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 D O li A 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/dora01kava
 
 DORA. 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA KAVANAGH, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 NATHALIE,' "ADELE," '^ QUEEN MAB, 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1868. 
 Tite right (rf TranAaivM^ w ri:itrvvl
 
 LONDON : 
 
 rRlNTKD BY MACD0NAIJ3 AND TDGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSK 
 
 BT^NHEEM STREET, OXFORD STREET.
 
 Ce:. 
 
 a 
 
 CO 
 
 en 
 
 
 D O K^ A^. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 rF.HE autumn wind swept with a long wail over 
 lo -*- the broad bay of Dublin, then went and died, 
 ^ still moaning and lamenting, amongst the distant 
 mountains. In its occasional intervals of silence, 
 gusts of rain came and beat against the window- 
 panes with a pitiful, impatient sound, as if claim- 
 * ! ing to be heard, till the clamorous wind rose again 
 and drowned every voice save its own tempestuous 
 ^ roar. Dusk was gathering in Mrs. Courtenay's 
 ^i bare parlour, and very chill and cheerless as well 
 as bare it would have looked on this evening, if 
 Dora Courtenay had not been standing by the 
 > window with her work hanging loosely in her 
 jv^ hand, and her eyes fastened on the prospect of sea 
 ^ and mist and cloudy mountains, which was all 
 \ that she could see through the slanting rain. 
 
 4 ''^'-^-
 
 Z DORA. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's parlour was, as we said, a very 
 bare one. The chairs, the table, the black hearth, 
 the low ceiling, sadly in need of whitewash, the 
 dull grey paper on the walls, gave it a desolate 
 look; but you forgot that when you saw Dora. 
 No room with a sunbeam, or a Titian, or a Gior- 
 gione in it would seem cold and desolate to you 
 were it a garret ; and no room in which this girl 
 appeared could fail being brightened by her gay 
 young presence. She was not beautiful, she was 
 not handsome, she was not even very pretty — but 
 she was bright, wonderfully bright. If there were 
 such a thing as brown gold, Dora's hair might be 
 said to be of that colour. If roses ever bloomed 
 on a maiden's cheek, they were to be found on 
 hers. If joy ever beamed in mortal eyes, it surely 
 shone in Dora's. When you looked at her you 
 forgot her half-shabby black dress, her mother's 
 cold parlour — you forgot even that Dora was 
 young, and had a charming figure — you forgot all 
 save the shining hair and the happy eyes, and the 
 genial smile and the young warm voice which 
 matched with them so well ; and these you remem- 
 bered for evermore. 
 
 " I can't stand this, you know," suddenly said
 
 DORA. 3 
 
 Dora, flinging down her work ; " I must see if 
 Paul is coming." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay, who was gently falling asleep 
 in her arm-chair, awoke wuth a start ; but before 
 her remonstrative, " Don't get wet," w^as fairly 
 uttered, the bright head and the brighter face of 
 Dora had passed through the parlour door, and 
 the park)ur itself looked very much like a cellar 
 whence a sunbeam has departed. 
 
 " She is so quick," said Mrs. Courtenay, still 
 amazed and a little plaintive. " I always do feel 
 for hens who hatch ducks' eggs." 
 
 This remark was directed to her sister-in-law, 
 Mrs. Luan. Very different of aspect were these 
 two ladies. Mrs. Courtenay was a charming lady 
 of sixty. She had the whitest hair, the mildest 
 blue eyes, the pleasantest smile, and the softest 
 plump hands a lady of sixty ever had. She was 
 French by birth and Irish by marriage ; and she 
 spoke English with a pretty French accent, and 
 French with an equally pretty Enghsh accent ; and 
 was innocent and delightful in either language. 
 
 Mrs. Luan, her late husband's sister, was a 
 square, low-built woman. She had a dull, com- 
 monplace face, dingy in colour, a dull brown eye 
 
 B 2
 
 4 DORA. 
 
 with a heavy lid, a low narrow forehead and a 
 thick indistinct utterance. Nature had been very 
 niggardly to this lady, and Fortune had been very 
 stingy to both sisters-in-law. The little cottage 
 in which they resided was one of the plainest near 
 Dublin ; their cook and maid of all work was a 
 diminutive girl of thirteen called Peggy, their fur- 
 niture would not have fetched twenty pounds at 
 an auction. They dressed very simply, made fires 
 at the latest extremity, and, when they were alone, 
 never burned more than one tallow candle. 
 
 They were widows, and we dare not say how 
 slender was their joint income. Mrs. Luan had 
 a son whom she had penuriously brought up to his 
 present position of medical student, and Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay's stepson Paul was an embryo barrister ; and 
 then there was Dora to dress and educate. How 
 all this was done, nor yet how far it was done, was 
 one of the miracles which mothers daily accomplish, 
 whilst the world looks on, and takes it all as a 
 matter of course. 
 
 Brightness of intellect was not Mrs. Luan's gift. 
 She took time to ponder over Mrs. Courtenay's pro- 
 position concerning hens and ducks' eggs, then she 
 said in her thick, hesitating voice,
 
 DORA. O 
 
 "Do you think SO?" 
 
 After having uttered this profound and original 
 remark, she seemed startled at her o\Yn daring, and 
 relapsed into sudden silence. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay sighed, turned up her eyes, ex- 
 panded her hands, and shook her head hope- 
 lessly. 
 
 " It's no use arguing with her, poor soul," she 
 said, half aloud. "She's so — you know." 
 
 This speech Mrs. Luan so far understood, that 
 she made no comment upon it. She took her intel- 
 lectual inferiority, as she took her poverty and her 
 plainness, for granted. So she remained very quiet 
 in her shady part of the room, thinking of and 
 brooding over her life, after her own fashion. 
 
 "I should like a light, Mrs. Luan," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 ^Irs. Luan replied calmly, 
 
 " Candles are a halfpenny dearer in the pound 
 this week." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay sighed — nature had given her a 
 liberal, prodigal heart — but she did not attempt a re- 
 monstrance ; she remembered, however, her youth 
 in a gay French home, where wax lights were of 
 no account, and where the saloon mirrors flashed
 
 6 DORA. 
 
 like a sheet of light in their brilliant glow, and 
 she sighed again. Mrs. Luan thought, in the 
 meanwhile : 
 
 "We burn a candle a night, eight a week, Sun- 
 days included. Four times eight thirty-two , five 
 pounds of candles, and two over every month ; 
 that's more thaii twopence halfpenny a month 
 dearer than last autumn. We must light the 
 candle later." 
 
 And made happy by this mental calculation, she 
 sat with her hands folded on her lap, content to re- 
 main thus, spite the increasing darkness, for the 
 sake of saving an inch of tallow. 
 
 " That child will be quite wet," said Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay plaintively, after another while; " you should 
 have told her not to go, Mrs. Luan." 
 
 Mrs. Luan did not answer, she was accustomed 
 to that too. She was House of Commons in this 
 little household, perhaps because, thanks to her 
 power of management, she held the strings of the 
 purse. Mrs. Courtenay, her constitutional sovereign, 
 snubbed and coaxed her by turns, and blamed 
 her not ill-naturedly, but as a matter of course, 
 "for everything; Dora, her prime minister, tried 
 every now and then to carry it with a high hand ;
 
 DOR A. 7 
 
 and her son John, and her nephew Paul, twitted and 
 flouted her like saucy young members, and were 
 as helpless as any brilliant minority at the mercy of 
 a stubborn majority ever will be. Mrs. Luan was 
 impenetrable to blame, and coaxing, and ridicule. 
 She was thick-skinned ; made armour-proof against 
 all such shafts by provident nature. With perfect 
 equanimity she now heard herself blamed for 
 Dora's sin, and after awhile she even said very 
 calmly, 
 
 " How hard it is raining !" 
 
 "Just like her!" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, 
 with gentle exasperation. " She lets the child go 
 out, and then she says, ' How hard it is raining !' 
 You would not let John go, Mrs. Luan." 
 
 Now Mrs. Luan, though patient, was, like many 
 a patient animal, endowed with a weapon of de- 
 fence. This was her voice ; a heavy buzzing, in- 
 distinct voice, which paused, and stammered, and 
 hesitated, till the conquered listener would buy 
 silence at any price. So, w^henever she was driven 
 into a corner, she roused herself, and talked her 
 enemy down. 
 
 " I have nothing to do with the rain," she be- 
 gan, in her buzzing fashion.
 
 O DORA. 
 
 " Don't," entreated Mrs. Courtenay, alarmed. 
 
 But when Mrs. Luan had begun buzzing, who 
 could stop her? Mrs. Courtenay, folding her 
 hands in her lap, let Mrs. Luan go on. This lady 
 from the rain diverged into her husband's last ill- 
 ness; then, having buzzed through that, she made 
 a pleasant diversion into the world of fancy by 
 wondering how people felt when they were dead. 
 Tlience she went off to butcher's meat, and having 
 worried her lively little sister-indaw for ten min- 
 utes, she kindly dropped her, much the worse for 
 the infliction, and rolled herself back into her 
 habitual citadel of silence, feeling, with the same 
 instinct which had suggested her system of de- 
 fence, that she was safe there for the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Dora was standing in a di- 
 lapidated summer-house at the end of the garden, 
 watching for her brother's return. The cottage 
 rented by Mrs. Courtenay stood on a narrow pro- 
 montory of heath, with a road on either side. The 
 front door faced the Dublin road, and the apex 
 of the triangular garden gave egress on another 
 road, long and winding, which looked as if it 
 passed for ever through heath nnd mountain, but
 
 DOR A. 9 
 
 which in reality was within five minutes of the 
 railway station. With a shawl around her, and 
 standing within the shelter of the summer-house, 
 Dora, whose look could command the whole 
 sweep of the road through the grated door, watch- 
 ed and waited. But the wind moaned, the rain 
 drifted gustily, the hour at which the train was 
 due went by, and still Paul came not. Night 
 darkened around the mountains, the rain ceased, 
 the wind cleared away a few clouds from the sky 
 and here and there a star glimmered, and still the 
 grey road showed no tall figure approaching, and 
 echoed to no young firm step. Had anything 
 happened to him ? Had there been a railway 
 collision ? Had he been waylaid and murdered ? 
 But not in vain had Dora bright hair, and happy 
 eyes, and a genial smile. These gloomy, morbid 
 fancies only passed athwart her mind like clouds 
 across a clear sky. She shook her head defiantly 
 at them, and bade them begone. 
 
 " I will not believe you," she told them. " Paul 
 has gone, like the knight or the prince in the 
 fairy tale, to the dangerous castle or the perilous 
 wood, and, like him, he will return triumphant. 
 There is no trial Paul cannot overcome ; there is
 
 10 DORA. 
 
 « 
 
 no heart Paul cannot win. He was made to pre- 
 vail and be king. Since he stays so long, 'tis 
 sure proof of victory, and if he comes by the night 
 train, wliy, I shall let him in, and none shall be 
 the wiser." 
 
 The wind might blow, the rain might fall — 
 Dora, whilst she had such thoughts, could not 
 help feeling happy. She was ambitious, not for 
 herself, but for her brother. She could sit and 
 dream about him, with the tender folly of the 
 young, and never feel that it was folly. There 
 was no success Paul was not to achieve, no destiny 
 was too great for Paul, and thus little by little it 
 came to pass that he was the hero of his sister's 
 life. 
 
 That life had been such as most girls lead ; a 
 still, narrow path, with a boundless world around it, 
 dangerously alluring. Such as it was, it contented 
 her. She was satisfied with the seclusion which 
 her poverty commanded, with the society of her 
 friends, with studies wliich to her were no pas- 
 times, but serious pursuits, and with such relaxa- 
 tions as an old cracked spinet and her flowers 
 afforded. All this sufficed her, for she had Paul 
 — Paul who was to be so great a man, the honour
 
 DORA. 11 
 
 and the stay of his family. When a young girl 
 has such a thought as this, it matters little what 
 dresses she wears, or what sort of a house she lives 
 in. She has an enchanted tower, whence she 
 views the nether world with calm indifference. 
 Who dare pity, and who would not envy her, till 
 truth comes and knocks at the door, claiming ad- 
 mittance in a voice that will not be denied ?
 
 12 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "QUT Paul's journey was a secret as yet, so, with 
 -^ another look up the road, Dora went back 
 to the cottage through the wet garden. As she 
 reached the parlour she heard the voice of her 
 cousin, John Luan, talking within. At once she 
 broke in, bright and joyous. 
 
 ^' Oh ! you faithless John, where have you been 
 till this hour f she cried. " Tell me directly." 
 
 A very good-looking young man, with a good- 
 natured face, very like Dora's in all save its 
 brightness, turned round on hearing this imperious 
 mandate, and looked at his cousin with an unmis- 
 takable adorer look. " Slave " was stamped on his 
 aspect, ^nd no less legibly was " queen " written on 
 Dora's. 
 
 " I have been dissecting," he began. 
 
 "Don't, John," interrupted Mrs. Courtenay, 
 shivering.
 
 DORA. 13 
 
 " Bless you, mamma," remarked Dora, coolly, 
 "John would dissect us all if he had us." 
 
 John had never much to say for himself, but 
 when he fell into the hands of this bright-haired 
 tormentor he became helpless. 
 
 " Now, Dora, you know I can't," he said. 
 
 " Can't dissect ?" she suggested. " Then give 
 up your profession, and let there be an end of it," 
 she kindly added. 
 
 A sigh, verging on a groan, expressed John's 
 mental sufferings. 
 
 " Take pattern on Paul," she resumed. " He 
 means to be Grattan, or Chatham, or Demosthenes. 
 Why, don't you mean to be something? Now, 
 mamma, please not to interfere. I want to make 
 something of John, but if I am interfered with 
 how can I ?" 
 
 John groaned again, yet did not seem to be very 
 miserable. 
 
 " Yes, I know you would dissect me," said Dora, 
 shaking her bright head ; " but you shall not have 
 the chance, you little wretch I" 
 
 Dora Courtenay had a graceful young figure, 
 but she was not a fine woman, and John Luan was 
 a remarkably fine young man. Yet little wretch
 
 14 DORA. 
 
 she had called him since they were children, and 
 it was the only part of her teazing which Mrs. 
 Luan never could endure. She now showed such 
 unequivocal symptoms of buzzing, that Dora, much 
 alarmed, rose and said quickly, 
 
 " I meant a big wretch, aunt. And now let us 
 have tea, since Paul is not coming." 
 
 To make tea was Dora's duty. She began the 
 process by peremptorily ordering John Luan to 
 cut some bread and butter, kindly adding an ad- 
 monition concerning the wisdom of pinning a cloth 
 bib-wise before him, and not buttering his coat in- 
 stead of the bread; after which, the diminutive 
 servant having brought up the tray, Dora sat be- 
 hind an old-fashioned tea-urn, and looked through 
 the curling wreaths of steam, like a bright young 
 Hebe, with the ethereal vapours of Olympus 
 around her. It was a very plain meal. The tea 
 was three shillings a pound, the butter was Irish 
 butter, and therefore could not be bad, but had it 
 come from a cheese country, John Luan would 
 have found it delicious, and all China could not 
 have matched the flavour of that mild Congou. 
 
 He sat and ate through a plate full of bread and 
 butter, and drank through* seven cups of tea — 

 
 DORA. 15 
 
 looking all the time at that bright girl before him, 
 and meekly enduring such shafts as it pleased her 
 saucy little tongue to pierce him with. 
 
 Dora could not help being aware of her cousin's 
 intellectual inferiority, and she was not so perfect 
 as not to take advantage of it now and then. To 
 make up for this indeed, she gifted him, like a 
 kind fairy, with some imaginary graces. He was 
 good-natured, she made him high-hearted ; he was 
 careless of danger, she made him brave ; but un- 
 luckily she forgot to feel more than a moderate 
 regard for the owner of these virtues. The crowu- 
 gift of her affection was wanting. 
 
 John needed to use no such magic powers. He 
 had no imagination, and could not conceive another 
 Dora than the one he knew. AYith her he was 
 quite satisfied. He was in that happy stage of 
 love when to see and hear the beloved object is 
 sufficient bliss to the worshipper. He did not 
 think of marriage. They were first cousins, to 
 begin with, and were by right of birth supposed 
 impenetrable to love. Then they were both as 
 poor as Job ; and best reason of all, marriage was 
 not in the least necessary to John's happiness. To 
 see Dora and look at her bright face, to hear
 
 16 L>ORA. 
 
 Dora and be worried by her, to obey Dora and 
 cut bread and butter, or do any humble office for 
 the pleasure of that haughty little sovereign, was 
 all John Luan cared for; and as he had but to 
 come to the cottage to secure these blessings, that 
 crown of all bliss, the wedded, was not in his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Now this disinterested adoration had been going 
 on five years — his mother, his aunt, Paul, Dora 
 herself, looked upon it as a matter of course, and 
 never gave it a second thought. But a drop will 
 overflow the full cup, and a remark which Dora 
 now darted at her cousin across the table made 
 him blush a little, and caused Mrs. Luan to look 
 first bewildered, then to turn as pale as her dingy 
 complexion would let her. With a deeply-trou- 
 bled mien she put down her cup of tea untasted, 
 then looked from her son to Dora, and from Dora 
 to her son again. Yet all Dora had said was : " I 
 wish you would not stare, John." 
 
 She spoke with a pretty little pettish toss of her 
 head, but something in John's thoughts made him 
 colour up to the eyes, and dull though she was, 
 Mrs. Luan was a mother. In a moment she saw 
 that these two were no longer children, and whilst
 
 DORA. 17 
 
 she was measuring the extent of the calamity, Mrs. 
 Courtenay, who had an awkward and innocent 
 habit of thinking aloud, said with her pleasant 
 smile : 
 
 " La ! my dear, John does not stare ; he looks 
 at you, and he looks because he admires you, I 
 suppose." 
 
 Which was the exact truth, and, precisely be- 
 cause it was the truth, made John look foolish, 
 brought a sudden glow to Dora's face, and caused 
 Mrs. Luan to pour the contents of her tea-cup 
 into the sugar-basin. This domestic calamity 
 sobered them all save Mrs. Luan herself. But 
 long after the little excitement she thus caused 
 had subsided, John's mother, though outwardly as 
 dull and as calm as ever, was brooding over her 
 discovery. 
 
 She was habitually taciturn, and no one saw 
 any change in her this evening. She took out her 
 patchwork, and proceeded with it as usual. This 
 patchwork, w^hich was literally hideous, was how- 
 ever the only concession to fancy which Mrs. Luan 
 had ever made. It was to her what music is to 
 some, and poetry to others. These lozenges of 
 faded silks, three of which being put together 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 DORA. 
 
 formed by their different shades a cube with a very 
 light top, and a very dark side to it, were the only 
 relaxation Mrs. Luan's mind knew or took from 
 domestic cares. She loved them, she was proud 
 of them, she admired them, and felt pleased when 
 they were praised by some polite stranger. She 
 never read books or newspapers; she took no 
 pleasure in news, national or local. The ruin of 
 an empire, or the scandalous elopement of a near 
 neighbour, found her equally indifferent. She 
 could not help this to a certain extent, for she was 
 partly born so ; but she had likewise partly made 
 herself so. She had assisted Nature, as we all 
 do, and had not assisted her very wisely — too fre- 
 quent a case. Thus she had grown into a silent, 
 apathetic -looking woman, whose concentrated depth 
 of purpose no one suspected. 
 
 Whilst Dora teased *John Luan this evening, 
 and Mrs. Courtenay made little innocent speeches, 
 Mrs, Luan, whom no one heeded, and who seemed 
 absorbed in her patchwork, felt in a strange 
 tumult. Her thoughts, unaccustomed to wander 
 far, centered around this great fact : " John is in 
 love with her." Gradually her circle widened. 
 She saw the pair standing at a church altar, and
 
 DORA. 19 
 
 John's ring on Dora's finger. Then, by a stretch 
 of her slow mind, she imagined a poor lodging 
 somewhere, and John and Dora were in it, fight- 
 ing the great battle of respectability versus pover- 
 ty, with half-a-dozen children around them. This 
 was the real point at issue, and it was frightful. 
 Mrs. Luan liked Dora very well — as well as she 
 could like a being who was not John. She felt 
 no maternal jealousy of a daughter-in-law. It 
 would not have grieved her to see John worship 
 Dora with the romantic fancy of a lover, or the 
 yearning tenderness of the fondest husband. Her 
 objection to the first cousinship was of the slen- 
 derest sort. She was a woman of few feelings, as 
 well as of few ideas. But the cruel truth was 
 that, if John was poor, Dora was poorer. This 
 was terrible, and nothing could overcome it in 
 Mrs. Luan's mind. The beauty of Helen, the 
 mind of a De Stael, the heart of a Mrs. Fry, the 
 piety of a saint, would have left her alienated, in- 
 different, and cold. Poverty had early taken and 
 stamped her, and the mark w^as indelible. She 
 woke to think of money, as she slept to dream of 
 it, not exactly for her own sake, but for John's. 
 She could not give him wealth, not possessing it 
 
 C2
 
 20 DOR A. 
 
 herself, but slie could try and make him acquire 
 it; above all, she could try and not let him fall 
 into such a snare as that of a poor marriage. 
 That he should love Dora, and think of marrying 
 her, was something awful in her creed. Save him 
 she must, no matter how — no matter at what cost. 
 She had no plans as yet ; her mind was not an 
 inventive one, but she had a hard, stubborn will, 
 and on that she relied, not without cause. That 
 will had borne her up all her life, and it had 
 borne her successfully through many a trouble. 
 She now resolved that her son should never marry 
 Dora Courtenay. She was prepared to use any 
 means that might prevent him from doing so, and 
 being irremediably narrow-minded, it never oc- 
 curred to her that Dora might not be in love 
 with John. This narrowness, this inability to 
 take in more than one idea at a time, was the 
 weak point of a character to which tenacity of 
 purpose, and recklessness of all save its own ends, 
 gave dangerous strength, all the more dangerous 
 that it was unsuspected, and was accompanied with 
 marked intellectual inferiority. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the pleasant little war went 
 on between Dora and John. Dora had a skein
 
 DORA. 21 
 
 of wool to wind, and she made John hold it for 
 her. Very meek and awkward looked this Her- 
 cules, whilst his Omphale stamped her foot, or 
 shook her bright head at him with an encouraging 
 " Don't be stupid," or a flattering " Oh ! dear, if 
 you would but try and be useful, John, and not 
 make me snap my wool so !" 
 
 *' I do my best, Dora," was the good-humoured 
 reply. 
 
 Upon which Dora pensively rejoined — 
 
 "I wonder what your worst would be like, 
 
 John r 
 
 Not a word, not a breath, not a motion, not a 
 turn of these two did Mrs. -Luan lose. She 
 watched them till all her senses were strained with 
 the effort, and her mind felt so bewildered and 
 confused, that she heard without heeding it the 
 pleasant little chat of her sister-in-law. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was doing a patience, and 
 though she knit her brows, and looked pensively 
 at the cards spread on the table, she was able to 
 talk. 
 
 " I wish you had a new dress, Dora," she said ; 
 " you could give this to Peggy." 
 
 " Peggy must wait, mamma. When Paul is
 
 22 DORA. 
 
 Demosthenes, he will give me a velvet robe. 
 John, do mind my wool?" 
 
 John, who was innocently thinking that velvet 
 could scarcely improve Dora, shook his head like 
 a good faithful dog under the reproof, and, dog- 
 Hke, was mute. 
 
 ^' I am to have diamond earrings, too," resumed 
 Dora — "Paul says so— beau-tiful diamond ear- 
 rings, mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay sighed gently. Perhaps she 
 thought the diamond earrings were rather far away. 
 Dora herself thought so too. 
 
 " I shall be old by that time," she resumed — 
 " quite old ; thirty, at the very least. John, you 
 know, or ought to know, anatomy. Do tell me 
 why people look old. Why do faces get so very 
 odd, you know? It is not only the skin that 
 changes. How shall I look when I get old ? — 
 so?" 
 
 She puckered her pleasant genial face into the 
 most extraordinary wrinkles, and made her little 
 mother shiver. 
 
 " My darling, how can you ? Surely you do 
 not mean to say that old people are so horrid ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no," coolly replied Dora, resuming her
 
 DOR A. 23 
 
 natural form and features, '' but I shall be so, 
 mamma. Shall I not, John ?" 
 
 " Don't," he entreated ; " don't." 
 
 " Don't get old ! Do you mean to send me to 
 an early grave, sir ?" 
 
 Dora was rather fond of shaking her head, and 
 shook it now at the delinquent. So vehement 
 was the shake that her hair-pins got loose, and a 
 shower of rich brown gold locks fell down her 
 neck on her shoulders. Dora blushed a little, and 
 John, lost in admiration, ventured to stretch out 
 his hand, and touch with worshipful timidity one 
 of those beautiful tresses. Dora pulled it from 
 him with a pleasant laugh, and Mrs. Courtenay 
 said, 
 
 " Has she not beautiful hair, John ?" 
 
 And Mrs. Luan put down her work, and in her 
 blind mad terror at what she feared, would, if she 
 could, have destroyed Dora that moment. Hatred 
 she felt none ; but it is not hate wliich works the 
 most evil, or inflicts the deepest wrongs. 
 
 Dora soberly put up her hair, and as the even- 
 ing was well-nigh spent, Peggy was told to go to 
 bed ; and ^Irs. Courtenay, Mrs. Luan, and John 
 and Dora parted, to follow her example.
 
 24 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 '^ pAUL will come by the night train," thought 
 -*- Dora ; so, when that train was nearly due, 
 she softly stole down to t\e kitchen to make her 
 brother a hot cup of tea. Dora was a clever girl, 
 and a clever woman is expert in everything. It 
 was no trouble to her to light a fire, and prepare 
 her brother's tea and supper. The event justified 
 her foresight. The water was scarcely boiling 
 when she heard a few light grains of sand thrown 
 against the parlour window. She stole upstairs, 
 noiselessly opened the cottage door, and got a cor- 
 dial kiss in the dark for her pains. 
 
 " They are all asleep," she whispered ; " come 
 down to the kitchen." 
 
 A pleasant sight to a weary traveller was that 
 w^hich greeted Paul Courtenay's eyes as he fol- 
 lowed his sister downstairs. The fire was blazing, 
 the water was simmering on the hob, a frying-pan
 
 DORA. 25 
 
 was hissing on the fire, the cloth was laid ; a cot- 
 tage loaf, butter, and jug of ale were the first in- 
 stalments of a frugal meal, where fried eggs and 
 bacon were to plaj the most conspicuous part, and 
 which a warm cup of tea, and that domestic ini- 
 quity, hot buttered toast, were to crown. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Luan tossing restlessly on your 
 couch, and planning economy in your dreams, 
 where were you then ? 
 
 Paul Courtenay, a dark, good-looking young 
 man, with a broad beetling forehead, bestowed a 
 gratified look on these preparations, sat down, 
 drew his chair to the fire, rested his feet on the 
 fender, and said emphatically, 
 
 '^ You bright little fairy ! What lucky fellow 
 will have you, I w^onder !" 
 
 " Well, I do think he will be lucky," candidly 
 replied Dora, minding her frying-pan all the time; 
 " only I wonder, Paul, if he will appreciate his 
 happiness." 
 
 " He had better do so," replied Paul with some- 
 thing like sternness. 
 
 " Dear Paul !" thought Dora, " I do believe he 
 would defend me to the last drop of his blood." 
 
 " Why don't you ask for news?" said Paul.
 
 26 DORA. 
 
 " No, you must eat first. There, hold your 
 plate, and do not leave a morsel." 
 
 Paul obeyed literally. He ate and drank heart- 
 ily, and soon looked much the better for the meal 
 his thoughtful little sister had provided. 
 
 "And now," said Dora, sitting down at his 
 knee on a hassock which she had brought down 
 for that purpose—" now you may tell me all." 
 
 Her bright eyes were fastened on his in eager 
 expectation; her parted lips expressed the very 
 keenness of desire. 
 
 " Well, imagine a wild landscape with moun- 
 tains around it, a grassy park with noble trees, the 
 smoke of a waterfall on your right hand, and on 
 your left a little grey lake with a patch of blue 
 sky; in the distance a plain white house — that is 
 Deenah. When I reached the house an old ser- 
 vant in sober livery showed me into the room 
 where Mr. Courtenay was sitting. I saw a little 
 pale old man blind of one eye, on whom I should 
 have been afraid to blow, so weak did he seem. 
 He held out his hand, a cold, weak hand, and told 
 me in a whisper — * I am glad to see you ; but I had 
 a wretched night — I woke at two — sleeplessness 
 is constitutional with me. I had a fall three
 
 DORA. 27 
 
 months back, and some nerve got Injured, for when 
 the weather changes I feel a great throbbing and 
 cannot sleep.' " 
 
 " Did he ask after mamma or Aunt Luan ?" 
 
 " He did not. He could not weary of his sleep- 
 less night ! Yet he also spoke on business. *You 
 are my heir-at-law,' he said ; " but I did not get 
 my property from my ancestors, and what did not 
 come by inheritance need not go by inheritance. 
 I shall leave you and your sister, and John Luan 
 even, five hundred pounds each, which, as I w^as 
 not on friendly terms with your late father, and 
 will never see my sister again, is handsome. But 
 then to whom shall I leave Deenah and the rest 
 of the property, which is large — to you or to young 
 Templemore ? He was my late wife's nephew, and 
 Mrs. Courtenay brought me a good deal of money; 
 so he, too, has claims, you see." 
 
 " Let him share his money between you," 
 promptly said Dora. 
 
 " Tell him to make two halves of his body," re- 
 plied her brother, smiling. 
 
 " ^ Well, you shall have the first chance,' said 
 Mr. Courtenay. What that chancfe was I learned 
 after luncheon. It was too damp for us to visit
 
 28 DORAv 
 
 the grounds, but Mr. Courtenay — my uncle, I 
 should say — showed me over the house. He went 
 gliding about that great lonely place in felt slippers, 
 like the Italian poet's Sleep, and looking more like 
 his own ghost than like a living man. But a very 
 nice ghost Mr. Courtenay made, I must say. He 
 is small and slender, and neat beyond anyone I 
 ever knew. His motions are noiseless, quiet, and 
 graceful, like your cat's, Dora. I could not help 
 admiring the perfjction of nicety there is about 
 that insignificant old man. He has made his 
 house like himself, a complete thing ; but money 
 has given him the power of acquiring what nature 
 bestows, but never sells, and thence Mr. Courte- 
 nay's house is something exquisite. ' You have not 
 seen my curiosities,* he said, *you must see my 
 curiosities.' He took me to a sort of gallery, with 
 windows on one side, and glass cases on the other. 
 Between the cases were statues, beautiful pieces 
 of furniture, large porcelain or marble vases, and 
 more things than I can tell you of. The evening 
 was coming on, and the room was rather dark. 
 Well, Dora, on that room hangs my fate ; through 
 that room I am 'to grow rich, or to remain poor. 
 That room and its contents will probably decide
 
 DORA. 29 
 
 whether or not your brother shall ever marry 
 Florence Gale !" 
 
 Paul looked grave, almost sad. It was plain 
 that he felt by no means sanguine. 
 
 " But how — how so f asked Dora, shaking her 
 bright head a little defiantly. 
 
 " Wait and you shall learn. ^ This,' said !Mr. 
 Courtenay, ^ is my hobby, you know. This col- 
 lection, such as it is, has been valued at twenty 
 thousand pounds. It did not cost me twenty hun- 
 dred. You see taste did not run much this way 
 when I travelled on the Continent forty-five years 
 ago. Look at this saucer — ' he opened one of the 
 glass cases, and took out one of the most hideous 
 objects you ever saw, Dora — a large round dish, 
 with a green speckled serpent, and horrible little 
 lizards filling the centre. ' Do you know, sir,' he 
 continued, *how much I paid for this treasure, 
 genuine Palissy, at a bi^ic a brae shop in Paris, 
 forty-five years ago ? Fifty sous, sir. It w^ould 
 be cheap at fifty pounds now. And it is unique — 
 unique ! No other Palissy that I know of has that 
 kind of serpent.' I cannot tell you, Dora, how he 
 looked as he spoke. The man was transfigured. 
 His one eye shone, his pale cheek was flushed, his
 
 30 DORA. 
 
 very voice quivered. He took me over all his 
 treasures, and explained them to me one by one in 
 the same mood* And when we came to a low 
 glass shade, he stopped with a sort of awe. ' That,' 
 he whispered, ^is my Henri-deux ware — look I' 
 I saw a little pale saltcellar, with a very fine pat- 
 tern upon it, a thing for which I would scarcely 
 have ^^iven threepence, Dora ; well, it seems it is 
 worth hundreds. And there is a mystery about 
 its manufacture, and I am to find out the mys- 
 tery, though it has puzzled and still puzzles the 
 learned." 
 
 "Well, but what about the fortune?" asked 
 Dora. 
 
 " Why, this — that if I can write a good descrip- 
 tive account, a first-rate catalogue of Mr. Courte- 
 nay's collection, both collection and fortune are 
 mine." 
 
 " Why, then, you are sure of it," cried Dora, 
 with sparkling eyes. 
 
 " And pray how am I to write such a catalogue ? 
 It would take half a lifetime to acquire the know- 
 ledge needed for the task, and Mr. Courtenay 
 would detect the least flaw in my erudition. I 
 shall make the attempt, and respond to his kind-
 
 DORA. 31 
 
 ness in giving me what he calls the first chance, 
 but I do not reckon on success." 
 
 " But you must succeed, Paul. Mr. Courtenay 
 means you to succeed." 
 
 *' ^Ir. Courtenay is a true Courtenay, Dora, 
 honourable and conscientious, and not knowing 
 how to decide between this young Templemore's 
 claims and mine, he has hit on this scheme ; but 
 being a true Courtenay, he will abide by the law 
 of his own laying down." 
 
 Dora looked thoughtfully at the decaying fire. 
 
 " Has John any chance f she asked. 
 
 "None." 
 
 " Can I help you with the catalogue f 
 
 " Very little, unless in the way of takimg ex- 
 tracts in !Mi\ Ryan's library ; but I am not 
 sanguine, Dora. I feel I shall not succeed, and 
 I feel, too, I shall not marry Florence Gale." 
 
 Paul spoke despondently ; he was liable to such 
 fits of depression, and they saved him, perhaps, 
 from the ridicule which might have attached to the 
 quiet but obstinate good opinion of himself, and 
 all pertaining to himself, which was his only foible. 
 But the liumility of his tone, as he thus gave up 
 all hopes of fortune and Florence, vexed his am-
 
 32 D O K A. 
 
 bitious little sister. Moreover, by thus placing 
 Florence as a prize beyond his reach, Paul de- 
 cidedly proved himself mortal. 
 
 "You must , succeed, and you shall marry her," 
 she cried, almost impatiently ; " she must wait for 
 you, Paul." 
 
 "How many years, Dora? We are not en- 
 gaged, you know. I could not help letting her 
 see that I loved her, dear girl ; but she is not 
 pledged to me. I know she could never marry me 
 unless I got rich, and you know," he added, with 
 his grave smile, " I am not the man to elope with 
 a rich man's daughter ; besides, I never could 
 tempt a girl to such a step. It is not in the Cour- 
 tenay blood." 
 
 " Suppose I run away," demurely suggested 
 Dora. 
 
 " Dora," he said, a little austerely, " never jest 
 so. No sister of mine could do such a thing." 
 
 " Florence Gale would run away with a lord," 
 thought Dora ; " poor Paul, not to know it !" 
 
 Again the sense of her brother's blindness came 
 to Dora unpleasantly, and almost remorsefully; 
 for was it not a sort of sin to see it ? But then she 
 remembered the heel of Achilles, that type of all
 
 DORA. 33 
 
 heroic weakness, and she was partly comforted. 
 After all, Paul was not bound to be beyond hu- 
 manity. 
 
 " I say you shall marry her," she said again. " It 
 is your right, and you shall have your right, 
 Paul." 
 
 "To be sure," he good-humouredly replied; " but 
 it is late, suppose you go to bed. I shall stay here 
 and smoke awhile." 
 
 Dora saw he wished to be alone, and she let 
 him have his way. She got up, filled his pipe, 
 and brought it to him ; then giving him a parting 
 look on the threshold of the kitchen door, she stole 
 upstairs with a little sigh. Paul looked very grave, 
 not in the least like a man who has had the chance 
 of a handsome fortune just offered to him. 
 
 " He does not expect to get it," thought Dora, 
 as she softly went back to her bed unheard. '" Oh ! 
 if I could but write that catologue for him. It is 
 not in his way, and it would be in mine." 
 
 Lest this confidence should seem presumptuous 
 in Miss Courtenay, we may as well mention that 
 she had received a solid education, was well read 
 in several languages, and could write very well. 
 From her earliest years she had shared that portion 
 
 VOL. L D
 
 34 DORA. ' 
 
 of her brother's studies and pursuits which could 
 interest her. Latin and the law • excepted, she 
 knew as much as he did, and some things she knew 
 better than Paul. Their father, a man of rare ac- 
 quirements, had spared nothing to teach them both, 
 and Dora, he would say sometimes, was the more 
 brilliant scholar of the two. Dora knew it, in a 
 careless sort of way. As a rule she forgot the 
 depth and extent of her information ; but some- 
 times, too, she remembered it, and she now won- 
 dered if she could not render her little learning use- 
 ful to her brother. She sat up in her bed, thinking 
 of the visit she was going to pay to Mr. B-yan, of 
 the works she must read, of the manner in which 
 she could turn her researches to Paul's advantage. 
 
 " He must write that catalogue, and write it 
 w^ell," she thought. " I wish I could see Deenah 
 and the lake, and the gallery, and that wonderful 
 salt-cellar." 
 
 These thoughts followed her in her dreams. She 
 saw a green solitude, and a shining lake, and a 
 white house. She wandered in its rooms, preceded 
 by Mr. Courtenay, who, looking on her with his 
 one eye, said in a whisper —
 
 DOHA. 35 
 
 "Don't be afraid, my dear; I am dead, and can- 
 not hurt you." 
 
 She followed the noiseless little old man till she 
 came to the gallery, and there she wandered alone, 
 for, ghost-like, he had suddenly vanished. She saw 
 every object her brother had described, and especially 
 did she see Mr. Courtenay's specimen of Henri- 
 deux ware. The mystery concerning this rare bit 
 of pottery, dreamed Dora, was to be found within 
 one of its recesses ; but unluckily she scarcely had 
 lifted up the glass shade to peep in, when she 
 woke and saw the sun shining in at her window. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 
 
 P 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AUL's godfather, Mr. Ryan, had one of the 
 -*- largest private libraries in Dublin, and to 
 him Dora at once applied for books. She was an 
 especial favourite, and was graciously received, so 
 far as books went, but on hearing of the catalogue 
 Mr. Ryan laughed derisively. 
 
 " Paul does not know human nature," he said, 
 " or he would never believe such a wild story as 
 this. Let him get the five hundred pounds — if 
 he can — and I shall turn them into thousands; tell 
 Paul so." 
 
 Mr. Ryan had made a handsome fortune in the 
 Funds, and thought himself an authority in all fin- 
 ancial matters. Dora believed in him implicitly, 
 save when he ventured to censure Paul. She did 
 not deny his power of turning five hundred pounds 
 into so many thousands, but she indignantly vindi- 
 cated her brother's knowledge of human nature, and 
 asserted his prospects of success.
 
 DORA. 37 
 
 "I am sure Paul will have Deenah I" she said 
 warmly, "and his catalogue will be a beautiful 
 catalogue; and I hope, Mr. Ryan, that you will let 
 me read in your library, for I want books, quartos 
 perhaps, or in-folios, which I cannot take home. I 
 am to write out all the extracts, you know." 
 
 " Yes, yes ! you poor little innocent," kindly said 
 Mr. Ryan, patting her on the head, " have your 
 way." 
 
 Thus it came to pass that Dora was very busy 
 in Mr. Ryan's library one bright morning, a week 
 after Paul's visit to Deenah, and that Mr. Ryan 
 was reading with her and gently nodding over his 
 book. Mr. Ryan was a happy man, and sleep 
 came easily to him, as most things did, and rather 
 oftener than was needed. It came now insidious 
 and stealthy. The book was dull, the room rather 
 close, and Mr. Ryan's luncheon had been comfort- 
 able. Sleep was having it all his own way, and 
 would have prevailed entirely, if the library door 
 had not opened gently, and a very pretty girlish 
 face peeped in with a merry laugh. Dora looked 
 up, and ^Ir. Ryan awoke with a start. 
 
 " Napping — napping both of you I" said the in- 
 truder ; " and how is that catalogue to be done, eh?"
 
 38 DORA. 
 
 "I was not napping, Florence," gravely replied 
 Dora ; " I was reading." 
 
 " Was Mr. Ryan reading too f shrewdly asked 
 Miss Gale. 
 
 Mr. Ryan laughed, and looked admiringly at the 
 pretty creature before him. Paul's mistress was 
 neither short nor tall, neither plump nor thin. Her 
 figure had every charm which nature can give to 
 youth, nothing too much and nothing too little. 
 She stood before Mr. Ryan, dangling her little hat 
 in her hand, and smiling down at him in conscious 
 beauty. She was alwaj^s pretty, but these smiles 
 of hers, which were neither few nor far between, 
 made her enchanting, and she knew it. Seducing 
 is the word that describes her best. Never did 
 softer black eyes beam from beneath more finely- 
 pencilled eyebrows than those of Florence. Her 
 dark hair was glossy and abundant ; her teeth 
 were two rows of pearls ; her .rosy cheeks w^ere 
 full of the most fascinating dimples, and though 
 she was by several years Dora's elder, she looked 
 the younger and the more childish of the tvvo. 
 
 "Why w^ere you not reading and helping poor 
 Paul ? " she asked, coaxingly, of Paul's god- 
 father ; " and why is not Paul here ?" she added,
 
 DORA. 39 
 
 turning on Dora, and speaking rather pettishly. 
 
 " Paul is not well, Florence." 
 
 Miss Gale threw herself into the nearest arm- 
 chair, and exclaimed petulantly, 
 
 " I do think Paul does it on purpose, not to be 
 well just because he has that catalogue to do, and 
 the chance of a fortune to get. I suppose young 
 Templemore will have it ; and I wish he may," she 
 added, waxing wroth ; " he is my cousin, third or 
 fourth, and I wish he may get Deenah ! I do, 
 since Paul does not care for it, and only coddles 
 himself up." 
 
 Dora looked at her in a silent indignation, 
 which was wholly thrown away on ^liss Gale ; 
 while Mr. Kyan remarked gravely, 
 
 "Then I suppose you will marry Mr. Temple- 
 more if he gets Deenah ? " 
 
 " Marry him !" exclaimed Florence, raising her 
 arched eyebrows ; " marry him, Mr. Eyan I" 
 
 "What! is he so objectionable? Never mind, 
 Deenah will make him fascinating enough." 
 
 " But he has got a wife and little girls !" ejacu- 
 lated Florence. " I told you so the other day — 
 I wish you would not worry, Mr. Ryan." 
 
 " Why, yes, it is tantalizing. The little girls
 
 40 DORA. 
 
 would make no difference ; but the wife is an ob- 
 jection." 
 
 Florence laughed, and Dora, bending over her 
 book, thought with a swelling heart, " It is Deenah 
 she wants. Paul she does not care for. She does 
 not even ask what ails him." But this omission 
 Miss Gale repaired before her departure. After 
 spending half an hour in listening to Mr. 
 Ryan's mingled praise and quizzing — provided she 
 got the one, she had not the least objection to the 
 other — she suddenly discovered that she was wanted 
 home. 
 
 " I told papa I was going to see aunt," she said, 
 confidentially, to Dora ; ^' and now I shall have to 
 say that aunt was out. I thought to find Paul 
 here — what ails him ?" 
 
 " He knocked himself up with working too hard." 
 
 " Now, Dora, if you put that into his head, that 
 wretched catalogue will never^ be done ; so pray 
 don't. Good morning, Mr. Ryan — a pleasant nap 
 to you." 
 
 And putting on her little hat, after waving it in 
 mock courtesy to Mr. Ryan^ Miss Gale danced out 
 of the room without giving him time to follow her, 
 or even ring the bell.
 
 DOKA. . 41 
 
 The prettiest, emptiest little thing that ever was, 
 eh, Dora?" 
 
 But whatever Dora's thoughts might be, she 
 would not grant Paul's mistress to be less than 
 perfect. 
 
 " Florence is too good-natured, Mr. Ryan," she 
 said indignantly ; " she allows you to quiz her ! — I 
 would not tolerate it !" 
 
 " Nor deserve it," politely said Mr. Ryan ; '* no, 
 no, Dora — I know where the shoe pinches. You 
 cannot understand that Paul should be so smitten 
 with that silly little bird, but you will not confess 
 it. Never mind, my dear. ^lost young men 
 would be no wiser than Paul is. So we will help 
 him all the same with his catalogue, in order that 
 he may get his pretty Florence. For unless Paul 
 has Deenah, or something very like it, Mr. Gale 
 will never give him his daughter, as we all know." 
 
 Dora sighed. Yes, Paul's happiness hung on 
 that catalogue. 
 
 Mr. Courtenay was a pitiless collector. He 
 had specimens of everything, or, to speak more 
 correctly, he had collected in every possible direc- 
 tion. Paul had paid a second visit to Deenah, 
 and come back with a list of objects to be de-
 
 42 DOR A. 
 
 scribed that would have puzzled a Benedictine 
 monk's learning. Etruscan vases and Dutch 
 hardware, Majolica, Indian carving, mediaeval 
 armour, old laces, illuminated manuscripts, bewil- 
 dered Dora, and tried Mr. Eyan's library to the 
 utmost. So she worked hard, and without relaxa- 
 tion, till it was time to go and bid Mr. Ryan 
 adieu. 
 
 "I shall go on with that Hydria," he said, 
 " and that antique mask as well. I shall do all 
 the hard work for you, Dora. The rest will be 
 child's play to Paul and you — tell him so." 
 
 Mr. Ryan had been " going on " with the 
 Hydria and the antique mask for a week. He 
 was one of the many who mistake a kind intention 
 for its fulfilment. A promise was so delightfully 
 easy. It gratified both his amiability by the 
 prospect of good to be done, and his indolence by 
 its postponement. Dora smiled at his calmly- 
 benevolent tone, then went her way. 
 
 Mr. Ryan's house — and a handsome, pleasant 
 house it was — stood near Phoenix Park. There 
 Dora was to find her brother, who wished to es- 
 cort her home. He was true to his appointment, 
 but as he walked towards her Dora was struck 
 
 I
 
 DORA. 43 
 
 with his pale face, and exclaimed, anxiously, 
 
 " Paul, you have been working ?" 
 
 " I could not help it. Do you know, I think 
 that if it was Mr. Courtenay's object to give me a 
 taste for his curiosities by making me write that 
 catalogue, he has been successful. I could not 
 help looking over my notes, and once I had looked 
 I should write." 
 
 Dora looked at him with growing uneasiness. 
 Paul was very pale, but his dark eyes burned 
 with a feverish light. Surely he was not ill ? — 
 surely it was only fatigue that ailed him ? 
 
 " You know I told you that Mr. Courtenay has 
 a salt-cellar of Henri-deux ware ?" resumed Paul, 
 " and that, though he does not expect me to solve 
 the great mystery, he nevertheless wishes me to 
 have a theory on the subject. Well, Dora, I do 
 believe I am on the track — yes, and I think, too, 
 my theory is the right one." 
 
 Dora looked at him in gi'eat admiration. Of 
 course, if Paul had a theory, it must be the right 
 one, and of course a right theory on Mr. Cour- 
 tenay's salt-cellar of Henri-deux ware meant tri- 
 umph. She said so with sparkling eyes. Paul 
 laughed, and shook his head.
 
 44 D O E A. 
 
 " I don't know," he said. " I promised Flor- 
 ence to work hard, and I will." 
 
 " When did you see her ?" 
 
 " This afternoon. Dear girl I she came to tell 
 me her father wants her to marry a Mr. Logan, 
 whom she hates. She was all in tears, but I so 
 promised to work, and be successful, that she was 
 bright again wdien she left us." 
 
 Dora sighed. What availed it that she did all 
 she could to spare Paul, if Florence came and 
 urged him on ? But with that menace of a rival 
 it was useless to try and check him. Silly though 
 she was, Florence had an art in w^hich even silly 
 women are expert. She knew how to rule the 
 man who loved her, and Dora was too wise to 
 contend against her influence. 
 
 " And so," continued Paul, " I worked hard. I 
 did more. 1 called on Mr. Gale on my way here." 
 
 Dora stood still, and uttered a breathless 
 
 " Well r 
 
 " Well, I got a diplomatic reply. Mr. Gale 
 praised my candour, but, of course, pledged him- 
 self to nothing. Only I know and feel this : if I 
 succeed, I am sure of Florence, spite all the Lo- 
 gans there may be."
 
 DORA. 45 
 
 He seemed so hopeful, that it made Dora happy 
 to look at him. They spent the evening in work- 
 ing together, and making use of her notes. They 
 sat in the cottage parlour, with the rest of the 
 family around them. Paul's mind required 
 neither silence nor solitude for its exertions. He 
 read and wrote, and Dora either helped her bro- 
 ther, or was wrapped up in him. Though she 
 had no spare time or speech to bestow on John, 
 Mrs. Luan's son did not miss his cousin's teazing. 
 He thought it hard to be excluded from his 
 chance, as he called it, of Mr. Courtenay's for- 
 tune, and he had said so bluntly on learning the 
 terms on which Paul was to compete for it. Mrs. 
 Courtenay, good soul, had wondered her brother- 
 in-law did not at once leave the money to Paul, 
 just gi^^ing him a few thousands to begin life 
 with ; but of herself, or even of her daughter 
 Dora's claims, she said nothing. Paul was dear 
 to her, as if he had been her own son, and on this 
 evening she was engaged in doing a patience for 
 a wish, which wish was her step-son's success in 
 his undertaking. 
 
 "And it is going on beautifully, Paul," she 
 said, with a beaming face. " This is my great
 
 46 DORA. 
 
 patience, that which Louis the Eighteenth did 
 every evening after his dinner. I really think it 
 will succeed." 
 
 Paul smiled kindly, and Mrs. Luan went on 
 silently with her patchwork. She had made no 
 comment on her brother's decision, and her silence 
 was laid to the fact that they had quarrelled at the 
 time of her marriage, and never .been reconciled. 
 It was hard to say what passed in her mind. She 
 seemed as dull and as apathetic as ever. On one 
 point she remained firm. Neither Dora's pro- 
 mised five hundred pounds, nor the chance which 
 her brother's affection would certainly give her, of a 
 handsome portion, if he inherited Mr. Courtenay's 
 fortune, could make her see John's love for his 
 cousin Dora with anything save detestation. She 
 had no imagination to mislead her. Mr. Gourtenay 
 was not dead, but living. His promise could be 
 revokjed, and the fact that Dora was poor remain- 
 ed in all its ugly truth. It may be that this fear 
 was enough for her, her mind not being one which 
 could hold many ideas, or grasp many projects at 
 the same time. At all events, it was the only 
 thought she dwelt upon as she sat and stitched at 
 her patchwork during the long autumn evening,
 
 DORA. 47 
 
 whilst brother and sister toiled, and John looked 
 on with sullen discontent. He thought it hard, 
 and he said so, to be excluded from the competi- 
 tion, since there was one. Who was that Tem- 
 plemore, that he should step in and have a chance 
 when he, John, had none ? "Why should not John 
 have attempted a catalogue, and had his theory on 
 the Henri-deux salt-cellar ! So he grumbled, then 
 went to bed, whilst Dora sat up with her brother, 
 caring nothing for either labour or vigil, if they 
 but helped him to a fortune and Florence Gale. 
 
 " Dear girl I" he said fondly. " She is so art- 
 less, she has alread}^ appropriated half the collec- 
 tion. She seems to take it for granted that the 
 poor old gentleman must die off in order to make 
 room for us." 
 
 Dora looked pensive, but did not wonder much ; 
 there was a charm in everything Florence said.
 
 48 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 rpHE catalogue proved a tedious task, and soon 
 -^ absorbed Paul Courtenay completely. He 
 grew to be like a gambler watching the fate of his 
 last stake. The law was neglected now, and he 
 remained at home day after day " to work at the 
 catalogue." He had acquired a genuine passion 
 for the curiosities on which his fate hung, and 
 that passion held him fast. 
 
 "There is no such collection as Mr. Courte- 
 nay' s," he often said to Dora ; '^ besides, we alone 
 have got a Henri-deux salt-cellar, you know." 
 
 The whole family, indeed, got excited when the 
 catalogue was mentioned. Mrs. Luan said no- 
 thing, but looked almost bright. John forgot his 
 annoyance to wish Paul success ; and Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, with a little shrill raising of the voice, 
 was sure she was that dear Paul must win." 
 
 Dora alone was rather grave. She too felt cer-
 
 DORA. 49 
 
 tain of her brother's success, but then how pale, 
 how worn he looked. Paul's mother had died 
 youn^, and Paul was very like the miniature of her 
 in his room. Oh! what if the cost of success should 
 prove too dear ! This terrible thought came but 
 once, and was banished so angrily that it came no 
 more ; but though the doors were closed upon it, 
 the baleful presence had been there, and the un- 
 easiness it had generated remained behind. 
 
 At length the catalogue was finished, and Paul, 
 who would not trust the post with it, took it down 
 himself to Deenah. He was full of hope, especi- 
 ally concerning his theory on the Henri-deux ware. 
 
 "There is a G on our salt-cellar," he said to 
 Dora ; " who can doubt that it was put there for 
 Girolamo della Robbia, the great Italian ?" 
 
 How happy and confident he looked, but how 
 sunken his eyes were, how hollow his cheeks had 
 grown ! The thought haunted her, as, after seeing 
 him off, she came home from the station and 
 passed through the garden to the house, looking 
 at its last autumn flowers. A few pale and droop- 
 ing chrysanthemums still braved the night and 
 morning chill, and held on their languid life, ready 
 to perish with the first sharp breath of coming 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 D O K A. 
 
 winter. To Dora, in the fulness of her strength 
 and youth, these flowers were ungenial. She 
 looked at them with a sort of pity, but without 
 love. 
 
 "Poor things !" she thought, as she passed on — 
 " poor things ! I wish for their sakes there were 
 a perpetual spring. But would they really like 
 it f They were born to bloom in autumn and to 
 suffer." 
 
 With this thought came another that passed 
 through her like a quick sharp pang. Why was 
 Paul so sad-looking ? Was he, too, meant to live 
 in sorrow, and die early? She rebelled at the 
 thought. She would not submit to it. Paul was 
 her hero and her king, endowed with the heroic 
 gift of perpetual youth and every kingly attribute. 
 He should live, he should be strong and happy. 
 He should prevail and be rich, ay, and have Flor- 
 ence Gale too, since he wished for her. 
 
 " It is a folly," thought Dora, looking down at 
 it from the height of her superior wisdom. " I 
 daresay he thinks he cannot help it, as if one 
 could not always help these things ! Poor Flor- 
 ence, it is no fault of hers if she is so much be- 
 neath dear Paul !"
 
 DORA. 51 
 
 As she came to this charitable conclusion, Dora 
 
 entered the cottage and found Florence there. 
 
 The young lady flew at her and gave her a warm 
 
 hug. 
 
 " Now, darling !" she cried, " do tell me. Is it 
 
 a good catalogue ?" 
 
 " Yes, a very good one, Florence." 
 
 " And do you think Paul will get Deenah V 
 
 "Mr. Courtenay is still living, Florence." 
 
 " Oh ! but he is sure to die. He looks so ill !" 
 
 "So does Paul." 
 
 Florence pouted, and said a little sulkily, 
 
 "That is for me, Dora." 
 
 Dora sighed, and said more gently — 
 
 " I do wish you had spared him a little more ; 
 
 but what is done is done. Let us only hope he 
 
 will be successful." 
 Florence laughed. 
 " He must be successful if he means to have 
 
 me," she said saucily. " But why did he go off 
 
 to Deenah ? I came to see him, and he is gone ! 
 
 Why did he not manage to see me ?" 
 " He is under a pledge to your father." 
 " Pledge fiddlesticks !" interrupted Florence. 
 
 " Why does he keep it ?" 
 
 E 2 
 
 UBPvARX 
 
 UKIV£RSiTY OF IUJN0»S
 
 52 DORA. 
 
 "Because Paul cannot break a promise/' was 
 the grave reply. 
 
 " Oh ! dear," ruefully said Miss Gale ; " why, I 
 had to tell such a set of fibs to get here. Firstly, 
 that Mrs. Smith wanted me to take a drive with 
 her — that was to papa ; secondly, to Mrs. Smith, 
 that I wanted to see Mrs. Courtenay about a cha- 
 ritable concern; and thirdly — " here Miss Gale 
 looked bewildered — " I have forgotten the third," 
 she said, " but I know there was one." 
 
 Dora heard her gravely. Paul adored Flor- 
 ence, but she wondered how long such adoration 
 would last. 
 
 " We shall soon be going down to Deenah," re- 
 sumed Florence, who would talk, no matter about 
 what. " I suppose papa wants some shooting, but I 
 think it would be much cheaper to buy game, 
 don't you f ' 
 
 " I suppose so," replied Dora passively. 
 
 " Such a beautiful place as old Courtenay's is," 
 continued Florence enthusiastically ; " I shall like 
 it much, Dora. I have planned all sorts of 
 changes, you know. These mousey old things 
 shall not have the best room. We dined with old 
 Courtenay last year, and oh ! how he did prose !
 
 DORA. 53 
 
 He had not slept all night, and he said so, also 
 that his nails grew fast, and did I not think it a 
 sign of ill-health ? And I was thinking all the 
 time of his Paschal candelabrum, as he calls it." 
 
 **The finest of its kind, excepting one at Milan," 
 interrupted Dora with sparkling eyes. 
 
 "Is there really an ugHer one V asked Florence, 
 " Well, I was thinking of it, and that if I had 
 Deenah I should put it in the hall, and now of 
 course I will." 
 
 Dora did not answer. She longed for silence 
 and peace. Kelief came ; the door opened, and 
 John Luan entered the room. It so happened 
 that this was the first time Florence saw him, for 
 she was a rare visitor at the cottage. She gave 
 him a half shy, half doubtful look. He looked at 
 her, too, and rather scornfully Dora watched what 
 followed. Miss Gale could not do without admira- 
 tion. Paul was not present. She at once took up 
 with John. Mrs. Luan's son, so bashful with 
 Dora, showed sudden brightness. This pretty 
 dark-haired gii'l, whose face expressed vivacity 
 and languor in a most bewitching degree, rather 
 threw Dora into the shade. Indeed, so far as 
 beauty went, there could be no comparison be-
 
 54 D O K A. 
 
 tween these two. Takeaway her brightness, and a 
 pair of dark grej' eyes from Dora, and there re- 
 mained little to her save youth and its bloom. 
 Dora was not jealous of John, but what girl likes 
 to be eclipsed ? She resented his faithlessness and 
 Miss Gale's coquetry in equal degree. Besides, 
 how dare she trifle thus with another whilst Paul 
 was away! So she looked at the pair with an 
 austerity of which John was unconscious, and 
 which filled Miss Gale with mischievous glee. 
 But this pretty pastime did not last. Florence 
 started up with an artless exclamation of — 
 
 " Oh ! dear, poor Mrs. Smith will be mad with 
 me, she will. Good-bye, darling !" 
 
 And giving Dora a warm hug, and a fond kiss, 
 and dropping John Luan a curtsy, she ran away, 
 thinking, 
 
 " How savage Dora looks, and how sly she is ! 
 but have I not paid her out for it, though." 
 
 From which it need not be concluded that Miss 
 Gale meant any particular harm, or that she had 
 designs on penniless John Luan. Only pleasure 
 was her law, and it was very pleasant to be looked 
 at with such sincere admiration as that to be read 
 in Mr. Luan's blue eyes.
 
 DORA. 55 
 
 " What a sweet girl !" he could not help saying, 
 and he went to the window to look after the grace- 
 ful figure lightly running down the road towards 
 the carriage of Mrs. Smith. " Such soft dark 
 eyes, and nice eyebrows !" 
 
 " Yes," apathetically said Dora, " very ! " 
 
 She, too, looked after Florence, and as she 
 looked she tried to solve a problem which puzzles 
 many women, and the opposite of which no doubt 
 perplexes many men. How is it, for instance, 
 that girls like Florence, who have not the better 
 and nobler part of beauty, its grand or its lovely 
 meaning, only the white and red, or the well- 
 shaped eye and arched brow, who have little 
 mind, not much heart, and no more sense than 
 wit, how is it they win, ay, and keep men's hearts ? 
 
 " Paul has never been the same to me since he 
 saw her face," thought Dora, with a swelling 
 heart ; " and it is well for me I do not care for 
 John, for he swears by her already. How does 
 she do it f 
 
 Vexed question. How often the man of sense 
 and sterling merit has tried to solve it, when he 
 has seen himself put by for a coarse or a shallow 
 fool. But Dora only thought of her own case,
 
 56 DOKA. 
 
 and she thought of it as if with a foreshadowing of 
 what the future was to bring forth. She was not 
 surprised, when John left the window, to find 
 that it was to talk of Florence Gale ; but the sub- 
 ject rather wearied her She was glad when her 
 aunt entered the room, and still better pleased 
 when the evening was over, and she sat up alone 
 waiting for Paul. 
 
 She looked at the fire, and tried to see Deenah 
 in it. Then she checked herself. What was 
 Deenah to her, or any place where Florence must 
 reign ! 
 
 " You are beautiful, Deenah," she said to her- 
 self ; " but I must not think of you. Well, no 
 matter, so dear Paul has you and is happy." 
 
 And as dear Paul himself was even then knock- 
 ing at the door, she rose with joyous eagerness to 
 let him in. 
 
 *' Well f ' she said, breathlessly. 
 
 " Well, all right !" 
 
 He looked radiant, and so did Dora. 
 
 " Did he promise ?" she asked. 
 
 " No, no. Men like him never promise. But 
 he paid me some handsome compliments on my 
 industry." 
 
 I
 
 DORA. 57 
 
 " And what about Mr. Templemore ? " 
 " Not a word. I never did think that Temple- 
 more had the least chance. I suspect it was some 
 promise to his wife. How cold it is ! " 
 " And now, what will you have ?" 
 " Nothing, my dear. I shall just take the cold 
 out of my bones and go to bed." 
 " How pale you look, Paul I" 
 
 " I was rather cold coming down " 
 
 " Go to bed at once and take something hot." 
 But Paul declined the latter part of Dora's 
 invitation. He would go to bed presently, but he 
 would take nothing hot, and as Paul had a will of 
 his oum, Dora did not insist. They sat up awhile, 
 and Dora mentioned Florence Gale's visit. His 
 eyes softened, and he laughed when his sister told 
 him about Florence's three fibs. 
 " Dear girl !" he exclaimed fondly. 
 " He must be bewitched," thought Dora ; but 
 aloud she said, " Go to bed, Paul, you look quite 
 ill." 
 
 "I don't feel so. I feel very happy, Dora. 
 Happiness lies before me. I think myself sure of 
 the girl I love, of a handsome fortune and a fine 
 estate, and as I must work on, T V.nn(^ to these
 
 58 DOE A. 
 
 blessings to add those of a position won by my 
 own exertions, and of honourable fame. I say it 
 again, happiness lies before me, and that prospect 
 has not always been mine. And you shall be 
 happy, Dora. A guinea a line will you get for 
 that catalogue, and let me tell you there are not 
 many who get so much." 
 
 " A guinea a line !" said Dora, clapping her 
 hands, and looking delighted. " Oh ! you gener- 
 ous Paul, you are surely the Prince of Pub- 
 lishers !" 
 
 " And what will you do with that money?" 
 
 " Buy aunt and mamma new dresses, take a cot- 
 tage with a large garden to it; then I must have an 
 aviary, a conservatory." 
 
 '' You will find all these at Deenah !" he inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 " But I do not mean to wait till Mr. Oourtenay 
 dies, for them, sir." 
 
 " Quite right, ma'am ; and so good night." 
 
 " And now 1 must go back to the law," said 
 Paul, next morning. 
 
 This was more easily said than done. Paul's 
 heart was no longer with his austere mistress. The
 
 DORA. 59 
 
 goal of his ambition had been displaced, and the 
 task before him seemed dull, flat, and unprofitable. 
 That catalogue had unsettled them all. And so time 
 passed. Mrs. Courtenay wondered at her brother- 
 in-law's silence. 
 
 " He ought to know Paul is anxious," she said, 
 " and send him word the catalogue is all right. I 
 believe he quarrelled with my dear husband be- 
 cause I was French ; but all that must be over 
 now, and he might call upon me. And if he ob- 
 jected to Mrs. Luan, he might have asked to know 
 what day she was out ; and, at all events, he ought 
 to send us down a basket of game." 
 
 None of these things, however, did Mr. Courtenay 
 do. 
 
 ** But I am not afraid," said Paul to his sister. 
 " I am sure my theory about the Henri-deux ware 
 is the right one." 
 
 " Of course it is, Paul." 
 
 *^ Ah I you are truer to me than Palissy's wife 
 was to him. What a fine fellow he was, Dora ! 
 His trials and failures would have sickened any 
 but a true hero. It did me good to read about 
 him yesterday. He had laboured nine months, his 
 oven was ready, his vases were ready, his enamel
 
 60 D O K A. 
 
 was ready, — fire was to try all. Six days and six 
 nights he spent tending that fire, and at the 
 eleventh hour, when the goal seemed all but won 
 fuel failed him. Think of that agony ! The man 
 seized all he had at hand — chairs, tables, furniture, 
 the very flooring of his room, and his wife goes 
 distracted, and Palissy's neighbours say he is mad, 
 and that he is setting fire to his house. Well, that 
 madness was his last. He had prevailed ; he knew 
 the Italian secret, and had made it his." 
 
 " And you have written a good catalogue, and 
 found out the secret of the Henri-deux ware, and 
 Deenah is to be yours," replied Dora. 
 
 *' And as you have helped me with the catalogue, 
 you shall have a suite of rooms in Deenah." 
 
 Dora laughed, but there seemed very little like- 
 liness of any such contingency just yet. Time 
 passed, and Mr. Courtenay gave no sign. They 
 all lived in suspense, save Mrs. Luan. She brooded 
 day after day, no longer over the best way of sav- 
 ing candle or sparing fire, but over the means of 
 separating John and Dora. 
 
 " John must go to London," she at length dis- 
 covered. Unluckily, to go to London money was 
 needed, and neither John nor his mother had any.
 
 DORA. 61 
 
 Many a sad mess did Mrs. Luan make with her 
 patchwork about this time. 
 
 At length Mr. Courtenay wrote. It was Dora 
 who received the letter, and with it a large sealed 
 packet from the postman. She came in with it to 
 the parlour, where Paul was putting on his gloves 
 before going out. 
 
 " Is it Fate ?" he asked gaily. 
 
 " I believe it is," replied Dora. " It comes from 
 Deenah." 
 
 Mrs. Luan put down her patchwork. 
 
 " Perhaps John had better not go to London, 
 after all. Suppose Mr. Courtenay were to portion 
 Dora. Say giv^e her two thousand pounds or 
 so." 
 
 Whilst Mrs. Luan was thus calculating, Paul 
 broke the seal of the letter, glanced over it, then 
 said calmly, " I have failed." 
 
 A dead silence fell on them all. 
 
 " My theory on the Henri-deux ware was wrong," 
 resumed Paul, quietly ; '' at least, my uncle says so." 
 And he read aloud : " The G on my salt-cellar has 
 another origin than that you ascribe to it. In the 
 year 1537, died Madame de Gouffier, wife of the 
 Lord of Oiron. She left some valuable specimens of
 
 62 DORA. 
 
 pottery. Now, Henri-deux ware is the only valu- 
 able French pottery of that period. Hence, Mr. 
 Templemore concludes that the G on my salt-cellar 
 is for Gouffier. I agree with him, and shall call 
 my Henri*deux ware ^Pottery of Oiron in 
 Poitou.' " 
 
 The letter concluded with some compliments to 
 Paul's success and industry in other respects, en- 
 closed a check for two hundred pounds, to make 
 up for loss of time, and lest he should accuse his 
 uncle of partiality, was accompanied by a print- 
 ed copy of Mr. Templemore's catalogue. Paul's 
 voice never faltered, his cheek never blanched, his 
 eye remained firm as he read this letter. Mrs. 
 Courtenay looked blank ; Mrs. Luan bewildered ; 
 and Dora hid her face in her hands and wept. 
 
 " Come," he said cheerfully, " that will mend no- 
 thing. Let us look at Mr. Templemore's catalogue." 
 
 Perhaps that was the hardest trial of all — per- 
 haps it was too hard. Dora, who had checked 
 her tears to look at her brother, read with the keen- 
 est pain the meaning of his face. Defeated was 
 written there. Ay, Paul Courtenay felt doubly de- 
 feated, for he felt that his uncle's sentence was just, 
 and Mr. Templemore's victory complete. He shut
 
 D O K A. 63 
 
 the book with some emotion, took his gloves, looked 
 for his hat, and saying rather hurriedly, " I shall 
 be late," he left them. They were all silent after 
 he was gone. They all knew — even Mrs. Luan 
 knew it — that a thunderbolt had fallen, and that 
 this young tree, so green, so fresh a few weeks 
 back, was riven. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay lamented over the loss of Mr. 
 Courtenay's fortune, as if she had expected Paul 
 to enter into possession of it the next day, and he 
 had been unkindly deprived of it. Mrs. Luan, 
 who never said much, seemed to have grown dumb ; 
 and Dora, the light, gay Dora, was gloomy, and 
 surreptitiously took Mr. Templemore's catalogue, 
 and went up with it to her brother's room, the only 
 place where she knew that she could look at it in 
 peace. She sat by the window, whence she could 
 see, if she chose, the distant bay, with the sea melt- 
 ing away into a soft, grey sky ; but little charm 
 had that grand prospect for Dora now. She, too, 
 for once, wanted to be miserable, and she had her 
 wish. The catalocrue was a wonderful catalogue. 
 It was magnificently printed, and the illustrations 
 were beautiful — mere woodcuts, indeed, but exe- 
 cuted by a practised hand, and with a vigour and a
 
 64 DORA. 
 
 spirit which Dora, who drew well, could appreci- 
 ate. The text, however, was the criterion of Mr. 
 Templemore's work ; and there too, alas ! he far sur- 
 passed her brother. Paul's taste for virtu was a 
 fictitious, acquired taste ; Mr. Templemore's was 
 evidently a natural gift, matured by long, careful 
 cultivation. Dora could not tell how far he was 
 right in his theory concerning the Henri-deux 
 ware, but she was obliged to confess that it was 
 infinitely more plausible than her brother's. Mr. 
 Templemore's superiority in other matters she also 
 ascertained ; but she could not go to the end of the 
 painful task. She threw the book away in a pas- 
 sion of resentment and grief, and burst into a flood 
 of bitter tears. 
 
 Slow and miserable was the rest of this un- 
 happy day. Paul came home very late, but he 
 found Dora sitting up for him in the par- 
 lour. He looked scarcely pleased. Perhaps he 
 was in one of those moods when silence and soli- 
 tude are most acceptable. Yet Dora was not 
 troublesome. She did not intrude advice or con- 
 solation. She only looked at him with gentle, 
 loving eyes, until his heart smote him for the cold- 
 ness of his averted glances, and he beckoned her
 
 DORA. 65 
 
 to his side. At once she came, and twining her 
 arm around his neck, laid her cheek to his. 
 
 " Poor Dora I" he said kindly, *' von have all the 
 sorrow, as you had all the trouble. But do not 
 fret for me. I shall do. It is all over !" 
 
 " You saw her ?" 
 
 " No ; but I wrote to her. She had never been 
 pledged to me, but for all that I set her free. I 
 fancy she will marry soon — I trust she will be 
 happy, dear girl !" 
 
 Dora's eyes flashed. Happy with another ! — 
 oh ! how could Paul say that ? — how could he 
 feel it ? But he did feel it. Perhaps his was the 
 disinterested love which is as rare as true love 
 itself ; perhaps it was not very deep love, after all, 
 and could be resigned easily to loss and separation. 
 
 "But you, Paul," she said, "how will you feel?" 
 
 " Unhappy for a time, then I shall grow com- 
 forted, no doubt. But, Dora, I do not think I 
 shall ever marry." 
 
 " Then if you do not, I will not either," she 
 said, impetuously — " never, Paul I" 
 
 " Xever ! — what will John say to that ?" 
 
 " John may say what he pleases — I do not care 
 about him. Besides, I would not marry my cousin." 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 DORA. 
 
 " Well, time will show what either of us will 
 do ; and now, Dora, it is late — go to bed, dear." 
 
 " Why should I not sit up here with you ? — we 
 used to sit up for the catalogue, hoping and 
 dreaming. Why should we not sit up now, re- 
 gretting and lamenting together f 
 
 " I cannot talk about it," he said, in a low tone. 
 *• I wish I could — it would be better for me ; but I 
 cannot." 
 
 " And what will you do about that money, 
 Paul f asked Dora, with flashing eyes ; " you will 
 not keep it ?" 
 
 " Yes, Dora, I will. My first impulse was to 
 return it, and if Mr. Courtenay's decision had been 
 an unjust one — not a farthing of it would I touch. 
 But there is the hardship of my case. I cannot 
 think myself an ill-used "man ; I had a chance 
 given me, and I lost it. It w-as fair play, Dora. 
 I should only display a small, silly pride, if I were 
 to refuse this gift of a relative who meant me 
 kindly." 
 
 Dora was silent. She seldom opposed any de- 
 cision of her brother's. To please and obey him 
 was the law of her life, and when he again said 
 that it was late, she took the hint and left him.
 
 DORA. 67 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was already fast asleep, but Dora 
 could not cpo to bed at once. She could not for- 
 get Paul, sittinfT by the lonely hearth below, and 
 mourning over his lost love and lost fortune, both 
 wrecked in tlie same little tempest — little to the 
 cold world looking on — to him how grievous and 
 how sad ! At length he came upstairs, but he, 
 too, stayed sitting up. What was he doing? 
 Dora stole out on the dark landing, and listened 
 at her brother's door. She heard a chair moving 
 slightly. Paul was sitting, then ; yet if he wanted 
 to sit up, might he not have stayed below ? His 
 light was not out. Dora looked in at him through 
 the keyhole, then stole back to her room with a 
 deep sigli : Paul was reading the catalogue. 
 
 That catalogue became the unhappy young 
 man's retrospective torment. He never read it in 
 the presence of his family, yet Dora knew that he 
 studied it night and morning. He gave the day 
 to the law ; the hours which were his he devoted 
 to this morbid brooding over the past. There was 
 no doubt a sort of dreary satisfaction in comparing 
 his own fruitless attempt with his rival's sure 
 effort, in thinking, " I should have succeeded if I 
 had done this, and I failed just by that hair's 
 
 F 2
 
 68 DORA. 
 
 breadth." If Dora had dared, she would have 
 remonstrated with him, but she did not venture to 
 do so. It was Paul's misfortune that he must 
 suffer in silence. 
 
 If anything could have added new bitterness to 
 his regret, it was the sudden decease of Mr. Cour- 
 tenay. He died at Deenah towards the close of 
 the year. By his wdll he left the bulk of his 
 property to Mr. Templemore. To Dora, Paul, and 
 J ohn he left five hundred pounds apiece. Neither 
 his sister, Mrs. Luan, nor his sister-in-law, Mrs. 
 Courtenay, was mentioned in Mr. Courtenay's 
 will. 
 
 *' A very strange, uncivil man," said Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, stiffly. 
 
 Mrs. Luan, who had most reason to complain, 
 said nothing, but she thought — 
 
 " John can go to London now." 
 
 How that thought passed from Mrs. Luan's 
 mind to John's no one ever knew, not even John 
 himself ; but he entered the cottage one evening 
 overflowing with the project, and finding Dora 
 sitting alone by the fire, and looking rather pen- 
 sive, he came up to her with the question — 
 
 " Anything new, Dora f '
 
 DORA. 69 
 
 " Nothing," she replied, gravely, " only I was 
 tliinking about our five hundred pounds. Mr. 
 Ryan says he could double the amount for us in 
 no time." 
 
 " I mean to go to London with mine," said John. 
 
 "To London!" 
 
 If he had said to Timbuctoo, Dora could 
 scarcely have looked more surprised. 
 
 " Yes, for my profession. It will be such an 
 advantage to me." 
 
 John thrust his fingers through his fair locks, 
 and looked like a man who has five hundred 
 pounds, and knows his status in society. 
 
 " An advantage to leave us," gently replied 
 Dora. 
 
 She only thought of the cousinship, of the old 
 familiarity, of the friendship which had grown 
 with years, and were now to be all put by ; but 
 her gentle voice, and her mild, reproachful look, 
 said far more than this to John Luan. He turned 
 red and pale, and trembled. 
 
 " Dora," he faltered, " we are too young — you 
 know?" 
 
 " Too young for what ?" asked Dora, rising, 
 and standing straight before him.
 
 70 D O E A. 
 
 She spoke so coldly, she looked so lofty, that 
 John was dumb ; but if anything had been needed 
 to urge him to go to London, that look and that 
 question of Dora's would have done it. He sat 
 down without answering her, and looked rather 
 sullen and discomfited. When his mother and 
 Mrs. Courtenay came in, he spoke of his journey 
 as a settled thing. Mrs. Courtenay lifted up her 
 hands in amazement. 
 
 " My dear boy," she said, raising her little shrill 
 voice, '' what can take you to London f 
 
 ^' Mr. Courtenay's five hundred pounds, aunt," 
 answered John, rather carelessly. 
 
 " But Mr. Eyan would double it for you," cried 
 Mrs. Courtenay ; " he w^ould treble it, John," she 
 added, with a little scream of delight at the pro- 
 spect of such doubling and trebling, which is indeed 
 very delightful whilst it takes place on the increas- 
 ing and not on the decreasing principle. It is 
 charming to multiply your capital by three, but 
 such multiplication sometimes ends by the division 
 of your sum total, and then^ alas ! it is grievous 
 enough. Such lamentable results Mrs. Courtenay 
 by no means contemplated, and she candidly 
 wondered at John's obstinacy in not letting his
 
 DORA. 71 
 
 five hundred pounds be trebled by Mr. Evan. 
 
 " Mr. Ryan would not take the trouble," replied 
 John, trying to get out of it this way. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, he will, if I ask him." 
 
 " Well, then, don't ask him, mamma," said Dora, 
 a little tartly. " John wants to go." 
 
 John hung his head and looked sheepish ; but it 
 was true enough, he wanted to go, and he went. 
 
 When it came to the parting Dora forgave him. 
 She could not go with him to the station, for Mrs. 
 Courtenay was unwell, but she clung to him 
 rather fondly as he bade her adieu at the end of 
 the garden, where the cab stood waiting. 
 
 '^ Good-bye, old Johnny !" she said, with a sigh. 
 " I know you will never come back." 
 
 " Yes, 1 will," he interrupted. " Good-bye, my 
 dear girl !" 
 
 Tears stood in his eyes as he kissed her. Per- 
 haps, seeing her so kind, John Luan was sorry to 
 be going, after all. 
 
 " You'll be late," said his mother, who did not 
 like that parting. 
 
 John looked at his watch, kissed his cousin again, 
 and entered the cab with Mrs. Luan. His last 
 words were —
 
 72 DORA. 
 
 "I shall come back sooner than you think, 
 Dora." 
 
 " Poor Johnny !" she thought, as the cab drove 
 away ; " he means it, but he will not come back." 
 
 When Mrs. Luan returned from the station she 
 looked flushed and excited. This parting, the 
 first which had ever taken place between her and 
 her son, had been too much for her. Her mind 
 had not perhaps realized its keen agony until she 
 was called upon to endure it. Dora looked at her 
 with gentle pity, but there was a sort of sternness 
 in Mrs. Luan's eyes as she returned the look. 
 That bright hair and those pink cheeks had divided 
 her from her darling, and she hated them. There 
 is a strange inability in some natures to understand 
 other natures. It was then, and was ever after- 
 wards, impossible to Dora to understand this 
 woman, whom she had know^n all her life. She 
 saw that she was grieving for her son, but she did 
 not understand the nature of that grief. 
 
 " Dear aunt," she said, going and sitting down 
 by her, " you must not fret. It is in the nature 
 of young men, I suppose, to leave those whom they 
 love best. I daresay John has been thinking about 
 that a long time, and when he got these five hun-
 
 DORA. 73 
 
 dred pounds he coald not resist the temptation.*' 
 This soothing speech Mrs. Luan did not answer, 
 
 but, to Dora's surprise, she rose, took off her cap, 
 
 and flung it to the other end of the room, saying, 
 " Oh ! my head is so hot I" 
 To take off her cap and throw it about became 
 
 one of Mrs. Luan's habits from that day forth.
 
 74 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TT may be that Paul Courtenay had hoped to the 
 -^ last, and that his uncle's will was a blow to 
 him. It seemed to Dora that he looked sadder 
 and graver after John's departure than he had 
 ever looked before. She watched him closely, and 
 thought that he was both pale and grave when he 
 came home one evening in the spring that followed 
 Mr. Coartenay's death. A book lay open before 
 him, and he never once turned its pages. 
 
 " Something new has happened," thought Dora. 
 
 Mr Eyan's entrance helped to divert her 
 thoughts. Mr. Ryan often came to see them of an 
 evening now. He had invested their thousand 
 pounds in some wonderful manner, and the 
 doubling or trebling was going on amazingly. 
 Mrs. Courtenay, who took the deepest interest in 
 that process, could not weary of the subject, and 
 tried many a patience for its sake. She called it
 
 DOEA. 75 
 
 *'it," and never specified it by any other term. 
 So almost her first words to Mr. Ryan this evening 
 were, 
 
 " Well, Mr. Ryan, how is it going on ?" 
 
 "Nobly!" was ^Ir. Ryan's emphatic reply. 
 
 " Well, but when am I to be rich ?" asked Dora, 
 a little tartly. " I want to sit down, and fold my 
 hands, and be a useless fine lady, Mr. Ryan." 
 
 " Oh ! you girl !" 
 
 " My dear, did you not hear Mr. Ryan saying 
 it was going on nobly!" remarked her mother, 
 with gentle reproof. " Now, when a thing like 
 that goes on nobly," cried Mrs. Courtena}', raising 
 her voice, and clasping her hands with a sort of 
 childish delight, " I call it beautiful." 
 
 " Paul, what do you say to it f whispered Dora. 
 "Are we to be rich ?" 
 
 She bent over bis shoulder, and looked in his face. 
 He smiled gravely. 
 
 " Do you wish to be rich, Dora ?" he asked. 
 
 Dora had had that wish ; not that wealth was 
 very dear to her for its own sake, but because she 
 loved her brother. But now that Paul was to be 
 poor, and that Deenah was gone, it seemed to her 
 that money was of little worth.
 
 76 DORA. 
 
 " I don't know," she hesitatingly replied, " yet I 
 suppose it must be pleasant." 
 
 " Pleasant !" a little indignantly remarked Mr. 
 Ryan. He had money, plenty said the world, and 
 he did not like to hear Mammon slighted and called 
 pleasant. 
 
 " You are quite ridiculous, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 But Dora did not heed them. She had returned 
 to her chair, and thence she looked at Paul so 
 grave, so sad, and she felt again, " Something new 
 has happened." She knew what had happened 
 three days later. On the morning of Mr. Ryan's visit 
 Florence Gale had married a Mr. Logan, very 
 rich, said report, and young and handsome, it 
 added. So it was probable that Mrs. Logan had 
 not been made a martyr to filial obedience, after 
 all. Of this Paul said nothing to his sister. He 
 had closed the book of his life at the page where 
 love and hope had each written his sad via^it, and 
 he opened it again at the page of hard work and 
 lawful ambition. He was grave, and by no means 
 cheerful, but he was neither nervous nor melan- 
 choly. He bore his lot manfully, and Mr. Cour- 
 tenay's fortune and the catalogue and Florence
 
 DORA. 77 
 
 Gale were soon as things that had never been at 
 Mrs. Courtenay's cottage. 
 
 Seeing him thus, Dora gradually became as 
 bright and as radiant as ever. Joy had returned 
 to her, and she v,ould not let the lovely guest be 
 gone. She read, she sang. She woke music from 
 her old spinet, she was housekeeper and a young 
 lady, and she was as happy as the day was long. 
 Early one summer evening Paul came home. He 
 found his sister in the garden watering her flowers. 
 She turned round on hearing him, and became 
 suddenly silent. 
 
 "Paul I how pale you are I" she said, a little 
 anxiously. 
 
 ''Am I?" he cheerfully replied, "I feel very 
 well, however. I have just met Mrs. Logan," he 
 added, "she looked both lovely and happy. She 
 came and shook hands with me, and looked as light- 
 hearted as a buttei'fly." 
 
 "I never liked her,'' resentfully cried Dora ; 
 " she was never worthy of you." 
 
 " It was not her fault, Dora, if I was mistaken 
 in her ; but it was mine." 
 
 " How she lured you on about that catalogue,"
 
 78 DORA. 
 
 continued Dora, " and then how soon she forsook 
 you !" 
 
 " She was not pledged to me." 
 
 " True love needs no pledges," loftily replied 
 Dora. 
 
 "But suppose some women cannot feel true 
 love," he playfully suggested. " Are you sure of 
 yourself, Dora ?" 
 
 " No," she honestly answered, " for I cannot 
 imagine I shall ever care for anyone as I care for 
 you, Paul. And if you do not marry," she added, 
 warmly, " I never shall — never !" 
 
 Paul smiled, but he thought it unlikely that 
 either he or his sister should ever marry. He 
 felt no inclination for wedded life, and Dora was 
 proud and poor, and lived in such seclusion that 
 the male sex might well be forgiven if they did 
 not appreciate her merits. 
 
 " Well, little Dora," he said, cheerfully, " we 
 shall be none the more unhappy for it, if it is to 
 be." 
 
 " Unhappy ! I should think not." 
 
 She raised her face for a kiss, which she got, 
 and perhaps, as she received it, Dora felt some 
 little jealous joy at the thought that the day of
 
 DORA. 79 
 
 Florence Gale had gone by, and her own had 
 come back. 
 
 Paul reUred early that evening. He was a little 
 tired, he said, and Dora could not waken him by 
 playing on her "piano," as she and everyone at 
 home called it, by one of those convenient fictions 
 in which it is pleasant for the poor to indulge. 
 She sat and sewed by the light of the solitary 
 candle, whilst Mrs. Courtenay tried her patience, 
 and nodded over it, and Mrs. Luan pored over a 
 letter from " poor John." A loud ring at the gar- 
 den bell startled them all. 
 
 " Light the other candle I" cried ^Mi's. Courtenay, 
 wakening up with an alarmed start ; but before 
 Dora could obey that prudent order, the heedless 
 little servant girl had admitted Mr. Ryan, who 
 burst in upon them like a tempest. 
 
 " News, news !" he shouted, waving his hat in 
 the wildest excitement. 
 
 " How is it going on !" cried Mrs. Courtenay, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " Grandly ! Paul and Dora have two hundred 
 a year each. It has been coming on these six 
 months. I sold out and invested again this very 
 afternoon — two hundred a year each."
 
 80 DORA. 
 
 A thousand pounds had given them two hundred 
 a year each ! Ignorant as she was of money mat- 
 ters, Dora knew that this was grand trebling in- 
 deed. The tidings so bewildered her that she stood 
 still and mute. Mrs. Courtenay, on the contrary, 
 uttered three little screams of delight ; whilst Mrs. 
 Luan took off her cap and flung it at Mr. Ryan, 
 on whose head it alighted sideways, giving his red 
 face a waggish and knowing aspect. 
 
 This sobered them all. 
 
 " Is the woman mad ?" asked Mr. Eyan, star- 
 ing, and taking off Mrs. Luan's cap with some in- 
 dignation. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Luan, calmly. 
 " I meant to throw it on the table." 
 
 ^^ Did you, though ! I wonder why it flew up 
 upon me, then I And pray, ma'am, why did you 
 take off your cap at all, and fling it about so f 
 
 " My head is so hot," she replied, staring at 
 him, " and you upset me with your two hundred a 
 year." 
 
 "Yes, yes ; your son John has made ducks and 
 drakes of his money — I know — I know." 
 
 And Mr. Ryan humanely considered that this 
 disappointment was a sufficient explanation of the
 
 DORA. 81 
 
 cap affair, as he called it, when he related the in- 
 cident to his sister, Miss Ryan, who was then on 
 a visit to him. 
 
 " Oh ! how you have trebled I" cried Mrs. Coiir- 
 tenay, raising her voice and her hands in admira- 
 tion. " How you have trebled, Mr. Ryan ;" 
 
 " Dear Paul," said Dora, as happy tears stood 
 in her eyes ; '^ he has been working too hard, but 
 he can rest now." 
 
 " Oh I you girl ! A young man can never work 
 too hard." 
 
 "And I say that Paul has been working too 
 hard," wilfully replied Dora ; " but I must go and 
 tell him the news. A fairy tale — a real fairy 
 tale !" 
 
 She lightly ran upstairs, leaving her mother in 
 ecstasies, and Mrs. Luan settling her cap on, but 
 looking very dull and grey. What had become 
 of John's five hundred pounds by this time ? And 
 why had she sent him away from Dora, who had 
 two hundred a year now ? Was this the end of 
 her planning ? Oh I if she had but w^aited ! . 
 
 " I shall not waken him if he sleeps," thought 
 Dora ; " but if he is awake, I will tell him with a 
 kiss. Paul, my darling, we are rich now. We 
 VOL. I. G
 
 S2 DORA. 
 
 can afford not to think any more of Mr. Courte- 
 nay's fortune. And with two hundred a year 
 and your profession you can find a wife — a true 
 good wife — not a Florence Gale, who could forget 
 you for a Mr. Logan." 
 
 With a noiseless foot she entered his room. It 
 was dark, and the light she held fell on the pillow 
 where his calm face lay sleeping. She put the 
 candlestick down and softly stole towards him. 
 When she stood by his side she looked at him with 
 eyes swimming in tears. How altered he was 
 since the day when he had come back from Dee- 
 nah, full of eager hope ! How pale and thin and 
 worn he looked in his sleep ! And what had he 
 been reading? — that dreadful catalogue again! 
 She knelt on the rug and softly took his hand, 
 which hung loosely outside the bedclothes. But 
 scarcely had she touched it when she started up 
 and uttered a piercing cry. That hand was cold 
 — cold as marble ; and, alas ! that cry, though it 
 filled the house and brought up its terrified tenants 
 around her, did not waken her brother. Never, 
 never more would Paul draw her to his side and 
 call her his little Dora. Brother and sister, whom 
 nothing was to divide, were parted thus early on
 
 DORA. 83 
 
 their journey ; and whilst one took his rest, having 
 earned his wages, the other was to go on the sad 
 pilgrimage alone and desolate ! 
 
 " My brother, my brother !" was all she could 
 say. For weeks this was her cry, for years it rang 
 in her heart, " My brother !" In every hour of 
 tribulation the sorrowful words were spoken. 
 
 Everyone grieved for this young man. Mrs. 
 Courtenay mourned for him as for a son. Mrs. 
 Luan shed genuine tears, and remembered with a 
 pang that his death gave Dora four hundred a 
 year. Mr. Ryan did not weary of lamenting " the 
 poor boy's untimely fate ;" but of all those who 
 could say, '^ Thus died Paul Courtenay," none 
 knew that with him died the pride and the ambi- 
 tion of his sister's heart. She had loved him, but 
 she had also hoped in him. He had been, though 
 she knew it not, perhaps, the great stake in her 
 life. All her hopes and her desires had rested 
 upon him, never once upon herself. Through 
 him she was to be honoured, in his reflected glory 
 she was to shine. Of her own value and her own 
 part in the great human drama she never thought. 
 When he went, all went with him. It might be 
 well for both of them that it should be so. He 
 
 g2
 
 84 DOR A. 
 
 never knew the bitterness of disappointment, nor 
 she that of a sudden wakening. He was her hero 
 now for ever. He was to have been a great ora- 
 tor, the rich man, the pride and stay of his family. 
 How often had the triumphs of Demosthenes, of 
 Chatham and Grattan, made her heart throb ! How 
 often had she sat at twihght, by the open win- 
 dow, or over the smouldering fire, listening to her 
 brother's fervid eloquence, to the murmurs of ap- 
 plause and the deafening cheers of a senate, whilst 
 her mother chatted prettily or her aunt stitched at 
 her patchwork. 
 
 All this was over now ; but better perhaps that 
 death had stepped in, silencing the eloquent lips 
 with an icy hand, than that Time, the great dis- 
 enchanter, should have shown to Paul and his 
 sister the folly of a long-cherished dream. 
 
 But this Dora never felt, and never was to feel. 
 The object of her adoration was safe from a fate 
 so grievous. Yet perhaps because she had loved 
 him so fondly, and hoped in him so fervently, was 
 her grief felt and not spoken. To all seeming, 
 indeed, it was not a deep grief. She mourned, 
 but not with such a sorrow as her impassioned 
 love ought to have called forth. So thought Mr.
 
 DORA. 85 
 
 Ryan, and even her mother. Dora was pale and 
 thin, but she smiled brightly, nay, she laughed — 
 why, she actually sang again, though Paul was in 
 his grave. She sang his songs, too — not plaintive, 
 but merry Irish melodies, which had been dear to 
 him. 
 
 "The Irish are a light-hearted people, Mr. 
 Ryan," solemnly said Mrs. Courtenay to her 
 friend. 
 
 Mr. Ryan did not answer this national question, 
 but listening to Dora's singing upstairs in Paul's 
 room, he thought, " That girl puzzles me." He 
 also thought that he would study her, but the 
 opportunity to do so was not granted to Mr. 
 Ryan. 
 
 Paul had not long been dead, when ]Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay said to her daughter one afternoon, 
 
 "I am sure it was this dreadful climate that 
 killed my poor bo3\" 
 
 " But, mamma, Paul's was a heart complaint." 
 
 " Of course it was ; well, the climate killed 
 him — and I am sure I have a heart-complaint 
 too." 
 
 '^ Dear mamma, I cannot think that. My dear 
 brother was so pale, and you have a lovely colour.
 
 86 DOKA. 
 
 " But such dreadful palpitations !" sighed Mrs. 
 Courtenay ; " oh ! such palpitations !" 
 
 Dora put down her work and fell into the 
 saddest dream. Paul had never complained of 
 palpitations, but said he was well to the last. 
 
 " I want a change," pursued Mrs. Courtenay ; 
 " and I think I shall go to London." 
 
 " To London ! " cried Dora, much startled. 
 
 " Yes ; Loudon air always agreed with me." 
 
 '^ But, mamma, London air is surely not good 
 air r 
 
 " Beautiiul air !" cried Mrs. Courtenay, raising 
 her voice with enthusiasm. 
 
 Dora looked at Jier aunt. Was it she who, to 
 be with her son, had suggested so strange a step to 
 her mother ; but Mrs. Luan stitched on stolidly at 
 her patchwork, and said, 
 
 ^' There is no air like Dublin air." 
 
 '^ Do listen to her !" compassionately exclaimed 
 Mrs. Courtenay. '^ No air like Dublin air ! Poor 
 thing !" 
 
 "Then aunt had nothing to do with it," thought 
 Dora, in her innocence. 
 
 She tried to oppose Mrs. Courtenay's wish ; Mr. 
 Eyan also interfered, but to no purpose — there was
 
 DORA. 87 
 
 a secret agency at work more potent than they 
 knew of. Mrs. Luan's plan was of the simplest 
 kind. She asked her sister-in-law daily how she 
 was, and if she felt quite well. She put these 
 questions when Doira was not present, and with 
 them, and a few careless hints, she carried the day, 
 and the London journey was decided upon. The 
 cottage was given up, the furniture was sold ojB", 
 and on the morning of the day when they were to 
 go to Kingston, thence to sail for Holyhead, Dora 
 went alone to Glasnevin. 
 
 A plain head-stone marked Paul Courtenay's 
 grave. His name and age, and the word Requi- 
 ESCAT, were his only epitaph. Grass and a few 
 flowers already grew over him. As she looked at 
 that narrow space, at these few feet of earth which 
 held all that had been dearest to her, Dora's heart 
 overflowed with other feelings than those of sorrow. 
 There came to her in that sad hour a bitterness 
 which she could not restrain. She remembered 
 her uncle, who had tempted Paul in his poverty, 
 and urged him to a task beyond his ability ; she 
 remembered Florence Gale, who had spurred him 
 on to labour beyond his strength, then forgotten 
 him ; she remembered Mr. Templemore, whose tri-
 
 50 DORA. 
 
 umph had embittered even Paul Courtenay's last 
 hours ; and to these three she attributed his prema- 
 ture death. " I must forgive them," she thought ; 
 " I must forgive the living as well as the dead ; 
 but to forgive is not to love, ar^d never, never shall 
 there be kindness between them and Paul's sister !" 
 Alas ! was this a spot, was this an hour for 
 thoughts like these ? A lowering grey sky bent 
 over the cemetery, a south-westerly wind moaned 
 amongst the young trees ; it had rained all night, 
 and the sodden earth said how cold and how dreary 
 was the bed of the dead. There they slept around 
 Dora in hundreds, in thousands. Did they mur- 
 mur, did they complain? Life, its fever, its 
 troubles, and its hundred cares were over for them, 
 and was it not well ? If they could have spoken, 
 w^ould not their faint, low voices have risen to 
 reprove the resentful girl who brought to their 
 peaceful realm the angry feelings of life ?
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 'I T RS. COURTENAY had left Dublin a year 
 -^'-*- Avhen Mr. Ryan took a journey to London, 
 and scarcely giving himself time to dine, at once 
 entered a cab, and drove off to see his old friends. 
 Mrs. Courtenay lived in a pretty little villa in 
 Bayswater ; a white nest, with young green trees 
 around it. Mr. Ryan gave the place a gratified 
 look as he alighted and saw it in the clear moon- 
 light of a cold spring evening. " Dora's bower," 
 thought Mr. Ryan. A neat little parlour-maid 
 opened the door and admitted him. "That's 
 right," thought Mr. Ryan ; " no page in buttons — 
 no fourth-rate man-servant, but an irreproachable 
 young woman. Dora is a sensible girl." The 
 crimson staircase carpet, with its brass rods ; the 
 spacious landing, adorned with pretty flower-stands, 
 confirmed this favourable impression ; and the 
 drawing-room added to it. A very charming
 
 90 DORA. 
 
 drawing-room it was, not luxurious, though grace- 
 ful and elegant. " Dora's kingdom," thought Mr. 
 Ryan ; and when the folding-doors opened, and 
 Dora entered the room, robed in white silk, with 
 roses blushing on her bosom, and wreathed in her 
 bright hair, she appeared in Mr. Ryan's eyes as the 
 fair queen of that little realm. Mr. Ryan looked at 
 her and at the drawing-room, and at Mrs. Courte- 
 nay's black satin dress — nay, even at Mrs. Luan's 
 stylish cap, with admiring eyes. For were not all 
 these luxuries and tokens of prosperity the result 
 of the four hundred a year his skilful management 
 had secured to Dora Courtenay. 
 
 " Ah ! ha ! you were going off to a party ?" he 
 cried, gaily ; *' why, even that rascal, John Luan, 
 has white kid gloves on. You did not expect me, 
 did you, now ?" 
 
 '' No, indeed, Mr. Ryan," replied Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, in a most dolorous tone. 
 
 She sank down on a chair with a heavy sigh. 
 Mrs. Luan took a low seat, and sat straight and 
 motionless upon it. John Luan threw himself on 
 the sofa and looked deeply sulky. Dora alone 
 remained standing, and she greeted her old friend 
 very kindly ; but something ailed her too, for there
 
 DOR A. 91 
 
 was a deep flush on her cheek, very different from 
 its pure clear bloom. 
 
 " Why, what has happened ?" cried Mr. Kyan, 
 staring around him in amazement. 
 
 " Oh ! we are not going to the party," rephed 
 Mrs. Courtenay. " Professor Gray has just called 
 to tell us that Brown and Co. haye stopped pay- 
 ment, and that Mr. Brown is off somewhere or 
 other with poor Dora's four hundred a year, and 
 other people's thousands." 
 
 This was news indeed ! And though Mr. Ryan 
 burst forth into incredulous exclamations, very cer- 
 tain news, unfortunately. Dora's money had 
 vanished for ever in the gulf of Brown and Co.'s 
 difficulties, though, luckily for them all, the little 
 income of !Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan was 
 still safe. 
 
 " And we were going to such a nice party," 
 plaintively said Mrs. Courtenay. " I almost wish 
 Professor Gray had kept his news till to-morrow." 
 
 "Professor Gray takes a strong interest in 
 Dora," ironically remarked John. " Did you not 
 see, aunt, how he changed colour when she told 
 him she was penniless, and how crestfallen he 
 looked as he left us ?"
 
 92 DORA. 
 
 " Yes," innocently replied Mrs. Courtenay, " he 
 is one of Dora's admirers, you know. And so 
 was Mr. Brown. The last time she wore that 
 dress and these roses, he said they were set in 
 gold." 
 
 " Brown is a scoundrel !" angrily said John. 
 
 Poor John Luan 1 For the last year he, too, 
 had sighed at Dora's feet ! He, too, had thought 
 she looked lovely in her white silk dress, and with 
 the roses in her hair, and he had burned with 
 jealous wrath whenever Professor Gray or the de- 
 linquent Brown looked at her. Of one rival he 
 was rid, and the other he suspected he need not 
 fear ; but what availed it ? Dora was penniless, 
 and John Luan as poor as ever. He had come 
 to take his aunt and cousin to the party, and to 
 worship and admire Dora, and feel wronged be- 
 cause others did as much ; instead of which he had 
 the doubtful satisfaction of calling Brown a scoun- 
 drel, and of knowing that he could by no means 
 afford to marry a poor girl and keep a wife. 
 
 " Poor John !" thought Dora. " I like him, I 
 admire Professor Gray, and that cool, fair-looking 
 Mr. Brown was very pleasing in his way ; but the 
 thought of becoming Mrs. Luan, Mrs. Gray, or
 
 DORA. 93 
 
 Mrs. Brown always made me shudder. I wish I 
 could tell him so." 
 
 " Dear, dear, that is sad !" exclaimed Mr. Ryan, 
 shaking his head at Dora. " That is sad, my poor 
 girl!" 
 
 " Yes," she replied, " my little prosperity came 
 like a fairy gift, and like a fairy gift it went 
 away. But I was born poor, you know, and can 
 go back to poverty very easily." 
 
 John gazed admiringly at this young stoic, who 
 looked so serene — and so pretty — with the roses 
 in her hair, and he said, with sudden animation, 
 
 " It was only yesterday Thompson said I was 
 sure of that appointment. I shall certainly go 
 down to Oxfordshire to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Luan heard him, and looked at him and 
 Dora with the sullen look of yore. For the last 
 year she had, as it were, wooed Dora for John, 
 after her own awkward fashion. And now her labour 
 was worse than vain, and she once more saw John 
 and Dora in a poor cottage, with babies around 
 them, whilst in the background appeared a vision 
 of Mr. Brown in an express train, with Dora's 
 four hundred a year in his carpet-bag. 
 
 " If she had taken John at once," resentfully
 
 94 DORA, 
 
 thought Mrs. Luan, *'her money would be all 
 right ; [and if he had not taken a fancy to her his 
 money would not be almost all gone." 
 
 " Dear I dear !" again said Mr. Ryan, *' it is 
 very dreadful ! Four hundred a year, such a nice 
 little income ; and all gone — all gone !" 
 
 Yes, it was all gone, indeed, and with it had de- 
 parted the new life which had been so pleasant — 
 the admirers, the parties, the intellectual society, 
 the little luxuries, the many comforts. All these 
 were gone, and Mr. Ryan no longer wielded that 
 magic wand of capital which would conjure them 
 back again. With a heavy heart he left his friends, 
 and he spent the night in maturing plans for their 
 benefit. 
 
 But when he called the next day Mr. Ryan 
 found that everything had already been settled 
 without the help of his advice. 
 
 ^' It is no use fretting, you know, Mr. Ryan," 
 said Mrs. Courtenay, with airy fortitude ; ^' stay- 
 ing in London is out of the question, and Dublin 
 air disagrees with me, so we shall go to France." 
 
 "To France! — why, who put that into your 
 head, Mrs. Courtenay ?" 
 
 " No one," tartly replied that lady ; ^' but I am
 
 BORA. 95 
 
 sure my native air is the very thing for me." 
 
 Mr. Ryan stared. Mrs. Luan was looking at 
 the wall, and Dora's eyes were downcast. John 
 was not present. 
 
 " And what does John Luan say to that ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " John knows nothing about it," was the super- 
 cilious reply. " He went off to Oxfordshire by 
 the first train, and it was only five minutes ago I 
 made up my mind that Rouen was to be our fu- 
 ture residence. But now, Mr. Ryan, I have a 
 great favour to ask of you.- Mrs. Luan and 1 
 will go off at once, and settle our new home. Will 
 you kindly take care of Dora here, and help her 
 to dispose of the furniture ?" 
 
 Mr. Ryan tried to remonstrate, but opposition 
 only confirmed Mrs. Courtenay in her purpose. 
 Seeing her so determined, Mr. Ryan desisted. 
 After all, going to France might not be so bad a 
 plan. France was cheaper then than it is now, 
 and economy must be once more the law of Mrs. 
 Courtenay's life. 
 
 It is always sad to break up a home, and so 
 Dora now found it, spite her stoicism. When it 
 had been ascertained bej^ond doubt that not a
 
 86 DORA. 
 
 farthing of her money could be recovered, Mrs. 
 Courtenay and Mrs. Luan proceeded together to 
 France. Once more John Luan's mother con- 
 sented to leave him, in order to separate him from 
 Dora. She knew that the best way to keep Mrs. 
 Courtenay and Dora in their new home was to 
 accompany them. Indeed, she had a strong pre- 
 sentiment that her volatile little sister-in-law^ if 
 not watched, might escape back again to England. 
 Rather than run so great a risk, Mrs. Luan would 
 forego even bidding adieu to her son, who was still 
 down in Oxfordshire, hunting for liis appoint- 
 ment. 
 
 A letter soon came from Rouen, informing 
 Dora that Mrs. Courtenay had discovered the 
 most delightful lodging, with the dearest old crea- 
 ture, and that all she wanted to be perfectly happy 
 was her dear Dora's presence. 
 
 The furniture was disposed of to a broker, so 
 that on receiving this letter Dora had but to pack 
 up her trunk and leave the house where she had 
 spent some pleasant, if not happy hours. She 
 went over it alone, sighing gently at the loss of 
 her four hundred a year. She looked wistfully at 
 the deserted drawing-room, which she had taken
 
 DORA. 97 
 
 such pleasure in adorning. Never more should 
 Dora Courtenay see pleasant, genial faces gather- 
 ed there ; no more should she hear intellectual and 
 witty talk within its walls. A few letters from 
 Mr. Ryan to a few clever people in London, a few 
 parties, and Dora's blight happy face had soon 
 made Mrs. Courtenay's little villa an attractive 
 rendezvous. 
 
 " But all that is over now," thought Dora, as 
 she closed the door, and went up to her own room ; 
 " we must return to the old life. Ah ! if we had 
 but dear Paul, how welcome it would be !" 
 
 That was the thousfht that ever came back. 
 
 o 
 
 Deep within her heart slept the remembrance of 
 her great sorrow, but every now and then it woke 
 again to cruel and bitter life. That was the 
 thought, too, which had kept Dora's heart free. 
 No man seemed able to waken within her even a 
 far echo of that passionate love which she had 
 once bestowed on her brother Paul. When she 
 looked at his portrait, the keen eye, the intellec- 
 tual brow, the manly look, all seemed to say, 
 "Find the like of us if you can." Who, indeed, 
 could compare with the lost hero of her young 
 worship ? 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 DORA. 
 
 " Yes, all would be well if 1 had you," she now 
 thought, glancing towards the miniature, which 
 hung between the fireplace and her narrow bed. 
 " Oh ! my brother ! my brother !" she exclaimed, 
 as she clasped her hands in sudden sorrow, and 
 could not see that adored image for blinding tears. 
 " Why did I lose you, my brother V 
 
 Vain appeal to the inexorable grave ! Yet 
 how often will that pitiful cry, " My brother !" be 
 heard like a wail in the life of Dora Courtenay ? 
 She had sunk on a chair in her grief, when her 
 room door opened, and Mrs. Luan came in. 
 
 " x\unt," exclaimed Dora, much amazed, " what 
 has happened ?" 
 
 " Nothing. What are you crying for V 
 
 Dora did not answer. She never could speak 
 of her grief. Mrs. Luan took her bonnet off and 
 threw it on a chair. 
 
 " You want to stay," she said, angrily. 
 
 '^ Aunt, I do not." 
 
 " Then you want to go back to Dublin." 
 
 " Oh ! no," sadly repKed Dora. 
 
 The thought of returning to her lost home was 
 exquisitely painful to her. What was that home 
 without Paul's dear presence to cheer it, or fill it
 
 DOR A. 99 
 
 with bright hopes and fond illusions? ^Moreover, 
 in Dublin she must meet Florence, or see Mr. 
 Templemore. She did not hate them, but they had 
 so filled her brother's heart with grief, that this 
 proud and silent heart had broken, and the spot 
 that held them became to her as the fatal gulf, or 
 the pitiless rock where some loved being has 
 perished, to be shunned for evermore. But Mrs. 
 Luan still looked at her mistrustfully. She had 
 come back to fetch her niece and take her away, 
 actuated by one of those wonderful maternal pre- 
 sentiments which fail so rarely, and she had found 
 John Luan below with Mr. Ryan. He had just 
 arrived from Oxfordshire, rather sulky and crest- 
 fallen at having failed completely in his object, 
 and very indignant with Mrs. Courtenay for taking 
 her daughter off to a strange country. Thus he 
 spoke to his mother with the unconscious selfish- 
 ness of the young. She looked at him sullenly. 
 Why did he not think of her going ? Why did 
 he not want her to stay w ith him ? Why was it 
 all about parting with Dora, and nothing for the 
 separation between himself and his mother? In 
 this jealous mood Mrs. Luan went up to Dora's 
 room, and seeing her tears, gave them but one 
 
 h2
 
 100 D O K A. 
 
 meaning. Dora was crying at parting from John 
 Luan ! From that moment forward Mrs. Luan 
 no longer left Dora's side. She allowed Mr. Ryan 
 to settle with the brokers, she suffered the furni- 
 ture to be removed and money to be wasted and 
 squandered at a terrible rate, according to her 
 economical principles, and still she stuck to Dora; 
 whilst John stalked about the house with gloomy 
 and sullen looks, and thought of his lonely rooms 
 in Rowland Street. 
 
 In one respect Mrs. Luan's caution was not 
 needed. John had no intention of making open 
 love to Dora. He had not done so when she had 
 four hundred a year, and he would not do so now 
 that she had not a shilling. Indeed, all Dora's 
 admirers, with Professor Gray at their head, had 
 vanished. Report exaggerated her losses, and the 
 thought of marrying a whole family daunts most 
 men. 
 
 " It is well for me I cared for none of them," 
 thought Dora, rather stung to find how suddenly 
 her value had fallen. 
 
 And now all was ready, and Dora and Mrs. 
 Luan had but to depart. John and Mr. Ryan 
 saw them to the station.
 
 DORA. 101 
 
 " Good-bye, dear girl," said Mr. Ryan, kindly ; 
 '^ I shall keep my eye on ]Mr. Brown, you know, 
 and if anything turns up, why, you may rely upon 
 me." 
 
 Dora could scarcely repress a smile. Mr. Ryan's 
 eye in London, or even in Dublin, did not seem to 
 her very likely to affect Mr. Brown in America, 
 and she had not the faintest hope of anything 
 turning up in the shape of money. John was 
 silent, but he was rather pale, and Dora saw that 
 this parting affected him. "Poor John," thought 
 Dora, kindly; " he has fancied himself so long in 
 love with me, that he believes it. I daresay he 
 will go on so to the end." 
 
 But she went up to him and said a few kind 
 words about better times that were coming for 
 them all, and his getting that appointment in the 
 end. 
 
 " And if I do get it," began John, rather eagerly ; 
 but he ceased abruptly on seeing his mother be- 
 hind him. He had a vague consciousness that 
 Dora's altered circumstances had also altered his 
 mother's feelings and wishes. 
 
 "Time to go, John," said Mr. Ryan. 
 
 Yes, it was time, and spite Mrs. Luan's watch-
 
 102 DORA. 
 
 ful eye, John took Dora in his arms and kissed 
 her. 
 
 " Tell aunt I shall go and see her in Rouen," he 
 whispered. 
 
 "What is it? What did John say?" eagerly 
 asked Mrs. Luan, when the two gentlemen were 
 gone, and she and Dora sat in the railway car- 
 riage. 
 
 " John says he will come and see us in Eouen," 
 simply replied Dora. 
 
 Railway and steamboat travelling has no ro- 
 mance now. It is swift and convenient — we must 
 not ask it to be eventful. After an easy passage, 
 and a rapid journey through a green landscape, 
 Dora and her aunt reached Rouen in the evening. 
 Narrow streets and church spires rising through 
 the darkness, seemed to Dora the chief character- 
 istics of Rouen as they drove through it. 
 
 " Oh ! such a dear old place," said Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, whom they had found at the station ; " I am 
 sure you will like our apartments, Dora, and that 
 dear old thing, Madame Bertrand." 
 
 Dora asked no better than to be pleased with 
 everything. But when she reached their new 
 home, and saw a dingy old house, a dark and
 
 DORA. 103 
 
 narrow staircase, a clean little old landlady in a 
 cotton apron and white cap, and some very poorly- 
 furnished rooms on the first floor, she tried not to 
 sigh as she remembered the pretty villa in Bays- 
 water.
 
 104 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 rPHE often boasted charm of novelty was not 
 •*■ felt by Dora when she awoke the next morn- 
 ing and looked around her. The little room, with 
 its dingy old fashioned furniture, not one article 
 of which was endeared by familiarity, seem'ed both 
 cheerless and unpleasant. The ceiling was low 
 and depressing. The few sounds which arose 
 from the street had no old homely meaning in 
 them. A certain quaintness there was, indeed, in 
 the aspect of the place, but even Dora was ob- 
 liged to confess that there was no more. 
 
 " And yet I shall be happy here in spite of you, 
 you poor httle room !" she thought, as she rose and 
 dressed herself. " I never had such bed-curtains 
 before. I shall remember that when I feel dull, 
 and be thankful." 
 
 Those curtains were certainly peculiar, more 
 peculiar than beautiful. Dora sat down on the
 
 DORA. 105 
 
 edge of the bed to look at them. They were of a 
 dull lilac tint, which many a washing had faded, 
 and they represented the fortunes of the fair and 
 much-tried Griselidis. Dora saw her standing at 
 her father's door in humble, shepherdess attire; then 
 came the noble wooer and his suite to bear the 
 new Marchioness away. Now Griselidis sits on a 
 throne in state, and with rank and dignity begin 
 her sorrows. Her children are taken from her, 
 her husband grows unkind, and finally repudiates 
 his too patient wife. Dora, who had raised the cur- 
 tain to follow the story to its happy end, dropped 
 it with some scorn as the last print showed her 
 the Marquis of Saluces embracing his forgiving 
 spouse. 
 
 ^' How I should have hated that man I" she 
 thought, her bright eyes flashing. " Some sour 
 old bachelor certainly had these curtains first. 
 What woman would choose such a subject for 
 night or morning contemplation ? " 
 
 She was dressed by this, and opened the window 
 a little impatiently. Stranger still than within 
 did ever}'thing without look to her unaccustomed 
 eye. On the opposite side of the narrow street 
 stood an old church, at the corner of a dark alley.
 
 106 DORA. 
 
 It had long been disused for worship, and was 
 now the storehouse of a large foundry. Through 
 the open door Dora could see heaps of grape shot 
 and musket balls lying on the dusty floor. The 
 cold grey walls were stripped of all their ecclesias- 
 tical pageantry. The painted glass windows had 
 long been shattered and walled up. Altar, pic- 
 tures, flowers, and golden candlesticks were all 
 gone, but high up near the roof Dora could still 
 read the half-effaced words, " Gloire a DIeu." 
 
 Above the gate stood a stone bishop in his 
 mitre. The figure, though sadly mutilated, still 
 stretched out a benignant hand to bestow the pas- 
 toral blessing. But the staff, emblem of authority, 
 was broken in the other hand, which grasped but 
 a useless fragment. Very brown and grey was 
 the carved front of this dilapidated edifice. And 
 yet the sad old ruin had a charm which struck 
 Dora as being both quaint and graceful. The 
 keeper of this place probably had a taste for 
 flowers, for he had made himself a garden high 
 up among the buttresses. A sort of terrace he 
 had fashioned there ; he had brought mould to it, 
 and then filled it with stocks and lilies. Tall, 
 white, and spotless«rose the virgin flowers, looking
 
 D O E A. 107 
 
 very fair and pure against that sombre background. 
 A vine, too, there was, that scattered its green 
 arms about and hung over the street in festoons, 
 which the lic]jht breath of the mornino; stirred 
 gently. 
 
 The street itself was narrow, steep, and very 
 old. It had been of some note in the days gone 
 by. Presidents and members of the Parliament 
 of Rouen had dwelt in those largo hotels, with 
 quiet grass-grown courts in front and broad gar- 
 dens behind. They were now the abode of manu- 
 facturers and of retired legal practitioners, who 
 kept them in repair, but who cared to do no more. 
 Everything was tranquil and silent. One house, 
 more poorly inhabited than the rest, showed a few 
 tokens of life. A ffreen siirnboard dangled from 
 one of the second-floor windows, and informed the 
 passers-by that Professor Didier lived within. A 
 pale thin old woman looked out for a few mo- 
 ments, then shut the window. A rosy boy ap- 
 peared at another window on the third floor, and 
 stared at Dora, but he too vanished, and the house 
 became as silent and as quiet as its neighbours. 
 In the street Dora saw two children lazily going 
 to school, then a servant girl in clattering sabots,
 
 108 DORA. 
 
 who came back with a pale of water from a foun- 
 tain that was almost underneath her window ; but 
 when the children had gone by, and the servant 
 girl had passed beneath a dark archway in the 
 alley, not a soul was to be seen in the whole street, 
 and not a sound was to be heard save the little 
 flow and plash of the invisible water. Dora tried 
 to see it, and leaned out, but she only caught 
 sight of some stone carving with a green fern 
 growing on the top of it, high out of the reach of 
 rude hands. 
 
 " It will be very quiet," she thought. 
 
 Already a sort of torpor, the forerunner of the 
 life she was to lead, stole over her. She looked 
 down the street, and at its narrow close she saw 
 the green hazy river, with a black boat gliding 
 down ; and thus looking and leaning on her win- 
 dow-sill, Dora fell into a vague yet not unpleasant 
 reverie. The clear foreign sky, the strange city, 
 and the quiet street, with its picturesque memorials 
 of bygone days, lulled thought to rest, and drove 
 care away. The loss of some money seemed an 
 event of little magnitude when compared with 
 these impressive tokens of ruin and decay. Be- 
 sides, Dora was still young, and as a rule gold
 
 DORA. 109 
 
 is neither youth's hope nor its desire. Other 
 wishes, other longings than the sordid are they 
 which haunt the heart of twenty-three. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said her mother's voice behind 
 her, " how do you like this ?" 
 
 Dora turned round, smiling brightly. 
 
 " It is very picturesque and peculiar," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Picturesque and peculiar !" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Courtenay, with that little shrill raising of the 
 voice by which she expressed astonishment. "My 
 dear, it is simply enchanting. I have not felt so 
 happy for years as I have felt since I came here ; 
 and Madame Bertrand is the most delightful .old 
 creature you ever saw !" 
 
 " Is she old f demurely asked Dora. 
 
 " Is she old !" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, with 
 the little shrill raising of the voice again. " Old 
 as the hills, but so good ; only I suspect, my love, 
 that she is a little touchy. She has been better off, 
 you see, and feels it hard to have to wait upon us 
 now. She made it a stipulation that she was to 
 be called Madame Bertrand, and I came in to tell 
 you so — I was afraid you might hurt her feelings 
 inadvertently."
 
 110 DORA. 
 
 Dora promised to be careful, but expressed some 
 wonder that Madame Bertrand should have under- 
 taken to be their servant-of-all-work. Upon which 
 it turned out that Madame Bertrand had under- 
 taken no such thing ; but had volunteered her ser- 
 vices with restrictions so numerous that Dora was 
 amused to hear them recapitulated by her mother. 
 She promised, however, to attend to all this touchy 
 lady's regulations. Mrs. Oourtenay nodded, and 
 at once resumed Madame Bertrand's praises. 
 That lady, it seemed, had had a succession of 
 lodgers. 
 
 " And they all adored her, save one," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay. " He was a Monsieur Theodore, and 
 after behaving abominably, coming in and going 
 out at all hours, and caUing her * Bertrand,' quite 
 short, as if she were a man, he ran away without 
 paying the poor old soul." 
 
 Dora laughed merrily. 
 
 " Do they do that in France too f she asked, 
 
 " My dear, how can you be so simple ! They 
 do it everywhere. But it is a shame to impose on 
 that poor old thing, who, from all she has told me 
 about herself, must be one of the best creatures 
 who ever breathed !"
 
 DORA. Ill 
 
 Dora did not attempt to answer this. She 
 knew it was her mother's habit to take her opinion 
 of people from their own account of themselves. 
 So she listened to Madame Bertrand's praises with 
 an amused smile, but without other contradiction 
 than the demure remark — 
 
 " I wonder if Monsieur Theodore made love to 
 her." 
 
 " My dear, I tell you she is old — old !" remon- 
 strated her mother ; and in the same breath she in- 
 formed her that breakfast was ready, Madame 
 Bertrand having condescended so far as to pre- 
 pare it. 
 
 Dora cast a quick, keen look around their sitting- 
 room, as she sat down to breakfast. It was a clean, 
 cold, and poor-looking apartment enough. 
 
 "But you shall have another look before the 
 day is out," said Dora aloud. " I am talking to 
 the room, aunt," she added, smiling at Mrs. Luan's 
 startled face. 
 
 "Don't spend, Dora!" exclaimed Mrs. Luan, 
 putting down her cup in alarm. 
 
 " Oh ! I must ; but it shall not be beyond pence. 
 I know that shillings are forbidden now." 
 
 Mrs. Luan still looked uneasy, but did not ven-
 
 112 DORA. 
 
 ture on further remonstrance. When breakfast 
 was over, Dora entered her room, unpacked her 
 trunk, and took out some of those httle toys which 
 are the deh*o;ht of a woman's heart. She had 
 saved them from the wreck of her fortunes, not 
 merely because habit had endeared them to her, 
 but because, though valuable of their kind, they 
 would only have been swallowed in the great catas- 
 trophe, and would have brought in little or nothing 
 at a sale. Within an hour the room, as Dora had 
 told it, had another look. She had hung up a few 
 water-colour drawings on the walls, put up two 
 brackets with the bronze heads of Shakespeare and 
 Dante upon them, and for the dingy, common 
 French porcelain vases, with artificial flowers in 
 them, under glass globes, w^hich adorned Madame 
 Bertrand's black marble mantel-piece, Dora substi- 
 tuted two white and blue vases of genuine china, 
 which she filled with fresh wallflowers, bought 
 from a woman in the street. This, and a work- 
 basket on the table, a few books on a shelf, and 
 here and there a little feminine trifle, so altered the 
 aspect of the place, that when Mrs. Courtenay 
 came out of her own room, and saw it again, she 
 uttered a little scream of delight.
 
 DORA. 113 
 
 "You are a fairy!" she cried, clasping her 
 hands in admiration. 
 
 "Twopence for nails, and twopence for flowers," 
 triumphantly said Dora, looking at her aunt ; 
 " total, fourpence !" 
 
 Mrs. Luan was mute; but, if she had dared, 
 she would have said that the fourpence were ill- 
 spent. 
 
 The day had been a busy one for Dora, and 
 towards the close she entered her room and sat 
 down to rest by her open window. She looked at 
 the old church, at the lilies, at the house where 
 the professor lived, and she found them all quiet 
 and silent as in the morning. The little rosy boy, 
 whom she had already seen, was peeping at her 
 from behind a window curtain ; but when he saw 
 her smiling face, he disappeared. A glimpse of 
 the professor's wife she also had, but it was a 
 brief one. Madame Didier was looking out at 
 her husband, a lame, infirm man, who walked 
 down the street leaning heavily on his stick. She 
 watched him' till he turned the corner of the street, 
 then she shut her window, and was seen no more. 
 Dora leaned back in her chair, with a book lying 
 unopened on her lap. She could imagine from 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 DORA. 
 
 this day what her life would be. She would not 
 have pictures to hang or brackets to put up daily, 
 but daily she might if she pleased sit by her win- 
 dow and read, or sew, or look at the old church. 
 Mrs. Courtenay was too delicate to take long 
 walks, Mrs. Luan too indifferent, and they could 
 not afford to hire carriages. She had been out 
 for an hour alone, and she had caught a glimpse 
 of Rouen. It looked a dull, grave, commercial 
 city, with magnificent Gothic churches, but it also 
 looked very dreary. Little light or cheerfulness 
 was there in those ancient streets, over which huge 
 mediaeval piles shed their gloom. 
 
 " And we do not know a soul here," she 
 thought ; *^ and if we stay years in Rouen, as we 
 may, I shall spend those years in comparative 
 solitude." 
 
 There was something almost appalling to Dora 
 in the thought, and the evening of that first day 
 was not calculated to contradict it. 
 
 It was a spring evening, hot as summer, yet 
 they remained within, for whither should they 
 have gone? Mrs. Luan, who never felt dull, 
 perhaps because she never felt merry, was busy 
 with her patchwork. Mrs. Courtenay at first
 
 DORA. 115 
 
 talked in a very lively strain, and was enthusiastic 
 about the pleasures of this new life, but gently 
 fell asleep in the end. Dora looked at a flower- 
 pot on the window-ledge, in which a weak 
 shoot was attempting to send forth a pair of 
 leaves. 
 
 *^ I suppose I shall have to take some interest in 
 you," she thought ; " but you are not animate 
 enough for me. I wish one could make slips of 
 living creatures, and watch them growing. It would 
 be pleasant to see the tips of a pair of brown, furry 
 ears shooting up, then bright eyes, then a round 
 head, then the rest of the creature ; but the ears 
 would be the really pretty part of it. I should 
 like to have a kitten so, or a pup ; but where is 
 the use of liking anything more ? I, who could 
 not see a bird fly but I longed for it, must now 
 learn to be as sober and demure as any nun." 
 
 In this austere mood, Dora took up a book and 
 tried to read, but reading seemed to have lost its 
 charm. 
 
 " I must study," she thought — " nothing else 
 will do." So she went and fetched Dante, and 
 did her best to fathom one of the piost obscure of 
 his difficult passages. But neither would that an- 
 
 l2
 
 116 DORA. 
 
 swer. Study cannot be taken up as a foil against 
 passing tediousness. She is an austere mistress, 
 and requires undivided worship. Besides, there 
 rose sounds from below which disturbed Dora. 
 Madame Bertrandhad friends who spent the even- 
 ing with her. Their loud talking and louder 
 laughter came up to Dora as a sorrowful comment 
 on the present, and a no less sorrowful remem- 
 brance of the past. She remembered joyous 
 young days in Ireland, pleasant evenings between 
 her brother Paul and her cousin, John Luan. 
 She remembered evenings when she had conversed 
 with the gifted and the wise during the brief year 
 of her prosperity. That, too, had had its charm, 
 colder than that of her youth, but happy because 
 intellectual. And now, how had it ended ? She 
 had lost the two friends of her girlhood ; she had 
 lost the intercourse which is so dear to an inquir- 
 ing and cultivated mind, and she was the denizen 
 of a strange city, thrown on her own resources, 
 bound to live without a purpose or a task in life 
 other than that of life itself — a dull and a hard 
 prospect at twenty-three. 
 
 But we do not all feel alike on these subjects.
 
 DORA. 117 
 
 Madame Bertrand and her friends talked so 
 loud, that Mrs. Courtenaj awoke, and looked 
 startled. 
 
 " Dear me !" she said, innocently, '^ I thought 
 I was at one of our parties, and that I had fallen 
 asleep whilst Mr. Gray was telling me of a scien- 
 tific experiment. It is such a relief to find it a 
 dream ! Poor Mr. Gray ! — how he used to 
 prose !" 
 
 " Thank Heaven she regrets nothing !" thought 
 Dora, with a smile. 
 
 **Do listen to these people laughing," good- 
 humouredly continued Mrs. Courtenay. "You 
 have no idea how cheerful my country-people are, 
 Dora." 
 
 She spoke airily. It was plain that she appro- 
 priated the cheerfulness of Madame Bertrand and 
 her friends, and made it her own for the time 
 being. 
 
 " And so will I," resolutely thought Dora, with 
 a little defiant shake of her bright head. "So 
 will I." 
 
 Alas! it is very easily said — more easily said 
 than done. When Dora went back to her room
 
 118 DORA. 
 
 that evening, and looked at the prim and patient 
 Grisehdis, she wondered if ennui had ever been 
 amongst the trials of that lady's lot.
 
 119 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A BRAVE heart will go through more than 
 -^ Dora had to bear. After all, her lot was 
 not so hard. She had the shelter of a roof, daily 
 bread, raiment, all the things that thousands 
 struggle for so wearily, and can so seldom win. 
 She had these, and with them leisure, a few books, 
 the companionship of two beings who loved her, 
 and a happy, sunny temper, to make all good. If 
 she sometimes heaved a little regretful sigh, it was 
 because she was still young, you see, and did not 
 know the wonderful blessings of peace. Give her 
 a few years more, let her go forth and be tossed 
 in some lonely boat on the waves of life, and how 
 she will look back to this safe haven, and pine for 
 its sweet shelter ! Happy girl ! Neither passion 
 which is wasting, nor sorrow which is cruel, nor 
 care which is remorseless, is with you now. So 
 this is still your golden time, and these are still
 
 120 DORA. 
 
 your halcyon days, though Rouen is rather a 
 gloomy city to live in. 
 
 But though Dora, more through temperament 
 than from any philosophical appreciation of the 
 blessings which remained to her, was happy and 
 contented ; though Madame Bertrand said it did 
 one good to see the demoiselle's bright face, and 
 grew poetic with her neighbours when she once 
 broached that theme ; though everything, in short, 
 seemed as it should be, still Dora heaved that 
 little regretful sigh we have spoken of. It came 
 probably because no human life can be free from 
 it. We may be sure that on the day when Na- 
 poleon was crowned in Notre Dame he heaved a 
 sigh for Corsican hills, or for having eaten cherries 
 with a pretty girl in an orchard when he was 
 sub-lieutenant — for anything, in short, which he 
 had no more. It is the mortal lot to repine. 
 Saints fret over their sins, and sinners lament 
 their lost follies, and every one has suffered some 
 deprivation or other. Dora's was money, and 
 with money the loss of comforts, and pleasures, 
 and enjoyments, which that modern lamp of 
 Aladdin summons forth at its bidding from the 
 dark recesses of life, where they sleep so soundly,
 
 DORA. 121 
 
 SO far as the needy are concerned. Tlie cruel en- 
 chanter Brown had taken her lamp away ; the spell 
 was gone, and some trouble was the result. On 
 most days she defied her fate, and forbade it to vex 
 her ; and on other days, as we said, she sighed. 
 
 Her mother and her aunt, who shared her loss, 
 did not deny its existence, but they were not pre- 
 pared to sympathise with Dora when she felt dull 
 now and then. The sound of her native language 
 had not yet lost its charm for Mrs. Courtenay, 
 and Mrs. Luan professed herself delighted with 
 the cheapness of Rouen. So Dora behaved like 
 a true stoic. She endured and did not complain. 
 
 Rouen is a picturesque city, and Dora liked 
 the picturesque, and found and made herself plea- 
 sures out of it. The solemn gloom of Notre Dame 
 and Saint Ouen, the glorious painted glass in Saint 
 yincent and Saint Patrice, the wonderful fa9ade 
 of Saint Maclou, or the exquisite court of the Palais 
 de Justice, gave her many a delightful hour. 
 But one cannot live upon architecture, and Dora 
 often felt restless, and scarcely happy, even though 
 these magnificent memorials of the past were daily 
 within her view. She missed something — some- 
 thing which Athens itself, and the Acropolis, which
 
 122 DOR A. 
 
 glimpses of Olympus and Mount Athos could not 
 have supplied. The open space and border of 
 heath, the view of a gleaming or stormy sea, which 
 she had had from her mother's cottage in Ireland, 
 often came back to her with a sort of passion. 
 Oh ! that sad memory did not stand between her 
 and that past ! For a year back again in the old 
 country, with the bracing sea air, and with it the 
 breath of liberty, far, far away from those grand 
 frowning Gothic heaps of stone. 
 
 Rouen has few attractions as a modern city 
 — and they were fewer then than they are now — 
 and these Dora quickly exhausted. The theatres 
 she did not visit, her mother did not care for ex- 
 cursions, and the feminine delight of looking in 
 at shop windows she seldom indulged in. She 
 was still young, and not insensible to the charms 
 of elegant and costly attire. So it was rather hard 
 to see velvet and silks which she must now never 
 wear, or jewels that could no longer be hoped for 
 as a good yet to come. The gate of all luxurious 
 enjoyment was closed upon her ; and if Dora was 
 not wise enough to scorn such vanities, she was too 
 proud to indulge in weak and useless regret. 
 
 To stay very much within was therefore one of
 
 DOHA. 123 
 
 the features of her lot, and such tranquillity is 
 utterly obnoxious to youth. She sometimes longed 
 for motion with a feverish restlessness. She did 
 her best to conquer the unquiet mood, and she 
 tried to make herself home pleasures, but this was 
 no easy matter. Madame Bertrand's cat did in- 
 deed steal up to her, but she only slept and purred. 
 So Dora made friends with a host of sparrows, 
 whose nests were in the old church. She bribed 
 them with crumbs, and soon so tamed them that 
 they would come and flutter past her open win- 
 dow, and, if she sat very still, peck on the ledge 
 whilst she looked on. She also opened a flirtation 
 with the little rosy boy in the opposite house, and 
 she seldom appeared at her window but he was to 
 be seen at his, laughing and nodding to her. A 
 silent interest she likewise took in the doings of 
 the lame professor and his pale wife ; and alto- 
 gether she made the best of her lot, but, as we 
 have said, she could not help feeling restless now 
 and then. 
 
 That unquiet mood had been very strong upon 
 her on a bright day in summer, when, in the after- 
 noon, Mrs. Courtenay suddenly expressed the wish 
 to partake of some From age de Brie.
 
 124 DORA. 
 
 " I should like it, oh ! of all things," she ex- 
 claimed, raising her voice in her little shrill tone. 
 
 Dora looked up from her work, and supposed 
 the wish was one her mother could gratify. 
 
 *' Oh ! no," was the slightly plaintive reply, " I 
 would not touch one of the cheeses they sell about 
 here ; and Madame Bertrand's woman lives miles 
 away, at the other end of Rouen — miles away !" 
 
 " I shall go and fetch you a cheese, mamma," 
 quickly said Dora, throwing down her work. 
 
 " My dear, it is ever so far away. Oh ! so far 
 —miles !" 
 
 " Then it is the very thing for me," gaily said 
 Dora. '' I feel just now as if I should like to go 
 to the edge of the world and look over." 
 
 " My dear !" expostulated her mother. 
 
 "I should!" wilfully said Dora. "Oh! for 
 one good peep out of this world, and to see the 
 stars spinning ! " 
 
 The journey to fetch the cheese Mrs. Courtenay 
 longed for promised no such prospect, and was 
 described by Madame Bertrand as something for- 
 midable; but Dora was bent on going, and slie 
 went. 
 
 She had not walked ten steps when, as she
 
 DORA. 125 
 
 passed the house where the lame teacher lived, she 
 heard a groan of distress coming from beneath the 
 archway. The gate, as is usually the case on the 
 Continent, stood wide opgn, and Dora put her 
 head in and saw a lamentable picture. A httle 
 woman, very old, and very poorly dressed, was 
 sitting on the last step of the stone staircase, star- 
 ing at half-a-dozen of broken eggs and some spilt 
 milk. An earthen bowl and a plate also lay in 
 fragments near her. 
 
 " Can I help you ?" asked Dora. 
 
 " Can you pick up milk," was the sharp retort, 
 " or mend broken ego-s ?" 
 
 " Yes, " good-humouredly replied Dora, " I 
 think I can do both." 
 
 " I had not tasted a drop of milk, or seen the 
 yolk of an egg, since I lost my five-franc piece," 
 groaned the old woman, without heeding her; 
 " and now that I had saved and saved till I could 
 have an egg again, I stumbled, and there they 
 are, dish and all — dish and all! There they 
 are !" 
 
 Dora stooped and carefully picked up two of 
 the eggs, which had escaped with a gentle crack. 
 
 " These wiU do," she said, softly laying them on
 
 126 DORA. 
 
 a fragment of the plate ; " and for the other four 
 and the milk here is a cure." 
 
 She put her hand in her pocket and took out a 
 few pence; but the old. woman shook her head. 
 
 " Have eggs and milk got feet ?" she asked. 
 " Will they come ? I cannot go and fetch them — 
 no, I cannot, I am too tired," she added, as if 
 Dora were attempting to persuade her. 
 
 *^ You are but a cross old fairy," thought Dora ; 
 *' but still you shall have your way, and I will see 
 if I cannot make you happy." 
 
 So she took back the money which she had put 
 in the old woman's lap, and she went away. 
 
 The little old woman remained sitting on the 
 step of the staircase groaning over the broken eggs 
 and the spilt milk, and addressing them with im- 
 potent wrath. 
 
 " You did it on purpose," she said, shaking her 
 head at them, " you know you did !" 
 
 " Did they, though ?" said some one, coming in 
 from the street. " That was too bad of them." 
 
 " Go your way," was her angry reply. " Go to 
 your old frippery, and let me be quiet. Don't 
 touch them," she almost screamed, ag, in going up 
 the staircase, the stranger seemed likely to tread
 
 DORA. 127 
 
 on the two eggs which Dora had put on the broken 
 plate. "She is bringing me more; but I will 
 have these too." 
 
 Even as she spoke Dora appeared underneath 
 the archway, followed bv a child with a cup full 
 of milk, and four eggs on a plate. 
 
 " There," she said, gaily, " they did come to you, 
 after all; and they are all yours, the cup, the 
 plate, the milk, and the eggs," she added, taking 
 them from the child's hand to present them to her. 
 
 " The cup too ?" screamed the old woman. 
 
 " Yes, yes, the cup too," replied Dora, gravely. 
 " Are you glad ?" 
 
 " Ravished !" was the ardent reply ; " enchanted ! 
 Oh ! the beautiful cup ! Why, who are you t" 
 she suddenly exclaimed, glancing from the gifts 
 to the giver, and shading her eyes with her hand 
 to see her better. 
 
 Dora stood before her bright and smiling, with 
 her little donations in her hands. She saw that 
 her protegee was dazzled with her blooming, radiant 
 face, and it amused her. To charm animals, allure 
 children, and conquer ill-tempered people, was 
 her gift ; she knew it, and she liked it. " I 
 thought I should prevail over you," was her tri-
 
 128 DORA. 
 
 umphant, tliougli unspoken boast, as the old woman 
 still stared like one confused. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said aloud ; " the child shall 
 carry these up for you," and handing both milk 
 and eggs to the little girl who had brought them, 
 Dora nodded and went her way. • 
 
 ^' Who is she, eh ?" asked the receiver of the 
 milk and eggs. 
 
 '' She lives opposite," replied the child, glibly ; 
 " and she sits at her window. Such a beautiful 
 demoiselle ! " 
 
 Unconscious of her double triumph, Dora went 
 on her way. The distance was great, but it was 
 reached at last. Dora bought the cheese, and 
 with the precious dainty carefully wrapped up, so 
 that no untoward accident should cause it to break, 
 she turned homewards. The cheesemonger lived 
 very far away, and the sun was now near its set- 
 ting. As Dora went down a steep street, she saw 
 all Rouen beneath her. It was a picture ! Many 
 a poor, struggling artist, living in a dull, smoky 
 city, would give a year of his life to have the 
 chance of painting such a one. The gleaming 
 river, now dark purple, now flowing gold, wound 
 through the old town, and passed beneath the
 
 DORA. 129 
 
 bridcres ; church towers and spires rose above the 
 dark sea of roofs, and appeared in fine clear lines 
 on a sky of pale azure ; luxuriant verdure and 
 rounded hills framed the magic picture over which 
 spread a haze both soft and bright. It was beau- 
 tiful, wonderfully beautiful, and Dora stopped 
 and gazed in deep admiration. But neither that 
 nor the long walk which had tired her could quell 
 the restlessness within her. She had brought it 
 out, and she was taking it back. Her life was a 
 dull life, and Dora had tasted another life than 
 this. She had had a life full of ferv'our and hope 
 with her lost brother in Ireland ; she had had a 
 life of intellectual pursuits and social pleasures in 
 London, and now she was hngering the last bright 
 years of youth away in a French provincial town. 
 In short, Dora felt not merely restless, but dull. 
 
 It is sad to say it, but more than one half of the 
 human species, womankind, is sorely troubled with 
 that modern complaint of dulness. After all, 
 there was some good in the olden time, when men 
 fought and strove, and women sat at home and 
 spun wool, and both liked it. Yes, there was a 
 philosophy in the spindle and distaff, or in the silk 
 and worsted, no doubt about it. When Matilda 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 DORA. 
 
 and her maidens sat down to their tapestry and 
 worked in tent stitch the history of the Norman 
 Conquest, they were thus saved many a trouble 
 and many a weary hour. Of course there was 
 sorrow in these days, and there was love too, easy, 
 natural love, which came and went like a gentle 
 epidemic ; but we doubt if these medigeval women 
 were haunted with the ideal, or if they made their 
 moan because they failed to secure variety. Peace, 
 which we prize so little, was one of their blessings. 
 A calm and tranquil life they led in the main. 
 Strong walls were raised, and men wore heavy 
 armour, that tiiese ladies might sit in quiet and 
 work on canvas strange warriors on gaunt horses, 
 or quaint trees, with birds never known out of 
 fable perched on the boughs. We have improved 
 all that, to be sure ; but then let us not complain 
 if we are called upon to pay the penalty of the im- 
 provement. 
 
 Vain admonition ! Dora had a warm, genial 
 nature ; she loved her mother and she liked her 
 aunt, but she longed for a life in which there 
 should be some other purpose than to make the two 
 ends of a narrow income meet. 
 
 That longing was strong upon her as she stood
 
 DORA. 131 
 
 and looked at dusk gathering over the city below 
 her. With a sigh at its uselessness, she roused 
 herself from her reverie, and went down the street 
 at a quick pace. To reach home sooner she took 
 a short cut throucrh one of the narrow lanes that 
 were to be found within the shadow of Notre 
 Dame. A grey twilight still reigned there. As 
 she passed by one of the low shops, with beetling 
 first-floors over them, Dora saw some books on a 
 stall outside. Had she ever seen them there be- 
 fore ? It seemed not to her. The shop was not 
 a mere second-hand bookseller's shop; many wares 
 were sold within it. There were portfolios of draw- 
 ings in stands inside near the door ; in a corner 
 she saw some old portraits, with fixed eyes staring 
 through the gloom. A few plates of old Rouen 
 ware, a worm-eaten box of carved wood, a shat- 
 tered Etruscan vase, and a heap of ancient tapes- 
 try, appeared in the window above the book-stall. 
 At once Dora's thoughts flew back to the days 
 when her brother and she were engaged in the 
 catalogue. She paused and looked at that old 
 biic-a-hrac shop with a sad, troubled eye. Oh ! 
 ye days gone by, how you can haunt us ! It was 
 a pain to linger there, and yet Dora could not 
 
 k2
 
 132 DORA. 
 
 bear to go. A light burned in the shop ; its rays 
 fell on the stall outside. She took up a book to 
 stay and look a little longer. The book itself 
 woke kindred recollections. She remembered 
 how she had once provoked her brother Paul with 
 a piece of girlish folly, and how he had answered 
 her with a " Read Epictetus — read Epictetus " — 
 a tantalizing injunction, since he read it in the 
 classic original. Now the book Dora had taken 
 up was an old French translation of Epictetus. 
 Her heart beat as she opened its pages ; then, as 
 she glanced over them, and read a few maxims, 
 the calm and divine wisdom of the Phrygian slave 
 won on her by its beauty. 
 
 *' I wonder if the book is a dear one f she 
 thought. 
 
 She hesitated a while, then ventured into the 
 shop with the volume in her hand. The dealer 
 was not alone. There was a customer with him, 
 a slender, dark man, for whom he held a candle 
 in a dingy iron candlestick. 
 
 ^^ Pray how much may this book cost ?" asked 
 Dora. 
 
 The man turned round, and said, civilly, 
 
 " What book, Mademoiselle, if you please ?"
 
 DORA. 133 
 
 " Epictetus," she answered. 
 
 The customer, who was gazing intently at an 
 old engra^^ng, now looked up as he heard this 
 girlish voice uttering the name of the stoic philo- 
 sopher, and there was just a touch of perplexity in 
 his glance as he saw Dora. You would scarcely 
 have connected philosophy under any shape with 
 her open, genial face. Thus, bright, hopeful, and 
 young might have looked a Psyche before her 
 sorrows. 
 
 " Ten francs," was the dealer's reply. 
 
 Dora had made up her mind to give so much 
 as one franc for the volume, but ten made her 
 blush with confusion at having entered the shop 
 at all. 
 
 *' I did not think it was so expensive," she said, 
 apologetically. 
 
 He saw her embarrassment, and replied, good- 
 naturedly, that the edition was a rare one. Dora, 
 who was reluctantly putting the book by, bright- 
 ened up. Had he got a cheaper edition ? 
 
 " Xo," and he shook his head, " he had not ; 
 and what was more, Epictetus was rather a scarce 
 book. Few people cared about it." 
 
 Dora apologised for having troubled him, and
 
 134 DORA. 
 
 left the shop. The dealer looked after her and 
 chuckled. 
 
 " Whenever an out-of-the-way book is asked of 
 me," he said, turning to his customer, " it is by 
 your countryfolk, Doctor Richard, and especially 
 by your countrywomen. To think of a little 
 chicken like that wanting to peck at Epictetas 1" 
 
 " Who is she f asked Doctor Richard ; and he 
 made good his claim to be Dora's countryman by 
 a moderate yet unmistakeable accent. 
 
 '* I do not know her name, but I often see her 
 about Notre Dame. A pretty girl, eh, Doctor 
 Richard r 
 
 " Not very pretty," drily replied Doctor Rich- 
 ard, " but very bright. She lit up your shop, 
 Monsieur Merand." 
 
 °' Come, you shall have another candle," said 
 Monsieur Merand, taking the hint. " You must 
 see that engraving well in order to appreciate it." 
 
 He entered the dark parlour behind his shop. 
 Dr. Richard remained alone, and he wondered. 
 
 ^' Where can I have seen; this girl, who wants 
 to buy Epictetus, with that joyous face ? It was 
 she who was giving milk and eggs to the cross old 
 witch on the staircase, but I knew then I had al-
 
 DORA. 135 
 
 ready seen her. When and where was it ? " 
 Doctor Richard's memory was one tenacious of 
 faces, and it never deceived him. Yes, he had 
 certainly seen and been struck with that bright 
 face, " with eyes so fair," Hke CoUins's Hope, be- 
 fore this day. Suddenly the remembrance flashed 
 across his mind. He had seen her at a concert 
 six months ago, a bright, happy, and admired girl. 
 He remembered her looks, and her smiles, and the 
 bouquet of rare roses on her lap — rare for the 
 season of the year. He remembered, too, some 
 unknown lady's comment, " Miss Courtenay is the 
 most extravagant girl. Now, these roses cost a 
 guinea, at least." And now Epictetus was too 
 dear at ten francs. And the milk and eggs, 
 moreover, suf^lgested a strange contrast between 
 the present and the past. The story of her losses 
 Doctor Kichard had also heard, and thinking over 
 it, he fell into a fit of musing, whence Monsieur 
 Merand, returning at length with the candle, 
 roused him. But the engraving, on being seen 
 more closely, proved what Doctor Richard was 
 pleased to call " an impostor." He put it down 
 with a great show of contempt, and looked for his 
 hat.
 
 136 DORA. 
 
 "Well, then, have 'Epictetus/" said Monsieur 
 Merand, thrusting the book towards him. 
 
 " Not I," curtly replied Dr. Richard. " Good 
 night, Monsieur Merand; you must keep better 
 wares if you want my custom." 
 
 "He will come for it to-morrow," said Monsieur 
 Merand composedly, putting the engraving aside ; 
 " and I daresay he will take Epictetus as well. I 
 saw him looking at it."
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 II IRS. COURTENAY was getting uneasy 
 ■^'-^ when her daughter came home. 
 
 " My dear, how long you were !" she said with 
 a sigh of relief. 
 
 " It is very far away. But the cheese is per- 
 fect, and " here Dora paused in dismay. The 
 
 cheese might be a first-rate one, and was so, no 
 doubt, but it was no longer in her possession. She 
 had probably left it at the hric-a-hi^ac shop. 
 
 "I looked at a book-stall near Notre Dame," 
 she said, feeling Mrs. Luan's reproving eye upon 
 her, " and I must have forgotten it there. I shall 
 go back for it at once. Pray don't wait tea for 
 me." 
 
 She was gone before Mrs. Courtenay could re- 
 monstrate. Within a few minutes Dora had 
 reached Monsieur Merand's shop. She entered it 
 after first casting a look at the book-stall, and as-
 
 138 DORA. 
 
 certain! ng that neither Epictetus nor the cheese 
 was there. 
 
 "You come for Epictetus?" he said, recognizing 
 her at ouce. 
 
 " No, sir, I come for a parcel which I forgot." 
 
 " There is no parcel. Take Epictetus for nine 
 francs, eh ?" 
 
 " It is still too dear at that price, thank you. I 
 am sure I left my parcel here." 
 
 She looked for it, but without assisting her 
 Monsieur Merand went on, 
 
 "Let us make an exchange. Mademoiselle. 
 Have you got an old engraving ? I am very fond 
 of an old engraving. Look, here is a stock of 
 them!" 
 
 He opened a portfolio, so that Dora could not 
 help seeing its contents. 
 
 " These are not engravings," she said ; " these 
 are crayon drawings — and very bad ones too," she 
 added, shutting up the portfolio, and again looking 
 for her missing cheese. 
 
 " Bad I" exclaimed Monsieur Merand, throwing 
 the portfolio open once more — "you call these 
 bad ! Then, Mademoiselle," he added, taking off 
 his hat to her with a mock politeness, which was
 
 DOHA. 139 
 
 not impertinent, ^' I will make you a present of 
 Epictetus if you can do me a head like this." 
 
 Dora smiled a little scornfully. She drew 
 tolerably well, and she knew it ; but not choosing 
 to enter into an argument with Monsieur Merand, 
 she quietly remarked that as he had not got her 
 parcel she would trouble him no longer. 
 
 " Is this your parcel ?" he asked, taking it from 
 the chair on which it . had lain concealed all the 
 time ; " why," he added, smelling it and looking at 
 her, " it is cheese !" 
 
 Dora began to think that this Monsieur Merand 
 was a ver}' odd man ; but he looked both good- 
 humoured and good-natured, spite his oddity, and 
 she could not help laughing. 
 
 " It is cheese," she said ; ''but pray give it to 
 me, sir, I am in a hurry." 
 
 " This is a particularly good cheese," he con- 
 tinued in a pensive tone. " Now," he added, giv- 
 ing it up to her and putting his hands behind his 
 back, " it is a pity you cannot draw ; I would have 
 let you have Epictetus for a crayon sketch like 
 this ;" and he took and flourished one before her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I wonder if the man is jesting, or if he would
 
 140 DORA. 
 
 really buy my drawings ?" thought Dora, suddenly 
 fluttered at the golden vision thus opened to her. 
 
 " I suppose, sir, you are in earnest f she re- 
 marked doubtfully. 
 
 " To be sure I am ; but can you draw ?" 
 
 He already seemed to hesitate and draw back. 
 
 " I have one or two things by me," said Dora, 
 still doubting his sincerity ; " shall 1 show them to 
 you to-morrow 1" 
 
 " Perhaps you had better not," kindly replied 
 Monsieur Merand. " I am a severe critic, and 
 — and we all know how young ladies draw." 
 
 " I care nothing about criticism," emphatically 
 declared Dora ; " besides, I can keep to my own 
 opinion, you know, which is, that I can produce 
 something much better than this." 
 
 Monsieur Merand's breath seemed gone at the 
 audacious confession ; but Dora, without waiting 
 for him to recover and utter some other discour- 
 aging speech, bade him a good evening, took up 
 her cheese, and walked out of the shop. 
 
 Even Mrs. Luan noticed how bright and ex- 
 cited Dora looked when she came back. 
 
 " Did you get it ?" cried Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " Here it is," replied Dora, gaily ; ^' and what
 
 DORA. 141 
 
 is more," she added, tossing off her bonnet and 
 shaking her bright head, " I think I am going to 
 earn cheeses by the dozen !" She laughed at their 
 amazed looks, and related to them what had 
 passed, adding saucily, " And my drawings are a 
 great deal better than his. It would not take me 
 more than two days to draw such a head as he 
 showed me. Now, suppose he gave me ten francs 
 a head, that would be a hundred and fifty francs 
 a month, or eighteen hundred francs a year. Xay, 
 as to that, I could produce a drawing a day, which 
 would make three thousand francs a year." 
 
 Mrs. Luan put down her patchwork and stared ; 
 whilst Mrs. Courtenay said innocently, 
 
 *' Three hundred and sixty-five drawings a year!" 
 
 Dora looked bewildered at this unexpected cal- 
 culation, then she remarked in a much more sober 
 tone, 
 
 " Well, I suppose Monsieur Merand would 
 scarcely take a drawing a day. No, nor yet one 
 every other day. But then, he may give me more 
 than ten francs a drawing, you see. I shall cer- 
 tainly try him to-morrow," she added, sitting down 
 to take her tea with the composure of an old 
 woman of business.
 
 142 DORA. 
 
 They were all three rather elated at this unex- 
 pected prospect. Epictetus, who had led to this, 
 could afford to despise money, live in a garret, 
 sleep on a straw mattress, and never lock his door ; 
 but Dora had not yet reached these sublime heii^hts 
 of philosophy. Money was much to her. Money 
 meant a little of that pleasure and relaxation 
 which was the grievous want of her new life ; 
 money, too, in this case meant exertion, and a mo- 
 tive for it ; no wonder then that Dora looked 
 once more as bright as sunshine, and spent a rest- 
 less, hopeful night, full of projects and dreams, 
 some sleeping and some waking. 
 
 Nevertheless, Miss Courtenay felt in no great 
 hurry to try her fortunes when the next day came 
 round. She took out her portfolio, selected the 
 best drawing in it, and looked at it in doubt. Was 
 it, after all, so good as she had thought it to be ? 
 Mrs. Courtenay, who felt very impatient to know 
 Monsieur Merand's opinion of her daughter's pro- 
 duction, urged her to go to his shop early ; but, 
 Dora prudently said, " It would not be dignified," 
 and she lingered until she suddenly discovered 
 that if she did not go at once, it would be too late 
 to go at all. So she slipped her portfolio under
 
 D O K A. 143 
 
 her arm, and went out alone, though Mrs. Courte- 
 nay first, then Mrs. Luan afterwards, offered to ac- 
 company her. 
 
 "No," decisively said Dora; "I will not under- 
 take Monsieur Merand in company." 
 
 She went, and her mother, and even her aunt, 
 looked out of the window after her. Dora saw 
 them, and nodded and smiled and looked very 
 brave, though her heart beat a little. She walked 
 briskly whilst she was within view, but slackened 
 her pace when once she had turned the corner of 
 the street. To say the truth, she felt an arrant 
 coward. " I wonder what takes me to that Mon- 
 sieur Merand,'' she thought ; " I could do without 
 Epictetus, and live without that odd man's money. 
 Perhaps he was only laughing at me yesterday, 
 and that I shall have had a sleepless night and a 
 useless walk for my pains." 
 
 " The milk and eggs were very good, mademoi- 
 .selle," said a cracked voice ; " very good : and the 
 cup is beautiful !" 
 
 Dora raised her eyes, which were bent on the 
 earth, and saw the little old woman whose distress 
 she had relieved the day before. 
 
 " I am glad of it," she replied, with a smile.
 
 144 DORA. 
 
 "And what is your name, mademoiselle?" 
 promptly asked the old woman, leaning her head 
 towards her right shoulder, and looking up at 
 Dora with a keen, brown eye, that bore no token 
 of age. 
 
 ^^I cannot tell it you," mysteriously answered 
 Dora ; *^ I am a princess in disguise, and it is a 
 great secret ; but," she good-humouredly added, 
 noticing the old woman's blank look, "I know 
 where you live, and I shall go and see you." 
 
 " Do !" cried the old woman, brightening. '* The 
 third door on the right hand on the fourth 
 floor." 
 
 *' You poor little fairy," thought Dora, looking 
 after her, as the little old woman passed beneath 
 the archway, and entered the house where she had 
 seen her yesterday, "you have seen better days, I 
 am sure. And I wish you were a fairy indeed, 
 for then you would give me wonderful luck in ex- 
 ciiange for my milk and eggs. Whereas I do be- 
 lieve I am only going to get a humiliating rebuff." 
 
 She had half a mind to turn back as she en- 
 tered Monsieur Merand's street. But it was too 
 late to do so. Monsieur Merand stood at his door, 
 he had seen her, and nodded recognition in a half
 
 DORA. 145 
 
 friendly, half ironical fashion. At least, so thought 
 Dora. 
 
 ** Oh ! you have brought the drawing," he said, 
 as she approached. 
 
 He glanced at the portfolio under her arm. 
 
 "Yes," carelessly replied Dora, entering the 
 shop. " I hope you did not sell Epictetus," she 
 added, composedly, perhaps to impress the dealer 
 with the fact that Epictetus was the summit of her 
 ambition. 
 
 Monsieur Merand shook his head compassion- 
 ately, and Dora understood his meaning quite 
 well. Of course he had not sold Epictetus, but of 
 course he did not expect to part with it to her in 
 exchange for her labour. She began to feel an- 
 noyed at his impertinent scepticism, and some- 
 what defiantly she opened her portfolio and handed 
 him the sketch. 
 
 " Oh ! that is it, is it f said Monsieur Merand, 
 taking it from her hand, and moving to the door, 
 in order to have as much light as the street 
 afforded full on the drawing. Dora remained in 
 the gloomy background, and looked at him with 
 a beating heart. 
 
 Her drawing was taken from a cast of Michael 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 DORA. 
 
 Angelo's famous " Night." The wear}^ goddess 
 hung her head, heavy with sleep, and seemed to 
 forget the cares, the sorrows, and the sins of life, 
 in those deep slumbers. A repose which was not 
 that of death, for there was suffering in it still, 
 wrapped the whole figure, and was well expressed 
 in the bowed head. Monsieur Merand looked 
 long and attentively, then he put the drawing 
 down, went to the other end of his shop, and came 
 back with a book, which he silently placed in 
 Dora's hands. She looked at it, though she truly 
 had no need to look. It was Epictetus. 
 
 There are delightful moments in life, moments 
 of boasting and triumph, which we never forget. 
 Dora had a genial, happy nature, keenly suscepti- 
 ble of emotion, as all such natures are. Her heart 
 beat with joy at this little success ; her eyes 
 sparkled, and, alas ! for stoic philosophy, old Epic- 
 tetus shook a little in her hands. It was not 
 vanity, it was not pride, it was the knowledge 
 that she had prevailed, that she, too, possessed a 
 gift, and that this gift was worth something. She 
 could not speak, she could not trust herself to say 
 one word — her stammering tongue might have be- 
 trayed her. Monsieur Merand addressed her first.
 
 DORA. 147 
 
 " Of course," he said, " the professor touched 
 up that drawing — but it is no business of mine. 
 The drawing is a good one, and a bargain is a 
 bargain." 
 
 This gave Dora her tongue back again. 
 
 " Indeed, sir," she replied, a Httle saucily, " I 
 thought you were too good a judge not to know when 
 a drawing had been ^ touched up,' or not. This 
 drawing never underwent such treatment." 
 
 "It is yours — all yours?" exclaimed Monsieur 
 Merand, in the tone of a question. 
 
 "I do not say that," replied Dora, not unwilling 
 to mystify him ; " but I say that it is the work of 
 one hand." 
 
 Monsieur Merand's face fell. 
 
 "Then you have no more such ?" he said, seem- 
 ing rather annoyed. 
 
 " I did not say that either," retorted Dora, 
 much amused. "Do you really wish for 
 more ?" 
 
 " Let us deal openly," suggested Monsieur 
 Merand, putting on a look of great candour. " I 
 care not who does these drawings, but will you let 
 me have more by the same hand — say two to 
 begin with ?" 
 
 • l2
 
 148 DORA. 
 
 "But not for ten francs a piece," suggested 
 Dora, looking grave. 
 
 " No, this and the others shall be twenty. Epic- 
 tetus and fifty francs for the three." 
 
 " Very well," replied Dora, after a pause, seem- 
 ingly given to deliberation, but really afforded to 
 joy. " Are you in a hurry ?" 
 
 " I should like them this week. To-day is Tues- 
 day — say by Saturday, eh V 
 
 " Very well," again answered Miss Courtenay, 
 doing her best to look careless and business-like. 
 " Good morning, sir." 
 
 She gave Monsieur Merand a pretty, conde- 
 scending nod : " for he must be in my power, and 
 not I in his," she thought, as she leisurely walked 
 down the street, till she reached a side-door of 
 Notre Dame, which she entered. 
 
 Dora felt happy, and happiness with her at once 
 found its way into prayer and thanksgiving. The 
 grand old church, with its mighty columns and 
 gorgeous windows, 'Could not awe her, or turn 
 her joy into other channels. Yes, life is brief, and 
 eternity awaits us all ; but life is sweet, too, and its 
 joys are keen, and gladness, also, is a form of wor- 
 ship. So Dora felt ; but a sunbeam stealing in,
 
 DORA. 149 
 
 lighting up the aisle, and falling on a grave-stone, 
 whence the word " Requiescat " suddenly seemed 
 to flash forth, turned Dora's joy to chill and 
 sad regret. Requiescat ! The word was written 
 on Paul's grave, in Glasnevin. She triumphed, 
 she had her little joy and her little boast, and he 
 had been denied his. He had gone down to his 
 premature rest, and he slept too early a sleep be- 
 cause of that disappointment.. 
 
 " Oh ! my brother I — my brother I" thought Dora, 
 her tears flowing at the thought, " how can I be 
 happy and forget you !" 
 
 But did she really forget him ! Was not his re- 
 membrance ever in her heart, ready to rise at the 
 first whisper ? Did she not remember him in joy, 
 because he did not share it ; in sorrow, because he 
 would have borne it with her ; in everything of 
 weal or woe, which stirred her heart or passed 
 through her life. If she now lingered in that 
 ancient church, was it not to think in peace of 
 him ? When she roused herself with a " I must go 
 in," it was with a sort of pain ; so dear was that 
 thought, so hard it was to bid it once more return 
 to those depths of her heart where it slumbered, 
 indeed, but ever ready to waken.
 
 150 DORA. 
 
 " Well !" cried Mrs. Courtenay, from the win- 
 dow. 
 
 Dora looked up and saw her mother's face look- 
 ing down at her. She laughed saucily, showed her 
 the book, and sprang upstairs. No sunbeam was 
 brighter than Dora when she broke in upon her 
 mother and her aunt. 
 
 "Victory, victory I" she cried, clapping her 
 hands, after throwing .poor Epictetus on the nearest 
 chair. "Monsieur Merand gives me twenty francs 
 a drawing, and wants two more by Saturday. We 
 shall be quite rich now, and Pactolus — is it Pacto- 
 lus ? — is going to flow in the room." 
 
 "That is delightful!" cried Mrs. Courtenay, 
 with her little shrill raising of the voice. " Oh ! 
 quite delightful !" 
 
 Mrs. Luan, who looked a little flushed and ex- 
 cited, stared hard at Dora, and said, 
 
 " Where is the money f ' 
 
 "I have not got it yet, aunt. By next Saturday 
 I hope to show you two Napoleons and a half. I 
 wonder what drawings I ought to let him have." 
 
 She brought out her portfolio, and the three 
 looked over its contents. Dora selected a Niobe 
 and a Dying Gladiator, Mrs. Courtenay opined for
 
 DORA. 151 
 
 a Sleeping Ariadne and a Cupid, and Mrs. Luan 
 reckoned up Dora's drawings, and valuing each at 
 twenty francs apiece, made up, mentally of course, 
 a goodly sum. 
 
 "The Ariadne is much better than the NIobe, 
 my dear," said Mrs. Courtenay, nodding her cap 
 emphatically. 
 
 Dora looked at the two as only artists can look 
 at their own work. She liked them both, and now 
 that she had a market for them, she regretted part- 
 ing with them. She remembered how that sleep- 
 ing woman, unconscious of abandonment, had 
 charmed her ; how the meaning of that fine antique 
 had stolen upon her, the more she studied it. And 
 then the Niobe ! The immortal sorrow in those 
 upraised eyes, and in those parted lips ! 
 
 " Let them both go," she said, with a little sigh, 
 and putting them away as she spoke. " I shall 
 keep the Cupid and the Dying Gladiator — for an- 
 other time, if, as I hope, Monsieur Merand will 
 want them. And now, mamma, since I am getting 
 rich again, we shall take drives in the country, and 
 you and aunt must get a silk dress each, and I shall 
 try books, and hire a piano." 
 ' Mrs. Luan's patchwork fell from her hands on
 
 152 DORA. 
 
 her lap, and she stared at Dora with unmitigated 
 astonishment. Had the girl gone crazy, for how 
 could she expect to achieve all this with fifty 
 francs ? 
 
 Dora laughed a clear ringing laugh. 
 
 " I will do all that, aunt," she said wilfully, 
 "and a great deal more. I wonder what old Epic- 
 tetus has to say on the subject ?" 
 
 She took up the volume, and sitting with it on 
 her lap by the open window, she soon became ab- 
 sorbed and grave. Epictetus spoke of virtue, of 
 heroism, endurance, and self-denial, but said not 
 one word of drives in the country, silk dresses, or 
 musical instruments of any kind.
 
 153 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 rpHE event proved Dora to have been in her 
 -*- senses when she foretold the golden results 
 which were to accrue from her connexion with 
 Monsieur Merand. He took the Niobe and the 
 Ariadne without hesitation, and asked for more. 
 
 "I have got a Cupid and a Dying Gladiator," 
 replied Dora with a gentle thrill of emotion. 
 
 " Will you let me see them ?" asked Monsieur 
 Merand rather eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow," she answered quietly. 
 
 She brought them the next morning. Monsieur 
 Merand purchased them at once, put them away 
 very carefully in a portfolio, then said gravely, 
 
 "Mademoiselle, could you copy in crayons a 
 few heads from a painting in our gallery here V* 
 
 " I can try." 
 
 " Then you are not sure ?" 
 
 " I can try," said Dora again ; and her bright 
 smile expressed the certainty of success.
 
 154 DORA. 
 
 " Well, then, here is the catalogue ; this is the 
 picture — Hemmeling's. The heads are marked ; 
 size of the original. Take your time. Mademoi- 
 selle. I am in no hurry, and should like the draw- 
 ings to be good." 
 
 " I shall do my best," answered Dora with a 
 wistful look, for she already felt less confident of 
 success. Instead of going home, she went straight 
 to the Musee. With a beating heart she passed 
 by the majestic front of Saint Ouen, and turning 
 round the edifice, found herself in its deep sha- 
 dow, facing the narrow door which leads to the 
 picture gallery. Sight-seers were scarce that day; 
 Dora met none. She went up the broad stone 
 staircase alone, and went in the mood of one go- 
 ing to meet her fate. These pictures, which she 
 had often looked at with a calm critical eye, now 
 seemed to her like so many judges waiting for 
 her, the future culprit. The door of the library 
 was open ; within, a broad cool room, Dora could 
 see a few gentlemen reading. She remembered 
 the days of Mr. Kyan's library, and Paul's eager 
 labours and sad failure, and she quailed to think 
 that she, too, perhaps, was bent on a task beyond 
 her streno;th.
 
 DORA. 155 
 
 She looked around her for comfort, and found 
 none. The statues which adorn the hall, the 
 severe Augustus, the writhing Laocoon, the cold 
 Pudicitia, had little sympathy with a girl's trouble 
 or with her fears. What did the Roman emperor 
 care for the triumph or defeat of her little ambi- 
 tion ? What was it to the victim of Apollo's revenge 
 that she failed or succeeded ? As for Pudicitia, she 
 would surely have said, if consulted by Miss Cour- 
 tenay, " Stay at home and spin wool." 
 
 "What is there between these Greeks and Ro- 
 mans that they should meet us at every path?" 
 thought Dora a little resentfully ; ^' they can 
 soothe no grief, raise no hope, dispel no trouble. 
 Why have we not, then, the images of our own 
 flesh and blood, of our own heroes around us, like 
 the painter below with his pallet in his marble 
 hand ? It would be cheering to see a Bernard de 
 Palissy there instead of that Laocoon and his 
 heathen serpents. Poor and little as I am, that 
 obstinate Bernard, who fought so hard a battle, is 
 kith and kin to me, and these are nothing — oh ! 
 surely nothing !" and still she stood with the cata- 
 logue in her hand, hesitating to enter the rooms, 
 within which, in her present mood at least, her
 
 156 DORA. 
 
 fate seemed to lie. True, failure would not be 
 ruin, but it would be humiliation, and that surely 
 has its bitterness. 
 
 But when Dora entered the sunlit rooms, and 
 wandered through them, looking at the quaint 
 old pictures with their stiff staring faces, she felt 
 hopeful once more. It did not seem so very hard 
 to prevail and get the better of these grim person- 
 ages. Yet how fine, when you looked into them, 
 were some, and how correct was Monsieur Me- 
 rand's taste. Every head he had chosen had its 
 character and its beauty. 
 
 "If he is so good a judge," thought Dora, "I 
 shall get afraid of him." 
 
 But fear is not a logical feeling. Dora, as she 
 looked over Monsieur Merand's selection, felt 
 cheerful, and not despondent. Her buoyant na- 
 ture rose with the magnitude of the task laid upon 
 her. That would be a tame journey of adventure 
 indeed which should have no path beset with 
 perils. The toil that has no difficulties surely has 
 no charm. 
 
 On her way home, Dora resolved to go and see 
 the old fairy, as she mentally called her. The 
 poor woman's real name was Nanette — so Dora
 
 DORA. 157 
 
 had learned ; also, that Nanette bore an unexcep- 
 tionable character for ev^erything save temper. 
 
 " I am sure she is lucky," thought Dora, climb- 
 ing up the dingy staircase that led to Nanette's 
 room. " The eggs I gave her are fast turning 
 into gold, and as for the milk, we all know it is the 
 symbol of abundance." 
 
 Nanette's door was open, so Dora had no trou- 
 ble in finding her. Nanette lived in a room 
 which was about the size of a large cupboard, but 
 which was exquisitely clean and neat, and Na- 
 nette, being as small and as neat and as clean as 
 her room, looked more than ever like a fairy, in 
 Dora's opinion. A cross fairy she was just 
 then, scolding a charcoal fire, which would not 
 kindle. 
 
 " Ah ! you will not, eh ?" she said, angrily, and 
 vainly using a bellows beyond her strength — '' you 
 know I am old, you do I" 
 
 " Let me try," said Dora, looking in. 
 
 She took the bellows from Nanette's hand, and 
 lo I in a trice the fire was bright. 
 
 " Yes, you are young," said Nanette, with a 
 wistful look, " and you can work. I cannot I — I 
 cannot ! I am seventy-three, and I cannot work,
 
 158 DORA. 
 
 and have to live on charity," she added, with an 
 angry flash in her brown eye. 
 
 Dora tried to soothe her, but Nanette would 
 admit of no consolation. Her temper was roused 
 again. Dora wanted her to have more milk and 
 eggs, but Nanette scorned the offer. ^' She took 
 charity, but she was not a beggar," she said, 
 loftily. " An accident was an accident, but she 
 did not want milk and eggs daily." 
 
 Dora suggested bacon, but greatly imperilled 
 her power of fascination by doing so. Nanette's 
 brown eye burned like a live coal. It turned out 
 that bacon was her particular aversion, 
 
 "Yes, you are a cross fairy," thought Dora, 
 " but for all that, I shall prevail over you once 
 more." So she made no further offers, but gently 
 drew out Nanette. She learned how Nanette had 
 been rich — quite rich. She had earned as much 
 as seventy francs in one month by lace-mending, 
 but now her eyesight was gone, and her hand was 
 unsteady, and there were days when Nanette 
 could not get up, she was so weak, and then she 
 lay sleepless all night. " When the moon shone 
 in at her window, and lit up her room, it was well 
 and good ; but when the night was dark, and the
 
 DORA. 159 
 
 room was black, it was very dreary, you see." 
 
 Dora's briglit eyes flashed with triumph. 
 
 " I shall give you a pound of candles," she 
 said. 
 
 Nanette was fairly conquered. Candles were 
 the secret desire of her heart. Even pride and ill- 
 temper could not reject such a boon. She put 
 her withered hand on Dora's, and looked up in 
 her face. 
 
 " I shall show it to you," she said. '^ Doctor 
 Richard wants it, but I would not let him see it — 
 not I ; but you shall see it !" 
 
 She unlocked a square box on the floor, fum- 
 bled in it, then drew out a velvet case, which she 
 opened, but jealously kept in her hand. Dora 
 might look, but by no means touch. This trea- 
 sure, which was a treasure indeed, was an ancient 
 and exquisite enamel portrait. It showed Dora 
 a young girl in all the bloom and radiance of 
 youth, and with hair of a golden brown. 
 
 " Yes," said Nanette, as Dora gave a little 
 start, "• it is like you ; you have the same hair 
 — I saw that at once. And she was a great, 
 great lady, and my great-great-grandmother, 
 too," added Nanette, " and no one shall have it I"
 
 160 DORA, 
 
 she angrily continued, shutting up the case, and 
 putting away the portrait hurriedly; "and he 
 shall not even see it !" she said, with a sort of 
 scream, meant for Doctor Richard. 
 
 '• My poor old fairy ! " thought Dora, as she 
 left Nanette, and went down the staircase, " I fear 
 your luck is all for me, and that you can keep 
 none for yourself. Are you indeed the descend- 
 ant of that bright-looking lady in rich blue velvet ? 
 You may have mended the exquisite point your 
 great-great-grandmother, as you call her, wore 
 round her white neck, and been paid for your la- 
 bour by the great-great-grand-daughter of her 
 chambermaid. And that lady's face and mine are 
 not unlike. I never was so pretty, but still there 
 is a sort of national likeness. Who knows but 
 the original was the daughter of some Irish Ja- 
 cobite who came over with James Stuart ? I may 
 be Nanette's seventeenth cousin, for all I can tell. 
 And Nanette shall have milk, and eggs, and but- 
 ter, since bacon will not do, and candles, by all 
 means, for the sake of the grand relationship we 
 all have in Father Adam." 
 
 She sent in her gifts at once, and that same 
 evening, looking up to Nanette's window, she saw
 
 DORA. 161 
 
 a liglit burning in it. The night was black and 
 sultrv ; neither moon nor stars were out, but it 
 did Dora good to see that light, and to know that 
 the lonely old woman need not fret her poor heart 
 away in the darkness. When she turned back 
 from the window the smile on her face was so 
 bright, that it puzzled Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " ^ly dear, you look very happy," she said. 
 
 ^' Yes, I am happy," replied Dora ; but she 
 said nothing about Nanette and the candles. She 
 would have told her mother, if Mrs. Courtenay 
 could have kept a secret from ^Irs. Luan, but 
 that was impossible. And as it would have been 
 cruel to make poor Mrs. Luan wretched by letting 
 her know Dora's extravagance, her niece kept her 
 own counsel. 
 
 "And you look happy, too, mamma," continued 
 Dora, approaching the table, and looking over her 
 shoulder at the cards spread upon it. " I see you 
 liave been successful." 
 
 " So successful !" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay ; 
 *' all the cards came out. And as I luckily did it 
 for a wish, I am quite sure you will get on with 
 Monsieur Merand." 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 DOE A. 
 
 Dora laughed, and said there could be no doubt 
 about it. 
 
 Having procured the requisite permission, Dora 
 began her task the next day. The Musee was a 
 quiet place — two or three old gentlemen, who had 
 been painting there for the last twenty years, were 
 her only companions. They looked as antique, 
 and they were as silent as the pictures they copied ; 
 but for the bright sun shining in the place below, 
 and the sound of carriages rolling on its stones, 
 Dora might have fancied herself in some en- 
 chanted palace. She liked this tranquillity. She 
 liked her task too ; and as it progressed, and she 
 felt that she was successful, she loved it. With a 
 cheerful heart she left home in the morning ; Vv'ith 
 a sense of happiness she went up the stone stair- 
 case and entered the rooms where her silent friends 
 and companions, the pictures, were waiting for her. 
 With a fatigue which was welcome, for it meant 
 labour, success, and money, she put by her draw- 
 ing when the day was over, and the keeper gave 
 out the summons to depart. Happy are the 
 women who have to toil for their bread in some 
 loved vocation. The curse of labour is lightened 
 for them, and sweetened into a blessing. Happy
 
 DORA. 163 
 
 they before whom the fair fields of art lie open. 
 Small though the harvest may be — not unto all 
 are plenteous crops given — it is pure wheat, pure 
 and good. Happy therefore was now Dora 
 Courtenay. Monsieur Merand praised the first 
 samples of her skill, and Dora's taste and judg- 
 ment confirmed his approval. The results of her 
 labour were satisfactory in every sense. Ere long 
 she was in the receipt of an income varying from 
 ten to fifteen pounds a month. Thanks to this 
 unexpected piece of good fortune, comfort under 
 many shapes crept into their home. Mrs. Courte- 
 nay and Mrs. Luan had their promised silk 
 dresses; now^ and then a carriage drew up at 
 Madame Bertrand's door, and took her lodgers 
 away for the day in the lovely environs of Rouen ; 
 and every evening the sounds of a piano stole out 
 of Dora's window, and filled the dull old street 
 with brilliant music. The change made her very 
 happy. It was not merely the money, though that 
 was welcome, it was also and especially the sense 
 of leading a useful and active life, which charmed 
 her. She had been poor, and she had been, if not 
 rich, at least in easy circumstances, but never be- 
 fore this time had she earned money, never had 
 
 M 2
 
 164 DORA. 
 
 she felt independent, and one in the great scheme 
 of social life. It was a delightful feeling, and the 
 more delightful that habit and time had not yet 
 deadened its enjoyments and destroyed its fresh- 
 ness, x^nd thus the happy summer stole away. 
 
 On a bright afternoon in September, Dora, on 
 leaving the picture-gallery, went to the house of a 
 poor gilder out of w-ork, from whom she had or- 
 dered a frame a month back for a drawing she had 
 undertaken on her own account. A series of mis- 
 fortunes had prevented Dubois from keeping his 
 promise. Dora had been patient and forbearing, 
 and generous even, but now her patience was out, 
 and she entered the dark lane at the end of which 
 Dubois lived, prepared to bestow nothing upon 
 him save a severe scolding. " I shall not be at all 
 good-natured," she thought ; " but very firm and 
 dignified." As she came to this austere resolve, 
 Dora reached the gilder's door, but when a dirty 
 child admitted her within, and she once more saw 
 the poverty-stricken aspect of the place, her heart 
 relented. 
 
 There is a terrible resemblance between all poor 
 homes. Place them in what latitude, under what 
 sky 3'ou will, they are akin in three essential cha-
 
 DOE A. 1()5 
 
 racteristics — darkness, dirt, and dinginess ; we do 
 not speak of exceptions, but of the general rule. 
 Some features, too, they have in common to a 
 singular degree. Why, for instance, must the poor 
 be everywhere so fond of poultry ? The Dubois had 
 three children, but they also found room for a 
 white hen, wdiich went scratching and cackling 
 about tlieir two rooms. Dora had often looked 
 at that hen with a secret shudder, inspired by the 
 thought that it might possibly be killed, taken to 
 market, and there purchased by Mrs. Luan for 
 home consumption. " It must be such a fowl as 
 this that she brought home last week," thought 
 Dora, now watching the wretched bird as it wan- 
 dered under an old bedstead, and looked ghost- 
 like in that gloomy refuge; "one should really 
 know more about the creatures one eats, and what 
 their rearing has been, for instance." 
 
 " Mademoiselle is looking at the white hen," 
 said Madame Dubois, a dirty young woman. 
 " Catch it, Joseph, and let Mademoiselle feel how 
 fat it is getting." 
 
 In vain Mademoiselle protested. Joseph was 
 already on his knees groping under the bedstead ; 
 but just as he stretched out his liand to seize her,
 
 166 DORA. 
 
 the white lien artfully slipped under a chest of 
 drawers. 
 
 " Shall I get a stick and poke her out ?" asked 
 Joseph, coming out from under the bed very red 
 in the face, and much the worse for the dust he 
 had found there. On hearing this suggestion, the 
 white hen cackled a feeble protest, and Madame 
 Dubois angrily promised Joseph the best slap he 
 had ever had in his life if he made the attempt. 
 Dora now expounded her errand. Madame Du- 
 bois clasped her hands and looked piteous. 
 
 They were the most unfortunate people. Poor 
 Dubois had hurt his hand, his right hand, and was 
 gone to the chemist's to get it dressed. That was 
 their luck. 
 
 " Well, you are unlucky," kindly said Dora. 
 " But w^here is the frame ? I want to see that it is 
 of the right size," 
 
 Madame Dubois looked despondent. They were 
 so unlucky that she had not liked to tell Made- 
 moiselle, but just as the frame was ready to be 
 gilt, Joseph and the hen had combined against it, 
 and broken it that very morning. Dora nearly 
 lost patience, but again pity prevailed, and with a 
 few kind, comforting words, and a little donation,
 
 DORA, 167 
 
 she left this abode of ill-luck. The sight of con- 
 tinued misfortune is oppressive, and Dora breathed 
 a little sigh of relief as she got out again into the 
 free and open air. 
 
 "I never knew such unlucky people," she 
 thought. "It is simply dreadful; and if these 
 were the da3^s of witchcraft, I should say that the 
 white hen was at the bottom of it. And who 
 knows but she is ? Who knows that sorcery has 
 really gone by with the Middle Ages? What are 
 all these grim old Gothic monuments which have 
 remained but stone legends'? Why may not 
 goblins and evil spirits abide in their walls, as they 
 are said to live in waste places ? Suppose one of 
 the frightful stone chimeras that peep down at you 
 from the water-spouts and buttresses, should take 
 a fancy to be alive, and suiting itself to modern 
 ideas and habits, should assume a more sober shape 
 than it received from its Gothic carver. Suppose, 
 too " 
 
 Here Dora's fancies received a sudden check. 
 She stood at Monsieur Merand's door, and as she 
 had a drawing for him in her portfolio, she was 
 recalled from the world in which stone becomes 
 animate, to that in which drawings are exchanged
 
 168 DORA. 
 
 for coined gold and silver. With a cheerful sense 
 of labour, and reward, and usefulness upon her, 
 Miss Courtenay entered the shop. 
 
 Monsieur Merand was not alone. That Doctor 
 Richard, whom we have already seen there, was 
 with him. He looked for his cane as if to go, but 
 Monsieur Merand said eagerly, 
 
 "Not without taking that engraving. Doctor 
 Richard — you must have it." 
 
 Dora was struck, and amused, too, at Doctor 
 Richard's look. It was both shrewd and boyish — 
 a school-boy look. Doctor Richard was past thirty, 
 yet there was fun and mischief in his swarthy face, 
 and in his dark eyes. 
 
 *^ I should not care to have that Doctor RIcliard 
 attending on me if I were ill," thought Dora. " I 
 am sure he laughs at all his patients. Has he 
 patients?" she mentally added, seeing that his 
 clothes, though scrupulously neat and clean, had 
 seen some wear. 
 
 " Come, have it," urged Monsieur Merand. 
 
 " Not on those terms. Did I not tell you I was 
 a ruined man ?" 
 
 " Come, Doctor Richard, those mines did not 
 take all your money."
 
 DORA. 169 
 
 "They plucked some good feathers from my 
 wing, I can tell you." 
 
 "Mines! has he lost in mines'?" thought Dora. 
 " Not our mines, I hope." For the slender pro- 
 vision remaining to her mother and aunt was in- 
 vested in tin mines in the west of England. 
 
 Some more arguing issued between the dealer 
 and his customer, but the latter proving obdurate, 
 Monsieur Merand put away the engraving, and 
 Doctor Eichard walked out of the shop without 
 seeraino; to see Dora. She looked after him with 
 a vacrue fear at her heart. How she would have 
 questioned him concerning his losses if she had 
 dared. Monsieur Merand saw her look, and he 
 tapped his forehead. 
 
 " A good gentleman," he said, " a very good, 
 humane gentleman — attends on half the poor in 
 Rouen for nothing — but not right there, you know." 
 
 " He has had losses," remarked Dora. 
 
 " Yes, the news came this afternoon. I am sorry 
 for him, poor fellow !" 
 
 Dora was untying the strings of her portfolio. 
 Her hands shook a little. 
 
 "Pray where are those mines'?" she asked, 
 trying to speak carelessly.
 
 170 DORA. 
 
 Monsieur Merand thrust his hands in his pockets, 
 raised his eyebrows, and shook his head. His 
 answer was a doubtful one. The mines were in 
 England, then in Wales, then in Cornwall. Dora, 
 who had breathed a relieved sigh, felt faint and 
 sick again. 
 
 "I ho])e — T trust they are not those of which my 
 mother holds some shares," she said. 
 
 Some, alas! she might have said all that Mrs. 
 Courtenay possessed was thus invested. The 
 anxiety and distress on her countenance struck 
 Monsieur Merand. 
 
 " Shall I ask Doctor Richard ?" he said. 
 
 *' Yes, Monsieur Merand, do,» pray. It will ob- 
 lige me. It is very foolish of me to think anything 
 of the kind ; but we have had losses already, and 
 that makes me timorous." 
 
 " I shall be sure to see him this evening, or to- 
 morrow at the latest," continued Monsieur Merand, 
 " and then — why, here he is," he added, breaking 
 off as Doctor Richard re-entered the shop. 
 
 Something in their two faces showed Doctor 
 Richard that they were talking of him. He bent 
 his full black eyes on either alternately, and his 
 countenance assumed a sudden look of mistrust,
 
 DORA. 171 
 
 not unmiiigled with defiance. Monsieur Merand 
 stood on ceremony with no one. In a few words 
 he exposed Miss Courtenay's anxiet}^, and her pur- 
 pose in inquiring. Xo kind and courteous peri- 
 phrasis marked Doctor Richard's answer. He was 
 a quick and sure surgeon, and did not prolong 
 Dora's agony. 
 
 ^' The Redmore Mines," was his brief reply. 
 
 Dora turned pale ; but uttered not one word at 
 first. They both looked at her anxiously and 
 gravely. 
 
 "These are the mines," she said at length. 
 After a while she added, looking at Doctor Rich- 
 ard. " Will there be nothing left f ' 
 
 " Scarcely a sixpence in the pound, I believe ; 
 but no one can tell yet." 
 
 It was ruin. A second ruin, deeper, fuller than 
 the first. 
 
 " God's will be done," said Dora, after another 
 pause. " Here is your drawing, Monsieur Me- 
 rand !" 
 
 She gave it to him as she spoke. 
 
 " I shall want another soon," he said, quickly. 
 
 She nodded assent, bowed to Doctor Richard, 
 and left the shop without uttering another word.
 
 172 DORA. 
 
 She could not speak, her heart was full, and her 
 brain as yet felt too dizzy for thought. 
 
 There is a terrible kind of poverty ; the poverty 
 of the millions, who, being used to it from their 
 birth, luckily do not see it in all its horrors ; the 
 poverty which the narrowest plank, which the 
 frailest barrier divides from the deep, dark gulf of 
 want. That poverty Dora had never known. She 
 had been reared on a slender income ; but she ever 
 felt safe in her little cage, and had no conception 
 of the life led by such as hav^e to shift in the 
 wilderness, and are not sure, when they go to bed 
 at night, that there shall be bread for them on the 
 morrow. To lose the nine-tenths of her income 
 was nothing, whilst the tenth, which was strictly 
 sufficient, remained unto her. But to lose that, to 
 have to face a second poverty, grim and bare as 
 the first, and far more pitiless than it had ever been, 
 filled her with a sort of horror — not for her own 
 sake merely, but for that of the beings whom she 
 loved.^ 
 
 "My poor mother ! My poor aunt !" she thought 
 when she could think. 
 
 She was standing on the place, with the massive 
 gloom of Notre Dame hanging over her. She
 
 DORA. 173 
 
 entered the grand old church. She wanted to be 
 calm ere she faced them at home ; the dim light, 
 the cool atmosphere, the faint breath of incense, 
 the vastness, yet the seclusion of this Christian 
 home of souls, lulled the brief storm of her soul to 
 rest. After all, she could work, she could earn ; 
 she was young, and had energy. She was thrown 
 on Providence, and Providence was thereby bound 
 to take care of her, and those who were dear to her. 
 She was now like one of those birds of the air 
 whose fleetness and freedom she had so often en- 
 vied. There was nothing in store for her ; like 
 them she was to live in boundless trust, neither 
 hoping nor despairing. 
 
 Dora's heart beat as she came to this conclusion. 
 She was a brave girl, and now that the first shock 
 was over, she could meet her new lot, and look it 
 in the face. Besides, there was consolation in all 
 its bitterness. Her eves sou<2;ht the m-ave-stone with 
 its Requiescat. It was too dark to read it ; but she 
 knew it was there, and her heart was full as she 
 thought — 
 
 " Poor Paul I he is best at rest, after all ! Best 
 in Glasnevin, away from all these troubles, which 
 woidd have bowed him down so heavily. He need
 
 174 DORA. 
 
 fear no care, no burden now. Toil is over for 
 him. He has got his wages. That is the meaning 
 of the old latin word Requiescat ! May he rest ! 
 Is life such a trouble and a toil, that repose must 
 needs be man's dearest wish to the dead ? And 
 now I must go in and tell . them, poor things, and 
 see tears, and hear lamentations." 
 
 She left the church and went home, and never, 
 if the truth must be confessed, never had she felt so 
 arrant a coward as when she went up the staircase. 
 She heard them talking within. Mrs. Courtenay's 
 tones had their usual airy cheerfulness, and even 
 Mrs. Luan's husky voice told Dora, by its brisk- 
 ness, that her aunt was in a good humour. 
 
 " I daresay they have had a letter from John," 
 thought Dora with a sigh ; and, feeling like a cul- 
 prit, she entered the room. She did not delay 
 one second — she could not. 
 
 " I have had such strange news," she said, look- 
 ing at them wistfully ; " not good news, I confess, 
 but I hope you will take it well, and remember 
 that I am young and can work, and that Monsieur 
 Merand means to go on employing me." 
 
 "News! — what news?" asked Mrs. Courtenay 
 amazed.
 
 DOKA. 175 
 
 " Our shares in the Redmore Mines are worth- 
 less," answered Dora in a low voice; and she 
 gave them the few particulars of the catastrophe 
 which she knew. 
 
 Dora had been prepared for her mother's grief 
 and her aunt's consternation, but she had not ex- 
 pected to find them both incredulous. Yet so 
 they were. Mrs. Luan said, with some excite- 
 ment, 
 
 " It is not true — the mines are good !" And 
 she took up and put down her patchwork in evi- 
 dent emotion. 
 
 !Mrs. Courtenaj was still more positive. 
 
 " My dear," she said good-humouredly, " if this 
 were true we should know it as well as that Doc- 
 tor Dick " 
 
 " Doctor Richard," interrupted Dora. 
 
 "Doctor Richard," placidly resumed Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, ^^can scarcely have means of information 
 denied to us. Besides, I daresay he was entertain- 
 ing himself at your expense, child." 
 
 Dora looked very earnestly at her mother. 
 
 " If you had seen him and heard him speak, 
 mamma," she said, "you could scarcely connect 
 the idea of a foolish jest with that m.an ; still less
 
 176 DORA. 
 
 would you til ink it likely that he should or could 
 be mistaken about a thing he asserts so positively 
 as this." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked slightly disturbed. 
 
 " Why, what is he like f she asked. 
 
 " A gentleman — a real gentleman, I mean. Yes, 
 truly, a real gentleman ; though almost shabbily 
 dressed." 
 
 " I don't believe him — he is a liar I" excitedly 
 said Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " He looks one straight in the face, aunt." 
 
 " But, my dear, you know nothing about him," 
 urged her mother. 
 
 "I have seen him, mamma, and both his appear- 
 ance and manner are remarkable." 
 
 " Is he handsome ?" 
 
 "Not at all. Indeed, he is dark and rather 
 plain. I feel pretty sure that he comes from the 
 south." 
 
 " Then he is an Irishman !" 
 
 "Yes— at least I think so." 
 
 "I don't believe it," again put in Mrs. Luan ; 
 " Richard is not an Irish name — he is a liar !" 
 
 But Dora noticed that her hand shook so that 
 she could not thread her needle.
 
 DORA. 177 
 
 " I am not sure he is Irish," she resumed, " but 
 his countenance makes me think he is. Whatever 
 his country may be, his face is that of a generous, 
 warm-hearted man, and, I will add, of an upright 
 one." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay said innocently, 
 
 "My dear, how you must have looked at him to 
 see all that in his face I" 
 
 "I did indeed look at him," replied Dora 
 gravely. " When he uttered these terrible news, 
 I looked at him as I seldom look at people, mamma. 
 But you see it was Destiny, our Fate that was 
 speaking. He seemed sorry, very sorry for me, 
 but he softened and miticrated nothinor. I do not 
 think he could do so even if he wished it — the 
 truth is too strong for him." 
 
 They both looked at her with some surprise. 
 She was pale, but grave and collected. The blow 
 had fallen on her, but it had not crushed her ; and 
 though she felt it still, she was already rallying 
 from its effects. They exchanged alarmed looks. 
 AVas it, could it be true ? 
 
 " But if the money is lost, what shall we do ?" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, raising her voice, and 
 clasping her hands in terror. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 DORA. 
 
 " Monsieur Merand asks me for another draw- 
 ing," said Dora ; " besides, I shall try and get 
 some teaching." 
 
 " I shall write to Mr. Derring at once !" cried 
 Mrs. Courtenay, much agitated. "As my solici- 
 tor, he must know the truth." 
 
 '' It is too late for the post to-day, mamma. I 
 I daresay we shall know the truth to-morrow." 
 
 But it was very plain that concerning that truth 
 Dora herself felt no doubt. The dreary certainty 
 had entered her soul in Monsieur Merand's shop, 
 and could leave it no more. 
 
 They spent a melancholy evening. Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay took out her cards, and tried the favourite 
 patience of His Majesty Louis Dix-huijfc, but she 
 changed colour ere she had gone half through it. 
 She had placed an omen upon it, and whether the 
 cards would not come right, or whether — what 
 was just as likely — Mrs. Courtenay's disturbed 
 mind would not let her take advantage of the 
 chances of the game, it was plain that the result 
 would have been a cruel " no " to her secret hopes. 
 So she would not trust fate, but mixed up the 
 cards hurriedly, and put them away with a fright- 
 ened look that went to Dora's heart. It was a
 
 DORA. 179 
 
 relief to her when she retired to her room for 
 the night. As she closed her window, which had 
 remained open, she looked up to Nanette's, where 
 a light was burning. 
 
 " My poor little fairy," she thought, " that light 
 of yours has often cheered me, and done me good, 
 for poor though I am, it showed me I was not 
 powerless. And now, must I bid you be careful 
 and sparing of your poor rushlight, or, saddest of 
 all, give up my little bounty because I can afford 
 it no longer f 
 
 These were not cheerful thoughts, and Dora 
 felt depressed as she sat on the edge of her bed, 
 and looked at the story of the patient Griselidis on 
 the faded curtains. 
 
 " She worked for her living, to be sure," 
 thought Dora, as she examined the prim figure 
 standing with its spindle and distaff by the cot- 
 tage door, " but did she ever know the cruel 
 doubt and fear which are upon me now ? She 
 had always wool to spin, I suppose, that patient 
 Griselidis. Was there a time when she thought 
 of sitting empty-handed, with nothing to do, and 
 therefore nothing to earn ? God help us ! If 
 
 k2
 
 180 DORA. 
 
 those shares are really lost, are we three to be de- 
 pendent on my drawings, and on Monsieur Me- 
 rand? John will do something for his mother, 
 poor fellow ! — but what can he do 1 Oh ! how 
 weak and ungrateful I was all this time, complain- 
 ing that I led a dull life, forsooth, and not appre- 
 ciating the inestimable blessing of security and 
 independence, mean and humble though both 
 were ! I fear no labour, no drudgery ; but what 
 if these should fail me, and with them honest live- 
 lihood ! If I had been sinking at sea, or shut in 
 by flames from all help, that Doctor Eichard 
 could scarcely have looked more compassionate 
 than he did. He seemed struck with pity. I 
 daresay my face told him it was ruin ! ruin ! — 
 cruel ruin ! — -irrevocable ruin ! God help me ! 
 what shall we do f 
 
 Once more a sort of despair filled her heart, but 
 it soon passed away. Hope and a naturally brave 
 spirit chased the cowardly feeling, and bade it be- 
 gone. 
 
 " I will be brave — I will be strong !" thought 
 Dora, proudly, " and, with God's help, we shall 
 have the needful." 
 
 She went to bed and slept— ^slept soundly, even.
 
 DOKA. 181 
 
 But Mrs. Courtenay's slumbers were agitated and 
 broken, and Mrs. Luan's eyes did not close once 
 through the whole of that long night.
 
 182 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 nnHE two elder ladies were anxiously waiting for 
 -*- post-time. Dora was calm. She needed no 
 confirmation to her knowledge of the worst. " We 
 must bear it," she thought, reducing into practice 
 the lessons of Epictetus. ^' The rest matters 
 little." 
 
 That " rest," which she thus dismissed, was 
 much to the two elder women. They denied its 
 existence, yet waited for its coming with fear and 
 trembling. What if those Kedmore Mines should 
 indeed prove as treacherous as Dora's four hun- 
 dred a year ! We all know that sorrows come not 
 singly. These dark sisters are in a league against 
 man, and when one has done with him, she calls 
 another to fill her vacant place by the stricken 
 hearth. Well may people in trouble be gloomy. 
 Thej^ know that, though one misfortune is gone, 
 the other is surely coming. But it is hard to feel
 
 DORA. 183 
 
 a butt for Fate, so against that knowledge Mrs. 
 Courtenay and Mrs. Luan both rebelled. 
 
 " I am sure the postman has gone by," triumph- 
 antly said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 She had been looking out of the window for the 
 postman during the last hour. She now looked 
 again, and to her dismay saw him turning the 
 corner of the street. At once she drew in her 
 frightened face, and sat down, pale and expectant. 
 Mrs. Luan looked scared, and turned rather yel- 
 low. Dora put down her sewing, and waited pa- 
 tiently. A ring was heard at the door below. 
 
 " It is the baker," murmured Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 A step came up the stairs — a discreet tap at their 
 door followed. 
 
 " Come in," faintly said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 The door opened, and Madame Bertrand en- 
 tered the room, with a blue foolscap letter, an 
 English letter, in her hand. She came in smiling 
 and nodding. English letters were always welcome 
 to her lodgers. 
 
 " Here it is," she said, still nodding. " ' How 
 pleased tlie ladies will be,' I said to the postman ; 
 * they have not had one for such a time.' * Well, 
 then,' he replied, ^ they will not mind paying the
 
 184 DORA. 
 
 extra postage : it Is written on thick paper, and 
 overweight, you see.' So I paid him the twenty- 
 four sous/' continued Madame Bertrand. 
 
 Dora put her hand in her pockety paid the 
 money, and took the letter. Madame Bertrand 
 withdrew, unconscious of the desolation she had 
 left behind her. 
 
 " Read it, Dora — I cannot," said poor Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 Dora obeyed and read. They heard her in 
 death-like silence. Their little all was gone, their 
 little hoard had been swallowed in the great wreck ; 
 they were left, two white-haired, helpless women, 
 dependent on a girl. Dora's tears flowed at the 
 sight of their silent grief. 
 
 "Dear mamma, dear aunt," she said, looking 
 from one to the other, " I am young, and I can 
 work. It is Providence that sent me to Monsieur 
 Merand's shop. And I like drawing — I did it for 
 pleasure as much as for money ; if he will but 
 continue and take my sketches, we can live on my 
 earnings. Besides, can I not teach English or 
 music, or do a hundred things? As to that, can I 
 not sew?" 
 
 But age has not the elasticity of youth. Ruin
 
 DORA. 185 
 
 was before !Mrs. Courtenay and her sister-in-law. 
 
 and they could see nothing else. Dora's voice fell 
 on their ear without a note of hope or comfort in 
 it. It sounded idle, far away and dull, and left 
 the bitter truth in all its bitterness. In vain she 
 tried to console them — she failed,* and each re- 
 jected her well-meant efforts after her own fashion. 
 Mrs. Luan by a silent, moody motion of her hand, 
 and heav}', averted looks; Mrs. Courtenay by piti- 
 ful lamentations, ending in sobs and tears. 
 
 There is something very grievous in the despair 
 of age. Childhood and youth have their passion- 
 ate griefs, but we know that the Siren Hope keeps 
 many a sweet lure in store for either. The old 
 she deserts without pity ; let them suffer, their 
 troubles at the best will be brief, and there is a 
 cure for all sorrows beneath the green sod. Rest 
 is there, and silence, and with both a balm to every 
 earthly grief; is it worth while for that bright, 
 fair-haired Hope to take thought of them ? To 
 Dora she was prodigal of promises in this sad 
 hour. A national gallery would scarcely have 
 held all the drawings she held up to her view. 
 Bags full of silver five franc-pieces, rouleaux of 
 gold, blue bank-notes, this gay young goddess held
 
 186 DORA. 
 
 in either of her white hands. Dora's courage 
 was but the fast belief in future good rising out of 
 this present woe. Of work and money she felt 
 sure ; but she vainly tried to impart her certainty 
 to her mother, 
 
 "No, no," despondently said Mrs. Courtenay ; 
 " I daresay Monsieur Merand will be like the Red- 
 more Mines, and we shall all starve ! — all starve !'* 
 she added, rocking herself to and fro in her 
 chair. 
 
 Dora thought at first that as her mother's 
 grief was loud, it would be soon oyer — sooner per- 
 haps than that of Mrs. Luan, who sat silent and 
 moody, like a yellow statue of despair ; but it was 
 not so. Mrs. Luan rallied a little, and grew less 
 torpid as the day passed ; whilst Mrs. Courtenay 
 became more and more excitable. She had borne, 
 with great resignation, with a sort of cheerfulness, 
 indeed, the loss of Dora's four hundred a year, but 
 nothing a year threw her into a sort of distraction 
 over which Dora found that she was powerless. 
 Mrs. Courtenay cried the whole day, refused to 
 eat, and when she at length went to bed, it was 
 not to sleep, but to fret and moan. Dora became 
 uneasy, and that uneasiness rose to alarm when,
 
 DORA. 187 
 
 on enterlnrr her mother's room to see if she was 
 sleeping, she found Mrs. Coiirtenay sitting up in 
 her bed, talking aloud and at random. 
 
 It had not seemed to Dora before this that 
 grief in one of her mothers excitable tempera- 
 ment might be dangerous. But now the convic- 
 tion that it could be so rushed to her mind with 
 terrible force, and conquered her equanimity. 
 
 " Aunt !" she cried, going back to Mrs. Luan 
 in their little sitting-room, " stay with mamma ; I 
 must go for a doctor." 
 
 She hastily put on her bonnet and ran down- 
 stairs to Madame Bertrand. She found her in 
 her chair snoring comfortably, whilst the grey 
 Angola cat, gathered up in a demure attitude on 
 the table by her mistress, was purring in unison. 
 The lamp burned unused, for though Madame 
 Bertrand's spectacles were on her nose, and a half- 
 mended stocking was on her left hand, the good 
 lady was, as we said, fast asleep. It was but a 
 little Dutch picture of domestic comfort ; yet that 
 homely woman in the homely room, with the 
 brown old furniture and the ancient clock ticking 
 behind the door, gave Dora a brief, sharp pang. 
 Oh ! to be so once more, with health and humble
 
 188 DORA. 
 
 comfort, and the sweetest of human blessings, a 
 blessing, indeed, which is more of Heaven than of 
 earth — dear, happy peace ! 
 
 Madame Bertrand was not very fast asleep — 
 only dozing, as she said when on awakening she 
 saw Dora standing before her : and she good- 
 humouredly asked to know her young lodger's 
 pleasure. 
 
 "My mother is ill," replied Dora, "and I want 
 a doctor." 
 
 Madame Bertrand stared. 
 
 " 111 r she exclaimed, amazed. " Then we 
 must have the English doctor — Doctor Richard." 
 
 Dora could not help giving a little start. She 
 did not want Doctor Richard ; she herself could 
 not have said why. 
 
 " Is he a good doctor f she asked doubtfully — 
 " a very good one, I mean ?" 
 
 " Good !" screamed Madame Bertrand ; " why, 
 did he not save Madame Bernard's child- that was 
 black in the face ! And when poor Monsieur Le- 
 grand had that brain fever, did he not get him 
 through — only is he within now ? He would be 
 the greatest doctor in Rouen if he were not always 
 nobody knows where."
 
 DOR A. 189 
 
 " Then let us go for some one else," hurriedly 
 said Dora ; '^ I must lose no time." 
 
 "I shall go \Yith you to Doctor Richard's," Ma- 
 dame Bertrand good-naturedly proposed ; '^ and if 
 he is not within, we can only go to Doctor Merson 
 — but I have no great faith in /u'??2," she added, 
 with an ominous shake of the head. 
 
 They went out together. The night was fine, 
 but cool. The chill air did Dora good, and 
 helped to calm her. 
 
 "I daresay it is only a little natural excitement," 
 she thought, already rallying from her fears ; 
 " still, I shall be glad to have advice. I hope 
 that Doctor Richard is a good doctor ?" 
 
 And she asked if he lived far away. 
 
 *'This is the house," answered Madame Ber- 
 trand, stopping before a low and very old mansion. 
 Dora knew that house well. It stood next to that 
 in which Nanette lived. She passed it daily on 
 her way to the Musee. She knew that grey 
 fa9ade, that low arched door, those grated windows 
 on the ground-floor. Once she had seen the door 
 open, and caught a glimpse of a green court with 
 mildewed walls, an old shattered fountain, and a 
 heap of sculptured rubbish ; but Doctor Richard,
 
 190 DORA. 
 
 or indeed any one^ she had never seen about the 
 place. 
 
 " He is within," said Madame Bertrand ; she 
 looked up at the first-floor windows as she spoke — 
 they were curtainless. Dora saw a light passing 
 from room to room, but she could not see who car- 
 ried it. 
 
 "Does Doctor Eichard live here?" she in- 
 quired, as her companion rang the bell, which 
 gave aloud dismal peal in the empty rooms within. 
 
 " Not always ; but, poor gentleman ! he spends 
 all his money in buying old things, and he stows 
 them away here, you see." 
 
 The light vanished from the windows above, a 
 step was heard coming down the staircase, and 
 presently the door opened, and Dora saw Doctor 
 Richard with his hat on and a light in his hand* 
 She saw him, but he did not see her. He only 
 saw Madame Bertrand, behind whom she stood, 
 in the darkness of the street. 
 
 " Well I" he said, with good-humoured asperity. 
 " Who is ill ? Who is dying now, just to vex me 
 and keep me in Rouen to-night f ' 
 
 " No one is dying, I hope. Monsieur Richard," 
 replied Madame Bertrand, curtsying ; " but Made-
 
 DORA. 191 
 
 moiselle's mamma is very poorly, so we came for 
 you." 
 
 Doctor Richard moved his light till it fell on 
 Dora's face ; his look showed that he recognized 
 her, but he betrayed no other token of previous 
 acquaintance. He extinguished the candle, put it 
 away on the last step of the staircase, then walked 
 out, locking the door behind him. It was plain he 
 lived alone in that dreary old mansion. 
 
 " How strange and sharp he looks," thought 
 Dora, to whom that night aspect of Doctor Rich- 
 ard's dark face gave a very different impression 
 from that which she had received in Monsieur 
 Merand's shop. *^ I hope he is a good doctor. 
 I fear he is a wilful one." 
 
 At first Doctor Richard walked up the street 
 before them. Then suddenly slackening his pace, 
 he stayed by Dora's side, and began questioning 
 her. How long had her mother been ill, and what 
 were the symptoms ? 
 
 " She got bad news this morning," replied 
 Dora, "news which agitated her, and she is 
 slightly delirious now. It is this that frightens 
 me." 
 
 " There is probably no cause for alarm," he com-
 
 192 DORA. 
 
 posedly replied, " though there may be some for 
 care." 
 
 He spoke no more, and when they reached the 
 house he followed her upstairs to her mother's 
 room, without uttering a word. 
 
 " Mamma, I have brought Dr. Richard to see 
 you," said Dora, going up to her mother. 
 
 " My dear, we cannot afford doctors now," an- 
 swered Mrs. Courtenay, excitedly. " They are ex- 
 pensive, you know. Besides, that is not Doctor 
 Eichard." 
 
 "Yes, it is!" he good-humouredly replied in 
 English, and at the same time sitting down by her, 
 and taking her hand to feel her pulse, " I am not 
 merely Doctor Richard, but your close neighbour, 
 don't you know that ?" 
 
 The sick lady gave him a puzzled look, and then 
 with a wearied sigh she let her upraised head sink 
 back on her pillow. Doctor Richard looked at her 
 very attentively ; he leaned back in his chair at the 
 foot of the bed, and scanned her features with the 
 closest scrutiny, seeming in no hurry either to 
 speak or to move. Mrs. Luan stared at him 
 amazed, whilst Dora watched him with breathless 
 suspense. At length he rose and looked for his hat.
 
 DORA. 193 
 
 "Is there nothing to be done, sir?" asked Dora. 
 
 " Not yet," he replied, " but you may as well 
 sit up with her. I shall call again in an hour or 
 so, and then I shall know better how to act." 
 
 Dora followed him out of the room. 
 
 " There is no cause for alarm, sir, is there ?" 
 she asked, detaining him at the head of the stair- 
 case. 
 
 "Not that I know of ; but to tell you the truth, 
 I do not know what is the matter with this lady, 
 and I do not wish to prescribe until I have such 
 knowledge. I shall call round in an hour or so." 
 
 " But my mother cannot be very ill !" urged 
 Dora. " She was so well this morning." 
 
 " I do not think she is very ill," he answered, 
 quietly ; " but it is to feel sure of it that I shall 
 come again." 
 
 He left her, and Dora, much relieved, returned 
 to her mother's room. But the relief was only 
 momentary. As she sat and listened to Mrs. 
 Courtenay's gentle wanderings, and looked at her 
 flushed face, a subtle but sickening fear crept to 
 her heart. What if the blow had been too severe ? 
 What if the terror of poverty had irremediably 
 shaken a mind of no great strength ? For it was a 
 
 VOL. I. ' O
 
 194 DORA. 
 
 cruel— a very cruel blow. She need only look at 
 Mrs. Luan's dull, heavy face, at her vacant eyes, 
 and hands idly clasped on her lap, and see how 
 that blow had told on her. She tried to rouse her 
 a little. 
 
 " Do not look so, aunt," she said, going to her 
 chair and bending over it, " take your patchwork 
 and cheer up. Mamma will get well, and John will 
 help us, and I shall draw for Monsieur Merand, 
 and all will be right again." 
 
 '* We shall give a party next week," here said 
 Mrs. Courtenay, " and your aunt shall wear a yellow 
 dress, Dora." 
 
 Mrs. Luan smiled grimly. 
 
 " She thinks me foolish 1" she said, " does she ? 
 Eh?" 
 
 She was evidently triumphing in her superior 
 wisdom. Dora's eyes grew dim as she looked to- 
 wards the bed. 
 
 " Some people look wise and are silly," continued 
 Mrs. Luan with a nod. " Oh ! dear, how hot my 
 head is I" 
 
 She took off her cap as she spoke, and flung it to 
 the other end of the room. 
 
 There was no comfort to receive there, no com-
 
 DORA. 195 
 
 fort, either, to administer. Dora returned to her 
 mother's bedside. 
 
 "It is a party, a beautiful party," resumed Mrs. 
 Courtenay ; " only where is Paul ? You must dance 
 with Paul, Dora. Pity you are brother and sister 
 — I should have liked you to marry Paul. So ac- 
 complished — such a gentleman !" 
 
 " Do listen to her !" scornfully said Mrs. Luan, 
 still seeming to triumph in her superiority. Then 
 she gave a start, and added abruptly, " That's the 
 death-watch I" 
 
 Dora felt almost angry. 
 
 *^ That is Madame Bertrand's great clock tick- 
 ing," she replied, warmly. "I wonder at you, 
 aunt!" 
 
 Mrs. Luan stared at her without replying. 
 Then she rose, picked up her cap, put it on, after 
 shaking it, and, to Dora's relief, went to her own 
 room. She remained alone with her mother, look- 
 ing at her, listening to her in troubled silence. 
 The evening, the house, the street, all seemed pre- 
 ternaturally still, but Madame Bertrand's clock 
 was awfully distinct. 
 
 "How cruel of aunt to say that," thought Dora; 
 " but, poor thing, she knows no better. Why do 
 
 2
 
 196 DORA. 
 
 I listen to that foolish old clock ? It is a hundred 
 years old, at least, and is in its dotage — why, then, 
 do I mind it ?" 
 
 Why is superstition, latent in the human heart, 
 ready to start forth at the first call of sorrow? 
 Oh ! what a relief it was when a ring was heard 
 below, when the street-door opened, and Doctor 
 Richard's step came up the staircase. A relief, 
 yet Dora's heart beat so with a sudden fear, that 
 she could scarcely rise to receive him when he 
 entered the room. Without speaking he went and 
 took the chair she had left vacant. He sat down 
 again, and he looked at Mrs. Courtenay with the 
 closest attention. Dora stood at the head of the 
 bed looking at him with an intent gaze. Years 
 afterwards she could have drawn his face from 
 memory as she saw it on this evening, so keen, 
 so watchful was the look she bent upon him 
 then. Doctor Richard was not very young, and 
 he was not at all handsome. He was still in the 
 prime and strength of life, but he was plain and 
 dark. He had a broad massive forehead, strongly 
 marked eyebrows, and fine but very piercing eyes. 
 Some sternness there was in the upper portion of 
 his face, but a handsome, genial mouth redeemed it
 
 DORA. 197 
 
 from anything like coldness. With all this his was a 
 perplexing countenance, perhaps because it was 
 one of many contrasts, and therefore not easily 
 read. Intellect it expressed and power tempered 
 by good-humour; but with these attractice gifts 
 there were others which qualified them. Doctor 
 Richard looked like a man of strong passions, and 
 especially like one with whom anger is both quick 
 and vehement. He might be, and probably he was, 
 warm-hearted, but he was certainly very warm- 
 tempered. 
 
 Dora looked, not to observe all this, though 
 many a time later she remembered and construed 
 every one of these signs, but to read in that dark 
 expressive face the fate of her sick mother. 
 Doctor Richard remained long silent. When he 
 spoke at length, it was to say, 
 
 "I am just as much puzzled as before." 
 He spoke with a candour rare in medical men. 
 They cannot afford it. Their patients expect 
 them to be endowed with Godhke infaUibility, and 
 woe be to them if by word or look they disappoint 
 the preposterous expectation ! But Doctor Richard 
 did not seem to care much for the reputation of 
 his professional skill. For without giving Dora
 
 198 DOKA. 
 
 time to reply, he continued, '' I cannot tell 
 yet. Will you let me sit an hour here and 
 wait?" 
 
 ^' Certainly ; but it is robbing you of a night's 
 sleep, sir." 
 
 "Not it. I can read, you know." 
 
 He took a book out of his pocket as he spoke, 
 and was soon intent upon its contents. The door 
 of the inner room opened ere long, and Mrs. Luan 
 came forth ; but Doctor Richard only turned a 
 page without looking round. Mrs. Luan sat down 
 not far from him, and still Doctor Richard was, 
 or seemed to be, unconscious of her presence. Thus 
 all three sat in painful silence, whilst Mrs. Courte- 
 nay uttered some flighty remark every now and 
 then. 
 
 " Dora," she once exclaimed, eagerly, " is every- 
 thing safe?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, quite safe." 
 
 " I mean the money. Because, you see, Mr. 
 Brown is in the room." 
 
 She looked significantly at Doctor Richard, who 
 raised his eyes, gave a little start of surprise, and 
 even coloured slightly. Dora blushed and ex- 
 plained hastily,
 
 DORA. 199 
 
 "Mr. Brown was our banker, and we unfor- 
 tunately lost some money through him," she said ; 
 «so " 
 
 "^Irs. Courtenay connects me with him," said 
 Doctor Richard, without letting her go on ; " pray 
 do not apologise." 
 
 " Mr. Brown was a rogue !" remarked Mrs. Luan, 
 staring at Doctor Richard, who returned the look 
 with interest. 
 
 Dora, much perplexed and confused, said no- 
 thing. Doctor Richard preserved the greatest 
 composure, and resumed his reading. A book lay 
 on the table — Dora took it up. It was " Epicte- 
 tus." Never, alas ! had her mind felt less inclined 
 to receive the stoic's teaching than it felt then. 
 How hard, how cold, how heartless it all seemed ! 
 She compelled herself to read, indeed, but half the 
 time she found no meaning in the words before 
 her. Ever and anon her eyes wandered from the 
 page to Doctor Richard, and every time they did 
 so, they found, on their way, the face of Mrs. 
 Luan, sitting in the gloomy part of the room, and 
 staring at the stranger with that fixed stare which 
 one sometimes sees in animals when a guest to- 
 wards whom they feel but half friendly is present.
 
 200 DORA. 
 
 That look, of which Doctor Eichard was, or chose 
 to seem, unconscious, added to Dora's nervousness. 
 She could read no more — her anxiety was too great ; 
 and still time passed, and still Doctor Richard 
 read on, and showed no inclination to go. 
 
 Suddenly a church clock struck the hour — two 
 of the morning ; then a few minutes later another 
 clock took up the tale, and another again — for a 
 whole quarter of an hour it was two. Dora sat 
 no longer reading, but, with her cheek resting on 
 the palm of her hand, and her elbow on the table. 
 " Will he never go ? — will he never speak f she 
 thought ; and she looked towards him almost en- 
 treatingly. 
 
 This time Doctor Richard saw her. He had 
 half closed his book on his knee, and bending a 
 little forward, he was looking at her keenly and 
 intently. If she had been a picture or a statue, his 
 gaze could not have been a more fixed one than it 
 was. 
 
 " How is she ? — What is it ?" whispered Dora, 
 rising, and going up to him, for such a look, she 
 thought, could have but one meaning. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay had fallen into a gentle sleep. 
 Dora's expressive eyes asked: *'Is this good?"
 
 DORA. 201 
 
 And Doctor Richard nodded and smiled, put his 
 book in his pocket, and rose to go. He was silent, 
 and Dora, taking the hint, let him out without 
 speaking. 
 
 " Well, sir ?" she said eagerly, as soon as the 
 door was closed upon them, and they stood on the 
 landing. 
 
 " Well," he replied, " I know all about it now, 
 and Mrs. Courtenay sleeps without an opiate, 
 which I did not dare to give her. I believe she 
 will be well in a few days ; but if, as I fear, men- 
 tal uneasiness be at the root of her disease, pray do 
 all you can to compose her." 
 
 Poor Dora ! this threw her back on her almost 
 forgotten trouble. Doctor Richard saw her eyes 
 grow dim, and her lips quiver. But he could do 
 or say nothing, and he merely bade her a good 
 night. 
 
 " Good night, sir," said Dora, following him 
 down ; " I thank you much, very much — will you 
 come again ?" 
 
 He seemed surprised at the suggestion. 
 
 " Of course I shall," he said — " there, do not 
 come down any further — I can let myself out ; the 
 night air is keen."
 
 202 DORA. 
 
 But Dora would follow him to the street door, 
 and even hold the .light for him down the street. 
 He walked away a few steps, then came back. 
 
 " You need not sit up with Mrs. Courtenay," 
 he said. " I feel quite sure of her now. Good 
 night." 
 
 He held out his hand. Dora gave him hers, 
 and thanked him again. He pressed her hand, 
 and that with so cordial, so friendly a grasp, that 
 as he walked away and Dora closed the door upon 
 him, she thought, with some emotion, "I am sure 
 Doctor Richard is a friend." And so he was — a 
 fast, true friend to her. Such a friend as life 
 grants to few.
 
 203 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 TTTHEX Dora softly entered her mother's room 
 ' ' the next morning, she found Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay still sleeping. Her head lay on her pillow, 
 her hands were clasped, and in the subdued light, 
 which stole in horizontal rays through the closed 
 shutters, she looked so calm, so peaceful, that 
 Dora's last apprehensions vanished as by enchant- 
 ment. Her face was radiant when she went forth 
 into the little sitting-room, and there found Ma- 
 dame Bertrand, who brought the intimation that 
 Monsieur Merand was below. 
 
 " Ask him to come up," whispered Dora, " but 
 tell him my mother has been ill and that we must 
 speak low." 
 
 Presently Monsieur Merand came up on tip-toe, 
 and with many whispered apologies for troubling 
 Mademoiselle, he told his errand. 
 
 In her distress at the unexpected catastrophe of
 
 204 DORA. 
 
 the Redmore Mines, Dora had left her portfolio 
 behind her. This Monsieur Merand now brought 
 back, but not without having, as he confessed, first 
 inspected its contents. His own drawing he had 
 found, also Dora's copy of Keyser's music lesson, 
 and concerning this he now ventured to speak. 
 With an air of diffident yet injured candour, he 
 asked to know if Dora had been working for any 
 other dealer. Her freedom to do so Monsieur 
 Merand never questioned, but then he could as- 
 sure her that she would find him as liberal as any 
 other member of the trade. 
 
 " Now, with regard to that drawing of Keyser's," 
 he added, in his most insinuating tone, " I should 
 like it much if it were not secured." 
 
 " It is not," honestly replied Dora, and in the 
 fulness of her heart she was going to add that 
 Monsieur Merand was welcome to it, when the 
 door opened and Dr. Richard entered the room. 
 Dora forgot the dealer and the drawing in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 *' Mamma is sleeping," she said, eagerly — ^' is 
 that a good sign. Doctor Richard ?" 
 
 " A very good sign," he answered, smiling. 
 
 " I believe, however, she will soon waken."
 
 DOR A. 205 
 
 " Then I shall wait till she does." 
 
 He took a chair, and put down his hat. He 
 e\ndently did not think that Dora's business with 
 Monsieur Merand could be of a private nature. 
 The portfolio lay open on the table, the drawing 
 was displayed to Doctor Richard's view, and he 
 unceremoniously bent forward to see it better. 
 
 '^ What a fine drawing !" he exclaimed — "is that 
 yours, Miss Courtenay ?" 
 
 " It is," she replied, blushing a little, " and 
 Monsieur Merand wants to purchase it from 
 me." 
 
 But either Doctor Richard's entrance, or his 
 praise of Dora's performance, had changed Mon- 
 sieur Merand's mood, for he looked superciliously 
 at the drawing, put forth his nether lip, and said, 
 curtly, 
 
 " Yes, I want a drawing that size ; but this is 
 not one of your best efforts, Mademoiselle ?" 
 
 Dora changed colour. Was Monsieur Merand 
 going to turn critical in the hour when she most 
 needed his admiration ? 
 
 "Nonsense, Monsieur Merand," put in Doctor 
 Richard — " that is a first-rate drawing." 
 
 " Not in my opinion," drily said Monsieur Me-
 
 206 DOE A. 
 
 rand, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and 
 looking rather defiantly at his customer. 
 
 " I cannot do better," said Dora, with a wistful 
 look. 
 
 Monsieur Merand looked at the drawing again, 
 and grumbled something about being in a hurry, 
 and not being able to help himself. Dora felt 
 mortified, but necessity is a hard mistress, and this 
 was not the time to revolt against Monsieur Me- 
 rand's criticism, however harsh and unpleasant it 
 might be. 
 
 " And what do you expect for this ?" he asked, 
 after a while. 
 
 Dora hesitated. 
 
 " Say two hundred francs," suggested Monsieur 
 Merand, cavalierly. 
 
 Before Dora could answer. Doctor Richard in- 
 terfered. 
 
 " I suppose you mean four hundred," he said, 
 very coolly. 
 
 " Doctor Richard," hotly answered Monsieur 
 Merand, " do I meddle in your business ?— -do I 
 go and prescribe for your patients ?" 
 
 " My dear sir, would my patients follow your 
 prescriptions ?" was the amused reply.
 
 DORA. 207 
 
 " Well, then, I decline to submit to your inter- 
 ference, Doctor Richard ! I will give Mademoi- 
 selle two hundred francs — that and no more." 
 
 " And I will engage, by sending that drawing 
 to a house I know in London, to get her, if not 
 four hundred francs for it, at least three hundred 
 and fifty." 
 
 Doctor Richard spoke confidently ; Monsieur 
 Merand looked blank. 
 
 "I cannot help myself," he said at length, and 
 speaking very sullenly. ^' I will give Mademoi- 
 selle the three hundi'ed and fifty francs. I do 
 not gain a franc by the transaction— not one," he 
 added with an injured look. 
 
 Doctor Richard chuckled, and seemed excess- 
 ively amused. 
 
 " I declare it is better than a play to hear you I" 
 he said good-humouredly. " Only to think of your 
 wanting to pass off these tricks upon me, Monsieur 
 Merand !" 
 
 Monsieur Merand looked as if he did not know 
 whether to be entertained or angry at the cool 
 tone in which his customer addressed him. He 
 took the wisest course, however, and, not deigning 
 to answer him, he turned to Dora, to whom he
 
 208 DOR A. 
 
 said very civilly — " When may I have the draw- 
 ing, Mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " I should like to give it a few last touches ; 
 and if my mother is so far well that I can leave 
 her, I shall work at it to-day, Monsieur Merand." 
 
 " Then I hope she will be well," he said a little 
 crossly. " Good morning ;" and with the look of 
 a conquered man, he left the room. 
 
 Dora turned towards Doctor Richard. Her 
 beaming face expressed her thanks before they 
 were spoken. He gave her no time to utter a 
 word. 
 
 " Do not," he said quickly. " You would not 
 have had me stand by and see you robbed ? Why, 
 your drawing is worth more than the sum I have 
 stated." 
 
 " I cannot understand it," replied Dora, looking 
 perplexed ; " I never knew I was so clever ; but 
 however that may be, I do cordially thank you. 
 Money is invaluable to me just now. Doctor 
 Richard." 
 
 He nodded gravely, as much as to say, " Ah ! 
 yes, I know — the Redmore Mines ;" and as he 
 heard Mrs. Courtenay talking to Mrs. Luan with- 
 in, he asked if he could not see her. Dora went
 
 D O E A. 209 
 
 in before him, then came back and signed him to 
 follow her. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was sitting up in her bed. She 
 looked calm and collected ; and, indeed, was so 
 far recovered, that Doctor Richard's presence 
 startled and surprised her. At once she looked to 
 her daughter for explanation. 
 
 " You have been quite unwell, mamma," said 
 Dora smiling, *' and Doctor Eichard, who is our 
 neighbour, called in to see you. And what do 
 you think, mamma, Monsieur Merand came a 
 quarter of an hour ago to ask me for a drawing 
 from one of the pictures in the Gallery. And he 
 is in a desperate hurry for it. So do make haste 
 and get well." 
 
 " And the Redmore Mines," said Mrs. Courte- 
 nay plaintively ; " I did not dream that, did I, 
 Dora?" 
 
 " No, indeed, you did not. But the Redmore 
 Mines are here now," she added gaily, showing 
 her little right hand. "You must know, mamma, 
 that I am quite clever. Doctor Richard has been 
 looking at my last drawing whilst you slept, and 
 he thinks that Monsieur Merand scarcely pays 
 me enough. He advises me to raise my terms, 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 DOKA. 
 
 and/' continued Dora, suddenly dropping the 
 present for the past tense, *^ I have done it ; for 
 he spoke opposite Monsieur Merand himself, who 
 could not deny it, and gave me nearly a hundred 
 per cent, more at once. So what do you think of 
 all that?" 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay, scarcely able to think at all, 
 looked both confused and happy. She also 
 looked grateful, and her mild blue eyes were 
 raised to Doctor Richard's face with an expression 
 he could not mistake. He smiled kindly, and 
 sitting down by her bedside, entered into conver- 
 sation with her. He attacked the Redmore Mines 
 at once, and put the matter in a cheerful and 
 airy point of view, which happened to be particu- 
 larly suited to Mrs. Courtenay's turn of mind. 
 
 " Such catastrophes," said Doctor Richard, " are 
 like railway accidents and steamboat collisions, 
 the only variety of modern life. The ups and 
 downs formerly were of another nature. Beauti- 
 ful ladies were not safe for a moment, especially 
 when they were wealthy, but were the lawful prey 
 of the king, his favourites, and his powerful sub- 
 jects. As to men, the strong hand was the right 
 sort of hand then. Themis had not merely her
 
 DOE A. 211 
 
 eyes bandaged, but fast closed in sleep. Every 
 man had to be his own policemanj and, as a 
 natural consequence^ his own judge and jury. 
 This variety of occupations must, to say the least 
 of it, have made a gentleman irritable, and ac- 
 counts for many little peculiarities of those days 
 which would otherwise be inexplicable to our mo- 
 dern ideas. And now, you see, all that is done, 
 for lovers do not kidnap heiresses, but companies 
 wheedle them out of their gold. Robin Hood or 
 Claude Duval neither put bishops to ransom, nor 
 dance minuets with fine ladies on the highway ; 
 but for all that, money flies out of our pockets by 
 a magical process called high interest. Sad, very 
 sad, Mrs. Courtenay, only, you know, we are not 
 bom with pockets." 
 
 " Dear me, to be sure not !" cried Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, much struck with the fact, which had never 
 occurred to her before ; " that is a very original 
 remark. Doctor Eichard." 
 
 " It is none of mine/' he answered, smiling : 
 " but it is full of philosophy. So let us bear with 
 this catastrophe, which we cannot mend, and let 
 us bless pur stars that it is not the destruction of 
 life or limb, as it might be if it occurred through 
 
 p2
 
 212 DORA. 
 
 a railway or a steamer. Loss of money is, after 
 all, the least of the three modern evils." 
 
 " I think so," said Mrs. Courtenay, brightening. 
 " I have always had a horror of being drowned or 
 disfigured, and I would much rather lose my shares 
 of the Redmore Mines than even my left eye." 
 
 She looked quite gay and cheerful again, and in 
 this mood Doctor Richard left her, promising to 
 call again in the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was charmed with her medical 
 attendant. " How kind he seems ! " she said. 
 
 " Seems ! " repeated Dora, with emotion ; " is, 
 mamma. Twice he came to you yesterday even- 
 ing, and he sat up here till past two rather than 
 prescribe an opiate, which, it seems, might have 
 injured you. And think how kind it was of him 
 to interfere with Monsieur Merand on my behalf. 
 Monsieur Merand looked so angry ! I am sorry 
 to lose my good opinion of him, but I am afraid 
 he has almost cheated me. How kind, though, of 
 Doctor Richard not to mind exposing him. 
 
 "Yes, very kind," murmured Mrs. Courtenay. 
 " And when are you to get the money, Dora ?" 
 
 " To-day, if I can finish my drawing," eagerly 
 replied her daughter. "Indeed, I had better go
 
 DORA. 213 
 
 at once," she added, rising ; " Monsieur Merand is 
 in a hurry for it, and I am in a hurry for Monsieur 
 Merand' s five-franc pieces." 
 
 "Yes, I wish you had the money," ratlier 
 querulously said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 Dora saw she could trust her mother to Mrs. 
 Luan's care, and that it would be better for her 
 to go and calm the poor lady's mind by the prospect 
 of gain, the only prospect which then seemed to 
 have any charm in it for Mrs. Courtenay. So 
 with a cheerfulness half real, half put on — alas ! 
 how many things are so put on by brave hearts, 
 heroism, patience, and the rest — Dora took her 
 portfolio and went forth. On her way she 
 thought, " Since I am selling the drawing, I no 
 longer want the frame ; and since it is not ready, 
 had I not better go and tell that poor Dubois not 
 to make it. Poor fellow ! I hope he will not be 
 too much disappointed !" 
 
 Dora found the door of the Dubois' ajar, and 
 she pushed it open hesitatingly ; but she was not 
 prepared for the sight that met her view. Her 
 frame, bright as gilding could make it, stood be- 
 fore her, held by Monsieur Dubois, whose hand 
 had got miraculously well during the night, and no
 
 214 DORA. 
 
 less a person than Doctor Richard stood with his 
 back to her. He turned round, and seemed sur- 
 prised to see her, whilst consternation appeared 
 on Madame Dubois' face, and Monsieur Dubois 
 turned pale as a ghost. 
 
 " Doctor Richard," said Dora, reddening, " was 
 that man's hand unwell f 
 
 ^' Unwell ! no. Has he been imposing on you, 
 Miss Courtenay ? I suppose he was out of work 
 -—a child ill, eh ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Dora, " that is it. Was it not 
 true?" 
 
 Doctor Richard laughed heartily, and seemed 
 much amused. 
 
 '^ The old story !" he said. " My dear young 
 lady," he added, " why did you not look at the 
 man's low, mean face, and read him ? His story 
 is this. I have kept him in work for the last six 
 weeks, and during that time neither he, nor his 
 wife, nor his children, nor even the white hen, has 
 had a moment's ailment !" 
 
 Dora was mortified. She had been cheated and 
 deceived, and Doctor Richard only laughed at her 
 simplicity. 
 
 "He is a low vagabond," resumed Doctor
 
 DORA. 215 
 
 KIchard, still speaking English, but shaking his 
 forefinger good-huraouredly at the culprit, ^vho 
 looked extremely uneasy, " but clever, Miss Cour- 
 tenay, a self-taught genius ; and though it is 
 abominable that he should thus impose upon you, 
 I cannot afford to be angry with him. Look at 
 that frame I have just bought. There is fancy and 
 invention for you ! Look at that foliage !" 
 
 " Excuse me, Doctor Richard," said Dora, 
 gently touching his arm, and looking both amused 
 and puzzled, ^' but this frame was made for me." 
 
 " Have they sold you my frame ?" 
 
 "Doctor Eichard, I ordered it." 
 
 " So did I, Miss Courtenay." 
 
 They exchanged looks — then Doctor Kichard 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 " The vagabond ! — the low vagabond !" he said 
 again. " He wanted, perhaps, to sell the same 
 frame twice over. Now, Miss Courtenay, take my 
 advice, do not let yourself be so easily imposed 
 upon. But what a pity the rascal should be so 
 clever ! Look at that design, how correct and how 
 graceful, and those I have at home are better still. 
 I must forgive him, Miss Courtenay, for the sake 
 of that leaf !"
 
 216 DORA. 
 
 Dora blushed and laughed. 
 
 "But, Doctor Kichard," she stammered, "the 
 design is not his — 'tis mine, I drew it." 
 
 " YoQ drew it, Miss Courtenay !" 
 
 " Yes. I wanted it for my drawing, and I drew 
 several designs, but he told me this was the best — 
 and so " 
 
 She did not proceed. Doctor Richard was an 
 altered man. The veins in his forehead were 
 thick and swollen, and his full brown eyes burned 
 with resentment so blighting that it almost 
 frightened her. The amusement with which he 
 had heard Dora tell of the imposition practised 
 upon her vanished when he thus learned the fraud 
 attempted on himself. 
 
 " And so they were your drawings ?" he cried 
 at length, speaking angrily and fast, and evidently 
 in a great rage. " Your drawings, which the rascal 
 passed upon me for his ; and I, a gull as I ever 
 am, believed him." 
 
 His look, as it fell on the convicted gilder, ex- 
 pressed the most vehement indignation. Evidently 
 Doctor Richard found nothing humorous or enter- 
 taining in being made a dupe of. 
 
 " Is not this abhorrent and shameful V* he pro-
 
 DORA. 217 
 
 ceeded, addressing the gilder in French, which he 
 spoke forcibly and well. " You might have spared 
 yourself this disgrace, and been none the poorer. 
 Nay, the truth should have brought you in more 
 than that base lie." 
 
 Monsieur Dubois murmured some unintelligible 
 reply, but already Doctor Richard's anger had 
 melted into scorn. His brow grew smooth again, 
 his brown e3^es resumed their serenity, and he burst 
 into a hearty laugh at his own expense. 
 
 "To think of my addressing that low-minded 
 wretch as if he could know the beauty of truth," 
 he said, turning to Dora. " Whereas she never 
 left her well, so far as he is concerned. But how 
 are we to deal with this rascal. Miss Courte- 
 nay ? Who keeps the frame ? I ordered it, but 
 then you gave the design, so that if you want 
 it " 
 
 " I do not," replied Dora, colouring a little. 
 
 " Then I shall keep it," he said readily. " I shall 
 call again and settle with you, sir," he added, giving 
 Monsieur Dubois a significant look ; " for I can see 
 in your face. Miss Courtenay," he continued, look- 
 ing at her with a smile, as they both left the place, 
 " that I must not be too hard on this guilty couple
 
 218 DORA. 
 
 in your presence. Yon looked quite startled a 
 while ago." 
 
 " You looked very angry, Doctor Eichard." 
 
 "Did I? Well, Saint Augustine says that 
 each man bears within himself Adam, Eve, and 
 the serpent, and I confess I find it so. Often that 
 weak Adam, and frail Eve, and tempting serpent 
 are busy with me. So lest Adam should prevail 
 against me, I now leave that sneaking impostor 
 and his wife. I have no doubt they are quarrel- 
 ling now, with the boy looking on, and the white 
 hen cackling. Let them ! Confess that you 
 think me a fool !" he abruptly added, stepping on 
 the staircase to look hard at Dora. 
 
 " You forget that I, too, was deceived," replied 
 Dora, smiling. 
 
 " In matters of which you could have little or 
 no knowledge. But if I had looked at the man's 
 head, I might have known he could not be the 
 author of that beautiful drawing. Yet it was that 
 which blinded me. I saw it, and forgot the man. 
 So there is ever something to account for my mis- 
 takes ; for it is a humiliating confession, though a 
 true one, to say that it is my lot to be deceived. 
 There is something inexpressively persuasive and
 
 DORA. 219 
 
 convincing to me in an assertion. A child's false- 
 hood has often prevailed over me, and yet, Miss 
 Courtenay, I am not an idiot, I assure you." 
 
 He spoke with a gravity which nearly discon- 
 certed Dora. 
 
 " I can see you are much inclined to laugh," he 
 resumed ; " but you are all wrong. It is idiotic to 
 be so easily deceived, and yet I am no idiot — I 
 maintain it in the face of what has just occurred. 
 Do not protest ; but just allow me to follow out 
 my argument. You have read Don Quixote, I 
 have no doubt ; well, then, has it not struck you 
 that this unfortunate gentleman commits but one 
 error, only it is the first ; in all else he is shrewd, 
 clever, sensible, well informed. This is my case. 
 Ninety-nine things I see clearly ; but the hun- 
 dredth which escapes me is just the keystone of 
 the edifice. If that Dubois had assured me that 
 he was benevolent, humane, a kind husband, a 
 faithful friend, I should have been amused at his 
 attempting to practise on my credulity ; but he said 
 I am an untaught genius, and I became his vic- 
 tim ?" 
 
 Doctor Richard spoke very composedly of his 
 deficiencies, as composedly, indeed, as if they con-
 
 220 DORA. 
 
 cerned him not. Dora, though she heard him in 
 silence, drew her own conclusions. Though his 
 brown eyes were piercing enough, eyes that could 
 see far and deep, they were more penetrating than 
 shrewd. The glamour of imagination could baffle 
 the keenness of that vision, and Doctor Richard 
 belonged to the class of men who are to be the 
 victims of their inferiors. He knew it, but the 
 knowledge availed him not. 
 
 " His very gifts betray him," thought Dora, "and 
 have kept him back in the race of life. Poor 
 fellow," she continued, in her mental soliloquy, as 
 he left her, and walked away briskly, " I am afraid 
 he spends his money very foolishly. What could 
 he want with all those frames, now ?" 
 
 Dora shook her head at Dr. Richard's impru- 
 dence, and was still censuring him when she enter- 
 ed the Gallery.
 
 221 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 rpHERE were some last touches to be bestowed 
 -*- on the music lesson, and Dora lingered over 
 her task. For suppose Monsieur Merand should 
 again find fault with this drawing, and utter those 
 severe remarks which, in Dora's present position, 
 it would be so hard to hear ? Whilst she was thus 
 engaged in the picture-gallery, she heard a step 
 behind her chair, and looking round in some sur- 
 prise at the unwonted interruption, she saw Doctor 
 Richard. 
 
 " Will you allow me to make one or two sug- 
 gestions to you, Miss Courtenay ?" he said, in his 
 easy way. 
 
 Dora assented with a little flush of emotion, 
 which Doctor Richard did not seem to perceive. 
 He proceeded with his suggestions, as he called 
 them ; and keen, subtle suggestions they were, im- 
 plying no small amount of theoretical and practi- 
 cal skill.
 
 222 DORA. 
 
 " He talks more like a painter than like a doc- 
 tor," thought Dora, " and, indeed, more like a 
 professor than like either." 
 
 " You draw, Doctor Richard f ' she could not 
 help saying. 
 
 ^' Yes, 1 do all my own illustrations," he care- 
 lessly replied. 
 
 " He is a writer upon art," thought Dora. 
 
 But memory, though questioned, remained 
 mute, and had nothing to tell about Doctor 
 Richard's name. 
 
 " You did well to take this pretty little music- 
 lesson," he resumed — " here, at least, imagination 
 is free. I am not an inquisitive man, not in the 
 ordinary sense of the word ; my neighbour's busi- 
 ness troubles me not, but I confess to you that a 
 little picture by one of the minor Dutch painters 
 once gave me many a pleasant hour. The 
 burgher father, the matronly mother, and the 
 daughter fair and blooming, were all primly seat- 
 ed before me. The room was large, rather dark, 
 perhaps, with plenty of plate, and two blue china 
 vases on an oaken sort of dresser. It was all so 
 minutely painted, that the Eastern pattern of the 
 carpet, the flowering of the brocade in the mo-
 
 DORA. 223 
 
 ther's dress, the fine lace cape of the daughter, 
 were recognizable, and could have been identified. 
 The picture was about two hundred years old. 
 Two hundred years, and their, vicissitudes, battles, 
 and generations had passed since that calm home 
 had been somewhere in one of the old Dutch 
 cities. I would have given anything to have had 
 the power of going back for a while to those large 
 oaken rooms, with their substantial furniture — to 
 have conversed with these people, or, if that were 
 too ambitious a desire, considering that I do not 
 know Dutch, to have seen them in their daily life, 
 and household occupations. Surely there must 
 have been some chamber upstairs in which that 
 merchant kept his money-bags, or reckoned his 
 tuHp bulbs ? Surely, too, that good dame must 
 have had her empire in wide store-rooms, with jars 
 of pickles and preserves. As for the young lady, 
 I could imagine her bower with birds, and an em- 
 broidery frame, and a looking-glass in the win- 
 dow. I could imagine all that, but as in a dream ; 
 for, after all, this supposed merchant may have 
 been some hard reader, a disciple of Grotius, who 
 stored books, and not gold, and who scorned tulips. 
 His wife, in her way, may have set her mind
 
 224 D O E A. 
 
 above mere household comforts, and been a stern 
 Christian, and between these two the poor young 
 damsel probably led a dull life. I doubt if she 
 had birds. Their singing would have disturbed 
 her papa's studies, and her severe mamma held 
 embroidery a profane loss of time, and condemned 
 her to knitting and her Bible. So, you see, here 
 are two totally different versions of the same story ; 
 and having found that I could thus construct not 
 two, but twenty, I turned the picture with its face 
 to the wall, and forbade it to speak to me more." 
 
 Did he speak in jest or in earnest? Dora 
 could not tell, but stole a doubtful look at Doctor 
 Richard, but he seemed unconscious of her sur- 
 prise. He spoke with the composure of one who 
 is unaware of having said anything unusual, and 
 with the facility which comes from the habit of 
 being listened to. 
 
 " Is he a lecturer, an author, or both f ' thought 
 Dora ; " and yet there is something in him which 
 belongs to none of these — something of the man 
 of the world, who makes himself at home every- 
 where and with everyone." 
 
 But if Doctor Richard had no suspicion of the 
 conjectures in which Dora indulged concerning
 
 DORA. 225 
 
 him, be saw very well that her pencil remained idle. 
 
 " I must not prevent you from working," he 
 said, smiling ; and renewing his promise to call on 
 ^[rs. Courtenav in the eveninij, he left her. 
 
 As he walked away, Dora's look followed him a 
 little pensively. 
 
 "Poor fellow I" she thought, contrasting his 
 erect figure and easy carriage with his indifferent 
 apparel, " I fear he has been sadly tossed about 
 by life. Medicine, art, authorship have not done 
 much for him I" 
 
 But she admired him for all that. She ad- 
 mired him as the independent and the clear- 
 sighted always admire a vigorous and original 
 mind, even though Fortune should not have fa- 
 voured it. 
 
 Dora left before the closing of the Gallery ; 
 and as she passed by the open library -door on her 
 way downstairs, she saw Doctor Richard reading 
 within. A heavy folio lay open b^^fore him, and 
 he was absorbed in its contents. 
 
 " Doctor Richard has not got many patients," 
 thought Dora ; " I wonder whether he reads on 
 medicine or on art? And to think of his spend- 
 ing so much money at Monsieur Merand's !" 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 DORA. 
 
 To receive from and not to spend with that 
 gentleman was now Dora's errand on her way 
 home. She entered his shop with slight hesita- 
 tion ; but Monsieur Merand was an altered man. 
 The drawing was perfect, and he had but one 
 regret — he must pay Mademoiselle in silver five- 
 franc pieces. But with her bright smile Dora 
 tied up the welcome though cumbersome coins in 
 her pocket-handkerchief, and thus laden, went 
 home. 
 
 "Here are news from the Kedmore Mines," 
 gaily said Dora, and opening her pocket-handker- 
 chief, she scattered its contents on her mother's 
 bed. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's eyes glistened as she saw 
 the silver shower. 
 
 " It is not that I am so fond of money," she 
 apologetically said; "but then one cannot do with- 
 out it." 
 
 Mrs. Luan was mute, but Dora saw the flush 
 on her sallow cheek, and could read its meaning. 
 Dora felt happy, and happiness is loquacious. 
 She told them how she had worked at her draw- 
 ing, how gracious Monsieur Merand had been, 
 and in all she said the name of Doctor Richard
 
 D O E A. 227 
 
 invariably came back. Mrs. Courtenay was too 
 much pleased with her medical attendant to cen- 
 sure this frequent repetition of his name ; but 
 when, even after dinner, Dora took up the theme, 
 Mrs. Luan, who had been almost silent since the 
 preceding day's catastrophe, now looked up, and 
 said sullenly — 
 
 "I hate Doctor Eichard !" 
 
 "Aunt !" cried Dora amazed — too much amazed 
 to be indignant. 
 
 " I hate him!" resumed Mrs. Luan ; "look at 
 his clothes — shabby ; he is no good doctor, not he! 
 He is nothing — no one — nobody." 
 
 She was almost excited now. Dora would 
 have answered, and perhaps with less respect and 
 gentleness than she generally showed to Mrs. Luan 
 — for her cheeks were flushed and her eyes 
 sparkled — if Doctor Richard himself had not at 
 that precise moment been shown up by Madame 
 Bertrand . 
 
 " A good sign when the patient is lively," he 
 said, going to Mrs. Courtenay's bed with a plea- 
 sant smile ; " but I do not mean to give up my 
 attendance yet. You are not quite well, my 
 dear madam." 
 
 q2
 
 228 DORA. 
 
 " I do not feel quite well, doctor, but much bet- 
 ter — oh ! so much better," she added with her 
 little raisins; of the voice. 
 
 He sat down by her and felt her pulse. As 
 Mrs. Courtenay drew back her hand the motion 
 disturbed the counterpane, and the five-franc 
 pieces which Dora had left and forgotten there, 
 rolled on the floor with many a silver ring. Doctor 
 Richard gave a little start of surprise, and Dora 
 bkished. 
 
 '^ I put them there to show mamma that I can 
 earn money," she said, trying to laugh it off, " for, 
 thanks to you. Doctor Richard, Monsieur Merand 
 has been liberal." 
 
 She began picking up the fallen coins, and 
 Doctor Richard assisted her. When he handed 
 her those which he had gathered he was smiling, 
 and Dora could not help thinking how different 
 was the warm genial face she now looked at, from 
 the dark wrathful countenance she had seen that 
 morning. That was all storm — this was all sun- 
 shine. 
 
 " I am sure he is good," thought Dora ; " he 
 looks as pleased as if that money w^ere his !" 
 
 " Doctor Richard," she said aloud, " 1 met Ma-
 
 DORA. 229 
 
 dame Dubois. She begged hard to be forgiven." 
 
 " Will you forgive them, Miss Courtenay ?" 
 
 "Yes — will not you?" 
 
 " No ; you know the Chinese saying, ' If I am 
 deceiv^ed once, the blame lies with the deceiver ; 
 but if I am twice deceived, the blame lies with 
 me.' " 
 
 Doctor Richard spoke so positively, that Dora 
 was silenced. 
 
 " Now, Miss Courtenay," he resumed, " do not 
 think me, soft as I have proved myself, a victim to 
 the dreadful delusion of the deserving poor. 
 There are such, I suppose, but just as there are 
 deserving rich, in a very moderate ratio. No, I 
 do not ask for that wonderful bird — a virtuous 
 man in distress. I am satisfied to take humanity 
 such as it is, and relieve its sufferings so far as I 
 can, which is very little ; but I have a strong 
 hatred for moral ugliness, and so when I get such 
 a reptile as the gilder in my path, and can see no 
 redeeming trait in him, I leave him to shift for 
 himself. Some people will be drowned like the 
 man in the story, and who can prevent it? Listen 
 to that drunken wretch now shouting down the 
 street. Who can save him ?"
 
 230 DORA. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" compassionately said Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay ; " it is all the cider. Perhaps you drink 
 wine, Doctor Richard, and do not know how per- 
 fidious cider is. I do. When we came here first, 
 I actually got tipsy !" said Mrs. Courtenay, raising 
 her voice in amazement at the strangeness of the 
 fact ; " and all for one glass of cider." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed Doctor Richard, much 
 amused. 
 
 " I did," emphatically continued Mrs. Courte- 
 nay. '^ I came in very warm, and Madame Ber- 
 trand would make me taste her cider. I took one 
 glass, and my head began spinning, oh ! so much. 
 'Madame Bertrand,' I cried, 'your cider is very 
 good, but it is very perfidious !' ' Not at all, ma- 
 dame,' she replied ; ^ you are only a little dizzy.' 
 Doctor Richard, you may believe me, I could not 
 get upstairs — I had to sit down on the steps; and 
 I must have been really tipsy, for it seems I got 
 so affectionate, and squeezed Madame Bertrand's 
 hand quite fondly. And I talked so — oh ! how I 
 did talk ! Poor Dora came down to me a little 
 frightened, and what do you think I said to her, 
 doctor ? ' Dora,' I said, * you are a dear, good girl, 
 but I must say it, once for all — I have never told
 
 DORA. 231 
 
 you before, but I must tell you now. You stav 
 too lou^ at your prayers in the morning j and 
 then, Dora, you are too fastidious about your 
 dress. It is all very well to be pious, and to wear 
 nice collars, but still, Dora, thoucrh I like it, I 
 also like not to be kept so long from my break- 
 fast, so please to mend I' Dora was quite be- 
 wildered, poor dear I at the lecture, but she helped 
 me upstairs, and I took a nap in my chair and 
 woke quite well. And that is how I got tipsy on 
 a glass of cider ; and, Doctor Richard," added 
 Mrs. Courtenay, raising her voice in wonder at her 
 own suggestion, " think what a terrible effect a 
 good many glasses must have." 
 
 Dora had felt rather uncomfortable during this 
 naiTative, especially at that portion which referred 
 to the length of her devotions, and the nicety of 
 her collars; but though Doctor Richard seemed 
 much amused, he never looked at her. Moreover, 
 his manner as he listened and spoke to Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay expressed a gentle and respectful sympathy 
 that went to Dora's very heart. With Dora her- 
 self, when he addressed her, his tone, his looks, 
 his bearing, were those of a friend — kind, but not 
 too familiar. His manner, which had been a little
 
 232 DOE A. 
 
 abrupt at first, was now tempered by a refinement 
 and a courtesy which to Dora seemed both rare 
 and delightful. She thought she had never met 
 with so perfect a gentleman. Did her bright open 
 face betray her secret admiration, or was it part of 
 Doctor Kichard's plan to fascinate both mother 
 and daughter? Even a keen observer might have 
 failed to settle this question, but the dullest must 
 have seen that Doctor Richard bestowed a consider- 
 able portion of his attention on Miss Courtena3^ 
 Even when he spoke to her mother, it was on Dora 
 that his eyes rested. Few people had ever looked 
 at this girl coldly, the light in her face compelled 
 corresponding warmth in the gazer, and Doctor 
 Richard obeyed the general rule. When she 
 spoke he smiled and listened with evident pleasure 
 to the little sallies by which she endeavoured to 
 amuse her mother. When she was silent his gaze 
 wandered towards her, and rested on her radiant 
 face and light figure, with evident enjoyment. She 
 was like a Titian or a Giorgione to him, a glorious 
 bit of colour lighting those dull rooms, and con- 
 trasting in its brightness with the paleness and 
 subdued tints of age, as seen in Mrs. Courtenay and 
 Mrs. Luan.
 
 DORA. 233 
 
 Now there is a subject on which women have a 
 quickness of perception nothing can baffle — it is 
 the impression they produce. Dora knew, as well 
 as if Doctor Richard had sworn it, that he admired 
 her. She had been accustomed to such admiration 
 formerly, and had received it too often to be mis- 
 taken now. What she saw, ]Mrs. Courtenay saw 
 too, only she drew maternal conclusions which 
 Dora left in abeyance — that Doctor Richard was 
 a very fascinating man, a very kind one, too ; how 
 delightful if he were to marry Dora ! Good, in- 
 nocent soul I She never looked at Doctor Richard's 
 coat, nor asked herself how he could keep a wife 
 and rear a family I The future had, in more 
 senses than one, ever been a sealed book to this 
 amiable and improvident lady. Mrs. Luan, too, 
 being a woman, saw what was going on, and con- 
 jectured. Her slow, dull mind fastened on Doctor 
 Richard's admiration of her niece with the tenacity 
 of a leech, and extracted all that such admiration 
 could possibly yield. 
 
 She already disliked the man, as the bearer of 
 woeful tidings ; she now hated him as being poor, 
 and coming to the house to rob them of their only 
 support. In her sluggish way she had thought
 
 234 DORA. 
 
 over their position, since the preceding morning, 
 and she had realized the fact that Dora was now 
 their mainstay. John would help ; but Mrs. Luan 
 could not bear to rob poor John, and she was will- 
 ing to lean heavily, if need be, upon her niece. 
 
 Such being the case, why did that needy doctor 
 coming hankering after Dora ? They did not 
 want him. Let him begone, with his shabby 
 clothes and look of decayed gentility ! For that 
 Doctor Richard's admiration might be the disin- 
 terested feeling which many men yield to a young 
 and fascinating woman, Mrs. Luan did not admit 
 in that moment of selfish terror. She only saw 
 the danger ; and she not merely saw it, but she 
 magnified it tenfold. 
 
 Doctor Richard was too quick and observant not 
 to become aware of Mrs. Luan's hard, intent look. 
 It annoyed him, yet, thanks to the blindness of 
 which he was uselessly conscious, its meaning was 
 not apparent to him. He saw a dull, heavy-look- 
 ing lady, with a hideous piece of patchwork on her 
 lap, and he felt that there was something unplea- 
 sant to him, almost repugnant in her aspect ; but 
 he never thought that this low-browed woman was 
 the Nemesis of his life. He never thought, as, after
 
 DORA. 235 
 
 spending an hour and more with "Mrs. Courtenay 
 and her daughter, he took his leave, that the wo- 
 man who rose and gave him a cold, lifeless hand, 
 was the arbitress of his fate ; that from her would 
 spring the greatest sorrows and the greatest joys 
 of his existence. That this being, his moral and 
 intellectual inferior, would nevertheless rule him 
 with a rod of iron in weal and in woe, Doctor 
 Richard never suspected. 
 
 " Poor thing I she is predestined to a brain dis- 
 ease," was his medical conclusion, as he looked at 
 her.
 
 236 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TTTHAT subtle and mysterious chain of small 
 * * events is it which we so often qualify as 
 inevitable? Is there anything not immediately 
 dependent on God's will to which "inevitable" 
 does really apply ? Are we not free to avoid or 
 to seek? Could we not walk on the right side 
 of the road as well as on the left ? Must we per- 
 force take that turning instead of this ? If we 
 go on board the boat which is to perish, might we 
 not have sailed in that which, after crossing smooth 
 seas, will come to port safely? Inevitable, for- 
 sooth ! It is the word of presumption and of weak- 
 ness, the excuse for all shortsighted folly, the plea 
 of all error, slight or fatal. 
 
 That " inevitable," as it is called, was now busy 
 with Dora Courtenay's destiny. Her motlier got 
 well again. Even Mrs. Luan recovered the shock 
 of the Kedmore Mines ; a trifle was saved out oi
 
 DORA. 237 
 
 the wreck ; poor John Luan wrote an affectionate 
 letter, and sent twenty pounds ; and Monsieur 
 Merand ordered a series of drawings, which kept 
 Dora in constant occupation. All this was as it 
 should be — was, at least, as it often is in life, where 
 the waters flow smoothly again ov^er the greatest 
 wrecks, but the supererogation was in the continued 
 visits of Doctor Eichard. He came to see Mrs. 
 Courtenay, and perhaps because her complaint was 
 mental rather than bodily, he came more as a 
 friend than as a doctor. He wished to cheer her, 
 and he succeeded. His conversation was attractive 
 and varied — the conversation of a well-read man ; 
 he had also a beautiful voice, mellow, harmonious, 
 and full-toned, and Mrs. Courtenay once frankly 
 told him it was like music to hear him. His society, 
 in short, was both genial and interesting, and 
 Dora's mother was getting accustomed to it, and 
 required it as much as her cup of tea in the even- 
 ing, when it suddenly ceased. 
 
 " I wonder why Doctor Richard comes no more?" 
 rather plaintively said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 '' Because you are quite well, mamma,*' replied 
 Dora, trying not to look as disappointed as she felt. 
 
 For Doctor Richard had grown invisible. ]S either
 
 238 DORA. 
 
 when she passed by his house, nor in the picture- 
 gallery, nor in the reading-room, nor even at Mon- 
 sieur Merand's, did Dora see him. And there now 
 fell a restlessness upon her, of which she herself 
 knew not the cause. She worked, she played, she 
 read, she sewed, she was never idle a second, and 
 yet something ailed Dora. 
 
 "What a pity Doctor Kichard is not a friend of 
 ours," she sometimes thought, ^' it used to do me 
 good when he came. His fancies are rather wild 
 sometimes, and one does not exactly know when 
 he is in jest or in earnest ; but he used to set me 
 thinking, and I feel the want of it now that he is 
 gone. It is wonderful all I learned from him 
 when he came and stood behind my chair and 
 advised me. Some of his criticisms were so many 
 rays of light. I know I want a critic, and mamma 
 and aunt admire all I do." 
 
 But requisite though his presence was to Dora, 
 Doctor Richard came not. Then she did her best 
 to remember all that this judicious critic had said. 
 And memory brought it all back to Dora. Looks, 
 words, the very intonation with which they had 
 been spoken, returned so vividly that it sometimes 
 seemed Doctor Richard himself stood by. And
 
 DORA. ^ 239 
 
 she never asked herself why she thus brought this 
 stranger in her life, when he had evidently sought 
 another path than that which she trod. Why she 
 compelled him to be thus with her in spirit, when 
 his will kept him so far away in body. 
 
 Some of the ancient philosophers thought that 
 a man could be struck with a thunderbolt and 
 neither know nor feel it. Perhaps they came to 
 this strange conclusion from their knowledo^e of 
 what happens in the mysterious world of a human 
 heart. There, indeed, the thunderbolt may fall, 
 and leave us unaware of its presence. The great 
 calamity, the crowning sorrow of our life, may 
 have come to us, and we may not even suspect it, 
 so sudden and so invisible was its approach. If 
 such a grief had come to Dora, her ignorance of 
 it was complete. She felt dull, and reason telling 
 her she had no cause for such dulness, that she 
 led a useful, active life, with many legitimate 
 sources of interest in it, she argued against herself, 
 and resisted the enemy ; but, unluckily, reason 
 too often took Doctor Richard's voice, and spoke 
 in his language. 
 
 Dora was sitting with her mother and Mrs. 
 Luan. It was evening-time ; the lamp, with its
 
 2'iO , DORA. 
 
 green shade, gave a circle of liglit on the table, 
 and left the room in a soft brown gloom, through 
 which you caught dim outlines of furniture, with 
 here and there a speck of light from some bit of 
 china or gilt frame on the wall. Mrs. Luan was 
 engaged on her patchwork, Mrs. Courtenay was 
 busy with a game of patience, and Dora was 
 mending linen. They were very silent, but the 
 wind moaned without, and now and then a gust 
 brought a heavy pattering shower of rain against 
 the window-panes. 
 
 " How different it would all be if Doctor 
 Richard were here !" thought Dora, and a thrill 
 passed through her at the thought ; " then, instead 
 of this heavy silence, w^e should hear his full, 
 genial voice talking pleasant wisdom, or no less 
 pleasant paradox. How he would preach me out 
 of this dulness of mine, if he knew of it ! How 
 he did go on about ennui the last time he came ! 
 Was it the last ? ' Depend upon it. Miss Cour- 
 tenay,' he said, ' the great drama of ninety-three 
 was hastened by the feeling which the French call 
 ennui. There must have been dreadful w^eariness 
 in that pompous old Versailles, with its routine, 
 and its endless round of solemn gaieties. These
 
 DORA. 241 
 
 long-clipped avenues, and statues, and vases, and 
 waterworks, lookinor all so formal in the brif^ht 
 hot sun, made one pine for variety. Anything for 
 a change. So welcome Yoltaire, welcome Rousseau, 
 welcome that insolent barber Figaro, who sapped 
 so gaily the foundations of the old regime. Wel- 
 come, above all, the Encyclopedic. There is a 
 charm about impiety when all else fails. The 
 end, to be sure, was tragic, and seas of blood had 
 to flow ere the safe shore was reached ; but then, 
 for a few years, at least, the French nation was 
 saved from ennui — an inestimable blessing. Miss 
 Courtenay, for so lively a nation.' " 
 
 Yes, thus had Doctor Richai'd spoken ; and as 
 she recalled his language, and wisely admonished 
 herself with it, Dora seemed to see Doctor Richard 
 himself sitting in yonder vacant chair, and looking 
 at her across the table with those genial brown 
 eyes, in which he could put no small amount of 
 mirth and humour. The vision brought no blush 
 to Dora's cheek, no emotion to her heart ; but it 
 was pleasant, though brief. 
 
 " What a pity he does not like our society as 
 much as we like his !" she thought, honestly ; 
 " but it is no great wonder. It must be dull to 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 242 DORA. 
 
 come and sit here with us, and yet I am selfish 
 enough to wish that he would come again !" 
 
 As she confessed thus much to herself, her mo- 
 ther pushed the cards away, and exclaimed, a little 
 pettishly, 
 
 " How dull you both are ! I wish Doctor 
 Richard would come in," she added. 
 
 Dora could not help smiling at this coincidence 
 in their wishes. 
 
 " But you are not ill, mamma," she said, gaily, 
 " so why should he come ?" 
 
 " Not ill !" replied Mrs. Courtenay, looking 
 much injured — " and pray, how do you know that 
 I am not ill ?" 
 
 " But I may hope, mamma, you are not so," 
 gravely answered her daughter. 
 
 "I do not feel at all well," triumphantly re- 
 joined Mrs. Courtenay, sitting up in her chair 
 and looking around her with a sort of exultation 
 at her superiority over her daughter and her sister- 
 in-law — " I have the most extraordinary buzzing 
 in my right ear." 
 
 Spite this ominous symptom, Dora testified no 
 great uneasiness, and Mrs. Courtenay saw it and 
 looked offended.
 
 BORA. 243 
 
 "I think Tou might send round for Doctor 
 Richard," she said a little warmly ; " I really think 
 you might, Dora, seeing me so poorly." 
 
 "But, mamma," argued Dora, '-you were so 
 well a while ago, that it seems a pity to disturb 
 Doctor Richard uselessly." 
 
 " Uselessly !" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, raising 
 her voice in mingled amazement and indignation. 
 " Uselessly! when I tell you I am quite poorly, and 
 when Doctor Richard has only to cross the street 
 to come to us." 
 
 Dora did not reply, but bent her burning face 
 
 over her work. She felt ashamed to send for 
 
 Doctor Richard without cause, and she longed to 
 
 do so, yet did not dare to indulsre that lonmncr. 
 
 For suppose it should affront him to be disturbed 
 
 from his readinor? A while ao^o she had stood at 
 
 the window and looked down the street, and she 
 
 had seen a liorht burnincr in Doctor Richard's case- 
 rn n 
 
 ment ; sure proof that he was within. What right 
 had they to intrude on his solitude? But Mrs. 
 Courtenay could be wilful when she chose ; she 
 now persuaded herself that she was very unwell 
 indeed, and that Jt was quite unkind of Dora not 
 to send for Doctor Richard, and what she thought 
 
 R 2
 
 244 DORA. 
 
 she said. Thus urged, Dora hesitated, then at 
 length yielded. 
 
 Madame Bertrand was much amazed at Mrs. 
 Courtenay's sudden illness ; but obligingly went to 
 fetch Doctor Richard at once, whilst Dora sat in 
 her vacant chair. She wanted to see Doctor 
 Richard before he went upstairs, and to make 
 some apology for thus disturbing him. But there 
 was no need to do so. Madame Bertrand came 
 back alone. The house was locked up — Doctor 
 Richard was gone. 
 
 " And when he goes away," added Madame 
 Bertrand, " it is for days and weeks." 
 
 " Then how do his patients manage ?" 
 
 " He has no regular patients," replied Madame 
 Bertrand. " My impression," she confidentially con- 
 tinued, '^ is, that he goes about the country bleed- 
 ing, extracting teeth, and so on ; and when he has 
 made a little money, he comes back here and buys 
 a heap of rubbish with it." 
 
 Dora laughed at this vision of an itinerant doc- 
 tor, and went back to her mother, who looked 
 much injured on learning that Doctor Richard had 
 probably left Rouen. 
 
 Days passed on, and he did not return. Dora
 
 BORA. 245 
 
 asked Monsieur Merand if it was Doctor Kichard's 
 habit to forsake his patients thus without warn- 
 ing. 
 
 " Patients I — he has none. Besides," he tapped 
 his forehead — " hem ! you know." 
 
 '* Indeed I know nothing of the kind/' replied 
 Dora gravely ; " and if I thought so, Doctor 
 Richard should certainly not attend on my mo- 
 ther." 
 
 Monsieur Merand looked alarmed. 
 
 " Do not tell him I said so !" he exclaimed 
 hastily; "I do not wish to injure him, poor fellow ! 
 He wants all the money he can earn. He is as poor 
 as Job, you know." 
 
 He stared at Dora as if to see the effect his 
 words produced upon her. To all seeming they 
 produced none. She went away, looking rather 
 pensive ; but no other expression save that of 
 thoughtfulness appeared on her face. 
 
 Two days later, however, Dora came home 
 looking so bright and gay, that Mrs. Courtenay 
 cried, 
 
 " My dear, what has happened ? Are the Red- 
 more Mines coming up ? " 
 
 " No ; but a child was run over, and "
 
 246 -DORA. 
 
 ^^ My goodness ! is that why you look so de- 
 lighted?" 
 
 Dora blushed, and Mrs. Luan stared at her. 
 
 " Monsieur Merand wants a new drawing," said 
 Dora, apologetically, " and as I was talking to him 
 Doctor Kichard came in carrying a poor little 
 thing that had just been run over. I helped him 
 to undress it ; for the child has got an untidy mo- 
 ther, and he had pricked himself awfully with the 
 pins. I also assisted in bandaging its poor little 
 leg ; but I did little good there, for Doctor Richard 
 said I was no heroine, after all. I know I was as 
 pale as a ghost." 
 
 "You are not pale now," remarked Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " No, I came home so fast, mamma !" she added, 
 turning to her mother. "Doctor Richard will 
 look in upon you this evening." 
 
 " Who wants him ?" almost angrily said Mrs. 
 Luan. 
 
 " Aunt, why do you dislike Doctor Richard f" 
 asked her niece. " I wish you had seen how kind 
 and tender he was with the child ; and when I got 
 her to tell me her name and abode, and he went 
 off with her in a cab, Monsieur Merand said to 
 me, ' Do you know why he does not send that ob-
 
 DORA. 247 
 
 ject to the hospital ? — because he means to feed as 
 well as cure it.' " 
 
 " What right has he to give away ?" asked Mrs. 
 Luan, still gloomy. " He is too poor to give." 
 
 "The poor give more away than the rich," 
 rather indignantly said Dora. 
 
 Mrs. Luan's answer was to take off her cap 
 and fling it on the sofa. 
 
 "(How often she does that now !" thought Dora. 
 "I wonder if I ought to mention it to Doctor 
 Richard?" 
 
 But another of the self- woven links of fate was 
 around her, for on reflection she resolved to be 
 silent. 
 
 " We shall wait tea for Doctor Richard," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay. Dora assented, and Mrs. Luan 
 went and put on her cap and looked sulky. 
 
 The evening was a warm one, and Dora went 
 and sat by the open window. A faint breeze 
 came from the river up the quiet street, which 
 seemed to sleep in grey shadow. How calm all 
 these ancient houses looked in their decaying age ! 
 — how pathetic in its way was that bit of green 
 up amongst the buttresses of the poor old church 
 crumbling away to ruin, with these bright flowers
 
 248 DORA. 
 
 and that joyous vine growing, as it were, out of its 
 stone heart. 
 
 '^Poor thins: !" thought Dora with a sort of 
 pity, " it does its best to be beautiful to the last ! 
 I wonder how it looked on the day of its consecra- 
 tion five hundred years ago, when it was first 
 opened to human worship ? It was bright and 
 strong and new then. Everyone of its outlines 
 was sharply chiselled ; every one of its ornaments 
 was painted in gaudy blue, deep violet, strong red, 
 or pure gold. Doctor Richard, I remember, told 
 me once we can have no idea of the revel of colour 
 in those medisBval times. We are too apt to 
 fancy them grey and stern as they look to us 
 now", through the dimness of so many hundred 
 years." 
 
 Her thoughts had gone thus far when the sound 
 of a step up the street made her look down. She 
 saw Doctor Richard coming slowly, and as his look 
 ■was never once raised to the window, she could 
 scrutinize him as closely as she pleased. He 
 looked pale and somewhat worn. 
 
 "He has had trouble," thought Dora; "but 
 what trouble ? His carriage is not erect and free 
 as it used to be."
 
 DORA. 249 
 
 " I wish Doctor Richard would come," a little 
 querulously said Mrs. Courteiiay ; " 1 confess I 
 want my tea." 
 
 "He is coming, mamma," answered Dora, leav- 
 ing the window. 
 
 They soon heard him talking below to Madame 
 Bertrand, who in a loud plaintive voice informed 
 him that she had been dreadfully ill during his 
 absence. 
 
 " Such pains as she had had in all her limbs !" 
 Then followed a separate description of each par- 
 ticular pain, after which came Doctor Richard's 
 prescription. 
 
 " Madame Bertrand is a very good sort of wo- 
 man," superciliously said Mrs. Courtenay, ^' but 
 she does take liberties. To think of her keeping 
 Doctor Richard in that way !" 
 
 Doctor Richard's entrance put an end to the 
 cause of her displeasure. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you. Doctor Richard !" she 
 cried warmly ; " I was so sorry you were away — 
 and, goodness me ! where have you been all this 
 time?" 
 
 She looked at him with the most innocent curio- 
 sity beaming in her face.
 
 250 DORA. 
 
 '* I have been in the country with one of my 
 patients," he repHed quietly. 
 
 " Then he has patients," thought Dora. 
 
 " Is it pretty about there ?" asked Mrs. Courte- 
 nay — " I mean the landscape, you know." 
 
 Doctor Richard smiled. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " it is pretty according to the 
 present day's idea of beauty ; for I need scarcely 
 tell you, Mrs. Courtenay, that the beauty of a 
 landscape is as much subject to the laws of fashion 
 as a lady's dress." 
 
 " Dear me !" cried Mrs. Courtenay amazed ; " I 
 never knew that !" 
 
 " It is a fact, I assure you," he gravely replied ; 
 " Switzerland and the Highlands are going down, 
 like Byron's poetry. The fast generation which 
 is coming on will probably call Mont Blanc an old 
 impostor — I use a mild word — and scorn the Tro- 
 sachs." 
 
 " I cannot say that I admire them much my- 
 self," confidentially said Mrs. Courtenay — " not 
 that I ever saw them, I confess," she frankly added. 
 
 " To see is by no means necessary for admira- 
 tion or dislike," returned Doctor Richard, with 
 unmoved gravity, " since either is a matter of
 
 DOE A. 251 
 
 fashion. The fact is, the sublime will soon be pro- 
 nounced a bore. AYe are getting tired of it. Even 
 the Romans got wearied of their classical land- 
 scape, and one of their latter poets complained that 
 he knew the woods of Mars and the cave of 
 Vulcan as well as his own house. We are in the 
 same predicament. We know it all too well." 
 
 "Is common-place so old, Doctor Eichard?" 
 asked Dora, with a merry laugh. 
 
 " Do not laugh at it. Miss Courtenay. Common- 
 place is one of the powers that be, and will make 
 you rue it." 
 
 Doctor Richard spoke in a tone of grave rebuke, 
 which roused Dora's mirth anew. 
 
 " Dora has a horror of common-place," remarked 
 Mrs. Courtenay. " Such a charming man as Mr. 
 Brown was, and he admired Dora so much ; but 
 she thought him common-place." 
 
 " And was he not revenged upon Miss Courte- 
 nay?" asked Doctor Richard, without noticing the 
 blush which this indiscreet revelation brought up 
 to Dora's cheek. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," innocently answered Mrs. Courte- 
 nay; "he was our banker, and he took all our 
 money."
 
 252 DOE A. 
 
 "The thief!" said Mrs. Luan. "It was her 
 money he wanted !" 
 
 "Oh! but he did admire Dora," retorted Mrs. 
 Courtenay, a little jealously. " He said her hair 
 was like dark gold !" 
 
 Dora shook her head, and a meaning, half rue- 
 ful, half comic, passed across her expressive face. 
 
 " 1 am afraid the gold he admired was more sub- 
 stantial than that which nature has given me !" she 
 said. " At all events, not feeling sure of obtaining 
 the one, he took care to secure the other." 
 
 "The thief !" said Mrs. Luan again. 
 
 Dora laughed, and her clear, ringing laugh 
 showed how far all thought of care was from her 
 just then. 
 
 " He has done me good service, aunt," she said ; 
 " but for him I should never have known that I 
 was a little bit of a genius in the way of drawing. 
 Oh ! Doctor Kichard," she added, suddenly becom- 
 ing grave, and fastening an earnest look on his 
 face, " 1 do wish you would tell me the truth — I do 
 not mean the polite truth, but the whole truth — 
 about these drawings of mine. It seems to me at 
 times that I must be labouring under a pleasant 
 delusion. Here am I earning plenty of money,
 
 DORA. 253 
 
 and all for such common-place performances. It 
 is incredible." 
 
 Now, neither Mrs. Courtenay nor Mrs. Luan 
 liked this imprudent speech, and neither gave 
 Doctor Richard time to reply. 
 
 "My dear, you draw beautifully," cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 "Monsieur Merand does not give you half 
 enough," said ]Mrs. Luan ; " a cheat, like the rest 
 of them. I hate the French !" she heartily added. 
 
 " You hate the French !" cried Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " Mamma !" implored Dora. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was magnanimous, and made a 
 sign implying that she would take no notice of the 
 insult. 
 
 "Do tell me the truth. Doctor Richard," re- 
 sumed Dora. " What are my drawings worth ? 
 You know. Do tell me how far I can rely, for 
 instance, on my talent as a means of support." 
 
 She spoke very gravely, and leaning back in her 
 chair, looked with rather sad earnestness at Doctor 
 Richard. Now, Doctor Richard, who was usually 
 so gay, so composed, so much of a man of the 
 world, for once looked thoroughly disconcerted. 
 
 " My dear Miss Courtenay," he said, trying to
 
 254 DORA. 
 
 rally, " the terms Monsieur Merand gives you are 
 a test of the value of your drawings. That you 
 draw well, very well, I have often told you, and I 
 say so again." 
 
 He spoke so emphatically that a bright, happy 
 blush stole over Dora's face, and made it as fresh 
 and glowing as a young Aurora's. If Doctor 
 Kichard had been more polite than truthful, he 
 was rewarded for his sin by so radiant a smile, and 
 a look so bright that, whilst they lasted, they made 
 Dora's countenance the most bewitching he had 
 ever seen. Joy, not vanity, innocent triumph, did 
 that beaming face express, till, as if ashamed of 
 her own gladness, Dora tried to laugh it off by 
 saying, 
 
 " Your verdict is so favourable. Doctor Richard, 
 that I will believe every word of it, and seek to 
 know no more. And now, do tell us something 
 about your little patient." 
 
 There was not much to tell, but Mrs. Courtenay 
 uttered little screams of horror, and little screams 
 of relief, according as Catherine's state was de- 
 scribed ; and Dora listened and thought Doctor 
 Richard's conversation delightful, and without say- 
 ing anything about it at home, called on the in-
 
 DOHA. 255 
 
 jured child the next morning, on her way to the 
 Picture-gallery. 
 
 Catherine, who had a temper of her own, was in 
 a towering passion, and screaming at the pitch of 
 her shrill voice, when, after crossing a damp court- 
 yard, Dora entered the chill and dark room in 
 which Catherine's mother lived. The child was 
 kicking violently in her bed — kicking is one of the 
 infantine protests most in use in every countr}' ; 
 her mother vainly tried to soothe her, and Doctor 
 Richard stood looking on helplessly with a linen 
 bandage in his hand, when the door opened, and 
 the bright face of Dora appeared amongst them. 
 
 " Some good angel sent you to tame this little 
 lioness !" said Doctor Richard, gaily ; " now we 
 shall get on." 
 
 Dora smiled and looked doubtful ; but mothers 
 cannot always charm their own children, and there 
 is a sweet and natural freemasonry between youth 
 and childhood. Dora had scarcely sat down by 
 Catherine, and taken her hand, when the child 
 ceased crj'ing, stared, and finally smiled. 
 
 " You are accustomed to children," said Doctor 
 Richard, with a keen look. 
 
 "JSIotatall."
 
 256 DORA. 
 
 "A natural gift, then. Yes, children are won- 
 derful physiognomists." 
 
 His look rested on her bright face with that 
 complacency which such bright faces as hers ever 
 inspire. " Am I getting vain ?" thought Dora, 
 ashamed at the glow of pleasure which overspread 
 her countenance. " Granted that he admires me, 
 need I be any the prouder for it ?" 
 
 Oh ! if wisdom would but come at our call, or, 
 what would often be as great a boon, if a truer 
 and a keener knowledge of our inner self than we 
 have were granted to us in the crisis of existence ! 
 If we could know the why and wherefore of much 
 that we care not perhaps to scrutinize too closely, 
 and scan our own springs of feeling and action 
 as they rise within us — if we could do all this, 
 how different a lot might be ours ! But there is 
 a languid pleasure in ignorance. To see through 
 a mist, to hear as in a dream, to be borne down 
 the tide of life, and idly played with by its waves, 
 instead of bravely swimming our way to shore 
 against them — all these things are fraught with a 
 perilous sweetness. Happy, but surely few, are 
 they who know how to resist that seducing tor- 
 por ere it be too late to repel it. Some forewarn-
 
 DORA. 257 
 
 ing Dora felt, however, for after putting on the 
 bed of the little sufferer the sweatmeats she had 
 brought it, she rose to go. Doctor Richard looked 
 injured. 
 
 "Will jou not stay and manage her whilst I 
 dress her leg ?" he asked. 
 
 Thus adjured, Dora remained. Doctor Richard 
 expressed himself highly satisfied with the state of 
 the injured limb. 
 
 " I daresay the little creature will be able to get 
 into mischief again," he said gaily ; " and of 
 course she wdll do so with that careless mother of 
 hers. Pity," he thoughtfully added, " one cannot 
 stop the growth of some children, put them in 
 cages, and hang them up like canary birds. Look 
 at this child, Miss Courtenay — she is lovely, with 
 delicate, refined features, and if her great-great- 
 ancestor had only been a baker, or a butler, or a 
 groom in William the Conqueror's train, we should 
 now have her portrait in a book of beauty, and be 
 told in the letter-press how the infantine features, 
 &c., of the honourable Adelina Fitz-Norman, &c, 
 were the purest model of the Anglo-Norman type 
 so remarkable in the English aristocracy, &c. I 
 am really sorry I am not acquainted with this 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 DORA. 
 
 young lady's Scandinavian pedigree. For all we 
 know, she may be a lineal descendant of Kollo 
 himself. I am afraid you will think me a man of 
 insatiable curiosity, Miss Courtenay, but lost pedi- 
 grees are one of my torments. I believe in race, in 
 the transmission of form and feature, of mind, and 
 of certain defects and qualities. Now, I want to 
 know what has become, for instance, of the descend- 
 ants of the Scipios, the Gracchi, the Julii, and tutti 
 quanti of those famous old Romans who are the 
 misery of our childhood. I want to know it, for I 
 owe them a grudge, and should like to pay it out. 
 But a Barbarian tide, leaving behind it an endless 
 Gothic sea, has swept away every sure token of the 
 past. It is impossible to doubt but that some of 
 those renowned families still flourish — only where 
 are they? Blood of inestimable value flows in 
 their veins, but this rare treasure not being ap- 
 prehensible by any of our senses, its possessors live 
 and die unconscious of their own greatness. I 
 always felt convinced that my washerwoman in 
 Rome had been an empress — I mean in the per- 
 son of one of ^her. ancestors, for the transmigra- 
 tion of souls is not one of my doctrines — and that 
 Benedetto, the facchino, was a remote cousin of
 
 DORA. 259^^ 
 
 Catilina's. He had the man's audacious subtlety, 
 even as he had his features. Unlucky wretch! 
 he had no knowledge of his illustrious ancestry ! I 
 had a great mind to enlighten him, but forbore, 
 lest I should render him too much dissatisfied with 
 his humble lot ; for, you see, I can temper my 
 fancies with a certain amount of prudence. Miss 
 Courtenay." 
 
 Doctor Richard was sitting on the edge of the 
 child's bed as he spoke thus, with much composure 
 and his usual fluency. Dora, leaning back in her 
 chair with her portfolio on her knees, looked at 
 him thoughtfully. 
 
 " He must have some little income," she thought, 
 ^* some slender provision between him and want. 
 The tone and substance of his remarks — and how 
 strangely he does talk ! — both tell of leisure. I be- 
 lieve he likes his profession ; but, poor fellow, I 
 fear it does not like him." 
 
 Spite the patient in the country, Dora did not 
 think Doctor Kichard a busy or a prosperous man. 
 He had been w4th the child before she came, he 
 stayed when she now rose to .go, and she had 
 scarcely been an hour in the picture-gallery, when 
 Doctor Richard stood behind her chair. He did 
 
 s2
 
 260 DORA. 
 
 not remain long, however ; he had to go and read 
 in the library, he said. 
 
 " I want to get the song of Eoland," he in- 
 formed Dora, "I w^ant to get back to Romance 
 and Roncevaux, and the mighty horn^and Du- 
 randal, the heroic sword, and Oliver and Ganelon, 
 and above all, to that grand death scene, when 
 Archbishop Turpin blesses the dead and dying 
 heroes, and then dies himself, leaving Roland, as 
 was but fitting, to die last, with all these noble 
 knights lying around him. Do you read old 
 French, Miss Courtenay? No! what a pity. There 
 are some rare treasures here." 
 
 Now, Dora, being but mortal, thought she could 
 give Doctor Richard a little useful hint towards 
 practical wisdom. 
 
 " I must work, not read," she said, demurely. 
 
 "Work," good-humouredly replied Doctor 
 Richard, '^is one of the modern mistakes. We 
 are born to be as well as to act, and thinking is 
 one of the many forms of action, whatever matter 
 of fact may say. So I keep to my creed, and 
 venture to blame yours." 
 
 " Oh ! but I do read," said Dora, blushing ; 
 " but I have little time and few books."
 
 DORA. 261 
 
 "Then, as I have the command of a large 
 library, allow me to lend you some. You will find 
 the catalogue at Madame Bertrand's, and can mark 
 the volumes you prefer." 
 
 Dora looked so happy as she turned round, that 
 Doctor Kichard exclaimed gaily, 
 
 " Come, you are a reader, after all !" 
 
 But he gave her no time to stammer her 
 thanks ; before they were half uttered he ^vas gone.
 
 262 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 rpHE catalogue was waiting for Dora on Ma- 
 dame Bertrand's table when she went home. 
 
 " How kind he is !" she thought ; but to her 
 sense of that kindness succeeded surprise when on 
 looking over the catalogue she saw how valuable 
 and extensive a collection was thus placed at her 
 command. Dr. Richard seemed to know no one 
 in Rouen ; this library must belong to his patient 
 in the country. But that patient did not seem to 
 take up much of Doctor Richard's time. 
 
 Early though it was when Dora called on Ca- 
 therine the next morning, Doctor Richard was 
 already with the child. He was alone with her 
 too, and pulling the string of a little pasteboard 
 puppet to amuse her. He stood with his back to 
 the door, and did not see Dora. 
 
 " Faster !" said Catherine, who lay in her bed 
 looking on gravely at Doctor Richard's perform- 
 ance — " do it faster."
 
 DORA. 263 
 
 " So," suggested Doctor Richard, giving the 
 figure such a jerk, that its legs and arms both shot 
 out in horizontal directions, " is that right ?" 
 
 " No," was Catherine's peevish reply, and she 
 turned her head aside and shut her eyes. 
 
 Dora now approached, and Doctor Kichard 
 turned round and saw her. 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Courtenay," he said, 
 gravely ; " you find me verifying the truth of that 
 saying, uttered by a woman of genius, that we are 
 all born kings. This young lady, I can assure 
 you, is born a queen. I offered to stay with her 
 whilst her mother went out on some necessary 
 errand, and all the return I have got for my kind- 
 ness is that she has neither screamed, nor kicked, 
 nor attempted to bite. In all else I have been 
 treated with the most absolute contempt. Well, 
 well," he added, sitting down on the edge of the 
 bed, and looking down kindly on the little crea- 
 ture, who still kept her eyes shut, "this brief 
 royalty is the compensation granted by nature for 
 all the future maltreatment of society. And after 
 all, Miss Courtenay, is not life full of such atone- 
 ments ? My belief is, that the * Arabian Nights,' 
 for instance, and all such stories of enchantment
 
 264 DORA. 
 
 and buried treasure, were meant to charm tlie 
 poor man into a more patient endurance of his 
 barren life. It is glorious to finger diamonds and 
 pearls, and have the wealth of an emperor, even 
 tliough it be but for a moment. But the most 
 glorious bit of all is, to be Haraoun-al-Raschid 
 — to go about the streets of Bagdad at night 
 with Giafar and Mesrour, and set every wrong 
 right again — to give a bastinado to this man, 
 and a purse of gold to t'other one. Happy 
 Caliph ! " 
 
 '^ The ' Arabian Nights ' are amongst the books 
 you so kindly offered to lend me," said Dora ; 
 '* and I confess that, not having read them since 
 I was a child, I have asked for them." 
 
 ^'And for Macchiavel's ^Prince?'" he said, 
 glancing over the list she handed him. " Do you 
 really wish for that book, Miss Courtenay ?" He 
 looked up at her in surprise. 
 
 " I do," frankly answered Dora ; " Mr. Ryan 
 would never let me read it. He would not help 
 to ruin my political principles, he said ; and I 
 confess that famons book has all the charm of for- 
 bidden fruit for me." 
 
 *' You shall have it. I shall play the part of
 
 DORA. 265 
 
 serpent in this temptation, since you are so willinor 
 to be Eve. But you will be disappointed, for, wo- 
 man like, I daresay you will run away with your 
 first impression. And yet, you see, this Macchiavel 
 deserves consideration. He was one of the few 
 pitchers who go to the well and do not come back 
 as empty as they went. But for all that you will 
 be disappointed." 
 
 " I am not such a girl, nor yet so ignorant a girl, 
 as Doctor Richard imagines," thought Dora, a 
 little displeased. " I suppose he considers Macchia- 
 vel's pitcher too full for me. I require something 
 more readable — somethins^ that will do between 
 that last sweet crochet stitch or the new quadrille. 
 Paul was not so. He thought nothing above or 
 beyond his sister." 
 
 Unconscious of offence. Doctor KIchard once 
 more devoted his attention to Catherine, who had 
 opened one eye, then the other, and who finally 
 uttered an imperious " Give it to me," referring to 
 the puppet. 
 
 Whilst he was en^acped with the child, Dora 
 rose to go. 
 
 " You leave me to my fate !" he said reproach- 
 fully.
 
 266 DORA. 
 
 " Yes," she answered smiling, " I do ;" and she 
 went thinking, " Am I getting vain, that I care 
 so much for what Doctor Richard may care for 
 mer' 
 
 Alas ! it was not vanity that stung her then. 
 She did not know it, yet something she vaguely 
 felt, for she went no more to see the sick child in 
 the morning. She thus missed meeting Doctor 
 Richard, but not hearing about him. Catherine's 
 mother was full of his praises, especially after he 
 had given her ten francs for an old cracked plate 
 not worth ten sous. Dora sighed over Doctor 
 Richard's improvidence. What wonder that he 
 had not been a successful man when he spent his 
 time and money thus ! But she forgot his sins 
 the very first time he came to see them. Her 
 colour deepened and her eyes lit as she heard his 
 step and voice coming up the staircase one even- 
 ing. Mrs. Courtenay uttered a little scream of 
 delight, and immediately poured him out a cup of 
 tea. 
 
 Doctor Richard took it, though he also excused 
 himself for calling so late, but he had met Ma- 
 dame Bertrand, and that lady had told him Mrs. 
 Courtenay was not quite well. But Mrs. Courte-
 
 DOE A. 267 
 
 nay was ill when she pleased, and not when it 
 pleased other people that she should he so. She 
 looked affronted with Madame Bertrand's officious- 
 ness. 
 
 '* Very foolish of her," she said stiffly ; then re- 
 laxing into her usual good-humour, she added 
 confidentially, " I was not ill. Doctor Richard ; 
 I was only purring." 
 
 ^' Purring !" he said, a little surprised. 
 
 " Yes," triumphantly resumed Mrs. Courtenay. 
 "When people get to my age they take to purring, 
 Doctor Richard — that is to say, they like to sit 
 and muse and think over bygones, and close it all 
 with a nap sometimes. And you will purr too 
 with time, and very nice you will find it. I 
 wanted Dora to do it the other eveninor when I 
 could see she felt dull ; but young people are 
 saucy, and so she answered that she was a kitten, 
 and could not purr yet." 
 
 " But kittens do purr. Miss Courtenay," argued 
 Doctor Richard, looking with evident amusement 
 at Dora's flushed face. 
 
 " So I told her," cried Mrs. Courtenay, with- 
 out giving Dora time to put in a word ; " but she 
 is an obstinate girl. Doctor Richard. Purring is too
 
 268 DORA. 
 
 quiet for her, and she says she would as soon be 
 the painted Griselidis on her bed-room curtains, as 
 sit and purr." 
 
 " But Miss Courtenay sits long and patiently at 
 the Gallery," said Doctor Richard. 
 
 How kindly he spoke ! 
 
 *' He may be improvident," thought Dora ; 
 " but he is our countryman, we meet in a foreign 
 land, and surely we may take pleasure in his so- 
 ciety, and deal leniently with his faults ; these are 
 but the excesses of a fine, generous nature. Ah ! 
 how delightful it w^ould be if he would but con- 
 tinue to come and see us every now and then ! 
 His very presence brings warmth with it." 
 
 Thus -she thought ; but if there had not been a 
 bandage over Dora's eyes, she might have seen 
 that the cordiality with which Doctor Richard was 
 received in their home had generated no confidence 
 on his part. He was quite familiar with all their 
 concerns — of his tliey knew literally nothing. 
 Now, strangely enough, the first to be struck with 
 this fact was Mrs. Luan. The perception had 
 been coming to her for some time, everything she 
 now heard and saw confirmed it, and with it other 
 suspicions which she had long had. She brooded
 
 DORA. 269 
 
 over them in her usual sulky silence, however, and 
 went on with her patchwork, seemingly absorbed 
 in it. 
 
 Doctor Richard seemed to take particular plea- 
 sure in Dora's company this evening. She felt 
 happy, and looked as bright as sunshine. The 
 genial light in her face did Doctor Richard good. 
 He had been severed for some time from all plea- 
 sant society, almost as completely severed as Dora 
 herself. So no wonder that he enjoyed looking at 
 the face and listening to the voice of this radiant 
 girl. If he liked her society, his was new to her, 
 as, indeed, it ever was, like manna after the long 
 fast to the Israelites. It was so pleasant to talk 
 about something beyond the common-place oc- 
 currences of daily life. Never did danger and 
 temptation wear a subtler guise than did these. 
 So they talked of many things. A good deal of 
 drawing, in which Doctor Richard gave Dora some 
 excellent advice ; a good deal of music, with the 
 theory of which he was thoroughly conversant, and 
 more than all of books, which were evidently the 
 food of his life. 
 
 Now, perhaps, because Dora took evidently 
 great pleasure in listening to Doctor Richard, was
 
 270 DORA. 
 
 her danger so very plain this evening to Mrs. 
 Luan. She watched him. He looked very well. 
 He was attired, too, in a respectable suit of black, 
 which Mrs. Luan had not given him credit for 
 possessing. Altogether he seemed to be enjoying 
 himself, and, as Mrs. Luan saw, Dora engrossed 
 him almost entirely. As soon as tea w^as over he 
 asked to see her last drawing. She went and 
 fetched it somew^hat diffidently. She had learned 
 to think a great deal of, and, indeed, to dread 
 Doctor Richard's most lenient criticism. Perhaps 
 a subtle, unacknowledged desire of pleasing him in 
 everything might be at the root of that feehng. 
 Doctor Richard looked at the drawing in silence — 
 in silence, too, he gave it back to her ; he noticed 
 her flushed cheek and troubled look, but her 
 nervous little hands shaking as she tied the strings 
 of the portfolio he did not see. 
 
 " It is not good, is it ?" asked Dora, unable to 
 bear the suspense of his silence. 
 
 " Far from it. It is very good indeed ; but I 
 am accustomed to that from you. Miss Courte- 
 nay." 
 
 The blood rushed up to her face and dyed it with 
 the most beautiful rosy glow, but she bent over
 
 DORA. 271 
 
 the portfolio, and Doctor Eichard saw nothing, or, 
 at least, he seemed to see nothing. 
 
 " But as I looked," he resumed, " I thought of 
 the paintings in the Campo Santo of Pisa — some- 
 thing in one of your figures brought back the 
 whole spot to my mind in a second ; and, to be 
 frank with you, I was there, not here, for the time 
 being." 
 
 " What figure f quickly asked Dora. 
 
 "That of the youth. He is like one of the 
 cavaliers in Orgagna's Triumph of Death." 
 
 Dora looked pensive. 
 
 " The triumph of death !" she repeated ; " what 
 can that be lil^e ?" 
 
 " Like life. Youths and ladies, with falcons 
 and dogs, sit beneath orange-trees. They have 
 been hunting and hawking, and they are tired. 
 A troubadour and a singing-girl entertain them. 
 Cupids are abroad, too, as they usually are in such 
 company — but Death is coming — Death, a terrible 
 woman, with sharp claws, bat's wings, and a 
 scythe." 
 
 "An impressive picture," said Dora, slowly — it 
 seemed to be painted for her on the thin air as she 
 spoke, and it was painful, exquisitely painful.
 
 272 DOKA, 
 
 The thought of death was abhorrent to her then, 
 and chilled her very heart. 
 
 " Yes, impressive enough," was his careless 
 answer ; " but so is that newspaper, Miss Courte- 
 nay. Take it up, and you will find its births, 
 marriages, and deaths, as impressive as any homily. 
 Orgagna's merit is that he just painted what 
 he saw — all in his fresco is real, save the figure of 
 Death." 
 
 " When did you see that ?" asked Mrs. Luan. 
 
 She so seldom spoke, that they all looked at her. 
 Doctor Eichard answered composedly : 
 
 " It was some years ago." 
 
 Dora rose and put away her portfolio, and, as 
 she did so, she wondered what had taken him to 
 Italy. 
 
 Mrs. Luan spoke again. 
 
 " From what part of Ireland do you come. Doc-, 
 tor Eichard?" 
 
 The question was a natural one enough; the 
 only wonder was it had not been put before this 
 evening. Yet Dora saw just a shade of annoy- 
 ance cross Doctor Eidiard's countenance as Mrs. 
 Luan spoke. ' 
 
 " I come from Kerry," he briefly replied, and
 
 DORA. 273 
 
 with less than his usual courtesy he turned at 
 once from Mrs. Luan to Dora, and said quickly, 
 " We were speaking of the Irish melodies, Miss 
 Courtenay. Am I to conclude that you prefer 
 ' Eileen Aroon ' to ' Gramachree V " 
 
 " * Gramachree !' " repeated Dora, not under- 
 standing at first. 
 
 "Yes, that fine melody to which Moore set 
 his words of ' The Harp that once through Tara's 
 Halls.' " 
 
 Mrs. Luan was decidedly excited this evening. 
 
 " I hate Mr. Templemore," she said — " a 
 swindler, a cheat ! He cheated Paul, he cheated 
 John, he cheated Dora out of Mr. Courtenay's 
 money !" 
 
 They all remained aghast at this unexpected 
 outbreak. Doctor Richard looked as suprised as 
 a well-bred man ever allows himself to look. Mrs. 
 Courtenay spoke at length — 
 
 " My dear," she said, " it was not cheating." 
 
 "It was," insisted Mrs. Luan, whose hands shook 
 over her patchwork. 
 
 " No, aunt, it was not," said Dora, quietly ; 
 then turning to Doctor Richard, shI gave such ex- 
 planation as this brief scene required. " An uncle 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 DORA. 
 
 of ours left his property to that Mr, Templemore, 
 and though he is not to blame, there are such 
 painful recollections connected with his name, 
 that it is never mentioned amongst us." 
 
 Doctor Eichard bent" his head in token of assent, 
 and changed the subject. Painting had led to 
 questions, music to a scene — he tried literature. 
 
 " How do you like Macchiavel's ^ Prince V " he 
 asked. 
 
 Dora gave him no direct answer, but looking at 
 him earnestly, she said, 
 
 " You surely do not admire that man, Doctor 
 Richard r 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I do — dear, candid old 
 boy! Hear him on the subject of Conquest. Do 
 you wish to conquer a kingdom, Miss Courtenay ? 
 Why, then, take care to exterminate the native 
 princes whom you rob. Or have you injured your 
 neighbour ? — a common case — well, then, if you 
 cannot conciliate, kill him ! When you injure a 
 man, do not leave it in his power to be revenged. 
 I declare I admire the man prodigiously. It is 
 quite comfortable to hear murder, robbery, and so 
 forth, spoken ot in that calm, impartial manner." 
 
 " Then you do not admire him ?" said Dora.
 
 DORA. 275 
 
 ** Not admire him ! — why, one of his volumes is 
 never out of my pocket. I only lament the dear, 
 good-natured fellow is dead, and cannot write 
 leaders in newspapers, or make speeches in senates. 
 The great difference between him and us degene- 
 rate moderns, you see, is that, we have lost that 
 beautiful candour of his. Yes, I fear that is 
 gone," added Doctor Richard, in a tone of feeling 
 regret ; " but," he resumed, looking at Dora with a 
 a smile, " I preach in the desert. To tell you the 
 truth, I would never have suggested that you 
 should read ' The Prince.' It was your own de- 
 sire which you followed, not my advice, you 
 know." 
 
 "I hate Mr. Templemore," said Mrs. Luan, 
 again ; " he is a cheat, a swindler, a thief ! Why 
 are we beggars and is he rich ?" 
 
 " Aunt !" remonstratively said Dora, very much 
 annoyed at this second unseemly outbreak. 
 
 Doctor Richard smiled. 
 
 " That Templemore is a fool," he said ; " he 
 should, having injured Mrs. Luan, have taken 
 some Macchiavel-like means to pacify her — either a 
 handsome slice out of the inheritance, or if that 
 
 T 2
 
 276 DOKA. 
 
 should have been too expensive, a sedative, a cool- 
 ing draught of some kind or other." 
 
 Now Mrs. Luan did not always understand 
 irony, being a woman of slow literal mind, and all 
 she now understood was that Doctor Richard re- 
 commended poisoning her. She could not speak, 
 but her features worked, and her hands shook with 
 anger. Perhaps he was aware of these signs ; 
 perhaps, too, he felt that he had commented too 
 freely on a strictly private matter. At all events, 
 he looked at his watch, and rose to go, like one 
 who had let an appointed hour slip by. 
 
 " I shall not see you for a few days," he said, 
 shaking hands with Mrs. Courtenay, " for I am 
 going down to the country to-morrow ; but I trust 
 to find you still quite well when I return. If 
 anything should ail you in my absence, let me ad- 
 vise you to call in Doctor Le Roux." 
 
 He handed her a card as he spoke. Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay looked at it with childish curiosity. 
 
 " I suppose he takes care of your patients in 
 your absence ?" she suggested. 
 
 " He would do so," carelessly replied Doctor 
 Richard, " if I had any patients to take care of ; 
 but, unluckily, that is not the case."
 
 DORA. 277 
 
 He spoke a little recklessly, as if the matter 
 were one of profound indifference to him. Dora 
 looked at him with involuntary compassion. He 
 was more than thirty, and yet his career had done 
 so little for him. It was a hard — a very hard 
 case. 
 
 Doctor Richard turned to bid Mrs. Luan adieu, 
 but Mrs. Luan, probably to avoid shaking hands 
 with him, had left the room. Doctor Richard 
 made no comment, and turned to Dora. She had 
 taken a candle to light him down the dark stair- 
 case. Madame Bertrand was in bed, and, more- 
 over, would not have left her comfortable fireside 
 for any such task. Doctor Richard went down 
 without saying a word, but paused at the foot of 
 the staircase. 
 
 " Do you like flowers ?" he asked, with his hand 
 on the banisters. 
 
 " Yes, very much." 
 
 " Then you will allow me to bring you some 
 from the country ?" he said, quickly. " I might 
 have known that you liked flowers," he added, 
 without giving her time to reply ; " but the doubt 
 on my mind arose from the fact that I never see 
 any with you."
 
 ^78 DOE A. 
 
 Dora coloured, then said, without false shame, 
 
 " Flowers — beautiful flowers especially — are ex- 
 pensive at this time of the year." 
 
 " Just so. Well, the gardener at the house to 
 which I am going is a very good friend of mine, 
 and he shall give me flowers — beautiful flowers, 
 too, or I will have none of them." 
 
 Dora coloured again, with pleasure this time, 
 and she gave him a happy, grateful look. They 
 shook hands, and he was gone.
 
 279 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 ^' T WONDEE where he is going," thought 
 -*- Dora ; " or where his rich patient lives ?" 
 " My dear, how flushed you are !" said Mrs. 
 Courtenay, as her daughter entered the sitting- 
 room again, and put down the light with a pensive 
 look. " Does your head ache ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, I am only thinking how kind Doctor 
 Richard is. He is going to bring me flowers — 
 beautiful flowers from the country." 
 
 "He is the very kindest man!" cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay, clasping her little plump white hands, 
 " is he not, Mrs. Luan ?" 
 
 Dora now perceived that her aunt had returned 
 
 to the sitting-room. She saw too that Mrs. Luan 
 
 looked herself again. Quite coolly she answered : 
 
 " I am sure Doctor Richard is married." 
 
 An earthquake could not have inflicted a more 
 
 fearful shock upon Dora than did these words, nor
 
 280 DORA. 
 
 one to which every fibre of her being was more 
 terribly responsive. It seemed as if the floor shook 
 beneath her feet — as if the room, with her mother 
 and Mrs. Luan, went round and round before her 
 swimming eyes. The revelation to herself of her 
 secret hopes and wishes was both violent and cruel. 
 One word she could not speak ; but she sat down 
 pale, breathless, full of terror, and covered with 
 shame. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's consternation, though not equal 
 to her daughter's in depth, was as great in extent. 
 
 '* Married !" she said, in an injured tone, which 
 showed she did not think Doctor Eichard could be 
 guilty of such a crime ; " I do not believe it." 
 
 " And I am sure of it," retorted Mrs. Luan, 
 with dark triumph at the sinner's iniquity. " What 
 did he go to Italy for ? Why did he not like to 
 say he came from Kerry ? Why does he never 
 speak about himself? I am sure he is married, 
 and that he ill-uses his wife." 
 
 "And I am sure Doctor Richard would ill-use 
 no one," quietly put in Dora. She had recovered 
 by this, and though rather pale, was perfectly 
 calm. '*How late it is," she added, as the old 
 clock below struck the hour.
 
 DORA. 281 
 
 She left them, still looking very quiet; but 
 when she had entered her room, when she had 
 closed and locked the door, and was free from in- 
 trusion, she flung herself on a chair near her bed, 
 and burying her face in her pillow, she gave way 
 to her humiliation and her grief. She, Dora 
 Courtenay, a girl of twenty-three, loved this 
 stranger ! — and he might be married ! She had 
 never thought of that — but had she thought of 
 anything ? She had known him a few weeks, and 
 how could she dream of danger? And there was 
 nothing to justify this terrible folly. He had been 
 kind, he had been courteous, he had shown that 
 he admired her, but no girl in her senses, and with 
 the least experience of life, could say that he had 
 betrayed any of the symptoms of love. A mar- 
 ried man might behave to her exactly as Doctor 
 Eichard had behaved. Kindness, courtesy, and 
 admiration are not prohibited to or from the 
 wedded. It was all her folly, her own miserable 
 folly. She told herself so again and again ; but 
 did it lessen the hardship of her fate that she alone 
 was to blame for it ? Alas ! the more she looked 
 into the past, the deeper was her sense of abase- 
 ment. She knew nothing of Doctor Richard,
 
 282 DORA. 
 
 literally nothing. Of his family, of his antece- 
 dents, of his fortunes, she was deeply ignorant. 
 He might be an adventurer, one of life's outcasts, 
 for all Dora Courtenay knew. That he was poor, 
 and led rather a useless, idle sort of life, was cer- 
 tain. What had brought him to Eouen ? Debts, 
 perhaps — debts, or worse. Dora's heart sickened 
 and revolted at the thought. No, she would be- 
 lieve nothing mean, nothing dishonourable of him. 
 The open manliness of his countenance gave her 
 firm security against all degradation. That clear, 
 frank look was the look of a man without fear or 
 shame. But he might be married, and the thought 
 was misery ; he might have left his wife in Italy 
 or in Ireland — nay, he might have gone to see her 
 in the country. " But surely in that case he would 
 say it," thought Dora ; " it would be neither 
 honourable nor courteous to make a mystery of it. 
 No, if he is married, his wife is not here. I dare- 
 say she is in Ireland." Suddenly a picture rose 
 before Dora Courtenay's eye — a beautiful, heart- 
 rending picture. She saw a bright hearth, a fair 
 woman, with a child on her knee, and Doctor 
 Kichard smiling happily. She sat up, she clasped 
 her hands tightly, she knit her brows and set her
 
 D O K A. 283 
 
 teeth. "I must bear it," she thought; *'I must. 
 What right have I to quarrel with his domestic 
 happiness ? Let him be married or not married, 
 what is it to me ?" 
 
 But pride is a weak stay at the best. That 
 spirit of defiance with which Dora uttered her 
 " What is it to me ?" soon died away, and left her 
 desolate and weak. There is a well of strength, 
 however, which she knew of old. To it she now 
 turned, asking the Divine ^Master for a cup of 
 those sweet waters which the Samaritan woman 
 lo^^ged for. There were many pious memorials in 
 Dora's room — many signs of man's weakness and 
 God's mercy — almost all were also tokens of her 
 lost brother's love ; and as she now looked at them, 
 each had its own language. That pathetic little 
 image of the child Jesus sleeping on the cross 
 Paul had bought from an Italian boy, and given 
 her. That Saint Catherine borne by angels she 
 had found hanging by her bedside on her six- 
 teenth birthday ; and that divine head crowned 
 with thorns she had taken away from Paul's room 
 after his death. From the position of the picture, 
 Dora had often thought that her brother's last 
 look had rested upon that calm, sorrowful face —
 
 284 DORA. 
 
 sorrowful for man's sin, and not for the cost of 
 redemption. The tears rushed to her eyes, and 
 her lips quivered as sacrifice, suffering, death, and 
 immortal love, all thus admonished and condemn- 
 ed her. She knelt and said her prayers, feeling 
 both stricken and humbled by her folly, and ask- 
 ing for power to conquer, or for resignation to en- 
 dure it, if endurance must indeed be her lot. 
 
 But though prayer is ever heard in heaven, we 
 are not told that it is ever heard at once. A long 
 sleepless night did Dora spend — long and cruel. 
 She could not bear to go on loving this stranger, 
 and she could not help it. This was her first love 
 — the only love she was ever to know, and it had 
 come to her, like Minerva from the brain of Jove, 
 full grown and all-powerful. She tried to strive 
 against it, but it seemed to her as if she only 
 came out of the struggle weak, helpless, and 
 beaten. A sickening sense of her powerlessness 
 stole over her, then a vague, pitiful, yearning hope 
 closed the long contest. 
 
 Never did Dora forget the bitter suspense of 
 the next three days — three long, weary days of 
 impatience and heart-sickening expectation. Ma- 
 dame Bertrand knew nothing — besides, Dora
 
 DORA. 285 
 
 could put no plain questions, and her open in- 
 genuous nature revolted from indirect inquiry. 
 
 " Oh ! if he were but back !" she thought — 
 ^' that this wretched suspense might be over — that 
 I might either be at peace with myself, or never 
 see him again !" 
 
 At length the hope of relief came. On the 
 morning of the third day Madame Bertrand came 
 up with a nosegay of flowers so exquisite and so 
 rare, that Dora remained mute as they were put 
 in her trembling hands, and Mrs. Courtenay 
 screamed with admiration, whilst even Mrs. Luan 
 stared. 
 
 "They come from a conservatory," thought 
 Dora, as she bent her flushed face over them. 
 He might be married, but she could not help feel- 
 ing happy at the gift. Yet she would not indulge 
 herself. She was dressed to go out, and she went, 
 and refused to linger and admire these rare and 
 beautiful flowers. " I must not," she thought ; 
 and to her mother she said, ^' I must work, you 
 know." 
 
 She went to her task, but her mind, no more 
 than her heart, was in it. She longed for the 
 evening. She felt sure he would look in, and that
 
 286 DORA. 
 
 Mrs. Luan would question him, and then a 
 
 blank followed the thought, 
 
 " And then," thought Dora, after a while, ^* all 
 will be over, and I shall be at rest. It is impossi- 
 ble that I cannot conquer this madness. I feel 
 sure it is a sort of madness, and no more. It is 
 impossible that I should care — really care — for a 
 man of whom I know nothing. I do not believe 
 it — I will not ! Besides, how can I, if he is mar- 
 ried ? But, then, suppose he is not f 
 
 Her hand slackened in its labour, her pencil 
 paused, then was still. Her heart beat, her pulses 
 throbbed. If Doctor Richard was not married, 
 might she not hope that he came to her mother's 
 house for her sake ? It was a natural hope and a 
 natural conjecture. The young are allowed to 
 indulge in such thoughts and such feelings. 
 Later, they are forbidden, and none but the fool- 
 ish can think and feel so. Indeed, it is part of 
 the wisdom of age to put by and forget these fond 
 badges of youth. They are things to be pinned 
 on, and unpinned again, and left off early. The 
 rosy favours of love are apt to fade, and the gay 
 colours of pleasure have but a time. Truly it is 
 lucky that the old are allowed to grow wise, to
 
 DORA. 287 
 
 leave off their follies, and deny them gravely. It 
 would be sad if Phillis should wear her shepher- 
 dess's hat and fluttering ribands till three-score, 
 and if Corydon should pipe to his sheep when the 
 warm summer days have for ever gone by. 
 
 But Dora's early spring was scarcely over, and 
 her May was in all its sweet fervour. Love to her 
 was a hope, a mystery, and a delightful promise. 
 A poor life, a life of toil, frightened her not, if 
 this kind and true companion would but share it 
 with her. She believed him honourable and good 
 — what more w^as needed ? For that is youth's 
 glorious privilege. It is equal to any folly granted, 
 but then it comes short of no heroism, no daring, 
 no sacrifice. For this, we all love it, and in some 
 sense we all honour it. We look at it as we might 
 look at some noble tree full of the sap of life, its 
 green boughs laden with flowers, and birds making 
 sweet music beneath the leaves. We know, in- 
 deed, that they will be mute some day, for winter 
 must come ; we know that the leaves will turn yel- 
 low, and lie dead on the sodden earth ; but all the 
 sweeter for that knowledge are this fair tree's brief 
 splendour and beauty. 
 
 Of that brevity youth is as happily unconscious
 
 288 DORA. 
 
 as the tree in the forest. If its sacrifices are to be 
 boundless, so are its loves to be immortal. It was 
 not in Dora's power to foresee an end to her pre- 
 sent feelings, and hence, perhaps, she surrendered 
 herself to dangerous conjecture. But she could 
 be wise, too, for there is a wisdom which is not the 
 fruit of experience, a wisdom which springs from 
 the habit of self-subjection, and this soon came to 
 the rescue. With a guilty start she banished the 
 vision which turned the kind and courteous visitor 
 into a fond lover. No modest girl who has had 
 the misfortune to give her affection unsought, 
 willingly, and in the first bitterness of the dis- 
 covery, indulges in such fancies. Later they may 
 come with hope, and be cherished, but surely not 
 at first. 
 
 " I must work," thought Dora, resolutely ; and 
 she worked hard and conscientiously, till a step 
 behind her made her cheeks burn. She knew well 
 enough it was Doctor Richard, who was coming to 
 look at her drawing. She turned round, try- 
 ing to look calm, and she thanked him for the 
 flowers with tolerable composure. , 
 
 "I shall bring you more next time," he said, 
 smiling. Then he asked after Mrs. Courtenay.
 
 DORA. 289 
 
 "She is pretty well," replied Dora, quickly; 
 " but I wish you would come in this evening and 
 see her." 
 
 How she hated herself for saying that ; but she 
 could bear the suspense no longer. She knew that 
 if he came Mrs. Luan would surely get the truth 
 from him. Doctor Richard promised to look in 
 readily enough, and he proceeded to talk to her of 
 her drawing. He stayed long, advising, suggest- 
 ing, and, do what she would, Dora felt happy. 
 
 The evening came, that evening which Dora 
 longed for, and with it came Doctor Richard, 
 pleasant and genial. !Mrs. Luan glared at him, 
 but, contrary to Dora's expectation, she was mute. 
 Would she let him depart without putting the mo- 
 mentous question ? But when, in answer to Dora's 
 thanks, Doctor Richard said, 
 
 "I told the gardener's wife to choose such 
 jSowers " 
 
 " Your wife !" interrupted Mrs. Luan, pretend- 
 ing to misunderstand him. " Is she in France, 
 Doctor Richard?" 
 
 A deep silence followed this question. Dora's 
 breath seemed gone, and she looked furtively at 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 DORA. 
 
 Doctor Eichard. He coloured, and a few seconds 
 elapsed ere he replied. 
 
 " I have no wife, Mrs. Luan. — I am a widower," 
 he added, gravely. 
 
 Mrs. Luan, who had looked triumphant for a 
 moment, now looked blank, and Doctor Richard, 
 turning to Dora, continued — 
 
 " Will you allow me to bring my little girl to 
 see you. Miss Courtenay, I shall have h^r in Rouen 
 for a day f ' 
 
 Dora scarcely knew what she answered. She 
 felt in heaven. She expected nothing, but Doctor 
 Richard was not a married man. She need feel 
 no humiliation, no shame. Her reply seemed 
 satisfactory, however, for he smiled, and looked 
 satisfied ; whilst Mrs. Courtenay, though rather 
 offended that Doctor Richard did not want to bring 
 his little girl to see her, asked how old the young 
 lady was. 
 
 " Seven — but very delicate," he answered, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 Dora felt full of pity, and questioned eagerly. 
 Was she tall, dark, or fair, and did she speak 
 French ? And Doctor Richard, like most parents, 
 answered readily. Dora thus learned that Eva
 
 DORA. 291 
 
 was the child's name — that she was tall, dark, and 
 spoke French fluently. 
 
 " And when will you bring her to us?" she asked. 
 
 He saw her eager eyes bent upon him ; he read 
 desire in her parted lips, and he smiled a kind, 
 pleasant smile. 
 
 " After to-morrow, if you like it," he said. 
 
 '^Doctor, what made you call her Eva?" in- 
 quired Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " It was her mother's name." 
 
 A cloud came over his face as he spoke, which 
 looked more like the shadow of a past trouble than 
 like the remembrance of a sorrow. 
 
 " I wonder if he was happy with his wife !" 
 thought Dora ; " perhaps not, and perhaps, too, he 
 does not mean to marry again." 
 
 The thought gave her no pain. To love is 
 love's true happiness, and, in its early stage at 
 least, it looks for none other. Delightful, there- 
 fore, was this evening to her. She spoke little, 
 but she felt happy ; and as she felt she looked, 
 though she sat in silent reverie. She tried, in- 
 deed, to rouse herself, and at length she succeeded. 
 When she came back from the world to which she 
 had been wandering — the pleasant world of a girl's 
 
 u2
 
 292 DORA. 
 
 fancies — and was once more, both in body and in 
 spirit, present in her mother's sitting-room, she 
 found Mrs. Courtenay and Doctor Eicbard talk- 
 ing gaily, and Mrs. Luan moody and sulky. Doc- 
 tor Richard was a free man — nothing could atone 
 for that calamity. Mrs. Courtenay looked at her 
 sister-in-law, then winked significantly at Doctor 
 Richard, adding, in broken words, which Mrs. 
 Luan was supposed not to understand — 
 
 " Always was so — likes nothing — does not mind 
 me now — does not know what I am talking of." 
 
 Doctor Richard was of another opinion, and he 
 succeeded in changing the discourse, which re- 
 ferred no more to Mrs. Luan till he left. 
 
 Almost from the first moment that he had men- 
 tioned the existence of his child, Dora had been 
 full of a project, which she imparted to her mo- 
 ther as soon as he was gone, and Mrs. Luan had 
 retired to her own room. 
 
 ^' Mamma," she said rather eagerly, " Doctor 
 Richard has been very kind to us. Suppose I 
 dress a doll for Eva — the handsomest I can find ?" 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was charmed with the idea, and 
 added confidentially — 
 
 *^ It is to you Doctor Richard wishes to bring
 
 DORA. 293 
 
 his little girl. Dora, depend upon it he wants to 
 marry you." 
 
 Dora turned crimson, and denied this — but 
 faintly. 
 
 ^' And I am sure of it," said Mrs. Courtenay ; 
 " but perhaps you do not like him ? Then, Dora, 
 do not encourage him. He looks as if he would 
 take such a matter to heart ; better not give the 
 child a doll, after all." 
 
 Dora did not think that to give Eva a doll was 
 to encourage Eva's father in a hopeless passion ; 
 and she said so. 
 
 "And as my white silk dress would only get 
 yellow and old-fashioned," she added, " I shall cut 
 it up." 
 
 " Cut up your beautiful silk, Dora !" 
 
 " I shall never wear it again ; and I do not like 
 dyed silks. Besides, it is better to save money 
 than buy." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay gave in, but with a sigh. 
 
 " I shall dress her like a bride," resumed Dora, 
 " with a veil and orange wreath." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay screamed with delight. 
 
 " And she shall have a train ever so long, and 
 satin shoes, and white kid gloves. She shall be
 
 294 DORA. 
 
 the handsomest doll in Kouen. I shall go and 
 buy it to-morrow morning ; and, mamma, you will 
 not tell aunt?" 
 
 '' Of course not," shrewdly said Mrs. Courtenay, 
 who liked a conspiracy of all things. 
 
 Whfen Dora retired to her own room, she took 
 out the white silk dress, and looked at it. She 
 had looked well in this dress, and she knew it. 
 Were those days for ever gone by? Was she 
 never to go to a party again, but to spend life in 
 its present obscurity ? It really was a pity to cut it 
 up ; but then they could not afford to buy, and 
 Doctor Richard had been so kind. There was no 
 harm, however, in putting on this doomed robe 
 once more, and seeing how she looked in it. So 
 Dora slipped it on, and looked at herself in the 
 glass, and bade a sort of farewell to life's vanities 
 as she saw her own image there. It is pleasant to 
 look well — it is pleasant to wear silken garments, 
 with their folds to rustle as we move — it is plea- 
 sant to be clad in the hue which suits our youth 
 and its bloom, both, alas ! so fleeting ; but it is 
 scarcely pleasant to do so when we feel that Plea- 
 sure has closed her gates upon us, and will open 
 them no more.
 
 DORA. 295 
 
 "And yet why should there not be some won- 
 derful story for me too ?" thought Dora, sitting 
 down to muse over her future ; " why should dull 
 commonplace be my lot ? I do not feel as if the 
 straight and beaten road were to be mine. I seem 
 to see many winding paths before me. It may be 
 an illusion, but it is a harmless one, and I will not 
 bid it begone. As to the dress, I care not for it." 
 
 She took it off, and to prevent the possibility of 
 repentance, took two breadths out of the skirt. 
 This sacrifice being accomplished, she went to bed 
 and dreamed of a marvellous doll with a train 
 half a yard long. Early the next morning, Dora 
 went out. She succeeded in finding such a doll 
 as she w^anted, and brought it home under her 
 cloak, so that Mrs. Luan mif;ht not see it. She 
 set about her task at once, and locked herself in to 
 prevent a surprise ; but Mrs. Courtenay, who, 
 though she liked a conspiracy, did not seem to un- 
 derstand that secrecy was one of its most necessary 
 ingredients, came and knocked for admittance 
 every five minutes, "just to see how she was 
 getting on." As Dora carefully locked the door 
 after her mother every time she thus came, Mrs. 
 Luan, had she been an observant person, could not
 
 296 DORA. 
 
 have failed detecting the existence of a mysteiy. 
 Luckily, few things, unless when connected in a 
 very direct manner with her concerns, drew her 
 attention, and all she thought, if she thought at 
 all, was that Dora was engaged in some new 
 drawing. 
 
 " What a pretty doll it is !" whispered Mrs. 
 Courtenay, bending over the pillow on which the 
 doll lay carefully wrapped in tissue paper ; *' and, 
 oh ! Dora, how it does stare !" 
 
 This Mrs. Courtenay announced as a decidedly 
 singular fact, and as if the staring of dolls were a 
 new discovery of hers. 
 
 " Yes," gaily said Dora ; " it was shut up in a 
 box, you see, and having just come out, it is mak- 
 ing the best use of its eyes. Besides, it is fresh 
 from Germany, and has a good deal to learn, poor 
 thing ! in this new country. Perhaps it is think- 
 ing of the Fatherland, and lamenting the change 
 from the Rhine to the Seine." 
 
 *' And, oh !" said Mrs. Courtenay, with her little 
 scream, " you have got shoes for it !" and she took 
 and twirled on her finger a pair of white satin 
 bridal shoes, beautifully made. 
 
 " Yes," replied Dora, looking at them with a
 
 DOR A. 297 
 
 little envious sigh ; " I knew 1 could not make 
 them so well, so I bought them, and stockings and 
 gloves. The rest I shall fashion myself." 
 
 And very cleverly did Dora set about her task. 
 Her eye and her taste were both correct, and ere 
 the day was half over the bride's attire was nearly 
 completed. 
 
 "Is not Dora going out to-day?" asked Mrs. 
 Luan, with some wonder. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay winked several times very fast, 
 pursed uj) her lips, and uttered a mysterious "No." 
 
 " What is she doing, then V 
 
 " Nothing particular," replied Mrs. Courtenay, 
 whose tone implied that Dora was doing something 
 very particular indeed. 
 
 "Is she not well?" 
 
 "Dear me, Mrs. Luan, how many questions you 
 do put ! Cannot the child stay within without your 
 knowing why ?" 
 
 Now, if Mrs. Luan's inquisitiveness had not 
 been stimulated after this, she should have had 
 no such organ. But as she did possess some share 
 of this important faculty, she determined to know 
 what Dora was doing. Very craftily, however, 
 did she set about her purpose. When Mrs.
 
 298 DORA. 
 
 Courtenay left the room, Mrs. Luan went and 
 knocked at Dora's door, and Dora, thinking it was 
 her mother, opened wdth a chiding smile. 
 
 "Is not your mother here f asked Mrs. Luan. 
 - "' No, aunt," replied Dora, blushing with vexa- 
 tion. 
 
 No change, no emotion, appeared on Mrs. Luan's 
 heavy face as she withdrew ; but she had seen the 
 doll standing with her back to a chair, her white 
 dress on, and the orange wreath and veil on the 
 table ; and she w^as not quite so dull but that she 
 knew what this meant. Mrs. Luan had a spice 
 of vindictiveness in her composition. She felt 
 aggrieved at Dora's daring act, and still more ag- 
 grieved at having been excluded from all know- 
 ledge of it. She resolved to be revenged, and 
 watched her opportunity so well, that when Dora 
 left her room after dinner, Mrs. Luan stole into it 
 unsuspected. But in vain she looked on the bed, 
 on the furniture — the doll was not there ; in vain 
 she tried the drawers, Dora had locked them and 
 taken the key. Mrs. Luan's homicidal intentions 
 against Eva's doll were defeated, and she crept out 
 of the room unseen indeed, but none the less sulky 
 at having been baffled.
 
 DORA. 299 
 
 Doctor Richard came in the evening. He 
 had not intended doin^ so, but he liad been to the 
 Gallery, and not seeing Dora there, he concluded 
 that either she or her mother was unwell. He now 
 called to ascertain the correctness of his suspi- 
 cions. 
 
 Dora smiled demurely at his surprise, and re- 
 plied gaily, 
 
 " No, I could not go to-day." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay pursed up her lips not to laugh, 
 and said, with a mysterious and puzzled assump- 
 tion of carelessness, 
 
 " No, Dora could not go to-day." 
 
 "Dora "was dressing a doll," put in Mrs. Luan, 
 who w^ould not be quite balked of her reyenge. 
 " A doll for your little girl. Doctor Richard." 
 
 Doctor Richard smiled, looked surprised as well 
 as pleased, and said, " Indeed !" whilst Dora 
 uttered a remonstratiye, " Oh, aunt !" and tried 
 not to seem too much annoyed. Mrs. Courtenay 
 did not attempt to conceal her indignation. 
 
 " Of all talkative creatures, Mrs. Luan," she said, 
 austerely, " you are the most indiscreet. You 
 miglit know Dora wanted to surprise her young 
 friend."
 
 300 DORA. 
 
 Mrs. Lnan resorted to her usual defence, and 
 began to buzz. 
 
 *^ I don't know anything about that," she said. 
 " The doll was dressed like a bride, which did not 
 look like a secret. At least, I know that when my 
 aunt ran away with Sir John Barry she went in a 
 cotton dress, in order to be taken for the cook. 
 Though how she could be taken for the cook, who 
 was stout, and forty-five, I don't know." 
 
 *' There ! — there !" superciliously replied Mrs. 
 Courtenay, "who ever heard the like? Do you 
 suppose we mean to say the doll was going to con- 
 tract a private marriage, or to run away with any 
 one, when the orange wreath and the veil tell a 
 plainly as can be that she is going off to churcli ?" 
 
 " My dear Miss Courtenay," said Doctor Richard, 
 pathetically, " do let me have a peep at the bride. 
 I shall be miserable if I do not see her, and you 
 may be sure I shall not say a word about it to 
 Eva !" 
 
 Dora, nothing loath, rose, and went and brought 
 out " the Mariee." She placed her standing safely 
 against the wall, and having set her off by putting 
 a sheet of blue paper behind her back, she with- 
 drew several steps, and looked rather anxiously at
 
 DOE A. 301 
 
 Doctor Richard's dark face. This doll was a very 
 pretty one — she had blue eyes, pink cheeks, and red 
 lips. Somewhat deficient in figure she had been, 
 but, thanks to Dora's unscrupulous skill, she had 
 now the most delicate round waist. These '* natu- 
 ral " advantages were set off by the loveliest bridal 
 dress maiden ever wore on her marriacre morn. 
 Her robe of long sweeping white silk, looped up 
 in front to show a pair of fairy white feet, was ex- 
 quisitely trimmed with tulle bouillonne, as an 
 article on the fashions would have said. A long 
 veil, through which shone her fair hair, flowed 
 around her. The orange wreath nodded over her 
 snowy brow ; pearls gleamed on her plump white 
 neck, and were twisted in rows around her fair 
 arms. Doctor Richard frowned. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," he asked, " does a bride wear 
 jewels?" 
 
 "I believe pearls are allowed," timidly said 
 Dora. " Besides," she pleaded, " they are sure to 
 please the child." 
 
 "Pearls, and no prayer-book!" he continued, 
 critically. 
 
 But Dora shut his mouth. She produced a 
 combination of white satin and gilt paper, which,
 
 302 DOR A. 
 
 when completed, was to be placed in the hand of 
 the bride, and to be considered a prayer-book. 
 Doctor Kichard smiled, and made no further ob- 
 jection. 
 
 " Dear Miss Oourtenay," he said, evidently much 
 gratified, "I cannot tell you how gratefnl I feel 
 for all the trouble you have taken, and if Eva does 
 not go crazy with joy, I know nothing about her !" 
 
 " I hope she will like it," remarked Dora, with 
 a smile. " I have done my best." 
 
 "You have done wonders — and the doll is a 
 beautiful doll ! Indeed, I feel bound to wish her 
 bridegroom joy, whoever he may be. This Minna 
 or Thecla — for who can doubt her parentage ? — 
 will surely make a good wife I There is truth in 
 her honest blue eye, and good-humour in her 
 round, rosy face. She has a good intellectual de- 
 velopment, too. In short, I see a store of do- 
 mestic bliss for the happy man I" 
 
 " Dear, dear !" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, " to 
 think you should see it all in the doll's face, Doc- 
 tor Richard ! I only saw that she stares." 
 
 " She does stare a lee-ttle — just a leettle bit," 
 deprecatingly observed Doctor Richard. " In her 
 maiden innocence, you see, she looks at this wicked
 
 DORA. 303 
 
 world, and thinking no harm of it, forgets to drop 
 her eyelids. Besides, this bit of insolence shows 
 her high birth and perfect breeding. Then how 
 do we know but that she is a specimen of the fast 
 young lady ! These rosy lips may talk slang for 
 all I can tell to the contrary ; but oh ! if she does 
 talk slang, let it be German slang, I pray, and not 
 English slang, wherewith she might corrupt my 
 little Eva's vernacular." 
 
 "She shall not talk at all. Doctor Richard," 
 gaily exclaimed Dora. " I am a fairy, and I lay 
 upon her the spell of silence." 
 
 " An L'ish Geis, such as used to be laid on our 
 kings and heroes," said Doctor Richard, rising. 
 " Dear Miss Courtenay, your bride is perfect now; 
 for as she can never say the fatal * yes,' so can she 
 never cease to be a bride. Life to her will be a 
 perpetual marriage morning, with orange wreath 
 ever in bloom. Time is no more for her. Youth 
 and beauty cannot fade. Truly you are a fairy 
 indeed I" 
 
 " What, going so soon I" cried Mrs. Coui'tenay, 
 as she saw him looking for his hat. 
 
 "Yes, I have an appointment. But I shall 
 bring you Eva to-morrow."
 
 304 DORA. 
 
 "Bring her to luncheon," warmly said Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 Doctor Richard seemed to hesitate. 
 
 " With great pleasure," he said, after the pause 
 of a moment ; " but though I by no means pre- 
 sume to make the favour I am going to ask a con- 
 dition of my little Eva's coming to-morrow, I hope 
 you will grant it. I have long promised Eva that 
 she and I should have luncheon together on the 
 grass before the weather got too cool. Will you 
 join us ? The spot is pretty, and within five 
 minutes of Rouen by rail." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay and her daughter were taken 
 by surprise. They exchanged looks, then Mrs. 
 Courtenay spoke and accepted. 
 
 " You see, my dear," she said to Dora after 
 Doctor Richard had left them, " it would really 
 have been unkind to refuse Doctor Richard ; he 
 would have thought we were afraid of putting him 
 to some expense, and that would have annoyed 
 and humbled him."
 
 305 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 T)EAUTIFUL and bright shone the next morn- 
 ■^ iufr when Dora opened her window and 
 looked out. A warm sunbeam stealing over the 
 roof of their low house lit the opposite church ; the 
 vine-leaves reddened in its glow, the air was crisp 
 and sharp, and everything to Dora looked enchant- 
 ing. 
 
 " We must give Doctor Richard and his little 
 girl a good luncheon," said Mrs. Courtenay, who 
 partook of her daughter's exhilaration ; " a pair 
 of roast fowls, and a tart. The little thing is sure 
 to like the pastry." 
 
 " And so is the father," suggested ^Irs. Luan 
 grimly ; " he eats our bread and butter as if he 
 w( re starving." 
 
 " Nonsense, Mrs. Luan," shortly replied Mrs. 
 Courtenay; "how can Doctor Richard be starv- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 o06 DOE A, 
 
 ing when he has that large house to himself?" 
 
 " I daresay he pays no rent," said Mrs. Luan 
 after a pause ; " they have put him in to keep it 
 aired." 
 
 " They !— who ?— what they ?" 
 
 But to answer this question was beyond Mrs. 
 Luan, She replied impatiently that she did not 
 know their name ; and Mrs. Courtenay had too 
 much to do to spend more time in the argument. 
 A terrible deal of fuss and worry had to be gone 
 through before the luncheon could be got ready 
 for one o'clock, the appointed hour. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay joined Madame Bertrand in the 
 kitchen, and a little squabbling, polite of course, 
 but decidedly squabbling, was the consequence of 
 her appearance there. Dora, too, had her share 
 of preparation, though Mrs. Courtenay would not 
 hear of her venturing on anything culinary, lest 
 she should soil her clothes or spoil her hands ; and 
 Mrs. Luan alone sat idle, and in high dudgeon. 
 Most cordially did she hate these doings, and Doc- 
 tor Richard and Eva, and the expense and the 
 doll. But she was mute. She knew she had no 
 right to speak, and that her objections, if she 
 made any, would not be regarded. So she was
 
 DORA. 307 
 
 silent, and looked on — brooding over her wrongs, 
 and thinking them many. 
 
 And now the hour came round, and both Dora 
 and Mrs. Courtenay began to look anxiously at tlie 
 clock. At a quarter to one, steps were heard com- 
 ing up the staircase, and a chiklish voice mingled 
 with deeper tones. Dora went and opened the 
 door, and received her young guest with a smile 
 and a kiss. Eva had her father's dark eyes and 
 his genial smile, but otherwise she was not much 
 like him. She gave Dora a shy, wistful look, then 
 she returned her embrace, and was familiar and 
 free in a moment. 
 
 " You live here ?" she said, running to the win- 
 dow and peeping out. " Oh ! what a queer old 
 church ! Do you like it? Are these your birds f 
 
 She looked curiously at Dora's sparrows, who 
 fed tamely on the ledge of the open window, look- 
 ing sharply at Eva, however, with their little keen 
 black eyes, then suddenly flew away twittering. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay prevails over everything," said 
 Doctor Richard ; " birds and children." 
 
 " Come to my room," whispered Dora. " I have 
 a young lady there who is waiting for you." 
 
 " For me 1" said Eva, looking interested. 
 
 x2
 
 308 DORA. 
 
 Dora nodded, and taking her hand, led her 
 away. They entered her room, and she there pro- 
 bably introduced Miss Eva to the bride, for Doctor 
 Eichard smiled as he heard a succession of raptu- 
 rous screams from within. Presently Eva came 
 out with the doll in her arms, and ran to her 
 father, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed with 
 
 joy. 
 
 " Oh ! do look !" she entreated ; " do !" 
 Doctor Kichard pretended to be greatly pleased 
 and surprised, and everything would have gone on 
 charmingly, if Mrs. Luan had not uttered a croak- 
 ing note : 
 
 "That doll will not live — it is consumptive !'* 
 '' Dolls do not die," pertly said Miss Eva ; " they, 
 get broken, though." 
 
 She laughed, but no one else laughed. Doctor 
 Richard's eye had an angry flash as it lighted on Mrs. 
 Luan, and Dora and her mother looked shocked 
 and distressed, for the glow of health was wanting 
 to Eva's dark cheek, and now and then a hectic 
 flush appeared there in its stead. She was a sickly 
 child, too, and ate little. The chickens, though 
 done to a turn, did not tempt her ; the tart she 
 would not touch. "Ah! there is sorrow in store
 
 DORA. 309 
 
 for him there, and he knows it," thought Dora ; 
 but conscious of future grief though he might be, 
 Doctor Richard did not intrude his apprehension 
 upon his friends. He was as gay and cheerful 
 as he could well be, uttered some pretty nonsense 
 about the bride, and indulged himself in some of 
 those flights of speech which, if they entertained 
 Dora, always saddened her, as showing how little 
 share the practical had in his life. Mrs. Courtenay 
 seemed struck with this fact too, and she remarked 
 in her innocence : 
 
 " Doctor Richard, what a pity you do not do 
 something. Write books, I mean," she added, a 
 little confused at the uncalled-for advice ; " I am 
 sure you could write— oh ! so well." 
 
 " Papa does write," put in Eva, rather jealously ; 
 " he wrote me out ' Cinderella,' and illustrated it, 
 with her glass slipper and all." 
 
 " Dear me !" cried Mrs. Courtenay ; " are you 
 really an author, Doctor Richard ?" 
 
 " I am afraid having written out ^ Cinderella ' 
 will scarcely give me a claim to authorship, Mrs. 
 Courtenay," he replied, smiling. 
 
 " Oh ! but one can put a great deal of originality 
 even into an old fairy-tale/' kindly said Mrs.Courte
 
 310 DORA. 
 
 nay ; *'l am sure," she added emphatically, "your 
 version of ' Cinderella ' is charming. Is it pub- 
 lished r 
 
 " I have taken some liberties with it," gravely 
 replied Doctor Richard; "and therefore I dare 
 not face the juvenile public, which is apt to be 
 cruel at times. For instance, I have called ^ Cin- 
 derella' 'Rhodopis.' You are not aware, perhaps, 
 that Cinderella's prince was one of the Pharaohs, 
 and that she now sleeps as a mummy beneath one 
 of the Pyramids. Now, how w^ould the little men 
 and the little women like that ? Not at all, I dare- 
 say, for, you see, Eva persists in calling poor Rho- 
 dopis Cinderella, and her sandal a glass slipper." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay tried to look both knowing and 
 captivated, and was sure that the story of Rhodopis, 
 alias Cinderella, was mightily interesting, and she 
 reiterated her wish that Doctor Richard would be- 
 come an author. " I assure you you would be 
 successful," she added, with much simplicity. 
 
 Doctor Richard seemed amused. 
 
 " I might, as you kindly predict, be successful," 
 he replied, " but then I should no longer be Doc- 
 tor Richard, which is, I confess it, the character I 
 prefer. If you were to know, my dear madam,
 
 DORA. 311 
 
 how many a fine fellow has been spoiled, to mv 
 knowledge, by some such hobby. I like to keep 
 my identity, and feel as sure as human frailty will 
 let me, that I shall remain what I am. Change is 
 so dangerous. History aad daily life are both full 
 of perplexing questions bearing on this matter. 
 Take Robespierre, for instance, and put him on 
 horseback, and perliaps the man is a hero. Take 
 Napoleon, and maie a disappointed lawyer of him, 
 and he sends all his friends to the scaffold, as he 
 sent bo\-ish conscripts to death, and follows them 
 there, instead of dying like a chained eagle in 
 Saint Helena. Nay, even a trifle — if there be 
 such things as trifles, which I doubt — can change 
 the aspect of a country and the character of a 
 people. There was a time when it was a capital 
 offence to burn coals in London. Fancy London 
 without smoke or soot, and just tell me if the 
 Londoners must not have been then a different 
 people from what they are now.'' 
 
 " Good gracious !" cried Mrs. Courtenay — 
 " London without coals !" 
 
 " Dreadful I is it not ?" 
 
 " And fame, Doctor Richard," said Dora, rather 
 earnestly — " do you not care for that f
 
 312 DORA. 
 
 t 
 
 " Fame for writing about Rhodopis," he good- 
 humouredly replied. 
 
 " There are other subjects," she urged. 
 " So there are — ' Red-riding Hood/ ^ Beauty 
 and the Beast,' and others ; and to tell you the 
 truth, I have written about them too. A set of 
 gipsies ! There is no knowing where they came 
 from. They are here, they are there, in every 
 point of the compass do we find these pretty Zin- 
 gari. A world of trouble they gave me." 
 
 " And so you do not care abo\it fame ?" re- 
 sumed Dora, who would not be balked of an 
 answer. 
 
 " Verily, Miss Courtenay, I do not. I admire 
 the man who first said, ' What has posterity done 
 for me, that I should do anything for posterity V 
 Think, moreover, how fragile a good it is ! Think 
 of poor Ptolemy and his eleven ethereal regions. 
 For a thousand years and more he reigns supreme 
 in astronomy, then comes a Copernik, or a Galileo, 
 and Ptolemy may sleep in Egyptian dust for ever- 
 more." 
 
 " Ah ! if one could rouse him out of that apathy 
 to generous ambition !" thought Dora, with a secret 
 sigh.
 
 DORA. 313 
 
 But of that there seemed little chance. Doctor 
 Richard looked too good-humoured, and too well- 
 satisfied with his poverty to be easily roused. But 
 however deficient these genial natures may be, 
 they have a charm which is irresistible. When 
 Doctor Richard, noticing how languid Eva began 
 to look, spoke of going, it seemed to Dora that his 
 three hours' stay had been too brief, and she long- 
 ed to join her entreaties to Eva's prayer to be al- 
 lowed to remain. But she did not — perhaps slae 
 dared not. Doctor Richard looked, moreover, as 
 if he would have been inexorable, so Eva sub- 
 mitted, threw her arms around Dora's neck, and 
 said, kindly, 
 
 " Do come and see me — do !" 
 
 " Miss Courtenay has no more time to lose, 
 Eva," said her father. '^ She lost yesterday in 
 dressmg your doll, and to-day in receiving you ; it 
 is out of the ^w^stion that she should sacrifice a 
 third day." 
 
 Eva looked rather cresttnllen, but Dora whis- 
 pered, 
 
 " Never mind ; you will come a^ad g^e me 
 again," and the brightness returned to the cJaild's 
 face, and with a look of intelhgence she noddea,
 
 314 DORA. 
 
 adding in Dora's ear, " I love you, Miss Courte- 
 nay. Oh ! I do love you so !" 
 
 A fond parting followed, and Dora went to the 
 window and looked out, and saw Doctor Richard 
 and his little girl walking down the street. Ere 
 they turned the corner, Eva looked up at her, and 
 gave her a last friendly nod. 
 
 When Dora drew her head away, and .looked 
 in, she found her aunt in a towering passion. 
 Whenever Mrs. Luan was angry, speech failed 
 her utterly. She stammered through her wrath, 
 and became almost incomprehensible. Dora looked 
 at her flushed and agitated face, then glanced to 
 her mother for explanation. 
 
 " Your aunt is angry with poor Doctor Richard," 
 said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " A low, vulgar upstart !" stammered Mrs. 
 Luan — " how dare he ? — how dare he f ' 
 
 " Why, what has Doctor Richard ^^ne f ' asked 
 Dora, with a little indignatio^i. 
 
 "No doctor!" said Mrs. Luan— " not he. I 
 know a doctor." 
 
 " Aunt, ''^^t is the matter ?" 
 
 "jxjn't tease her," whispered her mother.
 
 DORA. 315 
 
 " She Is in a rage because she considers that Doc- 
 tor Richard has retracted his invitation." 
 
 " Oh ! aunt," remonstrated Dora, " is it possible 
 you do not see that Doctor Richard spoke so to 
 surprise Eva to-morrow ? He looked at me quite 
 significantly all the time." 
 
 This did not mend matters. 
 
 " Why does he look the beggar f 
 
 Poor Mrs. Luan ! she was nearly a beggar her- 
 self, yet in her wrath she could find no keener 
 word of reproach for the offender than this. Dora 
 blushed a little, but was mute. 
 
 " Why does he come here f angrily continued 
 Mrs. Luan. " He is old, he is poor ! — you can't 
 want him !" 
 
 Dora became crimson. " Aunt — " she began, but 
 Mrs. Courtenay interrupted her a little angrily. 
 
 " Nonsense," she said, " Dora wants no one ; 
 but I must say that even if Doctor Richard comes 
 here for her sake — which I do believe — Dora could 
 not do better than to receive his addresses. He is 
 a most delightful man," she added emphatically ; 
 " and I should like to see my dear Dora provided 
 for before I die."
 
 316 DORA. 
 
 Now, the idea of Dora being provided for by 
 " the beggar," as she called him, added fuel to the 
 fire of Mrs. Luan's wrath, and there is no know- 
 ing to what a height it might have risen if Madame 
 Bertrand had not just then made her appearance 
 with a note, which she handed to Dora. It was 
 from Doctor Richard, and reminded her of her 
 promise to meet Eva the next day. He also in- 
 timated that, " in case they did not find ten too 
 early, the carriage of the lady with whom Eva re- 
 sided, and which had been placed at his disposal, 
 would come round for Mrs. and Miss Courtenay 
 and Mrs. Luan, at that hour." 
 
 Dora's bright face took a flush of pleasure and 
 triumph as she read this note aloud, and it was 
 with the mildest reproach that she said, 
 
 "There, aunt!" 
 
 Mrs. Luan was silent and sulky, and Mrs. 
 Courtenay full of childish glee. 
 
 " A carriage !" she said. " Then I suppose the 
 lady is quite rich. I should not wonder if she had 
 not adopted little Eva. Poor darling ! It is an 
 injudicious plan, I think. How will she like 
 poverty when she has to go back to it ? Parents 
 should think of these things."
 
 DORA. 317 
 
 She shook her head, and breathed a philosophic 
 sigh over Doctor Richard's imprudence. Dora 
 folded up her note, and went into her room to read 
 it again. 
 
 There is a rapid downward path in all things, 
 and Dora Courtenay was going down very fast to 
 the dangerous depths whence it is all but hopeless 
 to look up to the free level world again. She 
 knew it, and yet she went on and never cared to 
 stop or to look back. Doctor Richard was free, 
 that was enough for conscience. He was free, and 
 though it might be a misfortune to love him, it 
 could no longer be a sin. Foolish girl, as if a mis- 
 fortune to which our will says " yes " were not 
 almost always guilt more or less deep, but guilt 
 none the less. Her aunt's jealous observation of 
 Doctor Richard, her mother's fond comments on 
 his frequent visits, were as music to her ear, Syren 
 music, wondrous and strange, that made her reck- 
 less of the breakers and sand-banks to which her 
 poor barque was rapidly steering. Oh ! if it were 
 true ! If he really liked her I If he came to the 
 house for her ! If he had brought his child be- 
 cause he wished her to become that child's mother ! 
 If he hoped to bind her to himself by the closest
 
 318 DORA. 
 
 and the dearest ties known to man ! She was 
 alone now, yet at the thought she hid her flushed 
 face in both her hands. She was so happy that 
 she could scarcely bear it. It did occur to her, 
 indeed, that she might be mistaken — that Doctor 
 Richard had no such intentions as her mother and her 
 own secret hopes attributed to him. But even if 
 he had not these wishes now, might they not come 
 with time ? Few women who have the power to 
 fascinate do not know that it is theirs. Dora Cour- 
 tenay had charmed many hearts in her day. She 
 knew she had the gift to attract even those for 
 whom she cared little ; was it presumption to think 
 that she might win a heart so dear ? — was it wrong 
 to try and do so ? 
 
 " I will be good !" thought Dora. " I will try 
 and conquer my faults. If I reach his liking it shall 
 be through his esteem, and then I can at least look 
 back on the attempt without self-reproach or shame. 
 Perhaps he is too poor to marry. Perhaps, seeing 
 aunt and mamma almost dependent upon me, and 
 having a child himself, he will not be so imprudent. 
 If so, I cannot blame him, surely. And yet people 
 can be poor and very happy !" 
 
 As Dora came to this conclusion, she could not
 
 DOEA. 319 
 
 help looking towards the lame teacher's window. 
 It was open, to let in the pleasant autumn heat ; 
 and Dora's eye could dive down into the clear 
 darkroom, dark not because it was gloomy, but on 
 account of the surrounding brightness of the street. 
 It was very neat, though poorly furnished; the bees- 
 waxed floor shone again, the distant bed looked snow 
 white, and the lame teacher's wife sat mending linen 
 with a work-basket on a chair by her. Presently 
 she put down her task to peep out of the window. 
 She gave a long wistful look down the street, then 
 she glanced towards a little clock on the mantel- 
 piece. Was her husband late ? — was she getting 
 anxious at his delay ? But there was no need — a 
 door opened, and Dora saw him coming in. He 
 went up to his wife and kissed her. She took 
 away his hat and books, made him sit down in her 
 chair, and brought him a glass of wine. 
 
 " Yes, one can be poor and be happy," thought 
 Dora, turning away from the little homely picture, 
 " but I could be happy also even though I should 
 never marry him, or though we did not marry till 
 we were both as old as that poor teacher and his 
 wife. I could wait twenty years for him and 
 think it but a day. It would be strange indeed to
 
 320 DORA. 
 
 marry at past forty, and yet I know I could be 
 happy still — very happy. His hair would be quite 
 grey, and mine would be turning fast. I should be 
 rather a faded old maid, such a one as people say 
 of, * She must have been good-looking w^hen she 
 was twenty.' He would be brown and rather 
 thin, and Eva would be a young matron with 
 children on her knees — but I should be happy, 
 very happy. We should have a little money then 
 — not much, but just a little ; a cottage near Dub- 
 lin, too ; and he would be out all day, and would 
 come home to me of an evening a little tired, but 
 cheerful. ^Dora,' he would say, as we sat^ and 
 talked by the fire, * do you remember when you 
 were young ? You had bright hair and brighter 
 eyes, and a blooming face enough then, and now 
 they are gone.' I shall answer, * You should have 
 come earlier, sir, and you should have had them 
 all.' Ah ! what will he say to that?" 
 
 Poor Dora ! Her dream from subjective and 
 contingent has become future, so swift is the tran- 
 sition. She stands in her room with Doctor 
 Richard's note in her hand, and happening to 
 raise her eyes, she sees her own image in the 
 greenish glass above her mantelpiece. It is a dull
 
 DORA. 321 
 
 plate, tarnished and gloomy, but Dora's radiant 
 face shines from its depths with the glorious light 
 of hope and young love. And Dora is not forty 
 yet, but twenty-tree, and she barely looks beyond 
 her teens. There is not a silver thread in the 
 rich brown gold of her hair, nothing has yet 
 dimmed the brightness of her happy, radiant eyes. 
 "VYith that pure, fresh bloom on her cheek, and 
 that smile of delight on her ripe lips, Dora looks 
 enchanting just then. Mere beauty would seem 
 cold near her, for beauty is not always a light 
 from within ; and the fervour of her dream, and 
 the consciousness that she is still young' and plea- 
 sant to look at, make Dora's heart beat with secret 
 rapture. She knows, too — how can she help 
 knowing it ? — that she has more to give than to re- 
 ceive in the exchange she is contemplating. How 
 many women would care for the poor widower 
 of thirty odd ? — and how many men could help car- 
 ing for the young radiant girl ? 
 
 " He is worth ten of me," thought Dora, turn- 
 ing away from the glass ; " but most girls would 
 remember his half shabby coat, and laugh at him 
 if he came to woo. Perhaps he knows it, and is 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 DORA. 
 
 diffident. Ah ! if he knew all — if he but knew 
 it!" 
 
 But on reflection Dora thought it was as well 
 tliat he should not know it. She opened a drawer, 
 took out a little inlaid mother-of-pearl casket, in 
 which she kept her choicest treasures — memorials 
 of her brother — and she put Doctor Richard's 
 note with them. 
 
 " Paul would have liked him," she thought, the 
 tears rushing to her eyes. " Oh ! if I could but 
 have seen these two together — if I could but have 
 sat and listened to them, how happy, how very 
 happy I should have been !" 
 
 But sad and troubled are the dreams we indulge 
 in when we remember the dead. We cannot, if 
 we have truly loved them, let fancy free where 
 they are concerned. The gloom, the sad austerity 
 of the grave, its silence and its hopelessness, ever 
 come between us and our reverie. The remem- 
 brance of her brother, ever loved, ever lamented, 
 fell like a pall over Dora's happy imagining. 
 
 " I must not think of these things," she thought 
 rather sadly ; " if Doctor Richard wished to marry 
 he need not have waited so long to do so ; and
 
 DORA. 323 
 
 if he does not care for me, why should I be ever 
 thinking of him ?" 
 
 But she left his note where she had put it with 
 the treasures and the mementoes of her youth. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUG WELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
 
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