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 K:sT> by CHEMISTS A^^D PERFUMERS.
 
 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 BY G. P. R. JAMES, 
 
 authok op "'adrian, ok the clouds of the mind," "the fate, 
 "revenge/' "henry smeaton," "the forgery," "the 
 
 "\V00D3IAN." "dark SCENES OF HISTORY, ETC." 
 
 IN THREE YOLUMES. 
 YOL. I. 
 
 I. O N D O N 
 THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 
 
 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 1852.
 
 
 PEQUINILLO 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 I AM going to follow the advice given by 
 tlie witty Count Antoine Hamilton, al- 
 though it will lay me under the necessity of 
 doing a thing that I abominate: namely, of 
 quoting from the French. ^' Mon ami 
 Belier" he says, " toujour s commencez par 
 le commencement." Now, one cannot very 
 well get nearer to the beginning of a man's 
 life, than introducing him as a baby — al- 
 though authorities have differed even upon 
 this subject. 
 
 VOL. I B
 
 2 PEQUINTLLO. 
 
 In a nice, clean-looking cottage, con- 
 taining four good rooms, to say nothing of 
 a kitchen and sundry appendages, which 
 were built out behind — or of a carpenter's 
 shop at the side, from which issued an 
 exceedingly eternal (I beg pardon) sound 
 of a saw playing in the jaws of a piece of 
 wood, which might have pinioned a dozen 
 Milos — sat an old woman. 
 
 The old woman had society of a certain 
 sort, however ; for, beside the cat, which 
 sat on the window-sill, enjoying some 
 bright, warm rays of early sunshine, and 
 the dog, which stood in the open door- way, 
 with his legs as stiff as pokers, the good 
 lady had another companion, stretched out 
 at length upon her knee, dressed in ex- 
 ceedingly long long-clothes, and with a 
 smart cap upon his head, edged with at 
 least three rows of very passable Valen- 
 ciennes lace. 
 
 I will not pause here to describe, mi- 
 nutely, the beauties of my hero's face, or 
 the graces of his form. Or, if it be neces-
 
 PEQUmiLLO. 3 
 
 sary to satisfy a very exacting reader, I 
 may easily sketch him out, by saying that 
 his eyes were round, and his mouth was 
 round, and his nose was round, and his 
 head was round; and, do what they could, 
 to make it look long and slippery, his body, 
 as far as it could be seen under the clothes, 
 was as round as all the rest. 
 
 Now, the old woman declared that the 
 child was the very model of his father ; 
 and his father was a young man of nearly 
 six feet high. It must be admitted that 
 the old lady's eyes were none of the clearest; 
 and, at the very moment when she sits 
 before us, with the baby on her lap, she 
 has got on her nose a pair of spectacles, 
 which are none of the clearest either. 
 However, she is engaged in acting up to 
 her catechism, and ''doing her duty in 
 that state of life unto which it has 
 pleased God to call her." 
 
 The way she did this was as follows. 
 She stared in the child's face, through the 
 b2
 
 4 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 great, round spectacles ; and, as long as it 
 stared back again, goggling at her with its 
 large, young eyes, as if it wondered what 
 the deuce she could be, she continued to 
 jog it up and down with one foot, in a way 
 that would have driyen any Christian 
 mad. 
 
 The baby had not yet been baptised. 
 When it left off staring, made its face 
 square instead of round, and began to 
 shout — which occasionally it did most 
 lustily — she threw its head over her 
 shoulder, with the face leaning backwards, 
 and thumped it vehemently on the back 
 while it sucked the collar of her gown. 
 This process seemed to have an instanta- 
 neous effect in quieting it. It was better 
 even than the ticking of the clock, which, 
 with a brass face engraved to represent the 
 sun — I mean the sun of clock-makers, with 
 eyes, nose, and mouth, and the pivot of the 
 hands in the middle of the nose — stood be- 
 indthe door, in a tall japanned case. That 
 whichseemed tointerestthe infant most,how-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 5 
 
 ever, was the noise of the saw, although it 
 micrht be said to be, like Hamlet, " to the 
 manner born ;" and, especially when the 
 teethed instrument came suddenly upon 
 any hard knot in the wood, and screamed, 
 like a lawyer in purgatory, the child 
 seemed infinitely delighted, raised up its 
 large eyes in the direction of the sound — 
 its head it could not yet raise — and, to 
 use the old lady's term, " took a world of 
 notice." 
 
 All this proved that the babe must have 
 passed some weeks in this mortal world ; 
 but yet, it was under the month ; for, like 
 all first children, it was exceedingly preco- 
 cious ; and, if we believe either the mother 
 or the nurse, would have puzzled Sir Isaac 
 Newton himself — as well it might ; but not 
 in their sense. 
 
 " Well, I do declare she is very long T' 
 said the old woman to herself, after having 
 joggled, and stared, and patted, succes- 
 sively and in vain, over and over again. 
 " She mought ha' dressed herself a dozen
 
 6 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 times before now, to come down for the 
 first time, with such a fine boy as this, 
 and he a' starving.'^ 
 
 The child certainly did not look as if it 
 were starving at all, although it thought fit 
 to cry for the gratification of that pro- 
 pensity which babies and leeches have in 
 common. The fact is, the old lady was 
 impatient, with just the same sort of im- 
 patience as the child's ; for she was ac- 
 customed to allow herself each day, about 
 half-past eleven o'clock, some fluid out of a 
 long-necked bottle, as a sort of whet to the 
 dinner, which came at twelve ; and it now 
 only wanted a quarter to noon. 
 
 At length, however, she was relieved. 
 With a slow, and somewhat faltering step, 
 came down from the first floor, a pale but 
 very pretty creature, of hardly two-and- 
 twenty years. Her oldest friends could 
 with difficulty have recognised in her, the 
 gay, plump, bUthsome girl of a twelve- 
 month before ; and yet she looked as happy 
 a^s a queen — a great deal happier, indeed
 
 PEQUINILLO. 7 
 
 — although there be one in the world, who 
 we hope is as happy in all her feelings as 
 she is in all her acts. 
 
 The door in which the dog stood, was 
 open, as we have said, and as soon as he 
 heard his mistress's step, he turned round, 
 brought his great black nose close up to 
 her hand, wagged his tail, and then trotted 
 out into the street. 
 
 Every one knows the effect of the first 
 fresh air upon a person just recovering 
 from severe sickness, and long confined to 
 one room. The wind from the door, soft 
 and gentle as it was, seemed to make a 
 sensation of faintness come over the young 
 mother, and she sank quietly into a seat 
 The old woman gave her the child upon 
 her lap, however; and then she felt quite 
 happy and strong again. 
 
 " You had better have some of the drops, 
 my dear," said the old woman. " T he 
 doctor said you were to take them three 
 times a day, after the fever left you." And 
 away she went up-stairs, to fetch drops of
 
 8 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 some kind; but which was the bottle she 
 looked for first,! will not take upon me to say. 
 
 She had hardly closed the door, and the 
 young mother had not been down two 
 minutes, when the noise of the sawing 
 suddenly ceased, and a tall, good-looking 
 man of about thirty, with a bare head and 
 curly hair, came quickly in, put his arm 
 round the pretty creature's neck, and gave 
 her a kiss, saying, 
 
 " Ah, Emma, my dear, I am glad to see 
 you down again, with all my heart." 
 
 He was evidently her husband ; but 
 whether it was by an intuitive and sym- 
 pathetic knowledge that he had discovered 
 his wife's coming down, and had left off 
 his work a quarter of an hour before the time, 
 to go and greet her, or whether the dog had 
 run round and told him, I really cannot say. 
 Certain it is, that he and the dog came in 
 together. 
 
 "Don't sit with the door open, my 
 dear," he continued, closing it carefully ; 
 " this day fortnight, when you were so bad
 
 PEQUINILLO. y 
 
 with the fever, I never thought to see you 
 sitting there again; and I don't want to 
 have you laid up, after having gone through 
 all so bravely.' ' 
 
 "This is reward enough for all, Hal," 
 replied his wife, looking down at the baby, 
 who was very pleasantly employed by this 
 time, and as still as a mouse. " But you 
 look grave and tired, Hal ; and, I think, 
 have been working too much since I have 
 not been able to tease you to leave off. I 
 have heard the plane and the saw going all 
 day, and part of the night, too, some- 
 times." 
 
 " If I had known that, my love, you 
 should not have heard it," replied Hal, 
 even more gravely than before ; " but you 
 know, Emma, there are always some vexa- 
 tions in life ; and Kit Markus has left me, 
 hang him ! He's as good a hand as any T 
 know, and the cleverest, strongest, most 
 active fellow within a hundred miles ; but the 
 wandering spirit has come upon him again ; 
 and Joe Martin, though a steady, hard- 
 B 5
 
 10 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 working, good fellow, cannot get through 
 all that we have to do, without my work- 
 ing very hard to help him/^ 
 
 " Oh, but you'll soon get another jour- 
 neyman, Hal,'' said his wife, " when work 
 is not so plenty. — My poppet ! How well 
 he looks, Hal ! The old woman tells me 
 you fed him yourself when I was so ill." 
 
 " Yes, because I was afraid she would 
 give him gin," said the husband, almost 
 bitterly. 
 
 But, as husbands of first wives, and 
 fathers of first children, always quarrel 
 with the nurses, it is not worth while here 
 to enquire what grounds there were for his 
 suspicions. Suffice it, that the old woman 
 descended again, bringing a glass of medi- 
 cine in her hand, and an alcoholic smell 
 about her mouth, which caused both the 
 husband and wife to make wry faces. 
 
 Very soon after, a tidy servant girl, with 
 bare arms, very red at the back, came in, 
 and laid a small table, with clean linen, and 
 knives and forks. A pepper-castor, and a
 
 PEQUmiLLO. 11 
 
 salt-cellar, and a raustard-pot, and a vinegar- 
 cruet, with a cork in it, were set down upon 
 the table ; and when a dish of meat and some 
 vegetables had been brought in, husband and 
 wife and monthly-nurse sat down to dinner, 
 the latter holding the baby on her knee, 
 and eating her food principally with the 
 aid of one hand. 
 
 The conversation was all about the 
 christening. Of w^hat else, indeed, could 
 it be 1 But the important point, which 
 so desperately puzzled the learned and 
 ingenious Mr. Shandy, puzzled the un- 
 learupd and not very argumenta- 
 tive Henry Ludlow and his wife Emma 
 quite as much ; so that the whole meal 
 had passed before they had fixed upon the 
 Christian name to be bestowed upon their 
 first-born. The wife stood out stoutly for 
 "Hal ;" but the husband seemed ambitious 
 in Christian names ; and — with that sort of 
 perverse spirit which makes some people 
 hate anything that is tied to them for life 
 —he abominated his own name, resisting
 
 12 fEQUINILLO. 
 
 Hal, or Henry, or anything approaching to 
 it, as resolutely as might be, without un- 
 kindness. 
 
 " ril tell you what, my dear," he said, 
 as he rose, at length, to resume his work, 
 " you know the Squire has promised to be 
 god-father, and it will be but civil to ask 
 what is his fancy about a name. So at 
 six o'clock I'll clean myself, and go up and 
 speak with him about it, and we'll hear 
 what he says." 
 
 " Well, I love the name of Hal," said his 
 young wife, in a tone which implied both 
 tenderness and stoutness. 
 
 Her husband kissed her cheek, answer- 
 ing with a smile, 
 
 ^' / don't love it half so well as Emma ; 
 and we can't call him that, you know, my 
 dear." 
 
 She told him to go along, for a foolish 
 fellow, but laughed, notwithstanding ; and, 
 at the hour named, her husband dressed 
 himself in his best clothes, and went away 
 over the fields, upon his important journey.
 
 PEQUINILLO. 13 
 
 As the distance he had to travel was 
 rather more than two miles, it was eight 
 clock when he returned ; but his wife 
 had not yet gone to bed, and the consul- 
 tation recommenced. It was short, how- 
 ever, and far more satisfactory than before. 
 The squire had proposed Juliar., the hus- 
 band said ; but left it entirely to them- 
 selves. 
 
 Mrs. Ludlow thought that Julian was a 
 
 very pretty name. It tickled her ear and 
 
 her fancy; and, as she had never heard 
 
 of Julian the Apostate, or Count 
 
 Julian, or any of the naughty men who 
 
 have carried that name about with them 
 
 in history, Mr. Shandy's prejudices, if 
 
 she had shared them, would not have 
 
 affected her in this instance. Still, though 
 
 she was a sweet, gentle little creature, a 
 
 spice of woman's fondness for her own way 
 
 hung about her ; and even in giving her 
 
 consent to the name of Julian, she added, 
 
 with a sigh, that she loved the name of 
 
 Henry, nevertheless.
 
 14 PEQUINILLO, 
 
 A compromise, however, was easily 
 efifected. There is no reason, as every 
 Portuguese knows, why a child, or a man 
 either, should not have a hundred Christian 
 names if he pleases ; and it was decided in 
 the end that the little boy should be called 
 Julian Henry, and that the christening 
 should be that day week, the squire having 
 promised to be present in person. 
 
 What has all this to do with the history ? 
 An immense deal, dearly beloved, if you 
 will but wait a little.
 
 PEQUmiLLO. 15 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 In a beautiful part of that beautiful county 
 called Buckingham (" which may be freely 
 translated from its pure Anglo Saxon — the 
 dwelling-place of the beech trees") there 
 was a park of considerable extent, and 
 much picturesque loveliness. It had all 
 those accessories which render the park of 
 an English gentleman one of the most 
 charming places for residence in the world. 
 It had wood, it had water, it had hill, it 
 had dale, it had gentle grassy lawns, it had 
 fern-covered uplands, it had deep and 
 shady groves, it had clumps of ma- 
 jestic trees, it had solitary hawthorns,
 
 16 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 scenting the vernal air. The fair stream of 
 the Thames, neither in its splendid width, 
 nor in its gentle littleness, but a good 
 broad river, as yet unpolluted by the filth 
 of cities, gave the pleasant aspect of run- 
 ning water ; a small lake, in another spot, 
 reflected the heavens above, and the trees 
 around, and the whole scene had cultivation 
 as well as wildness. 
 
 About the middle of the park, and about 
 the middle of the rise from the bank of the 
 river to the summit of the hills behind, was 
 placed the mansion — a comfortable English 
 dwelling, built some time in the eighteenth 
 century, without the slightest pretension 
 to architectural perfection, but with a 
 steady regard to the convenience of the 
 inhabitants. There w^as nothing in the 
 least degree interesting about it — nothing 
 either beautiful, picturesque, or romantic ; 
 and yet, whichever way you gazed at it 
 from the country around, it presented an 
 imposing look, and had a pleasant aspect. 
 This was especially the case in a glimpse
 
 PEQUINILLO. 17 
 
 which one had of it from the road to Ox- 
 ford, where it was beheld standing forth upon 
 its Httle space of open green — the flower- 
 garden in which could not be seen — and 
 flanked on either side with a deep grove 
 of tall trees, through which, extending from 
 the back of the building, might be per- 
 ceived a long avenue leading up the hill. 
 
 The interior of the house was as com- 
 fortable as it could be. There was no 
 splendour, no ostentation. Not a gaudy 
 colour appeared anywhere, except in the 
 Turkey carpets. No gilding was seen, ex- 
 cept here and there, on a very light mould- 
 ing, or on the massive picture-frames, 
 where it was hardly noticed — at least, by 
 the eye of taste. There was a large, 
 marble-paved entrance hall : a large 
 marble-paved vestibule : a large, marble 
 flight of stairs, with old oak balustrades, 
 and a broad oak rail. On the right of the 
 vestibule were the dining-room, the 
 breakfast-room, and the kitchen offices. 
 On the left, a music- room, a spacious
 
 18- PEQUINILLO. 
 
 drawing-room, a smaller drawing-room, a 
 magistrate's-room, and the library. Of 
 these, the only two of very great extent, 
 were the drawing-room and the library. 
 
 All the rest were of moderate size, 
 though not small ; but very comfortable. 
 The library itself, in point of proportion, 
 was the finest room in the house. Two 
 sides, and the piers of the two others, from 
 the floor to the ceiling, were covered with 
 book-cases, loaded with books. The inde- 
 fatigable labors of many a year, and many 
 a mind, had furnished that room well. It 
 would have been impossible, even for the 
 giant described, I believe by Pliny, who 
 was eleven Roman feet in height, to have 
 reached the volumes on ths top shelves; 
 and the founder of the library, disdaining 
 the pitiful contrivance of a moveable ladder, 
 had run a light gallery, of hammered iron- 
 w^ork, round the whole of the upper part 
 of the room. This was reached by^ a sort 
 of columnar staircase of the same materials, 
 in which, by the way — for I recollect it
 
 PEQUIMLLO. 19 
 
 well — one felt very much like a bird in a 
 cage. There were plenty of tables, plent}* 
 of recesses for drawings and maps, plenty 
 of arm-chairs, and ink-stands, foot-stools, 
 and paper-weights — plenty, in short, of 
 those conveniences which could make a 
 studious occupant perfectly at his ease. 
 But all this plenty had been accumulated 
 by the preceding possessor ; for the pre- 
 sent owner of the property, though by no 
 means averse to his ease when he found it, 
 was not one to study it so profoundly. 
 
 He sits there in the arm-chair, with a 
 book before him, and a black velvet cap, of 
 no shape at all, covering his high, bald 
 head, and a considerable portion of his fine, 
 broad forehead. 
 
 I do not think that the tailor makes the 
 man — as is so generally supposed. A gen- 
 tleman can exist in an ill-cut coat. I have 
 even seen a very bad piece of broad-cloth 
 on a man who occasionally dignified the 
 ermine, and a bad hat on brows familiar 
 with the coronet. But, occasionally, there
 
 20 TEQUIXILLO. 
 
 is a sort of harmony between the man and 
 his dress, which is worthy of remark when 
 we meet with it. Such was the case in the 
 present instance ; and the Squire, as he was 
 called in the neighbourhood, was dressed 
 as befitted him at that hour of the day. 
 Let it be remembered, however, in the first 
 place, that his garments belonged to the 
 time in which he lived — somewhat anterior 
 to the period in which I am now writing. 
 He wore a black coat, black knee-breeches, 
 and black silk stockings, with a white 
 waistcoat, and a white cravat. Powder, 
 too, he wore; though pOwder had, generally, 
 gone out of fashion, and he had dropped 
 a good number of the appendages of his 
 early days. But the powder had not flown 
 off' with the pig-tail. 
 
 His age might be somewhere between 
 fifty and sixty; certainly less than the 
 latter number of years, and probably more 
 than the former. Whatever it was, his 
 complexion was so good, his skin so soft 
 and delicate, his teeth so fine, and his face
 
 PEQUINILLO. 21 
 
 SO unwrinkled, that he would have ap- 
 peared much less than his age, had it not 
 been for a certain staid, elderly cut about 
 his clothes, his powdered hair, his bald or 
 velvet-covered head, and — for there is al- 
 ways an " and " in everything, even unto 
 the end of the world, and then, I trust, 
 also — and a certain knitting of the brow, 
 from a habit of thought and consideration, 
 which gave a somewhat aged, and likewise 
 a somewhat stern, look to a countenance 
 otherwise youthful and benevolent. The 
 features were finely cut, regular, and 
 handsome ; the eyes brown, and the nose 
 and mouth delicate ; though the chin was 
 strongly marked. The figure, too, was 
 fine and commanding, with some grace, but 
 more of severe simplicity, in all its attitudes. 
 
 Such was the Squire (as his neighbours 
 of the village called him) in his evening 
 costume Jn the morning, the top boots, 
 and leather breeches, and blue coat of the 
 day, superseded his present attire. 
 
 His character will develop itself more here-
 
 22 PEQUINJLLO. 
 
 after ; and I will only add, that he was gene- 
 rally reputed a kind and benevolent master 
 andlandlord, a generous and steadfast friend, 
 a rather strict, but very just, magis- 
 trate, a good and amiable, though not 
 over-indulgent, parent, a very temperate 
 man, by those who loved the bottle, and a 
 very learned man, by the parson of the 
 parish. On none of these things did he 
 pride himself, however ; for they were 
 either natural to him, or acquired by fol- 
 lowing pertinaciously one even, well-con- 
 sidered course. 
 
 Let us leave him there, and go into 
 another room of the house, where, walking 
 up and down, was another gentleman 
 greatly resembHng him in person, but the 
 very opposite in demeanor — at least at that 
 moment. The drawing-room seemed too 
 small for his hasty and agitated strides ; and 
 his eye, seeing nothing, was fixed with a 
 haggard look upon some creature of his 
 fancy. Hiswell-formed person — handsomer 
 than that of the Squire, more robust, more
 
 PEQTTINTLLO. 23 
 
 graceful — seemed, one might say, disjointed 
 with the strife of emotions within; and his 
 exceedingly fine face was clouded with a 
 look of anguish painful to behold. Yet 
 this is Julian Westwood ; the son of a 
 kind and judicious father, possessed of all 
 that, to human eyes, would seem necessary 
 for happiness; health, wealth, high educa- 
 tion, a fine mind, a handsome person, and 
 the love of all who knew him. 
 
 He was still in this state of agitation, 
 when a servant, in very handsome livery, 
 entered the room, and said : — 
 
 " Here is Mr. Ludlow, sir, the carpenter, 
 wishes to speak with you or your father/' 
 All trace of emotion was banished from 
 young Westwood's face in a moment. 
 
 " Ah, poor Hal !" he said. " I will see 
 him ; but do not let any one else in to me 
 to-night. How is his wife going on? I 
 hope nothing is the matter with the child." 
 " I did not ask, sir," said the servant — 
 servants never do ask — and retired to usher 
 in the carpenter.
 
 24 PEQUmiLLO. 
 
 Hal Ludlow did not remain above three 
 minutes with Julian Westwood, though, as 
 they were foster brothers, it is probable 
 that the young squire, as he was called, 
 treated him with all kindness, notwith- 
 standing the painful pre-occupation of his 
 own mind. 
 
 At the end of the time I have 
 mentioned, the drawing-room door again 
 opened, to give the good carpenter egress ; 
 and the voice of Julian was heard, saying, 
 
 "Go to my father, Hal. Go to my 
 father. He will tell you what name." 
 
 Ludlow accordingly sought out the ser- 
 vant, and in two minutes more was in the 
 presence of the Squire. 
 
 Mr. Westwood laid down his book, look- 
 ing up mildly and pleasantly at his visitor. 
 
 " Good evening, Hal," he said. " I am 
 glad to see you. I hope your wife is going 
 on quite well, now. Poor thing ! It was 
 very sad to have her attacked with that 
 fever ; but it is not uncommon, I believe, 
 in her circumstances. She is a sweet,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 25 
 
 pretty creature, and it would never do to 
 lose the flower of the parish." 
 
 "She is a good creature, sir," replied 
 Ludlow, warmly ; " but I am happy to say 
 she is doing quite well now. She was 
 down to-day for the first time, and we were 
 talking about the chi-istening, sir." 
 
 " Sit down, Hal ; sit down," said Mr. 
 Westwood, pointing to a chair. " Well, 
 what about the christening V 
 
 " Why, you were kind enough to say, 
 Squire, that you would be god- father," re- 
 turned Ludlow, with a slight degree of hesi- 
 tation, and seeming to pick his words with 
 some care. 
 
 " And so T will," rejoined Mr. Westwood, 
 nodding his head. " 1 will come down my- 
 self, whenever you like. We will have no 
 substitutes. Godfathers and godmothers 
 shall be there in presence. We will do it 
 all in the good, hearty, old English fashion, 
 Hal. When shall it be 1 This day week, 
 if you like. Mrs. Ludlow will be well enough 
 by that time, I trust." 
 
 VOL. L c
 
 26 PEQITJNILLO. 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes, sir," answered the car- 
 penter, " She is doing quite v\^ell now ; 
 but the matter is, sir, that we were talking 
 about what name to give the baby ; and I 
 thought it best to come and ask you. Emma 
 wants to have it christened Henry ; but I 
 don't like Henry, because it is my own 
 name ; and I thought, perhaps, you would 
 allow us to give it yours/' 
 
 Mr. AVestwood put his finger under his 
 velvet cap, and rubbed his temple, consi- 
 derately. " Never cross a mother about 
 her child's name, Ludlow ; unless she choose 
 a very outrageous one," he said at length. 
 '* Henry should be one name, at all events, 
 and you may give him my name, if you 
 like ; but I hate the name of Robert — for 
 the same not very logical reason that you 
 assign, I suppose — because it is my own. 
 Why not give him Julian's ^ It is a family 
 name with us, as well as Robert, Call 
 him Julian, Hal ; call him Julian. As you 
 are foster-brothers, it will be natural enough, 
 and proper too, I think. Let me know
 
 PEQUINILLO. 27 
 
 the day, and the hour ; and I and Julian 
 will come do\yn together. Mary will be 
 sorry that she is away travelKng, when 
 her friend Emma's baby is to be christened." 
 Thus it was, that the baby we have seen 
 upon the nurse's knee, carried about with 
 him through the world the names of Julian 
 Henry Ludlow ; and the fact is not as unim- 
 portant as it may appear. 
 
 c 2
 
 28 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 CHArTEH III. 
 
 We will give the name of Waldon to the 
 little village which is the scene of the pre- 
 sent part of our story ; and merely re- 
 mark, that, although it lay at no great 
 distance from the bank of the river, it 
 probably took its name from the hill 
 behind it, on which the Squire's house 
 stood, and which, b}^ a sort of pleonasm, 
 was called Waldon Hill, although Waldon, 
 rendered into its ancient Saxon, w^ould 
 merely signify, Wood Hill, or Woody 
 Hill. 
 
 In the five years which followed the 
 birth of Julian Ludlow, the little village of 
 Waldon improved considerably. Under 
 the kindly patriotism of the Squire, the
 
 PEQUINTLLO. 29 
 
 ten preceding years had not been passed 
 without an advance ; but they had 
 been occupied rather by the sowing of 
 the grain, and watching of the crop, than by 
 the gathering any harvest. Now, however, 
 the ear was coming to maturity, and the 
 fruits were beginning to ripen. One pros- 
 perous man had made another prosperous 
 man. A number of very good-looking 
 houses had sprung up : the cottages ran 
 actually down to the water's edge : a little 
 quay and landing-place had been formed, 
 where barges and boats were frequently 
 unloaded ; and two or three shops of some 
 pretension had been opened, smothering 
 the small original chandler's shop of the 
 place, but suffering it to grow up again, 
 like a mushroom from a heap of manure, 
 in the form of a somewhat smart grocery. 
 One of the neatest houses, one of the 
 best fitted-up establishments, in the whole 
 town, was that of Henry Ludlow, now 
 carpenter, joiner, and cabinet-maker. He
 
 30 TEQUINILLO. 
 
 had no less than six journeymen working 
 under him, and had generally as much 
 work as he could grapple with. He was 
 still the same plain, good sort of person we 
 have first represented him — kindly, unas- 
 suming, industrious, working hard himself, 
 and expecting his workmen to do so like- 
 wise; but never asking them to do more than 
 they could effect with ease, and having 
 every consideration for sickness, or grief, 
 or any other obstacle to labour. It was 
 generally remarked that he was a ra- 
 ther grave man, and that he would often 
 sigh, as if there were something that he 
 still desired, and did not obtaici ; and yet 
 he never complained to any one. The old 
 ladies of the place declared that he regret- 
 ted not having any more children; and 
 perhaps it was so ; for his love for the 
 little Julian was very great, and perhaps 
 there might be a superfluity in his breast 
 for others, if they had come. But no more 
 made their appearance ; and Ludlow
 
 PEQUINTLLO. 31 
 
 might, perhaps, regret, I repeat, that he 
 had not many another sporting round his 
 knee. 
 
 Pretty Mistress Ludlow — for she was 
 still as pretty a creature as the eye could 
 rest upon— did not appear to share in her 
 husband's feeHngs in this respect. Her 
 whole soul seemed wrapped up in her 
 darling boy; and a dozen certainly would 
 not have made her happier. Well might 
 she be proud of him : well might she re- 
 joice in him ; for a finer boy was never 
 seen; and his handsome face and large 
 hazel eyes, his curly hair and stalwart 
 frame, won him many an admirer, who 
 did not go far enough to learn the better 
 qualities within. Though a little hot and 
 passionate, he was full of affection, and 
 ever docile to kindness. Gentle, too, 
 though bold, he was; and, at an age when 
 falsehood is the commonest of sins, he was 
 truth itself He was a frequent visitor at 
 Waldon Hall — the pet of Juhan Westwood, 
 who would often spend hours in playing
 
 32 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 with him; and, moreover, he was much and 
 kindly noticed by his god-father, the 
 Squire, who, comparatively but little at- 
 tracted by his beauty, seemed to discover 
 and appreciate the high qualities of the 
 boy's mind and heart, sooner than those 
 who admired him most. 
 
 " That boy must be taken care of, 
 Julian," he said one day, "and his education 
 must be provided for. I am no advocate for 
 forcing every good-looking or every clever 
 lad into a higher station than that in which 
 God has placed him ; but T think there is 
 something remarkable in that child, which 
 is worth careful tendence." 
 
 This was said with some sadness ; and 
 indeed the spirits of good Mr. Westwood, 
 once even and bright, had by this time 
 become greatly depressed by one of those 
 domestic afflictions which mingle in the 
 portion of all men, but are heavier upon 
 the warm-hearted than upon the ordinary 
 people of the world. 
 
 1 must pause for a moment, even though
 
 PEQUINILLO. 33 
 
 it interrupt the narrative, to explain the 
 occasion of a melancholy which affected 
 the whole course of a good man's after 
 life. 
 
 Mr. Westwood had lost his only 
 daughter, about two years after the birth 
 of Julian Ludlow. This would not appear 
 sufficient cause for such permanent grief as 
 her father endured, had not circumstances 
 been connected with it, which doubled the 
 darkness of the shadow. When exceed- 
 ingly young, not eighteen years of age, a 
 proposal for her hand had been made by a 
 college companion of her brother. From a 
 just appreciation of the young man's cha- 
 racter, Mr. Westwood had, at once, rejected 
 his suit, and begged to decline his acquain- 
 tance. I have said, from a just apprecia- 
 tion of his character ; because his brief 
 aftercourse showed that nothing but misery 
 could have sprung from a connexion with 
 such a man. Within two years after his 
 proposal was made, he had gambled away 
 his whole inheritance ; had become largely 
 c 5
 
 34 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 in debt ; had been tempted to forge, in or- 
 der to procure means of pursuing his un- 
 eradicable vice ; had been detected, and had 
 shot himself in prison, to escape public 
 punishment. 
 
 Long, however, before this had occurred, 
 Mr. Westwood had discovered that, prior to 
 making a proposal to him self for his daugh- 
 ter's hand, the man he had rejected had 
 contrived to entangle Mary's affections. 
 
 When she found that her father had po- 
 sitively declined his suit, and forbidden his 
 visits at the house, it was evident that 
 though she seemed to bear his decision calmly 
 and patiently, she had suffered a bitterer dis- 
 appointment than she was willing any one 
 should perceive. She became restless, me- 
 lancholy, fond of solitude. She lost 
 appetite, and sleep, and cheerfulness. Her 
 strength failed, the colour departed from 
 her cheek, and the brightness of her eyes 
 contrasted strangely and dangerously with 
 the sickliness of her hue. Mr. Westwood 
 grieved bitterly ; but he did not yield ; 
 though he looked anxiously for any means
 
 PEQUINILTiO. 35 
 
 of withdrawing his daughter's mind from 
 the subject of her grief, and of restoring 
 her to health and to peace, if not to happi- 
 ness. 
 
 It so occurred, that, about the time of 
 Juhan Ludlow's birth, a short period of 
 peace intervened between England and the 
 Continental powers, and Europe was 
 thrown open to British travellers. Some 
 friends of the family proposed to make a 
 tour of the Continent, and to take Mary 
 with them ; and such was the reason of her 
 absence from the christening, which she 
 would otherwise have attended ; for Emma 
 was a dear though humble friend of hers. 
 Julian accompanied his sister as far as 
 Paris ; and left her, he said, in better health 
 and spirits. But such good tidings were 
 not of long duration. Ere many weeks 
 were over, intelligence reached him of the 
 suicide of his former friend ; and very 
 shortly after, a letter informed Mr. West- 
 wood that his daughter's health gave seri- 
 ous alarm to the friends with whom she 
 was travelling. She herself gave a better
 
 36 PEQUTNILLO. 
 
 account ; but the next letter, which came 
 about a montli subsequently, caused both 
 father and son to set off, in haste, to join her 
 on the Continent. She was brought back, by 
 slow journeys, to England; and the air of 
 her native land seemed, for a time, to 
 revive her. 
 
 But the fatal disease Lad obtained a hold 
 which it never relaxed. At first, fresh 
 spirits seemed to come upon her with the 
 sight of the dwelling of her youth, and the 
 old familiar trees, and the room she had 
 dwelt in so long; and her father and bro- 
 ther both entertained good hope. Nor was 
 the effect of the mental medicine so transi- 
 tory as might have been supposed. Tt 
 was not merely a spark, to be extinguished 
 as soon as lighted : a slight return of colour 
 came into her cheek : her lips lost their 
 ashy whiteness : the thin skeleton hand 
 became round and soft again ; but yet, a 
 little cough, more troublesome by night than 
 by day, lingered about her still ; and some- 
 how she could not, or she did not, sleep till 
 night was meeting with the morning. She
 
 PEQUIKILLO. 37 
 
 would come down, too, earlier than 
 she had been lately accustomed to do : she 
 would appear at the breakfast table : she 
 would stroll out into the park, and seat 
 herself beneath a shady tree — some- 
 times with her brother, who devoted him- 
 self to her with a love and tenderness 
 rarely seen — sometimes with a book ; and, 
 on all occasions, it was evident that she 
 made a noble struggle to avoid lonely 
 thought. She had enough of solitude and 
 reflection in the watches of the night. 
 
 One of Mary Westwood's first acts was 
 to send for Emma Ludlow; and their meet- 
 ing was kind and tender. Emma brought 
 her baby with her, now a fine, round- 
 cheeked infant, with eyes that seemed 
 eager to take in everything ; and Mary 
 took the child upon her lap, and kissed 
 him, and fondled him, and smilingly gave 
 him back to her friend, saying, " I am 
 afraid I should spoil him, Emma, if he were 
 mine. Mind you do not.'^ 
 
 Then Emma replied, that he was such a
 
 38 PEQTTINILLO. 
 
 cherub that he could not be spoiled ; and 
 they both laughed gaily, till Mary fell into 
 a fit of weeping. 
 
 Emma often came back, and often 
 brought the little boy ; and although Mary's 
 cough increased as Winter came on, and al- 
 though the physicians forbade her to quit t'.e 
 house, or one suite of rooms, kept at an 
 even temperature, yet, by these wise precau- 
 tions, well attended to, she saw the Spring 
 come rushing forth in her green garments, 
 not much worse in health than she had 
 been in the -Autumn ; and when the air be- 
 came mild and kindly, she was permitted 
 to come down, and go forth again for little 
 drives, and sit in the park under her 
 favourite trees. Whether she suffered 
 much at any time, whether she feared for 
 her own life, or was unconscious of danger 
 at this period, no one ever knew ; for she was 
 the most uncomplaining spirit upon earth, 
 and would have borne her fate meekly, 
 whatever it might have been. 
 
 Emma Ludlow's little boy was, by this 
 time, grown beyond knowledge; could run
 
 PBQUINILLO. 39 
 
 alone, though with many a fall upon the 
 greensward of the park; could pick the dai- 
 sies and other wild flowers at the feet of his 
 mother and her fair companion; and he 
 seemed to get even greater hold upon 
 Mary's heart than upon the affections of 
 the rest of the family. After her death, it 
 was found that she had left him a thousand 
 pounds, which she possessed independent 
 of her father or brother ; and with the in- 
 come arising from this sum, Emma Lud- 
 low and her husband resolved, with ambi- 
 tion not unnatural, to give the boy a better 
 education than they themselves had re- 
 ceived, entertaining at first a thought of 
 bringing him up for the church. 
 
 But to go on with the history of poor 
 Mary Westwood. During the whole of her 
 illness, her conduct to her father was per- 
 fect. She seemed to feel that he might, in 
 his own mind, though he spoke not of it, 
 attribute the malady under which she suf- 
 fered, to his own act, and feel grief and re- 
 gret on that account, though not self-re-
 
 40 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 proach. In his presence, she was always 
 more cheerful than at other times. With 
 her brother she strove to be cheerful too ; 
 but the task was more difficult. Be- 
 tween them there w^as that confidence which 
 exists only between the young — the pouring 
 forth of the mutual heart, the flowing of 
 thought into thought, and the communica- 
 tion of feeling for feeling. Thus their con- 
 versation would often turn upon subjects 
 which set the floodgates of emotion wide ; 
 and, more than once, poor Mary's interviews 
 with her brother were mingled largely with 
 tears. 
 
 The Squire himself seemed to under- 
 stand it all, and he was very sad ; espe- 
 cially when he saw any of those signs, for 
 which he was always anxiously on the 
 watch, of a fresh step in the downward 
 course of his daughter's health. He ex- 
 pressed no sort of remorse or regret for 
 what he had done in the case of Mary's 
 lover ; for he felt none. He believed — he 
 knew — that he had acted rightly ; and,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 41 
 
 though bitterly pained at having been 
 obHged so to act, and profoundly grieved 
 at the consequences, he never alluded to 
 the subject ; knowing, that even to explain 
 the motives which had actuated him, would 
 be only tearing open again the wound in 
 his daughter's heart, which, he fondly fan- 
 cied might yet be healed. 
 
 It was inevitable, however. One slight 
 imprudence towards the close of the second 
 Autumn — one half hour's lingering in the 
 open air, after the wind had become cold 
 and raw — gave the last blow. Marj'^ West- 
 wood never left the house again, till she 
 was carried out — dust. The long train of 
 hopes and fears, the alternations from day 
 to day, the weekly progress towards the 
 tomb, were so slow that the change from 
 the drawing-room to the bed-room, from 
 the sofa to the bed, was unobservable. 
 
 It was not till life hung quivering, ready 
 to flit away from the expiring lamp, that 
 Mary ever ventured to allude, in speaking
 
 42. PEQUIKILLO. 
 
 to her father, to the painful circumstances 
 of the past. 
 
 It was night, and he was taking leave 
 of her, when she gently held him by the 
 hand for a moment, and said — 
 
 " There is something I want to say to 
 you, my dear father. I want to speak a 
 word or two about the past : to thank 
 you for all your kindness ; to tell you I 
 believe that you judged better than I 
 could have done — and — and — But I will not 
 talk of it now," she added, seeing a dark 
 shadow come upon her father's face. " To- 
 morrow we will talk of it. I am weary 
 to-night, and so are you.'' 
 
 But that morrow, for Mary Westwood, 
 never came. When her brother stole into 
 her room in the morning, the woman, who 
 had been sitting up with her, said she had 
 rested well, and was still asleep. 
 
 She rested well, indeed ; and was asleep 
 — for ever! 
 
 When her father was told of the event.
 
 PEQUTNILLO. 43 
 
 his first grief was immoderate and strange 
 in a man so firm and steady in his thoughts 
 and principles. But, after a time, with the 
 tears still in his eyes, he grasped his son's 
 hand, saying — 
 
 " Better so, Julian, than the wife of a 
 villain !" 
 
 But, whatever Mr. West wood might say, 
 a wound was in his own heart, which 
 not even Time could cure.
 
 44 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 About five miles from Waldon, lay a small, 
 neat, pretty country town. It had the ad- 
 vantages of a little Square, or market- 
 place, of a market-day on Saturday, a 
 Post-office, with a deHvery — even in those 
 times — once a day, and an annual fair. 
 Now, it was the second day of the fair in 
 the town of Ash Locombe ; for the fair 
 lasted three days ; but the first was com- 
 posed principally of preparations, and the 
 last of fragments; inasmuch as the fairs in two 
 neighbouring towns were so inconveniently 
 near, in point of time, as hardly to leave
 
 PEQUINILLO. 45 
 
 that of poor little Ash a space to niche it- 
 self in between them. 
 
 The second day, then, was the great 
 
 day of the fair, and the market-place was 
 enriched by a number of the relics of St. 
 Bartholomew, as well as by a multitude of 
 peculiar and characteristic objects from 
 the neighbouring country. On one side 
 were fat oxen, and fatter pigs, Atlasian 
 sheep, which had much ado to carry the 
 world of wool upon their backs, and 
 horses with their tails done up with straw, 
 as indications of the intention of selling 
 themselves as readily as any political rogue 
 to a winning party. Samples of grain, 
 and peas, and beans, were there also, and 
 a variety of vegetable specimens of the 
 big things that the power of man can force 
 out of the bowels of mother earth; and men 
 hawking brandy-balls, and stalls with gin- 
 gerbread, some plain, some gilt — as if gin- 
 gerbread ever wanted gilding ! I vow, 
 though I hate medicine, that I would at 
 this moment take a hundred pills of it,
 
 46 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 totally ungilt, upon the smallest consider- 
 ation —or upon no consideration at all, if I 
 could but get it. Then there were boys 
 ■with apples in their hands; and bigger 
 boys with a devilish invention for scraping 
 people's backs, and making ladies think 
 that their gowns were torn ; and smaller 
 boys with penny trumpets — more diabolical 
 still. 
 
 Moreover — worse than all — there was a 
 man with a big trumpet, mounted upon the 
 stage of a perarabulatory theatre, and 
 dressed in the worn-out suit of a beef-eater, 
 with a countenance as resplendent as his 
 coat, although the Tyrian dye with which 
 his face was tinged, was probably limpid and 
 white when he swallowed it. He blew 
 and he spoke, by turns, to the gaping 
 crowd which stood beneath, hanging on 
 his words. When he blew, he seemed to 
 blow all the blood into his nose — luckily, 
 he did not blow it all out. When he 
 spoke, it seemed as if he would have burst 
 bis whole frame ; and certain it is, he had
 
 PEQUINILLO. 47 
 
 already gone so far as to crack his voice. 
 Though not a soul could distinguish a 
 word that he said, his eloquence — it was 
 action, action, action, according to Demos- 
 thenes — persuaded a great number of 
 people to mount and walk in, to see a 
 bloody tragedy that was to be performed 
 in the interior, of which a pictorial repre- 
 sentation was given without, displaying 
 horrors such as the tyrant of Padua him- 
 self had never conceived. Probably he 
 would have persuaded more to enter, but 
 that hard by was an enormous caravan of 
 what people frequently call dumb animals 
 — a slander upon them, to which they 
 indignantly gave the lie from time to time, 
 by outroaring the trumpeter, and out- 
 screaming the trumpet ; while over all the 
 din rose up the dong, dong, dong, the 
 clash, clash, and the jingle, jingle, of the 
 drums, cymbals, and triangles of half-a- 
 dozen wandering bands, each playing a 
 different tune. 
 
 At a respectful distance from these
 
 48 ' PEQUIXILLO. 
 
 grander shows, but still not far from 
 one of the principal entrances to the fair, 
 ^yas a booth of less pretensions, across the 
 canvass-front of which was painted, in let- 
 ters two feet long, an invitation to men, 
 women, and children, to enter and behold 
 feats of mighty necromancy, performed by 
 the great and celebrated Doctor Pequinillo, 
 the world-renowned magician of Toledo. 
 Before this booth, there was less din ; 
 and the only living attractions, apparent 
 without, were a man with a lugubrious face, 
 dressed as a merry- Andrew, and a little 
 girl, with her hair tricked out with pink 
 ribbons, and her person not too much covered 
 by a spangled frock of very dirty mushn. 
 The man in the clown's jacket might be 
 an Andrew, but he certainly was not very 
 merry — outside the booth at least ; and 
 he seemed to have taken offence against 
 some one ; for his only audible words were 
 — addressed to the girl, by the way — 
 *' D — n him, I haven't had a gill all day,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 49 
 
 and it's half-past ten now. Curse me if 
 ni be witty on cold water/' 
 
 Nevertheless, the celebrated Pequinillo 
 seemed to find fayor in the citizens of Ash ; 
 for, every now and then, a little knot of 
 people mounted the ladder and went in ; 
 and amongst the rest, were a highly re- 
 spectable-looking gentleman, of about 
 thirty-five, tall, good-looking, and well- 
 made, dressed in a black coat; a lady, some 
 six or seven years younger than himself, 
 exceedingly pretty, and tastefully though 
 plainly dressed ; and a little boy between 
 five and six years of age, with a profusion 
 of bright brown curls hanging round his 
 sunny face. The merry-Andrew was 
 instantly struck with their appearance, and, 
 taking their money, ushered them to one 
 of the front seats, very near a little stage 
 or platform, across which a curtain was 
 drawn. 
 
 There, however, they had to wait many 
 minutes, and until the booth was full of 
 people, before the famous magician of 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 Toledo, Doctor Pequinillo, thought fit to 
 make his appearance. The little boy with 
 the great wavy curls, was all impatience ; 
 and more than once he turned his beauti- 
 ful eyes to his mother, and enquired, with 
 the sweet accents of childhood, when they 
 would begin. 
 
 "You must be patient — you must be 
 patient," said Emma Ludlow. *' There! 
 they won't be long now. You see Mr. 
 Merryman has come in and shut the 
 door, and now he has gone behind the 
 curtain. I dare say they won't be a 
 minute.^' 
 
 A little hand-bell, with the tiniest 
 sound in the world, was heard to ring, a 
 moment or two after; and then the curtain 
 rose majestically, displaying a stage about 
 ten feet long, and six feet deep, with not 
 badly painted side-scenes about seven feet 
 high. The scene-painter had not required 
 a ladder. In the middle of the stage was 
 a table, with a great number of curious 
 implements upon it. By the side of the
 
 PEQUINILLO. 51 
 
 table stood Mr. Merryman, now bowing 
 very low, with an affected look of lacka- 
 dasical amazement, to the master whom he 
 had been objurgating, for lack of drink, a 
 few minutes before on the outside of the 
 theatre. 
 
 Behind the table stood Doctor Pequi- 
 nillo himself : a most magnificent person- 
 age, dressed in rusty black velvet — which 
 had once evidently been a lady's gown — 
 cut in an antique fashion, and trimmed 
 with silver lace. On his head he wore a 
 cap and plume, and in his hand he carried 
 a white wand, probably as the badge and 
 token of his art. His skin was of that 
 rough and porous texture w^hich generally 
 accompanies hair of a Seville orange color; 
 but, strange to say, there were proofs posi- 
 tive, which it had never entered into the 
 head of Julian Ludlow to deny, that he was 
 a dark-haired man. In the first place, his 
 wig, which at one time might have belonged 
 to Eugene or Marlborough, was as black 
 as that of Charles the Second, from the 
 D 2
 
 52 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 caul to the extremity of the longest horse- 
 hair. Then again, he wore a most out- 
 rageous pair of moustachios (moustachios 
 of any kind were invaluable rarities in 
 England in those days ;) and these mou- 
 stachios were not only profoundly impres- 
 sive, by reason of their length, breadth, 
 and thickness, but were also profoundly 
 black, and gave him the appearance of 
 having buried his upper lip, and a part of 
 his nose, in a strip of bear-skin. He was 
 a tall, stout fellow ; and his face, despite 
 of skin, wig, and moustachios, was a pleasant 
 and good-humored one. 
 
 The performance commenced by a dia- 
 logue between Doctor Pequiniilo and Mr. 
 Merryman, in which the former showed 
 what excellent vernacular Anglo-Saxon can 
 be acquired at Toledo in Spain ; and the 
 latter brought forth a number of very 
 ancient jokes by spasmodic efforts, which 
 probably would have been mitigated, if the 
 parturition had been assisted by a little hot 
 gin-and-water. Then came the conjuring,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 53 
 
 which was really a very creditable display 
 of skill on the part of the Doctor, and 
 highly delighted little Julian Ludlow, who, 
 though full of native acuteness, could not 
 by any means divine how a live pigeon, a 
 wig, and a pocket-handkerchief, could be 
 produced from an old hat, where there was 
 nothing the moment before. The cups and 
 balls gave him infinite satisfaction; but 
 when he saw a gold watch knocked all to 
 pieces, and pounded in a mortar, and then 
 restored as fully as a Phoenix, by the simple 
 process of tying it up in the corner of a 
 pocket-handkerchief, his ecstasy exceeded 
 all bounds; and, jumping up, he clapped 
 his hands most conspicuously. 
 
 This gesture might probably be the cause 
 Avhy Doctor Pequinillo, at that moment, 
 turned his looks towards the little boy and 
 his parents ; but why or wherefore the 
 countenance of the magician suddenly 
 changed — why such a look of meaning 
 came into his face, not unmingled with 
 perturbation — and why the next trick failed
 
 54 PEQUINILLO 
 
 altogether, are other questions to which it 
 is more difficult to give an answer. 
 
 Be that as it may, the Doctor instantly 
 recovered himself, and stifled the hissing 
 propensities of his spectators, by throwing 
 up a pack of cards, and naiHng the one called, 
 to a post, by a pistol shot. Nor did it seem 
 that anything in the countenance of little 
 Julian, of his mother, or of his father, had 
 troubled the mighty man ; for the boy was 
 selected from all the rest, many times, to 
 act the spectator's part in several of the 
 tricks ; was made intimately acquainted 
 with the learned pig, and called upon to 
 taste the wine just concocted out of a bottle 
 of sand. 
 
 JuHan thought it the best sand he had 
 ever tasted, and, at the end of the exhibi- 
 tion, went away, thinking Doctor Pequinillo 
 one of the most magnificent men in the 
 whole world. 
 
 The part played by the little girl, in the 
 dirty spangled muslin, I have passed over as
 
 PEQUINILLO. 55 
 
 unworthy of minute description in so grave a 
 work; being merely the exhibition of a 
 horn-pipe to relieve the magician's fatigues, 
 and the balancing herself for five minutes 
 on the end of a poker, fixed upright in a 
 socket on the floor, which she did in an 
 agony of grace and mortal terror. 
 
 The adventures of the day, however, 
 were not yet over. Hardly had Mr. and 
 Mrs. Ludlow and their young companion 
 got out of the booth, and mingled with the 
 crowd which were assembled in the market- 
 place, when a loud shout was heard, a 
 tremendous rush took place, and the alarming 
 exclamation of " A mad bull ! a mad bull T' 
 burst from a hundred lips around. All was 
 dismay and confusion. A terrified man 
 almost knocked Mrs. Ludlow down : a 
 woman rushed between her and little 
 Julian, separating them from each other in 
 a moment : Ludlow himself, though a 
 powerful man, was borne, heaven knows 
 whercj by the tumbling crowd ; and what 
 would have become of the poor little boy
 
 56 PRQUINILLO. 
 
 can hardly be told, if he had not found his 
 arm seized by a tiny hand, not much bigger 
 than his own, while a voice exclaimed — 
 " Come hither, come hither, curly-head !" 
 Looking round, he saw the girl in the 
 spangled muslin, who, with a degree of 
 courage and dexterity only to be acquired 
 by long acquaintance with such scenes, 
 dragged him on through the crowd, piloting 
 him quite safely till they reached the steps 
 of Doctor Pequinillo's booth, w^hen she led 
 him up those steps and into the interior. 
 
 The Doctor himself was standing in the 
 front of his stage, in the midst of the empty 
 booth, evidently looking for the arrival 
 or return of somebody. Did I say the 
 Doctor himself '? I ought rather to have 
 said, the remains of Doctor Pequinillo ; 
 for the Doctor was an altered man. The 
 rusty velvet was there : the tarnished 
 silver lace was there : the moustachios 
 were there, broad, black, and bushy as the 
 forelock of a Highland pony ; but the wig 
 was gone, and on the spot which it had
 
 PEQUINILLO. 57 
 
 occupied, appeared a short but luxuriant 
 crop of brilliant red hair, which, had 
 Julian been imaginative, he might have 
 fancied had burnt the departed wig all to 
 pieces. 
 
 " Ah, my little jewel, is that 3^ou 7' 
 cried the Doctor, holding out his arms, and 
 lifting JuUan on the stage. " Don't be 
 afraid, my little fellow. I won't put you 
 into a bottle or a tea-caddy, or change you 
 into an oyster. — But, Peggy, you little 
 darhng, where are the others 1 I told you 
 to bring all three." 
 
 " I could not, magnilico," replied the little 
 girl, with a smile infinitely more sweet 
 than those which writhed her coun- 
 tenance while she was standing on the 
 the poker. " They were all dispersed by 
 the charge of a mad bull, and I could but 
 catch hold of the little man, and bring him 
 here in safety." 
 
 " Mr. Merryman, Mr. Merryman,'' shouted 
 the Doctor, in a loud voice, still holding 
 Julian's hand; and, in response, from a back 
 D 5
 
 58 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 apartment of the booth, (the proximity of 
 which doubtless facilitated the Doctor's 
 magic not a little) the bull's-head and 
 shoulders of the merry- Andrew were thrust 
 in with a very discnotented squareness of 
 countenance. 
 
 "Mr. Merryman," said the Doctor, in an 
 authoritative tone, " have the kindness to 
 put on your jerkin again, and seek out in 
 the crowd, the lady and gentleman who 
 were here with this little boy.*' 
 
 " Ah/' said Mr. Merry man, with a grin, 
 interrupting his master who had not half 
 done his oration. *' People seek needles 
 in a pottle of hay, who know needles when 
 they see them. How I am to know this boy's 
 two needles V 
 
 " Hark'e, my friend,'' cried the Doctor, 
 " this is no time for chopping logic. You 
 saw them sitting here, on that front bench. 
 I'll tell you how you'll know them. If you 
 do not find them, you'll drink water all 
 day ; for you have not got a sous in your 
 pocket, and I'll not give you one. If you
 
 PEQUINILLO. 59 
 
 do find them, I'll give you a pint of Deady's 
 best to keep you warm in bed/' 
 
 *'Tlie very best definition I have met 
 with since I read Euclid," exclaimed the 
 merry- Andrew. And casting a somersault 
 from the stage to the first bench, and from 
 the first bench to the doorway, he was out 
 of the booth in a moment. 
 
 '' Here, come and look at all these pretty 
 things," said Doctor Pequinillo, leading 
 Julian up to the table. " Isn't that a pretty 
 bird in the cage V^ 
 
 "While Julian examined a small bird, 
 painted all manner of colours, the Doctor 
 got fiddling with the collar of his little 
 coat, contrived to unbutton it, and turned 
 it down over his shoulders. 
 
 " Don't undress me," said Juhan, rather 
 crossly. " I am not going to bed here. — 
 It's not bed time either." 
 
 " Well, well ! That will do," returned 
 the Doctor, buttoning up his coat again ; 
 *' that will do. I only wanted to see if 
 your neck was as fair as your face."
 
 60 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 *• My face is quite brown," said Julian, 
 not yet quite satisfied. 
 
 But Doctor Pequinillo, with his good- 
 humour, and his infinity of tricks, soon 
 contrived to draw the little boy's attention 
 in a different way, and had completely won 
 his heart before Mrs. Ludlow and her 
 husband, re-united by the skill and dili- 
 gence of the merry-Andrew, made their 
 appearance at the door of the booth, with 
 unsubdued terror and anxiety in their 
 faces. 
 
 Mrs. Ludlow% yielding to the first im- 
 pulse, sprang forward to the stage, and 
 caught little Julian to her heart. But 
 Ludlow, as he was following her, stopped 
 suddenly, and exclaimed, 
 
 " Gracious heaven ! Kit Markus V 
 
 " Kit Markus !'' echoed Emma Ludlow, 
 suddenly looking up, and now, for the first 
 time, feehng secure that Julian was there 
 in her own bosom, quite safe and unhurt; 
 " why, I can hardly believe my eyes.'' 
 
 '' They tell quite true, nevertheless," re-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 61 
 
 plied the famous Doctor. " Kit Markus I 
 who has only changed a drudging profession 
 for a gay and profitable one, and a lowly 
 name for a high-sounding one. You re- 
 collect, Hal, that I was always fond of con- 
 juring tricks, and of making conjuring 
 toys, when I ought to have been making 
 joists and cross-beams — of teaching dogs 
 to dance and play on the fiddle, when 
 I should have been driving a plane, or 
 puUing a saw. Many a time you rated 
 me with very little effect; and, to tell tlie 
 truth, I felt that I was neither doing justice 
 to you nor myself So I took to the trade 
 for which Nature cut me out, perfecting 
 myself in it; and here I am.'^ 
 
 "But where on earth did you get such a 
 pair of black moustachios V exclaimed 
 Mrs. Ludlow. 
 
 " Nature gave me the moustachios," re- 
 plied the Doctor ; " and I gave them the 
 color. I was afraid, Emma, of frightening 
 the learned pig with the thought of a pig's 
 final consummation, if I left them of their
 
 62 PEQUmiLLO. 
 
 original fiery look ; and so I dyed them 
 black ; and as to the wig — there it lies. 
 And so you really did not know me?" 
 
 " Not in the least/' answered Ludlow ; 
 " but how could one, when you looked as 
 if you had got a shoe-brush on your lips, 
 and a horse-hair mattress on your head 1 
 And so, Kit, you find it a profitable em- 
 ployment, conjuring, do you 1" 
 
 " Wonderful, wonderful V responded the 
 Doctor. " Depend upon it, Ilal, to make 
 a trade of other people's blindness and 
 folly, is, in this world, the surest road to 
 fortune/' 
 
 " But how did you make the wig turn 
 into a pigeon V^ exclaimed little JuHan, 
 who was by this time becoming quite familiar 
 with the great man. 
 
 " Ah, my dear, that's one of my secrets,^' 
 answered Kit Markus. " Would i/ou like to 
 be a conjuror V 
 
 *' Very much," cried Julian, eagerly. 
 
 The Doctor took him up and gave him a 
 kiss, tickUng his face desperately with the
 
 PEQUINILLO. 63 
 
 moustachios. " So this is the little boy," 
 he said. 
 
 Hal Ludlow nodded his head, and the 
 Doctor went on to ask if he had any other 
 children. The question was evidently a 
 painful one to the good carpenter ; but 
 Emma Ludlow replied, in a gay tone, 
 
 " This is our only treasure. Kit ; and, if 
 God spares us this one, I shall be quite 
 content." 
 
 The conjuror looked at her with an ex- 
 pression of great interest, and rejoined 
 warmly — 
 
 " God spare him to you, Emma ; and 
 now, as we shut up for a couple of hours, 
 while all the folks are at dinner, let us 
 dine also. I am a rich man, and can 
 afford to treat my friends to a bottle of 
 wine." 
 
 " No, no. Kit," said Emma, " we'll get 
 home to dinner. I have had such a fright 
 with that bull, and the loss of dear Httle 
 Julian, that I shan't be happy till I am 
 out of this horrid fair."
 
 64 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 " But you promised me a ginger-bread 
 Whittington/* cried Julian, afraid of being 
 disappointed of his prize. 
 
 " We will get one as we go along," ob- 
 served Ludlow ; and then, turning to 
 Doctor Pequinillo, he added, " Come and 
 see us, Kit, when you have got time. We 
 are well to do now, and I have all the 
 business in the place. I have contrived to 
 buy four houses in Waldon since you saw 
 me, and we get on very well. You'll surely 
 be able to find a day or two to spend with 
 us. In the Winter time you can't have 
 much to do." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," returned Kit 
 Markns. " In the Winter time I go out 
 to conjure at gentlemen's houses, for three 
 guineas a night, and puzzle all the little 
 holiday-folks beyond conception. But Til 
 find a time to run down, and see my old 
 friends; only remember, when I come to 
 Waldon, it must be Kit Markus again, and 
 not Doctor Pequinillo. Now, Peggy ;
 
 PEQUINILLO. 65 
 
 run to the door, and see if the bull business 
 is over." 
 
 The little girl in the spangled muslin 
 skipped over the benches, and up to the 
 door, whence, looking back with her gay, 
 but somewhat worn, countenance, she re- 
 plied — 
 
 " It's all quiet, and the place nearly 
 empty. Almost all the folks have gone to 
 dinner." 
 
 Her services were not forgotten by 
 Ludlow and his wife ; and, as they went 
 out, after bidding Kit Markus a hearty 
 farewell, the former slipped a crown piece 
 into her hand, which rejoiced the cockles 
 of her heart, more than most things ever 
 did in life ; for it was the first she ever 
 had, and she knew the bitter taste of po- 
 verty.
 
 66 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 CHAPTEK V- 
 
 Notwithstanding the caution of poor Mary 
 Westwood, Julian Ludlow ran a great risk 
 of being spoiled. Hal Ludlow himself a 
 man of the very kindest heart, and not 
 without judgment, where his affections did 
 not strongly interfere, was a person very 
 easily persuaded by the voice of love. 
 Moreover, he appeared to have a certain 
 sort of timidity in regard to crossing little 
 Juhan, w^hich led him to indulge the boy 
 in w^hatever he seemed most to desire. 
 This is not an uncommon failing with the 
 fathers and mothers of only children, and 
 has its cause, perhaps, in the same care 
 and tenderness which leads us to touch so
 
 PEQUIKILLO. 67 
 
 tenderly, and guard so carefully, any pre- 
 cious thing in our possession which cannot 
 be replaced. Emma Ludlow did not love 
 the boy less ; but she was rather more 
 resolute with him, although, perhaps, not 
 as much as she ought to have been ; and 
 many a little whim or caprice, which might 
 have been very beneficially checked, was 
 suffered to have its way, fostering a 
 natural impetuosity of disposition by 
 habitual indulgence. 
 
 Neither Ludlow nor his wife, however, 
 spoiled the boy half so much as Julian 
 Westwood, the young Squire, as he was 
 called. Originally of a gay, happy, and 
 somewhat hasty disposition, the loss of his 
 sister, and the painful circumstances which 
 were, probably, the remote cause of her 
 death, had depressed his high spirits, but, 
 at the same time, had matured or evolved 
 many noble qualities of mind and heart, 
 which had been hidden by the sparkle of 
 his earlier manners, as the depth of the 
 waters is often concealed by the ripple that
 
 68 PEQTTIKILLO. 
 
 plays over them, under the wing of the 
 Spring wind. He had loved his sister bet- 
 ter than anything else on earth; and, when 
 she was gone, the necessity of loving some- 
 thing else in her place, seemed strong upon 
 him. Little Julian was the nearest object; 
 and it is probable, from various circum- 
 stances, that, even if the boy had not been 
 as beautiful and engaging as he was, Julian 
 Westwood would have learned to play 
 with, to spoil, and to love him, as much, or 
 more than any other child. He had him 
 up to the Hall as often as Emma Ludlow 
 could spare him. He talked to him ; he 
 told him stories ; he sported with him on 
 the grass. He never rode through the 
 village without having something in his 
 pocket for little Julian ; and perhaps some 
 scandal might have arisen — for there were 
 gossips in Waldon, as well as elsewhere 
 — if the young Squire had ever dismounted 
 at the door of Hal Ludlow's house, when he 
 himself was out. This he never did, how- 
 ever, and, indeed, seldom dismounted at
 
 PEQUTNILLO. 69 
 
 all ; for if he wanted to talk with Mr. 
 Ludlow, he called him out of the shop, and 
 the carpenter would often walk beside 
 his horse, half way up to the Park. 
 
 All this went on after Mary Westwood's 
 death, for more than a year ; till, at 
 length, the Squire taking it into his head 
 that his son was wasting his days at home, 
 in no very visible occupation, solely for the 
 purpose of cheering him under the deep 
 gloom which had fallen upon him, spoke to 
 him seriously on the subject, and told 
 him that it would be much better for him, 
 either to obtain a seat in Parliament, or to 
 travel over the British Isles themselves, or 
 any foreign countries, which might be still 
 open to the foot of the English traveller. 
 
 Julian Westwood determined to wander 
 over Great Britain ; not as a careless and 
 superficial tourist, but with an observing 
 and an acquiring spirit. We need not, how- 
 ever, dwell long upon well-formed schemes, 
 intentions, and purposes. It is a broad, 
 general rule, to which the exceptions are
 
 70 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 few, that schemes are never executed, in- 
 tentions never fulfilled. Circumstances 
 without, caprice within, are generally 
 able to blow such light things as plans 
 and purposes to the sky ; and Julian 
 Westwood's travels lasted not many 
 months, and extended not many hundred 
 miles. His father was surprised to find 
 that, after having proceeded diligently 
 through several counties in the South, 
 West, and middle of England, he seemed 
 to come to a sudden halt in a beautiful part 
 of that beautiful county, Yorkshire. The 
 Squire received letters from him once or 
 twice a week, which described picturesque 
 scenery, pleasant sporting excursions, and 
 agreeable society. This lasted a full month ; 
 and then came a letter from Julian to his 
 father, saying that, if he had no objection, 
 he was going to be married. Now, the 
 Squire had no objection in the world ; for 
 Julian was nearly six-and- twenty years 
 of age, and Mr. Westwood approved of 
 early marriages. When the young man's
 
 PEQITlNILLa. 71 
 
 travelling on the continent was talked of, 
 the subject of his probable marriage had 
 been mentioned; and Mr. Westwood had 
 assured him that his consent would be 
 readily given, adding merely — " Don't 
 bring me home a foreigner, or a fine 
 lady." 
 
 In the present instance, the choice of 
 Julian Westwood met his father's views in 
 all respects. The girl wliom he selected 
 was the only daughter of a baronet, of old 
 family, and of sufficient wealth, though 
 not great riches. She had been well edu- 
 cated, had seen something of cities and 
 Courts, but preferred the country to the 
 one, and domestic life to the other. 
 
 Such was the account given of her by 
 the lover; and, as Mr. Westwood put him- 
 self into his carriage to go down at once 
 and signify his consent in person, he said 
 to himself — '' She is very beautiful, I dare 
 say ; for she seems to have captivated 
 Julian completely, in a very short space of 
 time."
 
 72 TEQUINILLO. 
 
 He found himself mistaken, however. 
 She was not very beautiful. She was grace- 
 ful, well-formed, and her features were 
 small, but by no means very handsome. 
 Yet there was in her face that winning 
 something — all-indescribable, but all-power- 
 ful over human hearts — which spoke at once 
 to the father, as it had spoken to the son, 
 saying, and saying truly, " I am full of 
 kindness, gentleness, affection ; ready to 
 love and be beloved, without a shadow in 
 my character, or a dark place in my heart. 
 If my spirit is bright, it is gentle and docile 
 too, and, at all events, you see it without 
 disguise in my every look, and word, and 
 action." 
 
 They were married ; and the bride came 
 to her new home, brightening all things by 
 her presence. Even her sunshine, however, 
 could not altogether dispel the shadow upon 
 the old Squire's spirit; but it lightened it not- 
 withstanding ; and often she would go into 
 his library, to seek for a book, and, find- 
 ing him there, would remain for two or 
 
 i
 
 PEQUINILLO. 73 
 
 three hours, making them the most cheer- 
 ful of his existence. 
 
 Little Julian was soon introduced to 
 young Mistress Westwood, and his favour 
 at the Hall did not seem at all to surprise 
 her. She became as fond of the boy as 
 her husband, though she did not spoil 
 him ; and she very soon went down to see 
 Hal Ludlow and his wife, and sat with 
 them in their small, neat house for an hour. 
 Even the birth of her first infant, when 
 Julian Ludlow was still in early child- 
 hood, did not in the slightest degree 
 diminish the kindness of her demeanour 
 towards him. He was as frequently at the 
 Hall as ever, as much loved, as much 
 petted ; and seemed to be but as the new- 
 come little girFs elder brother. 
 
 It was to the old Squire, however, that 
 Julian first owed any signal advantage ; 
 and that was brought about by one of 
 his defects. The circumstance is too 
 trifling to relate. It occurred a few days 
 after the fair at Ash Locombe, in re- 
 
 TOL. I. E
 
 74 PEQTJINILLO. 
 
 gard to a plaything wliich had been bought 
 for him there, and exhibited the impetuosity 
 of his disposition so strongly before old Mr. 
 Westwood's eyes, that he fell into a fit of 
 musing, entertaining considerable doubt as 
 to how he ought to act. 
 
 " I will talk with Margaret about it," 
 he thought. And, his son having gone out 
 to shoot, he called his daughter-in-law 
 into the library, saying — " Come hither, 
 my dear, and solve a case of conscience for 
 me. 
 
 He then referred to the trifling occur- 
 rence which Mistress Westwood had wit- 
 nessed as well as himself " This boy, you 
 know, Margaret," he continued, " is my 
 godson, and a charming little fellow he is. 
 People may talk of blood as much as 
 they please ; but this child is designed 
 for a gentleman of Nature's making. He 
 was very much loved, too, by our poor 
 Mary who has left us ; and I may very 
 well, therefore, be interested on every ac- 
 count in his future fate. But his father
 
 PEQUINILLO. ?$ 
 
 spoils him : his mother spoils him nearly 
 as much : and my good son, your husband, 
 spoils him more than all. Now, I do not 
 consider, my dear Margaret, that my hav- 
 ing undertaken the office of god-father, 
 gives me the slightest right in the world 
 to dictate, or, indeed, to interfere with the 
 education of the boy, so long as his 
 parents are living, in their proper senses, 
 and good and respectable people. The ap- 
 pointment of god- fathers and god-mothers 
 was originally devised in times of san- 
 guinary persecution, for the purpose of en- 
 suring, as far as mortal foresight could en- 
 sure, that children should be brought up in 
 the Christian faith if their parents should 
 be cut off during their infancy ; and no- 
 body but a conceited and intermeddling 
 fool would attempt to take from parents, 
 the authority and discretion over a child, 
 which God himself has been pleased to 
 give them. Nevertheless, it would greatly 
 pain me to see the impetuosity of this dear 
 little fellow encouraged to a dangerous 
 E 2
 
 76 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 height, by the fondness of his father and 
 mother. I do not like to interfere, and yet 
 I am strongly inclined to do so/' 
 
 " What do you think would be the best 
 course with him?" asked Mistress West- 
 wood. 
 
 " To send him to some good preparatory 
 school," replied the Squire. " There is an 
 excellent one in the neighbourhood.'^ 
 
 " There can be no harm in suggesting 
 it," remarked his daughter-in-law, with a 
 smile ; " nor can it be considered as the 
 slightest unwarrantable interference ; for 
 you are bound to see that he learns the 
 Catechism in the vulgar tongue ; and I 
 don't know any place where he could learn 
 it better." 
 
 " Maggy, you are laughing at me," said 
 Mr. West wood, shaking his head. 
 
 " Not in the least, my dear father," she 
 replied, taking his hand and kissing it ; 
 " you know your Margaret is a blithe bird, 
 who always sings gaily. But I meant ex- 
 actly what I said. I think it is quite rea-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 77 
 
 sonable that you should suggest such a 
 course to Mr. Ludlow and his wife ; and 
 Emma has too much sense not to be obliged 
 to you for so doing. If you have any 
 scruples, / will do it." 
 
 " No, no/' returned the Squire. " I will 
 ride down to-day, my dear. Ludlow is a 
 sensible man too, and has been well edu- 
 cated, in his sphere of life. I took care 
 of that — solely, I am sorry to say, because 
 he was Julian's foster-brother. I trust I 
 should do so now on better motives. Some 
 selfish ingredient is sure to find its way 
 into almost all our actions — that is, in 
 some shape or other ; for we seldom re- 
 cognize it for that which it really is. How- 
 ever, as I educated the father, I don't see 
 why I should not educate the son." 
 
 Mr. Westwood, accordingly, rode down 
 as he proposed, and had a long conversa- 
 tion with Ludlow and his wife on the boy's 
 future prospects. 
 
 The Squire was rather startled, at first, 
 at what he considered the parents' some-
 
 78 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 "what ambitious views for their only child. 
 The church was very venerable in his eyes ; 
 and, though by no means an illiberal man, 
 he would fain have no one enter it who 
 could not maintain himself in respecta- 
 bility, without being obliged to '* live by 
 the altar/' in a land where thousands are 
 squandered hourly upon pampering the 
 body, or indulging the taste, but every 
 penny is grudged that goes to the im- 
 provement of the mind, or the edification 
 of the soul. Mr. Westwood was not a 
 hasty nor an obstinate man, however ; and 
 those two quahties, hastiness and obstinacy, 
 go more frequently together than people 
 generally imagine. He paused thought- 
 fully, listening to parental schemes, and all 
 the time cogitating over the different bear- 
 ings of the question. Even after Ludlow 
 and his wife had ceased, he still remained 
 a moment or two in thought ; but, at length, 
 asked — 
 
 " Have you considered the question, my 
 good friends, in every point of view ? As
 
 PEQUINILLO. 79 
 
 far as you have gone yet, you have only 
 shown the bright side. I will admit that 
 such a bright side may, and does, exist. 
 Julian has considerable abilities, a great 
 power of acquisition, and, very probably, 
 will distinguish himself at school and at 
 college, take a degree creditable to him- 
 self, and obtain a living. But then, on the 
 other hand, all this will take a long time 
 to bring about, and a great deal of pain 
 may be necessarily suffered by the way ; 
 while, even supposing him eminently suc- 
 cessful, he will certainly need, for some 
 years after he enters his profession, a 
 totally distinct independence. I do not 
 mean to say anything disagreeable, Lud- 
 low, and you know that I have no foolish 
 pride about me ; but, at the very first 
 school of a higher class which Julian en- 
 ters, he will be subject to much annoyance 
 from his school-fellows. Pride is the 
 devil's drop in the blood of us all ; and it 
 is much more rampant in boyhood, before 
 it has been chastised by the world, than in
 
 80 PEQUINiLLO. 
 
 after years, \vhen, in many instances, it 
 has been drowned in tears. One of the 
 first questions always asked of a boy, is, 
 ' What is your father?' Then comes the 
 laugh, and the scoff, and the gibe, if the 
 reply be not satisfactory to the young in- 
 quisitor. Julian is of an impetuous spirit. 
 How do you think he will bear all this V 
 
 " Perhaps it may do him good, sir,'' 
 answered Mr. Ludlow, adding, "• As to the 
 means, I trust we shall be able to do pretty 
 •well. Miss Mary's kindness to the dear 
 boy will do much at first. Thank God, we 
 are doing well too, and I do not think that, 
 either at school or at College, we shall 
 find it too much to support him-^I trust 
 not, at least, though I know that all trades 
 are uncertain, and that many a thing may 
 happen to hurt mine." 
 
 " Make your mind easy on that score, 
 Ludlow," returned the Squire, who had re- 
 solved on his course as he came down the 
 hill. " He is my god-son, you know ; and 
 for his education, till he takes his degree,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 81 
 
 I will provide. I only feared that you 
 might not have the means of renderiiig 
 him independent of his profession for some 
 years after his first entrance upon it. I 
 fear with the habits he acquires at College, 
 and the society he must mingle with, you 
 will find that, until he gets a good living 
 two hundred a-year will be the least that 
 is required for his support." 
 
 " I thank you very much for your great 
 kindness, sir," replied Ludlow, without the 
 slightest pretence of declining the Squire's 
 offer. " It is more than we could expect of 
 you ; but, as to the future, I will trust in God, 
 and have no fear. We are thriving : 
 I have got together a little money : we 
 don't spend near w^hat we make ; and 
 all that your kindness saves us in the boy's 
 bringing up, shall be carefully put by for 
 a rainy day. Then he will have fifty 
 pounds a-year of his own, and all the 
 interest laid by. I think w^e can make 
 it do, sir, even if he shoiild want two 
 hundred a-year ; though that is a large 
 E 5
 
 82 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 sum, on which I hardly calculated. I know- 
 it didn't cost me fifty when I w^as first 
 out of my apprenticeship." 
 
 The Squire, smiled — " You had different 
 habits from those you intend to give 
 him," he answered; " and, depend upon it, 
 my calculation is moderate." 
 
 Ludlow and his wife mused a mo- 
 ment or two, but did not seem at all 
 shaken in their purpose. 
 
 " Well," said the Squire, at length, " so 
 be it then ; and now the first thing I would 
 recommend, is, tliat you send the little 
 man to Mrs. Swanforth's school. It is but 
 four miles distant ; so that you are within 
 reach of him when you please. It is a 
 good school, I know ; and it w^U afford a 
 preparation for all he has to go through in 
 a public school. The first thing a child 
 has to learn, and the most important 
 throughout life, is, that he must submit to 
 discipline. Now, the very regularity and 
 primness of a preparatory school, if he ac- 
 quires nothing else there, teaches this ; and
 
 PEQUIKILLO. 83 
 
 it is an inestimable advantage. I will ride 
 over myself, this very day, and make all 
 arrangements ; and, if you will take my 
 advice, you will send him next quarter, 
 which commences, I think, in three weeks." 
 Thus, Julian Ludlow was sent to school, 
 and entered upon a new world, consisting of 
 spelling-books, and small bed-posts, and 
 dimity curtains.
 
 84 PEQUlNILLa 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 So many accounts have been written lately 
 of school life, and college life, some of them 
 relating to the very period in history to which 
 my narrative refers, that I do not think 
 I could impart any new interest to the 
 often-told tale ; and therefore, with the 
 readers' good leave, I will trip lightly over 
 these early years of Julian Ludlow, only 
 noticing two or three little scattered in- 
 cidents which either displayed his charac- 
 ter or affected his fate. It is not that re- 
 collection does not serve me with many a 
 scene, and many a character, presented to 
 me in my own boyhood, which might be
 
 PEQUINILLO. 85 
 
 "wrought out with some efiect : but, though 
 many of my companions of those days have 
 gone whither I must soon follow them, 
 others are living; some in quiet and unob- 
 trusive poverty ; some in all the splendour 
 of wealth and rank; some plodding the 
 even tenor of their way along the noiseless 
 paths and shady lanes of life ; some starting 
 forth from the canvas of history, as the 
 actors of great deeds, and the winners of 
 glorious fame ; and I do think tliat, if there 
 be, as 1 beheve, something sacred in friend- 
 ship which should shield it from rough ex- 
 posure to indifferent eyes, there is some- 
 thing still more sacred in those boyish com- 
 panionships, which throw the whole heart 
 open, and leave the character without dis- 
 guise. 
 
 At the preparatory school, Julian Ludlow 
 was not long enough either to learn much, 
 or to have his disposition cowed. He was 
 a Lttle timid, at first, in the new, strange 
 place; did not like the milk and water, and 
 strongly objected to having the pudding
 
 86 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 before the meat ; but he bore all in silent 
 shyness, for well-nigh four-and-twenty 
 hours. 
 
 It so happened that the mistress of the 
 school and her two daughters were the 
 grand managers of all things ; the lady's 
 husband, a fine old refugee from the Rhe- 
 nish provinces of France, whose name had 
 probably been originally Schweinfurth, 
 taking no part therein, and spending his 
 day either in composing a never-ending 
 book, playing on the piano, or cutting out 
 cork models. His fine, polished, bald head, 
 when occasionally seen, had some rever- 
 ence in the eyes of Julian Ludlow ; but it 
 was rarely visible in the school-room. 
 There Julian soon became famihar with a 
 new scene, and new companions ; and he 
 set to work forthwith to show his contempt 
 of petticoat government. Five times in 
 one day, he was told not to " be bold," and 
 he was all the bolder. Correction, how- 
 ever, came at length, very much to his 
 surprise ; and, not liking the first touch of
 
 PEQUINILLO. 87 
 
 a cane, he would certainly have walked out 
 of the door, and taken his way homeward, 
 had he not been very well watched. The 
 mistress, however, remarked, that, though 
 he winced, he did not cry at the cane, 
 but stamped his little foot, and boldly 
 called her " an ugly old thing," (which was 
 very true, by the way) and set the whole 
 class tittering. 
 
 His residence there, however, did him 
 good : it brought him into some sort of 
 subjection ; it taught him, experimentally, 
 that everything in the world w^as not made 
 for his pleasure, and that it was well to 
 listen to reason, rather than submit to 
 punishment. His impetuosity was some- 
 what diminished ; and, by mingled reason 
 and firmness, (for she was really a clever 
 woman) Mrs. Swanforth would probably 
 have taught him spontaneously to govern 
 his impulses, had not an event occurred 
 which finally broke up the school. 
 
 Julian had been there about eighteen 
 months, and had just returned after what
 
 88 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 the holiday letters call '* the Easter recess/' 
 Mr. Swanforthhad received him with great 
 kindness, and patted his curly head as he 
 entered, saying — " Ivish Ihad datvig on my 
 bare pole/' which the little boy understood 
 to be a compliment. Bed time soon came, 
 and the little boys underwent the agonies 
 of washing and being put to bed ; but 
 Julian could not get to sleep. He gene- 
 rally, indeed, had a restless night after his 
 return from home ; for, in spite of all that 
 could be said, he thought school a very 
 uncomfortable place indeed. As, on this 
 occasion, he lay tossing about, and kicking 
 the bed clothes off him — for the night was 
 a warm one — he heard a good deal of run- 
 ning about, and the opening and shutting 
 of doors, and a carriage drive up; and then, 
 thinking that he heard a sound of sobbing 
 and lamentation, he judged, of course, that 
 it was a new boy come, much against his 
 will and consent. 
 
 All v.as soon still again, however ; and.
 
 PEQUINILLO. 89 
 
 amidst snatches of broken sleep, Julian 
 passed the night. 
 
 It was usual for one of the young 
 ladies, Mrs. Swanforth's daughters, to wake 
 the little boys ; but on this morning a servant- 
 maid presented herself instead — a smooth- 
 cheeked, bright-haired, pretty-eyed girl, 
 an especial favourite of Julian's, whom they 
 called " Little Anne," to distinguish her, of 
 course, from big Anne. Dear little Anne ! 
 how well I remember you ! Julian in- 
 stantly sprang out of bed and leaped upon 
 her neck ; but the girl held up her hand 
 ■with a monitory gesture, and said, in a 
 sad tone — 
 
 " Hush, my dear, hush ! Don't make 
 any noise to-day ; for there is sorrow in 
 the house. Poor Mr. Swanforth is dead." 
 
 " Dead !" echoed Julian, with wonder 
 and terror in his eyes. " Why, I saw him 
 last night. I thought people were a long 
 time dying." 
 
 " He died suddenly, my dear," repHed 
 little Anne. " You had hardly gone to boi
 
 90 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 when he was seized with gout in the 
 stomach ; and before the doctor could come, 
 he was a corpse, poor man ! So you must 
 be very quiet, Julian dear, and not speak 
 a word above a whisper ; for Mrs. Swan- 
 forth is very sad and very sorry/' 
 
 "And so am I," said Julian, and so he 
 was ; and, during the whole morning, he 
 went about the house quiet, and melan- 
 choly, and hardly saying anything. It 
 was the first time that the idea of death 
 had been brought home to him. He had 
 heard of people dying, and of their being 
 dead, and understood that their friends 
 would see them no more; but they had 
 been persons of whom he knew little, and 
 if they had only gone into the neighbouring 
 county, he would not have thought less of 
 their departure. But here, death was 
 close to him — in the very house with him 
 — he knew the chamber where it must be ; 
 and he wondered what sort of a thing it 
 was ; but, at the same time, the silence, 
 a^d the gloom, and the half- closed shutters,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 91 
 
 made hira feel that it must be something 
 verj terrible. 
 
 All this had a great effect upon 
 the boy's imagination. It seemed to him 
 as if the Spirit of Death was in every de- 
 solate room — as if he felt its oppressive 
 presence, its still and silent weight, as a 
 load that he could not shake off, even with 
 all the buoyancy of his young, gay heart. 
 The impression was lasting, too : it sank 
 deeply into his spirit ; and very often that 
 sad day would recur to his memory in 
 after years, hardly diminished in effect, 
 although by that time he had become more 
 familiarly acquainted with the dark aspect 
 of '' the lean, abhorred monster." 
 
 During the morning, the relations of 
 many of the boys came and took them 
 away, having received notice of the event ; 
 and, about three o'clock, Hal Ludlow ap- 
 peared with the gig, and drove little Julian 
 home again. For reasons of her own, 
 Mrs, Swanforth determined to give up
 
 92 PEQUINTLLO. 
 
 keeping school, and Julian never saw 
 either herself or her daughters any more. 
 
 Some short time passed ere a fresh 
 school could be found to suit the taste of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ludlow, and of the Squire ; 
 for not only was the latter consulted upon 
 all the proceedings regarding Julian's edu- 
 cation, but a sort of dictatorial power was 
 attributed to hini by Hal Ludlow, which 
 the worthy old gentleman would never 
 have assumed himself. During this inter- 
 regnum, Julian Ludlow, as may be sup- 
 posed, was a great deal at the Hall, where 
 a young play-fellow, between three and 
 four years old, was ever ready to gambol 
 with him in the park, or in the drawing- 
 room. No other child had as 3^et blessed 
 the union of Julian West wood and his 
 sweet Margaret ; but their little girl had 
 grown up with every infant grace and 
 beauty, and her father had called her Mary 
 inmemoryof the sister he had so dearly loved. 
 He was of a contemplative and affectionate
 
 PEQUTNTLLO. 93 
 
 disposition ; and his feelings very often, I 
 might indeed say generally, got the better 
 of his fore-sight. Thus he would stand 
 and gaze by the hour upon the sports of 
 JuHan and his little claughter with unalloyed 
 satisfaction, while his wife, though gentle 
 and kind as a May morning, yet felt some 
 little shadow of doubt fall upon her mind, 
 as she saw the two children together, and 
 observed their growing affection for each 
 other, and let her eye run on into the future 
 to discover what might be the result of 
 such intimacy, if it were carried on into 
 the after years of life. One little inci- 
 dent may be mentioned ; for, though it 
 was but an accident, yet it had painful re- 
 sults, at an after period. Julian Ludlow 
 had come up unexpectedly to the Hall, to 
 convey a message to the young Squire. 
 But his namesake was absent, and not ex- 
 pected to return for two or three days. 
 Margaret went out into the park with the 
 two children, and sat watching them as 
 they played upon a patch of green sward
 
 94 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 on the brow of a hawthorn glen, through 
 which ran a Httle path. Suddenly, in the 
 midst of their sports, a step was heard co- 
 ming apparently from the house ; and, a 
 moment after, Margaret, who had raised 
 her eyes, saw her husband advancing to- 
 wards them, with a look of great animation 
 and pleasure. Little Juhan looked up, al- 
 most at the same instant, and his face be- 
 came radiant with joy, at the sight of his 
 almost over kind friend. 
 
 But wdiat called the colour so suddenly 
 into Margaret's cheek ? At that moment, 
 as the little boy looked at the man, and the 
 man looked at his wife, with the same emo- 
 tions of joy in the breast of each, a likeness 
 so strong, so strange, so marvellous, ap- 
 peared, that something like a pang shot 
 through Margaret's heart. She banished 
 such feelings, instantly ; she shrank from 
 them, as from something base, and false, 
 and evil ; and she resolved that they 
 should never return : nor did they. 
 
 The next school to which Julian went.
 
 TEQUINILLO. 95 
 
 was one of those to which the little fellows 
 of the preparatory school had been accus- 
 tomed to look forward with a certain de- 
 gree of ambition, calling them "The big 
 boys' schools f but even infant ambition 
 has always its disappointment and its bit- 
 terness ; and Julian soon found that he had 
 not entered an Elysium. Though little 
 more than seven years old, when he went, 
 he was a fine, well grown, bold boy. 
 
 He was at the bottom of the school, of 
 course, and had to work his way up ; but 
 his very childishness was some defence ; 
 and though the lads nearest his own age, 
 tried to bully him, of course, the bigger 
 boys were inclined to take his part, when- 
 ever he could not take his own. This, 
 however, he could generally do tolerably 
 well ; and one or two successful battles 
 with imps somewhat older than himself, 
 established a tolerable position for him, 
 amongst his school-fellows, at the expence 
 of some black eyes and bloody noses.
 
 96 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 Unfortunately for him, indeed, it hap- 
 pened that he very early gave offence to 
 a school-fellow, originall^^ two classes 
 above him — a boy named Colefoxe, whom 
 the other boys called "the baronet," and 
 who really was so ; his father having died 
 early, and he having succeeded to a title 
 and estate, and the indulgence of an indis- 
 creet mother. Colefoxe was a strong, ra- 
 ther good-looking, exceedingly self-sufficient 
 lad, with a very common mixture of con- 
 ceit and dulness in his composition, w^hich, 
 though it made many of his companions 
 look upon him with some degree of envy 
 and admiration, did not at all help him on 
 in the school. Julian Ludlow was possessed of 
 a notion in which few of his school-fellows 
 shared, namely, that he (Julian) was sent to 
 school to learn something ; and, conse* 
 quently, under this mistaken impression, he 
 laboured hard and dihgently, in all hours of 
 study ; thinking, affectionately, how much 
 pleasure it would give to his father and 
 mother, to hear that he made good pro-
 
 PEQUINTLLO. 97 
 
 gress. Thus, though begmning solowdown, 
 he gradually made his way on, till he stood 
 next to the young baronet; and then, 
 much to Sir William Colefoxe^s surprise 
 and indignation, took him down, as it was 
 termed at that school. 
 
 From that moment, the enmity between 
 them was deepened. The young baronet lost 
 no opportunity of mortifying Julian Ludlow : 
 and, in the end, a battle ensued between 
 the two boys, in which the elder and the 
 stronger undoubtedly got the better, but 
 could not drive little Julian to give in, and 
 received, himself, afar severer blooding than 
 could have been anticipated from the size 
 and years of his opponent. The interfe- 
 rence of an usher put a stop to the fight, 
 and, to say the truth, neither was very 
 much inclined to renew it. 
 
 After this little event, young Colefoxe 
 was more cautious in his dealings with 
 Juhan Ludlow ; but still he never suffered 
 any occasion to pass without saying some- 
 ting which impUed an insult, although ge- 
 VOL. I. P
 
 98 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 nerally veiled bj a dirty equivoque. Julian 
 bore this conduct with great patience for 
 more than a year ; and was, perhaps, more 
 galled by the assumption of superiority 
 displayed towards him, on all occasions, by 
 the young baronet, than he would have 
 been even by offensive language. At the 
 end of that time, however, it got about the 
 school, by one of those mysterious pro- 
 cesses which originate rumours, true and 
 false, no one knows where or how, that the 
 father of Juhan was neither more nor less 
 than a carpenter. The story buzzed about 
 the school, like a blue-bottle fly, and 
 Julian's ears could not fail to catch some- 
 thing of that which was said regarding 
 himself Poor boy ! he had a sleepless 
 night of it. 
 
 By this time, he had been long enough at 
 school to be well aware of all the follies, 
 and vanities, and malice, and bad feeling, 
 which bud and blossom in those hot-beds for 
 human plants, where such frailities and 
 vices are frequently nourished to premature 
 and extraordinary luxuriance. Neverthe-
 
 PEQUIXTLLO. 99 
 
 less, after some debate and hesitation in 
 himself, he took a stout resolution to do 
 what was manly and right. He could not 
 be ashamed of his father or his mother 
 for the life of him ; and why should he 
 be ashamed of his father's trade ? It was 
 an honest one, and honestly pursued ; and 
 he determined to face the matter boldlv, 
 and, if asked, to tell the plain truth. 
 
 On the following day, he could evidently 
 see that some arrangements were going on 
 amongst the bigger boys, amongst whom 
 the young baronet always played a con- 
 spicuous part, though he was now inferior 
 to Julian in the school. After breakfast, 
 when the boys generally assembled for 
 half an hour's play outside the hall, a group 
 of these bigger boys gathered in one 
 corner, and, as Julian passed, called to him, 
 and formed a sort of ring round him, out 
 of which he could not escape. 
 
 " Pray, Ludlow," said the young baronet, 
 who had evidently been selected as spokes- 
 man, " what may your father be V 
 F 2
 
 100 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 The young boy's heart throbbed with 
 indignation ; but he exercised more com- 
 mand over himself than he had ever done 
 before, and replied, in a quiet but very 
 distinct tone, 
 
 '' My father is a carpenter, Colefoxe/' 
 
 *' Call me Sir William Colefoxe, if you 
 please," said the insolent lad, with a con- 
 temptuous smile. 
 
 " I shall do no such thing," answered 
 Julian. " We are all equals here. There 
 are no baronets amongst school-boys. Will 
 you let me pass, Denison '? I have had 
 enough of this." And he pushed his way 
 through the ring around him. 
 
 As he did so, however, the boy he called 
 Denison — one of the three elder boys of 
 the school—put his hand on his shoulder, 
 saying aloud, 
 
 "You are a fine little fellow, Julian 
 Ludlow, and they shall not bully you." 
 
 Julian could have cried ; but he would 
 not allow himself to do so, and the matter 
 passed off for some time. He could see, how-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 101 
 
 * ever, that, although some of his companions 
 treated him with the same frank famili- 
 arity as ever, others had grown cold, and 
 affected a sort of ridiculous distance of 
 manner, which would only have moved the 
 contempt of a grown man. It affected 
 the boy a good deal, however,, and he felt 
 uneasy and depressed. 
 
 He was, one day, walking in a solitar}'' 
 part of the play-ground, which was sepa- 
 rated from a shady lane by a bank sur- 
 rounded by a tolerably tall paUisade — over 
 which, by the way, the boys used to climb 
 without ceremony when their ambition was 
 too big for the bounds of the play-ground 
 — and suddenly he was attracted by a call, 
 not very loud, but clear and distinct 
 enough, and, turning round sharply, he saw 
 the head and shoulders of a well-dressed 
 man, who, having climbed to the top of the 
 bank, was looking over the pallisade. His 
 hat was new and glossy ; a large pair of 
 black whiskers covered his cheeks ; and an 
 enormous pair of moustachios, of the same
 
 102 pequi:jsjllo. 
 
 hue, apparent on his upper Hp, gave JuHan 
 a vague idea of having seen him some- 
 where not long before. Boys^ memories 
 are not very tenacious of faces, however; 
 and Juhan was puzzling himself to discover 
 where he had beheld the one now before 
 him, when the gentleman called to him 
 again, this time addressing him by name. 
 
 " Julian ! Julian Ludlow T' he said. 
 '' Come hither : I want to speak to you : I 
 am in great haste ; so, if you don't come 
 quick, presto, 1 must be gone.'' 
 
 The words " quick, presto," were to 
 Julian the " open sessame '' of the door of 
 memory ; and Doctor Pequinillo stood before 
 him, arrayed in profound wig, and a black 
 velvet jacket. He ran up joyfully to the 
 fence, and shook hands with the Conjuror, 
 over the paling, saying, 
 
 " I did not know you at first, sir." 
 
 " No, because you are four years older ; 
 and I have got on another wig," said 
 Kit Markus. " Never depend upon wigs, 
 smiles, or professions, Julian. They are
 
 PEQUINILLO. 103 
 
 all false and deceitful things, and men 
 never use them when they have not some- 
 thing to conceal. But how are you get- 
 ting on, my boy ? I have been down to 
 see Hal Ludlow and Emma, and I promised 
 them to look in as I went by; but I was de- 
 tained for half an hour, demonstrating to 
 a countryman that half-a-crown put into 
 a basin of water became two half-crowns. 
 — How do you like your school 1 I am in a 
 great hurry, so you must speak fast.'' 
 
 It struck strangely upon Julian's ear, 
 to hear his father and mother called Hal 
 Ludlow and Emma ; but as the face and 
 Yoice of the conjuror brought back to his 
 mind home-scenes, and those sweet associ- 
 ations which open the gates of the heart, 
 he poured upon good Doctor Pequinillo 
 his tale of the annoyances and indignities 
 he had lately suffered. 
 
 " So you told them you were the son of a 
 carpenter?'' said the Doctor, with a laugh. 
 " That was very right, but very foolish, 
 Julian : it's a wise father who knows his
 
 104 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 own son, and a wiser son who knows his 
 own father. Why, your father may be 
 a Prince, in disguise, for aught you know. 
 If ever any one asks you an impertinent 
 question, answer — ' You don't know : there 
 are mysteries in all things/ And so this 
 Colefoxe teases you? Well, hell go on, I 
 dare say. You must have something ready 
 for him : something he won't like. Don't 
 answer hastily ; but take a minute to con- 
 sider what you say, and then say it coolly. 
 Nothing puzzles a man so much as that ; 
 and when he finds that you can play at 
 teasing him, he'll leave off teasing you. 
 Ask him if his name wasn't once Oldfox, 
 or Coldfox, or some other nasty, stinking 
 vermin, and if he has not changed it, to get 
 rid of the bad savour. At all events, give 
 him back something bitter. But now I 
 must be off. There's a half-guinea your 
 mother sent you." 
 
 And away went Kit Markus, to seek 
 his horse, which was tied at the end of 
 the lane.
 
 PEQ[JTNILLO. 105 
 
 Julian Ludlow thought the Doctor's ad- 
 yice very good in regard to his enemy 
 Colefoxe ; but nearly a month passed be- 
 fore he had an opportunity of acting upon 
 it In the end, however, it was serviceable ; 
 for the boy was quick, more mature of in- 
 tellect than his years foreboded, and per- 
 fectly fearless of consequences. 
 
 A lady and gentleman, on one half- 
 holiday, when a great number of the boys 
 were out on leave, came to visit young 
 Denison, to whom they were related, and 
 Sir William Colefoxe, whose mother they 
 knew. With these two boys, the J walked over 
 the house, and through the playground, 
 where the lady's eye was attracted by the 
 beauty and gentlemanly look of JuHan 
 Ludlow. 
 
 "Who is that little fellow/' she asked, 
 " with that splendid curling hair ?" 
 
 " He is as fine a little fellow as ever 
 lived," replied Denison. 
 
 " He's quite a young Cupid," rejoined the
 
 106 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 lady, who was a fashionable woman. " Do 
 call him up, Henry, and let me speak with 
 him.'' 
 
 ''Here, Juhan — Julian Ludlow!" cried 
 Denison. " Lady Daynton wishes to speak 
 to you." 
 
 Julian walked up gracefully enough ; and, 
 in a minute, the lady's fingers were separ- 
 ating the tangles of his hair. Two or 
 three of the upper boys gathered round ; 
 and it need hardly be said that the kind- 
 ness and famiharity with which the fine 
 lady treated Julian Ludlow, were gall and 
 wormwood to Sir William Colefoxe. He 
 determined that Juhan should have a dose 
 of the same, and, taking advantage of the 
 first pause, as they stood and chatted at 
 the edge of the playground, he said, in an 
 easy though somewhat swaggering tone — 
 
 "By the way, Julian, what did you tell 
 me your father was?" 
 
 " A carpenter," replied Julian, with his 
 eyes flashing.
 
 PEQUINILL.O. 107 
 
 "Pity he didn't make you one !" exclaimed 
 the young baronet, with a look of haughty 
 scorn. 
 
 But Julian had recovered himself. He 
 recollected the advice he had received. He 
 saw his opportunity, and seized it. 
 
 " As you are so curious about my father," 
 he rejoined, boldly, before the whole party, • 
 " pray what was yours, Colefoxe V 
 
 "My father was a gentleman, to be 
 sure," repHed the young baronet. 
 
 " Pity he didn't make you one," retorted 
 Julian. 
 
 Colefoxe sprang at him like a tiger ; 
 but Denison caught him by the collar, 
 and threw him unceremoniously back, 
 while Lady Daynton and her husband 
 laughed till they wept ; and the lady, 
 taking Julian by the hand, said — 
 
 " Come along, my little fellow. You 
 have just answered him as he deserves. 
 You shall go round with us. Don't you 
 let Colefoxe maltreat him, Henry."
 
 108 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 " if he does, Til give him a good lick- 
 ing/' replied Denison. 
 
 And thus ended Julian Ludlow's prin- 
 cipal annoyances at school ; for the holidays 
 were now fast approaching, and Colefoxe 
 did not return after they were over, pro- 
 bably from his own representation to a 
 weak mother, that it was improper he should 
 continue at a school where the son of a 
 carpenter was admitted.
 
 PF.QUTNILLO. 109 
 
 CHAPTER YIL 
 
 Very nearly the third of a volume, written 
 upon the nine or ten first years of a boy's 
 life ! It is time to turn over a new leaf, 
 reader, in more senses of the words than 
 one ; and yet those ten first years, which 
 here occupy about the ninth part of a book 
 like this, not only form the seventh part 
 of any ordinary life, but the most impor- 
 tant seventh part of the whole. We might 
 almost say, that upon them depends man's 
 destiny — not directly, indeed, but indirectly. 
 Upon them depends his character, which, 
 nine times out of ten, works out his des- 
 tiny. Upon them depends his direction —
 
 110 PEQUmiLLO. 
 
 his line — his course of thought, of feeling, 
 and of action. There is the central starting- 
 point, from which a thousand roads di- 
 verge ; and the one he chooses at that spot, 
 leads him farther and farther from all others 
 as he travels towards some point in 
 the wide bounding circle where termi- 
 nate all the paths of life. Accidents may 
 happen to impede his course : hill and dale 
 may intervene : rivers may have to be 
 forded, or bridged : dark and tangled 
 mazes may have to be traversed ; but on- 
 ward, onward goes the road, from the one 
 point to the other, in the direction that it 
 first receives. 
 
 AYe have spoken of Julian Ludlow's 
 school days, and we may now add a few 
 words — a very few — upon his holidays. 
 About one fourth part of the time of his 
 absence from school, was regularly spent 
 at the Hall, and no diminution of favor or 
 affection took place in regard to Julian 
 Ludlow. He was still a great favorite with 
 young Mistress Westwood : he was still
 
 PEQUINILLO. Ill 
 
 the pet of her husband ; and many a gay 
 ride would the two Julians take together ; 
 the one mounted on a hunter, the other on 
 a smart pony, whose shorter legs, by dou- 
 bling their steps, contrived, easily enough, 
 to keep up with the longer legged animal. 
 Moreover, Julian rose higher and higher, 
 each day, in the good opinion of the 
 Squire. The elder Mr. Westwood saw that 
 the effect of the school upon him, had been 
 entirely favourable : he had lost none of his 
 straight-forward frankness ; none of that 
 bold, fearless, yet not saucy, confidence, 
 which is a characteristic of the well-bred 
 English lad. And yet he was a good deal 
 softened. The impetuosity, the petulance, 
 if you will, of the boy, was under more re- 
 straint. He was more patient at dis- 
 appointment, less eager in pursuit, more 
 considerate of the wishes and feelings and 
 opinions of others. Towards the Squire 
 himself, he was affectionately respectful, 
 without being, in the least degree, shy or 
 tjmid ; and, when the old man encouraged
 
 112 TEQUINILLO. 
 
 him, he would often tell, with an occasional 
 glow in the cheek, which shewed that his 
 frankness implied no want of modesty, all 
 the little anecdotes or incidents of his 
 school-boy life, watching with ready deli- 
 cacy for the least appearance of weariness 
 to break off his narrative. 
 
 The Squire was interested and pleased ; 
 and he found, moreover, that Julian's time 
 had not been wasted in his more studious 
 hours ; that his progress vindicated fully 
 the opinion he had early entertained of his 
 abilities ; and that, for a boy of ten years 
 old, he had acquired a great deal more, 
 and more fully understood what he had ac- 
 quired, than one boy in a thousand. 
 
 There is something very interesting — 
 nay, very refreshing — to an old man in the 
 prattle of the young. To men of middle 
 life, it is often wearisome : they live in the 
 present ; their vocation is activity ; they 
 have nothing to do with hope or memory, 
 except to borrow, from the one, light on the 
 [ path of ambition, and, from the other, the
 
 PEQUITnLLO. 113 
 
 guidance of experience. But age is the I 
 time of memory ; and all that recalls early 
 days and pleasant scenes, passed away for 
 ever, is very sweet — is very refreshing : it 
 is the young air of spring to the senses of 
 an invalid. Nothing can do this so pow- 
 erfully, so sweetly, as intercourse with a 
 child. 
 
 Old Mr. Westwood needed that re- 
 freshment, too, as much as any man; for 
 his spirits had never recovered their 
 tone since the death of his daughter, 
 and many of the hours which he passed 
 in voluntary solitude, were very heavy 
 hours indeed. Often, when Julian was 
 with him — and, sometimes, the boy would 
 remain in the library for more than an 
 hour, reading, or amusing himself in some 
 other way, in silence — Mr. Westwood 
 would gaze at him with a sort of scru- 
 tinizing and even anxious look ; as if he 
 were seeking to read, in the boy's features 
 and expression, some truthful indications 
 of his character, or some prognostics of his 
 future fate. It always seemed that the
 
 114 PRQUIKILLO. 
 
 result was satisfactory to him, although 
 very often, after Julian left him, he would 
 fall into deeper melancholy than ever, as 
 if, when the rousing influence was gone, 
 the re-action was greater than the first 
 effect. 
 
 Julian's chief companion, however, was the 
 little girl, Mary, now grown into a lovely 
 sylph of about six years old. Endless were 
 the sports of these children, endless their 
 amusements, infinite the affection which 
 they entertained for each other ; and when 
 Julian went back to school, Mary always 
 cried bitterly ; and I believe Julian would 
 have cried himself at the parting with her, 
 or at her tears, had he not been a boy, and 
 ashamed. 
 
 Thus passed by his very early years. 
 At twelve, he was removed to a public school 
 — better than any private one in many re- 
 spects, but yet a place of great danger, and 
 very often of many evil influences to a 
 young and unprepared mind. Neverthe- 
 less, Julian passed on through temptations
 
 PEQUINILLO. 115 
 
 and difficulties, without any great harm 
 done. He knew he had a reputation to 
 establish — a name, a fortune, and a fate to 
 make; and he determined that his advance 
 should be as rapid as possible, so far as it 
 depended upon himself, lest the golden 
 prizes, of which he frequently dreamed, 
 should be seized by others. 
 
 The well known course of a public 
 school, especially in that day, requires no 
 great detail here. Julian perhaps was 
 somewhat fortunate in his companions — 
 fortunate in those above him, fortunate in 
 those below hiru ; and the masters also 
 happened to be peculiarly well chosen, 
 judicious, and gentlemianly men. His 
 earnest application to his studies first 
 attracted attention ; and, without anything 
 like favoritism, he soon won approbation. 
 He became distinguished in the school : 
 proceeded through all the forms ; and 
 ultimately found himself possessed of a 
 scholarship which, in due course, led hira 
 to a distinguished College at Oxford.
 
 116 PEQUIKTLLO. 
 
 None more sincerely rejoiced at his young 
 protege's success than good Squire West- 
 wood, and none less selfishly rejoiced ; 
 but Julian, who had been made acquainted 
 with the fact that the expenses of his edu- 
 cation were entirely defrayed by this old 
 patron of his family, determined at once 
 upon his conduct, as soon as he found that 
 the great exertions he had made, and the 
 success he had obtained, put him in pos- 
 session of an independent income. 
 
 He was hardly more than eighteen 
 years of age, and the severe study of the 
 last two years had somewhat affected his 
 health ; but he was still an exceedingly 
 handsome lad, tall, well-proportioned, and of a 
 countenance which had gained rather than 
 lost, not only by the thoughtful expres- 
 sion which had come upon it, but by a 
 certain delicacy of hue, which had suc- 
 ceeded the ruddy brown of his early years. 
 At the very first vacation, he hurried down 
 to Waldon, and spent the afternoon with his 
 father and mother : the one become a portly
 
 PEQUINILLO. 117 
 
 man of the middle age, and well to do in 
 the world ; the other, a still pretty and in- 
 teresting woman of seven or eight and 
 thirty : and on the next morning, at an 
 hour when he knew he should find the 
 Squire at home, he walked up to the Hall 
 to fulfil his resolution. 
 
 Squire Westwood was an old man now. 
 He was about fifty-five when he was first 
 introduced to the reader. Eighteen years 
 have since passed, and that makes seventy 
 three, if I mistake not. It is a heavy 
 weight to bear, seventy-three years piled 
 on us one by one. Heavens! how we 
 bound away under the light load of the 
 first thirty 1 Then, how stoutly we walk 
 on under the next ten! We fancy we 
 could carry a dozen more with ease ; 
 yet we begin to find that each one galls 
 our shoulder a little; and the last thirty 
 bear us down, down, down. They seem 
 so rapid in their coming, too. The inter- 
 val between each additional burden and 
 the one that went before, seems abridged.
 
 118 PEQUINfLLQ. 
 
 The first ten of that thirty, we bear with 
 patience. For the next ten we must call 
 upon resolution to help us; and it is but 
 staggering work under the last decade. 
 At least, it is so with most raen ; but there 
 are exceptions, and Mr. Westwood was 
 one of these. It is but a selfish prayer, 
 after all, when w^e pray for temperance, 
 soberness, and chastity. We are only 
 asking for health and long life; and, as the 
 petition in this respect of Mr. Westwood 
 had been granted, he bore his years more 
 lightly than most men, although grief had 
 had some effect upon him. He had never 
 forgotten his poor Mary. 
 
 It struck JuKan Ludlow, when admitted 
 to his library, that he had grown marvel- 
 lously thin ; but that was the only change 
 he perceived in him. During the last ten 
 years, not a black hair could have been 
 perceived through the powder which he 
 wore; and therefore there was no change 
 in this respect. No difference was to be 
 perceived in the clearness of his eyes,
 
 PEQUTNILLO. 119 
 
 although a stronger pair of spectacles had 
 become absolutely necessary. His front 
 teeth, too, were still white and good. The 
 mind was as little impaired as the body, 
 or less indeed. It wanted no stronger 
 spectacles : well-regulated affections — 
 the just balance he had maintained through 
 life between judgment and feeling — had 
 preserved the heart unshrivelled even by 
 the power of age. Reader, say not this 
 character is overdrawn, I have him be- 
 fore the eye of memory now, as he Hved 
 and as he died. 
 
 " Ah, Julian !" said the old gentleman, 
 extending his hand towards him without 
 rising, " I am glad to see you, my dear 
 boy, and I congratulate you with all my 
 heart upon your late successes. Your ca- 
 reer has been an honour and a pleasure to 
 us all — a pleasure to your family and your 
 friends, an honour to them, and to your 
 native place." 
 
 " If I have done well, sir," replied Julian, 
 standing by the old man's chair, " it is you
 
 120 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 I have to thank for it — first, for giving me 
 the means, and secondly, for giving me 
 the motive for doing well ; and I will con- 
 fess that it was one of the proudest and 
 happiest days of my life, when I found 
 that, by my own exertions, with your aid, 
 I had won a httle independence for myself, 
 and believed that you would approve of my 
 conduct/^ 
 
 He was hurrying on to his object at 
 once; but the old gentleman interrupted 
 him, saying — 
 
 " Sit down, Julian — sit down, and tell me 
 all about it/' And he proceeded to ques- 
 tion him upon his College Hfe, and all its 
 details, with a great deal of interest. 
 Julian answered willingly, for he had 
 . nothing to conceal ; but at length Mr. 
 Westwood proposed to go and join his 
 daughter-in-law and grand-daughter in the 
 drawing-room; and then Julian, with some 
 hesitation, for the delay had unnerved him 
 a little, came to the point.
 
 VEQUINILLO. 121 
 
 " I want to speak with you, sir, for one 
 moment first," he said. And Mr. West- 
 wood who had risen, sat down again. 
 
 "My father has told me, sir,'' he con- 
 tinued, " of your very great kindness in 
 defraying all the expences of my education, 
 and not even allowing him to touch the 
 interest of the thousand pounds which I 
 also owe to the generosity of your family. 
 I am deeply grateful; but, at the same time, 
 I should think it very wrong to continue 
 to trespass on your bounty, now that I 
 have means of maintaining myself" 
 
 '' My dear Julian," returned the old man, 
 taking his hand, and pressing it kindly, 
 •' you do not know all the calls that may 
 come upon you. Your little income will 
 not be sufficient to maintain you in the 
 position in which you are placed." 
 
 " I have lived within it for the last four 
 months, sir," observed Julian ; '' and I 
 should really think it a robbery of others, 
 who may more need your bounty, were I 
 to continue dependent on it longer." 
 
 TOL. I. G
 
 122 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 " That is nonsense, Julian/' rejoined the 
 old man. " Now tell me, what you have 
 
 got r 
 
 '^ My studentship, I find, returns a some- 
 what varying income," returned Julian ; 
 *' but it is never less than ninety pounds, I 
 am told, and sometimes much more." 
 
 " A bad sort of income, a varying one," 
 said Mr. Westwood, " especially for a stu- 
 dious man.'' 
 
 ''Besides that, however," pursued Julian, 
 "I have the interest of the thousand pounds, 
 and the interest which has accumulated, 
 which together, my father says, yield nearly 
 eighty pounds per annum. So you see, 
 sir, that I have quite enough." 
 
 *' I do not, indeed," said Mr. Westwood. 
 " I know that I spent much more myself at 
 College ; and though I would not encour- 
 age any extravagant habits, yet there are 
 many contingencies, which you cannot fore- 
 see, that may require greater expense than 
 you now calculate upon. But, putting all 
 that aside, let us take a different view of
 
 PEQUINILLO. 123 
 
 the case. Yo\i are my god-son, you know, 
 and I very early determined what I would 
 do for you. I told your father, long ago, 
 that I would defray the expenses of your 
 education, till you took your degree. That 
 was what I told him ; but I did not say I 
 would do no more. However, you must 
 let me fulfil my promise ; for I can see no 
 cause in your having amply justified my 
 regard for you, to withdraw from what I 
 undertook. This is one view of the case, 
 my dear boy ; but there is another which 
 binds me to you by stronger bonds even 
 than ray sponsorship. You were very dear, 
 Julian, to a beloved child whom I have 
 lost. Your mother was dear to her, too ; 
 and you and your mother were the last 
 persons, except her own immediate family, 
 who were admitted to the bed-side of 
 death. She loved you very much, JuKan, 
 though you cannot be expected to remem- 
 ber her." 
 
 *'I remember her quite well, sir," de- 
 clared Julian. " I remember sitting upon 
 G 2
 
 124 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 her knee, with her arms round me, in that 
 yerj chair by the window." 
 
 " Do you ?" exclaimed the old man, in a 
 tone full of emotion. " Then say not another 
 word, my dear boy, upon pecuniary obliga- 
 tions between you and me. — Now come, 
 let us go and join Margaret and her Mary. 
 My son is in London ; but he will be back 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Any one who has watched the blossom- 
 ing of a rose tree, must have noticed 
 that there is one particular period at which 
 a bud — ^merely a bud, shewing nothing but 
 the fringed loveliness of the green calyx, 
 with a gleam of pink here and there, be- 
 tween the folds — suddenly bursts forth 
 (very often in a single night,) into a more 
 mature stage of beauty ; and, though still 
 only partially blown, the rose is, perhaps, 
 in its fairest stage of all — the tenderness of 
 infancy still lingering about it, the bright- 
 ness of its prime shadowed forth in its 
 early blush, and the tender perfume breathing 
 forth from the innermost depths of the young
 
 PEQUINILLO. 125 
 
 blossom. Such seemed, to the eyes of 
 JuUan Ludlow, the change which had taken 
 place in Mary Westwood, since they had 
 met six months before. For a time, the 
 beauty which she had early promised, had 
 seemed obscured and dimmed. She had 
 always been charming to him ; for she had 
 been always natural, frank, and graceful 
 — his playmate, his friend, almost his 
 sister. But now, though still a mere girl 
 in years, she seemed to have become a 
 young woman in six months ; and beauties 
 were developed, which had lain hid : the 
 features were all refined and softened : the 
 eyes were more bright, yet not less tender : 
 the complexion was clear and warm : the form 
 was expanding into rich loveliness, without 
 having lost one of the graces of childhood. 
 
 " Here is our young Collegian," said old 
 Mr. Westwood, entering. 
 
 Mary instantly started up, and held out 
 both her hands to him. Mistress Westwood 
 received him frankly and kindly ; but there 
 was another lady in the room, whom
 
 126 PBQUINILLO. 
 
 Julian afterwards discovered to be the 
 governess, and who looked somewhat grave ; 
 and, after the first gratulations were over, 
 she whispered a word in Mary's ear, which 
 called the colour into her cheek. 
 
 Foolish governess! You are putting 
 things into the girl's head that never would 
 get there unless some one helped them. 
 
 Mistress Westwood herself was an amia- 
 ble, a gentle, and a sensible person, as we 
 have already represented her ; but had she 
 •wanted a duenna, or a dragon, she could 
 not have been better suited than in the 
 governess she had chosen. A very unfortu- 
 /nate error in young ladies, educated for 
 / that most painful and difficult situation, 
 too often prevents them from discriminat- 
 ing the line of lady-like propriety, lying 
 / between careless familiarity, and uneasy 
 f primness of manners. Their influence is 
 brought to bear, at a period when young 
 girls have already received a certain bent 
 and direction of mind — certain habits, even 
 Vpf demeanour ; and, in their endeavours to
 
 rEQTJINJLLO. 127 
 
 force the young plant into a new and rigid 
 form, they succeed, perhaps, for a time, or 
 while their own presence maintains the 
 restraint, only to let the branches and 
 tendrils burst forth rather too profusely 
 when the frame-work is withdrawn. Or if 
 they succeed, to use the words of a famous 
 speaker upon education, in dissolving, as it 
 were, the character of their pupil, and 
 again congeaHng it upon a new point of 
 crj^stalization, the form which it assumes 
 wants the beauty and the grace of Nature : 
 it is a factitious stone, and not a real 
 diamond. Give me the person who can 
 cut and polish the gem, and not her who 
 endeavours to alter its character. 
 
 Miss Meel}^ bones, however, was one who 
 believed that manner was one of the exact 
 sciences, and she would have reduced 
 every look and gesture to a precise rule. 
 Doubtless she was a very good person ; 
 doubtless, she was a very well-informed 
 person ; but she was the most disagreeable 
 person in modern Europe, and the least
 
 128 PEQUINILLO 
 
 fitted on earth to have the charge of a 
 young, frank, open-hearted girl. More- 
 over, both JuUan West wood and his wife 
 felt that such was the case. Julian West- 
 wood, very shortly after her entrance into 
 the family, which was of course by the 
 recommendation of a distinguished friend, 
 remarked to his wife that he did not know 
 how it might do in the school-room, but he 
 would advise her not to let Miss Meely- 
 bones into the dairy. 
 
 " Why?" asked Margaret, in her sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 " Rennet, ray love, rennet," replied her 
 husband. " The very look of her face 
 would supply the whole parish with curds 
 and whey ; and take care, my dear Maggy, 
 that the milk of human kindness in our 
 Mary's heart is not turned sour in the pro- 
 cess.'' 
 
 Mistress Westwood thought over his 
 words, and determined that the arrange- 
 ment should not last long ; but she was 
 considerate, and of that truly Christian
 
 PEQUINILLO. 129 
 
 turn of mind which examines closely how 
 any meditated act may affect others. She 
 thought that any abrupt dismissal of the 
 governess, however necessary, might pro- 
 duce more evil to her than was required by 
 the occasion ; and thus the matter hung in 
 suspense, when Ludlow Julian arrived, and 
 Mary met an undertoned but severe rebuke 
 for the warmth with which she greeted the 
 play-fellow of her childhood. 
 
 Julian saw that something was wrong, 
 but he knew not what ; and yet he felt 
 that he himself was in some degree con- 
 nected with the little embarrassment of the 
 moment. Mistress Westwood perceived and 
 understood the whole affair ; and it sug- 
 gested thoughts to her mind — considera- 
 tions, calculations, forecastes — all very 
 simple, 3^et not altogether without their 
 anxieties and troubles. She was not a 
 worldly-wise woman, but she was not 
 without prudence. She was not a person 
 bound down by convcntionalties ; yet she 
 
 had a regard for the rules, and even 
 g5
 
 130 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 opinions of society. She was not by any 
 means a haughty v/oman ; but she had that 
 portion of pride which is required and 
 sanctioned by the customs of her country 
 — which is not alone an acquired feeling, 
 but founded upon instincts, existing as 
 powerfully in democracies as in aristo- 
 cracies. The thought flashed across her 
 mind once more, of her daughter falling in 
 love with, and marrying, a carpenter's 
 son. Was she very wrong in feeling a 
 strong repugnance to such a consumma- 
 tion "? 
 
 But there w^as something more — something 
 which I cannot define, describe or analyze, 
 because she could not define, and would not 
 analyze it herself She was not in the least 
 a suspicious woman. She loved, trusted and 
 admired her husband. She felt confident 
 that Emma Ludlow was good and virtuous ; 
 and yet the strange occasional likeness 
 already indicated between JuHan Westwood 
 and Julian Ludlow, could not escape obser- 
 vation. It wotdd come. It was Hke one of
 
 PEQUINILLO. 131 
 
 those strange intrusions of a dissonant idea 
 — suggestions of the devil himself — that 
 sometimes cross us in places and at times 
 when their presence is most repugnant — 
 in our prayers — at the altar — in the church 
 —in the closet — when we are offering 
 thanks or praise — when we are begging 
 mercy and forgiveness — when we are 
 schooling our own heart — when we are 
 bending it before our God. She would 
 not suffer it to rest upon her mind how- 
 ever. She drove it from her, welcomed 
 Juhan as kindly as ever, and joined in ask- 
 ing him to stay the day. 
 
 Old Mr. Westwood perceived nothing of 
 all that had taken place, except, indeed, 
 that his fair daughter-in-law had once 
 turned a little pale, and passed her hands 
 across her eyes, as if to drive something 
 away from her sight ; but, having a great 
 and permanent abhorrence of Miss Meely- 
 bones, he was anxious to get out of the 
 room where she was, as soon as possible,
 
 132 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 and merely asked Julian to stay and dine, 
 adding, 
 
 '* You can take a gun, and get one of 
 the keepers to go and shoot with you, if 
 you find the day hang heavily, Julian." 
 
 " There is no fear of that, Sir," observed 
 tlie young scholar ; " but T think, as I only 
 returned yesterday evening, 1 ought to 
 spend to-day with my father and mother. 
 They have not heard half I have to tell, 
 yet, and all the incidents of College life are 
 new to them/' 
 
 " Well, then, come to-morrow," said the 
 old Squire. "Come early, and shoot me 
 some partridges. My son will be back 
 about two, and will be very glad to see 
 you." 
 
 Julian Ludlow returned on the following 
 day; and, in spite of all Miss Meelybones 
 could do, Mary and he were alone together 
 more than once in the course of the 
 morning. As soon as the bridle is out of 
 the mouth, of course young horses will
 
 PEQUINILLO. 133 
 
 run away ; and when Mistress Westwood, 
 who was not very well, sent for the 
 governess to her own room for a few 
 minutes, the two young people, left to- 
 gether, scampered off upon old tracks— 
 I mean mentally — and were soon in full 
 course of affection and intimacy, as in days 
 of old. It was ^' Mary '' and " Julian,'' 
 again, or " dear Mary," and " dear Julian;'' 
 and, knowing that they should have very 
 little time, they of course crammed as much 
 into it as possible ; so that all which the very 
 respectable governess had effected, was to 
 establish a sort of new and secret under- 
 standing between them, where everything 
 before had been as broad and open as the 
 daylight. 
 
 They did not make love., or talk of love, 
 or think of love. Lord bless you, honest- 
 hearted reader ! they never dreamt of 
 such a thing. They felt like brother and 
 and sister : they had always felt so ; and 
 no change had come yet. liut they talked 
 Miss Meelybones over very well ; and
 
 134 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 Mary's account of her, did not at all soften 
 the picture which Julian's observation had 
 drawn. 
 
 At the hour of two, the young Squire 
 arrived; and the warmth and affectionate 
 earnestness with which he greeted the 
 student, and congratulated him up- 
 on his success, with eyes sparkling al- 
 most to tears, confounded, dumbfounded, 
 and thunderstruck Miss Meelybones. 
 Suddenly, some new light seemed to break 
 in upon her; and, with all her prudence, she 
 said '' Oh," aloud, when nobody was 
 speaking to her. It was evident that she 
 had been speaking to herself, and, more- 
 over, had convinced herself of something ; 
 which was a thing which nobody else had 
 ever been able to do. 
 
 Nevertheless, although she tried a great 
 deal to be more civil to Julian — for these 
 prim pieces of precision are generally great 
 curry ers of favour — she was as disagreeable 
 to him as she could be. There are 
 persons whose poHteness is abhorrent.
 
 PEQU[NTLLO* 135 
 
 However, Miss Meelybones had quite made 
 up her mind; and, in a letter which she 
 wrote that night, to a lady well-suited for 
 her friendship, giving an account of her 
 situation at the time, she said that Mr. 
 Westwood, junior, she believed, had been 
 rather a gay man in his early days, and 
 had had his peccadilloes ; but that Mistress 
 Westwood was the most meek, benevolent, 
 and forgiving woman in the world, espe- 
 cially towards the foibles of her husband.
 
 136 PEQUINILLO, 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 If life has its epoclia, so has youth ; and 
 we must hasten from one to another, in 
 the days of Julian Ludlow. Let us pass 
 over a little more than two years of the 
 time spent in college, and take up his 
 history again when he was approaching 
 that term so much desired in youth, of one 
 and twenty — manhood ~ law-confirmed 
 manhood. And yet how many are men 
 at an earlier period, and how many are 
 never men at all ! 
 
 Julian studied hard and successfully.
 
 PEQUINILLO. 137 
 
 His vacations were regularly spent at 
 Waldon. He had not naeans for dissipa- 
 tion ; and, what was better still, he had not 
 the inclination ; although, of course, he 
 fell into some faults and errors which an 
 ardent temperament, and an impetuous 
 spirit, could not well escape. A high sense 
 of honour, however — that sense which 
 teaches us to hold steady in view, what 
 is due to those who are kind to us — 
 guarded him against any serious evils. If 
 he was tempted — if he yielded to a certain 
 degree, — he always recollected in time the 
 exertions which his father had made to 
 advance him in life, and the generous as- 
 sistance which had been afforded by old 
 Squire Westwood. He asked himself what 
 conduct they would expect from him; and 
 he did his best to act up to their expecta- 
 tions. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the Squire had grown 
 visibly older, and shadows were cast from 
 the time that was coming. He became 
 somewhat deaf, and reading grew a fatigue
 
 138 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 to him. He did not walk so upright, or 
 with so stout a step. He mounted his 
 horse more slowly; and, as he sat, he was a 
 good deal bent. 
 
 Mistress Westwood appeared to Julian, 
 on his last two visits, somewhat dehcate in 
 health ; but the young Squire was as 
 robust, and active, and cheerful as ever. 
 Though Mary was now an exceedingly 
 beautiful young woman, her conduct 
 towards Julian was hardly altered. 
 Once or twice, indeed, he thought that 
 there was the least possible shade of reserve 
 in her manner. It lasted but a moment, 
 and was swept away with the rapidity of a 
 cloud shadow in the summer. Sometimes, 
 too, when they were alone, and talking 
 together — talking eagerly, affectionately, 
 with open and overflowing hearts — the 
 colour would suddenly mount up into Mary's 
 cheek, Julian knew not why ; nor did Mary 
 know why either. She did not try to 
 fathom the source whence such bubbles 
 spring. She was wise. No young heart
 
 TEQUINILLO. 139 
 
 ouglit to try to plumb them, lest it should 
 trouble the waters. 
 
 Miss Meely bones had, by this time, de- 
 parted from the Hall. She had left it with 
 a good deal of undignified dignity; and 
 from Mary, Julian learned that her going 
 had been accelerated by the strong de- 
 cision of the young Squire, who, Miss 
 Meelybones declared, was not capable of 
 appreciating her, or of being sensible of 
 her services. Julian Westwood managed 
 the matter so, however, as to make the act 
 apparently voluntarily on the part of Miss 
 Meelybones. After announcing his deter- 
 mination to his wife, he sought an inter- 
 view with the lady — young by courtesy, 
 though she was forty seven, and owned to 
 eight-and- thirty. He was resolved to lay a 
 broard basis for operations, and he con- 
 sequently objected at once to her whole 
 system of education and discipline, and 
 begged that she would change it entirely 
 in regard to his daughter. Miss Meely- 
 bones was sufficiently "dragonish" to
 
 140 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 make a fight for her principles, and 
 declared that they were founded upon im- 
 mutable opinions of right and wrong. 
 
 "In those circumstances/' replied the 
 young Squire, " I see but one thing that can 
 be done, Miss Meelybones ; and I beg that 
 you will announce your determination to 
 Mistress Westwood." 
 
 Hurried away by indignation, the lady 
 flew to make a declaration of which she 
 soon repented ; for she had miscalculated 
 Margaret's strength of mind. It was quite 
 sufficient to bear the agony of her loss ; and, 
 after quietly remarking upon the sharp 
 terms in which the lady thought fit to 
 vspeak of Mr. West wood's interference in 
 the education of his own daughter, she ac- 
 cepted her resignation, with a coolness that 
 had a very petrifying eftect upon the cur- 
 rent of Miss Meelybones' vehemence. 
 Four-and-twenty hour's calm consideration 
 brought repentance and apology, with an 
 offer of submission to Mr. Westwood's views. 
 But Mistress West wood rephed, that un-
 
 PEQUIKILLO. 141 
 
 willing and unconvinced concession, in a 
 matter so delicate, would not be what her 
 husband desired; and that, after Miss 
 Meelybones' plain declarations upon the 
 subject, and her long experience in tuition, 
 it could not be supposed that conviction 
 had operated, and her opinions changed 
 in one night. Thereupon, the lady, finding 
 that the case was decided against her, re- 
 lapsed into indignation again, and went 
 away from the Hall with a profound con- 
 tempt for all its inmates, and a deeper 
 depth of pity for the unfortunate girl who 
 was destined to be brought up as her father 
 and mother pleased. 
 
 Her absence was a relief to all ; but, dur- 
 ing his last two visits to the Hall, Julian 
 certainly saw less of Mary alone than he 
 had done on any previous occasion. Mis- 
 tress Westwood was more frequently with 
 them ; and a certain sort of effort to be so, 
 betrayed itself to the eyes of Mary, at 
 least — for the reproofs of Miss Meelybones 
 had acted as suggestions, and put her
 
 142 PEQUmiLLO. 
 
 mind on the right track. Julian remarked 
 nothing, except that Mistress Westwood 
 was more fond of walking in the park, and 
 driving or riding through the country 
 round, than she had ever been before — 
 more, indeed, than her strength seemed to 
 warrant. The truth was, that, though she 
 did not choose to deprive Mary of the exer- 
 cise or amusement she was accustomed to 
 enjoy, she thought it better to be as much 
 as possible with her when Julian Ludlow 
 was present. 
 
 Even the most sensible are often in- 
 fluenced, more or less, by the opinions they 
 despise and the gossip they condemn ; 
 and, by this time, the neighbouring gentry 
 were beginning to busy themselves a good 
 deal with Julian Ludlow's somewhat ano- 
 malous position. It was, indeed, anoma- 
 lous in English society, and especiall}' in 
 that part of the country ; for, although 
 something similar has probably occurred 
 within the cognizance of us all, yet this 
 has not been frequently, and no instance
 
 PEQUINILLO. 143 
 
 had been known in Waldon and its neigh- 
 bourhood. That the son of the village 
 carpenter, while spending a month or six 
 weeks at his father's house, should be the 
 frequent and the favorite guest in the 
 mansion of one of the oldest and best 
 families of the county ; that he should be 
 the companion of the daughter, and treated 
 like a son or a brother hy the whole family, 
 might well cause a little conmiotion. People 
 dealt with the matter as their characters 
 directed. Some of the old gentlemen and 
 ladies who had been accustomed to see 
 Julian at the Hall from his childhood, and 
 who had learned by age and experience 
 that it is better to let all persons manage 
 their own business as they think best, 
 treated Julian frankly and kindly when- 
 ever they met him, and made no com- 
 ments, or very light ones. A younger, 
 but still not young, generation — especially 
 where there were marriageable daughters 
 in the house — were exceedingly indignant, 
 however. Some showed themselves cold
 
 144 PEQUII^ILLO. 
 
 and distant when they saw Julian Ludlow; 
 and some, who had risen a generation or 
 two before from the dregs of the people, 
 declared it was too bad to force such a 
 person into society, and vowed they would 
 cut him. They did not exactly keep their 
 word, but they made themselves sufficiently 
 disagreeable. 
 
 Julian began to find his own position un- 
 pleasant. There were indications, which 
 he could not mistake, of his being looked 
 down upon ; and, as his old impetuosity of 
 disposition had not yet been driven out of 
 him, his spirit began to boil at the covert 
 indignities which occasionally he had to 
 encounter. He felt that, as far as the 
 gifts of nature were concerned, he was 
 equal or superior to those who scorned 
 him ; and that in courage, in talent, in 
 knowledge, in honor, he might fearlessly 
 place himself by the side of any for com- 
 parison. He might, very likely, have got 
 into a quarrel with some of the young men 
 who presumed a little too far upon their
 
 PEQUINILLO. 145 
 
 gentle birth ; for he was hot and fiery 
 enough ; but consideration for Mr. West- 
 wood restrained him in some degree, and 
 in general the offensive matter was not 
 very tangible, being confined to a sort of su- 
 percihous coldness, and affectation of deaf- 
 ness when he spoke, and a studied silence 
 towards him, which could not be taken 
 notice of 
 
 Some short time before the long vaca- 
 tion, however, when he was just one-and- 
 t went J years of age, a circumstance oc- 
 curred which gave him some reHef, and 
 which changed a good deal the current of 
 his fate. There was a young gentleman 
 at the University with him, and at the 
 same College, with whom a good deal of 
 intimacy had sprung up. He was of the 
 same age as Julian ; but had matriculated 
 a year after, and was far behind him in 
 attainments. He was the only surviving 
 son of a very old and ever respectable 
 English family — one of the untitled nobility 
 
 VOL. [. H
 
 146 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 of England — amiable in disposition, but not 
 very brilliant in mind. Marmaduke Knight 
 was within a month or two of coming of 
 age ; but still he relied, almost as a child, 
 upon the direction of his widowed mother ; 
 and, when seized, about this time, with an 
 inclination to make a tour upon the conti- 
 nent during the long vacation, he wrote 
 to her for permission, expressing a strong 
 desire to take Julian with him, as a sort 
 of travelling tutor. His mother was a 
 woman of strong good sense ; and, before 
 she replied, she consulted the Dean, with 
 whom she was personally acquainted. 
 Julian received the very highest recom- 
 mendation, and the matter was soon ar- 
 ranged to her son's satisfaction. He was 
 to pay the whole of the travelling expenses ; 
 and Julian's only real task was to be that 
 of counsellor and companion. 
 
 For one single day, he ran down to 
 Waldon to take leave of his family and 
 friends there, before he departed, and was
 
 PEQUINILLO. 147 
 
 received with greater kindness and joy 
 than ever ; but that brief stay was only 
 memorable in his history from the feet of his 
 then having, for the first time, perpetrated 
 a piece of verse. 
 
 " I hear you write poetry, Julian," said 
 old Mr. Westwood, " and I have a book*' 
 (Albums were then hardly invented) **in 
 which some of my friends, at different 
 times, have written a little something as 
 a memorial. I am an old man, now, and, 
 many of those who have written in that 
 book are gone ; so that it is somewhat hke 
 a church-yard, full of mementos of the 
 dead. But come, Julian ; you shall write 
 me something before you go — even if it be 
 my epitaph/' 
 
 " I never wrote a line of English poetry 
 in my life, sir," replied Julian, " though I 
 have written Latin verses enough. How- 
 ever, I will try." 
 
 He sat down ; and, leaving him alone 
 for a few minutes, Mr. Westwood found 
 H 2
 
 1 48 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 written on the page when he returned, 
 some verses which pleased the old man 
 much. They were addressed 
 
 "TO THE OLD. 
 
 '' Health to the old in years, where'er they be ! 
 
 When heart and mind, uninjured^ still survive — 
 When, on their brow, though winter we may see. 
 
 Summer within their breast is still alive. 
 Times' saddest part is the dark gloom, oft cast 
 
 Upon bright spirits, leaving age all cold. 
 To those who bring their feelings from the past, 
 And teach youth's better part, through age, to last - 
 Health to the old ! 
 
 Their's is the memory of well spent days — 
 
 The wide, calm glance on many a past-by year, 
 
 O'er which the light of fond remembrance plays. 
 Not the less bright for, here and there, a tear. 
 
 Wreathe for their brow a chaplet of sweet flowers. 
 Which early midst the wintry snows unfold ; 
 
 And may they wear it through long sunny hours. 
 
 While many a friend cries, as the cup he pours, 
 Health to the old !"
 
 PEQUINILLO. 149 
 
 Mr. West wood carried off the verses 
 immediately into the drawing-room, fol- 
 lowed by Julian with somewhat of a glow 
 upon his cheek ; and when the old man 
 had read them aloud, in a fine voice, and 
 with due emphasis, Mary started up, ex- 
 claiming — 
 
 *' Oh, write something for me, Julian. 
 Write something for me." 
 
 " Give me till to-morrow,'^ replied Julian 
 Ludlow, " and I will do my best. The 
 spring is only freshly opened, and the drops 
 come slowly." 
 
 " But you are going to-morrow, you 
 say," answered Mary. 
 
 '' You shall have them, nevertheless," 
 said Julian. 
 
 And, on the following morning, a little 
 packet lay on the breakfast-table near 
 Mary's place. Mistress West wood w^as the 
 first at table, and she watched her daugh- 
 ter's face, when she took up the packet 
 and read what it contained. Mary's color
 
 150 PEQUINTLLO. 
 
 varied a good deal ; but the moment after 
 she had read, she handed the paper to her 
 mother, who soon perceived that the 
 emotions which the verses excited were not 
 such as should give her any alarm. 
 
 ''In the deep moonlight^ on a solemn cUfT, 
 I sat, and sighed, and wondered if on earth 
 
 Men might behold the future days, and if 
 
 The manhood of the years, then in their birth, 
 
 Might be foreshown by that same heavenly hand 
 That on the Median palace-wall displayed 
 
 The dreadful purport, the foregone command, 
 And Babylon dismayed. 
 
 On that same night, when all the earth and air 
 Seemed hushed, as listening for prophetic things, 
 
 And the pale beam, on ocean's glittering hair, 
 Quivered, as trembling with an Angel's wings — 
 
 I thought, and gazed, and from my eyes there seemed 
 To fall away a film, which, interposed, 
 
 My clay-bound soul from other spirits closed : 
 I slept not ; but I dreamed.
 
 PKQUINILLO. 151 
 
 In a fair land, where clouds of lovely forma 
 
 Fluttered like butterflies in summer days — 
 Though, from the sky's dim verge, at times, fierce 
 storms. 
 Borne by the wind's wild coursers o'er the rays, 
 Came rushing up athwart the arch of heaven — 
 I seemed to stand ; and there an aged man, 
 With hair like snow, by blasts of winter driven, 
 To dig a pit began. 
 
 I watched him long, while he the mattock plied, 
 Unwearied and incessant, and flung forth 
 
 Shards, clay, and bones unnumbered ; and I cried, 
 * Who art thou, toilsome worker of the earth ? 
 
 And what this charnelthat thou op'st amiss?' 
 His hand paused not, but still a skull out-hurled, 
 
 The while he said, * My name is Time ; and this, 
 The grave of all the world.' 
 
 * And must they all — the beautiful, the great, 
 
 The noble, and the wise — together fall ? 
 For this, do men take counsel against Fate — 
 
 To fill you loathsome pit V He answered, * All ! 
 Here agony and joy lie side by side : 
 
 This is earth's all !' I would have spoke ; but he 
 Frowned me to silence. ' Peace, vain worm !' he 
 cried ; 
 
 * There's room enough for thee !' "
 
 152 PEQUINILLO/ 
 
 Various comments were made on the 
 little poem, as Julian Westwood read it 
 aloud. Mistress Westwood said that it 
 was somewhat rough and very sad. The 
 young Squire remarked that it was not 
 quite regular in the metre. His father 
 merely said that the boy wrote well, and 
 thought deeply for so young a lad. Mary 
 said nothing. But the verses produced a 
 certain melancholy upon her mind, which 
 lasted throughout the day. The idea, too, 
 that Julian was gone on his way to a 
 foreign land, had something saddening in 
 it, she could not tell why. He was not to 
 be absent long — not much longer than 
 usual ; yet there was a vague sort of 
 unpleasant feeling in the thought that seas 
 were to roll between them, and a large 
 addition of miles to interpose every day. 
 Miss Meelybones was wise, as well as foohsh 
 — not an uncommon mixture in this world; 
 and Mary was certainly thinking of Julian 
 Ludlow, more than was absolutely neces-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 153 
 
 sary, and perhaps more than her mother 
 would have exactly liked. 
 
 Mistress Westwood, however, was not at 
 that moment in a very observing mood. 
 Though she bore up strongly — though she 
 would not give way to her sensations, in 
 the least — though she was regularly down to 
 breakfast every day at the appointed hour, 
 and went through all her duties cheer- 
 fully — she did not feel well. A languor was 
 about her, a want of corporeal power and 
 activity, which was only overruled by the 
 earnestness and perseverance of the mind. 
 
 We must now, however, leave the family 
 at the Hall, to pursue, for a short time, the 
 wanderings of our Collegian. 
 
 H 5
 
 154 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FiVE-and-thirty years of peace have so 
 be-travelled, and be-railroaded, and be- 
 carpeted the world in which we live, that 
 nobody can shew any man a new thing. 
 Egypt and the Strand have somehow or 
 other got into juxta- position. Syria lies 
 close by Piccadilly. The State-house of 
 New York and the Pyramids of Egypt are 
 almost hand- in-hand ; and a man, when he 
 meditates a journey, asks himself, " Shall 
 I go to the Peak of Derby, or take a look 
 at Mount Sinai '?" Horeb is more familiar 
 to a modern traveller than it was to Moses; 
 and Pharaoh, if he had known as much as 
 a lieutenant in the navy, need never have 
 been drowned in the Red Sea.
 
 PEQUINILLO. 155 
 
 But couleur local is very nearly gone, and 
 imagination may as well be put at the 
 bottom of the portmanteau ; for she ha*s 
 now nothing else to fill up. Standing at the 
 farther end of that five-and- thirty years, 
 it is hardly possible for any one, unless he 
 actually saw it, to picture the state of Con- 
 tinental Europe immediately after the peace. 
 Everything at that period, was un-Anglo- 
 Saxon : the guinea in France was worth 
 seven-and-twenty shillings : the floors of 
 almost all the hotels were covered with brick, 
 or marble, instead of wood : in many 
 places, no such thing as a bell existed : 
 carpets were matters of tradition ; and pig- 
 tails and powder were still quite plentiful 
 in the streets and houses of the French 
 capital. Even Paris itself — Paris, the 
 adopter and appropriator of everything 
 discovered or perfectel elsewhere — Paris, 
 which is continually imitating or importing, 
 while she thinks she is inventing and trans- 
 mitting — Paris, where now nothing is to 
 be seen but English thread, English black-
 
 156 I'EQUINTLLO. 
 
 ing, English cotton — everything aFAnglaise 
 — was then a place completely siii generis, 
 and, more especially and particularly, as 
 unlike England as possible. In revenge 
 for a sense of humiliation, the witty song- 
 sters of the French capital railed gaily at 
 the hats of their triumphant guests, and at 
 the red coats of the soldiery ; but, in spite 
 of all that Beranger could write or sing, 
 his countrymen, fond of novelty, and pos- 
 sessing the imitative faculties of the 
 monkey, copied all they saw, and adopted, 
 in many respects, the modes, the fashions, 
 the follies, and even the hats, of their former 
 enemies. 
 
 I can myself remember seeing men with 
 sky-blue coats, pig- tails half-a-yard long, 
 buckles in their shoes, knee-breeches and 
 silk stockings, hopping about in the mud of 
 the Parisian streets, then destitute of side 
 pavements : and some who adhered to the 
 habit of carrying what was intended to be 
 put upon the head, under the arm. 
 
 But all such things soon passed away.
 
 PEQUINTLLO. 157 
 
 cigars, moustachios, carpets, and other con- 
 veniences have succeeded ; to say nothing 
 of brutality, instead of courtesy, and lie- 
 pubUcan harshness instead of Imperial 
 pohsh; and I merely make the above ob- 
 servations, to show how completely new, 
 fresh, and interesting, was everything on 
 the Continent to the eyes of two young 
 islanders, who visited it, for the first time, 
 shortly after the signature of the last 
 general peace. Everything around them, 
 everything that met the ear, or assailed 
 the nostrils, spoke of a foreign land : the 
 sraell of roasting- coffee, or of eaten garlic : 
 the sight of long houses, dingy, and black, 
 and gaunt, rising half-a-mile high : of por- 
 ters carrying back -loads of bread, with 
 garlands of the same around their arms : of 
 perambulatory venders of lemonade: of 
 lanterns and gutters, hanging and running 
 in the middle of the street : of people saw- 
 ing wood to the obstruction of all free 
 passage : the sound of persons crying — 
 " Water t sell!" and many another cry be-
 
 158 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 sides ; to say nothing of the universahty of 
 a foreign language, and the chattering 
 tone in which it was spoken — all had 
 strangeness, novelty, and, consequently, 
 interest. 
 
 It is not, however, my intention here to 
 write a guide-book, or a book of travels ; 
 and I mention these particulars only to 
 show effects produced upon the mind of 
 Julian Ludlow and his young companion, 
 Marmaduke Knight. Neither one nor the 
 other had a single grain of experience to 
 lend his fellow in case of need; and Julian's 
 only advantage was a certain degree of 
 cool caution, which, notwithstanding his 
 natural impetuosity, had been beaten into 
 him in a somewhat painful manner, during 
 his progress through school and college. 
 
 So charmed was the younger of the 
 two, with all that he saw in Paris, that, 
 had Juhan been willing, he would very 
 gladly have ended the tour there, and 
 passed the whole of their allotted time in
 
 PKQUINILLO. 159 
 
 the theatre, the cafe, or, perhaps, in a 
 worse place. I do not mean to saj that 
 there was anything the least evil in the 
 young man's disposition ; but he was very 
 facile : Julian could not be always with 
 him ; and, on one occasion, he was found by 
 his friend in a certain saloon, where, 
 amidst the best company of Paris, with 
 everything that could stimulate man's 
 natural desire for pleasure and love of ex- 
 citement, were spread out various tables, 
 some covered with parti- colored cloth, 
 some hollowed out into the shape of a 
 basin, round which were piled little heaps 
 of gold, which changed hands with extra- 
 ordinary rapidity. At one of these tables 
 Mr. Knight was seated, when Julian, 
 having learned his whereabout, came in 
 search of him. A. pile of Napoleons, 
 which, probably, had been larger, lay on 
 his right hand; and JuHan soon perceived 
 how matters were going. 
 
 " I want to speak a word with you ou
 
 160 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 business," said the Julian Ludlow, speak- 
 ing over his friend's shoulder, but ad- 
 dressing him in a commonplace tone. 
 
 " Well, wait a minute — only a minute," 
 replied Marmaduke Knight. " This will 
 be a famous coup for some one, and I will 
 come as soon as it is settled." 
 
 The coup was soon settled, and the whole 
 pile of gold disappeared from Marmaduke's 
 right hand. He rose with a somewhat 
 disconcerted air, and followed Julian out 
 of the room, nearly forgetting to take his 
 hat as he went. 
 
 " What is it, Ludlow ?" he asked, in as 
 easy a tone as he could assume. 
 
 " I want you to help me in getting 
 everything ready for our departure to- 
 morrow," said Julian, quietly. " You 
 know to-morrow is the day fixed for 
 leaving Paris." 
 
 " Hang it ! that is awkward," ejaculated 
 Marmaduke Knight. "Can't we stay 
 another day or two V^
 
 PEQUTNfLLO. 161 
 
 " Not if we are to make the tour pro- 
 posed,'^ replied Julian ; " and, to tell you 
 the truth, I think we had better not 
 stay/' 
 
 " Why not V^ asked his young friend. 
 
 ** Because/' responded Julian, quietly, 
 " T think if any man gets into a gambling- 
 house in Paris, he has stayed a day too 
 long/' 
 
 " But that isn't a gambling-house — not 
 a common gambUng-house," repHed Knight, 
 somewhat sharply. " Why, I have lost 
 two hundred Napoleons there^ and I should 
 like to win, at least, part of it back.'' 
 
 " You will only lose more," replied 
 Julian. "You are mathematically dis- 
 posed. Knight ; and I can show you to a 
 demonstration, that, in the end, the bank 
 inust be a winner. If that be the case, 
 those 'who play against it must, as a 
 whole, lose ; and, therefore, that, on the 
 best calculation of chances, every indi- 
 vidual who plays, as they all play against 
 the bank, must be a loser. However, as
 
 ] 62 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 we set out \Yith certain fixed determina- 
 tions as to where we should go, and as your 
 whole plan was laid before your mother, 
 and she expects us to follow it, I think it 
 would hardly do to write and tell her that 
 we were going to remain in Paris a little 
 longer to win back two hundred Napoleons 
 which you had lost at rouge et noir." 
 
 Knight bit his lip, but he made no fur- 
 ther opposition ; and the horses being put 
 to on the following morning, the friends 
 rolled away upon that usual, and then 
 almost invariable, road towards Italy, by 
 Dijon and Switzerland, 
 
 To know a man well, you must travel 
 with him. Surrounded by his own con- 
 ventionalities, or the conventionalities of 
 the society in which he has been brought 
 up, he plods round, to use an old but sig- 
 nificant expression, like an ass in an olive 
 mill, and knows quite well how to deal 
 wdth all the things about him. But take 
 the ass out of the olive mill — turn him into 
 a totally new scene — and you will find him
 
 PEQUTNILLO. 163 
 
 a very different sort of animal, amongst 
 things he is unaccustomed to, and knows 
 not what to make of. 
 
 Julian Ludlow speedily discovered that 
 his companion had much more of the 
 animal that walks in an olive mill, than 
 he had imagined ; and, for a day or two, it 
 gave him considerable pain and embarrass- 
 ment. Without any determination to do so, 
 however, he speedily gained that ascendency 
 over Marmaduke Knight which a superior 
 mind is sure to obtain over an inferior, 
 especially where there is force of character 
 as well as brightness of intellect. This 
 domination being once assumed, Marmaduke 
 was very easily managed, as long as Julian 
 was with him. It was the periods of 
 his absence that Julian feared ; and as it was 
 impossible for him to treat his companion 
 as a mere child, of course he could not be 
 always with him. Nevertheless, they got 
 on through their tour very tolerably, till 
 the extreme point of Messina had been 
 reached, and they were some way on their
 
 l64 PEQUimLLO. 
 
 road homewards. In many a spot, indeed, 
 where Julian would fain have lingered 
 amidst natural loveliness and classic asso- 
 ciations, his companion found nothing but 
 monotony, and hurried their departure, 
 Julian could not help thinking, for the pur- 
 pose of returning a day or two sooner to Paris. 
 They had still three weeks before them, 
 when, in the evening of an autumnal day, 
 they reached a small town in the north of 
 Italy, on the shores of one of the beautiful 
 lakes which indent the lower regions of the 
 Alps. The form of the lake was rather 
 like that of Geneva, though on a smaller 
 scale ; and, as it was farther distant from 
 great cities than Como, or the Lago ^lag- 
 giore, its banks and islands were not so 
 spotted with palaces, and what I may call, 
 to use a German name, pleasure-houses. 
 Though they were few, however, the palaces 
 which were seen when one stood at the 
 southern end of the lake, and looked 
 northward to the giant mountains 
 that towered dim beyond, were of a finer,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 165 
 
 and I might almost say more classical, 
 taste ; for they had been built when ItaHan 
 nobles were both powerftd and wealthy, 
 by those who, having more wealth, if not 
 more power, than others, could afford to 
 fly farther, in the brief periods of amuse- 
 ment and relaxation which chequered 
 times of danger and strife, from the busy 
 and perilous haunts of the city and the 
 council chamber. The mansions were 
 principally of the age of Palladio ; but, 
 at the northern end of the lake, on a 
 little peninsula, appeared the ruins of one 
 of those ancient fortresses concerning 
 which so many dark and terrible traditions 
 are still current in Italy. It had been 
 besieged by the French more than once, in 
 what were called the wars of Savoy, and 
 had been shattered by the cannon, and 
 stormed by the troops, of the gallant Brissac. 
 From that time, it had not been inhabited, 
 and now stood, merely a picturesque object 
 from the windows of the inn at the south,
 
 166 PEQITINILLO. 
 
 and a place of pilgrimage for heretical 
 travellers from England, ^vho visited it 
 with more veneration than they showed 
 towards shrines far holier in the eyes of 
 the people. 
 
 The travellers arrived too late to sail up the 
 lake that evening, and they contented them- 
 selves with gazing at it for half an hour, as 
 the sun set flooded the whole valley with a 
 sea of purple light. One or two boats were 
 seen skimming over the bosom of the water; 
 and happily, as Julian thought, his com- 
 panion seemed to be smitten with a desire 
 of saihng on the lake likewise. There is 
 certainly something in the sight of a beauti- 
 ful skiff, gliding easily along, with full sail 
 and gentle motion, which might be almost 
 called infectious. So much graceful power 
 is in it — such command over the waves — 
 that we long, as a child longs for the wings 
 of the swallow, to be able to go and cleave 
 the pure element with it. 
 
 Julian did not at all discourage young 
 Knight's desire to remain where they
 
 PEQUINILLO. 367 
 
 were during the next day, and to engage 
 a boat to visit the old castle. Every day 
 spent upon the journey was, he thought, a 
 day gained ; for, with the knowledge he 
 now had of his companion's character, 
 Juhan feared anything like a lengthened 
 stay in Paris, where temptation in every 
 shape was continually around him. The 
 plan was thus arranged : the boat was 
 hired for the following morning, and post 
 horses were bespoken for the day after. 
 Marmaduke Knight declared that it would 
 be easy to save a day or two on the road 
 to Paris ; but Julian determined it should 
 not be so, if he could help it; and his views 
 in this respect were favoured by circum- 
 stances over which he had no controL 
 
 The next morning dawned brightly : the 
 boat lay all prepared at the landing-place : the 
 boatmen were sprawling on the ground, and 
 playing at "pitch-and-toss" with as much 
 careless indifference to all other things, though 
 not quite so much vivacity, as if they had
 
 168 PEQUINILLO 
 
 been Neapolitans ; but Marmaduke Knight, 
 who was not constitutionally an early riser, 
 made his appearance half-an-hour after 
 their expedition should have begun, and, 
 when he did come down, required a very 
 hearty breakfast to prepare him for the 
 undertaking. 
 
 He was, to say the truth, both a dainty 
 and a great eater ; and, as the cookery was 
 pronounced excellent, all other amusements 
 were considered subsidiary to the en- 
 joyment of his meal. 
 
 Julian was impatient ; for there was in 
 him too much of spirit to see calmly any 
 one, and especially one in early youth, 
 give himself up so entirely to mere material 
 gratification. There are differences in 
 men, which the inferior never feel. They 
 may have, indeed, a vague sort of sensa- 
 tion that another man has greater powers 
 of mind, greater scope of thought, more 
 capability of acquisition, than they have; 
 but they never admit to themselves that a
 
 PEQUINTLLO. 169 
 
 greater portion of soul can be allotted to 
 one man than to another, and that they 
 are inferior in the immortal essence. 
 
 Such was the case with Marmaduke 
 Knight; andwhen Julian, half jestingly, half 
 seriously, asked him how he could waste 
 the charmed minutes of so beautiful a 
 morning in dull sleep, or duller eating, he 
 fully believed that the inquiry arose from 
 affectation, and that his companion only 
 spoke so from mere conventional habit. 
 
 At length, however, he was ready : a 
 basket of provisions, and several bottles 
 of choice wine, were carefully placed in the 
 boat, and Julian and Marmaduke took their 
 seats. The sail was exquisitely beautiful : 
 the morning, still, bright and clear. Every 
 quarter of a mile opened some fresh view 
 between the gently-undulating hills ; pre- 
 sented the tall mountains behind in some 
 new aspect, or brought into sight some 
 villa previously unseen, or some palace 
 which had been shrouded by the trees. 
 The sunshine lay upon the water, like a 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 PEQUll^ILLO. 
 
 golden veil over a sleeping child; and the 
 mountains, with a rare effect of light and 
 shade, looked of a deeper and richer pur- 
 ple than they had displayed the night 
 before. It is true, there was a slight, thin 
 haze, not common in Italian skies, which 
 softened and harmonized the outline and 
 the tints, and blended all the rich hues of 
 the autumnal foliage with the green banks 
 of the lake and the blue hills around, leav- 
 ing no harshness in the manifold contrasts 
 of the landscape. 
 
 Sailing along at the distance of about 
 half a mile from the eastern shore, the 
 first object which the boat passed, worthy 
 of any note, was a small villa of white 
 marble, copied from some Greek temple ; 
 and the steersman, as they floated on, 
 told Julian the story of the place — in- 
 teresting enough on the spot, but not ne- 
 cessary to be detailed here. It was a 
 tragedy, as most Italian stories are. Two 
 sisters had poisoned each other in that 
 house, from love for the same man ; and
 
 PEQUINILLO. 171 
 
 there were many accessories of sin and 
 shame, which deepened the darlcness of the 
 crime and the terror of the tale. 
 
 Juhan looked down gloomily : his mind 
 was carried far away from the sad history — 
 not without many a parallel — to reason with 
 himself upon the strange, distant, and 
 obscure causes which have rendered a 
 people, full of genius, strongly imbued with 
 a love of the beautiful, alive to every 
 physical harmony of the universe, con- 
 spicuous in the annals of the w^orld for vice 
 and crime and wretchedness. Fiery pas- 
 sion, he thought; stern oppression, the in- 
 fluence of a false religion : but neither the 
 one nor the other was sufficient — nor were 
 all combined — to account for the long exist- 
 ence of such a state of society ; and he 
 pondered deeply upon themes too grave 
 for Marmaduke Knight, who, not under- 
 standing Italian, escaped the tale, as well 
 as the reflections ; and, soon after, 
 another villa came in sight, which had 
 its story too. 
 I 2
 
 172 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 Some way farther on, with an increasing 
 distance between themselves and the shore, 
 the two young travellers passed a larger 
 mansion — a tall, magnificent house, with 
 columns on two sides, and pilasters on the 
 others — rising high above the bank of the 
 lake. The grounds, which seemed at one 
 time to have been laid out in the ancient 
 taste, with terraces and gardens, and 
 vases and statues, were now thickly planted 
 with mulberry trees ; and it is probable 
 that the impoverished proprietor derived a 
 great portion of his revenue from the cul- 
 tivation of the silk- worm. One broad 
 path, with here and there a flight of 
 marble steps, led down from the house, 
 in a straight line, to a little sort of quay 
 on the bank of the lake, near which a 
 small sailing vessel, somewhat larger than 
 that which bore Julian and his companion, 
 lay with its slender masts and beautifully 
 cut sails, apparently waiting for its freight. 
 Three or four persons were standing about 
 half way down the walk, as if debating
 
 PEQUINILLO. 173 
 
 some question; and Julian could see one 
 of them, a gentleman with a cane in his 
 hand, pointing towards the western sky, 
 upon which some hard, knotty clouds were 
 beginning to appear. 
 
 The features of none of the parties 
 were to be distinguished at that distance, 
 and even the colors of their clothing could 
 not be clearly seen ; yet about each of 
 them was that indescribable something 
 which points out the Englishman to the 
 Englishman ; and Julian asked the boat- 
 men if they were not his country people. 
 
 The man replied in the affirmative, but 
 could tell nothing more ; and proceeded to 
 relate the story of that villa also, which 
 was of a rather less terrible character 
 than those he had before told. 
 
 Julian ventured to interrupt him in his 
 narrative, in order to urge that they 
 should make more sail, pointing to the 
 sky, and asking if the clouds he saw did 
 not portend a coming storm. 
 
 "Not yet — not jet," replied the boat-
 
 174 TEQUINILLO. 
 
 man. " We shall have time to get to the 
 upper end of the lake ; and storms here 
 never last long. They go to the moun- 
 tains.^' 
 
 So far he was right : the hoat sailed on 
 with a very light wind which decreased as 
 they proceeded, till Juhan thought the 
 men would have to take to their oars ; but 
 still the sky grew darker, and the old 
 castle, as they approached it, standing on 
 a rock which seemed to rise higher and 
 higher every moment from the line of the 
 water, looked more gloomy and magnificent 
 from the frowning vapours which now rolled 
 between it and the mountains. It was 
 reached, however, without one drop of 
 rain having fallen, or one blast of the 
 tempest having been felt. The men ran 
 the boat into a little cove, on the eastern 
 side of the rock, and the provisions were 
 carried up a steep stone stair-case, into 
 one of the ruined towers. 
 
 Julian and his companion followed their 
 guides up to the battlements, and for a
 
 PEQUINILLO. 1 75 
 
 few minutes gazed forth upon the lake, 
 which certainly wore not its most beautiful 
 aspect, but yet had gained a good deal of 
 the subHme from the darkness which was 
 now spreading rapidly over the sky. 
 
 The boat which they had seen lying 
 near the shore, had followed them more 
 closely than they had before perceived ; 
 and was now hardly half a mile from the 
 landing-place. Still, not a drop of rain 
 was falling ; still not a breath of wind 
 which could have blown a butterfly from 
 its track, was felt even upon the tall battle- 
 ments of the old fortress, though the sky 
 was growing darker each moment with 
 heavy contorted clouds Hke wreaths of 
 leaden-colored smoke curling all over it. 
 Below, upon the face of the lake, the air 
 seemed to have become perfectly still ; for 
 the sails of the boat which had followed, 
 were hanging feebly from the spars, and 
 she lay apparently quite moveless. 
 
 " I vote we go into one of the old rooms 
 and get some luncheon/' said Marmaduke
 
 176 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 Knight ; " it will rain directly, and thun- 
 der too, I think/' 
 
 *' I will come presently," replied Julian. 
 " I am a little anxious about the people 
 in that boat. The squalls upon these lakes 
 are at times very severe." 
 
 " Anxious !" exclaimed his companion, 
 with a laugh ; " why, what have you to do 
 with theui, Ludlow V 
 
 " They are fellow-creatures," repHed 
 Julian, " and, moreover, fellow-country- 
 men/' 
 
 '* Indeed !" exclaimed Knight, in a tone 
 slightly more animated. " 1 did not know 
 that. Are you sure V 
 
 " Did you not hear the man tell me so V 
 asked Julian. 
 
 " Oh, it was in that abominable Italian,'' 
 replied the other. " I did not know what 
 you were chattering about all the way up. 
 — But they seem to be sticking fast there 
 in the middle of the lake. Why do they 
 not take to their oars, I wonder V 
 
 Julian was at that moment putting the
 
 TEQUINILLO. 177 
 
 same question to the man who had steered, 
 and who was now standing beside 
 them. His reply was that boats of 
 that size on the lake seldom had oars, and 
 he added, " They will soon have enough 
 wind, and perhaps too much." 
 
 " Can we not give them some help V 
 cried Julian, eagerly. 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders, and 
 seemed but little inclined to assist a rival 
 boatman, to whom he gave a very indif- 
 ferent character ; but the promise of a 
 small reward from Julian himself, and an 
 intimation that the party of English who 
 were in the little vessel were likely to pay 
 handsomely for any real service, quickened 
 the man^s humanity a good deal. 
 
 " We must be prompt, it we do any- 
 thing,'' he said, " for they can make no 
 w^ay — that is clear enough ; and we shall 
 have a sharp squall in a few minutes." 
 
 " What are you talking about?" asked 
 Marmaduke Knight, with a vacant look. 
 
 The matter was soon explained to him ; 
 5
 
 178 PEQUTNILLO. 
 
 but it never seemed to strike his imagina- 
 tion that he might volunteer to accompany 
 Juhan and tlie steersman on their charitable 
 errand. 
 
 '' It is coming at last," ejaculated the 
 boatman, interrupting the youngEnglisbman 
 in his announcement of what he intended 
 to do during Julian's absence. " Look 
 there, Signore!" 
 
 He pointed to the lake as he spoke ; but 
 Julian saw nothing to excite alarm. The 
 surface of the water was gently moved 
 with small rippling waves such as might 
 well curl it on a calm summer's day. They 
 were a little closer together, indeed, like 
 innumerable small lines suddenly traced 
 over the still glassy expanse; but there 
 were no waves, no foaming billows. The 
 sails of the boat, on which their eyes had 
 been turned, were filled in a moment, and 
 on she shot towards the old castle like an 
 arrow from a bow. 
 
 Julian might have doubted whether it 
 was not now unnecessary to proceed to her
 
 PEQUINILLO. 179 
 
 aid ; but the boatman urged haste, and 
 they both ran down the stone steps together, 
 and reached the landing-place, where the 
 other two men who had accompanied them 
 thither, as if alarmed for their little craft, 
 even there under the shelter of the rock, 
 were busily unshipping the mast, and mak- 
 ing all trim. 
 
 Few explanations were needed : the hope 
 of gain was as powerful with them as with 
 their companion ; and, while the three got 
 everything ready, Julian ran out, for an 
 instant, to the rocky point which concealed 
 the little vessel he had been w^atcliino-. 
 The whole scene had been changed during 
 the short space of time tliat had elapsed 
 since he stood on the battlements above. 
 His hat was blown off in a moment : he 
 was obliged to catch firm hold of the angle 
 of the crag to prevent himself from being 
 driven into the water by the force of the 
 wind; and the whole surface of the lake 
 was one mass of white foam. Tlie vessel 
 with the English party on board was seen
 
 180 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 ■within two-hundred yards of the rock, 
 with only one sail set to keep her on, but 
 heehng over till that sail almost touched 
 the water. The next instant, she righted ; 
 but Julian knew well that the danger was 
 not yet over, and, running back, he sprang 
 into the boat now nearly ready : a moment 
 after, the other men followed and pushed 
 off. Their oars served them Avell under 
 the lee of the rock ; and in thirty seconds 
 they had rounded the point; but, with 
 feelings not to be described, Julian beheld 
 the little vessel on her beam ends, two men 
 clinging to her hull, and several other per- 
 sons, men and women, struggling in 
 the water. A group of two was very 
 near — a gentleman, who seemed a strong 
 swimmer, supporting a lady with one 
 hand while he struck for the shore with 
 the other. A little further, was a black 
 haired Italian boatman, a good swimmer 
 likewise, taking all care of himself ; but, 
 on the right, drifting with a current which 
 the wind carried eddying towards the point
 
 PEQUJNILLO. 181 
 
 and supported only by her dress, was an- 
 other lady; and, though he could not see her 
 face, there was something in her appearance 
 that made the young man's heart sink with 
 vague, and what seemed unreasonable, ter- 
 ror. He paused not to consider anything, 
 however, but how to save her. He had 
 been accustomed to the water from his 
 youth : the Thames — the grave of so many 
 drowned — had been his swimming-school ; 
 and, casting off his coat at once, he plunged 
 into the lake, notwithstanding a sort of 
 shrieking remonstrance from his boatmen. 
 He sank a little — rose again — struck out, 
 and, by a few vigorous efforts, neared the 
 lady, crying — '' Keep up — keep up! — I 
 shall be with you in a second I" 
 
 The rush of the wind carried the dis- 
 tinct words away ; but she heard the sound 
 of a voice calling in tones of hope ; and, by 
 a struggling effort, turned her head towards 
 Julian, striving to hold out her arras. 
 
 It was the face of a young girl, not 
 eighteen, that he saw — a face well known
 
 182 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 and dearly loved ; but the very effort she 
 made sank her in the water, and Julian 
 was only just in time to catch her by the 
 arm and raise her head again above the 
 waves. 
 
 " For heaven's sake do not touch me, 
 Mary !'' he exclaimed. " Be quite still, and 
 you are safe." 
 
 But consciousness and reason were nearly 
 gone. The impulse to catch at anything 
 could not have been resisted even if she had 
 heard and understood what Julian said ; 
 and Mary clung to him with convulsive 
 strength. Julian felt that they would both 
 perish, notwithstanding every effort he 
 made to keep her and himself up, by all the 
 tricks which practised swimmers are early 
 taught. 
 
 It is strange what curious thoughts pass 
 through the minds of the drowning. *' She 
 will be lost," he thought ; '' but, thank God, 
 1 shall die with her." 
 
 That was his only reflection at the mo- 
 ment ; but still he strove for her life and
 
 PEQUINILT.O. 183 
 
 his own, with the skill and with the cool- 
 ness which only those much accustomed 
 to be in the water can command in such 
 circumstances. His arms were powerless, 
 for hers were intertwined with them ; but 
 he tried to tread the water with his feet, 
 and sustain her head above the foam. 
 
 Her weight overbalanced him, however, 
 and down — down they were going — the 
 water rising over his mouth and eyes — all 
 things growing green and indistinct around, 
 — when suddenly a grasp was laid upon his 
 collar ; a pair of sti'ong arms were thrown 
 round Mary Westwood ; and she and Julian 
 once more saw the light of da}^ 
 
 The boat was close to them; human 
 faces looking down at them ; and cries, 
 directions, and encouragement sounded in 
 many a voice and more than one lan- 
 guage. With care, and not without some 
 difficulty — for the boat was now heavily 
 laden — they were raised from Aie water 
 and drawn in. 
 
 Another moment under the water, and
 
 184 PEQUIMLLO. 
 
 all consciousness would have been lost to 
 Mary Westwood. As it was, everything 
 seemed indistinct and whirling round her, 
 full of confused images of the past and 
 present, as in one of those dreams of terror 
 where realities and fancies are blended in- 
 extricably : where the will is free, but the 
 mind unmanageable, and the limbs power- 
 less. All she felt was, that her head rested 
 on her mother's knees, that her father bent 
 over her, and that Julian Ludlow was there 
 chafing her hands in his. 
 
 It was only when the boat reached the 
 little landing-place — a feat not accom- 
 plished without difficulty, for the waters 
 were whirling and rushing round the point, 
 driven by a gale which now amounted 
 almost to a hurricane — that Mary fully 
 recovered her consciousness of all things. 
 
 Her father carried her up the stone 
 stairs, and intoalowerroomof the oldcastle, 
 which during the summer season was used 
 as a sort of refrehment room, by a man 
 who sold rosilo and iced drinks to thirsty
 
 PEQUiyiLLO. 185 
 
 visitors. A few chairs and a table were 
 left behind by him through the Autumn 
 and Winter ; and Marmaduke Knight's 
 luncheon was already spread out on the 
 latter, with bottles of wine in goodly array, 
 and one small drinking cup beside them. 
 Mistress Westwood, who while in the 
 water had been supported by her husband, 
 was able to walk with the assistance of 
 Julian's arm, and from her he learned how 
 their unexpected meeting in Italy had 
 occurred. Soon after his own departure 
 from England, the slight illness under which 
 she had been long suffering assumed a 
 more serious form ; and her husband, be- 
 coming alarmed, had insisted upon her 
 seeing a physician. The report of that 
 physician increased rather than diminished 
 Julian Westwood's apprehensions; and he 
 determined to adopt, at once, the course 
 which the medical man recommended, as 
 the only certain means of restoring Mistress 
 Westwood to health. That course was
 
 186 PEQUINTLLO. 
 
 to go south of the Alps, and to spend the 
 latter part of Autumn, the Winter, and the 
 Spring, in Italy. The whole family set off 
 accordingly, with the exception of the 
 Squire, who declared that he was too old 
 to quit his native land any more ; and not 
 above a week had elapsed since their 
 arrival in Italy, when Julian Ludlow met 
 them as we have described. 
 
 Of course, a good deal of bustle and 
 confusion took place at and after the land- 
 ing of the travellers. The boatmen chat- 
 tered, and screamed, and talked, and al- 
 most fought about many things ; but hap- 
 pily no one had been drowned ; and a f!;reat 
 many candles were vowed to different 
 shrines of the Virgin, who was supposed 
 to have especially interposed for the safety 
 of the party. 
 
 A man was sent off to seek for, and 
 bring back with him, carriages to convey 
 the English family and their friends to the 
 villa which Mr. Westwood had hired on the
 
 PEQUINILLO. 187 
 
 banks of the lake. Meanwhile, a chamber in 
 one of the old towers was made into a tem- 
 porary dressing-room ; dry garments were 
 prepared for the two ladies from the 
 houses of some of the peasantry in the 
 neighbourhood ; and, after a long time had 
 been spent in various discussions and ar- 
 rangements, Julian introduced Marmaduke 
 Knight to his old friends, and, for once in 
 his life, the young man's propensity for the 
 good things of hfe proved really service- 
 able to others. Young Knight was awk- 
 ward and gawky enough ; for there are 
 some men to whom not all the advantages 
 of birth, easy circumstances, and educa- 
 tion, w411 give the graceful suavity of a 
 gentleman ; and, though no one knew better 
 what to do theoretically, he did not know 
 how to do it. He seemed a good deal 
 struck with Mary Westwood's beauty, how- 
 ever, although it certainly did not appear 
 to the greatest advantage with her dank 
 hair, and her uncouth borrowed dress. 
 He would fain have pressed more wine
 
 188 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 upon her than she was at all inclined to 
 take. Some refreshment, however, was 
 beneficial ; and before the three long 
 hours were at an end, which elapsed ere 
 the messenger's return, the whole party 
 had regained, in a slight degree, not only 
 their composure, but their cheerfulness, 
 though the thunder was now rolling in 
 heavy peals above, and the rain descended 
 in torrents. 
 
 The storm had somewhat abated when 
 they took their way back towards the 
 other end of the lake ; and the adven- 
 tures of the day were over. Mr. West- 
 wood, his wife, and daughter, went in one 
 carriage, with one of the boatmen of the 
 vessel, which had now sunk, on the box ; 
 and Julian and Marmaduke Knight fol- 
 lowed close in the other, the latter talking 
 incessantly for the first half-hour, and 
 sleeping soundly through the whole of the 
 rest of the way. 
 
 Julian was not sorry when Marmaduke's 
 loquacity came to an end ; for the former was
 
 PEQUlJJflLLO. 189 
 
 inclined to be very grave and thoughtful. 
 There was cause enough for thought ; and the 
 accident which had happened to friends so 
 dearly loved, although unattended with 
 fatal consequences, was sufficient to ac- 
 count for his gloom. But the heart of 
 man, like the surface of the globe, has 
 stratum below stratum ; and that which is 
 on the surface is often the thinnest. It 
 was not the accident which had occurred, 
 the peril which the Westwood family had 
 passed through, or any of the ordinary as- 
 sociations which might arise from such 
 events, that afforded the deepest founda- 
 tion for the sort of melancholy anxiety 
 which pictured itself on Julian's counte- 
 nance. It was rather that the events of 
 that day had given him an insight into 
 things in his own heart, of which he pre- 
 viously knew not the existence. He strove, 
 indeed, to fly from the view ; but he felt 
 that he was standing on the brink of a pre- 
 cipice, though he did not dare to look down. 
 The perils of his situation were made more
 
 190 PEQUmiLLO. 
 
 clear to him before he parted from his 
 friends ; for, when he entered the villa, for 
 a moment, with Marmaduke Knight, to 
 bid them adieu before going on to the inn, 
 he was met by Mary with extended hands 
 and a beaming face. 
 
 " My father tells me, dear Julian," she 
 said, " that I owe my life to you ; and also 
 that, in my terror and want of reason, I 
 had nearly deprived 3^ou of life as well as 
 myself, by clinging to you while you were 
 trying to save me. IIow can I ever thank 
 you enough, Julian, or plead enough for 
 your forgiveness 1 But indeed I was ut- 
 terly unconscious of what I did. 1 did 
 not even know who was near me.'' 
 
 The joy which these words produced 
 was accompanied by a pang such as Julian 
 Ludlow had never felt in his life before; 
 and both together showed him feelings in 
 his breast, which he knew it was mad- 
 ness to entertain. 
 
 When he re-entered the carriage which 
 was to bear him on, he cast himself back
 
 PEQUINILLO. 191 
 
 ill the corner, and would fain have given 
 himself up to thought ; but Marmaduke 
 Knight would not let hi in, commenting 
 upon his silence and his gloom, jestingly 
 telling him that he was a very lucky 
 fellow, and might well afford to be gay 
 after such a sweet girl's sweet words, and 
 then discussing, with great satisfaction, the 
 merits of the dinner which he had taken 
 care to order before they set out in the 
 mornino;. 
 
 Of the latter part of his conversation, 
 Juliaa heard but httle. The words 
 " truffles of Savoy" rang once or twice in 
 his ears ; but he paid no attention, till his 
 companion enquired at what time they were 
 to set off in the morning. 
 
 " I must ride over to enquire after Mr. 
 Westwood's family,'' replied Julian. " But 
 I can do that early, for they are all ma- 
 tutinal in their habits; and then I shall be 
 ready whenever you please." 
 
 The dinner passed off as Marmaduke 
 Knight could have wished ; and Julian
 
 192 PEQIJINILLO. 
 
 Ludlow, whose clothes had dried upon him, 
 so that he had not thought it necessary to 
 change them, drank several more glasses 
 of wine than he was accustomed to take ; 
 partly to get rid of a sensation of chilUness 
 which spread over him, and partly to drive 
 away a certain cold feeling of the heart 
 which comes upon us when the first warm 
 hopes of youth are checked and rebuked 
 by the aspect of stern and hard realities. 
 
 But the wine was not successful in either 
 case. A sharp, long continued fit of 
 shivering seized upon Julian Ludlow before 
 dinner was fully over ; and half an hour 
 after, his face w^as flushed with an unhealthy 
 red, and his eyes were bright with the 
 glare of fever.
 
 PFIQUINILLO. 193 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Grief and anxiety cast a gloom over the 
 Aldi villa, when, on the morning following 
 the ill-starred expedition of its inmates to 
 the old castle at the end of the lake, Mr. 
 Westwood, who had set out early in the 
 morning on a sudden summons from the 
 inn, returned with Julian Ludlow in the 
 carriage. Mistress Westwood had not quitted 
 her room — for the hour was still early — 
 but Mary was just down ; and, ignorant 
 till her father's return that he had been 
 sent for, or that Julian was ill, the first 
 sight of his pale face and heavy eyes 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 seemed to take all strength from her 
 frame. A room was hastily prepared, and 
 Julian was assisted up the stairs to a bed 
 which he was not to quit for more than 
 two weeks. 
 
 But the histories of sicknesses are always 
 dull, be they those of royal personages or 
 of humble men. Let us, therefore, pass 
 lightly over that of Julian Ludlow. Suffice 
 it, he had been attacked by one of the 
 fevers of the country, the seeds of which 
 had probably been planted in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Milan, and which had only 
 been brought into activity by the wetting 
 he had received, and the drying of his 
 clothes upon him. Let us pass by, also, 
 all the comments of the servants upon the 
 great interest which Mr. Westwood and all 
 the family seemed to take in his fate. 
 Those who had come from England un- 
 derstood the matter quite well — at least, 
 according to their own belief ; and the 
 opinions of those who had been hired in 
 Italy, matters not much to our tale.
 
 PBQUIKILLO. 195 
 
 One subject seemed to give poor Julian 
 great concern through the early part of his 
 illness, running in his mind during the 
 day, and breaking forth in words during 
 the slight delirium that affected him at 
 night. This was the means of getting 
 back Marmaduke Knight in safety to 
 England. The vacation was approaching 
 its conclusion, and he himself had no 
 chance of reaching the University at the 
 commencement of the Term ; but he felt 
 a great responsibility in regard to his young 
 companion, and great doubt also of his 
 reaching his native country without getting 
 into some terrible scrape, if suffered to go 
 alone. 
 
 Not without that class of good feelings 
 which spring from gentleness and softness 
 of heart, Marmaduke Knight was a con- 
 stant attendant upon his friend's bed-side, 
 and showed himself in fairer colours in a 
 sick-room, than perhaps anywhere else. 
 The sensibilities of a refined mind he did 
 not possess ; but good nature supplied the 
 K 2
 
 196 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 place of tact; and Julian's old regard for 
 him, which had considerably waned during 
 their tour, returned in the hours of illness. 
 The young man, indeed, seemed to give no 
 thought to the subject of his own return; 
 and while his friend injured himself by 
 anxiety on his account, he appeared to en- 
 tertain none whatever on his own. One 
 day, however, when the first symptoms of 
 amendment began to appear in the invalid, 
 Julian Westwood entered the sick-room 
 with an expression of care and thought, 
 not often seen on his placid countenance. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you so much 
 better, my dear boy,'' he said ; " for I am 
 sorry to tell you that I shall have to leave 
 you to the care of others. To-morrow 
 morning, very early, I must set out for 
 England upon business, which may detain 
 me some time ; but I shall leave my own 
 man here, and he must be your head nurse. 
 He has known you from your childhood, 
 and is a good, honest fellow ; so that I 
 doubt not he will take as much care of you
 
 PEQUINILLO. 197 
 
 as I could do. I had better give notice to 
 your friends at Oxford, that you are too ill 
 to have any hope of saving your Term. 
 Can 1 do anything else for you in Eng- 
 land r 
 
 " There is one thing I am, indeed, very 
 anxious about," replied Julian, " and that 
 is for the return of my friend Knight. If 
 you could give him a seat in your carriage, 
 or take him with you in any way, it would 
 be a great relief to my mind." 
 
 *' Willingly," returned Mr. Westwood, 
 " if you think he will be ready to go at 
 such short notice. But if he is not, surely 
 he is old enough to find his way back to 
 Oxford by himself." 
 
 Julian did not choose to say all he 
 thought upon the subject, but merely re- 
 plied, 
 
 " He is very easily led, and might meet 
 with companions who would not lead hirr^ 
 right. As his mother, Mistress Knight, 
 seemed to place great confidence in me 
 and wrote me two long letters upon the
 
 19.8 PEQUINTLLO. 
 
 subject, I feel a responsibility in the matter 
 of his return ; and though it may be asking 
 too great a favour — " 
 . " Oh, not at all — not at all," interrupted 
 Julian Westwood. '* I will write him a note 
 directly, though I dare say he will be here 
 before night. My journey must be a very 
 rapid one indeed ; but that of course will be 
 no objection to a young man. And now, 
 Julian, you must promise not to leave this 
 house till you hear from me. I have talked 
 with the physician ; and he says that a 
 month must elapse before you can possibly 
 travel, even if this Italian fever should not 
 leave you incapable of application for some 
 months. You will be as well here as any 
 where else. And besides, you will have to 
 take care of Mistress Westwood and Mary. 
 I shall take your promise for granted, and 
 will look in upon you early to-morrow 
 before I go. I have a great deal to do this 
 evening in the way of preparation." 
 
 After he had done speaking, however, 
 he remained for several minutes by JuHan's
 
 PEQUINILLO. 199 
 
 bed side, plunged in a deep and apparently 
 melancholy fit of thought. Julian did 
 not actually give the promise he required 
 in words ; but he felt so feeble that there 
 seemed little chance to him of being able 
 to undertake any journey, even as soon as 
 the physician anticipated. Mr. West^YOod 
 at length started up, and bade his young 
 protege good bye for the evening. He 
 went into his room again early on the fol- 
 lowing morning ; but Julian was in a calm 
 sleep, and he did not disturb him. The 
 young man liad the satisfaction, how- 
 ever, of hearing, when he awoke, that 
 Marraaduke Knight had accompanied Mr. 
 Westwood in his journey; and, with his 
 mind reUeved on that score, he tried to 
 banish every other source of anxiety, in 
 order to recover his health as soon as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 Ten days passed ere he could quit his 
 room ; and those ten days went by nearly 
 in solitude. Mistress Westwood visited
 
 200 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 him with her husband's old servant, twice 
 every day, and the good man himself was as 
 kind and attentive as ^he could be; but he 
 was old, and garrulous, and fidgetty — 
 fond of moving chairs and tables, and doing 
 more than any body wanted — so that 
 Julian, especially as he was getting better, 
 when a certain degree of irratabiHty is 
 sure to succeed the lassitude of disease, took 
 every method that was not unkind to 
 shorten the valet's visits. He became 
 very anxious, too, to creep out of the dull 
 monotony of his one chamber; and, although 
 at length the physician said that he did 
 not see much objection, the old servant, 
 taking more care of his young charge 
 than either the doctor or himself, remon- 
 strated vigorously against the attempt. 
 
 He was far too weak, he said : he 
 would only throw himself all the way 
 back again : the more haste the worse 
 speed : he knew a thousand instances 
 where precipitation had been ruinous. And
 
 PEQUINILLO. 2 1 
 
 he proceeded to detail two or three, en- 
 hanced bj circumstances which were per- 
 haps a little apochrjphal. 
 
 Julian, however, though he said nothing 
 in opposition, resolved to have his own 
 way, if he should feel Ijis strength equal to 
 rising on the following morning. He slept 
 well and calmlj; and the Autumn day-light 
 woke him a couple of hours before the old 
 servant was accustomed to visit him. it 
 was one of those bright days which, in 
 Italy especially, come from time to time 
 to cheer the departure of the year. The 
 sunshine was more mellow than that of 
 Summer : the trees still retained a good 
 deal of their foliage ; though the verdant 
 tints of youth had given way, in a great 
 degree, to the prophetic colouring of 
 Autumn. He felt refreslied: the sun- 
 shine, as it poured through the windows, 
 drawing a variegated pattern on the floor, 
 seemed to revive him. He lay for a 
 few minutes considering w^hat he should 
 do ; but at length he rose and opened the 
 K 5
 
 202 PEQIJINILLO. 
 
 window ; and, feeling himself stronger 
 than he had expected, and far more so 
 than the day before, proceeded to dress 
 himself with no little care. 
 
 We are all fools to onr own internal 
 motives. They sport with us as they 
 please, and seldom, if ever, let us know 
 what they are doing. Julian believed 
 firmly that he only wished to make him- 
 self look as well as possible, to prevent 
 Mistress Westwood from feeling any appre- 
 hension at what she might call his rash 
 proceeding. 
 
 Perhaps if he had looked a little deeper 
 in his heart, he might have found out that 
 some idea, or memory, or feeling, in regard 
 to Mary Westwood had no little to do 
 with the attention which he paid to his 
 his dress. 
 
 However that might be, it must be confessed 
 that, even when he was fully dressed, and 
 when his hair, rich and abundant as ever, 
 was carefully brushed round his brows, he 
 still made a somewhat gaunt and grim
 
 PEQUINILLO. 203 
 
 looking portrait of what he had formerly 
 been. 
 
 AW was quiet in the house : no broom 
 of housemaid knocked against the skirting- 
 board : no sound of human voices was 
 heard ; and it was not till he had opened 
 the door, and got to the top of a beautifully 
 constructed stair-case, that he became 
 aware of anybody being up in the house 
 but himself. Then, however, he distinctly 
 heard some one moving below ; but that 
 did not deter him ; and, thinking that it 
 was one of the servants more early in his 
 habits than the rest, he quietly walked 
 down the stairs, holding by the bannisters 
 as he went. He found his way to the 
 great saloon, which opened upon the 
 colonnade in front, and found the room 
 vacant. Saloons are not often swept out 
 in Italy ; and, indeed, there was nobody 
 to sweep the present ; for it is quite enough 
 for an Italian housemaid — when of the 
 female sex, which does not always 
 happen — to dust any little ornaments and
 
 204 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 trinkets about the room, without taking 
 care of the floor, which she wisely deter- 
 mines will be soiled again almost as soon 
 as swept. Thus, the dirt remains till it is 
 kicked out, and then it returns very 
 rapidly. 
 
 The room, then, was vacant ; but a 
 great centre window, which served the 
 purposes of a door, had been divested of 
 its shutters, and was partly open. Julian 
 walked slowly and quietly across, and 
 looked out. The scene before the window 
 was beautiful ; but far the most beautiful 
 object to his eyes was Mary Westwood 
 seated on a marble bench, with a small table 
 before her, busily engaged in sketching the 
 opposite shores of the lake, including the 
 old Castle, and the promontory on which 
 it stood. 
 
 I really do not know whether it was 
 very wrong or not — and if it was, I cannot 
 help it ; for I do not set up Julian Ludlow 
 £S a pattern of perfection — but certainly 
 he stayed full ten minutes gazing at Mary
 
 PEQUINILLO. 205 
 
 Westvvood, without taking any step to 
 make her conscious of his presence. If he 
 wanted any defence, he might have put in 
 several pleas ; as first, that he came there 
 solely to look at the beauties of nature : 
 to refresh himself with the sight of loveli- 
 ness : and that none was so pleasant 
 to his eye as herself : therefore, that he 
 might just as well have been expected to 
 tell the mountains he came to look at them, 
 as to tell her. Or he might have taken a 
 contrary ground, and said, that, in all 
 important matters, some time is required 
 for consideration : that an interview with 
 Mary Westwood at that moment, and in 
 those circumstances, was a matter of im- 
 mense importance to him ; and that there- 
 fore ten minutes was not at all too long to 
 consider whether he ought to open the door 
 entirely and go out, or whether he had 
 better creep back quietly to his room, 
 and weep. 
 
 There would have been some truth in 
 each of these pleas, and more truth still iu
 
 206 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 both of them mixed together. JuHan was 
 weak from illness, and a Httle irresolute ; 
 but, as I have shown, he was of a warm 
 and impetuous disposition, which illness 
 may subdue for a time, but cannot extin- 
 guish. The reader may therefore easily 
 judge what course he followed. He stood 
 and gazed for full ten minutes, letting his 
 eye rest upon the beautiful line of her 
 figure, as she bent gracefully over the 
 drawing; upon the fair, soft hand, with 
 the slender fingers tipped with rose, worthy 
 ambrosial May ; upon the small, deHcate, 
 almost transparent ear ; upon the head, 
 and neck, with the rich brown hair 
 turned up in a glossy mass, like that of a 
 Greek statue, and some small curls broken 
 away from the general fold, and hanging 
 on the alabaster skin, nests for young Loves. 
 She sat very still, with nothing but the 
 movement of the hand over the paper 
 and every now and then a sigh heaving 
 her bosom — as if there were yet some hap- 
 piness not hers. The very sight was
 
 PEQUINILLO. 207 
 
 enough to fix him there ; drinking in, as 
 the poet has it, '' draughts of enchanting 
 beauty to his soul." But those very 
 draughts made him doubt what he should 
 next do ; for he felt that he was lost if he 
 took much more of them. 
 
 Doubtless, Eve, after the first bite at the 
 apple — when the knowledge of good and 
 evil came rushing upon her in a bewilder- 
 ing flood — wondered why she had tasted it 
 at all, and wished to heaven she had not 
 (which, by the way, rendered it more in- 
 excusable of her to get Adam into the same 
 scrape ; for, by that time, she must have 
 known she was doing wrong) ; and cer- 
 tainly Julian Ludlow wished .to heaven, 
 that, in a moment of terrible peril, when 
 death seemed the inevitable fate of both, 
 the secret chambers of his heart had 
 not been opened to him, and that he had 
 never known that it was possible to love 
 Mary Westwood otherwise than as a 
 sister. 
 
 Hesitation, however, soon gave way ;
 
 208 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 and, opening the door completely, he 
 walked out into the portico. His first step 
 upon the marble, made Mary start and look 
 up. I wonder what she was thinking of 
 — something that had slumbering fire in 
 it ; for the blood rushed up into her face, 
 as if even thought could be detected. 
 
 The next instant, however, she was all 
 calm again, and her hand was fondly given 
 to Julian, and her eyes sparkled with 
 pleasure at beholding him, even while her 
 warm false lips were reproaching him for 
 venturing out, and venturing out so early. 
 
 He assured her, however, that it would do 
 him good — that he felt the air refresh him ; 
 and indeed all that he beheld seemed laden 
 with health-restoring antidotes ; and then 
 he seated himself on the marble bench be- 
 side her, and looked at the sketch she had 
 been drawing. 
 
 Thus, and in this situation — very close 
 to each other, and with beautiful objects 
 all around them — began a conversation
 
 PKQUINILLO. 209 
 
 which affected the fate of both for 
 ever. 
 
 But, as it was the oddest conversation in 
 the world, and conducted in the oddest 
 manner, it shall ha^e a chapter to itself.
 
 210 PEQUINILLO 
 
 CHArTER XL 
 
 The drawing was nearly finished, and they 
 both gazed at it for a moment in silence, 
 while association was busy in each heart. 
 One day was present to the mind of both 
 — one series of events, little varied in 
 either bosom — one memory, terrible but 
 bright, as the climax. Julian remembered 
 the calm, sweet sail up the lake, the 
 various villas he had passed, the story at- 
 tached to each, the group of people whom 
 he had seen descending towards their boat 
 from that very portico, the interest he had 
 felt in them; and, without knowing who 
 they were, the anxiety he had experi-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 211 
 
 enced for them as the moment of peril 
 approached. 
 
 Mary recollected the consultation in the 
 garden as to the probability of a speedy 
 storm, the sight of the boat which con- 
 tained Julian and his companion, and how 
 the easy and confident manner in which 
 they were sailing on had given her father 
 and mother encouragement to run the risk. 
 She recollected, too, that she wondered 
 who that gay looking boat could contain, 
 in one of those idle, dreamy moods in 
 which imagination sports with all the 
 playthings of possibility ; that she had 
 set out quite fearless; that terror had 
 increased upon her with the increasing 
 wind, till her heart sank and her limbs 
 trembled, and in a moment she found 
 herself carried round in the whirling 
 water. 
 
 " It was there,'^ said Mary, putting her 
 finger on a spot in the paper. "Just 
 there.''
 
 212 PEQQINILLO. 
 
 " A little more on this side/* suggested 
 Julian, pointing to another spot. 
 
 Their fingers were close together ; and 
 Mary, as if his words were an injunction, 
 drew a little nearer to that side also. 
 
 Whether there be any such thing as 
 animal magnetism or not, I cannot say ; 
 but the hands were so close together that 
 an irresistible inclination seized them to 
 creep round each other. 
 
 Yet it was done so quietly, and they 
 both looked upon it so much as the most 
 natural thing in the world, that the color 
 did not even deepen in Mary's cheek ; and, 
 though Julian's hand trembled a little, it 
 might have been from illness. She owed 
 her life to him : he had risked his to save 
 her. What could be more natural, after 
 all, than that their hands should clasp, 
 when looking on the spot where for a 
 moment their existence had mingled — 
 where there had seemed no earthly sepa- 
 ration for them — where life and death had
 
 PEQTJINILLO. 213 
 
 bound them for an instant as in a chain of 
 adamant ? 
 
 Mary left her hand in his, and Julian 
 continued to hold it. 
 
 " It was a little more on this side, dear 
 Mary,'' he repeated. "Don't you see there is 
 the rocky point below the Castle? It was 
 just to the eastward of that, and some- 
 what to the south. I remember quite 
 well I could not see your boat from below, 
 till I ran round to the extreme end, and 
 the wind blew my hat off into the lake/' 
 
 " Did you know we were in the boat V^ 
 asked Mary. 
 
 " No, I did not," he answered, frankly. 
 "I had no idea you were in Italy; and 
 yet there was something yery strange — a 
 sort of instinct, it seemed — which made 
 me feel as if those I loved best were in the 
 boat I had been watching so anxiously." 
 
 Mary was silent ; but why or wherefore 
 she knew not, though her heart fluttered a 
 good deal at the words "those I loved best." 
 
 " I did not absolutely know," continued 
 Julian, " that you were there until I was
 
 2 1 4 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 "within a few yards of you in the water. 
 You then turned your head, as I called to 
 you to keep up, and I felt as if T should 
 have sunk myself when I saw that it was 
 really you." 
 
 But Mary's mind ran on. " Oh ! did 
 you not think me very foolish, very mad," 
 she said, " when I clasped you so wildly, 
 and nearly cast away my only chance 1" 
 
 " No," answ^ered Julian, in a low voice, 
 touched with strong emotion. "No— at 
 that moment, when we were both sinking, 
 I had but one thought." 
 
 " What was that, Julian 1 what was 
 that ?" she said, in an eager but soft tone. 
 He hesitated, and she added — " Tell me — 
 oh! tell me, Julian." 
 
 " I said, ' Thank God I shall perish with 
 her !' " replied Julian. 
 
 Mary was silent ; but she put her hand 
 upon her heart, and gazed in his face, 
 while she turned pale for an instant, and 
 then her face was all in a glow, and then 
 the tears rose up in her eyes, swam round 
 the verge of the dark lashes, like the
 
 PEQUINILLO. 21 5 
 
 diamond waters of some fairy fountain, 
 and then a drop or t^Yo went over upon 
 her cheek. 
 
 *'They were mad words," said Julian, 
 in a grave tone, " and I beHeve I am mad 
 now to tell them to you." 
 
 " No, no, no !" cried Mary, " oh, no ! — 
 Why should you say so V And then she 
 added, in a lower tone, grave and thought- 
 ful, as if she were speaking with herself, 
 " It is better for me to know.'' 
 
 Suddenly she pushed the drawing from 
 the table. '' There — let it lie there," she 
 said, as Julian was rising to pick it up. 
 " We will talk of other things. You are 
 not strong enough yet, Julian, to speak of 
 such terrible events — nor do I know that I 
 am either. — See how foolish I am ! — I can- 
 not even keep the tears out of my eyes 
 when 1 am thinking of them! — And you 
 must be very careful of your health, dear 
 Juhan ; if not for your own sake, for the 
 sake of those who love you. — We must 
 both be gay and cheerful, too, when
 
 216 PEQQINILLO. 
 
 mamma comes down ; for, though she has 
 not suffered at all from what occurred that 
 day, she is very sad and anxious, and will 
 be till she hears from my father." 
 
 A tone of deep sadness was in her voice 
 as she uttered the last words ; and Julian 
 asked in some alarm, " Has anything gone 
 amiss 5 
 
 "Did not my father tell youl" said Mary; 
 and she went on to inform Julian that the 
 cause of Mr. Westwood's sudden journey 
 to England was the illness of the old 
 Squire, who had been struck in a moment 
 with palsy, and remained speechless when 
 the last accounts had been sent. 
 
 Few pieces of intelligence could be more 
 painful to Julian. He grieved deeply 
 and sincerely ; yet, strange to say, the 
 information was an advantage — I must 
 not call it a relief — coming just at the mo- 
 ment it did in his conversation with Mary. 
 It was a sort of full stop — brought one 
 branch of the subject to a close ; and let me 
 say that it is sometimes lucky when acci-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 217 
 
 dent takes this sort of punctuation out of 
 men's hands ; for there is no part of com- 
 position of which they are generally more 
 ignorant. Few, if any, people know where 
 to stop ; and lovers, of all persons on earth, 
 are the most apt to run on without even a 
 comma. 
 
 I have said that it was an advantage 
 that thus naturally, though abruptly, the 
 course of the subject matter which they 
 were discussing was brought to a pause ; 
 and so it was. Now, only consider, dear 
 reader, what svas the point at which they 
 had arrived, and what must have been the 
 consequences if they had gone on un- 
 checked. It had been made quite clear 
 and definite to Mary's mind — or rather to 
 her heart, which had more to do with the 
 matter — that Julian loved her ; and 
 equally clear to Julian that Mary returned 
 his love. All this had been effected, too, 
 without the thunder -clap of a formal de- 
 claration. A mutual understanding was 
 established, which,for the time, was all that 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 PEQUIKILLO. 
 
 was necessary to set both their hearts at 
 ease, and— as those two hearts were con- 
 stituted — to plight and pledge thera to 
 each other for ever. Had they pur- 
 sued the same topic, however, the conse- 
 quences must have been very serious. 
 They w^ould have been driven to consider 
 and discuss all sorts of proprieties, which, 
 as the reader well-knows, are the most 
 difficult things in the w^orld to handle. 
 The words of love would have had to be 
 plainly spoken : Julian would have had 
 to propose an immediate notification of 
 their feelings to Mr. West wood : Mary 
 would have had to think of teUing her 
 mother. The whole would have been com- 
 plicated by Julian's promise to remain at 
 the villa till he heard from England ; and 
 vows of endless affection, and untiring faith, 
 and what novelists call ''burning" kisses, too, 
 might have mingled with the whole, and 
 made confusion more confused. Let me 
 remark, however, in passing, that I never 
 in my life knew — and I have had some ex-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 219 
 
 perience — kisses burn. Oh no ! Love's 
 kisses, however warm, will never burn. 
 They are too sweet — too gentle : they 
 bear their own balm with them, and have 
 nothing of fire but the hght and the genial 
 influence. 
 
 AW would have been very well, then 
 when the old Squire's illness had once been 
 mentioned ; but lovers w411 not let well 
 alone; and Julian soon brought the con- 
 versation round again to the point from 
 which it had diverged. 
 
 Poets tell us that pity is akin to love ; 
 but grief is nearer still. The moment 
 some mutual sorrow takes possession of two 
 hearts, how closely it binds them together ! 
 Nay more : how often, when cold estrange- 
 ment has come between them, when hard 
 thoughts and misconstructions have risen 
 up where once was tenderness, does that 
 mutual sorrow heal all wounds, and remedy 
 all the maladies of the heart! — how often 
 does it bring back peace, and tenderness, 
 and attachment ! 
 L 2
 
 220 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 The transition, therefore, was easy for 
 Julian and Mary, from their grief back to 
 their love. 
 
 " What would he think could he see all 
 at this moment ?" said Julian Ludlow, in a 
 low voice, half meditating, half addressing 
 Mary. 
 
 It was rather an indefinite way of putting 
 a question. He did not particularize any- 
 thing. He did not name any person ; but 
 what had passed before, connected his 
 words with the old Squire, and Mary's own 
 heart easily connected them with what 
 was in itself She answered, quite sim- 
 ply, but with an earnest sort of confidence 
 which showed her mind quite clear of all 
 those doubts and apprehensions which dis- 
 turbed her lover. 
 
 " I think he would bless us,'' she said. 
 " I am very sure he would." 
 
 Julian sat silent, swallowed up by 
 thought and anxiety ; and Mary remarked 
 the gloom upon his countenance, saying —
 
 PEQUINILLO. 221 
 
 " You are very grave, Julian. Are you 
 not happy V 
 
 *' Happy in all but in doubts that my 
 happiness will last," replied Julian. " I can 
 hardly believe in its reality, much less in 
 its permanence, Mary. How, indeed, can 
 I believe — how, indeed, can I trust — that 
 such dreams will ever be fulfilled 1 Oh, 
 Mary — Mary, it seems to me that what 
 happened to us off yonder point was but 
 an image — a type, as it were — of what is 
 happening now — with this difference, how- 
 ever ; that it is I who am struggling with 
 the waves of life, and, while gasping for 
 the uncertain breath of happiness, I am 
 dragging you down with me." 
 
 " Never fear," she answered, in a sweet, 
 calm tone. " Carry the image out, Juhan, 
 and be sure some hand will save us 
 both.'^ 
 
 Mary spoke as she had never spoken 
 before. Her girlish tenderness mingled 
 with womanly strength. It seemed as if 
 the few words of that morning had
 
 222 PEQUINJLLO. 
 
 changed her — had opened for her a new 
 phase of being ; but she added, quickly, 
 the moment after, half playfully, half 
 gravely — 
 
 *' We will talk of these things no more 
 now, Julian. They are too much for you 
 so soon after your illness. They are too 
 much for me, perhaps, in my weakness. 
 Let them rest for a time. We comprehend 
 each other now. Surely that is enough. 
 Hereafter, when you are better — when my 
 father returns — it will be time enough to 
 think more and to talk more of all this, 
 At present, let us be cheerful and happy as 
 before." 
 
 Julian would fain have asked her if, by 
 the words, "we comprehend each other 
 now," she meant to imply that there had 
 been previous thoughts and doubts as to 
 his feelings towards her. But accident 
 stood their friend that day in many 
 things ; and just as the words were trem- 
 bling on his lips, a servant came from the 
 saloon behind them, with a message from
 
 PEQUINILLO. 223 
 
 Mistress Westwood, desiring her daughter 
 to make the breakfast, and saying that 
 she would appear in a few minutes. 
 
 Mar}^ rose instantly, saying, with a 
 smile, " Come, Julian ! Mamma will be 
 surprised to find you down. Mind, Mad- 
 docks, that no one tells your mistress that 
 he is down, till she sees him.'^ And she led 
 the way to the dining-room of the villa. 
 
 Julian was far more agitated than she ; 
 but, to explain how this happened, I 
 should add, that she would have been 
 ten times more agitated, if love had 
 come upon her suddenly. Its develop- 
 ment had been so gradual, however — it 
 had so completely grown with her growth, 
 and strengthened with her strength — she 
 had so learned to love him in childhood 
 and in youth — that, when they had met 
 there that morning, there was but one step 
 more to be taken, and that was an easy one. 
 It might, indeed, have been otherwise — 
 far otherwise — even circumstanced in all 
 general respects as they were. She might
 
 224 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 have gone on fancying that she loved him 
 merely as a brother — never dreaming that 
 such attachment could ripen into any 
 stronger feeling ; and when she found 
 how intense and deep, was her love 
 for him, and his love for her, the dis- 
 covery might have shaken and agitated her 
 terribly. But her governess had under- 
 mined such delusions long before — had 
 shown her what might be — had taught her 
 not only to scan her own. heart, but to 
 Avatch Julian's words and looks ; and thus 
 she knew that he loved her, even before he 
 knew it himself With regard to her own 
 feelings, she would gladly have shrunk 
 from any minute investigation. But it was 
 forced upon her from time to time, even 
 after her governess was gone, by a thou- 
 sand little incidents hardly tangible, yet 
 ■working powerfully. Her mother's looks 
 and words, at times — her father's or the 
 old Squire's eager commendations of Julian, 
 — and the emotions that these things pro- 
 duced in her own bosom, had been school-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 225 
 
 ing, her for two or three months past, in 
 that science of the heart ^Yhich forms and 
 perfects woman's character. Thus, though 
 full of warm emotions, thrilling to every 
 tender word or look of love, capable even 
 of the strongest and most ardent passion, 
 Mary was less moved than Julian when the 
 moment of explanation came. She was 
 perfectly calm and tranquil when Mistress 
 Westwood entered; and her lover's agitated 
 thoughtfulness passed unobserved in con- 
 sideration of his recent recovery from 
 severe illness. 
 
 L 5
 
 226 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 CHAPTEH XII. 
 
 How rarely is it — more rarely than when, 
 in the midst of the broad Atlantic, vessel 
 meets vessel — that man can ask his heart, 
 " What cheer V and receive for answer, 
 " Alls well." 
 
 When Julian Ludlow retired to his 
 chamber that night — when the door was 
 closed, and, by the kindly but officious care 
 of Mr. Westwood's valet, he was hurried to 
 bed more rapidly than he desired — he lay 
 awake for upwards of an hour, notwith- 
 standing the exhaustion of iUness, and the
 
 PEQUIKILLO. 227 
 
 unusual fatigue. The cry rose up within 
 him — " What cheer?" But the answer 
 never was " All's well." At one time, it 
 was " Breakers a-head I" and at others, the 
 same voice spoke of dangers all around. 
 
 Every one has felt how different is the 
 aspect of the same facts and circumstances 
 at each varying hour of the day ; how 
 differently we look upon our fate and future 
 in the merry morning, in the sunny noon, 
 and in the dull, silent night ; and there left 
 alone, with the dim watch-lamp winking in 
 the chimney, almost all that was bright 
 and cheering in the events of that day 
 passed away from Julian's eyes like unreal 
 pageants ; and nothing but the dark, and 
 the coarse, and the heavy remained. 
 
 Sometimes he could hardly believe it 
 real ; that he had spoken as he had ; that 
 Mary had so answered him ; that their al- 
 most insane love had been breathed to 
 each other; that their hearts had found 
 voice in sounds beyond recal. It seemed 
 a dream — a vision, which could have no
 
 228 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 truth in it ; and yet it came back and 
 back upon him with an awful sense of all 
 its consequences. Was not the love itself 
 rash, mad, hopeless '? Had not the avowal 
 of it been wrong, base, ungrateful 1 
 What would Mr. West wood think — he 
 who had loaded him with kindness — 
 he who had fostered, with such tender- 
 ness, his youth, promoted his views in 
 manhood, interested himself in every turn 
 of his fate — what would he think, when he 
 found that the child of his bounty, the son 
 of the simple village carpenter, had raised 
 his eyes to his daughter, had used the ad- 
 vantages which the bounty of himself and 
 his family had bestowed, to win her love, 
 and perhaps to darken all the prospects of 
 her future life 1 Bitter — bitter, was his 
 self reproach ; but it was nothing to his 
 despair. To hope was mere frenzy: he 
 knew it well and yet what could he do? 
 He could not fly. He was too weak to go 
 immediately. He had promised to remain, 
 even if he had been strong enough ; and
 
 PEQUINILLO. 229 
 
 had he not done so, could he leave Mary to 
 despair like his ? Could he abandon her 
 side whom he had but that morning linked 
 to himself by a bond to which all the 
 bonds of society are frail and empty 1 
 
 Wretchedness seemed before him on 
 whatsoever side he turned. Clouds, and 
 storms, and tempests, covered the whole 
 sky. No — no. One bright point stood in 
 the midst of the darkness. He was loved 
 — he was loved! One sweet sound 
 rose up in the midst of the din of 
 agonized and tumultuous feelings. It was 
 the voice of Mary, speaking love, and hope, 
 and confidence. 
 
 Where got she that calm trust which she 
 showed ? he asked himself Whence came 
 that mild and quiet assurance 1 Where 
 did that young, gentle girl find the strength 
 to struggle against the waves that over- 
 whelmed him 1 Was it in ignorance, or in 
 knowledge 1 Tn enduring meekness, or in 
 loftiness of spirit 1
 
 230 TEQUINILLO. 
 
 He couid not tell ; but still the sweet 
 voice spoke, the bright light glimmered 
 through the shadows, and they calmed 
 him at length. He resolved upon his con- 
 duct : the first confused agitation of his 
 thoughts subsided : the way before him 
 grew more distinct ; and, though steep and 
 rugged — though difficult, perilous, and 
 painful — he nerved his mind to tread it 
 resolutely. He would be to Mary, he 
 thought, merely what he had been before : 
 he would show no change in manner or in 
 words : he would be the Julian Ludlow of 
 earlier yfears, and let that day be blotted 
 from remembrance — as far as remembrance, 
 at least, could affect conduct — till her 
 father's return. Then he would tell him 
 all — acknowledge his folly^ — express his 
 regret ; and in the end act exactly as Mr. 
 West wood might direct. 
 
 Oh, fooHsh mind of youth, which, 
 amongst all the unstable things whereon 
 it counts, reckons up its own resolutions.
 
 PEQUTKILLO. 231 
 
 mingling the impossible with the improba- 
 ble, till the whole fabric tumbles down, 
 and is found to be of sand ! 
 
 Julian rose a good deal later on the fol- 
 lowing morning. Thought, vigilance, care, 
 anxiety, self-reproach, hopelessness, had 
 made the night a wearisome and a weaken- 
 ing one, and he looked haggard and pale 
 at the breakfast -table, alarming Mary, and 
 making even Mistress Westwood remark 
 that she feared he had over exerted him- 
 self on the preceding day. However, dur- 
 ing the few short hours of autumnal light, 
 he executed his purpose steadfastly. No 
 tender words, no sighs, no looks of love, 
 passed between him and Mary ; and he 
 felt confident in his own strength. He was 
 pleased, too, with his plan, and fancied that 
 he should be able to carry it out success- 
 fully during the few days that were Hkely 
 to intervene between the actual present 
 and Mr. West wood's return. He slept more 
 that nigbt; for he imagined that he was 
 now sure of victory over himself. The
 
 232 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 next day he was better ; for he had slept 
 well, and Mary did not perceive any trace 
 of care or sorrow having visited him. 
 Once or twice, when he was alone with her 
 for a few moments, he was strongly tempted 
 to renew the subject, and to tell her his re- 
 solution ; but something within seemed 
 to whisper that, if he did, the whole 
 would have to be gone over again : that 
 love would find a voice, as soon as the 
 name of love was mentioned, and that in 
 fact he was going to seek a combat, with 
 the wounds of the last strife yet unhealed. 
 In a day or two, Julian was well enough 
 to drive out in a carriage, and then to 
 ride on horseback ; and long and frequent 
 w^ere his absences, lest opportunity should 
 bring temptation, which he wished by all 
 means to avoid. Daily he went over to the 
 post-office at the small town at the southern 
 extremity of the lake. Very often, there 
 were no letters, and he returned disap- 
 pointed ; but one day there was a letter 
 addressed in Mr. Westwood's hand to his
 
 PEQUINTLLO. 233 
 
 wife ; and Julian, when he turned away, 
 and was mounting his horse, felt a painful 
 anxiety to know the contents, though he 
 divined them but too well, in part at least, 
 by the black edge upon the paper, and the 
 black seal which the paper bore. He was 
 too much pre-occupied to notice a person 
 who stood near the little window of the 
 post-office, and who gazed at him with 
 great earnestness while he was enquiring 
 for the letters for the villa. 
 
 Thestranger was amiddle-agedraan, with 
 a very sharp, shrewd, penetrating coun- 
 tenance, somewhat dashingly dressed, and 
 distinguished by a sort of off-hand, jaunty, 
 rapid manner which affected his lightest 
 movement. He seemed, with his clear, 
 quick eyes, to look into the thoughts of 
 every one at once ; to be perfectly con- 
 scious of his faculty ; and to be ready to 
 deal in an instant with any one he might 
 encounter, upon the strength of this sort 
 of instinctive perception. His face was a 
 good deal tanned by exposure to the sun,
 
 234 PRQUINILLO. 
 
 and his skin was naturally of a rather 
 coarse texture ; but, though his eyes — 
 sharp as they were — were of that sort of 
 no color which people call grey, his mous- 
 tachios and whiskers w^ere of jet black, 
 and his hair seemed to have been origi- 
 nally of the same color, though every here 
 and there, in the locks which escaped from 
 under his hat, the silver mingled with the 
 sable. He was a little above the middle 
 height — perhaps five feet ten, or nearly 
 so ; but, though it was evident that he 
 had passed his first youth, and that six of 
 the seven out of the allotted tens had flitted 
 away from him, at the least — yet he had 
 not lost anything of the perfection of a 
 figure which seemed to have been formed 
 by Nature for strength and agility. 
 
 The moment Julian had ridden away, 
 the stranger, who seemed to have es- 
 tablished a sort of acquaintance with the 
 post-master, walked up to the window, 
 where there was no other applicant at the
 
 PEQUINILLO. 235 
 
 moment, and, in not tlie choicest Italian 
 that ever was spoken, enquired who the 
 gentleman was. The post-master told 
 him, as well as he could contrive to pro- 
 nounce the name of Ludlow, which he had 
 seen on the cover of one or two letters de- 
 livered to the young Englishman since his 
 arrival. The stranger seemed a sort of 
 (Edipus, however; for he solved the riddle in 
 a minute, and entered into a sort of gossip- 
 ing conversation with the post-master, in 
 regard to Julian, which was partly carried 
 on in Italian, partly in French, which he 
 seemed to speak a good deal more fluently. 
 The post-master himself had served under 
 Napoleon, and was rather proud of his 
 French ; though he had that softness of 
 the vowels which always indicates a southern 
 origin. 
 
 The gossip lasted till the hour of dinner, 
 and the stranger walked back to the inn 
 with the ruler of the destiny of letters, 
 still talking as he went, and still making
 
 236 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 Julian Ludlow, and the family at the villa, 
 the themes of his conversation. 
 
 I have said that he walked back with 
 the post-master to the inn ; and perhaps it 
 may be necessary to explain to the reader 
 that, in those days, both in France and 
 Italy, all unmarried officials — with a few 
 eccentric exceptions — had some little hole 
 or corner where they passed the hours of 
 sleep, while their meals were taken at 
 an inn or boarding-house, and the rest of 
 their leisure time was spent at the coffee- 
 house; except when they sat themselves 
 down under an arcade, or in a shady 
 angle of the pubhc square, " per piglar la 
 fresca" 
 
 The post-master and the stranger sat 
 down to dinner side by side, a relative 
 position which they had occupied at their 
 meals for the last four days j but on this 
 occasion a new guest was at the table on 
 the left hand of the stranger. He was a 
 tall, stout, powerful man, very quietly but
 
 PEQUIKILLO. 237 
 
 well dressed, and with exceedingly mild, 
 insinuating manners. Pie had, indeed, a 
 habit of knitting his brows from time to 
 time, in a way which seemed to show that 
 he could occasionally fall into a greater 
 passion than the general suavity of his 
 demeanour seemed to promise. He was 
 soon in full conversation with his foreign 
 neighbour, who appeared to remark nothing 
 particular in his appearance, notwith- 
 standing a significant glance, and a pinch 
 of the arm from the post-master. A 
 wonderful degree of intimacy sprung up 
 between them, which could only be ac- 
 counted for by supposing some latent na- 
 tural sympathy. Taking that interrogatory 
 liberty which foreigners are accustomed to 
 indulge in towards Englishmen — and the 
 accent of the stranger betrayed him — the 
 new guest put several pointed and rather 
 personal questions to his acquaintance, such 
 as — Was he travelling for amusement 1 
 Was he married 1 Was he rich ? 
 
 Don't let the reader be surprised. We
 
 238 PEQUIKILLO. 
 
 have heard the same questions asked, even 
 of a lady, twenty times. 
 
 To all these enquiries the stranger 
 very frankly answered " No," and, in his 
 reply to the last of them, added " that he 
 was waiting for remittances to carry him 
 back to England/' 
 
 The other appeared to be a philosopher, 
 however, and not to estimate a man by 
 his wealth ; for he did not suffer the 
 announcement of poverty to diminish his 
 courtesy, and seemed a good deal struck 
 and captivated by the shrewd, trenchant, 
 man-of-the-world, adventurerish observa- 
 tions of his new founds friend. He went 
 away, however, as soon as actual dinner 
 was over, and when the nuts and almonds 
 were put upon the table, making a sort of 
 semi-appoint,ment to meet the Englishman 
 that evening in a coffee-house which he 
 named. 
 
 Shortly after he was gone, the post- 
 master and the Englishman both rose, 
 and sauntered out together into the
 
 PEQUINILLO. 239 
 
 piazza. Everything is sauntered in Italy; 
 and the post-master, though he had some- 
 thing important to communicate — or at 
 least thought so — sauntered as quietly as 
 possible with his acquaintance to a remote 
 part of the Square, and then asked him if 
 he knew whom he had been talking to at 
 dinner. 
 
 " I don't know whom; but I know whaty' 
 replied the stranger. 
 
 The other shook his head, remarking — 
 
 " I doubt it, Doctor." 
 
 " Will you let me guess three times V 
 said his companion ; and, as the other nod- 
 ded his head, he added — ■ 
 
 '' He is either a capo di sbirri, or a 
 common gambler, or a capo di bandV 
 
 The post-master literally started at the 
 last words, and gazed at his companion as 
 if he had been in presence of a prophet. 
 
 " In Heaven's name, who told you so V' 
 he ejaculated. 
 
 The other laid one finger of his right
 
 240 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 hand first upon one eye and then upon the 
 other, replying with a laugh — 
 
 '' It is a part of my profession, excellent 
 sir, to see men through and through." 
 
 " Well, Doctor," observed the other, 
 gravely, and nodding his head, "if you will 
 take my advice you will have nothing to 
 do with him. You are keen enough, I can 
 see ; but there are rough ways of blunting 
 sharp weapons." 
 
 The other laughed gaily. 
 
 " I am not the least afraid of him," he 
 said. '* First, because I have nothing to 
 lose, and secondl}^ because I may even 
 gain something. Now, if you will come to 
 the coffee-house to-night, some timeafterme, 
 you shall see me win twenty scudi of that 
 same man : perhaps I may win a great 
 deal more, for the fun of the thing ; but 
 the twenty I will win fairly. The rest I 
 will pay him back ; and I will do it merely 
 to show him that he has met his match. 
 So remember, I tell you beforehand exactly 
 what I intend to do."
 
 PEQUTNILLO. 241 
 
 " Do you think he will play with you V 
 asked the other. 
 
 '' To a certainty," r.^plied the Doctor, as 
 he was called. " He has made a good 
 sweep somewhere, and has come in, per- 
 haps at the risk of liis head, to spend his 
 cash, and look out for another opportunity. 
 Will you come V 
 
 The post-master seemed to hesitate ; but 
 curiosity got the better of a good share of 
 prudence, and the party was made. 
 
 At the hour appointed, the Doctor 
 walked quietly into the coffee-house ; and, 
 passing through the long ranges of small 
 marble tables, where people were partak- 
 ing of the innocent luxuries of the South, 
 he advanced to a spot where the stranger, 
 who appeared so formidable to the post- 
 master, was seated at a table, drinking a 
 small glass of latte di vecchio h^ himself. 
 
 They shook hands wdien they met, Uke 
 old friends; and, after a word or two, moved 
 into an iimerroom where some green tables 
 stood round in inviting corners. A word to 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 PEQUENILLO. 
 
 one of the waiters soon furnished a table 
 with cards and dice, while two or three of 
 the frequenters of the coffee-house walked 
 into the room to see the game which they 
 divined was about to commence. Some of 
 them formed a party at another table ; but 
 the post-master, who was one of those that 
 entered, placed himself in the circle round 
 the first players, merely giving a nod to the 
 Englishman, and saying, " Good evening, 
 Doctor." 
 
 The stake was not very high, and the 
 Doctor lost three crowns successively ; but 
 then he began to win, and when he began 
 he did not stop. The three crowns were 
 won back: ten — twenty followed. He pro- 
 posed to stop ; but the other was growing 
 eager, and offered at once to quadruple the 
 sum he had just lost. Though the Doctor 
 declined this, saying he had only brought ten 
 crowns with him, he challenged the other to 
 play double or quits, which was at once ac- 
 cepted ; and the Doctor won again. The 
 same was repeated with the same success, and
 
 PKQumiLLO. 243 
 
 again, and again, till the stranger had lost 
 more than five-hundred sequins. 
 
 A slight smile had been playing round 
 the Doctor's lips, partly concealed by his 
 moustachios ; but at last he burst into a 
 laugh, "which seemed to offend the other a 
 good deal. His right hand fumbled 
 ominously with his waistcoat pocket, while 
 he asked, fiercely — " What are you laugh- 
 ing at, sir V 
 
 " Why, because I have been cheating 
 you, ever since I won the first twenty 
 crowns," replied the Doctor. " Those were 
 won fairly, and I shall keep them. But 
 • the rest I have no claim to.'' And he thrust 
 the pile beside him across the table, adding 
 — "I only did it as a warning to you not 
 to play with people you do not know. You 
 play well ; but you are no match for me." 
 
 The stranger hesitated, glad enough to 
 get his sequins back again, though not 
 exactly liking to be beaten and laughed at. 
 
 " Then you were really cheating V he 
 said.
 
 244 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 "Not exactly cheating," replied the 
 Doctor, " but deceiving your eyes. I told 
 the postmaster here what I would do be- 
 forehand ; but 1 never wish to wrong a 
 good companion." 
 
 " I wish you would teach me the trick," 
 suggested the other. 
 
 " No, no," repUed the Doctor. " I will 
 show it to you ; but it is not to be taught. 
 You must become a Master of Arts, as I 
 am, before you can learn." 
 
 As he spoke, he took up the dice-box, 
 and bade his opponent put the dice in 
 himself 
 
 " Now call any numbers you like," be 
 said. 
 
 "Three-six," exclaimed the stranger ; and 
 the Doctor threw them. 
 
 The same feat was repeated five or six 
 times, and a murmur of astonishment broke 
 from all around. 
 
 " It is all a mistake of your eyes," said 
 the Doctor, with a laugh. " Every one go
 
 PEQULNTLLO. 245 
 
 to tlie other side of the table, and keep 
 your eyes fixed upon the dice." 
 
 While they moved as he directed, he 
 turned up the sleeve of his coat, and then 
 that of his shirt, so as to leave his power- 
 ful arm bare nearly to the elbow. Then 
 taking one of the dice between his thumb 
 and forefinger in the full light, he exposed 
 one side to the eyes of those opposite, de- 
 manding — 
 
 " What number is that?" 
 
 '' Six,'' was the universal reply. 
 
 " Are you sure V asked the Doctor. 
 " Keep your eyes fixed upon it — it is going 
 to change." 
 
 " It is six," they all declared again ; but 
 the moment after, a thousand different 
 Italian expletives burst forth, with a 
 general cry, " It is the ace !" And so it 
 was. 
 
 Not the slightest movement of the hand 
 had been perceived : the three last fingers 
 were pressed in the palm of the hand ; the 
 piece of ivory was held firmly between the
 
 246 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 thumb and forefinger, with all eyes fixed 
 upon it ; and yet the mark changed in an 
 instant from the six to the ace. The 
 stranger, who had been playing, snatched 
 it vehemently from the Doctor's hand ; but 
 the die was perfect : not the slightest flaw 
 was to be detected in it, and it was evi- 
 dently one of the ordinary dice of the 
 house. 
 
 The Doctor merely laughed, and re- 
 peated the trick over and over again. 
 
 " The eye is the most deceitful of all 
 organs/' said the Doctor, addressing his 
 opponent. " Every one would take you 
 for a stronger man than me," (the other 
 smiled somewhat contemptuously), "and 
 yet it is not the case," continued the 
 Doctor. " We can try, in a moment, with- 
 out quitting our seats. Now lay your 
 ha^^d and arm flat upon the table. Inter- 
 lace your fingers with mine, and try with 
 your utmost power to push my hand back 
 a hair's breadth." 
 
 The other, perhaps, began to doubt
 
 PEQUINILLO. 247 
 
 whether he had to deal with the devil or 
 not ; but he exerted all his tremendous 
 strength in vain to move the hand he 
 grasped even in the least degree. It 
 seemed not only made of iron, but rivetted 
 to the marble table. 
 
 *' Now, I will try/' said the Doctor. And, 
 without the slightest apparent effort, he 
 pushed the strong man nearly off his seat. 
 The other uttered but one word, though 
 in that part of Italy it might have various 
 significations. 
 
 " Maestro !" he exclaimed. " Maesti'o T 
 
 " Come," said the Doctor, " we will talk 
 more as we walk along ; we have had 
 enough of this.'' 
 
 And putting his hat upon his head, he 
 rose to depart. 
 
 The way out was somewhat crowded with 
 people, who had gathered round to see 
 what was going on ; but, without waiting 
 till they made way, the Doctor quietly put 
 his foot upon the back of one of the chairs,
 
 248 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 then stepped upon another, and another, 
 and another, walking upon them as firmly 
 as if they had been steps of stone, without 
 moving them in the least. A considerable 
 interval of space was between the two last 
 near the door ; but* he sprang lightly 
 across, stood upon one foot for a moment, 
 and, turning his head towards the stranger 
 ■with whom he had been playing, said, in 
 an easy tone — 
 
 " Come along ; I want to speak with 
 you." 
 
 '^ Corpo di hacco r ejaculated the 
 stranger, when they reached the street^ 
 " I have a great mind to put a stiletto into 
 you, to see whether you are the Devil or 
 not." 
 
 " You dare not," observed the Doctor, 
 calmly ; and, as the other gave a start and 
 a growl, like a fierce dog chastised, he 
 added, " for fear I should be the Devil. 
 Whether I am or not, 1 will not say ; but 
 one thing I can tell you is, I can be of 
 great service to you."
 
 PEQUfNJLLO. 249 
 
 The man took a rosary out of his pocket, 
 and began to pray. 
 
 '' That won't stand you instead of it," 
 said the Doctor, with a malicious laugh, 
 "Keep that for the scaffold; and, at pre- 
 sent, make haste to save your own neck. 
 I know you, of course, as I know every- 
 body ; and I never betray my friends ; 
 but there are more people in the town who 
 recognize or suspect you than you imagine ; 
 and you had better get out of it as soon 
 as possible. We shall meet betvveen Hali 
 and Pera, some day soon, T dare say.'' 
 
 The man again started ; but the Doctor 
 added quickly — 
 
 " No more — no more. Here are people 
 " oming." 
 
 Turning sharply away, they walked down 
 a narrow street towards the lake.
 
 250 PEQUJNILLO. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 Julian Ludlow rode fast, as the bearers 
 of evil news generally do : not indeed that 
 he was a willing messenger of bad tidings; 
 but, in the breast of almost every one, a sort 
 of vague conviction exists that uncertamty 
 is the worst of evils — a conviction which al- 
 ways hurries man on to know. It is a part of 
 the punishment for the taste of the for- 
 bidden tree, that the natural man, as 
 divines term it, is not contented to trust. 
 He must know — even if it be wretched- 
 ness. 
 
 Thus Juhan rode on fast, although he 
 very well believed that he bore information
 
 rJilUUlNILLO. 251 
 
 of misfortune. As he approached the 
 villa, however, which took some time to 
 reach, the road being tortuous, and 
 twisting itself round one end of the lake, 
 he slackened his speed to consider whether 
 some preparation might not be necessary for 
 the minds of Mistress Westwood and Mary. 
 Of course, it depends upon various cir- 
 cumstances whether the announcement of 
 the death of a dear friend and near rela- 
 tion, requires any preparation or not. 
 With a philosopher — with a mere man of 
 the world — with the selfish — with the vain 
 — with the conceited — very little prepara- 
 tion indeed is required. All these have 
 their sources of consolation ever ready — 
 their little channels and conduits always 
 cut, to let off the waters of afiiiction. 
 The philosopher generally — if his philo- 
 sophy do not stand him in stead — has the 
 hardness of his heart to fall back upon. 
 The man of the world can play at nine- 
 pins in any of the skittle grounds of life, 
 and thus dissipate his grief. The vain man
 
 252 PEQUIKILLO. 
 
 has always at hand a vial of balsam which 
 never fails of its effect. With the mere 
 selfish man, indeed, some more delicacy is 
 necessary ; for sometimes om^ selfishness is 
 struck through the breast of another. In 
 fact, a selfish man may be considered as 
 flayed, though he may think himself cased 
 in iron ; for every point of his self is raw, 
 and ready to be afflicted by any of the 
 whips or stings of fate. 
 
 Into every different household. Sorrow, 
 when she comes, enters by a different 
 portal, and wears a different aspect. It is 
 in the little calm, domestic circle, bound 
 together by close links of affection, where 
 family love is not ordy a sentiment, but a 
 habit, that the monster puts on her grimmest 
 aspect, and fastens herself with the direst 
 tenacity. The broken ring around the fire; 
 the one face ever w.aSting ; the silent gap, 
 where the dear voice used to speak, are 
 continually burdening memory. But the 
 first break is the most painful. After long 
 years of hallowed and consecrated affection
 
 PEQUINILLO. 253 
 
 — when it has ahnost become a part of 
 rehgion to love one another — when all 
 thoughts and all feelings have been inter- 
 twined, till our hearts and our minds have 
 become one with the group around us, oh, 
 it is very terrible, suddenly to find that 
 one of that group is gone ! A part in the 
 garden of life is made desolate ; and the 
 magic number upon which joy depended, 
 seems at an end for ever. 
 
 Such a family circle, had been that of 
 the. Westwoods. Since the death of the 
 old Squire's daughter, there had been no 
 break : they had Hved amongst themselves 
 — not shutting out the world from all 
 feeling and sympathy, yet having few, 
 very few, bonds of affection with general 
 society. There were no near relations ; 
 remote cousins were the only persons for 
 whom the power attributed to blood could 
 be supposed to work in producing attach- 
 ment ; and Julian Ludlow was the sole 
 instance in which any one had been per- 
 mitted to enter, and to become, as it 
 
 c
 
 254 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 were, one of themselves. He knew there- 
 fore, that the blow would fall very heavily 
 both upon Mistress Westwood and upon 
 Mary. It had been anticipated, it is true. 
 It was impossible that they could have shut 
 their eyes, for some years, to the conviction 
 that the old Squire's death must soon 
 occur. They must have known that 
 it was coming — coming speedily ; but 
 we seldom realize, with any distinct- 
 ness, events that are inevitable till 
 they are here ; and that good old man 
 — would that I could stop to draw 
 more than a faint sketch of a beautiful 
 character — had so many ways of winning 
 affection, without diminishing respect, that 
 it would have seemed to any of his family 
 almost a profanity to contemplate steadily 
 the period when so bright and pure a light 
 would be extinguished. 
 
 Julian knew all this well, and was aware 
 that, although the minds of both Mistress 
 Westwood and her daughter w^ere full of 
 sad anticipations, the blow would fall 
 terribly when it was struck. As he
 
 rEQ.UlNILLO 255 
 
 reached the house, he walked slovvly through 
 the great vestibule, and entered the large 
 saloon, where both those he sought were 
 seated at their morning occupations. Their 
 eyes instantly turned towards him ; and his 
 grave, sad aspect w^as preparation enough. 
 
 " I am afraid I bear very melancholy 
 tidings," he said, approaching Mistress 
 Westwood. '' There were no letters for 
 me ; but this one, addressed to you, is 
 edged with black, and has a black seal." 
 
 Mistress \Yestwood took it, and gazed at 
 it, shaking her head sadly, and Mary rose 
 and approached her mother with an anxi- 
 ous face. After an instant's hesitation. 
 Mistress Westwood opened the letter, and 
 found all her fears confirmed. The good 
 old Squire had gone to his rest, and her 
 husband had only written her a few hur- 
 ried hnes to tell her of his own safe arrival 
 in England, and of the sad news which 
 had met him on the way. 
 
 " I feel so much depressed," he said, 
 after the first sentence or two, " and have
 
 256 PEQUINILLO, 
 
 SO much business to transact, that I cannot 
 even write a long letter to you, my dear 
 Margaret. Nor can I write to Julian as I 
 intended. Tell him that young Knight has 
 safely returned to Oxford, and did not 
 prove restive by the way, as I rather 
 expected. A few signs of wilfulness ap- 
 peared at Paris ; but he was persuaded to 
 go on at once with me, and there the mat- 
 ter ended. I would have invited him to 
 this house for a day, but at Dover we met 
 a messenger, bearing to me the sad intelli- 
 gence ; and we parted soon after. 
 
 " The death of my poor father was so 
 sudden, and preceded by such entire loss 
 of consciousness, that no opportunity oc- 
 curred of making a new will as he intended, 
 and his affairs rest as they were settled by 
 an old will, nmde more than twenty years 
 ago, with a short codicil of a later date. 
 All is perfectly as it should be, however; 
 and Julian is not forgotten in the codicil. 
 Lay my injunctions upon him, on no ac- 
 count to leave you till my return, which
 
 PEQUINILLO. 257 
 
 will be as soon as business will permit. I 
 Iiave several matters to speak with him 
 upon, of much importance." 
 
 The rest of the letter consisted of affec- 
 tionate words to his wife, and messages to 
 his daughter, which Mistress Westwood 
 did not read aloud. 
 
 No vehement grief was shown, though 
 a few tears were shed ; but the sorrow 
 was not the less, because its expression 
 was without exaggeration. The day 
 passed sadly by : the little party some- 
 times assembled, talking over the virtues 
 and kindness of the dead, with eyes 
 that occasionally overflowed, and sometimes 
 meditating apart in their own rooms, with 
 thouohts characteristic of the a^e and sex 
 of each. 
 
 To Mary, death was a new thing. It 
 had never before entered the circle in which 
 she dwelt — at least not within her memory 
 — for her maternal grandfather had died 
 wdien she was only about three years old. 
 It presented itself to her imagination, there- 
 fore, in all its gloom — a something strange.
 
 258 PEQUTNILLO. 
 
 and wonderful, and very bitter. That she 
 should never see again the face which had 
 beamed upon her from childhood — nor 
 the calm, somewhat melancholy, eyes which 
 had daily gazed upon her, with looks of 
 tenderness and love— that the voice, sweet 
 and harmonious, even to the last, which 
 had so often guided, soothed, and encou- 
 raged her, should never more be heard, 
 — was dark and awful enough : and then, 
 where was the spirit gone, which spoke in 
 the voice and shone in the eyes? Should 
 it hold no farther communication with 
 hers 1 and was it to be the same also with 
 all whom she loved best on earth, till her 
 turn came, and she departed from amongst 
 them 1 
 
 Mary was not the least a philosopher; 
 yet, with all her gaiety and even play- 
 fulness, she had her deep thoughts too. 
 She had been brought up in Christianity 
 indeed, and she knesv tlie Christian view 
 of death. She had firm faith in the truth 
 she had been taught ; but it is difficult, be- 
 fore we have known the ''uses of adversity,"
 
 PEQUINILLO. 259 
 
 to make those truths practically applicable 
 to our hearts. They come, indeed, to 
 console and to cheer us, at all times and in 
 all circumstances ; but they must be often 
 tried before we feel their full efficacy ; and 
 Mary's contemplations ended with a darker 
 and more gloomy view of human life than 
 she had ever received before. So is it with 
 each step as we advance from youth to 
 age : our mortal existence is a study in 
 which we are daily receiving lessons, and 
 we are rarely perfect in the book, till we 
 are commanded to close the page. 
 
 The succeeding day passed much in the 
 same manner ; but Mistress West wood, 
 to whom the intelligence had been a great 
 shock, spent the greater part of the time 
 in her own room, and Mar}^ and Julian 
 sat out in the shade of a great Ilex, be- 
 tween the house and the lake, conversing 
 over the subject prominent in the mind of 
 each. Love was never mentioned between 
 them — nor, indeed, had it been since the 
 day that it was first acknowledged. Juhan 
 avoided it steadily ; and Mary was glad
 
 260 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 that he did so. Nevertheless, they were 
 both deceiving themselves in the belief that 
 they were restraining all conversation upon 
 the subject. They were conversing daily 
 upon it, with looks and acts, if not words, 
 of tenderness. There were fond expres- 
 sions, too — expressions which they might 
 have used perhaps before, but which now 
 received a new significance — which were 
 now uttered in a tenderer tone, and were 
 employed more frequently than ever. The 
 " dear Julian," the " dear Mary," were 
 altogether different from the same sounds 
 two years before. They came often — 
 very often, too — oftenest, perhaps, in their 
 most serious conversation; and, besides 
 all that, was Julian's steadfast gaze of ad- 
 miration and love, when Mary's eyes were 
 turned down — detected when she suddenly 
 raised them ; and, every now and then, the 
 look of enquiry which she turned to his 
 face, when anything he said puzzled her 
 for a moment, kindUng up in an instant 
 with an expression of intelligence, and 
 comprehension, and simple confidence—
 
 PEQUINILLO. 260 
 
 all this betrayed the fond emotion of their 
 breasts. And then there was the occasional 
 sigh, too — the sigh coming Hke a gentle 
 breath of air, and bearing sweetness on 
 its wings, gathered from the unseen flowers 
 of the heart. 
 
 Oh, no ! Sterne was quite right. Talking 
 of love is not making it ; and Mary and 
 Julian were making love all day long, 
 without talking about it, and without know- 
 ing it. 
 
 They were thus sitting together, and in 
 this sweet employment, when a boat, with 
 two persons in it, and a single rower, 
 skimmed along the lake, very close to 
 the shore. About five minutes after, 
 steps were heard near, and Julian sud- 
 denly turned his head to look. The trunk 
 of the Ilex, however, and a marble statue 
 of Pomona, which were near, intercepted 
 his view, till two persons, coming through 
 the mulberry trees and other plants, were 
 within a couple of yards of himself and 
 Mary. They were two well dressed and 
 powerful men, one of whom had a lofty,
 
 262 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 free, and rather bold carriage ; and, the 
 moment they perceived the young gentle- 
 man and lady sitting there — or, at least, 
 the moment they found they were them- 
 selves seen (for it is probable that they 
 had perceived JuHan and Mary some time 
 before) — they both stopped suddenly, and, 
 after a pause, the shorter and less athletic 
 in appearance of the two, advanced and 
 apologized in English for their intrusion, 
 saying that they much v>'ished to see the 
 villa and grounds, and that, having been 
 informed that it was occasionally shown, 
 were looking for a servant to make en- 
 quiries. 
 
 " 1 believe permission is never refused,^' 
 replied Juhan ; and, although the family is 
 at present in deep affliction for the loss of 
 a near and very dear relation, I have no 
 doubt that you can see the grounds, and 
 the lower apartments of the house, if you 
 will apply there/' 
 
 The stranger bowed and turned away, 
 and Julian resumed his seat by Mary's 
 side. He fell into a deep fit of thought,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 263 
 
 however, fixing his eyes upon the ground, 
 and seeming entirely lost in his reverie, 
 till Mary, looking up, enquired, with some 
 surprise — 
 
 " What is the matter, dear Julian "? Do 
 you know that man V 
 
 " I cannot say exactly that I know him,' 
 responded Julian ; " for I was trying at the 
 very moment you spoke, dearest Mary, to re- 
 collect wdiere I had seen his face. It is 
 very familiar to me, and yet I. cannot 
 identify it with that of any one I know. I 
 think he must be some acquaintance of my 
 youth : but where or when I have seen 
 him, J really cannot tell. Do you recollect 
 him at all, Mary V 
 
 " Not in the least,'' she answered. " But 
 he is evidently an Englishman. No Italian 
 could ever speak English like that ; and 
 he had a peculiar Cockney twang, which is 
 not to be mistaken. I don't like the 
 English travelling here : let us keep out of 
 his way." 
 
 " We shall be as well here," said Julian,
 
 264 PEQUTNILLO. 
 
 " as anywhere else. Unless he should recol- 
 lect having seen me somewhere, and should 
 come to speak to me ; he, probably, will 
 not trouble us again. If he does so, I will 
 soon deliver you from him. He is rather 
 an awful looking personage ; and, in my 
 short travels, dear Mary, I have learned to 
 keep a respectful distance between myself 
 and Englishmen who show themselves un- 
 der moustachios on the Continent. But 
 let me go and get a book. They Avill be 
 less likely to intrude upon us if I am read- 
 ing to ypu. Do you recollect how I used 
 to readj^ to you, Mary, under the old oak 
 on the, high point of the hill, three or four 
 years ago?" 
 
 '* Oh dear yes," she said. " It was the 
 Lady of the Lake. I remember quite well 
 I used actually to see all the scenes that 
 Scott described. His words were like 
 magic colors, which painted the pictures 
 of his own imagination on the sky." 
 
 Julian w^ent into the house, for a mo- 
 ment, and returned with a book. It was
 
 PEQUINILLO. 265 
 
 Spenser's Faery Queene. He took his 
 place by Mary again, and read as Spen- 
 ser should be read, with a full apprecia- 
 tion of that richness — that profusion of 
 poetical thought — which causes the verse 
 of the great poet almost to pall upon the 
 taste of the vulgar and the unpoetical — 
 upon the taste of those who either love 
 mere verses, or seek for mere diversion, who 
 dribble over sentimentahty, or plume them- 
 selves upon philosophy. Fancy is alliable 
 to all things but dulness ; and in Spenser 
 we find it joined in the most pre-eminent 
 degree to firmness of principle and recti- 
 tude of purpose. Milton called" him. '' the 
 sage and serious Spenser.'' But such is 
 the writing that pleases not the milhon. 
 So be it, Amen ! 
 
 Julian did not attempt to proceed regu- 
 larly, even with one Canto; he took a 
 piece here, and a piece there, as the poet 
 pleased him, at the moment ; and, from 
 time to time, as he was turning over the 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 PEQUmiLLO. 
 
 leaves, seeking for a new passage which he 
 remembered with pleasure, to read it to 
 her he loved, he raised his eyes, and 
 looked around. More than once, they fell 
 upon the two strangers walking through 
 the gardens under the guidance of one of 
 the Italian servants ; and, each time he saw 
 them, their eyes were directed to the 
 spot where he and Mary sat, as if ob- 
 serving or talking about them. 
 
 Julian, not altogether pleased, com- 
 mented in his own mind, as others 
 have often had occasion to comment, upon 
 the impertinent inquisitiveness of the or- 
 dinary class of English travellers. The 
 true Enghsh gentleman is, I beheve, 
 the most finished, the most refined, 
 the most elevated, of all mankind ; but 
 gentlemen are rare in all lands, and in all 
 classes ; and the vulgar Englishman, 
 whatever sterhng quahties he may possess, 
 is the most vulgar of all things. 
 
 At the end of about half an hour. 
 Mistress West wood came out and joined
 
 PEQUTNILLO. 267 
 
 Julian and her daughter, putting her hand 
 kindly upon the former's shoulder, and 
 looking over upon the book. She seemed 
 well pleased when she saw it. 
 
 " Ah/' she ejaculated, " Spenser ! I am 
 glad of that. From the perusal of a great 
 many of our poets one rises with a feeling 
 that one's mind has been w^eakened or 
 sullied ; but baseness must be in the man 
 who does not feel himself ennobled, and 
 elevated, and strengthened, after reading 
 Spenser. He seems to have distilled the 
 very essence of chivalry, and given us 
 the spirit pure, without any of the coarser, 
 or the baser materials. Do you not think 
 so, Julian ?" 
 
 " I do indeed, my dear madam," re- 
 plied Julian ; " and that was the reason 1 
 chose the book just now. I thought no- 
 thing in the range of poetry so well suited, 
 both to win away from grief, and to teach us 
 to bear it as we ought. But 1 will leave 
 you for a moment, to go and see something 
 of those two good personages who are 
 If 2
 
 268 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 looking at the grounds. I do not much 
 like their appearance ; and I think they 
 have had time enough, in all conscience, to 
 satisfy themselves in a place where there 
 is so little to be seen except the beauties 
 of nature, which they can contemplate 
 anywhere else just as well as here." 
 
 " Do not be rash, Julian," said Mistress 
 Westwood. " Remember, you are im- 
 petuous." 
 
 "1 am tamed — I am tamed," rephed 
 Julian, as he walked away. But, the 
 moment he was seen approaching, the two 
 strangers slipped some money into the 
 hands of the servant, and turned off in a 
 different path towards their boat.
 
 PEQUINILLO. 269 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SuPERSTTTiON is the raost natural and the 
 most reasonable thing in the world. It is 
 incredulity of any thing that is unnatural 
 and unreasonable. The whole universe is 
 full of marvels — of occurrences that would 
 appear to us not only miraculous, but ter- 
 rific, were it not for one little circumstance 
 which makes us pass them by almost with- 
 out notice, not alone when they are ex- 
 plained by philosophy, or comprehended 
 as it were by instinct ; for they are passed 
 by, just in the same manner, by men who 
 have no philosophy at all, and where in- 
 stinct has nothing to do with the matter.
 
 270 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 The circumstance I refer to, is custom. The 
 less frequently a thing is seen, the more 
 marvellous it appears; and when it gets 
 dinned into us, either by our own observa- 
 tion or frequent record by others, we lose 
 all respect for it, and treat it as a vulgar, 
 common -place occurrence, however won- 
 derful, or beautiful, or fearful in itself. 
 
 That savages should dance, and shout, 
 and beat drums, and shriek — or that old 
 ladies, whose education has been somewhat 
 neglected, should feel a slight degree of 
 fear, a sensation of awe, creep over them — 
 or that Chinamen should think that the 
 great Dragon is trying to swallow 
 up their Emperor's first cousin, when an 
 eclipse of the sun takes place, is perfectly 
 consonant with the principles of our nature. 
 It is a thing rarely seen, and therefore 
 marvellous. Indeed, I can easily imagine 
 that if a man were brought up — as that 
 greatest of Hars, Caspar Hauser, declared 
 he had been — in a room where the aspect of 
 the sky was denied him, with nothing but
 
 PEQUJNILLO. 271 
 
 the simple change from light to darkness 
 each day, and he were suddenly set in a 
 place where he could see the dawn, or the 
 sun-set of a bright summer's day — I can 
 easily conceive, I say, that the first time he 
 saw it, he would be frightened out of his 
 wits, and think that the world would be all 
 on fire in five minutes. 
 
 Now, all the men who write twaddle 
 for the great twaddle-stores of both 
 Continents, will declare that this is 
 very trite, and ask what it has to do 
 with the story. But you and I, who 
 know better, w^ll only smile, and answer, 
 that it is absolutely necessary to the true 
 understanding of this chapter and another 
 before it, to show how it is that feats 
 which we have seen a thousand times, and 
 which we consider only fit for the amuse- 
 ment of children, may, when played off 
 upon persons who have never witnessed 
 nor heard of them in their lives — especially 
 if those persons be of excitable imagina- 
 tions, superstitious tendencies, warm,
 
 272 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 southern bloods, and, nioreover, have a due 
 reverence for their great master, the devil 
 — may, I repeat, impress them with a notion 
 of his exceedingly close proximity, and fill 
 them with that respectful awe which is very 
 nearly akin to fear. 
 
 The two strangers who had somewhat 
 annoyed Julian and Mary by their presence, 
 made their way to the boat, and were rowed 
 in the direction of the old castle. They 
 talked but little while on the bosom of 
 the lake ; but the conversation became 
 quick and animated as they mounted the 
 staircase in the rock, and ascended to the 
 battlements above. 
 
 " It would never do," said the shorter of 
 the companions, in answer to something that 
 the other had said in a low voice; and then 
 he nodded his head significantly, adding, *' I 
 cannot spare you yet.'' 
 
 " Spare me! what do you mean?'' echoed 
 the other ; ^'let me tell you, Signore 
 Dottore, that in such matters I ask no 
 man's permission."
 
 PEQUINILLO. 273 
 
 *'No," replied his companion, calmly. 
 ** You do not ask even mine, I dare say ; but 
 you follow ray directions, notwithstanding, 
 I am very humble, whatever people may 
 utter about my pride, of which I dare say you 
 have heard tell from your mother when you 
 were a baby. 1 always insinuate my com- 
 mands, and never shout them forth in a 
 loud voice, like the princes of the earth. 
 What 1 meant by saying that 1 could not 
 spare you, was simply this. If you 
 attempted the villa, you would be taken 
 and executed to a certainty. You have 
 just seventeen men left." 
 
 " How in the Fiend's name, do you know 
 that?" demanded the other sharply. 
 
 " It matters not," replied the Doctor. 
 " I know a great deal more than that, if it 
 were right to tell you ; however, you have 
 seventeen men. To encounter these, there are 
 seven in the villa : three are at the house of 
 the Contadiuo hard by: one is in the 
 lodge, to which there is a covered pas- 
 sage from the house. All these are well
 
 274 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 armed, and have a little fortress in the 
 villa itself. Just on the opposite side of 
 the lane, is the house of Count Belsegno, 
 who has five or six people with him, and 
 all of them would be alarmed by the first 
 firing. You would have the whole country 
 at your heels, my good friend. So take my 
 advice ; keep to the roads and mountain- 
 passes, as in times of old, and let country 
 houses alone. They are rat-traps — they 
 are rat-traps, and I cannot let one of my 
 pets fall into them. — You see I know all 
 about it.'' 
 
 " Why, you do not think I am such a 
 fool as to believe that you are really the 
 devil V asked the other, gazing at him 
 with a heavy, frowning brow. 
 
 *' No," answered the Doctor, " you only 
 half believe. You are in doubt about me, 
 as all my friends are. I am never 
 very explicit. We require faith as well as 
 other saints, and just show enough to con- 
 vince reasonable men, without requiring 
 them to believe at all, unless they like.''
 
 PEQUINILLO. 275 
 
 By this time they were upon the ram- 
 parts; and the taller of the two sat doNvn 
 upon a stone bench, where, in days of yore, 
 many a weary soldier had probably rested. 
 He placed beside him a pouch of knotted 
 thongs of leather, which he had brought up 
 with him from the boat, and, producing 
 from its interior some meat and a flask of 
 wine, asked the Doctor to partake. 
 
 "No, I thank you," replied his com- 
 panion, " I am not hungry for that sort of 
 thing. 1 will just have a little refresh- 
 ment of my own kind, which perhaps you 
 may not like to taste, though it is very 
 comforting in this cold air." 
 
 As he spoke, he put his hand in his 
 pocket, and drew forth a handful of tow, 
 with which he filled his mouth completely. 
 
 " That's a curious dinner !" exclaimed his 
 companion. 
 
 " It's not cooked yet," replied the other, 
 speaking through the tow ; " my mouth's 
 my oven." lie then struck a light ; 
 and, to the horror and consternation of his
 
 276 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 neighbour, set fire to the tow, thre\v one 
 leg over the other, folded his arms upon his 
 breast, and, rocking himself backwards and 
 forwards, with a calm, easy motion, con- 
 tinued to puif forth flames and smoke 
 without the slightest sign of anything but 
 enjoyment. 
 
 The other bore it for a full minute ; but 
 then, starting up with fnsurmountable hor- 
 ror, was making his way towards the top 
 of the stairs again, when the Doctor called 
 him back, exclaiming, "Signor Celloni, 
 does the smoke annoy you? — I would not 
 for the world- — Come back, come back ! — I 
 have done, I have done. Why, man, you 
 would soon get used to it. It's all custom 
 ' — you'll like it very much yourself by-and- 
 bye." 
 
 *'NotI," muttered Celloni, with a shudder, 
 and returning slowly and unwillingly to his 
 seat. 
 
 '' Well, I can accommodate myself to all 
 custom^," answered the Doctor, in a grave 
 and polite tone ; " so we will have a glass
 
 PrQUlNILLO. 2*77 
 
 of wine together. — What! have 3'ou got 
 no glass V he continued, as the other 
 pushed the flask over to him. " Well, 
 then, you drink first — you may not like 
 drinking after me, and it might not be 
 safe either. / am not afraid of i/ou.'^ 
 
 " I dare say not," returned the other, 
 drinking deeply. '' You are afraid of few, 
 T fancy." 
 
 "None!" ejaculated the Doctor, taking the 
 flask, and drinking ; " though, to say the 
 truth, one may suff'erfor too much courage 
 now and then. I found that out some 
 thousand years ago ; but what is called 
 nature is very strong in us, and we can't 
 always be prudent. Now you yourself, in 
 spite of all Tve said, have got a hankering 
 to attack the villa Aldi, and pillage it of 
 all its contents ; just because you saw a 
 work-box on one of the tables, filled with 
 utensils of gold — as you thought. But !, 
 who see through the outside of things, can 
 tell you they were all silver gilt, and not
 
 278 pequiinILLo. 
 
 worth two scudi. Moreover, you would 
 not find a hundred sequins in the house. 
 You would not have time to kill anybody, 
 either ; or perhaps I might let you : but 
 you would only lose your own life, and make 
 a sorry figure at Milan, which would not 
 suit your purposes or mine for such a trifle. 
 However, I have got a plan for you, which 
 is not dangerous, and which perhaps you 
 will get something by. It is something in 
 which you can serve me, your friend. I 
 am obliged to work by human means on 
 this earth ; as you saw, I could not get my 
 own little dinner without some of that 
 horrid tough tow, which burns very diff- 
 erently from the stuff that Tm used to. 
 Thus, I am obliged to make use of you, 
 for a purpose I have to serve, as I cannot 
 accomplish it by the means I should like 
 best." 
 
 " What is it ^— -What is it V' exclaimed 
 the other, eagerly. " I am quite ready to 
 do what you wish." 
 
 " I know that,'' answered the Doctor,
 
 PEQUINILLO. 279 
 
 significautlj. '' But first let us take a look 
 over this old castle. — It is a picturesque 
 ruin/' 
 
 ''What signifies an old Castle?" cried the 
 other. " There are a dozen such up in the 
 mountains ; no good to any one now." 
 
 " I never do anything without an ob- 
 ject/' replied the Doctor, slowly nodding 
 his head. 
 
 AVithout further explanation, he led the 
 way along the battlements, and did not end 
 his perambulations till he had explored every 
 nook and corner of the whole building.
 
 280 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Four days elapsed without any event 
 worthy of note. On the fifth, the weather 
 suddenly changed. Autumn had hitherto 
 maintained a sturdy contest with Winter, 
 and had, even at times, called in the aid of 
 Summer. Occasionall}^ indeed, a storm 
 had taken place, like a battle between the 
 two contending parties ; but the gentler- 
 spirited season was at length — as is always 
 the case with sweet spirits in this world — 
 subdued and triumphed over by the 
 rougher and the harsher. A day of genial 
 sunshine, and of pleasant airs, was suc- 
 ceeded by a cold northernly blast, gathering
 
 PEQUINILLO. 281 
 
 clouds, and drifting snow. The lake as- 
 sumed the hue of indigo : the mountains, 
 •when seen, appeared, through the dim 
 atmosphere, taller and darker, with their 
 sunshine garniture of blue and gold laid 
 aside in naked harshness, like the ghosts 
 of some giant race departed ; and all 
 things round had an aspect of gloom and 
 melancholy which oppressed the spirits of 
 Julian Ludlow and the party at the villa, 
 reviving all those sad feelings which were 
 beginning to soften away under the influence 
 of time. 
 
 The arrival of fresh letters from England 
 was anxiously looked for ; and Julian had 
 made up his mind to ride over that same 
 day to the little town, and visit the post- 
 office ; but Mistress Westwood persuaded 
 him not to venture out in his yet uncon- 
 firmed state of health, and sent a servant 
 instead. The whole party, with closed 
 windows and doors, waited in the great 
 saloon for the return of the messenger; 
 and the wind blew, .the snow fell, and sleet
 
 282 PEQumiLLO. 
 
 struck the windows sharply, filling the 
 mind with cold and heavy anticipations. 
 
 Some proverbs are based upon the wis- 
 dom of experience, some upon gross errors 
 of darkness and ignorance ; but some seem 
 to have an echo in the human heart ; and 
 none that I know of, has a more sad and 
 painful echo than that which tells us, in the 
 hour of grief and care, that " misfortunes 
 never come singly/' 
 
 It was partly, perhaps, the gloomy 
 aspect of the day, partly, the tremulous 
 vibration of the human soul, common after 
 a past sorrow, that made every one there 
 present feel a sort of chill}^ anxiety for 
 fresh news from England ; and one might 
 read in the looks of all, when the servant, 
 who had been despatched, re-appeared, 
 that no comfortable intelhgence was ex- 
 pected. There was a letter for Mistress 
 Westwood. There was a letter for Julian. 
 Poor Mary was the only one who had no 
 communication from home ; and her 
 eyes naturally fixed upon her mother's face.
 
 PEQUIiflLLO. 283 
 
 Over that face, however, still fair and beau- 
 tiful, came an expression of terror, as, 
 before opening the letter, she gazed at the 
 address. She had expected to see her 
 husband's handwriting ; but it was not 
 there. The post-mark of Waldon was 
 upon the paper; but the writing was that 
 of the steward, and it gave indications 
 enough. With trembhng hands she instinc- 
 tively rose up, unwilling, from terror, to 
 break the seal, and gave a glance at Julian, 
 -who was reading eagerly. His face had 
 become very pale, and his eye was straining 
 with a haggard gaze upon the paper. 
 Mary looked from one to the other, and 
 then sprang forward to her mother's side. 
 Mistress West wood put her arm through 
 her daughter's, and, leaning heavily upon 
 her, withdrew to her own room. She dared 
 not open the letter, even in the presence of 
 Julian, though habit had made her regard 
 him almost as a son. In the meanwhile, 
 Julian continued to read : but the intelli- 
 gence he received was sad indeed. The
 
 284 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 letter was from Mr. Ludlow, and written in 
 his plain, unaffected, though by no means 
 incorrect, style. 
 
 " My dear Julian," he said, '' I write 
 this to you in great haste, in the hope that 
 it may reach you before any other intelli- 
 gence arrives at poor Mistress West wood's 
 house, so that you ma}^ break to her what 
 I have to communicate, as gently as possible. 
 I know the death of the old Squire must 
 have grieved you all very much ; though 
 old houses will fall, and people must be 
 prepared for it. But what I have to tell 
 is more serious still, though God in His 
 mercy may yet think fit to give us relief 
 Your kind friend, the young Squire, who 
 arrived here yesterday was a week in good 
 health, though sad enough from the 
 news that met him. I was one of the first 
 people he saw, and he told me all about 
 you and your late illness. The funeral had 
 taken place before he arrived; and he had 
 nothing to do but to put things in order,
 
 PEQUTNILLO. 285 
 
 and return to his wife. Happy had it 
 been if he had gone at once ; but God 
 willed it otherwise. Yesterday afternoon, 
 he went over to see Mr. Grimes the lawyer 
 at Ash Locombe, and drove the bright bays 
 in the curricle. They had not been out 
 for more than mere exercise since his father 
 w^as taken ill, and I dare say were over 
 spirited. Nobody can tell how the ac- 
 cident happened, for poor Fred, the groom, 
 was killed on the spot ; but some how the 
 horses ran away going down the steep hill 
 — you recollect Ash Hill, just two miles 
 before you get to Ash Locombe — and they 
 must have got quite mad ; for they dashed 
 the curricle against the great elm tree that 
 stands by the sign-post of The Two Sawyers. 
 It is supposed that Fred was thrown against 
 the mile stone, and his skull fractured ; for 
 he never spoke a word more ; but the cur- 
 ricle was dashed all to pieces, and Mr. West- 
 wood was taken up very badly hurt in- 
 deed. 
 
 " You need not tell Mistress Westwood
 
 286 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 how ill he is ; but one thing is certain : she 
 should come over immediately with Miss 
 Mary. You, too, must come with them, 
 Julian — well or ill, my dear boy — not 
 only to take care of them, which they will 
 need, poor things ! but on your own ac- 
 count; for Mr. "Westwood has a good deal 
 to tell you if he lives till you arrive. Do 
 not lose a moment therefore, but all set 
 out together as fast as possible. 
 
 " I have not said much about your ill- 
 ness ; for I have not time before the post 
 goes out ; but Mr. Westwood assured me 
 you were getting well, which was a great 
 comfort to yours affectionately 
 
 " Henry Ludlow.'' 
 
 Several expressions were in this letter, 
 which at any other moment might 
 have struck Julian as strange; but his 
 thoughts were too much engrossed by the 
 illness of Mr. Westwood to dwell upon any 
 other topic even for a moment. Juhan had 
 learned to be hopeful ; for to be hopeful or
 
 PEQUIKILLO. 287 
 
 to be desponding, though partly natural, is 
 generally partly acquired. We learn lessons 
 of hope or of despair ; and Julian's teacher 
 had been generally the happy one — at least 
 hitherto. The shock indeed was great — 
 greater than can be well described or 
 imagined. Julian Westwood had been to 
 him all that a kind and exceedingly hidul- 
 gent father could be ; and, being of a grateful 
 and affectionate disposition, the young 
 man had felt in his heart how greatly that 
 parental kindness was enhanced by his 
 own want of all claim to it. 
 
 Nevertheless, after the first sad im- 
 pression had somewhat abated, he set 
 about hoping as diligently as if some 
 powerful Genius had given him the task of 
 extracting honey from wormwood. The 
 accident, he thought, might turn out less 
 severe than it had at first appeared. His 
 father had evidently only received an im- 
 perfect account. He entered into no par- 
 ticulars : he did not know all the facts. 
 Medical skill might do much; and, being
 
 288 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 vigorous in constitution and temperate in 
 habits, no man offered medical skill a better 
 chance of success. 
 
 Some of the arguments which Hope 
 thus pressed into her service, might have 
 been turned against herself had Julian had 
 time for much reflection. He might have 
 seen that Mr. Ludlow's account had been 
 left purposely vague. He might have been 
 led to believe that, knowing more than he 
 said, his father had abstained in order not 
 to crush out hope altogether. He knew 
 that he was no alarmist, but, rather like 
 himself, of a hopeful, sanguine disposition ; 
 and that when he viewed a case with a 
 despairing eye, it must be a perilous one 
 indeed. 
 
 Happily, however, before such reflec- 
 tions could come, and while hope was still 
 struggling against grief, the door of the 
 saloon opened, and Mary rejoined him with 
 a quick step, but a face bedewed with 
 tears. She came straight towards him in 
 silence ; and Julian took her in his arms
 
 TEQUINILLO. 289 
 
 and pressed her to his bosom, kissing her 
 tenderly with the instinctive knowledge 
 that is in us all, that love is the only balm 
 when we grieve for those we love. He 
 tried to soothe her with his own false hopes, 
 too ; and Mary remained so still, resting in 
 his arms, and weeping silently, that he 
 fancied for a time he had in some degree 
 succeeded. 
 
 At length, however, she spoke, saying — 
 " No, dear Julian, no. Do not let us de- 
 ceive ourselves. Mr. Brand's account is as 
 bad as it can be, and he has every oppor- 
 tunity of judging. But we are losing pre- 
 cious moments. Mamma sent me to say 
 that she wishes you would give orders for 
 her to have everything prepared to set out 
 immediately. She takes only her maid 
 and my poor father's man, Willet. All 
 the rest must remain to take care of the 
 villa. Some must be discharged, she 
 says ; but she will trust entirely to you, if 
 you will act for her." 
 
 " But I must go with you, Mary," said 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 290 PEQUTNILLO. 
 
 Julian, in some alarm. " I cannot suffer 
 you and Mistress Westwood to travel un- 
 protected." 
 
 " Of course, of course/' replied Mary. 
 " I forgot to tell you, she expects you 
 would come ; for the only words my poor 
 father has spoken are, * Send for your mis- 
 tress, and Mary and Julian.' " And the 
 poor girl burst into tears again, and wept 
 bitterly. 
 
 " But lose no time, dear Julian," she 
 added, after a moment. " Mamma wishes 
 to set out in two or three hours, and to 
 travel day and night." 
 
 *' 1 will not lose an instant," returned 
 Julian ; " but I shall have to ride to the 
 town, for money, horses, and passports. 
 Stay, dear Mary ! I will order a horse to be 
 saddled ; and whilst that is doing Ave can 
 settle other things." 
 
 Prompt and eager, Julian called the 
 servants together, explained to them what 
 had occurred, and told them of Mistress 
 "Westwood's intentions. An old courier,
 
 PEQUINILLU. 291 
 
 hired in England, undertook to see that the 
 lady's orders were punctually obeyed after 
 her departure ; the other servants exerted 
 themselves in general with more zeal and 
 activity than might perhaps have been ex- 
 pected ; and, furnished with a draft upon 
 the only banker in the small town, Julian 
 mounted his horse to arrange all those 
 tedious preliminaries which in foreign 
 countries have so often delayed the anxious 
 traveller till the object of his journey was 
 frustrated. 
 
 After his departure, two hours were 
 spent by Mary and Mistress West wood in 
 making the few preparations that were 
 necessary for their own personal conveni- 
 ence ; and then half-an-hour was given up 
 to sad conversation and sadder thoughts. 
 The carriage was all packed and ready for 
 the horses : the two servants were pre- 
 pared ; but Julian did not yet appear. 
 
 " Do you not think he is very long, 
 mamma *?" asked Mary, timidly. 
 
 Mistress Westwood shook her head, 
 2 .
 
 292 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 " We are impatient, ray dear," she said. 
 " It is some miles to the town, and we 
 cannot tell what impediments Julian may 
 have met with there. The police-office 
 may be closed. The officer who signs the 
 passports may be away. Delays may have 
 occurred at the banking-house. When we 
 are eager, my dear child, we forget the 
 thousand little obstacles which continually 
 cross our path, even in the most simple 
 proceedings.'' 
 
 Another half hour passed — an hour went 
 by ; and Mistress Westwood herself became 
 alarmed. After much hesitation, she de- 
 termined to despatch a messenger to the 
 town to look for Julian, and ascertain what 
 was the cause of his long absence, flatter- 
 ing herself, and Mary also, with the idea 
 that the servant would meet him on the 
 way. 
 
 But again minute after minute passed, 
 and Mary's anguish became terrible. At 
 a moment like that, she felt it impossible 
 to enter into any explanations with her
 
 PEQUINILLO. 293 
 
 mother in regard to her feelings towards 
 Julian, although it would have been the 
 greatest comfort to her to tell all, and weep 
 upon her mother's bosom. She was not re- 
 strained, indeed, by any fear of opposi- 
 tion to her wishes — by any dread of dis- 
 approbation. In her eyes, Julian was him- 
 self so perfect — so entirely what her father 
 and her mother would wish for their 
 daughter's husband — that she could not 
 bring her mind for a moment to believe 
 they would see any strong objection to her 
 choice. Some vague notions, first sug- 
 gested by her former governess, regarding 
 the necessity of birth and good family in 
 any alliance she might form, floated across 
 her mind, rather as disagreeable impres- 
 sions than as definite ideas ; but it never 
 entered into her conception for a moment 
 that either of her parents would sufier a 
 prejudice to interfere, where her happiness 
 was at stake. She thought, however, 
 that to tell her mother at that moment 
 how she loved Julian, would only add
 
 294 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 to Mistress Westwood's trouble and per- 
 plexity ; and she was fain, more than 
 once, as her anxiety for her loTer increased 
 •with every passing minute, to retreat to 
 her own room, and weep there in soli- 
 tude. 
 
 The messenger was absent about an hour 
 and a half, and he returned only to increase 
 the grief and anxiety already existing. 
 Julian had never appeared in the town : 
 he had not been either at the banker's, the 
 police-officer's, or the post-house. The 
 man had acted, however, with great promp- 
 titude and discretion. He had given 
 information of the gentleman's disap- 
 pearance to the authorities in the town; 
 and, on his return, at every house where 
 Julian could have passed, he asked if he 
 had been seen. He thus had traced him 
 to the end of a narrow lane between stone 
 walls, about two miles from the villa ; but 
 there all farther information regarding 
 him was at an end. Knowing, however, 
 his mistress's anxiety to set out immedi-
 
 PEQUINILLO. 295 
 
 ately, the servant, while in the town, had 
 ordered the post-horses to be sent down at 
 once ; had urged the banker to follow him 
 as speedily as possible, bringing with him 
 such a sum as would be necessary for the 
 journey to England ; and had seen the chief 
 of pohce, and the military commandant, in 
 regard to obtaining a new passport. The 
 consequence of these previsions was, that, 
 in about half-an-hour after his own arrival, 
 the villa was crowded with people from the 
 town. Tlie banker, a number of the 
 Austrian police, the post-master, and the 
 General of the district, arrived one after 
 another ; and a scene of confused enquiry 
 and arrangement commenced, which it is 
 impossible and unnecessary to describe. 
 
 Austria, however, was at that time in the 
 strictest alliance with England : English- 
 men, 1 am sorry to say, were then more 
 respected on the Continent than they are 
 now : the Westwoodfam';y had rendered 
 themselves much beloved by various acts of 
 kindness during their short residence;
 
 296 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 and everything was done to calm appre- 
 hension with regard to Juhan, and to 
 facilitate Mistress Westwood's departure. 
 
 The General himself, who had been re- 
 ceiyed more than once as a guest during Mr. 
 Westwood's residence at the villa, brought 
 with him a passport ready signed. The 
 arrangements with the banker were soon 
 completed, and the horses were attached 
 to the carriage. 
 
 But, poor Mary ! — how can I describe 
 her feelings at that moment ? They were 
 too painful — too terrible — for concealment ; 
 and even Mistress Westwood, though well 
 knowing the affection which had grown 
 up between her and Julian, during child- 
 hood and youth, saw in her daughter's 
 emotion much that alarmed her greatly. 
 
 All the Italians and Austrians present, 
 came at once to the natural conclusion 
 that Julian was Ker promised husband, and 
 several of them tiled, to comfort her under 
 that impression. They assured her that 
 no means would be left untried to discover
 
 PEQUINILLO. 297 
 
 him ; that the most active search was 
 actually going on ; that, though brigands 
 had certainly been in the neighbourhood 
 some short time before, yet it was quite 
 out of the question that they should even 
 attempt to commit a murder so near the 
 town in the open day. Moreover, they 
 added, that the men of whom they spoke 
 seldom shed blood except in case of re- 
 sistance ; and that, if Julian had fallen into 
 their hands at all, it was probable they 
 had carried him away into the mountains 
 for the sake of ransom, as was their com- 
 mon practice. 
 
 But Mary could not be comforted. 
 Everything that was painful and terrible 
 presented itself to her imagination; and 
 she felt — perhaps for the first time — how 
 deeply, how ardently, she loved poor Julian, 
 when called upon to leave the spot where 
 he had disappeared, with such fearful un- 
 certainty hanging over his fate. 
 
 All was, at length, ready, and Mistress 
 Westwood moved towards the door. Mary
 
 298 PEQUINILLO. 
 
 still wept and hesitated ; but her mother 
 laid her hand gently upon her arm, and 
 said, in a low, sad voice— 
 
 "Mary, my dear child. Remember 
 your poor father !" 
 
 The hesitation was at an end, but the 
 tears flowed more abundantly than ever ; 
 and Mary followed her mother to the car- 
 riage with the saddest heart she had ever 
 known in life. 
 
 The Austrian General, with graceful 
 courtesy, handed Mistress Westwood and 
 her daughter in, saying, in a whisper, to 
 the latter — 
 
 "We will find him, depend upon it. 
 Take comfort, I beseech you." 
 
 The door closed, and, just as the sun was 
 setting, the carriage rolled away towards 
 England. 
 
 ElTD OF VOL. I. 
 
 T . C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck Stree :, Cavendish Square
 
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