's ended." — " If we had 
 known now, that our visit was so nearly over, those three
 
 230 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 bottles of sherry might have been reduced to one ; how 
 uncertain are all human events ! " — " I remember no fresh 
 anchovy. Stay — yes — right; she has certainly dealt 
 honestly with us ; it is sad that our paths must now again 
 diverge." — " Two and ten are twelve, and five are seven- 
 teen, and eight are twenty-five and nine are — thirty-four, 
 and three are thirty- seven : one and carry three. What a 
 blessirig for us that the practical duties of life must be 
 attended to : carry three shillings ; but for them we should 
 indeed sink. Three pounds twelve and a penny. Yery 
 moderate really ; but melancholy to have to pay ; as the 
 last — the last bill always must be." 
 
 Miss Fenning hesitated over her conclusion, as though 
 perceiving that it carried with it a meaning less senti- 
 mental than that with which she designed to endow it, and 
 that a certain degree of melancholy is attendant upon the 
 payment of all bills. 
 
 In the afternoon the rain abated, and I went out to say 
 farewell to the beach. I walked till I came to a pebbly 
 cove, shut in by lofty cliffs where puffins and cormorants 
 congregated, making the place wild and dismal with their 
 cries. All indeed was noise and gloom : heaven was still 
 dark, and the sea boisterous. The tide was making ; and 
 vehemently the foamy flow came swinging up the shingle 
 hills. 
 
 Shall I own that I half hoped, half believed, he 
 would see and follow me ? It was so : my victory over 
 nature had not been complete ; and yet conscience pro- 
 tested as strongly as ever against any further interview, 
 and rated me soundly for even entertaining the thought
 
 MY ANSWER. 231 
 
 that sucli a thing was possible. But my spiritualized self 
 had its wish — i\Ir. Tyndal did not come to me : no, he did 
 not come ! Passing home I found myself watching for his 
 manly shape upon the sands ; but 1 watched in vain. 
 When at evening a gleam brought a host of gay ephemera 
 upon the esplanade, I looked for him once more — for the 
 true amongst the trivial — but he was not to be seen. Well, 
 well; what could I expect? What did I want? T had 
 given him my answer ; and he had taken it. I had pre- 
 ferred to him a final urgent request ; and he had granted it! 
 
 That night I heard a last sermon from ^Ir. Knox. The 
 Calvinist preacher was in his gentlest, happiest frame. 
 " He that overcometh shall inherit all things " was his text. 
 For once there were no terrors in his address : his wonted 
 thunderous gloom was dispelled by the full radiancy of 
 heavenly joy and triumph. His words brought me comfort 
 and did me real good ; not because I was able fully to 
 accept and apply them, but perhaps because they so mani- 
 fested the goodness of the speaker as subtly to lead me to 
 the contemplation of a possible goodness greater still — a 
 goodness large enough to embrace in its compassions even 
 the troubled, dark, and vacillating victim of a purely 
 earthly aflPection ; even an unhappy footsore stumbler 
 amongst those creeds wherein others were able to walk 
 erect and joyful ! 
 
 We left Beremouth the next morning ; but afternoon 
 was well advanced before Westford came in sight. 
 
 Never before had the place of my birth seemed so dear 
 to me as now. Puritanism had deeply imprinted upon my 
 heart a sense of the transient nature of each cherished
 
 232 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 earthly possession : thus, my home had become invested 
 in that sad romantic interest wliich clothes all that is 
 fleeting. My vague expectation of some distressing change 
 immediately at hand, perhaps tended to heighten my yearn- 
 ing after the old, familiar scenes. Never, certainly, had 
 the newly-shorn slopes about Westford appeared so lovely 
 as now ; never the sedgy river's side so mysteriously calm 
 and sweet; never the laden trees so rich, nor the summer 
 sky so clear. 
 
 We reached the town, and found a fly awaiting us at 
 the station. As we passed the market-place — which 
 seemed, during our absence, to have dwindled in size — I 
 fancied that many well-known eyes regarded me with 
 more than common interest. The house, the loved old 
 house came in view : the trees appeared to have stepped in 
 close about it since we left ; their arms were thrown around 
 its walls as if caressingly. I looked eagerly for the faces 
 from which I expected the earliest possible welcome. I 
 saw a single face — my mother's. 
 
 My mother's? Was it her face indeed? I started 
 and shrank at the sight. But a few weeks ago it had been, 
 in spite of trouble, a face hopeful and handsome, telling ill 
 its tale of five and forty years : it was now the counte- 
 nance of a woman crushed and heart-broken ; it was a face 
 pallid, plain, and old.
 
 ( 233 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 WHAT WAS WRONG AT HOME. 
 His melody is interrupted now. — Shelley. 
 
 In a few moments my mother was alone with me in the 
 dining-room. 
 
 " What is wrong ? " I asked, in a voice which but for 
 the sensible effort of producing it, I should not have 
 known as mine. " Tell me everything quickly, I implore 
 
 you." 
 
 " I will," answered my mother promptly, mastering her 
 own agitation with an efiort. " You shall hear all my 
 child ; only be calm. I have sad news to relate, it is 
 true ; but together we can and will bear up under our 
 sorrow." 
 
 She took me to the sofa as she spoke, and I sat by 
 her to listen. Her pale lips and my thumping heart 
 seemed at the moment to be the only material facts, in a 
 world whose histories were dreams, and whose population 
 ghosts. 
 
 " Your dear father " she falteringly began. 
 
 " Is ill, YQiy ill," I muttered. 
 
 " Very ill," was the reply.
 
 234 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 "But let me go to him, and see for myself: come up 
 with me." 
 
 " No, no Lucy : he is not here. Be composed, and I 
 will tell you. He is not at home : his illness is of no 
 ordinary kind." 
 
 " I do not understand, mother." 
 
 " Think a moment. Do you not remember how rest- 
 less, irritable, and capricious he became before you 
 left ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How impatient and fanciful ; how seemingly unkind 
 towards me, and sometimes towards you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And did not all this make you anxious ? I think I 
 saw in your face that it did ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but my fears took no clear shape." 
 
 And yet, after I had spoken the words, I remembered 
 that my misgivings had sometimes been more definite than 
 I had chosen to allow to myself: I saw that I had tried 
 to blind my understanding to fact — as in truth, I was 
 trying to do now — but that the attempt had been diffi- 
 cult and unsuccessful. 
 
 " It was to spare you alarm as long as possible," said 
 my mother, '^ that I sent you away from home : I hoped, 
 too, that your father's condition might improve after all, 
 and that you might remain ignorant of the distress which 
 had threatened him. But you had not been gone a fortnight 
 before my worst fears were confirmed. My child — you 
 know the truth ? Your poor father's mind has become 
 affected."
 
 WHAT WAS WRONG AT HOME. 235 
 
 I hid my face on my mother's shoulder. 
 
 " Not hopelessly ? " I presently whispered. 
 
 "No — God forbid! No; they do not discourage the 
 expectation of amendment and cure ; but at present all is 
 disorder. Yet there is reason for thankfulness even now : — 
 His case is understood ; he is in the hands of a physician 
 whose skill and success in treating such maladies are 
 perhaps unequalled ; he possesses everything that can add 
 to his comfort, or hasten his recovery." 
 
 " All these are blessings : but you mother ! what a sad 
 change this trouble has made in you ! " 
 
 '^ Perhaps, Lucy, I look worse than I feel. I have 
 suffered much — of course. But there is plenty of vitality 
 and some courage within me yet. You will not see me 
 succumb to sorrow. Indeed I feel as thouo-h I should be 
 nearly myself again, now that I have my dear little 
 daughter back, and now that she has, as I trust, a very 
 happy story of her own to tell me in exchange for my 
 gloomy tale." 
 
 I glanced at the speaker's worn face, and I saw it 
 illuminated with a glow of joyful expectation. My mother 
 believed I had accepted Mr. Tyndal ; she rejoiced in this 
 belief, and exultingly looked to me to confirm it. 
 
 To check a child's delight by sudden cruelty, and turn 
 it's innocent mirth to sobs ; to snatch some solace from the 
 old or sick, and leave them to want it ; to knock away the 
 crutch from the cripple; to steal the cherished ewe-lamb 
 from the poor man's hearth : of all these, and of other 
 such-like acts, I have sometimes morbidly imagined myself 
 the perpetrator, wantonly tormenting my heart by allotting
 
 236 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 to it a suppositional malignity most foreign to its nature. It 
 seemed to me that the blow which my stern religion now 
 bade me inflict on my mother's rising hope, comprised the 
 baseness of all the inhumanities that had ever thus tor- 
 turingly presented themselves to my mind. Seldom has 
 truth been to me so hard to tell as at this time. For a 
 while I could say nothing. 
 
 " The silence means that all is happily settled with 
 Mr. Tyndal, darling, I am sure," said my mother. 
 
 Still I shrank from undeceiving her. I covered my 
 eyes, that, when I should be obliged to speak, I might not 
 see the gladness leave her face. 
 
 " In my last letter, dear," she continued, not yet, as it 
 seemed, guessing the truth, " I gave just a hint of my 
 thankfulness and no more, because I thought I would 
 reserve the full telhng of it for this meeting. I rejoice 
 more than I can say. The attachment too, is as fully in 
 accordance with your dear father's approval — I have reason 
 to know this — as with " 
 
 Here I covered my mother's mouth with my hand, and 
 said in a spasmodic manner : — 
 
 "Mother, you are altogether mistaken. I cannot 
 marry Mr. Tyndal. I have told him so." 
 
 Notwithstanding my wish to avoid a sight of it, my 
 mother's countenance so fascinated my eyes, that after all I 
 watched it undergo the change occasioned by my words. 
 How effectually the light that had cleared her misty vision 
 was overcast again : how steadily the muscles about her 
 mouth settled themselves once more into sadness ! At that 
 juncture, I had it on my lips to say : — *^ Dearest mother, I
 
 WHAT WAS WRONG AT HOME. 237 
 
 will do what you wish this moment. It is not, even now, 
 too late : let me write at once and reverse my decision." 
 But at the same instant I remembered the words : — " He 
 that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of 
 Me ; " and my perverted conscience, strong in the habit of 
 making the straight crooked, and plain places rough, 
 declared that this was the crucial test ; this the worst and 
 deadliest assault of the wicked, to resist which successfully 
 would be finally to repel the enemy. Accordingly, I gave 
 no utterance to my feeling of compunction. 
 
 " Lucy," said my mother, presently, " has your refusal 
 been well considered ? Do you know how worthy he is to 
 be loved, how long he has loved you? I trust you have 
 not acted with precipitation ? " 
 
 I replied hurriedly : — 
 
 " I have not, indeed. I thought a great deal before- 
 hand. Please say no more about this." 
 
 A sob was added to the sentence, which last demonstra- 
 tion was sufficient to secure the assent of my self-forgetful 
 mother. She stroked my cheek soothingly, and said : — 
 
 " Well, well, don't be unhappy. You shall tell me 
 your feelings about this matter some other time ; only I 
 believed they would be the same as Mr. Tyndal's — that 
 was all. Now, go up and change your dress." 
 
 I went ; and Esther overtook me aji my door : the old 
 woman wore her sterner aspect to-day. 
 
 " You beant lookin' so much better as you should, 
 Lucy," she said, " a'ter bein' down to Beremouth all this 
 while." 
 
 "No?"
 
 238 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 " That you beiint/' continued my nurse, as she stripped 
 me of my travelling dress in her usual firm but gentle way. 
 " Well, an' so you be goin' to be married then ? " 
 
 " Esther," I cried out, ** are you under the same mis- 
 take too ? How this seems to have been talked of? " 
 
 " An' so 't should have been * talked of,' chile, should'n 
 it, to she as have had the keepin' of 'e from yer mother's 
 'oomb ? But won't'e have the man then, a'ter all ? " 
 
 I could not answer. I embraced the old woman silently, 
 concealing my confusion in the muslin folds that covered 
 her neck. She uttered a kind of groan, which represented, 
 as I well knew, much bitter disappointment; and said: — 
 
 "Ah, there! that is a pity now! 'T would 'a' been a 
 blessin' an' a happiness to all on us." 
 
 " Pray, pray don't speak so, Esther ! " 
 
 At this point, I saw my nurse's eyes open a little wider 
 than usual, and her great mouth resolve itself into a 
 straighter line than it generally represented. I well 
 understood these as the signs of awakening displeasure. I 
 deprecated severity, by saying : — 
 
 " Esther, I am so unhappy : do not be harsh with 
 me." 
 
 " Well there, Lucy," she replied, " if you do feel so 
 very much about it as that there, you mus' like yer sweet- 
 heart pretty well, \ reckon. An' so you ought to like en ; 
 an upstanding, fresh-faced, well-spoken gen'lemen as ever 
 I seed ; a good strong chap to work for 'e ; an' one as tells 
 the truth, an' as have got a heart made o' the right stuff. 
 An' so you won't have him ? An' what in the worl' for ? 
 They above only knows, I'll be boun', — an' not They
 
 WHAT WAS WRONG AT HOME. 239 
 
 neither. There, Lucy, you was always twisty ; always 
 would have yer way — even from that time when you was 
 three year old, an' fell out wi' yer faather about sayin' 
 U. P.— up." 
 
 " Oh, Esther, Esther 1 " I remonstrated. 
 
 " An' you pertended," continued my nurse with in- 
 creasing rigour, " as you didn't care for'n to kiss 'e any 
 more ; an' kep' yer e^^es so dry as dust, an' yer naughty 
 little face so still as a image. \Yell, all this here, I'll 
 war'nt, is some'at like 'twere then : you've a-took yer way, 
 an' you'll keep it — till you be tired." 
 
 These references to my father at such a time could 
 only be regarded as proofs of a deliberate design to work 
 upon my feelings. They answered their end to perfection. 
 Alas ! there seemed to be no bottom to my difficulties about 
 Mr. Tyndal. 
 
 " Esther," I said, with a laborious effort to realise the 
 power of religious considerations. " we must judge for 
 ourselves in these matters. I have done what I believe to 
 have been right ; and my reasons for acting as I did were 
 good. Let us try to love and serve God : that is the one 
 thing needful. Mere human love we can do without : it 
 is but folly after all." 
 
 '' Aah ! " continued Esther, regardless of the pious cha- 
 racter of this observation, "just the same obstinate little 
 thing as was stood in the corner years ago ; an' as said 
 when the dolls was took away that they was but fullish 
 things : a-holdin' out aggen yer poor dear faather about 
 U. P. — up ; an' a-breakin' his heart to pieces " 
 
 " How unkind, Esther, to say all this," I cried. ** No ;
 
 240 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 I am 7iot now acting as I did then ; I was obstinate and 
 naughty at that time ; now I am trying to do right." 
 
 '' To do right, be 'e ? Well, Lucy, you may see some 
 day as it's 7iot so very right to love a man, an' then per- 
 tend as you don't." 
 
 "Hush, Esther!" I said, blushing deeply, "how do 
 you know that I love Mr. Tyndal ? " 
 
 " What does yer cheeks say about it ? " replied my 
 nurse, flinging her forefinger at my face and eyeing me 
 fixedly. " There, Lucy, I've most a mind to gie' 'e a 
 slap, an' stand 'e in the corner! You've a-throw'd a 
 precious gift out o' winder. Never mind, though ; there's 
 waitin' in that tlier feller ; I can see't in his face. 'Tis the 
 young fools as says ' now or never ;' he's old enough an' 
 wise enough to know as most good comes o' waitin'. He 
 can wait, bless 'e ! " 
 
 So ended Esther's fault-finding with me on the score 
 of my rejection of Mr. Tyndal. Vastly different were 
 my own views of the subject, vastly different were all our 
 surroundings, when my nurse next spoke to me of my 
 lover's claims. 
 
 Strange it seemed to me that Esther should so well 
 understand the bent of my heart ; stranger still, that — 
 like Mr. Tyndal himself — she should ascribe to natural 
 tendencies, long ago exhibited, that obstructive course of 
 action which now, as it seemed to me under direct heavenly 
 guidance, I felt it right to pursue. I was offended at her. 
 Persons urged by strong and new religious impulse expect 
 to be thought extravagant and fanatical ; perhaps they like 
 it : but it surprises and irritates them to discover that their
 
 WHAT WAS WRONG AT HOME. 241 
 
 excesses are held to be but novel manifestations of some 
 bias which has characterized them from birth. 
 
 Before I went down again, my mother had told Miss 
 Fenning the real situation of the household. I could see 
 that my governess was much affected. Once during the 
 tea-dinner of which we now partook, I noticed that she 
 suddenly checked herself in the enjoyment of cutlets, and 
 nearly cried. After the meal also, she abruptly fell into 
 a fit of downright blubbering, in the midst of which she 
 said, or tried to say, that God moved in a mysterious w^ay 
 His wonders to perform. The truth thus oddly enunciated 
 reached my heart ; for it came from the heart of the 
 speaker. I found that night that I loved Miss Fenning 
 much more than I had supposed. 
 
 To assist in the maintenance of a o-eneral outward 
 composure, my mother presently summoned up such faint 
 cheerfulness as she could feio;n, and o^ave us the news of the 
 town. She told us — without the slightest manifested con- 
 sciousness of my old fancy for Ralph — that he and Margaret 
 were to be married during the following August. Mr. 
 Finch's family, we learned, had just received an addition 
 to its already considerable number. Mr. Whitethread, it 
 was reported, had made a matrimonial offer to ^liss Buzzard, 
 of Westford-Leigh Court, who after much shilly-shally 
 had refused Mr. Whitethread, greatly — as was alleged — 
 to the relief of that gentleman. The second Miss Buzzard 
 of Belwood, w^as about to marry a missionary ; and the 
 Christian equanimity of Miss Buzzard, senior, had been so 
 disturbed at her sister's election for a sphere which she 
 had herself coveted from the cradle, that she had been 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 obliged to leave home. Mr. Mundy had been replying 
 profusely to inquiries addressed to him as an old and 
 Influential Inhabitant of Westford, by the editors of the 
 " British Cyclopaedia " relative to our town. In his state- 
 ments he had done ample justice to our known institutions, 
 and had mentioned some which were now heard of for 
 the first time. Mr. Mundy was also erecting a mag- 
 nificent gateway at the entrance to a staring and squalid 
 dissenting chapel in South Street, whose congregation 
 had always protested against architecture on conscien- 
 tious grounds until they had had the offer of it for 
 nothing — when their objections had immediately been 
 withdrawn. My mother further gave a description of two 
 visits which, in pursuance of a wish expressed by me in 
 one of my earlier letters from Beremouth, she had paid 
 to the home of the boy Arthur Bayley. So the news 
 came out ; but I could not fail to see that It was told with 
 an effort. 
 
 I listened, too, with imperfect attention. I knew that 
 I had not heard the whole of the heavy tidings relative to 
 my home which my mother had to impart, and I longed 
 for a full explanation. She, perhaps, longed to give such 
 an explanation, that she might possess my full sympathy. 
 Yet she resolutely refused to tell me more that night. 
 We slept together : the silence and darkness seemed to 
 favour and invite unrestrained communications ; but with 
 her arms about me and her tears upon my cheek, she 
 whispered me a loving good-night, instead of entering 
 upon any details of past occurrences, or unfolding any 
 plans for the future. *' We shall both of us," she said,
 
 WHAT WAS WRONG AT HOME. 243 
 
 " look at tilings more hopefully after a night's rest together, 
 than we could possibly do now." 
 
 There was truth in this, and I acquiesced ; but as far 
 as I was concerned the night's rest did not amount to much. 
 1 doubt whether it did so in my mother's case either ; for 
 during many hours I heard sighs and whisperings which 
 do not generally accompany sleep. As for me I lay stark 
 awake till footsteps sounded in the road, and the servants 
 beiian to stir overhead.
 
 244 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 FARTHER TROUBLES IN VIEW. 
 
 I saw a large 
 And spacious fomace flaming, and thereon 
 A boyling caldron, round about whose verge 
 Was in great letters set Affliction. — George Herbert. 
 
 With this chapter a new era in my existence begins. A 
 talk which I had with my mother on the day after my 
 return home, convinced me that the current of my outward 
 life, hitherto mostly calm and equable, was about to give 
 place to rough and changeful rapids, and that a dizzy fall 
 stood ahead. I have to relate in what spirit I approached, 
 how I encountered, the descent. 
 
 The circumstances made known to me in my mother's 
 discourse must, however, first be explained. They were 
 as follow ; — My father's malady was, to all appearance, 
 neither slight nor transient. Its earlier and milder symp- 
 toms had, before his removal, grown into a powerful and 
 dangerous delusion — the delusion that we, his nearest 
 relatives, were in cruel league against him. But the 
 mischief had been matured by slow degrees ; and it could 
 not be hoped that a disease so tardily developed would be
 
 FARTHER TROUBLES IN VIEW, 245 
 
 cured with great rapidity. So soon as the nature of tlie 
 ilhiess had become unmistakable, my mother had lost no 
 time in obtaining the best advice ; and in order to secure 
 for the invalid a continuance of that advice — a position 
 most favourable to his recovery, in which every want of his 
 sickness might be anticipated, and every comfort supplied 
 — she had promptly resolved upon great sacrifices, in 
 which her daughter, no less than herself, was involved. 
 My father's professional standing had for many years been 
 good, and his income comfortable. Not only, however, 
 had his patrimony at the outset of life been trifling ; but in 
 some respects profusion had attended his recent expenditure. 
 Thus, his realised property even at this time was incon- 
 siderable, and the provision w^hich he had made for his 
 family consisted chiefly of insurances. It was certain that 
 more than the interest derivable from his now available 
 capital must be consumed in maintaining him in the costly 
 but wuUingly-chosen home, wherein his restoration w^as 
 most probable. Accordingly my mothers little fortune of 
 200Z. a year was all the income that she could rely on at 
 present for her own and my subsistence. It remained to 
 be seen whether for a time the professional practice could 
 to any extent be kept together by our old and well-known 
 managing clerk — himself an admitted attorney, who, after 
 irretrievable reverses of fortune in his own business, had 
 merged his personal ambition in a touching fidelity to my 
 father's interests. Meanwhile everything pointed to the 
 necessity for our leaving Westford. For economy's sake 
 no less than for the sake of our being near my father, it 
 clearly appeared that for the present we must go and live
 
 246 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 in London lodgings ; our servants, too, must be discharged, 
 our farm disposed of, and our house let. 
 
 My mother had ever been the motive-power in our 
 household ; I had always known that she was enterprising 
 and spirited. But she now surpassed herself and surprised 
 me by her resolution and courage : only her face said that 
 the effort to encounter a new and unknown existence was 
 painful to her. We were in the garden when she made 
 her statement, and unfolded her plans. It was a still 
 summer morning. The air was laden with old associa- 
 tions; each bird sang, each blossom smelt, of a sweet 
 past ; and yet she reconciled me to a future wanting in all 
 the pleasant externals which had made by-gone days 
 delightful; her animation was inspiring, her sentiment 
 infectious. 
 
 *^ You coincide with me, Lucy ? " she said ; " I knew 
 you would ! Yes ; in everything your father must be 
 considered first. And that we should so consider him is 
 only right. For long years he has toiled for us, and 
 sacrificed his own leisure and pleasure for our benefit. 
 Now the hour has come for a small return : we hail the 
 opportunity ! I see in your eyes, my child, what I feel in 
 my own heart — joy at the thought of self-sacrifice for his 
 sake. His present comfort shall, so far as we can secure it 
 to him, be secured ; his doctor, so long as he continues ill, 
 shall never be any other than the most talented in England ; 
 not one of his pecuniary intentions shall be interfered with ; 
 no effort shall be spared to keep alive the business till his 
 recovery ! The privation which will insure or promote all 
 this is not to be called privation ! For how long our
 
 FARTHER TROUBLES IN VIEW. 247 
 
 London life must last. Providence only can know ! for my- 
 self, I can bear it to the end, considering its objects ; for 
 you, I confess " 
 
 I laid my hand on my mother's arm to stop her. I knew 
 that Mr. Tyndal — his love for me, and his rejected offer 
 for my future life, were present in her thoughts. I hastened 
 to give those thoughts other occupation, and to tell in 
 words some of the zeal for her self-denying cause which in 
 my heart I felt. 
 
 " Mother," I said, " you must not doubt me for a 
 moment — I do not doubt myself! Whatever you can 
 bear, I can and will bear too — and as long ; for my dear 
 father's sake ; and — and," I added hesitatingly, " because 
 it is right, and the will of God. I do not fear, or wish 
 otherwise for myself; do not you for me." 
 
 And the tenor of this declaration represents the frame 
 of mind in which I prepared for the impending changes. 
 Some personal pride was mingled w^ith my feelings — I 
 wished to show that I had courage enough to endure 
 reverses of fortune calmly ; and some religious submission 
 — my puritan vision saw, or endeavoured to see, in 
 these accumulating sorrows the special chastisement of the 
 chosen. But mostly my natural love for my parents, and 
 a certain animal hopefulness which my dark creed could 
 not quite eclipse, sustained me, and enabled me to make 
 the best of my lot. It is true indeed that as the succeeding 
 days showed more and more clearly how entire must be 
 the subversion of old interests, there were times at which 
 I felt much as Job must have felt when the different 
 messengers of disaster met him — only not so resigned ; but
 
 248 LUCY niZADAM. 
 
 such moments of an overwhelming sense of loss were few ; 
 I kept up, strove to look cheerful, and did my best to keep 
 mamma up, and make her look cheerful too. 
 
 With the spectacle daily before my eyes of my mother's 
 devotion to my father, I often had queer, touching memories 
 of the little disagreements which had sometimes arisen be- 
 tween them in old days. A slight extravagance in the 
 shape of new pig-sties at the farm, an escape of gas, or an 
 underdone sirloin, had on those occasions appeared quite 
 sufficient to imperil the continuance of the attachment now 
 proved to be so firm ! 
 
 The consultations held at this time between my mother, 
 my father's managing clerk, Mr. Thain, and others, were 
 frequent and earnest; for arrangements relative to the 
 letting of the farm and the conduct of the business were 
 under consideration. Strange footsteps continually sounded 
 in the house ; and sitting in my study, I daily heard in the 
 adjoining room unfamiliar basses and tenors mingling with 
 my mother's treble. Then arose the necessity for giving 
 warnings to servants, when the creak of Rivers's stays 
 immediately became musical, and the shine of the house- 
 maid's cheeks sunshine. Not least painful amongst the 
 duties of the period was that of deciding what of smaller 
 belongings could be taken to London, and what must be 
 left. No sooner was an article condemned to remain, than 
 it seemed to become an injured person, a faithful but 
 ill-requited servant. A shabby work-box of mine fell into 
 such misery on learning that it was to stay, that I relented 
 and promised to take it. To add to the excitement of the 
 time, there came bulletins from London by every morning's
 
 FARTHER TROUBLES IN VIEW. 249 
 
 post ; and on these, indeed, it depended whether the day 
 and its too sombre preparations should be gilded by the 
 cheerfulness of hope, or further gloomed by the sullen 
 mists of a deepening despondency. The news, it must be 
 owned, were but equivocal at the best ; but intelligence 
 not pusitiv^ely bad we soon taught ourselves to regard as 
 good. 
 
 While I am touching upon the matter of letters, I may 
 refer to Miss Fenning's epistolary enterprises, which at 
 this period were gigantic. Miss Fenning's connection with 
 our family was about to cease, and she was justifiably 
 anxious as to her future. Her anxiety relieved itself in 
 floods of penned eloquence addressed to all her acquain- 
 tances. She was one of those remarkably-constituted 
 persons who will read their own letters aloud with emphasis 
 and enjoyment. It often fell to my lot to listen to these 
 appeals : and day after day new sheets were adorned with 
 her penmanship, and new friends invoked for her assistance. 
 Will it be considered disrespectful if, in passing, I make 
 the remark, that, in my opinion. Miss Fenning's capital 
 " i^'s " and *' T's " were precisely like the antennae of 
 beetles ; and that her " ^'s " and '' ys " undoubtedly bore 
 appendages as lengthy and angular as the limbs of the 
 daddy-long-legs, and also apparently as slightly connected 
 with their essential parts as are the legs with the body of 
 that familiar fly? 
 
 My governess's letters, however, answered no other 
 ends than those of exemplifying the redundancy of her 
 thoughts, and the facility of her composition. Through 
 the recommendation of some distant relatives of our own.
 
 250 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 my mother after all had the satisfaction of secm'ing for her 
 a comfortable future home, in tlie family of a lately 
 widowed clergyman; but this consummation — heartily 
 welcome to all of us — was not brought about until after 
 our parting with Miss Fenning had taken place. As that 
 parting drew near, I became less conscious of her weak- 
 nesses, more perceptive of her sound points. I saw that 
 she had not neglected her duty towards me ; while I was 
 not sure that I had fultilled mine towards her. I owned 
 to myself that if a small coin, she was not after all a false 
 one ; and I think I also had a glimmering notion that her 
 genuine self lay under no obligations whatever to the 
 names, phrases, and theories of her creed. But this last 
 conception was no doubt quickly enough suppressed by 
 the Calvinism dominant within me : the time had not then 
 arrived for my full acceptance of an opinion so contrary to 
 established theology. 
 
 Involved in the necessities of this changeful time, one 
 duty there was, one supremely distressing and arduous 
 duty, which was incumbent on my mother. Our faithful 
 Esther must be told that she could not remain with us. 
 Like the other less valued servants, she, it seemed, must 
 go ; for how could we ask her to share our poverty ? how, 
 indeed, considering our financial position altogether, could 
 we possibly afford to keep her ? I never knew my mother 
 procrastinate as she procrastinated the making of this 
 announcement. It was surprising how slight were the 
 excuses which she allowed to prevail with her in favour 
 of deferring the revelation. Esther had been up late last 
 night, she must not be troubled and wearied to-day ; or.
 
 FARTHER TROUBLES IN VIEW. 251 
 
 she had to sort the house-linen into lots for taking and 
 leaving, it would never do to disturb that process ; or, Mr. 
 Thain was coming this morning, there would not be time 
 just now ! 
 
 Esther meanwhile appeared to divine the decision 
 arrived at ; and probably added to my mother's hesitation 
 in announcing it, by the extreme dignity and severity of 
 her manner. Her tall figure seemed to grow more and 
 more erect, her brown eye more watchful ; I am certain 
 her large fair face became paler. In deeds she excelled 
 herself. The axe of her strong sense was laid at the root 
 of twenty difficulties a day, and forthwith they fell to the 
 ground. No hand was now so busy as hers — but no 
 tongue so silent. 
 
 At last events promised mitigation of the difficulty and 
 pain of revealing to her the need for separation. Mr. 
 Thain — always now hovering about us like a guardian 
 angel, less symmetrical in form it is true than the celestial 
 existences as generally represented by the chisel or the 
 pencil, but scarcely less good and pure in heart than the 
 veritable messengers of Heaven — Mr. Thain had latel}^ 
 thrown out hints that a client of his might be glad to 
 take our house '^as it stood," thus at once relieving 
 us from anxiety on the subject of letting. These hints 
 now grew into a direct offer. A widow lady, who would 
 in all ways be just such a tenant as we might desire, 
 was, we were told, prepared, on Mr. Thain's representa- 
 tions, to come and occupy our old home ; and was desirous 
 that her occupation thereof (which she wished to be from 
 quarter to quarter) should be held to commence from
 
 252 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 the Midsummer-day already past. In order that she might 
 enter on lier tenure at once. The pecuniary proposal 
 made was handsome; and before long the negotiations 
 were satisfactorily completed ; although, at the request, 
 as we were informed, of our future tenant herself, her 
 name had not transpired — for no formal agreement had 
 yet been signed. 
 
 After so much was settled, my mother bethought her 
 that the lady in question might possibly be glad of such a 
 housekeeper and attendant as Esther. She broached the 
 subject with Mr. Thain ; he promised to communicate with 
 his client. The issue was, that the client caught eagerly 
 at the proposal that she should retain the services of our 
 valued old servant, and was anxious to know whether 
 Esther was willing to fall in w^ith the plan. Full of new 
 gratitude to Mr. Thain, my mother felt that she could now 
 venture upon the ground which she had hitherto feared to 
 tread. To remain on the accustomed spot, as the guardian 
 of our belongings, ready to receive us back whenever we 
 might return, would doubtless be far less trying to Esther 
 than to leave us completely : to announce such a project as 
 this, was much easier than would have been the task of 
 revealing the necessity for total severance. 
 
 Accordingly at an early hour one morning my mother 
 opened the matter with Esther, who always came to us 
 before we left our room, and who on this occasion seeing 
 that I was busy with my hair, at once took my brush from 
 me, and herself began to ply it upon my head. I saw her 
 face In the glass as the disclosures proceeded : it was con- 
 scious of the situation, but not disturbed.
 
 FARTHER TROUBLES IN VI KW. 253 
 
 My mother began unsuccessfully. She had clearly 
 argued ^vith herself that it was best to meet such emer- 
 gencies as the present in a purely business-like spirit. 
 Straightening her upper lip, and giving a slight frown, 
 she said, — 
 
 " Well, Esther, and what do you think of doing when 
 we are gone to London : the time for our departure is not 
 far off; we must begin to consider this, you know." 
 
 The words themselves might have done pretty well, 
 but unfortunately no sooner were they spoken than my 
 mother burst out crying. 
 
 No notice did Esther take either of the remark or the 
 tears, except this, that she wielded my hair-brush with 
 greater firmness than usual; and this is saying much, 
 for her standard of crinal nicety being high, she was 
 always painfully uncompromising in her dealings with my 
 poll. 
 
 My mother recovered herself and went on, having 
 now abandoned all effort to preserve a business-like air, 
 and speaking in a tone of pure grief, — 
 
 " I fear, Esther," she said, '' that we must be sepa- 
 rated from you for a time ; but I have a proposal to 
 make " 
 
 " Ma'am," interrupted Esther, shaking her own head 
 composedly, but torturing mine to distraction, " don't you 
 make no 'proposals,' if you please. What be you to do 
 up therr to London by yerselves I wonder, among them as 
 I'll be boun' don't know how long to bile the cocoa, let 
 alone how to make the wash for Lucy's hair ? " 
 
 " Oh, Esther, Esther ! " I cried inwardly, *' wash would
 
 254 LUCY FITZADAM, 
 
 never more be needed, were any one to be found in the 
 metropolis who could handle a hymsli like you." 
 
 '' We shall get on," answered my mother, " we must 
 get on. Meantiaie, you " 
 
 " Ma'am," interrupted my old nurse again, " I couldn't 
 sleep a wink no more if I know'd as some nasty slut of a 
 girl had the dressin' of Lucy." 
 
 I should have been much affected here, but for my tor- 
 ments (I never find physical suffering conducive to emotion). 
 What my mother did, or how she looked at this moment I 
 was too pre-occupied to observe. 
 
 " You mus' have somebody wi'e," Esther quietly went 
 on, " to cook yer bit o' victuals ; an' if they up to London 
 be like what I've a-heeard tell, why the most on it '11 go 
 down their own throats — not yourn. Wouldn't 'e so soon 
 feed me as they ? " 
 
 " Dear Esther I ten thousand times rather ! " we both 
 exclaimed at once. And here, thinking that the oppor- 
 tunity was remarkably favourable for terminating my 
 sufferings I started up, and began to kiss my nurse, who 
 proceeded, addressing my mother, — 
 
 " Well, then, you let me come wi 'e. I'll save a bit 
 an' a drop as wouldn't never 'a' reached you, an' I'll live 
 off the savin's. Wages bein' considered," added Esther, 
 marching hastily out of the room, " as neither took nor 
 wanted." 
 
 There was some sobbing after Esther's departure. 
 Then her suggestion was considered; then entertained. 
 We must choose a cheaper neighbourhood than we had 
 intended to choose; be content with small rooms. x\nd
 
 FARTHER TROUBLES IN VIEW. 255 
 
 any additional privations thus incurred, would, there was 
 no question, be amply compensated by the presence and 
 aid of our faithful old friend. 
 
 So before long it came to be a settled point that Esther 
 was to accompany us to London.
 
 256 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FAREWELLS. 
 
 The commonest spot we cannot without pain 
 Turn from, where we have tarried but a day, 
 
 » * * * 
 
 "What wonder then if I cannot restrain 
 
 Some sadness, turning from these haunts away ? 
 
 Archbishop Trench. 
 
 The dav of departure came : its keen eye and mocking 
 music awoke me early. A few minutes I kiy, still and 
 heavy as lead, weighted with a load of sorrowful regrets ; 
 then I sprang up, with a sudden movement which repre- 
 sented an inward eftbrt to abide by the appointment of 
 Heaven, and to be quit of futile repining. 
 
 We had insisted that our absence was to be but tem- 
 porary. We had pictured to ourselves, had talked to our 
 friends, of a few months only in London, to be followed by 
 joyful re-union and return. If my mother had once or 
 twice hinted at the possibility of longer banishment, she 
 had a hundred times anticipated, with something like 
 assurance, this speedy restoration to home. Perhaps such 
 frequent reference to the future of our wishes, had itself
 
 FAREWELLS. 257 
 
 marked a misgiving as to the realization of tliat future ; 
 on my own part — whatever I might hope and say to the 
 contrary — the misgiving was profound. 
 
 Except in the street, I had not seen Ralph Thain since 
 my return from Beremouth. It was plain to me tliat he 
 had avoided my society : but it was no less plain that I 
 and mine had of late perpetually engaged his memory and 
 heart. In numberless schemes laid, and acts performed, 
 ostensibly by Ralph's father for our comfort and con- 
 venience, I traced tokens of the delicate thoughtfulness of 
 Ralph himself I had once known him well ; I understood 
 his habit of sensitive response to the subtler feelings of 
 those he liked. I was sure that the vigilant and detailed 
 service of late rendered to us by the good heart and kind 
 hand of Mr. Thain the elder, had often been directed by 
 the nicer perception of Mr. Thain the younger. What 
 did this mean ? I believed that I understood it. I deemed 
 that Ralph was conscious of having wronged me; and 
 that he was desirous — so far as it might be possible with- 
 out personal intrusion — to compensate for the wrong. 
 Would he, I wondered, as I dressed on that last morning, 
 let me leave the town without a kind "good-bye?" 
 Would the consciousness of his fault, or a tenderness for 
 my distress which I knew he could not lack, prevail over 
 his final conduct towards me ? 
 
 I finished dressing ; read my Bible ; said my prayers. 
 I felt calm and strong. At this juncture my religion 
 sustained me. My petitions may have been — they were — 
 contracted by my creed ; but they were real petitions 
 for sustenance under sorrow of Divine ordaining : as 
 
 VOL. L 17
 
 258 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 such they were efficacious ; they brought me the help 
 they asked. 
 
 As I was going down-stairs to make tea for breakfast, 
 a knock at the front door surprised me. The early visitor 
 was Margaret Thorne, who, after an absence from the 
 neighbourhood of some weeks' duration, had returned 
 home the evening before, and who had come over thus 
 betimes to insure seeing me before I went. 
 
 This was my first meeting with her since her engage- 
 ment. I was curious to know the extent of her feeling 
 for her betrothed ; I scrutinized her face closely, hoping for 
 revelation on the subject. But I did not gain it. Her 
 beauty, like a lovely drop-scene, forbade penetration into 
 the mysteries behind ; insensibly and yet finally employing 
 my mind upon its own fairy vision. 
 
 '* What a gaze ! " she said, returning the kisses with 
 which I had greeted her. " I never went into such 
 a crucible before: how much dross, how much metal? 
 You have weighed me to the last grain : in what 
 degree am I found wanting ? Now let me have a 
 look. You are growing so pretty, Lucy ; little fair 
 fresh girl ! You have the dearest delicate round nose 
 in the world." 
 
 At Margaret's entrance I had seemed to myself to 
 become more plain and common than usual : I had felt 
 like a wren in the presence of a bird of paradise all light 
 and colour ; like a scentless daisy beside some subtly 
 perfumed auricula. It startled me to be complimented 
 on my good looks by the lovely girl who so richly excelled 
 me : I felt pleased, but incredulous.
 
 FAREWELLS. 259 
 
 " You must be very happy, dear ? " I said, interroga- 
 tively. 
 
 " What is happiness ? " she interrogatively replied, with 
 something, I think, of the mingled levity and cynicism of 
 Pontius Pilate. My heart, but not my conscience, answered 
 quickly,— 
 
 " To love and to be loved. I am certain that is the 
 basis of it — for a woman." 
 
 " But not the whole," said Margaret, rather grave, and 
 slightly contracting her eyelids as she spoke — a trick of 
 hers when she designed to watch one more closely than 
 usual. 
 
 '^ Not the whole," I agreed with a sigh. 
 
 " What is the superstructure ? " 
 
 " The love, I suppose, must be reciprocally known and 
 trusted." 
 
 *' And that is enough ? There ought to be a great 
 many happy people." 
 
 She hardly looked happy as she spoke. Certainly I 
 did not feel so as I listened; but then in my case the 
 simple conditions were not fulfilled : were they in hers ? 
 
 " After all," she went on, " is this Love the potent 
 enchanter he is said to be, or a mere clever conjui'or? 
 Surely the latter. Let us be sensible, and defy his hocus- 
 pocus now. Fifteen years hence what power will he have 
 upon us ? None. He bewilders children only. We may 
 as well consider ourselves ' grown up,' and challenge his 
 sham spells at once." 
 
 A little laugh — rather bitter ■ — followed the sentence. 
 
 I had taken the high ground : I felt that I must not
 
 260 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 abandon it in a hurry; but I began to find that my 
 position would not long be tenable. 
 
 " This from a girl just going to marry," I said. 
 " Yes ; her situation is the justification of her remarks. 
 It is when one enters upon the realities of life that one 
 learns the futility of dreauis." 
 
 *^ How wretched to marry without love ! " 
 " Without love — yes. But it is your magician's falsest 
 pretence to teach that his operations are separated from all 
 the other pleasant enchantments of life. Is it not a mere 
 question of degree after all ? No doubt. Respect, esteem, 
 regard, affection, love, are but different heights of the 
 same eminence ; and in my ophiion the lower slopes of the 
 ascent are the safer." 
 
 She spoke with a haste and disturbance not agreeable 
 to her commonly wary and even delivery. There was the 
 eagerness of apology, but scarcely the earnestness of con- 
 viction, in her words. I shook my head wisely. "He 
 that excuses himself, accuses," I thought. 
 
 She gave her pretty double chin a slightly ofi^ended 
 jerk, and said quickly, — 
 
 " But what, child, does all this mean ? There is an air 
 of experience about you. Your eye signifies that the topic 
 interests you much. Your small rounded nostril trembles 
 out a tale that we are treading ground you know something 
 of. What has put love into your hoad ? What has given 
 you these exalted inflexible notions about it ? I came, as I 
 thought, to say good-bye to that unsophisticated child, my 
 old pet and playmate ; I find myself lectured by a little 
 woman, who knows more of womanhood than I do."
 
 FAREWELLS. 261 
 
 " Nonsense, Margaret ! " I equivocated. But by this 
 time I felt ashamed of the position I had taken up. Was 
 not I the last person who could consistently urge that love 
 ought to be the paramount guide of human action ? Was not 
 my recent conduct far more in harmony with Margaret's 
 views, than with the opinion I had myself expressed? 
 
 " I have your good wishes at any rate, puss, I hope ? " 
 said she, seeing me a little confused, and good-humouredly 
 turning the stream of the talk. 
 
 " Indeed you have. Have I been saying silly things, 
 Margaret ? If so, forgive me. You are right : esteem 
 and respect are better, more durable, than love." 
 
 " Ah ! " she perversely rejoined, " but you spoke what 
 you felt, before : now you speak what you think you ought 
 to feel." 
 
 " And Margaret," I proceeded, not heeding her remark, 
 " you must be happy as the wife of such a man as Ralph. 
 How good, how clever he is ; how sensitively alive to the 
 feelings of others ; how unworldly. What a clear intellect 
 he has ; what " 
 
 " I know all that/' said Margaret, impatiently. " Now 
 we will talk of somethino; else." 
 
 In this way my friend turned the key upon her lover's 
 excellences, as though they had been so much family plate, 
 worth something of course, but too often viewed and 
 appraised already to afford acceptable occasion for new 
 examination and remark. 
 
 I suppose that in silence and solitude, Margaret, like 
 her fellow-creatures, must sometimes have pondered the 
 ills of earthly existence ; must have contemplated the
 
 262 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 possibility of being one day touched thereby herself; and 
 must have resolved in what direction to turn for solace 
 should they visit her. But her way with others w^as 
 steadily to ignore the existence of trouble. When sorrow 
 stared her in the face, she consistently pursued the plan of 
 looking at something else. Thus, no sympathy was to be 
 expected from her; not because she could not feel, but 
 because she would not suffer herself to be placed under 
 conditions for feeling. 
 
 This characteristic was exemplified now. She took no 
 notice of my allusions to my father's illness, nor of my 
 more direct mention of our other distresses. The coming 
 departure might have been arranged with a view to 
 pleasure, for any pitying or tender word that fell from 
 her lips to suggest the contrary. And yet she exhibited 
 no unkindness which could justly have given me pain. 
 She did not wound my sore heart by doing palpable 
 violence to its sensitiveness. She rather followed, unob- 
 trusively, her own agreeable lines of thought, and in- 
 sensibly led me with her. 
 
 When the time came for the actual farewell, I was a 
 good deal moved. I loved her ; I could not part from her 
 calmly. She caressed me, petted me, much as she might 
 have caressed and petted a kitten or a love-bird ; but no 
 dews dimmed her eye, no tremors shook her lip. " Now 
 a kiss on the other wet pink cheek," she said. *' No ; I 
 don't promise to write. Love you ? Of course I always 
 shall. Dear little fair thing it is ! One more kiss on the 
 broad forehead. You want to know when we shall meet 
 again? Why very soon, silly child. Good morning, my
 
 FAREWELLS. 263 
 
 pet ; papa will wonder where I am. I really must go to 
 make his tea, for mamma will not be up of course." 
 
 We were to leave at noon. All the morning, from 
 breakfast time, Mr. Thain the elder was in and out of the 
 house. He first appeared as that sham meal was in pro- 
 gress. I am not sure whether his aspect to-day was best 
 adapted to moye laughter or tears. His attire was of a 
 fearfully wild character ; every button of his waistcoat 
 that was in use, had been fastened to some foreign button- 
 hole ; and his stock seemed to have taken a strong dislike to 
 him, and to be attempting escape from his neck : its bow 
 had worked round to his left ear; and I noticed that if 
 it was put right, it immediately went to the same place 
 again. The old gentleman appeared to have resigned him- 
 self to the general disorder of his habiliments, and to be 
 patiently enduring it as irremediable — much as an even- 
 tempered sheep will bear a wisp of brambles inextricably 
 entangled in his fleece ; but the bewildering effect pro- 
 duced upon the mind of the observer, can scarcely be 
 overstated. To add to the strangeness of the picture 
 the long grey lock waved about in open defiance of con- 
 ventional restraint ; the great nose wore a wan and faded 
 hue like that of a turkey-cock's wattles w^hen the crimson 
 has left them ; while the shaggy overhanging brows, and 
 the hoary fringes which encircled the gaunt jaws, stood 
 out grim, but meek, as though there were a kind of 
 amiable menace in each hair. 
 
 " I felt, my friend," said the old man, stumbling into a 
 chair which he placed close beside my mother as she sat 
 at table, " that you would to-day need the presence of a
 
 264 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 directing mind. It is conceivable that you may feel — 
 what shall I say? — just a little downcast, a little inclined 
 to be gloomy. Now it is my mission to lead your thoughts 
 into other and brighter channels. Like the rough prophet 
 w^ho came preaching in the wilderness of Judaea, with a 
 girdle of locusts about his loins, I am appointed to direct 
 attention to an approaching era of joy and blessing. Upon 
 my honour, my dear madam, I see nothing in the world 
 but sunshine before you. It is true that certain mists and 
 obscurities envelop, or appear to envelop us at the 
 present moment. But what, in fact, are they? Mere 
 illusions — spectres — mere veils of gauze hiding a happy 
 future." 
 
 It was unlucky for the argument, that at this point a 
 bright drop was seen to fall from Mr. Thain's right eye 
 upon his right hand which rested upon the table ; and that 
 when he quickly covered that hand with the other, a second 
 bright drop was observed to descend from his left eye upon 
 his left hand. 
 
 Mr. Thain's final visit occurred when the fly wdiich 
 was to take us to the station stood at the door. In the 
 interim we had seen Miss Fenning off; and we were by 
 this time eager for the last farewells to be over. Mr. 
 Thain was not alone now ; a female companion attended 
 him, Mrs. Blythe Walker. The good lady seemed to be 
 not a little dismayed at her brother's manner, which it 
 must be confessed was grotesque enough. The old man 
 met us in the hall with a great pretence of abundant 
 spirits, reminding one in the hurried profusion of his words, 
 of the last gush from a teapot when it is all but empty :
 
 FAREWELLS. 265 
 
 his kinswoman employed a pompous demeanour which 
 called to mind the stately bearing of a hearse-horse. 
 
 "And now my dear madam," said Mr. Thain, 'Met 
 me introduce that client of mine who is about to become 
 your tenant. You did not guess, I think, who she was ? 
 No ; my client and I agreed that there had better be no 
 talk about her intended residence in the neighbourhood, 
 until the plan was carried out. And now, here she is : no 
 other than my own gifted sister, whom both you and your 
 daughter have met." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Mrs. Fitzadam," said Mrs. Blythe 
 Walker, extending her right hand with great cordiality, 
 but carefully maintaining the dignity of her figure, and 
 the repose of her Roman features, " I have been glad to 
 avoid gossip in the town ; and I have therefore requested 
 my excellent — relative — here, to keep my plans a secret. 
 Now, however, the moment has arrived for their revelation. 
 Yes ; I am your tenant. Circumstances have arisen of late 
 which make it desirable that I should change my residence: 
 I shall be surrounded with taste and elegance here — I 
 perceive so much already — this will exactly suit me. 
 Pecuniary arrangements have, I believe, been fully made 
 by my — my relative ? Good : he has my authority. I 
 acquiesce entirely in his decisions." 
 
 Here Mr. Thain coughed and said, " Quite so." 
 
 My mother made a laborious attempt to dehv^er a civil 
 speech ; but began to show signs of emotion, and was 
 silent from prudential motives. 
 
 *' Now I implore you, my dear madam," said iMr. Thain 
 in reference to this little failui-e, " I implore you — don't.
 
 266 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 I assure you there is not the very slightest occasion for 
 grief, so — don't. I regard this day as one of joy, and 
 hope, and happiness. I totally fail to see anything painful 
 about it, so assured is my dependence upon a delightful 
 issue. Your tenant has been considerate and kind enough 
 to say that no arrangements of yours in this house shall 
 in any way be disturbed. In the language of Holy Writ, 
 she is simply going to ' occupy till you come.' " 
 
 '' Exactly, my dear Miss Fitzadam," said Mrs. Blythe 
 Walker, bending over me gracefully, and whispering into 
 my ear a commentary on her brother's remarks. "It suited 
 me at this time, to accept just what your good mother had 
 to offer, a snug home ready to my hand ; a home arranged 
 with taste, and haunted by the spirit of the Arts. I shall 
 respect the arrangement to the minutest particular ; and I 
 trust the Muses will not forsake your abode with you." 
 
 Here my ear again followed Mr. Thain's words ad- 
 dressed to my mother. 
 
 " Not the slightest alteration will be made in any way," 
 I heard him repeating ; " when you come back, as un- 
 doubtedly in the course of a very few weeks you will 
 under the most enjoyable circumstances, everything will 
 be found as you leave it." Here the speaker lowered his 
 voice, and went on, ^^ She has been wonderfully kind on 
 the subject, wonderfully alive to your feelings. A more 
 considerate (and I may add, a more talented) tenant, 
 you could not have. Be entirely at your ease about 
 leaving." 
 
 Again Mrs. Walker's whisperings shut out from my 
 notice those of Mr. Thain.
 
 FAREWELLS. 267 
 
 *' Oh, a most singular man ! Excellent, you know, 
 very excellent ; but beyond description eccentric. I have 
 been much tried during my stay with him, I assure you, 
 and shall be quite glad to fly to this august refuge. Ah ♦ 
 you feel going away a little I see. Natural, excusable. 
 But cheer up my dear girl ! the Arts will sustain you, as 
 they have of late sustained me." 
 
 I felt, and my mother looked, bewildered. The notion of 
 Mrs. Walker as a tenant was new, and needed acquaintance 
 (at least) in order to be appreciated. It was well, perhaps, 
 that Esther, bonneted, shawled, and decisive of mien, now 
 appeared. She hurried us out to the fly ; and when we 
 were in it, seated herself opposite to us with so severe and 
 critical a manner that for my part I dared not display any 
 weakness. 
 
 It seemed strange as we passed the town, to see Mr. 
 Fribbins the draper standing at his glass door to watch for 
 customers, as he did every day of his life ; to see the land- 
 lord of the " King's Head " fraternising with his departing 
 commercial guests while they directed the stowage of their 
 greasy leather sample-cases upon the loading omnibus — 
 as he was accustomed to do whenever a train w^as about 
 to leave ; strange that an hour, so novel in its pro- 
 visions for us, should give to others just the common 
 gifts of every hour — and no more ! Such is human 
 egotism ! One half expects that the entire frame-work 
 of society will get out of gear, if anything goes awry with 
 oneself. 
 
 We reached the station early. I had therefore plenty 
 of time for studying the advertisements of sauces and family
 
 268 LUCY fITZADAM. 
 
 mourning, and of that real blessing to mothers, the Excelsior 
 babj-jumper. While thus engaged, I was accosted by 
 Ralph Thain. 
 
 *' Lucy," he said, " this is a day of great grief for you, 
 and for me." 
 
 " For you ? " I asked. 
 
 "Forme." 
 
 We walked about too-ether. 
 
 " Upon my word 1 cannot see why," I said, disposed, for 
 various reasons which operated at the moment, to be curt 
 and severe with him. 
 
 " Probably not," he answered. " Lucy, you have 
 thought me unkind in keeping so much away from you 
 since your return ? " 
 
 " I have thought nothing of the sort," I replied, more, 
 it must be owned, for the sake of effect, than because I 
 strongly felt what I said. '^ You were not called upon to 
 come unless you liked ; and your absence has not distressed 
 me in the slightest degree." 
 
 If my eye is capable of flashing, I am sure it flashed as 
 I spoke those words. 
 
 " Lucy," resumed Ralph, " are you much cast down at 
 the future before you ? Are you very unhappy ? " 
 
 " No ; our circumstances are ordained by Providence. 
 He will enable us to endure them cheerfully." 
 
 *' By Providence ! " he repeated slowly. 
 
 " Is there," he presently added, " is there anything 
 great or small, of any kind that you can imagine, in which 
 under your trial, now, or at any time, I could be of the 
 slightest help or comfort to you ? "
 
 FAREWELLS. 269 
 
 I began to relent, and said : — 
 
 " Ralph, you have greatly lightened our burthen 
 already. I am not ignorant of our obligations " 
 
 " Hush ! " he interrupted peremptorily. 
 
 '' I know well," I continued, " that everything which has 
 tended to ease our anxiety, every helpful and convenient 
 arrangement made for us, has been of your planning." 
 Some of my old tenderness for him crept back into my 
 heart as I spoke, and I added earnestly: — " Whatever of 
 aid we have known in our difficulty, whatever of hope we 
 possess for the future, has come to us from Providence 
 through you and yours." 
 
 I looked up. I shall never forget the joyful beam that 
 lighted his eye as I spoke. 
 
 I now noticed that his cheek was thinner than usual, 
 and his lip paler : I quite started too, at the discovery 
 that his curly hair — erst of a soft brown colour — was 
 becoming grizzled. 
 
 The train came up ; and wondering, I was separated 
 from him. " A strange man, of acutest sensibility " I 
 said to myself. " One on whom nothing in life can rest 
 lightly. The joys of successful love-making, combined 
 perhaps with some consciousness that he has wronged me, 
 have made an old man of him at thirty ! " 
 
 Then followed the monotonous double jolt — the con- 
 fused jumble of sounds, suggesting now one old air and 
 now another — the long stare at flying banks — the 
 wondrous cries of porters, which led only to the some- 
 what confusing discovery that every station stopped at 
 bore the name of Baugh ; while amidst all was that drear
 
 270 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 inanity of mind which is inseparable from a long journey 
 promising no pleasure at the end. 
 
 At length we left the railroad, and took our way in a 
 cab through London. Encompassed by the roar of the great 
 metropolis, old Esther, straightening her back as she sat 
 facing us in the vehicle, gave expression to just one mis- 
 giving, and was then silent again as she had been before. 
 She took advantage of a temporary block in the street, 
 and consequent pause ; and said to my mother with a 
 look of concentrated anxiety : — *' Do it always make this 
 here noise ? "
 
 ( 271 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IN BANISHMENT WE DISCOVER OUE SOLACES, AND 
 LEARN PATIENCE. 
 
 Still to ourselves in every place consigned 
 
 Our own felicity we make or find. — The Traveller. 
 
 THROuan the exertions of the Thalns, lodgings had already 
 been taken for us in London ; and to these quarters the 
 personal belongings which we had wished to remove^ had 
 preceded us. When, therefore, we reached the capital, 
 we had not the anxiety of feeling that a troublesome 
 search for a dwelling awaited us on the morrow, but were 
 able at once to enjoy repose of mind, so far as our outward 
 necessities were concerned. We did not know what agency 
 had been employed by our friends for securing the apart- 
 ments ; but we soon learned that good judgment had been 
 exercised in the selection, and that a degree of taste which 
 it was difficult to account for, had directed the arrangement 
 of the rooms. 
 
 The lodgings, however, were in no fashionable quarter. 
 They stood in what is now called the West - Central 
 district. A main current of city traffic ran within a 
 hundred yards of the premises; and the sound thereof.
 
 272 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 though somewhat deadened by intervening buildings, was 
 ever present tliere. The house was situated in a crescent, 
 which had seen better days, and seemed to know it ; — a 
 crescent on whose blackened brick walls the clouds of 
 hypochondriasis appeared to have gathered ; but a place 
 redeemed from utter dreariness by the beneficent plane- 
 trees of its garden, whose graceful drooping boughs, and 
 patient greenness, were beautiful alike in cloud, sun, and 
 gas-light. I owe much to those plane-trees ; and I love 
 to own the debt. 
 
 Dreamlike was that first evening in town. The sky 
 which I saw from the strange windows — of grey-blue, 
 melting through green into yellow — was familiar to me ; 
 yet in connection with the roofs and chimneys in whose 
 company I now beheld it, it seemed altered and estranged, 
 like a professed friend who has been tender in privacy, 
 but who is changed and cold in the presence of others. 
 Even the little properties which I had brought with me, 
 appeared unlike themselves in their new places. My 
 desk and dressing-case, and the shabby work-box itself, 
 stood aloof from me in stiffness and reserve, as people 
 who love you in waking moments, will sometimes seem 
 to do in your dreams. 
 
 But next day all this began to wear off. A few of the old 
 prayers prayed, a few of the accustomed meals taken, in 
 the new circumstances, and the continuity of real life was 
 again established. A visit soon paid by my mother to the 
 suburban asylum where my father was now staying — 
 on which occasion she actually saw him in the grounds, 
 but was not suffered to show herself — still further served
 
 IN BANISHMENT WE LEARN PATIENCE. 273 
 
 to link together past, present, and future in our minds. 
 In short we speedily accustomed ourselves to altered sur- 
 roundings and straitened means ; and drew our pleasures 
 from memory and hope. 
 
 My worst distress at this time, and, I think, my mother's 
 worst distress too, arose from an eager craving to know just 
 those details of my father's state which it was most difficult 
 — and, indeed, impossible — to learn. Were there moments 
 when his memory cleared? when he understood his delusion ? 
 when he longed for us ? How did the Past appear to him ? 
 how the Future? What had become of the varied informa- 
 tion which the comprehensive intellect of his health had 
 once so firmly held together? Would it belong to him 
 again if he recovered ? The interminable guesses, hopes, 
 and dreads attached to such questions are beyond descrip- 
 tion ; and I forbear the attempt to describe them. 
 
 On a second visit of inquiry for my father, I accompanied 
 my mother. We went and returned by omnibus ; from 
 which vehicle we alighted in the afternoon at the western 
 end of the Strand. We were in high spirits. We liad 
 heard good news of the invalid ; and the joy of them was 
 strong within us. Being thus in cheerful mood, I scarcely 
 felt surprise —only an increase of cheerfulness — on suddenly 
 recognizing a pleasant face associated with my native 
 town. As I stepped from the omnibus upon the pave- 
 ment, I saw before me, engaged in discharging a cargo of 
 official letters into the neighbouring post-office, a handsome 
 sunburnt lad, whom I at once knew to be Arthur Bayley. 
 My mother saw him at the same moment. Touching him 
 on the shoulder (our enthusiasm for home and for all in 
 yoL. I. 18
 
 274 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 any way connected tlierewitli was irrepressible) she 
 expressed wonder and pleasure, and inquired how he came 
 to be in London. 
 
 The lad was greatly furbished up. His clothes were 
 whole ; his curls glossy ; his cheeks, collar, and fingers, 
 cleanly. He had left behind him just so much of his 
 rusticity as was ungainly, and no more. That he had risen 
 in the woild was obvious. He blushed ; stammered out 
 his gratification at seeing us ; then told us that Mr. Ralph 
 Thain having for a long time carefully taught him every 
 evening, with a view to his preparation for some respectable 
 post, had recently obtained for him a subordinate clerkship 
 in an insurance office. He was lodged, he added, with 
 decent folk at Battersea ; walked thence every morning and 
 thither every night ; was getting on well ; liked London 
 " middling," but thought the people spoke " fonny; "* held 
 the buildings to be fine, but considered the " Woolpack " 
 at Brewington better than any of 'em ; approved the office 
 he was in, not only because it paid him twelve shillings 
 a week, but because it insured the lives of cattle — 
 which seemed to establish a link between the servants of 
 the company, and the too distant " country " of his 
 affections. 
 
 Having given us this information, he concluded : — "An' 
 who I owe it all to, ma'am, I haven't forgotten : no more I 
 shan't forget." 
 
 " And you are quite right," said my mother. " ^Ir. 
 Thain's painstaking kindness to you deserves to be grate- 
 fully remembered." 
 
 * i.e. funnily.
 
 IN BANISHMENT WE LEARN PATIENCE. 275 
 
 The blue eyes opened wide. 
 
 " Ay, ma'am," said the boy; " but he weren't at bottom 
 oF it. I know who was ! " 
 
 We did not ; so we let the matter drop. The end ot' 
 the conference was, that my mother, much to the delight 
 of this simple country lad, promised shortly to call and 
 see him at his office. He gave us the cover of a prospectus 
 containing the address ; from which we learnt that the 
 society employing him was entitled the Universal Live 
 Stock Insurance Company, 
 
 I am aware that my mother's promise evinced an 
 imperfect acquaintance with city usage ; but its fulfilment 
 did not, so far as I know, cause mischief to anyone con- 
 cerned. Not many days had passed before my mother 
 and I boldly entered the office above-mentioned, anim^ted 
 by much the same spirit as would have led us to visit 
 Arthur Bayley or his parents in their own cottage at 
 Brewington. 
 
 When we had passed the large swinging doors of 
 mahogany and glass, I must confess that I felt slightly 
 awed. The immaculate newness of everything within 
 heijrhtened the feelino;. There was so much unsullied 
 pink blotting-paper upon the shining desks, there were 
 so many stainless quills to right and left, so many fair 
 open folios, that I was sensible of a dread lest, by some 
 involuntary means, I should tarnish or blot these un- 
 blemished articles ; indeed, I felt a sort of blot amidst 
 them myself. We stated our errand. It seemed to 
 occasion surprise to an old pair of spectacles and to two 
 young pairs of eyebrows behind the glossy counter ; but
 
 276 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 we were politely asked to be seated for a few minutes, 
 after which space of time, we were told, the youth we 
 sought would be at liberty. As we sat down, one of the 
 young gentlemen with a glance at me, nudged, and winked 
 at, the other. But the personage so appealed to received 
 the demonstration with an air of outraged gentility, and 
 as though to discountenance it, brought me The Times 
 newspaper. The offending young gentleman, who was 
 the junior of the two, and who, to judge from his dress 
 and the parting of his hair, made the elder his model, 
 seemed greatly abashed at his error, and endeavoured to 
 explain away the unfortunate wink by performing several 
 more like it, as though under the influence of facial spasms. 
 
 To be obliged to study a newspaper for civility's sake 
 when you do not at all want to peruse it, is exceedingly 
 dull. I felt this strongly now, as, lighting upon a column 
 in small print, I read a great many times over that there 
 were no farther transactions in brimstone, and that tallow 
 continued steady at previous prices. 
 
 I understood from whispers and otherwise that the 
 weekly Board-meeting was just over. The elderly gentle- 
 men who now came downstairs, from the panting alder- 
 manic Stomach which led the way, to the unpleasant 
 person in a white neck-tie who brought up the rear — 
 which latter I take to have been a dissenting minister, 
 married to property, and therefore (of (^ourse) incapacitated 
 from preaching by a weak chest, and free to attend to 
 secularities — were doubtless the directors. These magnates 
 one and all wore so lugubrious an expression of face, that 
 they might have passed for the noble army of martyrs.
 
 IN BANISHME^iT WE LEARN PATIENCE. 277 
 
 The remarks exchanged amongst them, which revealed 
 that the amount of the chilms on the company for the past 
 week had considerably exceeded that of the premiums 
 paid during the same period, seemed to indicate the source 
 of the general sadness. So did the numerous ejaculations 
 urging retrenchment which also reached me ; ejaculations 
 that were evidently heard with disfavour by the gentlemen 
 behind the counter. 
 
 After the directors w^ere gone, I became interested in a 
 feeble little man wi:h a huge nose — which altogether 
 seemed too much for him — who now came in and 
 addressed the spectacled gentleman. He had called, he 
 said, to effect an insurance upon a most valuable life. 
 Doubtless the fame of the Singing Mouse had reached the 
 " Universal " office ? It was for this celebrated quadruped 
 that the insurance was required. 
 
 Mr. Spectacles said that the risk was of a novel 
 description. He was not aware of the existence of any 
 vital statistics relating: to that branch of the animal 
 kingdom in which the Life in question was included. It 
 was possible, however, that he might be mistaken. At all 
 events he would give to the applicant a form of proposal, 
 which, upon being filled up, would be submitted to the 
 directors at their next meeting. In the mean time one of 
 the company's inspectors must " view " the animal. The 
 owner of the mouse was just in the act of replying that, if 
 there were an inspector on the premises the ceremony 
 might at once be performed, since the " quadruped " w as 
 in his pocket, when the door opened, and Arthur Bayley 
 entered, carrying a large pile of books and papers.
 
 278 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 The spectacled gentleman now came to my mother and 
 said he feared that under the pressure of the anxious case 
 just submitted to him, he had been rather remiss in civility 
 towards her. He was sorry she had been kept waiting. 
 Would she like to speak to her young protege in the 
 adjoining office, which was unoccupied? 
 
 Wishing to inquire about the present state of Bayley's 
 father, and the general condition of the family — matters 
 on which it might have been awkward to put questions 
 in public — my mother accepted the offer. We were 
 passing into the room referred to, when, in the tones 
 of a bland and suave but not unmanly voice, I was thus 
 addressed : — 
 
 " Miss Fitzadam, surely ? How do you do ? An un- 
 expected pleasure indeed to see you here." 
 
 I do not think that I gave any reply to the greeting ; I 
 am sure that the hand offered me met with no close grasp 
 from mine. I hastened to make known to my mother that 
 the gentleman before her was Mr. Cyril Papillon ; I told 
 him, wdth great pride, that the lady who accompanied me 
 was my mother. 
 
 It seemed that Mr. Papillon was the presiding genius 
 of this office — a fact which led me, unreasonably, to regret 
 that we had visited it. My mother explained in a few words 
 that our call was one of inquiry for Arthur Bayley, in whom, 
 and in whose family, circumstances had led us to feel an 
 interest before we came to town. 
 
 Mr. Papillon thought it most kind and good of us, he 
 said, to come on such a mission. As he had had the happy 
 fortune to meet us, he trusted that we should not deny him
 
 IN BANISHMENT WE LEARN PATIENCE. 279 
 
 the pleasure of a little conversation. We and he possessed 
 mutual friends about whom it would be a great delight to 
 him to have a talk : he should like also to discuss the 
 prospects of our young protege. Would we come upstairs 
 with him for a few moments, and hold our converse with 
 Bayley afterwards ? 
 
 My mother at once acceded, and we were taken to a 
 spacious chamber which appeared to be the Board-room. 
 A large table, decorated with massive inkstands, n;ore 
 pink blotting-paper (mostly unused), and more immaculate 
 quills, occupied the centre of the apartment ; while a 
 handsome buffet, standing between the windows, and 
 made of the same massive mahogany as all the other 
 furniture of the room, was laden with trays containing 
 sandwiches, biscuits, sherry, and other luncheon comes- 
 tibles. Beside this buft'et stood a gentleman who was 
 introduced to us as the Secretary. His Secretaryship, 
 however, was at the moment unable to present himself; 
 for having, on the departure of the directors, commenced 
 a vigorous onslaught upon the remains of their luncheon, 
 his mouth was so crammed with sandwiches at the time 
 of our entrance, that he was obliged to look out of window 
 and feign a fit of couohiuo;. While he recovered, we 
 seated ourselves; after which, with bows and apologies 
 for the embarrassing results of the severe bronchial 
 affection under which he was labouring, his Secretaryship 
 left us alone with Mr. Papillon. 
 
 " My excellent friend Ralph Thain," said that gentle- 
 man, *' is, I think, well known to yoa? " 
 
 " Yes," answered my mother, " the Thains are very old
 
 280 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 and very dear friends of ours. Have you been acquainted 
 with them long ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, quite a short time. I met Ralph 
 Thain at a hotel here in town a few months since ; and 
 knowing him by name and by sight I ventured to introduce 
 myself. One circumstance and another has led to a con- 
 tinuance of most agreeable intei'course between us. I 
 have been down to his town ; he has been up here " 
 
 "Has he been in London lately, sir? " I asked, before 
 I had thought what might be my mother's reflections upon 
 the eager inquiry. 
 
 " He came up about three weeks ago ; not on pro- 
 fessional business I believe, but to make some arrangements 
 for a friend, in which he appeared to take great interest. 
 On that occasion he brought up with him the very 
 promising and intelligent lad below, whom I had previously 
 arranged to receive here. Not that Mr. Thain — I must 
 be candid you know ! — places much faith in this scheme of 
 mine; but he was glad to get the boy a berth as a 
 temporary thing, although he declares — but don't you tell, 
 my dear ladies — that we shall be wound up before the 
 year is out ! A cautious fellow, Ralph Thain is — a very 
 cautious fellow." 
 
 These last words, though quickly succeeded by others, 
 rang in my ears and continued to occupy my thoughts. 
 I felt sure that they were not just; and I suspected 
 that the speaker knew it. " Ralph's critic," I reflected, 
 " is either in error, or else wanting in sincerity. Ralph is 
 iiot cautious. Doubtless he sees, or guesses that there is 
 no solidity in this enterprise ; but likely enough, no cautious
 
 IN BANISUMENT WK LEARN PATIENCE. 281 
 
 insight is needed to give him such perception or surmise ! 
 True he is a man who believes in work as the only firm 
 basis of success ; he sees results in efforts, profit in pains. 
 But in many respects how totally uncalculating he is ! I 
 know none more likely to err through sudden impulse ; 
 and so, seriously to commit himself — in a way too that the 
 gentleman who comments upon his * caution ' would be a 
 good deal less likely to do, unless I completely misread the 
 commentator." 
 
 I lost a part of Mr. Papillon's remarks by indulging 
 these thoughts. When I listened again lie was saying that 
 he hoped he might have the pleasure of calling on us. My 
 mother's answer was a courteous but determined denial. 
 We were in town, she said, under most painful circum- 
 stances: it was our intention to see no one at present. 
 With many thanks, we must decline Mr. Papillon's 
 kind offer. In brighter days we should hope for the 
 pleasure of a visit from him at our own home in 
 Westford. 
 
 The Manager — for such, by a show-card on the 
 mantel-piece I discovered to be Mr. Papillon's title — 
 made an acquiescent bow, and the matter was ended. 
 The conversation now became general. Margaret was 
 mentioned ; her parents ; her engagement. Upon the 
 betrothal Mr. Papillon remarked with apparent interest 
 and approval. I thought of my former conjecture as to 
 the existence of a secret understandino; between himself 
 and Margaret ; and I was satisfied that it had been 
 mistaken. 
 
 Mr. Papillon presently took leave of us with graceful
 
 282 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 urbanity; and having summoned Bayley, left us alone 
 with him. Our communications with the boy were brief. 
 He seemed to think himself much honoured by our call, 
 and was again mysterious as to the source of his 
 promotion. We made full inquiries with reference to his 
 home concerns; and asked him to report to us at our 
 lodgings from time to time his own official ])i ogress. 
 Giving him our address — which, however, we desired him 
 to make known to no one else — we rose to go. 
 
 Mr. Arthur Bayley then escorted us downstairs, fling- 
 ing the doors wide open, and, with a heightened colour and 
 a smile of gratification, leading us through the low^er office, 
 which, as 1 easily saw% w^as not the most direct way out. 
 This circuitous route was adopted, I have no doubt, with 
 intent cm the part of our conductor to display clearly to the 
 two youths behind the counter, the fact of his friendly 
 relations with us. My mother and I simultaneously 
 detected the innocent design ; and made a point of render- 
 ing it successful by speaking to him with marked cordiality 
 as we passed through. I noticed that the elder youth, dis- 
 covering his subordinate's proud position, affected to be so 
 deeply engrossed upon the mending of a pen, as not to 
 observe either him or us. The winking young gentleman, 
 on the contrary, behaved with candour, and bowed deferen- 
 tially — which courtesy I returned, preferring him, after all, 
 before his comrade. 
 
 " Mamma," I said, as we walked slowly homewards 
 through the warm August crowds, "Mr. Papillon is gentle- 
 manly in manner, is he not ? " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear. He is not self-asserting. He
 
 IN BANISHMENT WE LEARN PATIENCE. 283 
 
 is considerate ; qiilet ; self-possessed ; deferential to our 
 bex " 
 
 *' He is good-looking too ? " 
 
 " Distinctly. His forehead is broad and well-shaped ; 
 his eyes are clear; his nose is high-bred; his upper lip 
 short ; his teeth are white and even ; his figure and carriage 
 good " 
 
 " And his style of dress is well chosen ? He is neither 
 a dandy, nor a sloven ? " 
 
 '' Neither. He dresses in excellent taste ; quietly but 
 well. He knows what suits him, and wears it — as a man 
 should." 
 
 " He must be clever, too, and well-informed? " 
 
 " I agree with you, my dear. One cannot talk to him 
 long, indeed, without finding this out." 
 
 " Tlien how unreasonable I must be, mother, to disHke 
 this gentleman — to dislike him very much indeed ! " 
 
 " At any rate I share your unreasonableness, Lucy." 
 
 *' You do, Mamma ? what does the feehng mean ? " 
 
 " The very question I am asking myself, love, and 
 cannot answer." 
 
 It w^as altogether a chilly unpleasing sensation that had 
 been wrought upon my mind by this meeting of ours with 
 Mr. Papillon during our quest for IMaster Bayley : it was 
 a sensation analogous to such a bodily feeling as I have 
 experienced on encountering an unlooked-for cold and 
 mouldy breath from some dank cellar, in passing along 
 the sunny summer streets. Nor did my attempt to analyse 
 the sensation represent the whole of the mental exercise 
 which our late conversation with the Manager had cost me.
 
 284 LUCY riTZADA^r. 
 
 I puzzled myself greatly over the fact of his seemingl}' 
 cordial relations with Ralph Thain. With whom could 
 so unequal a friendship have arisen ? Again, I had now 
 learned for the first time of Ralpli's visit to London at a 
 period which must have preceded our own arrival by a 
 few days only. What could have been the errand — an 
 " interesting " one to him, undertaken for " a friend " — 
 wliich had then brought him up? 
 
 On this last question I had a suspicion, which, so soon 
 as we reached home, I pursued into a conviction. When my 
 mother had gone to change her dress, I asked to see our 
 landlady Mrs. Cruse ; that female accordingly came to me. 
 
 I may here mention that Mrs. Cruse was a tall thin 
 woman with clay-coloured hair, and greenish eyes; whose 
 narrow proportions, stealthy movements, and generally 
 pale hues, reminded one of a sandy cat — an animal dis- 
 playing considerable patience under persecution and low 
 diet. She owned two daughters ; one about sixteen years 
 old, a darkened repetition of herself; and another, a poor 
 twisted little cripple, who might have been almost any age 
 from seven to seventy. Over Mr. Cruse and his employ- 
 ment a mysterious cloud hung. Neither of our party had 
 ever seen him ; for he generally left home before we were 
 about in the morning, and came home late at night — 
 always down the area steps. He had frequently, indeed, 
 been heard by us, in the nether regions ; and the sounds 
 had not been such as to prepossess us in his favour. They 
 had consisted of divers cries and groans alarmingly loud 
 in tone, and had been accompanied by dreadful bangs, as 
 of boots thrown about with violence. The wife, howx'ver.
 
 IN BANISHMENT WE LEARN PATIENCE. 285 
 
 often Spoke of lier husband to us — and invariably with 
 veneration — as being the source of all sense and wisdom. 
 " Cruse would be able to tell in a moment if he was 
 here " — " Cruse will be sure to understand," were phrases 
 constantly upon her lips. In man}- other ways too, she 
 tried to maintain our faith in her invisible partner, as her 
 gifted and business-like protector. It was an ambition of 
 hers, for instance, to make us believe that our weekly bills 
 were receipted by his hand rather than her own : but the 
 disguise was too transparent for deception. Nevertheless 
 in signing those documents, she continued perseveringly to 
 frame the same masculine characters, and to use the 
 same official terms, viz : — '* To cash. Paid with thanks. 
 John Cruse." 
 
 As soon as the landlady now appeared, I asked her to 
 be so good as to describe the gentleman who had 
 negotiated with her about our lodgings. Mrs. Cruse's 
 voice was such as to disturb her resemblance to the 
 patient cat, to which I have above likened her : it was 
 loud and pungent — recalling the sound caused by blowing 
 on paper strained over a comb. 
 
 " Oh yes, I think I can tell you," she said ; not, as I 
 fancied, with entire candour in her face, " I think I can tell 
 you; but there was two parties. One, I should say, not 
 the gentleman exactly. He came first. The other was 
 here several times, and — well, and looked into things 
 close. He was much more of the gentleman." 
 
 *'Can you describe this last person, Mrs. Cruse ?" 
 
 " No, indeed ! " 
 
 Our landladv alwa\s carefullv avoided the words
 
 286 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 "' Miss " or '* Ma'am " in addressing us ; apparently holding 
 that to apply any such titles to her lodgers would be to 
 admit an inferiority of social standing on her own part; 
 and it was an essential article of her creed, always 
 promulgated, that although in decayed circumstances, 
 she was a '' lady born," and therefore second to none 
 in the land. Her grammar, I suppose, had declined with 
 her fortunes. 
 
 "No, indeed!" she said with a throaty laugh of 
 deprecation, which seemed intended to signify that she had 
 no gift for delineating the physical characteristics of the 
 opposite sex. 
 
 ^' Perhaps then," I answered, " you will not mind 
 telling me if my description is accurate. The gentleman 
 we are referring to spoke very quietly, but very clearly, 
 did he not ? " 
 
 Mrs. Cruse looked uncomfortable and said " yes." 
 " He was a middle-sized man, with a pale face, a 
 round high forehead, a prominent nose, and a good deal of 
 brown hair ? " 
 
 *' Oh dear no," said Mrs. Cruse, " his hair was quite 
 grey." 
 
 " Right." I replied inwardly ; remembering how 
 Ralph's curly poll had looked when last I saw it. 
 
 " Neither of the gentlemen gave a name," added 
 Mrs. Cruse, evidently anxious to end the talk. " The 
 referees were Messrs. Nutt and Shell, solicitors, of Gray's 
 Inn." 
 
 " My description was correct — except with regard to 
 the grey hair, Mrs. Cruse, was it not?" I proceeded.
 
 IN BANISHMENT WE LEARN PATIENCE. 287 
 
 She did not reply, but gave another throaty laugh. 
 Her face told me what I wanted to know. 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Cruse," I said. " I won't keep you 
 any longer." 
 
 1 now went upstairs to my mother, to tell her I felt 
 sure that Ralph Thain had himself been to London to 
 complete the arrangements about our lodgings : and we 
 had a long wondering talk (rather embarrassed on my 
 part) with reference to the devotion of the Thains to our 
 interests. 
 
 I have not yet mentioned Esther in connection with 
 our residence in town : but we had never ceased to rejoice 
 at the decision in favour of her continuance with us. She 
 added to our comforts greatly, and adapted herself to the 
 new mode of life in a way that was practically hearty, 
 although in words she often railed roundly both at London 
 and Londoners. Her chief objection to cockneys was that 
 there were so many of them. Whenever I went out for a 
 walk with her she was sure to repeat this objection. ''There 
 they be aggen," she would say, looking up some murky 
 court where the babies were sprawling on the pavements. 
 '' Too many of 'em by half; a-tumblin' and a-jumblin' about 
 altogether ; an' the Lord only knows wlio's to find 'em 
 victuals, an' keep clothes on the'r backs. It didn't ought 
 to be allowed." Li the busier thoroughfares, the same 
 opinions would be expressed in somewhat altered terms, 
 as : — '^ There, there ! How they do push an' drive, an' 
 terment theirselves to get one afore t'other ! Why couldn't 
 'em 'a* stopped down wher' the Lord put 'em, without 
 a-comin' up to this here pleiice as was twice ta big
 
 288 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 aVeadj, to be smutted an' smoked by all these here 
 chimleys ? " 
 
 In our lodgings Esther had at once taken up her old 
 position of supremacy. Mrs. Cruse appeared to regard her 
 as a phenomenon, worthy of awe, but beyond comprehen- 
 sion. I have a notion that her presence in the house was, 
 nevertheless, a large gain to Mrs. Cruse — and that Mrs. 
 Cruse soon found this out. Quietly and efficiently the old 
 woman discharged the duty which she had undertaken. 
 The most valued comforts we enjoyed, as the perfect clean- 
 liness of our rooms, the niceness with which our plain 
 food was cooked and put on the table, were mainly owing 
 to her. She never obtruded her presence on the family 
 below, except when necessity took her amongst them. She 
 was oftenest to be found sitting at work in her own room ; 
 from w^iich place, however, we daily summoned her to 
 bear us company for many hours. Her personal self- 
 denial was such as to cause my mother and myself constant 
 anxiety ; and but for continued vigilance and stratagem on 
 our part, I doubt whether she would have allowed herself 
 the nourishment called for by her great frame and growing 
 infirmities. Amidst the disquiet and uncongeniality of our 
 surroundings, the calm harmony of her faithful life often 
 touched me deeply. So I have known sweet strains of 
 music do, when they have stolen upon my ear through 
 the roar of a city street.
 
 ( 289 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 OF A REVELATION, ^YHICH SUBSEQUENTLY HAPPENED 
 TO BE WORTH MORE THAN IT APPEARED TO BE AT 
 FIRST. 
 
 Get accident n'est pas nouveau 
 
 Dans le chemiu de fortune. — La Fontaine. 
 
 Ten days had elapsed since our visit to the " Universal " 
 office. We were sitting at tea with open windows, listening 
 to the whisper of feet npon the Crescent pavementSj when 
 the sound of a strongly-marked juvenile trot rose out of 
 the hissing — like an outspoken voice uttered in the midst 
 of confidences. There followed an inexperienced tap at 
 our front door, and a timid ring; at the bell. A minute or 
 two later Mrs. Cruse came into the room, and said that a 
 " young gentleman " wished to see me. I was not then 
 used to the habit — prevalent amongst certain classes in 
 London — of styling all male persons " gentlemen " and all 
 females " ladies." I understood those titles to be applicable 
 only to the few. I therefore set to work in some wonder 
 to guess who my '' gentle " visitor might be. So occupied, 
 I omitted to answer the announcement : my mother, 
 however, supplied the deficiency, and said ; — " Be good 
 enough to show the 'young gentleman' up," 
 
 VOL. L 19
 
 290 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 The boots that sounded on the stairs were heavy ; and 
 the ^ young gentleman ' seemed to be much out of breath — 
 for his panting was audible long before he came in sight. 
 He proved to be no other than Arthur Bayley. 
 
 The bow with which we were greeted was respectful 
 and profound. It was of a hybrid nature : it included both 
 a city bend, and that wave of the hand which is inculcated 
 at village schools. 
 
 " You'll excuse me callin', miss," said the visitor, 
 sustaining his voice with difficulty. " I shouldn't have 
 ventured if you hadn't a-given me leave ; nor come so 
 soon as this here, if I hadn't a-had somethin' to tell." 
 
 " Shut the door, my lad, and sit down,'' said my 
 mother; "you are quite welcome, and no apologies are 
 needed." 
 
 He shut the door, but would not sit. 
 
 '' Well, and what have you got to tell me, Bayley? " I 
 asked, encouragingly. " You seem out of breath." 
 
 "I am, miss, for I runned all the way. I knew as I 
 ought to let you know so soon as I could." 
 
 I was growing curious ; but to give the boy breatliing 
 time I repressed my curiosity, poured out a cup of tea, and 
 said with some circumlocution that I was much obliged to him 
 for hurrying on m}^ account. He presently recovered, and 
 went on in an exultant voice : — 
 
 " An' what I have to say, miss, is, that I've found out 
 wlio he is, and all about liim.''^ 
 
 I pondered the words ; but they conveyed no meaning 
 to my mind. I was unwilling, however, to let it appear 
 that I did not understand, lest the lad should feel his errand
 
 A REVELATION. 291 
 
 an intrusion, and grow ashamed of it. Trusting, therefore, 
 to Providence for enlightenment as the conversation should 
 proceed, I merely said : — " Have you indeed ? " 
 
 ** Ay, miss : an' just where I never expected to." 
 
 « Really ! " 
 
 *' Yes, miss. I saw the fellow this very day ; here in 
 London, an' at our office too." 
 
 " At your office ! " 
 
 I was still in the dark, and began to find the obscurity 
 distressing. 
 
 "Ay, at our office. An' that's not all, miss. He's 
 one of our Inspectors. You mus' know as the Company 
 have Inspectors about the country, men as understand 
 stock, to see 'em afore they're insured, an' report whether 
 they're in health or not. The Inspectors are mostly little 
 farmers an' such like. He's one of 'em. I've a-got his 
 name an' address written down here." 
 
 As I took from the boy the paper he now handed me, 
 memory shone forth brightly, and ended my previous 
 gloom. The enlightenment came none too soon. 
 
 The person referred to was doubtless he fi'om whom 
 Bayley had received that threatening letter which had 
 once caused me so much disquietude. As I now remembered 
 how great had been my alarm on the reception of the letter, 
 and how seriously my father had regarded the matter, I 
 began to w^onder that I had been so slow in perceiving the 
 boy's meaning. And yet it is a fact that amongst the stirring 
 events which had befallen me since the unpleasant surprise 
 in Mr. Fribbins's shop, I had well-nigh forgotten that 
 untoward occurrence.
 
 292 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 On the paper was written : — " George Body, Farmer : 
 Dilllngworth, Westford." The Christian name and the 
 occupation coincided with the information that our servants 
 had gi\en; to wit, that Mary Murgatroyd's lover was 
 styled Gearge, and that his business was that of a farmer. 
 The lad had, therefore, it was very likely, put me in 
 possession of the actual offender's name ; the man whom 
 he had now recognized was probably Mary's lover indeed. 
 But what was all this to me ? The girl's silly threats had 
 long ceased to cause me any perturbation ; her sweetheart's 
 coarse defiance was a thing of the past, which now neither 
 made me tremble, nor inspired me with resentment. 
 
 But I could not, in courtesy, betray to the zealous 
 messenger who had brought me the tidings, my indifference 
 to his message. I therefore asked him to tell me in what 
 circumstances Mr. George Body had revealed himself at 
 the Universal Live Stock Insurance Office. 
 
 f « Why," began Master Bayley, " I was a-sittin' at my 
 desk this morning, as it might be here, an' Mr. Seebright 
 — he with the spectacles — was a-standin' as it might be by 
 the window there, when the door opens, and in walks the 
 very chap as gave me the letter for you, miss, that day 
 back in the spring. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Seebright he speaks to the fellow quite 
 familiar, an' says, says he : — ^ Good day Mr. Body ; how 
 do the work go on in your part? Plenty of new insurances, 
 eh ? How many head of beast have you inspected for us 
 this month, eh ? Never you mind about the sheep ; we 
 don't care for them ; the cattle's what we want. Plenty 
 of that sort, eh ? '
 
 A REVELATION. 293 
 
 " So I looked in the list of our Inspectors : and there I 
 saw as Mr. Body of Dillingworth was Inspector for Wes'- 
 ford District. 
 
 " While the fellow were a-leanin' on the counter talkin' 
 to Mr. Seebright, the Manager passed by the glass door to 
 his inner office ; an' so soon as he'd got into liis room, he 
 rang the bell. Mr. Seebright tells me to go in ; and while 
 I were there to let the Manager know as our Inspector from 
 Wes'ford would be glad to ask him a question about a new 
 risk. 
 
 " In I went. ^ Bayley,' says the Manager, lookin' so 
 black as our master at school used to look when we copied 
 the dictation down off Jim Pateman's slate, 'Baylay; — 
 who's that man a-talking to Seebright ? ' ' Why, sir,' says 
 I, ' its Mr. George Body, our Inspector do\vn at AVes'ford, 
 where I come from.' ' The Devil it is,' says the Manager, 
 (hoping, miss an' ma'am, as you'll excuse the mention of 
 him as I'm sure isn't fit to be mentioned before ladies). 
 ' Yes sir,' says I, ' an' he wants to see you about a risk.' 
 ' I'll see no one to-day,' says the Manager sharp ; ^ you go 
 out an' say as I'm partiklarly engaged ; ' (but bless you 
 miss, he wern't engaged — only with a newspaper as he'd 
 brought in with him) ' an' what he's got to say let him 
 say it in w^riting.' That were the message as I gave ; an' 
 while I were givin' it I saw as ]\Ir. Body remembered me.' 
 
 " So when he turns to go, he calls me into the passage 
 after him. ' Young chap,' says he, ' I've a seen you afore.' 
 ' I knows that, so well as you do,' says I ; ' but if I'd 
 a-understood what you was up to that time, Mr. Body, 
 I says, says I, ^ I'd never have took your letter, nor yet
 
 294 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 your sixpences neither,' I sajs. *You wrote what you 
 didn't ought to have written,' I says, ' to the best young 
 lady in the world ; an' I'll stick to it she is so,' says I, ^ for 
 she've a-been my best friend.' " 
 
 I was much surprised at the energy with which the 
 boy spoke these last words : I did not understand them. 
 But I did not choose to interrupt him for an explanation. 
 He proceeded : — 
 
 " ' Look 'e here lad,' says Mr. Body, ^ do you know 
 what makes folks do what they didn't ought to, nine times 
 out of ten ? I'll tell 'e : — gals. Do you want to know 
 what made me do what I didn't ought to 'a' done ? — a gal. 
 An' well she've a-paid me too ! But mind ! I don't say, 
 lad, as I done altogether w^rong neither.' An' then, miss 
 an' ma'am, the fellow grew that savage as I didn't like it. 
 He said as but for them as turned his gal off so suddent, 
 he should have been able to win her round gradual, an' 
 might now have had her for his wife ; 'stead o' rovin' 
 about this here great ugly London a-lookin' for her. And 
 Mr. Body used some words, miss an' ma'am, as you 
 wouldn't wish to hear, nor I to tell 'em — about you bein' 
 at the bottom of all his misery. ' Well, Mr. Body, sir,' 
 says I, ' I ain't a-goin' to stay to hear no harm of my good 
 friends ; so I'll wish you a very good day, sir.' An' then 
 he went. 
 
 " Presently the Manager's bell rings again, an' in I 
 goes to him. * Well, Bayley,' he says, * is your fellow- 
 countryman gone ? ' ' Yes, sir,' sa^^s I. ' An' do you know 
 anything about him ? ' says he. ^ I'd a-seen him once in 
 Wes'ford afore I come here, sir,' says I. '^ An' what brings
 
 A REVELATION. 295 
 
 the fellow up here, do you know ? ' ^ Why as to that, sir, 
 I says, says I, ^ I think 'twas two things as brought him 
 up : — he come to look for a gal, an' to see you.' 
 
 "But bless me how the Manager changed when I said 
 that ! I s'pose I didn't ought to have spoke so free. He 
 looked at me as though he was starvin, an' I some'at to eat ; 
 he showed his white teeth like a dog ; an' he mentioned 
 again, miss and ma'am, the name of him as musn't — an' 
 shan't — be mentioned afore ladies. An' so I com'd out of 
 the room. 
 
 " Well, I were a-goin' out, an' the Manager called after 
 me. ' Bayley,' he says, * tell the Secretary an Mr. See- 
 bright that I'm goin' into the Eastern Counties for a 
 fortnight. I shall start by the one o'clock train ; an' if 
 they want to see me before I leave, they must come to 
 me now. Go to the cab-stand, too, an' fetch me a 
 Hansom.'" 
 
 Here the lad came to a pause, feeling, perhaps, that 
 his story had already extended itself to details in which we 
 were not likely to take an interest. He had spoken with 
 much impetuosity; and his zeal and eagerness were 
 gratifying, because it was plain that they sprang from a 
 desire to do me service ; but tliey also made me uncomfort- 
 able, for they implied an exaggerated sense of obligation. 
 I was glad to let my mother be my spokeswoman : I could 
 trust her tact to correct the boy's error as to his indebtedness, 
 without hurting his feelings. 
 
 " It is very thoughtful of you, Bayley," she said, *^ to 
 let us know so quickly what you have found out about this 
 man — Body ; his rude letter made us at one time very
 
 296 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 uncomfortable, and you have done us a useful service in 
 bringing tidings of him. If he is ever again troublesome, 
 we shall now be able to protect ourselves." 
 
 The boy's eyes brightened : he looked as though the 
 dearest desire of his heart were accomplished. 
 
 " An' I should wish to say, miss an' ma'am, before I 
 go," he observed, " that I know it's through you — or miss 
 — as I've got where I am : an' that I can't ever thank you 
 enough, miss, for " 
 
 " Stay, stay, my good fellow," said my mother, laughing, 
 "I was just going to give you a little caution about that. 
 You attribute too much to Miss Fitzadam. Your advance- 
 ment, you know, is wholly owing to Mr. Thain. You are 
 indebted to him, not to us." 
 
 ''' Ay ma'am! but I mind what he said to me when he 
 left me that day down at the office. ' Remember, Bayley,' 
 he says, ' if this proves to be a step up'ards for you, as I 
 intend it should be, you are always to look on Miss Fitz- 
 adam as the cause of your rise. In sober truth,' he says 
 ^ she is so. I have tried to help you for her sake ; because 
 Bayley,' says he, — an' he says it very hearty — ' I wish, I 
 wish above everything, to serve her ; and she has been led 
 by circumstances to take an interest in your welfare.' 
 That's the words as Mr. Thain spoke, miss and ma'am." 
 
 I could not help colouring as I listened to the quotation 
 of Ralph's remarks. 
 
 " Dear me ! " said my mother easily, smiling as she 
 spoke, " how exactly like Ralph this was ! But Bayley, 
 my lad, you must not take all Mr. Thain's kind self- 
 forgetful words as being strictly true. Now, the best thing
 
 A REVELATION. 297 
 
 you can do is to stay to tea. Lucy, my dear, see wliether 
 you can make him a comfortable meal." 
 
 The thought of sitting down to eat before us at first 
 seemed to fill our visitor with terror ; and he stammered 
 out some modest words about not being " fit." A little 
 encouragement, however, overcame his scruples, and he 
 was soon at his ease. Meanwhile, I was at my wits' ends 
 to know what to set before him. An ancient cake, 
 previously discarded as possessing no flavour but that of 
 the cupboard, was the only confection I could produce. 
 Fortunately, Mrs. Cruse came to my aid with marmalade 
 and a new loaf; so that some additional buttered toast 
 made up a sufficient variety of viands. At any rate, the 
 guest did ample justice to the fare; making — with the 
 usual faith of juvenility in edibles professing, no matter on 
 how slight a justification, to contain saccharine matter — 
 large inroads even into the rejected cake. Nor did Master 
 Bay ley, after all, seem to be at much loss how to behave 
 while feeding in our aristocratic presence. A passing 
 doubt as to wdiat w^as the proper thing to do with his 
 teaspoon, while the indispensable process of pouring the 
 tea into the saucer w^ent forward, was apparently his worst 
 perplexity. 
 
 Our main object in dealing with him was not to 
 obliterate his impression that he had done us a good 
 service ; and this object w^e secured ; for, as was evident 
 enough, he went off at last well satisfied with himself and 
 his mission. And, in truth, he had done me so great a 
 service as neither he nor I dreamed. Although his dis- 
 covery now owned little interest in my eyes, yet there
 
 298 LUCY riTZADAM. 
 
 came a time when I recalled his narrative with eager 
 thankfulness, of such a nature as Heaven knows had 
 been far enough from my heart at the time of narration. 
 
 A few days more, and Ralph's wedding cards are on 
 our table. Another short interval, and Margaret writes to 
 me herself — such a letter as she has never written in her 
 unwedded days. She has more to say than usual ; but she 
 is less individual. She dates from a foreign city ; and 
 instead of making the quaint and j^erverse comments upon 
 the novelties about her which I should have expected, she 
 gives detailed descriptions that are flat, tame, and 
 ordinary. T am asked to reply to the letter, and I do 
 so, but with a feeling that I do not know what to 
 write about. 
 
 The summer declines — September has nearly past. 
 Well do I remember the country under the aspects it now 
 wears : I often think and dream of it. I see the hedgerows 
 rich with scarlet hips and crimson haws ; I see the 
 lingering blossoms with insect crowds about them ; I see 
 resplendent morning skies; distances veiled in magic 
 mists; meadows silvered with gossamer and dew. 
 
 In these days there arises within me an enthusiasm for 
 country life which no words can utter. When laden cabs 
 pass me, bound for the stations, I gaze at the occupants 
 with an envy which is half reverence ; when a north- 
 western breeze brings to our windows from Hampstead 
 Heath an appreciable country freshness, I find myself 
 thrilled by a keen sad delight that is indescribable. Were 
 I to die now, I should die, despite my Calvinism, babbling 
 of green fields. The heaven of my fancy at this time
 
 A REVELATION. 299 
 
 embraces no Scriptural Jerusalem, with pearly gates 
 and golden pavement. It is a sweet still tract of familiar 
 Somersetshire scenery — with wide sheltering woods, w^here 
 faded leaves lying deep and soft shed fragrance on the 
 gentle air, where drops of sunlight fall in intersecting 
 circlets of bright gold — with trickling runlets astir amidst 
 leafage, and reedy ponds whereon the moorhen traces 
 her divergent lines of silver — with open meads across 
 which laughing gleams of sunlight like merry children 
 speed, and shadowed banks where flowery gems are 
 found. 
 
 And here, reminded of the matter by an allusion which 
 I have made above, let me take occasion to say that not- 
 withstanding these somewhat heterodox vagaries of thought, 
 I was still a Puritan, both in belief and in practice. Let 
 my plain bonnets, my steady avoidance of fiction, my long 
 devotions, bear witness to this truth. Perhaps that morbid 
 introspection which Puritanism fosters was becoming less 
 habitual to me ; perhaps contact with actual trouble and 
 new duty had tended to weaken the ascendancy over my 
 mind of mere religious theory. But still I was a Puritan. 
 In point of fact I could not venture to be otherwise ; for 
 the slightest recognized modification of my creed would 
 necessarily have opened the question as to whether, after 
 all, I had done right in rejecting Mr. Tyndal : and on such 
 a question I dared not enter. 
 
 Before I close this chapter I must inform the reader 
 that Miss Fenning, my late governess, was now com- 
 fortably settled. Some distant relatives of ours had 
 recommended her to an excellent situation ; and great
 
 300 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 had been her delight, and my surprise, on learning that 
 the appointment in view was that of governess to 
 the motherless children of the Reverend John Knox of 
 Beremouth.
 
 ( 301 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 PRESSING BUSINESS BRINGS A FRIEND TO TOWN. CON- 
 CERNING A CERTADaT CONVERSATION THAT FOLLOWED 
 UPON HIS VISIT ; AND A CERTAIN DISCOVERY THAT 
 RESULTED FROM THE CONVERSATION. 
 
 Bassanio. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, 
 The best condition'd and unweary'd spirit 
 In doing courtesies. — Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Mrs. Cruse owned a noisy dog, black and tan in colour, 
 and by repute a terrier. There was probably, however, 
 some flaw in the family pedigree, for the moral character 
 of the animal was scarcely compatible with unblemished 
 descent. He was an arrant coward. He delighted to 
 bark; and although he was generally afraid to bite, his 
 noise stood him in good stead, and inspired the world with 
 faith in his intelligence and prowess — as indeed noise is 
 wont to do, proceeding from other than canine lungs. I, 
 nevertheless, comprehended and despised the brute — of 
 which he was well aware. The distance between us was 
 wide ; and this was equally understood on both sides. 
 
 One morning early in October the arrival of some 
 person at the front door was the occasion of such excite-
 
 302 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 ment on the part of this dog, as was unusual even for him. 
 When Mrs. Cruse answered the knock, the animal went 
 growling with her ; and no sooner was the door unfastened 
 than his menaces became furious. 
 
 To maintain a tranquil exterior while some strange cur 
 careers threateningly around you is never easy; and it 
 generally betokens that your calmness is at an especially 
 low ebb, when you begin to comment on the great beauty, 
 or pure breed of the animal. Going to the top of the 
 stairs to listen, I now heard that the visitor was thus 
 betraying his imperfect composure. 
 
 " Lie down you ! " exclaimed the stranger. " What a 
 noble creature ! Doivn ! An excellent watch-dog I am 
 certain. Down ! Terrier no doubt — and a singularly fine 
 one. Down ! " 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Cruse feebly commanded her pet to 
 " come away Smut," and to " lie down this minute, sir," 
 and to " get along in with you ;" and Miss Cruse reiterated 
 these fruitless mandates from the kitchen steps, while the 
 stupid beast barked himself almost voiceless about the 
 visitor's legs. 
 
 Fancying that I recognized the tone in which the 
 observations upon the dog were uttered, I went down a 
 few stairs, and saw that the speaker was our dear old 
 friend, Mr. Thain. My wrath with his tormentor rose 
 high. I snatched an umbrella from the stand in the hall, 
 and completely forgot my young ladyhood in belabouring 
 the creature's ribs. I am generally in favour of the 
 greatest tenderness to animals ; but there are bad charac- 
 ters amongst the brute creation ; and for their own profit
 
 PRESSING BUSINESS BRINGS A FRIEND TO TOWN. 303 
 
 as well as for the public benefit they must be chastised. 
 The correction over, I gave Mr. Thain my hand, and so 
 led him np-stairs. He apologized much for having allowed 
 my interference to appear needful. 
 
 Mrs. Cruse, divided between annoyance at the manner 
 of my interposition, and a desire not greatly to infringe 
 upon my patience, said, with a peculiar fixed smile, and a 
 dignified contraction of her chin ; '^ A little sudden and 
 unexpected, as it were, to employ the umbrella ; the dog 
 would not have injured the gentleman. But never mind! " 
 
 Mrs. Cruse always had recourse to the phrase " as it 
 were " when she desired to be particularly impressive. 
 Far from restricting herself to its employment when she 
 wished to claim indulgence for some figure of speech, she 
 used it indiscriminately, apparently holding it to be a re- 
 fined and genteel turn of expression suggestive of educa- 
 tional antecedents, and available for all occasions. 
 
 jMuch as the canine demonstration offended me, I felt, 
 when I had leisure to inspect our visitor, that it was not 
 after all greatly to be wondered at. Mr. Thain's dress 
 was, if possible, more abandoned, his manner less self- 
 possessed, than ever. An unobservant dog like Smut was 
 perhaps to be pardoned for having mistaken him for an 
 unwarranted intruder. 
 
 I do not know whether Mr. Thaiu w^as the gladder to 
 see us, or w^e to see him. AYe were all greatly excited, 
 and our visitor could not be persuaded to sit still for two 
 consecutive minutes. In the pre-occupation of his mind, 
 his hands mechanically performed several mischievous 
 tricks for which he was morally irresponsible. Thus, he
 
 804 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 steadily went to work, and laboriously picked a button off 
 his waistcoat, flinging it at last with triumph into the 
 fire-place. Presently he seized a parian figure from the 
 mantel-piece — an ornament much prized by Mrs. Cruse, 
 as having been presented to her on her marriage by a 
 certain Aunt Flowerdew, and therefore an object of rather 
 uneasy consideration with us. The perils through which 
 this figure passed were many and various. I can see now 
 my mother's look of suppressed agony as it was succes- 
 sively waved in the air, turned head downwards, and at 
 last replaced on the shelf insecurely. 
 
 Mr. Thain had come to town, he said, on the most 
 pressing business. He had gladly availed himself of the 
 opportunity to call and tell us that everything at home was 
 going on well. There was not the smallest likelihood that 
 the business would be damaged by my father's temporary 
 illness. The clients were kind and considerate; Mr. Shaw 
 (the managing clerk) was thoroughly efficient and univer- 
 sally trusted. Any inquiries or comments that had been 
 made by the public, had been offered in a spirit, and 
 expressed in terms that were highly gratifying. As to 
 our house, not a stick or thread had been moved from its 
 old place. Mrs. Blythe Walker was delighted to be the 
 guardian of our property; but she would be still more 
 delighted to restore the guardianship to ourselves. And 
 now as to the news — the latest news — from our dear 
 invalid; that was doubtless equally encouraging? 
 
 My mother answered that there was no change of 
 importance in my father's state. 
 
 " My dearest madam," said Mr. Thain, " do you not
 
 PRESSING BUSINESS BRINGS A FRIEND TO TOWN. 305 
 
 understand that tliis is exactly what, above all things, yon 
 should desire to see ? Sudden alterations in -the health 
 would be most alarming. Nothing you could have reported 
 would have cheered me so much as this announcement of 
 an equable condition. Mark my words ! — out of this 
 apparently stationary state, steady improvement will arise; 
 almost imperceptible at first, but real and permanent. 
 \yhy, are not all the mightiest operations of Nature 
 gradual and insensible ? Take for instance the Eartliquake." 
 
 The comfort of kindness has fortunately little to do 
 with the words in which kindness makes itself known ; 
 accordingly Mr. Thain's benevolent encouragement did us 
 good, while the blunder in his illustration went for 
 nothing. It was impossible to help being cheered by the 
 good creature's presence. We begged him to dine with 
 us ; but this, he said, the urgent nature of his business 
 prevented him from doing. He remained, however, for a 
 long while, and we learned from him every particular we 
 could about Westford friends. Ralph and his wife, he 
 said, were expected home at once ; and for the present they 
 were to occupy the old house. 
 
 In the course of conversation Mr. Thain told us that 
 he had that morning met a gentleman whom he believed 
 we knew. There was much difficulty in identifying this 
 personage, for our visitor forgot his name, and could only 
 say that he had seen him near the statue of Ki7ig George 
 and the Dragon in Cockspur Street. At last I remembered 
 that the " Universal " office was not far from the public 
 monument thus singularly described, and suggested tliat 
 the gentleman might be Mr. Papillon. This proved to be 
 
 VOL. I. , 20
 
 306 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 the case. It then came out that Mr. Papillon had, of late, 
 consulted Ralph professionally, and had in various ways 
 shown him great civility and attention. 
 
 We took leave of our good friend with much regret. 
 He went away with words and gestures which seemed to 
 indicate that he was girding up the loins of his mind for 
 the performance of some anxious and important duty. I 
 remember speculating much as to what the duty might be. 
 My mother and I thus discussed the problem. 
 
 "Mamma, I wonder what has brought Mr. Thain 
 up to London in this manner — just when Ralph, too, is 
 away from the office." 
 
 " Something unselfish you may be sure, Lucy. Take 
 my word for it, he has not made the journey in his own 
 interests." 
 
 *' He does not think enough of his own interests, dear 
 old gentleman ! He is looking bent and feeble, mother, 
 is he not?" 
 
 " He certainly is." 
 
 " And did you notice every now and then a dim, filmy 
 appearance about his eyes — an appearance of utter weari- 
 ness and failure ? " 
 
 *' I fear I did, Lucy : but I hoped too that my own 
 fancy had exaggerated the look. You then yourself 
 observed it, and were sensible of the painful languor and 
 want of vitality which it seemed to discover ? " 
 
 " Yes. But after all I think it only meant anxiety on 
 the subject of this business now^ in hand. I daresay some 
 delicate, trying scene has to be gone through. Mr. Thain 
 has to make an attempt, perhaps, the results of which are
 
 PRESSING BUSINESS BRINGS A FRIEND TO TOWN. 307 
 
 uncertain — an attempt in wliicli failure would grieve his 
 kind soul. God give him success ! " 
 
 " God give him success ! " echoed my mother. 
 
 Our hearts warmed and softened by Mr. Thain's visit, 
 mamma and I fell that afternoon into the mood — not often 
 recurring — wherein those queer little reserves which arise 
 between near relatives are broken through; the mood 
 that makes easy and pleasant such confidences as in other 
 frames would be impossible. We sat in the dusk, talking 
 low and earnestly, and I may say with enjoyment, 
 although we often dealt with mournful topics. The scope 
 of the conversation was wide, as on such occasions it 
 generally is. My mother wandered back into her earlier 
 years. She opened to me many little secrets of her 
 betrothal to my father. She told me how, when, where, 
 he had made her his offer of marriage ; what he had worn 
 then, how he had looked. Afterwards she led me on 
 through the first years of her married life. She spoke of 
 Frank's birth ; showed how the growing brightness of his 
 sunlike nature had dispelled the clouds of two baby deaths 
 which had occurred between his nativity and my own. At 
 length she talked of her daughter's advent upon the 
 scene ; of my infant ways and sayings ; and creeping on to 
 later times still, she reviewed my education — even specu- 
 lated upon my future. 
 
 Interested and moved, 1 had left my seat opposite to 
 her, and had placed myself on a stool at her feet : my head 
 now rested on her lap, and her soft hands were stroking 
 my cheeks and hair as I questioned, and hearkened, and in 
 mv turn became increasino;lv communicative.
 
 308 LUCY FITZABAM. 
 
 * It was hardly strange that the name of Mr. Tyndal 
 should at last be mentioned. It was dark by this time ; 
 my mother would not feel my blushes : under such con- 
 ditions I had no desire to cease talking of Mr. Tyndal. 
 In the warmth and excitement of the hour, all my conduct 
 at Beremouth seemed forced and unreal : but even now I 
 could not think it to have been mistaken. I was ready to 
 defend it yet. Nevertheless, when my mother gently and 
 considerately recounted, as she now went on to do, the 
 reasons for her deep regret at the result of that meeting 
 on the beach, I felt a compunction, a doubt, a wonder 
 whether I had in truth been right : emotions which at least 
 were strong enough to restrain any justifying words. As 
 she spoke in this strain I could only attend and consider. 
 
 Presently, waxing bold, I asked how it could have 
 been that she had believed me to entertain a preference 
 for Mr. Tyndal. Once or twice, I reminded her, she 
 had referred to such a belief. What, I inquired, had 
 caused it ? 
 
 "My child," she answered, "it puzzles me that you 
 should forget what reason I had for my impression. You 
 ask me the question unreservedly; am I to answer it so?" 
 
 " Please, mother." 
 
 " Do you not remember then the pardonable error of 
 judgment which you so conscientiously confessed to me as 
 having been committed by you — the reading of those 
 letters of dear Frank's ? And you cannot have forgotten 
 that those letters, afterwards recovered, came into my 
 own and your father's hands? Nor will you have doubted 
 that we read them ? "
 
 PRESSING BUSINESS BRINGS A FRIEND TO TOWN. 309 
 
 I felt stupefied, and said, — 
 
 " But what has all this to do with my question ? " 
 
 " Did you uot see, love, amono-st those letters, one 
 from Mr. Tyndal to your brother?" 
 
 « No." 
 
 *' Nor a draft letter of reply from dear Frank to 
 him?" 
 
 I started up. A misapprehension of twelve months' 
 duration had been suddenly loosed : a truth to which my 
 early fondness for Ralph Thain had long blinded me was 
 at last disclosed. The letter which my prejudiced intelli- 
 o^ence had res^arded as addressed to 07ie intimate friend of 
 my brother, had in fact been addressed to another. To 
 Mr. Tyndal — not to Ralph Thain, had Frank, just before 
 his death, penned those affectionate lines in w^hich he had 
 said : " there is no man livincr to whom I could so con- 
 fidently and gladly give Lucy up as to yourself." 
 
 My first care on making this discovery was to hide 
 from my mother the mistake under which I had so long 
 laboured. Even in my present confiding mood, I could 
 not have owned to her the distressing misapprehension. I 
 explained away my start of surprise as well as I could by 
 saying, — 
 
 " Oh I I see, dear mother. I have been stupid." 
 
 " You can now understand," she continued, " how your 
 mother saw in your entire conduct with reference to those 
 letters, evidence that the affection to which two of them 
 referred — I thought, of course, you had seen both — was 
 one that your heart, in some degree at least, reciprocated. 
 A conviction that this was the case, and also that vou
 
 9 
 
 310 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 blamed yourself greatly for having, by an unwise but 
 excusable curiosity, precipitated your acquaintance with 
 an acceptable truth, led your dear father and me to decide 
 on absolute silence upon the subject, until tlie next step — 
 which after my darling boy's death we foresaw would pro- 
 bably be deferred — should have been taken. My love, 
 did your mother utterly miscalculate your feeling?" 
 
 I did not say "yes," although indeed I might with 
 much truth have done so. The reader will perceive the 
 predicament in which the inquiry placed me, and will be 
 prepared to learn that I gave the question no direct answer. 
 A squeeze administered to my mother's hand was my only 
 response. At the first convenient opportunity I brought 
 the talk to. an end, and v^ent up-stairs to think alone. 
 
 The first thing I did when I had shut myself into the 
 bedroom was to examine the ,basis of my blunder. That 
 basis, I owned to myself v^ith shame, had consisted mainly 
 in my own girlish preference. But then there had been, 
 on several occasions since my brother's death — and the 
 more I thought on tlie matter the more clearly I distin- 
 guished the truth — a special tenderness in Ralph's behaviour 
 towards me in some sort justifying my conclusion. Even 
 now, when I knew that not Ralph, but another gentleman, 
 had been the writer of that letter the answer to which I 
 had read, I could not acquit Ralph of having misled me 
 in other ways. What had he meant, for instance, by the 
 note which he had sent to me on the evenino^ of Frank's 
 death? But perhaps my annoyance with myself on 
 account of my mistake inclined me to throw as much of the 
 blame of it as possible on his shoulders ; for it is when we
 
 PRESSING BUSINESS BRINGS A FRIEND TO TOWN. 811 
 
 know best that we have been in error ourselves, that we 
 are readiest to find that others have been in error too. 
 
 The immediate cause of the misapprehension had lain 
 in the fact that the initial letters of the two gentlemen's 
 names were identical. Mr. Tyndal had only been known 
 to me, however, so far as his baptismal designation was 
 concerned, by the familiar form of that designation which 
 his aunts always applied to him ; and out of this appella- 
 tion I had manufactured for him a prsenomen which was 
 not his ! How I ascertained these facts will presently appear. 
 I have seldom been more annoyed than I now was at 
 the revelation of my mistake. It seemed to me that my 
 error was a thing to groan and blush over to the end of 
 my days. How much needless and foolish embarrassment 
 it had cost me ! With how much anxiety and annoyance 
 on my behalf had I, under its influence, credited my 
 parents ; — anxiety and annoyance which had never once 
 visited their minds ! One consolation only remained to me 
 on the subject : — nobody knew. The franknesses, the 
 silences of my father and mother which I had interpreted 
 as tokens of studied regard for my feelings, I now gladly 
 saw to be proofs of their ignorance both of my girlish fancy 
 and of my blunder. Under the first stress of my self-blame 
 this perception was my solitary relief. 
 
 Shall I reveal to the reader the further progress of my 
 thoughts that evening ? Shall I confess that when I had 
 worried myself about my newly discovered mistake for 
 several hours, the revelation began to tell upon me 
 differently ? I must do so at some time ; I may as well do 
 so now : let me be brief and direct.
 
 312 LUCY FITZADAM. 
 
 The question wi^ich I ha(t summarily decided at Bere- 
 mouth, was mentally re-opened. The battle began again — 
 with heavy reinforcements on the side of Nature. Nothing of 
 course could now come of a reversal of the former victory. 
 My refusal had been finally given ; my lover had left me. 
 It was only a question whether I should recognize the real 
 state of my feeling, and admit that I had wrongfully done 
 violence to my heart. " It is well, at least, said my con- 
 science, " that the Enemy having at last come in like a 
 flood, has come too late to influence your outward conduct 
 and manifestly to merge you in the World." 
 
 It was not long now before I begged — again under 
 cover of dusk — to see Mr. Tyndal's letter to my brother. 
 Mamma had it with her in London, and I saw it. 
 
 The '^ Albert " of my fancies was henceforth a Robert. 
 Alas ! the new name was no easier to forget than the old. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 London : Printed by Smith, Elder and Co., Old Bailey, E.G.